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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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."

Crowley's hand tics up to smooth fingers across his eyebrow, and then closes over Aziraphael's.

He's been gone a year.

(But he's been back for weeks. Why is it still so hard to breathe?)

"'F you wake me up before lunchtime tomorrow, you'll be taking your own extended time-out."

This time it's Aziraphael who laughs - brief, yes, and quiet, but real.

"I've no intention of doing so," he assures Crowley. "I may even sleep in myself."

Cautiously, he turns his hand over beneath Crowley's, so that he can rub his own thumb slowly along the length of the demon's. It's warm, he notes, but perhaps not as warm as it should be.

"Though," he adds, as if as an afterthought, "perhaps we might compromise and retire early? You know how it is when one is old and tired."

And they're covered for tonight.

They're covered for as long as they need to be.

Crowley's gaze slides briefly towards the one of the bright rectangles on the wall; an inverse shadow cast by the cloudy old windows and the late afternoon sun.

"You won't be too warm? 'S all very well turning in early, but if you're going to be tosssing about..."

"I'll manage," he says, following Crowley's line of sight. "I imagine that once I'm settled, I shall sleep like the - er."

Crowley coughs.

"Oh, shut up," Aziraphael says, and squeezes Crowley's hand.

He turns around to say something like, fat chance, I've got a whole year to catch up on, only Aziraphael's looking right at him when he does - and his eyes, crinkling around the edges again, are such a fine, clear blue that it reaches straight into his brain and plucks out something quite different, instead.

Aziraphael stares at him, hoping something collected and dismissive will spring to mind. But it doesn't. The words don't come.

And so instead, he simply leans across the space between them and says, barely audible, just brushing Crowley's lips, "I love you, too."

(He doesn't squeeze Crowley's arm any tighter, but it's a very near thing.)

Crowley jerks back a little, looking briefly alarmed at Aziraphael's newfound ability to read his mind.

But - "...Oh," - it's only a moment before the expression gives way, and only a moment more before Crowley looks as though he'd quite like a small and very localised section of the roof to cave in and salvage what's left of his dignity.

Aziraphael continues to smile at him, managing somehow to avoid it spilling over into laughter.

"Sleep, then?" he asks, once he's relatively certain he can do so with a modicum of sobriety.

"Sleep," Crowley mutters, rubbing the back of his neck and shuffling forward to the edge of the couch.

"Right," he agrees, and stands. The long, open cassock he wears as part of his clericals is hanging by the door, the stiff white collar on the rickety table below. But he's still wearing his tunic, with its high, starched black neck, and it looks very odd with his hair spilling over his shoulders.

"I'll just bank the fire up."

He doesn't, in fact, stand up fast enough to account for the sudden lightheaded sensation that ambushes him. But it'll do as an excuse.

"I'll," he starts, before it occurs to him that actually, it probably wouldn't be the best idea for him to bring the mugs back over to the draining-board. He finishes instead with a vague sort of gesture towards the door.

The bedroom.

"Mm," he says absently, locating a small shovel hidden amongst the various pokers and pans, and poking at the glowing logs.

Eventually satisfied (or at least anxious enough to move on that he decides he is), he puts the shovel down and follows Crowley into the bedroom.

He hasn't been in here in a long while, he realises, staring around. But you'd never know it. The room smells as fresh as though it had been aired out that very morning.

Crowley's sitting on the bed - on his side of the bed - head turned towards the doorway.

When Aziraphael appears, he looks quickly away, bending down to begin the laborious process of unlacing his boots.

Aziraphael smiles down at the floor.

Halfway towards his side of the bed, he detours for a moment and fetches an extra blanket from the pile in the corner, leaving it neatly folded at the end of the bed. Just in case.

Then, across from Crowley, he seats himself on the edge of the mattress and begins to unbutton his tunic.

It isn't going well. Far from a loose, half-useless knot, Crowley's repeated, bloody-minded attempts to tie his boots this morning resulted in a tangled snarl of fraying laces that'd put any Gordian knot to shame.

Of course, he could do it the easy way. But then, he could have done it the easy way this morning, too.

Aziraphael notices, but ignores him for the moment. His tunic has a lot of buttons.

Once free of its confines, he goes to hang it in the narrow wardrobe.

He can see how to do it, it's just that -

Tunic safely stowed, Aziraphael steals a glance at Crowley before sitting back down on the bed to remove his own shoes.

One.

Crowley kicks it off and into the corner with perhaps a little more force than is strictly warranted.

Between his knees, he flexes his hand, fingertips mottled slightly red.

His socks, he leaves in his shoes for now; his shoes, he nudges under the bed.

His shirt, now; lighter than his tunic in both colour and cloth, but with just as many buttons.

After a moment he bends again, forehead creasing in concentration.