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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"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.

"Ssuit yourself," Crowley replies, looking profoundly disinclined to move either. "No midnight feasts."

"No midnight feasts," he agrees, and now his hand is definitely touching Crowley's hair. His fingers might even be curling into it, ever so slightly.

The kitchens are perhaps not all that far in the grand scheme, but there is very little that could induce him to leave this house tonight.

Crowley stills at the feel of Aziraphael's hand in his hair.

After a moment, his chest rises - and then falls again, breath puffing out against Aziraphael's stomach.

"'S there a forecast for tomorrow?"

"Oh, probably," he says, with a somewhat wicked smile. His conscience prods him, though, and he continues.

"It's supposed to be about like this for the next several days," he says, nodding back at the nearest window. "Much to the dismay of those with hats still to ruin in a downpour."

"Good," he says.

"Had enough of rain, for a while."

"Yes, I'm sure you have," he says quietly, and he hesitates for a moment before he speaks again.

"The rumours aren't very pleasant; I'm sorry you had to go to Jubilee, my dear. Though it's rather close to Persephone, relatively speaking, so I can't bring myself to be that sorry."

"Enh," Crowley replies, with a carefully dismissive shrug.

(He'd just wanted to - say it. And now it's said; framed; mounted. It sounds a bit stupid.)

"If Raguel didn't spend so much time slumming around places like that, I would've ended up on the nearest shit-hole moon to where the Shé X- "

He fumbles the sibilants.

His sweater rustles as his fingers press down again, testing for give.

"To where the ship was taken. And I'd've been on my own."

"Yes," he says, watching Crowley's fingers more intently now. There's a very slight frown creasing his forehead.

"It was better than the alternative, I suppose. Especially on your own. I'm glad he was there, at least; it's difficult enough with help."

"Mm," Crowley agrees, though he doesn't seem inclined to elaborate any further.

After a moment, he reaches up and (after a moment's rather undignified groping) grasps the hand still resting lightly in his hair.

He pulls it down to his shoulder instead, replacing the other.

"He stayed close," he muses, but stops talking when Crowley reaches up. He beams at him in what most would consider an extremely silly way, and closes his hand around Crowley's.

After a moment, he puts down his cup.