(no subject)

[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

[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.

[aj_crawley]

"Hm," Crowley replies, as skeptically as he can force the words out. "We'll see."

He can see them already, crowding around the corner of the gatehouse and sprawling out along the ancient abbey walls. They do look good. Closer (and close they are, now), the smell of them is strong - not noticeably, perhaps, except to Crowley, who clears his throat a little as it starts to cloy in the back of his mouth. Inside, it will be better. With the fire going, they'll need to open a window eventually, but it won't make much difference.

Well, except for the quiet sounds of the birds. Impossibly twee, in Crowley's opinion, especially on top of everything else - but somehow it always seems like far too much effort to get rid of them.

Inside, it will be -

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

The whole picture does rather resemble an enthusiastic greeting card, but neither of them can claim any credit for that. It simply is, and Aziraphael can't quite bring himself to object.

When they reach the door at last, it opens silently at his touch.

"Home again," he says, with an approving look at the fire.

[aj_crawley]

Firelight, and sun through age-clouded windows, and comfy, shabby, mismatched furniture.



"Yeah," Crowley says.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

After another brief hesitation -- the sensation lurking in his breast still closer to concern than to true worry -- he turns to shrug off his heavy cassock and hang it neatly by the door.

It's a practised movement; easy, and familiar.

[aj_crawley]

It's just as he left it. Even the glowing dust motes seem to cycle through the air in the same gentle, unconcerned patterns. Just as he always leaves it - except that the ancient bookshelf along one wall is crammed even fuller with books than usual.

Crowley's not sure if that's better, or worse.

With Aziraphael's back to him, his hand hovers in the air, still and uncertain (petrified, perhaps; that's a good word). But when he reaches out, it's to close the heavy wooden door quietly behind them.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Another moment's thought, and he takes off the collar at his throat as well; the stiff, starched thing always pinches a little when it's all done up properly. He sighs with relief when it's off, tilting his head from side to side to work some of the stiffness out - and taking the opportunity to glance once again toward Crowley without being too obvious about it.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley's fingers stiffen on the doorknob, tight with the instinctive urge to reach across the space between them and help - to hook a finger under the rigid white tab and to slide the band slowly from beneath the heavy collar that holds it in place.

But he can't -

He can't do that, just yet.

Only looking away doesn't help either, because he's home again, and everything is so perfectly familiar. Except he can't -