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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If Crowley hears the yawn, feels Aziraphael shifting closer, he doesn't give any sign he's noticed. His hand rustles over his stomach again. Smooth. Press.

Smooth again.

"You sure you're not too warm?"

He could get up and open a window.

"Not at the moment, thank you, my dear. I can always change into something lighter if I need to."

He hesitates.

"Unless you'd like a breeze?"

"No, no," he says, a little swift. "Well - wouldn't mind, but 'ss lower on the scale of comforts than keeping out the bloody birdsong."

"Ah," he says, managing a horizontal nod.

"They can be a little boisterous, this time of day."

He slides one hand forward just a little, just so he can feel a weighty dip in the blankets. Much better.

"Mm," he grunts, eyes closed.

He sighs deeply, smiling a little. He closes his own eyes, finally letting all that built-up weariness weigh him down, comfortable and content.

Aziraphael's hand lies still, fingers curled softly against the faded bedclothes.

"'Night," Crowley says.

And then, "Er, I mean. Well, you know what I mean."

Aziraphael breaks into a wide smile, but doesn't open his eyes again.

"I do," he says. "Good night, my dear. Be sure to wake me if you need anything."

"Right," he says.

Despite the itching burn of exhaustion behind his eyeballs, Crowley's not at all as sleepy as he thought he'd be. Or as he was, passingly, out on the couch.

He should stay settled, though; lie still. He should try not to disturb Aziraphael.

The rhythmic, familiar sounds of Aziraphael's breathing even out into a steady pattern. Touching or not, he can still feel Crowley's presence, and knows he'll sleep more soundly for it.

Crowley huffs out a short sussuration, air sliding over and around his tongue and curling up to break softly against the ceiling.

It's bright, sun-tinged daylight still treacling in and shepherding the shadows into small corners: angular shapes that gradually shift and change as time leaks slowly through the joins in the walls. At some point, he thinks about waving away the sheer scraps that pass for curtains, and replacing them with some heavy-duty blinds - but he doesn't. This is okay. It's warm, but not too warm, and it's not dark. Even the kind he can see in.

He counts the dust motes that, even in here, swirl and eddy in the light, accreting around the bedposts like little wheeling halos.

It's all the hyperstimulation, cumulative: Crowley feels like he's going to throw up again.

The light doesn't disturb him; the rhythmic pattern of his breath barely alters. The only thing that changes much, here in this bright, timeless room, is that every so often, on one or another of the soft sighs or snorts that accompany sleep, Aziraphael shifts a little further toward Crowley's familiar weight.

By the time the shadow of the wardrobe has begun to scale the foot of the bed, Aziraphael's knuckles are brushing gently against the threadbare fabric of Crowley's sweater.

That's alright. Crowley's not asleep, after all, so there's no shocked awakening to worry about.

No problem.

(There's no real room to roll away, not without falling off the bed, and he doesn't think Aziraphael's so deeply asleep that the noise wouldn't wake him - and then, then he'll ask what the matter is, and they'll have to have a conversation about it all over again.

But then again -

There's no real room to roll away, but there's no real room for Aziraphael to roll too much closer, either. No problem.)

Aziraphael drags his hand back toward himself to scratch an invisible itch at his collar with a tiny, dissatisfied sound.

When it returns, it's on top of Crowley, loosely wrapped around his waist.

It's only habit.

Now that Crowley thinks about it, it is a little stuffy in here. Not just warm, warm is fine, but close. Thick.

He can't get up.

He should get up and open that window.

He doesn't have time.

He should - yeah. He should

get up

and open that window.

The tips of Aziraphael's fingers curl towards him, then relax, just brushing his ribs. And again.

Aziraphael breathes a warm sigh by Crowley's ear.

-

No. Never mind. He can move. It's just difficult. It's as though the filtered sunlight has thickened the air, filled it up with a sticky ether that it's a chore to push through, that makes it seem impossible, that makes Crowley's limbs feel heavy, motorless.

First, he moves his arm out to the edge of the bed. Then he moves his leg. Then Crowley eases out slowly, stomach tense, and stands up much too fast.

He sways for a moment, dizzy.

(Has he always been this tall?)

With Crowley's weight gone, he's free to move onto the vacated side of the bed - but of course, the key motivation for such a move is missing.

It's a much different (and quieter) sort of sigh that escapes him now, but he doesn't wake.

Sock-footed, Crowley pads carefully over to the window, and considers the latch, and the hinges. He's not surprised at what he finds. Every book left lying unattended on a coffee table eventually becomes a copy of Uncommon Grounds; every digital recording on a secondary drive inevitably finds itself transformed into a Rick Astley number; and no matter how many times nor how often they open this window, the latch, and the hinges, are always rusted shut.

Gradually, as silently as a little more than strictly human effort will allow, Crowley tries to ease the latch up off its hook.

- WHUNK

He hadn't realised: his palms are slick with sweat.

It's warmer than he thought.

The sound of the latch springing back into place is just loud enough for Aziraphael to stir. His movement is toward Crowley's side of the bed, naturally, but he can feel the edge of the mattress now. There's no one there.

He remains where he is, but now there's a slight frown appearing on his face. The eyelid closest to the pillow, where it can't be seen, opens just a sliver.

Shit, Crowley thinks, looking over at Aziraphael and then back at his palms.

He wipes them on his jeans, and tries again.

He's still clumsy, but in this, he's willing to ease the way with some pointedly directed thoughts on latches, and the appropriate positions thereof (and hinges, and what constitutes an acceptable amount of squeaking).

It's a few inches. Not much, but enough to let in some air.

Crowley breathes in deep, once, twice, and feels - how strange - a dampness drying cool at his temples.

The breeze is very, very slight, and warm. It isn't enough to ruffle Aziraphael's hair at the moment, but it ghosts across his skin, soothing, and he relaxes.

He still doesn't move away from the edge of the bed, however.

He stays there a few moments longer, face close to the thin slice of fresh air.

The birds are pretty rowdy. Briefly, Crowley contemplates winching the window further open and beaning one of them with a shoe. It's tempting. But then, he'd probably miss - and anyhow, without Aziraphael to purse his lips and give a disdainful sniff and shoot him a reproachful glance, the idea doesn't seem quite as fun.

He seems more solidly asleep, now that Crowley turns to look, arm stretched out across the space where Crowley had been.

The frown on his face is fainter now, only just discernible between long, slow breaths. He lies very still.

The ridiculous sleeve of his pyjama top contrasts sharply with the solid white pillowcase, exposed slightly where the blankets pulled away as Crowley got up.

It's not so big a bed as the old one. But he's not the only one who stays here anymore, and the Prior rather felt that a smaller bed would be more in keeping with the abbey's principles.

But there's room enough, now that Aziraphael's mostly over on Crowley's side of the bed.

Silently, Crowley crosses over to the empty side of the mattress, and lowers himself down onto the edge.

(Carefully, so that the dip doesn't register.)