(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]

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."

[aj_crawley]

(And unseen, Crowley runs fingertips along the smooth skin where his scar used to be. Maybe that's what it was, he thinks, with a sudden black twist of humour. Cut along the dotted line.)



There's a low creak of leather and of battered old couch springs, and a... a rough sort of noise.

"Sssounds like I missed a lot," comes Crowley's voice, eventually. "Catch - "

"Catch me up?"

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael doesn't stop his attempts to coax some heat from the stove-top, but only because he's already stilled -- first stopping when he heard the hitch in Crowley's voice. But after another short moment, he resumes his efforts, replying, "Oh dear. Are you quite sure? In this world, there are only two tragedies, and all that."

There's no answer -- only, after a moment, the sudden clank of the stove, and the first hopeful lickings of flame.

"Most things are as they were when you left, of course," he begins. "It's been terribly quiet here on the whole; hardly a peep out of anyone. Raguel came and spent a few weeks about the place -- did wonders with the weeding, in fact, although I'm not sure he has the makings of a gardener. I suspect he was just humouring me, really, but it was... appreciated. Shepherd Lewis was only just saying how much nicer he thinks it looks around the back, so I suppose it must have stuck. Of course I told you about the preparations for the water problems..."

It's an endless stream of monologue, washing over the jangling of the cutlery drawer and the busy banging of the cupboards; never landing fully on one topic, and certainly never touching on anything difficult. The more he talks, he finds, the more natural it feels -- or at least, as natural as it can feel, under the circumstances: talking into a silence that he only knows Crowley is occupying because his senses tell him so.

[aj_crawley]

It's good to hear, in more ways than one.

And as Aziraphael speaks, as he weaves together a tapestry of mundanities and trivialities and non-events, a gentle current of normalcy around the sounds of bubbling water and the muted chink of mugs on the sideboard, the silence from the living room seems somehow to - ease, a little. Not all the way, or even most of the way; Crowley certainly doesn't speak up to break it.

But it's just a little less uncomfortable, and that's a start.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

The change is minute and gradual, but Aziraphael does pick up on it despite being rather swept away by his own words. His stories grow in the telling, so it's certainly not a chore to fill the silence with the peculiarities of this or that shepherd, or the little inconsequential things he's heard from those who have come or gone from Eavesdown.

There are points, perhaps, where he would ordinarily pause to ask a question or to let Crowley insert some sarcastic commentary. These he glosses past with barely a hesitation, filling any brief silences with the sounds of tea balls and a spoon stirring briskly within ceramic mugs.

[aj_crawley]

By and by:

"Smells nice."

(It doesn't smell of much at all, really - but right now, that's more than enough.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Another tiny reaction, and he relaxes a fraction more.

"It does," he agrees, trying to keep the relief out of his voice. "I think that should be enough brewing; I don't like this one to be too strong."

Of course, whether he does or not isn't the point; the tea balls come out and he picks up the mugs carefully by their handles.

[aj_crawley]

Cut along the dotted line.

"Fine by me," comes Crowley's reply. "Obvioussly."

(He walks that word through carefully; like a child might, or someone learning to pronounce it in a foreign language.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Good, good," he says, turning.

He emerges back into the small area that passes for a living room, watching the liquid slosh around so that it doesn't spill over onto his fingers. His steps are slow and careful, and when he reaches the couch he takes a precautionary sip before putting the cups down on the table.

"It's just as good as I remember," he says.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley's sitting on the couch, hands clasped loosely in his lap and hair sticking up in places it wasn't before.

"Good," he echoes, sunglasses tracking the steam as it curls up towards the rafters.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He crosses carefully to the other side of the couch to sit down, his head angled slightly toward Crowley. He picks up his cup again, curling his hands around it as though it helps to root him to the spot. Another sip, and his eyes slip momentarily closed in apparent pleasure.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley leans forward as well, but - after gingerly touching the backs of his fingers to the hot mug, testing - sits back empty-handed.


"Sorry Raguel had to wave you," he says abruptly. "They didn't have a vid link."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He waves an unconcerned hand, and sets the mug down again.

"It's perfectly all right, my dear. I was glad to have notice that anything at all was happening."

He bites off --Considering the source before he mentions it. That sort of thing isn't polite.

[aj_crawley]

There's a hiccup of silence from the other end of the couch, and then Crowley says, "I did try."

His fingers curl clumsily against the couch cushions.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael completely fails at being casual, but he does, at least, make an effort. He lets one hand slide off his lap and over toward Crowley's fingers on the cushion. It stops just short of touching the side of his hand.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley isn't looking. Rather, as the silence stretches out, the expression he's leveling at his tea deepens into something - something not quite as straightforward as a scowl.


Just as abrupt this time: "Well, you try using a fucking keypad when you've been - "

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He looks confused, but manages to keep most of the rather wounded expression out of his eyes.

"Yes," he says at last, "it's impossible after so long."

His hand stays where it is.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley flicks a glance sideways at Aziraphael, suddenly uncertain.


"Yeah," he says finally, although that sounds undecided too; as though Crowley's still not entirely sure that Aziraphael wasn't -

Well.