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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"Please," Crowley says, inbetween deep breaths of air that he can't quite seem to convince his lungs aren't necessary. "Like this? You'd probably dissc- discorporate me all over again. And I hate - urgh," he kneads at his stitch. "I hate to leave a job half-done."

It takes several seconds for him to latch on to Crowley's full meaning. Understanding doesn't come as slowly as it might have once, but when it happens, it's startlingly fast: he's looking politely puzzled one moment and flushing the next.

"Ah," he begins, clearing his throat.

"We're very fortunate that you didn't take it too seriously, then." His hand edges back toward Crowley's (now impossibly untidy) hair.

"Yeah, well, that's me," Crowley replies, voice still wobbly with laughter.

(Actually, it comes out more like thahahat'ss me - which would be a little embarrassing if only Crowley were in any frame of mind to care.)

"Your virtue isn't the only one that's ever vigilant."

"If you're that vigilant, then soon I shall have to find another way to get my point across. Perhaps I'll need to drag you somewhere by the hair."

He doesn't tug at strands of hair just now, but it does give him a good excuse to run his fingers through it.

Crowley's teeth click together on something else.

"Perhaps."

"Time-tested," he says in mock defence. "Though it can't have put the person dragged around into a very cooperative mood."

His fingers slow until they're barely moving at all.

"I can't imagine why."

(Lie.)

"I'm sure I'm far too sympathetic," he says, continuing to gently finger strands of Crowley's hair.

It feels odd to have his own hair loose; some of it has trickled over his shoulders and he imagines it looks even more ridiculous than it feels. He isn't about to put it up again, though.

"Well."

Crowley's still propped on one elbow, which still digs stiffly into Aziraphael's leg.

Nothing else, yet.

It's becoming a little uncomfortable, now that Aziraphael isn't so distracted that he doesn't feel it. Crowley's looking back out in front of himself, now, and doesn't seem inclined to turn his head.

"My dear, would you mind--" Aziraphael asks, gesturing toward Crowley's arm while still twining hair through his fingers with the other hand.

The leather beneath him squeaks as Crowley sits up: carefully, so that Aziraphael's hand does not pull at his hair, but not slowly.

"Thank you," he says, caught between relief that the elbow is gone and disappointment that Crowley is no longer lying with his head in his lap.

He feels a little dizzy. Unpleasantly hot, even (and that's unusual all by itself).

He runs his palms along the leather, and wonders if some tea would do the trick.

His hands feel oddly empty now. Distractedly, he reaches for his own tea to fill them, breathing the (still) thick steam before he takes a sip.

After a moment he starts to hum to himself, the distracted way that he does when he's making tea or sweeping up, so that approximately every third note is audible. It's something old and apparently tuneless.

For someone with such a... well, divine singing voice, Aziraphael really does sound dreadful when he hums like that. And now more than ever, with Crowley's ears so still so acutely sensitive. But like the horrible old mismatched furniture, and the pathetic groaning whenever the plumbing here is pressed into service, Crowley finds it - reassuring, in a way he prefers not to dwell too long on when he's away.

After a few moments, he leans back against the sofa, slouching (though not too far down) with his hands laced across his stomach.

No, not laced. One atop the other.

Aziraphael knows that his humming is off-key, but Crowley seems comfortable enough with it. He tries to dismiss the worry that comes with seeing Crowley make that repeated motion against his stomach. It doesn't work very well.

"I could probably find some of that potato soup you liked when you were last here," he tells his tea, casually. "The menu here isn't exactly varied. When you're feeling up to it, of course."

"Maybe in a few days."

(It's the guess of an optimist, and a prideful one at that. It'll take a little longer than a few days.)

"Mind, I ssaid it was alright. But if you still feel the need to wait on me hand and foot, don't let me stop you."

The food at Southdown might never stray far from the Traditional Country Fare, that's true enough - but those few dishes that they do cook, they've had a great deal of practice at.

"Yes," he agrees, nodding. It's the agreement of someone who'll agree with some very shaky predictions.

"A couple of days." He looks thoughtfully over at Crowley. "Well, we'll see if I do. I hate to even hazard a guess, at this point."

(He will.)

The ghost of a grin flits across his face as he slants a look over at Aziraphael.

"Make any promises, and I'll decide I want some in the middle of the orchard just to test the strength of your convictions."

"I wouldn't put it past you," he says, an echoing smile beginning to crease his eyes. "Fortunately, I'm quite sure I shouldn't be allowed to make you any binding promises."

Crowley's eyebrows draw together a little in confusion.

"How d'you mean?"

"A pact with the devil, my dear?" There's a certain note of fond amusement lurking beneath Aziraphael's reasonable tone, but he doesn't make much of an effort to disguise it.

"I doubt that would go over well Upstairs, even if - "

"Don't."

" - about soup," Aziraphael finishes, blinking. "Shénme?"

"Don't," Crowley repeats. He isn't smiling anymore.

Voice clipped, and only few cold degrees off level:

"Just don't. For once - "

Not tonight. Not in this house.

Not within spitting distance of an old, stone abbey that makes the point perfectly well on its own.

White-lipped, he doesn't continue.