(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]

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.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He's forgotten his hand is resting where it is.

"I appreciate that you tried. If I'd known for certain that you were back, I might have tried to find you and been off who knows where when you arrived."

[aj_crawley]

"Yeah," he says again, and, "sorry."

Neither of which, with the red rising in his cheeks as he looks back at his tea, mean quite the same thing as before.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"It's quite all right. It's worked itself out, anyhow," he says.

He's looking back at the fire rather than at Crowley now, but the slight change of tone in Crowley's voice is enough to get his meaning across.

[aj_crawley]

Distractedly - or perhaps not - Crowley's pressing his fingers into the battered, ancient leather of the couch cushion, testing the feel of it against his hand.


"Do you," he mutters after a short while. "D'you have anything - I mean, sservices you need to lead, or - "

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"No," he says, and it crosses his mind that Crowley, in his current state of distress, might be disappointed that he won't have the place to himself for a bit.

"I actually had no idea what might be needed from me when I got Raguel's message; whether I'd have to leave, or what he was bringing, or whether he even remembered what he'd written. So I asked a few of the others to take some of my duties for a few days."

[aj_crawley]

"Right," Crowley says, voice underscored by the soft creak of the leather.

"So - covered for tonight, then."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Covered for tonight, yes," he says, still looking toward the fire - but at the sound of movement his gaze edges back toward Crowley.

[aj_crawley]

  "Good."

The fire crackles in the silence, describing the seconds that slip by as eloquently as any clock. The light it casts is flattering, the more so now that the sun outside has started to slant away from the windows. It hides shadows by creating more, and makes a kind of artistry out of sharp bones and harsh angles - a pattern of light and dark that's nearly aesthetic, rather than ascetic.

When Crowley reaches up and slides his sunglasses from his nose, it makes very little difference.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He's not prepared for the mild sense of shock this gives him; it's been a very long time since he's seen Crowley without his sunglasses on. He doesn't notice that he's staring, absolutely still and unblinking.

There was something he meant to say. It will come to him at any moment.

[aj_crawley]

There's a moment where rusty instinct kicks in, and Crowley starts to fold his sunglasses and stow them in the breast pocket he doesn't have. But he's too clumsy, still, to manage even that; eventually, his hand simply goes to rest between his knees, sunglasses dangling loosely from his fingers.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He swallows loudly over the crackling of the fire, and follows the movement of the glasses. He finally remembers his own hand, lying loosely on the cushions very close to Crowley, and turns it over. He's not entirely certain how it got there.

[aj_crawley]

"Though you could go grab some dinner," he says, as though they hadn't paused at all. "And eat it here."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"I could," he says, trying to shake off the reverie, "but I'm not terribly hungry at the moment. I'm sure I could find something later, if necessary."

He pauses, looking for hints that he should go anyway.

"Did you want something, my dear? I can't promise much, but no doubt there's soup made by now."

[aj_crawley]

"No," Crowley says, just a fraction too quickly. "I just didn't want - "

He looks down at his hands, worrying at the earpiece of his sunglasses.

"I know the racket you make when you get up in the middle of the night looking for food."

That's a lie, or almost entirely. On those occasions when Aziraphael feels the need for a late-night cup of tea, it's very rarely the noise that wakes Crowley.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Ah," he says, relieved. "Well. I can't imagine that it would be necessary tonight; food is truly the last thing on my mind."

He glances up toward Crowley.

[aj_crawley]

He'd looked around too.

To say something sarcastic about food or something, probably.



He can't remember why.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Amongst all the milling, noisy emotions in his head, there are a very few that Aziraphael can identify, and for each one of those, there is a counterbalance.

Elation, of course, still giddy and unquenchable; but a quiet knot of worry beneath. That particular sense of peace that comes with knowing everything is once again in its proper place; the certainty that even if things are not yet quite right, now they can be -- and they will be. Yet still a growing sense of uneasiness follows him; a creeping uncertainty that inches higher each time Aziraphael fetches up against a sharp edge or a wary expression or a... an involuntary movement that wasn't there before (and then, the sick twist in his stomach when he thinks about why).


It seems like there's just too much there to deal with; more than any one person in any reasonable world should have to classify. Aziraphael certainly can't.

So it's fortunate, really, that at just that moment it all winnows down to one thing. One solid, manageable, important issue.

He can't remember if the firelight here has always made Crowley's eyes quite so -- quite like this, or whether it's just the blue-grey shadows underneath, and the fact that Aziraphael hasn't seen them in a year.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley stretches forward to set his sunglasses down on the low table, and then ("Just - " he's already saying) turns back.

The way his hands come up is strange; tentative but urgent, like he's trying to steady something uncertain and fragile, and too huge to manage. After a moment, they settle on Aziraphael's shoulders, and this time, it's Crowley who leans in.