a_fell | (no subject)

(no subject)

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.

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Aziraphael's eyes have drifted closed.

A long-held - not tension, but something like an ache - ebbs away from his shoulders.

He traces the pad of his thumb along a crease in Aziraphael's sleeve. His touch is light, but not on purpose, or at least not all the way. He just feels -

The tunic's weave is tight but stiff, made to last; he can feel every thread standing out against his skin, every right angle in the hardy warp and weft of the cloth. He can feel every one of Aziraphael's warm fingers through his clothes; he can hear Aziraphael's slow, almost-measured breathing. And stronger than the wood fire and the trees outside and the tea, he can smell the clean and, and wrenchingly familiar scent of Aziraphael's hair.

His inhale - afterwards - is neither very quiet nor very steady.

He remains quite still once Crowley breaks the kiss, aside from his rapidly flickering eyelashes and the shallow movements of his chest; breathing feels more necessary now than it did a few minutes ago.

"You're back," he says, low, through a ridiculous smile.

He's leaning his head against Aziraphael's, temple to temple. It's - well, it's probably best for all concerned. But when the angel speaks, it rumbles almost directly into his ear, and he's not back so long that it isn't still enough to make him flinch.

(But then again, it's not as bad as it was.)

"You're slow," he returns, roughly.

"Mm," he agrees, shifting slightly away from Crowley's ear (a flinch is hard to miss in quarters this tight). Words. Any second now, they'll come to him.

"It's only a temporary failing, I hope."

"Been the best part of sseven thousand years."

It's good like this. Just a few simple points of contact: their foreheads, their hands, the cautious brush of their knees.

It's - okay.

"I wouldn't hold your breath."

He keeps his short laughter silent through a strong effort of will.

"You really are back. Not that I could have doubted it for a moment."

Aziraphael's breath is hot on the side of his face.

Crowley sits back, ducking his head as he rubs distractedly at the back of his neck.

"'S shortage of people round here to insult you, I think."

"You're probably right," he says, resting his arm against the back of the couch so he can turn more fully toward Crowley.

"Wouldn't want anyone to think I was having it easy with all this soft living."

"Then it must be your lucky day."

He looks tired. That isn't exactly unusual, not these days, but this isn't quite the same ground-in, worn-down weariness that sometimes shows in the face of Andronicus Crowley, CEO. This is different.

His fingers touch thoughtfully against the couch cushions again, where they start to dip beneath Aziraphael's weight.

"It is, yes," he says, meaning it. He watches Crowley closely: the strange exhaustion, the hard edges, this tentative, tactile curiosity. Southdown, he thinks again, is a good place for quiet resting, making things right (Aziraphael has faith). He doesn't think he'll have to work very hard to convince Crowley to stay for a bit.

"I've missed you. Though perhaps that's already clear enough."

Something flickers at the corner of Crowley's lips, then comes back to stay, finally tugging his mouth back up into something lopsided and honest.

He motions with his head.

"Sit back."

Sitting back is near the bottom of the list of things he'd like to do right now, but Aziraphael complies.

He leaves one arm draped over the back of the couch. Just in case Crowley wants to lean in, or anything.

It's not quite what Crowley has in mind - but it's not altogether off-base, either.

It's something of an irony, really: still so new in his own skin, Crowley moves - can't help but move - with the creaking uncertainty of an old man. After he wraps his fraying sweater more closely around himself, thumbs tucked inside the sleeves, he turns to pull awkward legs up onto the couch. And then, with that same slow caution, he lowers his head to rest in Aziraphael's lap.

Well, he reasons, this is every bit as good. Aziraphael leans further into the cushions and releases a quiet, satisfied sigh.

After a moment, the hand from the back of the couch drops down to - lightly at first - rest on Crowley's shoulder.

"All right?"

There's a spot, just above Crowley's navel. His hands come to rest there, and idly - perhaps unconsciously - he presses his fingertips against his belly, the same way they pushed against the old couch cushion.

After a moment, he laces his hands together.

Eyes closed: "Been worse."

"Mm," he says vaguely, his own eyes on Crowley's fingers. He doesn't move.

"I suppose so."

That earns him a quiet snort, though Crowley still doesn't open his eyes.

"I'm pretty sure I could think of a few examples."

"Yes," he agrees. He's very certain that he could think of a few examples, too, but doing so makes him a little ill. Now, when he's just got Crowley back, hardly seems the time.

He looks into the fire, not really seeing it.

Aziraphael's hand is still resting loosely on his shoulder. When nothing else seems to be forthcoming, Crowley turns his head a little, just enough to nose into the curve of the angel's wrist.

Startled out of his reverie, he looks down and a small smile reappears. He rests his other hand on his lap as well, not quite touching Crowley's hair.

Well, perhaps it does a little. A few of the strays that don't lie neatly with the others.

"Offer still stands."

"Which offer is that, dare I ask?"

His hand creeps just a little closer to the rest of Crowley's hair, hardly brushing it.

"Dinner."

Crowley briefly lifts a hand.

"I even promise not to throw up at the smell."

"That's good of you," he says, "but I'm not terribly inclined to move right now, my dear, no matter what delicacies they might be cooking up there. Potato soup, no doubt."

He reaches out and snags his tea. There's another of those satisfied sighs, this time muffled by the cup as he holds it close to his nose to take in the scent after having a sip.