(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]

He turns around to say something like, fat chance, I've got a whole year to catch up on, only Aziraphael's looking right at him when he does - and his eyes, crinkling around the edges again, are such a fine, clear blue that it reaches straight into his brain and plucks out something quite different, instead.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael stares at him, hoping something collected and dismissive will spring to mind. But it doesn't. The words don't come.

And so instead, he simply leans across the space between them and says, barely audible, just brushing Crowley's lips, "I love you, too."

(He doesn't squeeze Crowley's arm any tighter, but it's a very near thing.)

[aj_crawley]

Crowley jerks back a little, looking briefly alarmed at Aziraphael's newfound ability to read his mind.

But - "...Oh," - it's only a moment before the expression gives way, and only a moment more before Crowley looks as though he'd quite like a small and very localised section of the roof to cave in and salvage what's left of his dignity.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael continues to smile at him, managing somehow to avoid it spilling over into laughter.

"Sleep, then?" he asks, once he's relatively certain he can do so with a modicum of sobriety.

[aj_crawley]

"Sleep," Crowley mutters, rubbing the back of his neck and shuffling forward to the edge of the couch.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Right," he agrees, and stands. The long, open cassock he wears as part of his clericals is hanging by the door, the stiff white collar on the rickety table below. But he's still wearing his tunic, with its high, starched black neck, and it looks very odd with his hair spilling over his shoulders.

"I'll just bank the fire up."

[aj_crawley]

He doesn't, in fact, stand up fast enough to account for the sudden lightheaded sensation that ambushes him. But it'll do as an excuse.

"I'll," he starts, before it occurs to him that actually, it probably wouldn't be the best idea for him to bring the mugs back over to the draining-board. He finishes instead with a vague sort of gesture towards the door.

The bedroom.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Mm," he says absently, locating a small shovel hidden amongst the various pokers and pans, and poking at the glowing logs.

Eventually satisfied (or at least anxious enough to move on that he decides he is), he puts the shovel down and follows Crowley into the bedroom.


He hasn't been in here in a long while, he realises, staring around. But you'd never know it. The room smells as fresh as though it had been aired out that very morning.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley's sitting on the bed - on his side of the bed - head turned towards the doorway.

When Aziraphael appears, he looks quickly away, bending down to begin the laborious process of unlacing his boots.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael smiles down at the floor.

Halfway towards his side of the bed, he detours for a moment and fetches an extra blanket from the pile in the corner, leaving it neatly folded at the end of the bed. Just in case.

Then, across from Crowley, he seats himself on the edge of the mattress and begins to unbutton his tunic.

[aj_crawley]

It isn't going well. Far from a loose, half-useless knot, Crowley's repeated, bloody-minded attempts to tie his boots this morning resulted in a tangled snarl of fraying laces that'd put any Gordian knot to shame.

Of course, he could do it the easy way. But then, he could have done it the easy way this morning, too.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael notices, but ignores him for the moment. His tunic has a lot of buttons.

Once free of its confines, he goes to hang it in the narrow wardrobe.

[aj_crawley]

He can see how to do it, it's just that -

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Tunic safely stowed, Aziraphael steals a glance at Crowley before sitting back down on the bed to remove his own shoes.

[aj_crawley]

One.

Crowley kicks it off and into the corner with perhaps a little more force than is strictly warranted.

Between his knees, he flexes his hand, fingertips mottled slightly red.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

His socks, he leaves in his shoes for now; his shoes, he nudges under the bed.

His shirt, now; lighter than his tunic in both colour and cloth, but with just as many buttons.

[aj_crawley]

After a moment he bends again, forehead creasing in concentration.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

His shirt, of course, needs hanging up as well, and whilst he's at it, he slides his belt from its loop and hooks it over the top of the hanger.

[aj_crawley]

He pauses for a moment, elbows on his knees, listening to the Pleistocene pace at which Aziraphael pads back across to the bed and sits down.

(His footsteps are almost silent, but it's there in the dip and squeak of the mattress, and the soft stretch of wool and cotton over skin. In this state, he can hear it even over the small buzzings of frustration in his brain - hear it very well.)

Face darkening a little, he leans back down.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He sneaks another glance at Crowley. Because he can't not, and because he finds himself amazed at dark hair feathering into the pale nape of the demon's neck, and because Crowley's still struggling to untie his left boot.




After a few moments, Aziraphael makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like an impatient hmph, and gestures at himself.

[aj_crawley]

The feel of it shivers up his spine, followed by understanding, and the rapid-fire of  embarrassment, frustration, anger, and - others. Other sensations.

But when he glances back at Aziraphael, there's a low red in his cheeks but as good a grin as he can manage on his face. And something, just a little, softening in his eyes.

One of the tangles comes loose between his fingers.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael gives him an innocent look in return.

"You know, I thought I'd lost these," he muses, fingering the hem of his newly-acquired pyjamas.

[aj_crawley]

"I should be so lucky," Crowley observes, not quite as caustically as he might have liked.

Another knot comes away, and - there - he can just about worm his fingers under another.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"As I recall, you were here that evening I last saw them. I vanished them in rather a hurry."

He clears his throat. His fingers are still on the material, but he's not precisely looking at them any longer.

[aj_crawley]

"...Touché."

It's not open. The boot. But Crowley's got bony ankles and narrow feet, and it's open enough for him to wriggle his heel up past the bend and kick his foot free.

"Though - ngk - if thass all it took to bring them back, you can't have missed them much."

The boot lands in the corner with the other.