a_fell | (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

The rate of Aziraphael's breathing doesn't change; it doesn't sound laboured or forced. He doesn't lean back into Crowley's chest the way he'd like to, or move in any way.

His own heartbeat might be somewhat faster than it was a moment ago, however, and the pillow under Aziraphael's head is a little damp.

There's one shuddering breath against the back of Aziraphael's neck, then one very short one. And then Crowley ducks his head down, leaning the hard line of his forehead just above the angel's collar.

He can feel the slight pressure of Crowley's head, resting on one side of the tied hair trailing down into his shirt, warm and heavy. He hadn't thought Crowley could do this. And it must be costing him dearly to do so.

If morning comes and they're still arranged this way, he won't be sitting up to read.

It's alright.

It's not so bad.

Crowley closes his eyes, testing the weight of his eyelids (heavy).

The press of Aziraphael against him is even, and mostly steady. And once he gets used to the slow rise and fall of the angel's breathing, it'll be alright.

He can feel Crowley's heartbeat as it slows, his breath as it calms, and tense muscles through blankets beginning to loosen. Crowley is wrapped around him, and it's so close to normal that there's really no need to pretend to himself that it is. He can feel the edge of his own exhaustion beginning to weigh him down, and he lets it.

Crowley's been gone a year. There are things that will need adjusting to. But that, too, is perfectly normal.

It'll be alright.

In the end.