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 shoulders lift slightly, in something that might be a shrug if not for the care he takes not to spill his tea.

"All right," he says.

Now look what he's done.

Crowley folds his arms across his stomach.

Aziraphael raises his mug, breathing in a slow lungful of the steam still wafting up from the tea.

After a long sip, his humming starts up again.

Of course. Of course it does.

Presently, trying to pretend as though he isn't, Crowley lifts one hand and pinches the bridge of his nose.

(When he lowers it, crossing it over his stomach once again, and with his eyes closed, he looks almost like he could be asleep - except for the slow working of his throat.)

There are certain things, Aziraphael reflects, that Crowley is only good at pretending at if you don't know him.

He gives something that resembles a sigh (but isn't, quite), and lets his hand trail out towards Crowley, resting it lightly on the cushions halfway between them.

"All right?" he says again.

He starts a little, eyes opening again - but only in the sort of surprise that comes with thoughts interrupted. Not anything worse.

But then again, when he clears his throat and says, "Nothing," it comes just a little too quick.

And that - well, that's almost as good as an admission. Isn't it.

"I mean." He examines the ceiling, a faintly mulish expression on his face, tracking the gentle warp of the wood with his gaze. "I was just - thinking."

"Mm?" he says, carefully non-committal.

Almost as good as an admission.

There are dozens of ways out of this. Hundreds, thousands - more than Crowley could probably think of, and he's already got a few.

And yet -

(For once - )

He scratches his cheek, the picture of diffidence, and this time when he clears his throat, it's lost under a loud crackle from the fireplace.

"I was trying to think of a way to apologise for snapping without actually having to apologise for snapping."

He doesn't much care for the thin clutch of panic in his chest. Of course, he's very tired; it's been a long two weeks. But all the same.

"Since you want to know."

All the same, he'd really quite like it to -

"Oh," he says, taken aback. His hand twitches towards Crowley, then stills.

"Well, I - just so you know, it's quite all right. No need to apologise."

               yi
"Fair enough."
               er
This is stupid. It's just stupid.
               san
He can't even - put his hands in his pockets or something.
               si
"Problem solved, then."

"Yes," he says, trying to sound definitive.

He leans back into the cushions once again and closes his eyes, but his head tilts very slightly toward Crowley.

It's stupid, and transient, and he has no reason to still be - to still be like this.

It's been a long two weeks.

Abruptly, he leans forward and reaches for his neglected tea. He grasps the mug with both hands.

"It's quite understandable, actually, under the circumstances," he says, now looking thoughtfully into the fire.

"And since you mention it, a picnic in the orchard isn't a bad idea. It could make for a nice break."

"Right," Crowley says, looking down at the mug and then back up at Aziraphael.

He turns it once in his hands: clockwise, suppressing the urge to turn and hurl it at Aziraphael's head. The tea lips up near the rim, sloshing gently, but doesn't spill over.

It's quite understandable, actually, under the circumstances.

Aziraphael is watching the yellow-orange dancing of the flames, reflected in miniature in the lenses of Crowley's sunglasses, which sit crooked and discarded on the tabletop as though they'd never not been there at all.

"I'm so very glad to have you back," he says quietly.

The mug chatters against Crowley's teeth. He lowers it without taking a sip.

He'd expected it, or at least something of the sort, so it's not too difficult to rein in the impulse to turn and look.

He occupies himself with his own tea, sipping it slowly and watching the firelight, and waiting for the moment to pass.

In slow succession: a measured breath; the quiet clunk of the mug on the table; the sullen creaking of the couch cushions as Crowley leans back again.

Aziraphael's gaze strays discreetly to the left, resting for a few moments on Crowley's untouched tea.

"I must say, I don't mind admitting to having missed this blend, either."

" - tired, is all."

It overlaps. There's a beat of abashed silence, and then Crowley says, "Sorry, what?"

And a little further around, until he can see Crowley's hands clasped stiffly in his lap.

"Simply thinking aloud about the tea, my dear," he says. "Nothing of importance. What was it you were saying?"

A breath.

"Just that - I've been a bit tired. Is all."

It sounds almost desperately offhand, but there's a certain careful cadence to the words - like he's explaining more than he's explaining.

"We hitched a lift on a bloody rust-bucket off Jubilee. It, er - the engine. Was loud."

For Crowley, at least, freshly reacquainted with things like touch and see and smell - and hear.

It was loud.

"...Oh," he says quietly.

He's been a passenger on more than his fair share of similar craft, over the years. He encourages all of his shepherds to walk the world a while, and tend to their flock - and the nature of the destination, after all, often determines the nature of the journey.

And although he does not, under usual circumstances, permit himself the sort of vocabulary necessary to describe certain of the ships he's travelled on - and although he should certainly never begrudge anyone for living simply, and within whatever means they might - Aziraphael can't quite repress the sudden string of less than charitable thoughts that cross his mind when he looks around at Crowley, and Crowley, pale and too still, doesn't look around at him.

When he reaches out this time, he brushes the barest of fingertips against Crowley's elbow, because it's all he can do not to -

Well. It's all he can do.

"Then I daresay - " he clears his throat. "I daresay some well-deserved rest is in order?"

Crowley gives a sudden bark of laughter.

It's much hoarser than before.

"Wouldn't go amiss. Feels like a year since I got a decent night's sleep."

He jumps a little, whether at the suddenness of the sound or the loudness, but leaves his hand where it is as he replies.

"I've no doubt you'll judge me for being the most unconscionable sap, but truth be told, it wouldn't be unwelcome here, either."