(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]

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.

[aj_crawley]

It startles him out of his reverie, with a quick intake of breath and a sharp yellow glance. But this, too, he'll deal with the easy way - with a gesture of his hand, more measured and cautious than usual, that makes the door swing slowly shut.

He could have gotten up to do it, like he did the window.

But Crowley can think of several reasons why that probably wouldn't have been a good idea.

Gradually, he starts to inch down the bed, making enough room to lie down.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Surprisingly, the door's ancient hinges don't make any sound as it closes. As Crowley eases himself down, his movements are small enough and cautious enough that they hardly shake the mattress at all.

[aj_crawley]

It's better if he doesn't think about what he's doing.

Still propped up on one elbow, Crowley reaches across Aziraphael and closes tentative fingers around the (blanket over the) angel's wrist.

Next step: he starts to slide Aziraphael's hand towards him, curling the angel's arm in against his chest.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

His hand moves without resistance, and the well-worn blanket rucks up a few folds and offers no opposition, either. The movement is slow and natural, so much that an awake Aziraphael might have initiated it himself.

[aj_crawley]

It's -

The difficulty is being up against another body. With - with warmth, and breath, and heaviness. All -

It's better if he doesn't think about what he's doing.

He lets go of Aziraphael's wrist, but leaves his hand loose on the blankets there. And slowly, the mattress behind the angel begins to dip again, pillows rustling under the weight of Crowley's head.

First, legs: the long pressure of Crowley's (on top of the blanket) fitting inside the crook of Aziraphael's (beneath).

Then his arm, which tightens carefully around Aziraphael, trapping the angel underneath the bedclothes and pulling Crowley closer - pressing chest to back and breath to breath and the jackhammer of Crowley's heartbeat against Aziraphael's ribs.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

The rate of Aziraphael's breathing doesn't change; it doesn't sound laboured or forced. He doesn't lean back into Crowley's chest the way he'd like to, or move in any way.

His own heartbeat might be somewhat faster than it was a moment ago, however, and the pillow under Aziraphael's head is a little damp.

[aj_crawley]

There's one shuddering breath against the back of Aziraphael's neck, then one very short one. And then Crowley ducks his head down, leaning the hard line of his forehead just above the angel's collar.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He can feel the slight pressure of Crowley's head, resting on one side of the tied hair trailing down into his shirt, warm and heavy. He hadn't thought Crowley could do this. And it must be costing him dearly to do so.

If morning comes and they're still arranged this way, he won't be sitting up to read.

[aj_crawley]

It's alright.

It's not so bad.

Crowley closes his eyes, testing the weight of his eyelids (heavy).

The press of Aziraphael against him is even, and mostly steady. And once he gets used to the slow rise and fall of the angel's breathing, it'll be alright.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He can feel Crowley's heartbeat as it slows, his breath as it calms, and tense muscles through blankets beginning to loosen. Crowley is wrapped around him, and it's so close to normal that there's really no need to pretend to himself that it is. He can feel the edge of his own exhaustion beginning to weigh him down, and he lets it.

Crowley's been gone a year. There are things that will need adjusting to. But that, too, is perfectly normal.

It'll be alright.

In the end.