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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"Exactly, yes. He even carried a link - I believe Gabriel Tam gave it to him."

Aziraphael's hand is barely there, warming the longer it rests in one place. It stays directly over Crowley's heartbeat but he has to resist the urge, now, to trace it lightly up Crowley's neck where the pulse of life is even stronger. The return from discorporation is always accompanied by a marked increase in sensitivity - he swallows audibly, remembering - but after an entire year away, it's rather more marked than usual. Significantly so.

He lets his eyes follow the course he'd like to trace, instead.

He doesn't want to talk about this anymore.

"You said you were gardening?"

He doesn't want to talk about Raguel, either, but that's alright. Aziraphael will wind up on a tangent.

Crowley opens his eyes, smiling expectantly.

Aziraphael's gaze jumps sheepishly to Crowley's, a faint flush rising in his cheeks. But all the same, it isn't precisely hard to return the demon's smile, and after a moment Aziraphael rallies rather well.

"We were. Around here, for the most part, although he did lend a dab hand when we had to move some saplings from the nursery. We had a few cases of ringspot in the orchard," he adds, by way of explanation. "It seemed a shame not to repopulate while we had the extra hands so close to spring."

Of course, Raguel had insisted on referring to the process as 'cradle-robbing', which had been slightly awkward - but by then, the shepherds were largely used to delicately ignoring him in any case.

Crowley's eyebrows lift a little at this news.

"Hnh. Apple or peach?"

"A few from both, as it happens," Aziraphael replies, thumb stroking over the back of Crowley's hand. "A pity, but better that than having either of them hit harder, don't you think?"

There.

"I think it just goes to show that you're all rubbish at that sort of thing with me around."

The smile that unfurls across Aziraphael's face isn't perhaps so broad as to be called a grin. But with Crowley so close - with his head right there in Aziraphael's lap; with his hand under one of Aziraphael's and his heartbeat under the other - there really isn't any need.

"Is that so," he replies.

"Yep," Crowley says, voice pitched to an artfully careless arrogance that it once took him - well, quite a long time to perfect.

"I can't be the only one who ssees the pattern here. I get dissc- I get bumped off for any longer than a month and suddenly your orchards are dying with the blight - "

"Ringspot."

" - disease, I don't care what you call it, and you're getting Raguel in to help with the weeding, and who knows what else. Wonder anything's left, really."

"I do think you're being unduly harsh, my dear," Aziraphael says, voice deep with amusement (and not only amusement). "The rest of the orchard, for example, is doing perfectly well."

"Is that so," Crowley repeats, mimicking Aziraphael's voice to a tee, the conversation so old and so comfortable and so well-rehearsed that he doesn't even need to think about it. "I do think you're being unduly a great sodding liar."

With affected primness:

"Angels don't lie; they - "

" - give the truth scope," Crowley choruses, rolling his eyes.

His first impulse is to slide his hand beneath Crowley's neck and to pull the demon up to meet him halfway in a kiss; to tangle his other hand in Crowley's hair and not let go until -

(But a memory flickers somewhere in the back of his head, and it's not only the one of Crowley jerking back from his hand with a rigid look on his face that Aziraphael doesn't think he has the strength to deal with yet.)

Smoothly, he alters the first abortive movement of his hand and swats Crowley lightly instead.

"Even so. You're quite welcome to come up to the orchard and see for yourself how much scope I'm giving it."

"You sure?"

Yeah. There.

Whatever it was that had wound up quite so tight behind his breastbone has loosened, just a little. He feels... better. Not -

Well. He feels better.

He waits for Aziraphael's hand to settle back on his shoulder, and tangles his fingers with the angel's once again.

"I dunno if the trees'll be able to handle it, after a year of your coddling."

"They've proven themselves to be quite resilient, I'd say." He raises an eyebrow, still wearing a ridiculous smile and trying to ignore his heartbeat, still racing from that smothered impulse.

"I'm not completely hopeless as a gardener, you know."

Crowley makes a derisive sort of sound, the sort of sound of which pfffff is only a rough approximation, and says, "Never sseen you offer anything harsher than consturc- consstructive criticism."

"Nothing wrong with constructive criticism," he says, stubborn.

"It's worked quite well for the vast majority of them. Where required, of course; a kind word and a little fertilizer never goes awry, otherwise."

"Oh, at first, sure," Crowley allows, waving a dismissive hand. "But as soon as that first flush of enthusiasm is gone, disscipline goes right out the window. And it's all curling leaves and limp petals from there on in. It's all about discipline."

It's all about control.

"Hmm," he says doubtfully.

"This 'discipline' you're thinking of exacting sounds fairly harsh. Perhaps I should provide a reassuring presence if you're planning to inspect them."

There's no ulterior motive here at all. Well, perhaps just a little one.

"See," he says, freeing his hand from Aziraphael's just long enough to prod the angel in the stomach. "Coddling. Mind, you're coming anyway. 'S no fun if I can't point out everything that's wrong in person."

"Oh," he says, but his face doesn't convey a stern look at the 'coddling' comment, the way he had no doubt intended. In fact, he looks even happier than he did before. It's quite embarrassing.

"I suppose I shall have to, yes."

"Tomorrow, then." he says.

"Or the day after."

Aziraphael's hand curls gently in Crowley's sweater.

"We'll see," he says.

Perhaps the day after.