(no subject)

[a_fell]

A:

Found something of yours. Will be by to drop it off.

-R

That's all there is, though Aziraphael reads the text wave over several times.

There's no postscript; there's no attachment. He reads it forwards; he reads it backwards; he applies every one of the considerable number of ciphers he can think of, including seven that civilians are quite probably not supposed to know, and three that haven't been used since invisible ink fell out of fashion. He looks and looks for hidden messages that fail to appear - that in fact seem bound and determined not to exist at all, despite his diligence in seeking them.

The problem, of course, is that it's Raguel. With Raguel, Aziraphael has learned, nothing is ever that simple - except when it is.

And so he frets, although he tries not to. The surface message of the wave is itself worrying enough; it might be the next day that Raguel decides to come by, or it might be next year. Of course, the knowledge that it could be any time doesn't stop Aziraphael from scanning the skies nearly all the time, in between trying his luck with Raguel's useless link. It gives him the same message over and over: UNABLE TO CONNECT - INTERFERENCE.

This does nothing for his nerves.

As it happens, however, it's only about two weeks later that a bustling novice, far too officious for his tender years, brings him word of an incoming craft. Or rather, an incoming craft that doesn't then appear in reassuring black and white when Aziraphael listens to the sudden certainty in his gut and goes to check the planner. And as he expected, nobody is expected.

And so it's midafternoon of a lovely Persephone day - beaming and blue-skied and with just the right amount of breeze to provide relief from the sun - that finds Prior Fell making his way up towards the landing dais a short distance from the main buildings at Southdown Abbey.

His pace is just a little too brisk to be called a stroll.

Comments

[un_fallen]

It's almost before the engines have completely cycled down that a figure is seen bounding out of a hastily opened hatch, looking left and right even as he slides gracefully down the side of the emergency ladder. He waves tentatively as he approaches, and if he notices Aziraphael's state of anxiety, it doesn't ruffle him at all.

He is, to all appearances, alone.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Neither Raguel's haste nor his open checking for onlookers do much to allay Aziraphael's unease. The message had been cryptic, even for Raguel, and while of course nothing in it had -- on the surface -- been cause for concern, it's... well, it's Raguel.

It could be anything.

He draws to a halt a few feet from the demon, brushing back the strands of hair teased loose by the breeze. It gives him a moment to school his expression, and to try and iron the wary note from his voice.

"Raguel," he says.

(Not as formally as he might have, not so very long ago.)

[un_fallen]

"Hello," he says, stopping as well. He seems content to allow that buffer of a few feet of empty space remain between them for now.

"Nobody else around? You got my text wave?"

It's possible these two questions are related. Possible, but by no means assured.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Nobody," he says, and the little curl of worry snakes that much higher. "And yes, I did. Something of mine, you said."

Perhaps it's not so bad. Lo- Somebody knows, he's taken to assuming the worst, recently. Angel he might be, but he was never the most talented optimist amongst them.

[un_fallen]

"Yeah, uh." He tilts his head, frowning. It's a little unnerving to be pinned by that too-bright gaze, but Aziraphael has had some time to get used to it.

"I was just -" He gestures, apparently to the next star system over, judging by the time it took to reach Southdown.

"He actually... actually, I thought you'd know what it was." The uncertainty hovering in his expression strengthens a little.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

The breeze flutters and then dies away, as though the 'verse has suddenly lost its breath.

"He?" Aziraphael repeats, painfully precise.

It's hard to know what it is, creeping up behind his carefully neutral expression. Wariness still, perhaps -- but of a different sort, and difficult to look at.

[un_fallen]

"Oh," he says, and predictably looks away, toward the abbey. Apparently, he hadn't meant to say that.

"Wasn't sure how to get here from there," he explains, uselessly. "It was raining. Had to get some direction from somebody, and I don't imagine you get out there much."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Raguel."

There's a hissing sort of sound, a quiet whoosh just audible under his voice. Aziraphael can't tell whether the breeze is picking back up (it isn't). It's a little hard to focus on anything else right now.

[un_fallen]

"Yes," he says, "sorry," though it's not clear what he's sorry about.

"Didn't have to get a heading from anyone, in the end. Crowley knew the way."

[aj_crawley]

There's something that might be an exclamation - too low, too distant to be made out.

On the other side of the skimmer, a pair of worn, heavy boots hit the landing dais.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

There are a few things that Aziraphael has not allowed himself in the last year or so; he knows from long experience that brooding only intensifies loss, and that hope in almost any circumstance comes to an especially painful end. He's made it a particular point to avoid these as a necessary means of self-defence. The sounds from the other side of the skimmer are faint, but even so, his carefully prepared pretences evaporate like misty breath.

He looks as though he wants to say something in response to Raguel, but the words don't come.

At last, he steps forward as though in a daze, and gives Raguel an absent pat on the shoulder as he starts toward the transport.

[un_fallen]

Raguel watches him go, a strange half-smile on his face.

"Yeah," he says, half a sigh, and looks out toward the empty expanse of scrub beyond the landing area.

There's a sound like a loud heartbeat, and then the plain is empty.

[aj_crawley]

There's a clang, too - an angry one, one that sounds like it might have left a dent - over the second whoosh of the skimmer door sliding shut.

(And this time, the exclamation is near enough to make out, and it's not very polite at all.)

The boots, careful and steady, are already moving to round the end of the skimmer.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

The faint sounds are clearer now that the distance is not so great. He hasn't quite broken into a run, but it's a near thing, the heavy fabric of his cassock whipping out ungracefully in the breeze behind him. He tries to call out, but the word is hoarse in his throat, and not especially loud.

[aj_crawley]

Loud enough, for someone who -

Loud enough.

The steps falter, and slow - then pick back up, faster, and only as steady now as they need to be to bring Crowley around the engine without tripping over his own feet.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He stumbles to a halt when Crowley comes into view, face still blank with a dazed sort of shock. And for a long, breathless moment, they simply look at each other.

It's —

There are certain habits that aren't quick to break, and despite everything else, his first thought is that this isn't real. He's dreamed of this, for all he wished not to; seen it so often in his sleep that sometimes his only recourse was not to sleep at all. But then, in his dreams, Crowley always appeared with his scar; in his dreams, Crowley always wore a jacket, and his snakeskin shoes, and one of his horribly expensive shirts.

But when it comes right down to it, Aziraphael doesn't truly need the smooth, untorn skin of Crowley's cheek or the threadbare layers that he's wearing to tell him that this time, it is real. All he needs -- when it comes right down to it -- is the tingle of his senses and the sight of the old, familiar quirk of Crowley's mouth beneath his sunglasses. The devil, as they say, is in the details.

Slowly, the angel's look of shock melts into a wide, warm smile.

"Hello," Aziraphael says.

[aj_crawley]

He'd been so nervous. And it's not as though he isn't, still. But all of a sudden -

If there's one pure thing about Crowley, it's in his answering grin: as gradual as Aziraphael's, and angular, and as bright as... well.

As bright as a very bright thing.

He puts his hands in his pockets, just for the look of the thing.

Soft, and a little rough, Crowley says, "Hi."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Putting his hands in his pockets is so very Crowley that Aziraphael's legs almost give out from under him. But Crowley's grin keeps him anchored; steady. It's hard to look at anything else.

"Welcome home," he says, because it's simple, and because there's just too much else flooding his heart, and because the words still won't come. And that sums up what he wants to say, anyhow.

[aj_crawley]

"No kidding," Crowley says. He's enunciating carefully, but it doesn't flatten out the airy tone of his voice - as close to conversational as he can possibly manage.

  "I wound up on  Jubilee."

It's almost - it's a little hard, Crowley finds all over again, to hold up his own weight.

(He'll manage. Well enough.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Oh. Oh dear," Aziraphael manages in turn, a faint look of concern doing very little at all to mask what's underneath. "I -- yes. Not the most hospitable place, but that's where Raguel was, I suppose? Do you know, he sent the most -- "

Aziraphael half-turns to gesture at the demon, but the field is empty.

[aj_crawley]

- Oh.

"Well," Crowley says (this time closer to exhale than to word). He looks down at the ground. "It is a bit."



"He'll be about. Eavesdown, prob'ly."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Yes," Aziraphael says. "Yes, I'm sure he will."

[aj_crawley]

And then once again, a vast, full silence descends, filling the space between them like a living, glowing thing.

Crowley keeps trying to find somewhere else to look, but it isn't working.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

It's Aziraphael who shakes himself out of it first, but only because he's so absorbed in the first place; struck by the way the whispering breeze ruffles Crowley's hair across his forehead, and noticing, then, when the demon hunches his shoulders ever so slightly.

"What am I thinking, keeping you standing up here?" he says abruptly -- even some dizzy approximation of briskly. "There's a lovely fire going in the gatehouse, and fresh sheets and all of that. Everyone's in the main chapel, so they won't see us going down."

There may not have been a fire in the gatehouse fireplace five minutes ago, but then, five minutes ago, he hadn't been expecting company.

[aj_crawley]

"That was quick," he says, as though reading Aziraphael's thoughts. Or perhaps simply the small, directed pulse of power from the angel, rippling the existence around them and then gone.

There are things he needs to ask about, and so overwhelmingly many details to discuss; what to do, and who to contact, and whether the shepherds' quiet loyalty to their Prior and their usual discretion will overcome even a bona fide resurrection, and - and all the whole rest of the 'verse. But it can wait. All of it.

With a tilt of his head, the sort that says well, come on then, he turns and starts to make his way down to the gatehouse.

(He's slow, disguising it as a stroll, and his shoulders are still hunched against the breeze - but his face is lifted up to it, and he keeps turning to sneak glances at Aziraphael out of the corner of his eye.)