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[a_fell]

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.

Comments

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

The faint sounds are clearer now that the distance is not so great. He hasn't quite broken into a run, but it's a near thing, the heavy fabric of his cassock whipping out ungracefully in the breeze behind him. He tries to call out, but the word is hoarse in his throat, and not especially loud.

[aj_crawley]

Loud enough, for someone who -

Loud enough.

The steps falter, and slow - then pick back up, faster, and only as steady now as they need to be to bring Crowley around the engine without tripping over his own feet.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He stumbles to a halt when Crowley comes into view, face still blank with a dazed sort of shock. And for a long, breathless moment, they simply look at each other.

It's —

There are certain habits that aren't quick to break, and despite everything else, his first thought is that this isn't real. He's dreamed of this, for all he wished not to; seen it so often in his sleep that sometimes his only recourse was not to sleep at all. But then, in his dreams, Crowley always appeared with his scar; in his dreams, Crowley always wore a jacket, and his snakeskin shoes, and one of his horribly expensive shirts.

But when it comes right down to it, Aziraphael doesn't truly need the smooth, untorn skin of Crowley's cheek or the threadbare layers that he's wearing to tell him that this time, it is real. All he needs -- when it comes right down to it -- is the tingle of his senses and the sight of the old, familiar quirk of Crowley's mouth beneath his sunglasses. The devil, as they say, is in the details.

Slowly, the angel's look of shock melts into a wide, warm smile.

"Hello," Aziraphael says.

[aj_crawley]

He'd been so nervous. And it's not as though he isn't, still. But all of a sudden -

If there's one pure thing about Crowley, it's in his answering grin: as gradual as Aziraphael's, and angular, and as bright as... well.

As bright as a very bright thing.

He puts his hands in his pockets, just for the look of the thing.

Soft, and a little rough, Crowley says, "Hi."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Putting his hands in his pockets is so very Crowley that Aziraphael's legs almost give out from under him. But Crowley's grin keeps him anchored; steady. It's hard to look at anything else.

"Welcome home," he says, because it's simple, and because there's just too much else flooding his heart, and because the words still won't come. And that sums up what he wants to say, anyhow.

[aj_crawley]

"No kidding," Crowley says. He's enunciating carefully, but it doesn't flatten out the airy tone of his voice - as close to conversational as he can possibly manage.

  "I wound up on  Jubilee."

It's almost - it's a little hard, Crowley finds all over again, to hold up his own weight.

(He'll manage. Well enough.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Oh. Oh dear," Aziraphael manages in turn, a faint look of concern doing very little at all to mask what's underneath. "I -- yes. Not the most hospitable place, but that's where Raguel was, I suppose? Do you know, he sent the most -- "

Aziraphael half-turns to gesture at the demon, but the field is empty.

[aj_crawley]

- Oh.

"Well," Crowley says (this time closer to exhale than to word). He looks down at the ground. "It is a bit."



"He'll be about. Eavesdown, prob'ly."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Yes," Aziraphael says. "Yes, I'm sure he will."

[aj_crawley]

And then once again, a vast, full silence descends, filling the space between them like a living, glowing thing.

Crowley keeps trying to find somewhere else to look, but it isn't working.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

It's Aziraphael who shakes himself out of it first, but only because he's so absorbed in the first place; struck by the way the whispering breeze ruffles Crowley's hair across his forehead, and noticing, then, when the demon hunches his shoulders ever so slightly.

"What am I thinking, keeping you standing up here?" he says abruptly -- even some dizzy approximation of briskly. "There's a lovely fire going in the gatehouse, and fresh sheets and all of that. Everyone's in the main chapel, so they won't see us going down."

There may not have been a fire in the gatehouse fireplace five minutes ago, but then, five minutes ago, he hadn't been expecting company.

[aj_crawley]

"That was quick," he says, as though reading Aziraphael's thoughts. Or perhaps simply the small, directed pulse of power from the angel, rippling the existence around them and then gone.

There are things he needs to ask about, and so overwhelmingly many details to discuss; what to do, and who to contact, and whether the shepherds' quiet loyalty to their Prior and their usual discretion will overcome even a bona fide resurrection, and - and all the whole rest of the 'verse. But it can wait. All of it.

With a tilt of his head, the sort that says well, come on then, he turns and starts to make his way down to the gatehouse.

(He's slow, disguising it as a stroll, and his shoulders are still hunched against the breeze - but his face is lifted up to it, and he keeps turning to sneak glances at Aziraphael out of the corner of his eye.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Well. Yes," he says, but can't quite bring himself to feel guilty about it. It's necessary.

He walks along at Crowley's pace. It's the perfect day for a stroll, breeze or not, with the grey clouds of the last few afternoons reduced to small, fluffy decorations of the heavens. The sun is warm on his shoulders, and the light breeze carries an indefinable freshness.

And then, there's the fact that he keeps glancing at Crowley to make sure he's still there, and finding that he is.

[aj_crawley]

The slope is a gentle one, long and rolling, and every so often Crowley looks down to watch the grass tufting around his feet. After the mud and rocks of Jubilee and the dusty bustle of the Eavesdown Docks, it's almost shockingly green.

"Zīnum damqum," he observes - conversational again; not quite a question.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

There's only a split second's hesitation before he responds. There are certain things that are only to be expected, after all, even if they can never quite anticipate where.

"Yes," he agrees, glancing around. "More than usual for this time of year, in fact -- though of course I shan't complain."

[aj_crawley]

It happens.

And it's early yet.

Nevertheless, Aziraphael's infinitesimal hesitation does register - and for a moment, Crowley pauses, a puzzled expression ghosting over his face.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He seems to know what's caused the confusion, and shakes his head.

"Only a memory from the old days, my dear," he says. "It's rather nice to hear it after so long."

[aj_crawley]

He'd said... what had he said? He'd been looking at the grass, and a thought had occurred to him, and he'd said Good -

"Oh, bugger," he says, puzzlement giving way to a look of mild annoyance.


(Short pause, Crowley's forehead furrowed in concentration. It's been a year. Not a year since he's spoken English - though it's that, too - but a year since Crowley has had language centres at all.)


"Melqosh," he tries.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Y-Yes," Aziraphael says gently, "but I think the word you're looking for is 'rain'."

[aj_crawley]

"Rain."

Obviously.

Crowley looks a little irritated, but after a moment simply carries on, hands still in his pockets.

And no louder than a whisper, he repeats to himself, "Rain."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Providence, perhaps," Aziraphael continues then, voice easy. "There's building of some sort going on upriver, you see, and there are days when our filters don't quite catch all the mud. And one never wants to make do with dirt in one's tea, of course. The courtyards were quite filled with barrels and buckets."

A hint of amusement finds its way into his smile.

"And most of the kitchen's mixing bowls. And quite a few ruined hats, as I recall."

[aj_crawley]

"Building project?"

That's interesting enough to warrant (or perhaps excuse) looking properly at Aziraphael, eyebrows raised.

Persephone isn't isolated by any means; there's enough trade and traffic between the Bái Hǔ and Zhuó Què systems to keep it perfectly civilised. But it's managed by and large to retain a certain idyllic quality - and the green and quiet lands around the Downs, more than most, have always been curiously unchanging.

(And then, there's another point of interest, too. Crowley's a demon; that's what he does. But for a very long time now, Crowley has been by trade an engineer.)

He casts a glance off to the east, where the river runs along a shallow dip in the hills.

"No idea what it is?"

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Something to do with 'improving local systems for river-attributed mineralisation,' though what that entails I'm sure I have no idea."

He follows Crowley's thoughtful gaze toward the river and distant hills, then is distracted once more by the breeze ruffling black hair and turns his eyes ahead again before Crowley notices him staring. The gatehouse can be seen from here, looking impossibly homey with smoke wisping from the chimney and a hint of telltale flickering in the windows. The few small trees scattered in front carry a bright shock of summer blooms, yellow and white.

"Just wait until you see the shrubbery," he murmurs, still looking ahead.

[aj_crawley]

The sun picks out the weathered joins in the gatehouse walls, and Crowley knows without needing to think about it that the stone is warm to the touch. He's not quite prepared for how suddenly painful it is to draw breath.

"Should I be worried?"

Probably not. Aziraphael never was much good at bullying the plantlife into any kind of presentable submission - but then, these particular ones have never seemed to need much of that sort of thing.

Good weather for it, here. Good rains.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He shakes his head, still smiling. "I shouldn't think so; they're blooming even more ecstatically than the trees. The colours are quite astonishing."

He can sense a little of Crowley's front cracking, can hear it in his voice and in the brief faltering of his footsteps. Concern flutters quietly in his chest, never far absent -- but that isn't the same thing as worry, not yet. This place is a good one, a healing sort of place for more than just physical ailments, and he knows many of its effects very well. One might say that it works wonders -- even on those who never get sick.

Aziraphael has faith.