(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]

"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.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

There, Aziraphael thinks, gentle tendrils of something warm and cherished expanding again in his chest. His breath whispers out against Crowley's lips. I know you, you old serpent.

(His fingers are curled loosely in the demon's worn sweater, trying to let Crowley test his own limits. It's not as difficult as he'd thought it would be.)

[aj_crawley]

He can feel -

Aziraphael's lips are warm from the tea; his own, too dry.

He -

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael's eyes have drifted closed.

A long-held - not tension, but something like an ache - ebbs away from his shoulders.

[aj_crawley]

He traces the pad of his thumb along a crease in Aziraphael's sleeve. His touch is light, but not on purpose, or at least not all the way. He just feels -

The tunic's weave is tight but stiff, made to last; he can feel every thread standing out against his skin, every right angle in the hardy warp and weft of the cloth. He can feel every one of Aziraphael's warm fingers through his clothes; he can hear Aziraphael's slow, almost-measured breathing. And stronger than the wood fire and the trees outside and the tea, he can smell the clean and, and wrenchingly familiar scent of Aziraphael's hair.


His inhale - afterwards - is neither very quiet nor very steady.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He remains quite still once Crowley breaks the kiss, aside from his rapidly flickering eyelashes and the shallow movements of his chest; breathing feels more necessary now than it did a few minutes ago.

"You're back," he says, low, through a ridiculous smile.

[aj_crawley]

He's leaning his head against Aziraphael's, temple to temple. It's - well, it's probably best for all concerned. But when the angel speaks, it rumbles almost directly into his ear, and he's not back so long that it isn't still enough to make him flinch.

(But then again, it's not as bad as it was.)

"You're slow," he returns, roughly.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Mm," he agrees, shifting slightly away from Crowley's ear (a flinch is hard to miss in quarters this tight). Words. Any second now, they'll come to him.

"It's only a temporary failing, I hope."

[aj_crawley]

"Been the best part of sseven thousand years."

It's good like this. Just a few simple points of contact: their foreheads, their hands, the cautious brush of their knees.

It's - okay.

"I wouldn't hold your breath."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He keeps his short laughter silent through a strong effort of will.

"You really are back. Not that I could have doubted it for a moment."

[aj_crawley]

Aziraphael's breath is  hot on the side of his face.

Crowley sits back, ducking his head as he rubs distractedly at the back of his neck.

"'S shortage of people round here to insult you, I think."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"You're probably right," he says, resting his arm against the back of the couch so he can turn more fully toward Crowley.

"Wouldn't want anyone to think I was having it easy with all this soft living."

[aj_crawley]

"Then it must be your lucky day."

He looks tired. That isn't exactly unusual, not these days, but this isn't quite the same ground-in, worn-down weariness that sometimes shows in the face of Andronicus Crowley, CEO. This is different.

His fingers touch thoughtfully against the couch cushions again, where they start to dip beneath Aziraphael's weight.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"It is, yes," he says, meaning it. He watches Crowley closely: the strange exhaustion, the hard edges, this tentative, tactile curiosity. Southdown, he thinks again, is a good place for quiet resting, making things right (Aziraphael has faith). He doesn't think he'll have to work very hard to convince Crowley to stay for a bit.

"I've missed you. Though perhaps that's already clear enough."

[aj_crawley]

Something flickers at the corner of Crowley's lips, then comes back to stay, finally tugging his mouth back up into something lopsided and honest.


He motions with his head.

"Sit back."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Sitting back is near the bottom of the list of things he'd like to do right now, but Aziraphael complies.

He leaves one arm draped over the back of the couch. Just in case Crowley wants to lean in, or anything.

[aj_crawley]

It's not quite what Crowley has in mind - but it's not altogether off-base, either.

It's something of an irony, really: still so new in his own skin, Crowley moves - can't help but move - with the creaking uncertainty of an old man. After he wraps his fraying sweater more closely around himself, thumbs tucked inside the sleeves, he turns to pull awkward legs up onto the couch. And then, with that same slow caution, he lowers his head to rest in Aziraphael's lap.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Well, he reasons, this is every bit as good. Aziraphael leans further into the cushions and releases a quiet, satisfied sigh.

After a moment, the hand from the back of the couch drops down to - lightly at first - rest on Crowley's shoulder.

"All right?"

[aj_crawley]

There's a spot, just above Crowley's navel. His hands come to rest there, and idly - perhaps unconsciously - he presses his fingertips against his belly, the same way they pushed against the old couch cushion.

After a moment, he laces his hands together.

Eyes closed: "Been worse."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Mm," he says vaguely, his own eyes on Crowley's fingers. He doesn't move.

"I suppose so."