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

               yi
"Fair enough."
               er
This is stupid. It's just stupid.
               san
He can't even - put his hands in his pockets or something.
               si
"Problem solved, then."

"Yes," he says, trying to sound definitive.

He leans back into the cushions once again and closes his eyes, but his head tilts very slightly toward Crowley.

It's stupid, and transient, and he has no reason to still be - to still be like this.

It's been a long two weeks.

Abruptly, he leans forward and reaches for his neglected tea. He grasps the mug with both hands.

"It's quite understandable, actually, under the circumstances," he says, now looking thoughtfully into the fire.

"And since you mention it, a picnic in the orchard isn't a bad idea. It could make for a nice break."

"Right," Crowley says, looking down at the mug and then back up at Aziraphael.

He turns it once in his hands: clockwise, suppressing the urge to turn and hurl it at Aziraphael's head. The tea lips up near the rim, sloshing gently, but doesn't spill over.

It's quite understandable, actually, under the circumstances.

Aziraphael is watching the yellow-orange dancing of the flames, reflected in miniature in the lenses of Crowley's sunglasses, which sit crooked and discarded on the tabletop as though they'd never not been there at all.

"I'm so very glad to have you back," he says quietly.

The mug chatters against Crowley's teeth. He lowers it without taking a sip.

He'd expected it, or at least something of the sort, so it's not too difficult to rein in the impulse to turn and look.

He occupies himself with his own tea, sipping it slowly and watching the firelight, and waiting for the moment to pass.

In slow succession: a measured breath; the quiet clunk of the mug on the table; the sullen creaking of the couch cushions as Crowley leans back again.

Aziraphael's gaze strays discreetly to the left, resting for a few moments on Crowley's untouched tea.

"I must say, I don't mind admitting to having missed this blend, either."

" - tired, is all."

It overlaps. There's a beat of abashed silence, and then Crowley says, "Sorry, what?"

And a little further around, until he can see Crowley's hands clasped stiffly in his lap.

"Simply thinking aloud about the tea, my dear," he says. "Nothing of importance. What was it you were saying?"

A breath.

"Just that - I've been a bit tired. Is all."

It sounds almost desperately offhand, but there's a certain careful cadence to the words - like he's explaining more than he's explaining.

"We hitched a lift on a bloody rust-bucket off Jubilee. It, er - the engine. Was loud."

For Crowley, at least, freshly reacquainted with things like touch and see and smell - and hear.

It was loud.

"...Oh," he says quietly.

He's been a passenger on more than his fair share of similar craft, over the years. He encourages all of his shepherds to walk the world a while, and tend to their flock - and the nature of the destination, after all, often determines the nature of the journey.

And although he does not, under usual circumstances, permit himself the sort of vocabulary necessary to describe certain of the ships he's travelled on - and although he should certainly never begrudge anyone for living simply, and within whatever means they might - Aziraphael can't quite repress the sudden string of less than charitable thoughts that cross his mind when he looks around at Crowley, and Crowley, pale and too still, doesn't look around at him.

When he reaches out this time, he brushes the barest of fingertips against Crowley's elbow, because it's all he can do not to -

Well. It's all he can do.

"Then I daresay - " he clears his throat. "I daresay some well-deserved rest is in order?"

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.