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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Perhaps it is," he murmurs, entirely failing to sound as nonchalant as he'd hoped. The last word trails away to silence, barely completed.

There might have been more - indeed, there most likely was - but he doesn't continue; something in the yellow eyes looking up at him trumps his need for words. This time, he leaves his hands where they are, and slowly, carefully, leans down.

He doesn't have far to go.

It takes Crowley a moment to situate himself, delaying the proceedings by one second, two, as he lifts himself clumsily up on one elbow.

But this time, he meets Aziraphael halfway.

He honestly hadn't intended to, but once there... well, awkward position or not, it would be very difficult to pull away. Crowley's lips are warm and gentle and very slightly cracked. It's almost - almost - as though he'd never been gone at all.

The hand over Crowley's heartbeat feels its steady rhythm increase, not that he registers this. He barely even feels the elbow digging into his lap.

It's longer than the first; more lingering. But that doesn't make it any less intense, and - and Aziraphael's lips are even softer around the edges, and he tastes of green tea, and when his mouth catches minutely against the chapped skin of Crowley's lips, he nearly -

(He doesn't make a sound.)

The unsustainable position finally forces them reluctantly apart, but Aziraphael doesn't sit up the rest of the way just yet. There are things, he feels, that should be said.

(He doesn't make a sound, either.)

Crowley's just a little too close for his expression to be seen as a single, cohesive whole - but where the curve of his mouth is insouciant, even a little wicked, his vivid yellow eyes are just a bit too sincere.

The sunlight streaming in through the window is the honeyed gold of late afternoon, and in the silence it fills the room behind them with an easy glow. He'd like (Crowley reflects) to switch arms - to reach up and slowly tug Aziraphael's hair free of its queue and see if this time, he can find what it is that draws the sun; that soaks it up and turns all the ends and flyaways into little threads of spun light.

Unfortunately (Crowley reflects), at the moment he's liable to end up pulling Aziraphael's hair instead, and almost certain to end up elbowing him in the stomach - or worse.

That's alright, though.

Things are really quite acceptable as they are.

The careless quirk of Crowley's mouth isn't fooling him, but he wisely doesn't mention it.

Aziraphael knows the next step; they've been at this point before so many times that he can almost feel Crowley's hands in his hair already. But much as he'd like to imagine that Crowley's never been gone at all, he knows that precise movements are nearly impossible right now. And yes - things are quite acceptable as they are - but he has a hand free.

A moment later, he pulls the band out himself, just in case.

And quite suddenly, there's the strangest sound coming from Crowley. The conventional simile is that of steam escaping from a kettle - but to be perfectly honest, this sounds rather more like air escaping from a balloon; a hissing sound, certainly, but one which in parts sounds markedly... squeaky.

Aziraphael pulls back, surprised and more than a little jumpy. His eyes had been drifting closed again and now they fly open on a tiny gasp.

"All right?" he asks hesitantly.

And that's really all it takes - that, and the sight of Aziraphael's face - for Crowley's desperate sniggering to explode into a full-fledged hoot of laughter.

His own smile blossoms again in response, but he reddens slightly anyway, not yet certain whether he's the butt of the joke.

"Well, really," is all he can manage.

"What the fuck, Fabio," Crowley brays, nearly falling off the sofa.

"Oh, stop it," he says, oddly relieved. The blush, however, does not recede.

"You know, I've said more than once that I should just move away and cut it off."

With his free hand, Crowley manages between sobs of laughter (as it were), to mime pulling a tie from his own hair and shaking it seductively loose around his face.

(It's a good laugh; a loud, deep belly-laugh. And if it's just a little ragged around the edges, or a little wild, then - that's not such a bad thing either, maybe.)

"I didn't shake it," he says stubbornly.

"I could keep it in mind for next time, though, if you like."

That laughter is somewhat contagious; his own smile hasn't faded, either.

"Not," Crowley wheezes, clutching his side, "if you ever want to get laid again. Not that you - oh, ssstitch. Stitch."

"I've no doubt you deserve it," he says, trying to keep his amusement hidden. He'd probably cross his arms if there was room, but as Crowley is in the way of that, his 'prim' voice will have to suffice.

"Bloody right," he keens around his stitch, half-curled towards Aziraphael. "'Magine if it had worked. Then you'd be in trouble."

Aziraphael attempts a stern countenance, but fails. It likely wouldn't work anyhow, as his hair is still loose and he strongly suspects that he's seen that expression on the cover of a paperback somewhere.

"Why's that?" he asks, before he can stop himself.

"Please," Crowley says, inbetween deep breaths of air that he can't quite seem to convince his lungs aren't necessary. "Like this? You'd probably dissc- discorporate me all over again. And I hate - urgh," he kneads at his stitch. "I hate to leave a job half-done."

It takes several seconds for him to latch on to Crowley's full meaning. Understanding doesn't come as slowly as it might have once, but when it happens, it's startlingly fast: he's looking politely puzzled one moment and flushing the next.

"Ah," he begins, clearing his throat.

"We're very fortunate that you didn't take it too seriously, then." His hand edges back toward Crowley's (now impossibly untidy) hair.

"Yeah, well, that's me," Crowley replies, voice still wobbly with laughter.

(Actually, it comes out more like thahahat'ss me - which would be a little embarrassing if only Crowley were in any frame of mind to care.)

"Your virtue isn't the only one that's ever vigilant."

"If you're that vigilant, then soon I shall have to find another way to get my point across. Perhaps I'll need to drag you somewhere by the hair."

He doesn't tug at strands of hair just now, but it does give him a good excuse to run his fingers through it.

Crowley's teeth click together on something else.

"Perhaps."

"Time-tested," he says in mock defence. "Though it can't have put the person dragged around into a very cooperative mood."

His fingers slow until they're barely moving at all.