(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 tips of Aziraphael's fingers curl towards him, then relax, just brushing his ribs. And again.

Aziraphael breathes a warm sigh by Crowley's ear.

[aj_crawley]

-

No. Never mind. He can move. It's just difficult. It's as though the filtered sunlight has thickened the air, filled it up with a sticky ether that it's a chore to push through, that makes it seem impossible, that makes Crowley's limbs feel heavy, motorless.


 First, he  moves  his arm out to the edge of the bed. Then he  moves  his leg. Then Crowley eases out slowly, stomach tense, and stands up much too fast.

He sways for a moment, dizzy.

(Has he always been this tall?)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

With Crowley's weight gone, he's free to move onto the vacated side of the bed - but of course, the key motivation for such a move is missing.

It's a much different (and quieter) sort of sigh that escapes him now, but he doesn't wake.

[aj_crawley]

Sock-footed, Crowley pads carefully over to the window, and considers the latch, and the hinges. He's not surprised at what he finds. Every book left lying unattended on a coffee table eventually becomes a copy of Uncommon Grounds; every digital recording on a secondary drive inevitably finds itself transformed into a Rick Astley number; and no matter how many times nor how often they open this window, the latch, and the hinges, are always rusted shut.

Gradually, as silently as a little more than strictly human effort will allow, Crowley tries to ease the latch up off its hook.

- WHUNK

He hadn't realised: his palms are slick with sweat.

It's warmer than he thought.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

The sound of the latch springing back into place is just loud enough for Aziraphael to stir. His movement is toward Crowley's side of the bed, naturally, but he can feel the edge of the mattress now. There's no one there.

He remains where he is, but now there's a slight frown appearing on his face. The eyelid closest to the pillow, where it can't be seen, opens just a sliver.

[aj_crawley]

Shit, Crowley thinks, looking over at Aziraphael and then back at his palms.

He wipes them on his jeans, and tries again.

He's still clumsy, but in this, he's willing to ease the way with some pointedly directed thoughts on latches, and the appropriate positions thereof (and hinges, and what constitutes an acceptable amount of squeaking).

It's a few inches. Not much, but enough to let in some air.

Crowley breathes in deep, once, twice, and feels - how strange - a dampness drying cool at his temples.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

The breeze is very, very slight, and warm. It isn't enough to ruffle Aziraphael's hair at the moment, but it ghosts across his skin, soothing, and he relaxes.

He still doesn't move away from the edge of the bed, however.

[aj_crawley]

He stays there a few moments longer, face close to the thin slice of fresh air.

The birds are pretty rowdy. Briefly, Crowley contemplates winching the window further open and beaning one of them with a shoe. It's tempting. But then, he'd probably miss - and anyhow, without Aziraphael to purse his lips and give a disdainful sniff and shoot him a reproachful glance, the idea doesn't seem quite as fun.


He seems more solidly asleep, now that Crowley turns to look, arm stretched out across the space where Crowley had been.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

The frown on his face is fainter now, only just discernible between long, slow breaths. He lies very still.

The ridiculous sleeve of his pyjama top contrasts sharply with the solid white pillowcase, exposed slightly where the blankets pulled away as Crowley got up.

[aj_crawley]

It's not so big a bed as the old one. But he's not the only one who stays here anymore, and the Prior rather felt that a smaller bed would be more in keeping with the abbey's principles.

But there's room enough, now that Aziraphael's mostly over on Crowley's side of the bed.

Silently, Crowley crosses over to the empty side of the mattress, and lowers himself down onto the edge.

(Carefully, so that the dip doesn't register.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

His breathing is even again, more or less, and his arm is no longer stretched quite so painfully across the mattress. He doesn't feel Crowley's weight behind him, it seems, so he doesn't make any larger movements.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley rubs his hand across his forehead, fingers catching in his hairline and sweeping down a few dark strands.

A few seconds, ticked out by the chirping of the birds outside.

Just as carefully - or even more so - he pulls his legs up onto the mattress once more.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Crowley can't see his eyes, of course, but he hardly needs to. Aziraphael remains turned away, peaceful, unmoving, and there's no sign that he even recognises that Crowley is back on the bed.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley doesn't lay down yet. Instead, he slides cautiously across the mattress, a little closer to Aziraphael.

A small movement of his fingers, and on Aziraphael's other side, the rumpled blanket twitches itself up over his arm.

It seems so loud - the rustle of the blankets, the shrill birdsong outside, his own pulse and Aziraphael's slow, warm breathing.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

That tiny flicker of power is so very familiar that he nearly turns over. But now is not the time for embraces or endearments; he is fairly certain that Crowley would appreciate neither. Still, the hint of a frown remaining on his face fades to nothing.

[aj_crawley]

A year.

He remembers when that was nothing. He remembers, he's almost certain, a time when such small stretches did not matter so very fiercely.

It's a funny old world.

As lightly as he can, he starts to comb strands of Aziraphael's loose hair back off his face, and from underneath his neck.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael doesn't stir, but sighs softly; he has always liked this sort of tender fingering of his hair, individual strands pulling gently at his head as Crowley combs through it. Long strands of it fall through beams of light from the window.

[aj_crawley]

That gives Crowley pause, perhaps for as much as a minute. But when time starts easing past again, and Aziraphael doesn't move, he picks back up where he left off.

It looks sort of ridiculous on Aziraphael. Always has. And to his profound and lasting embarrassment, Crowley's found himself curiously enamoured of it over the years. So it's understandable, maybe, that he finds himself distracted for a moment, separating thick sections of Aziraphael's hair and running them through the pads of finger and thumb.

(It's soft but not quite silky, and the scattered split ends and flyaway hairs are a barely-there texture beneath his fingertips.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He can't feel Crowley's fingers, not directly, but he can imagine them warm and careful. He suspects, in fact, that Crowley likes this as much as he does, no matter how much he makes fun of Aziraphael for growing his hair out. Aziraphael has seen the faraway look on the demon's face when he toys with it, after all.

He tries to focus on keeping his breathing steady.

[aj_crawley]

When as much of the angel's hair as he can reach is spread across the pillow behind him, Crowley stops. And with a thought, and just a glance towards the door, he summons Aziraphael's hair tie from between the couch cushions.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

The angel doesn't stir, but what Crowley has in mind becomes abruptly apparent, and his eyes fly open.


His breath is slow, even, warm. And to Crowley, very likely audible.

[aj_crawley]

Stretching the tie distractedly around his fingers, Crowley looks back down.

A braid would be best, all things considered.


He wouldn't be able to manage it, he thinks. And even if he could, if he were dextrous enough to manage the braid itself, he wouldn't be able to do it without tugging hard enough to wake Aziraphael up.

Eventually, Crowley smooths the angel's hair down into a low queue at the nape of his neck, and - with painstaking, painful slowness - ties it there.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

It's a struggle to keep from swallowing, but he manages. It's the simple fact that Crowley so often plays with his hair that gives it away; normally, he's always running curious fingers through it, tangling it and knotting it and then later, untangling it again.

Pretences aside, this is a long way from normal.

Aziraphael still doesn't move. It's a surprising effort to keep up the illusion of sleep, given that he can't cheat or Crowley will know.

[aj_crawley]

And then - nothing.

Because for a few moments, and then a few moments more, Crowley's simply sifting his fingers through the gathered hair again, slowly and softly. Aziraphael really does look a bit of a twit with long hair. But Crowley -



Finally, warm fingers ghost across the back of Aziraphael's neck, across the pale skin there, gently pulling at the back of his pyjama collar and - delicately, or something like - tucking the queue inside.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

A soft gust of air blows in through the narrow opening in the window and brushes through Aziraphael's short, tiny flyaway hairs too small to pull into the band. The half-open door is blown open just a little wider and the hinges protest with a faint creaking sound.