(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

[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 -

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"My dear," Aziraphael begins quietly, reaching out as though to brush his fingers against Crowley's sleeve.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley rocks his weight back on his heels, taking a step back and then shifting the direction of the movement - letting it take him a few steps closer to the couch, instead; closer to the fire.

"Looks good," he says, dragging a hand back through his hair. "For a value of 'good', I mean. Nothing - caved in while I was gone?"

It might not have been intended as a question, despite the change in pitch at the end. In that small distance, the heat of the low fire has doubled, tripled in intensity, branding prickling patterns of light and shadow across the skin of Crowley's face.

It's sucking all the air from the room.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Perhaps for a value of 'caved'," Aziraphael replies, the sound of a smile briefly revisiting his voice. "The stove certainly hasn't been on its best behaviour, but we seem to have reached an understanding."

He steps a little closer to Crowley's back, the set of the demon's shoulders achingly visible through the fraying layers that aren't a uniform on the desolate satellites of the in-between places, but might as well be.

"Though I shouldn't like to think I've been lax. Can I offer you some tea?"

At two days' journey from Jubilee, he doesn't doubt that it's too soon by far for Crowley to attempt anything like drinking hot tea. But that's hardly the point.

Aziraphael usually makes the tea.

[aj_crawley]

When Crowley turns around, it looks almost - normal, like all he's doing is asking. Like he's just wondering.

"Have you been sspending much time here," he says.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He isn't ready for an expression like that. Suddenly tea is the last thing in the 'verse on Aziraphael's mind.

"Some," he admits, the word nearly lost behind the sudden need to swallow. Then, "Though not enough to have gotten used to this sort of heat, I'm afraid."

It's enough of a pretext to step closer again to Crowley -- closer again to the fire. He lifts one hand slowly from his side, and with a patting motion, banks the flames a little.

When he lowers it, it comes to rest on Crowley's arm, instead.

"You'll let me know if you're uncomfortable, I hope?"

[aj_crawley]

It's the first they've touched in a year.

"Dangerous offer," Crowley says, looking away again, looking at the floor, looking anywhere else but at Aziraphael. "I could complain for Sihnon. I could - "

His hand fastens around Aziraphael's elbow.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael keeps his eyes on his hand for now, sliding gently higher on Crowley's arm, but his other finds its unerring way to Crowley's side.

"You could," he hushes, finding it more of an effort now to keep his voice as steady as he would like. Beneath his hands, Crowley's wiry frame feels deceptively fragile.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley hasn't looked up yet, finding a more forgiving view in the flagstones than what he's (almost) afraid he might see in Aziraphael's face. His only movement now is the sudden twist of his other hand in Aziraphael's tunic, just above the angel's hip.

He can smell the woody smell of the fire, and the flowers outside, and the the clean and - and yes, the painfully familiar scent of Aziraphael's hair.

"I, er," he says. It wavers harshly in the space between them.

I don't know how to say it: a day is long.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

For a long moment, Aziraphael stops, leaving his hands still and warm where they are. Instead, he ducks his head, trying to catch Crowley's gaze from beneath those dark, unsubtle lenses.



Finally, on an inhale and a soft, "Crowley?" he slides another inch closer, lifting his fingers to tip Crowley's gaze up to face him.

[aj_crawley]

Like a startled animal, Crowley's head lurches backwards, nostrils flaring white. It isn't good to look at.



His hand is not at Aziraphael's hip anymore. Instead, it's making its message much, much clearer; it's splayed against Aziraphael's stomach, taut and pressing from the palm, and measuring the length of Crowley's forearm between them.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Rather startled himself, Aziraphael's taken a step back in surprise before he's quite registered what's what. Once there, however, he doesn't press back in, hands simply hanging in bemused stillness in the air.

[aj_crawley]

His -

"Something not too strong," he says.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

The tea. Crowley means the tea.

" -- Oh. Yes. Yes, of course," Aziraphael says, doing his level best to tamp down the bewildered note that wants to lace itself through his words. "I believe I have a green one that should do the trick. Nice and simple."

He takes a cautious step back, lowering his hands, and then turns to head for the tiny kitchenette.

[aj_crawley]

Aziraphael usually makes the tea, and Crowley usually makes himself comfortable.

Today, the air is full of the absences of sounds: Crowley setting down the travel case that today, he isn't carrying; shucking off the jacket he isn't wearing and draping it carelessly over the back of an armchair instead of on the coat stand by the door.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael makes noise enough himself, opening and closing the narrow little cupboards in search of the right tea. But the tiny emptinesses tug unhappily at him, one after the other, until he feels compelled to fill them up.

It's as he finds what he's looking for; "Yes," he murmurs, as though it could be partly to himself. He pulls down the box, turning it over in his hands. "It seems a long while since I've taken the time to appreciate this one."

[aj_crawley]

Another long silence, spinning out and out like a line - all but invisible, and tipped with a hook, sharp and merciless.



Finally, stretched with effort: "Mm?"

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Some little part of him sags in relief. It isn't much of anything, but at least it's a response. At least...

"No particular reason, I suppose," he replies, twisting the faucet over the sink and wincing at the pipes' shrill groan of protest before the water begins to flow.

Here, it runs clear.

"Only that I've found myself favouring the black variety, recently."

[aj_crawley]

Again: like the hook, dragging it from his mouth whether he'd give it or no. Unseen, Crowley's eyes sink shut.

"Can't've been good for your sss-, for your ssleeping patterns."

He knows. Of course he knows the answer to this one.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

The tinny juddering of water into the ancient kettle slows, and then stops.

In the cramped kitchenette, Aziraphael looks down at his hands.

"Virtue is ever vigilant, you know," he calls back. "And a Prior's work is never done."