The next day, which is a Thursday, they do find their way to the orchard, and Aziraphael could swear he sees an uneasy frisson rustle through the trees, from one to the next and all the way down the leafy avenues, before Crowley even crosses into the shadow of the canopy.
It's good to watch him work. Not only for the obvious reasons: that it's Crowley, that he's home again, that this is familiar, and comfortable, and lovely; that Crowley himself admittedly makes quite the picture, hand pressed to the bark of an apple tree beneath the stippled sunlight. It's good to watch him work because of how Crowley seems to enjoy it, a sharp grin of satisfaction slicing across his face with each piece of fruit that nervously swells a little heavier on its branch, with each terrified leaf that has even dared to hint at the coming of autumn unfurling again, glossy green blooming back across the onset of oranges and reds.
They stroll down the dappled cloisters together, grass swishing about their feet, Aziraphael a little behind (or a small way ahead) each time Crowley detours to whip another one into shape. A little after two, they spread a blanket on the ground, and Aziraphael eats a sandwich and a windfall apple while Crowley opines at some length on the sad state of affairs here, and how lucky the abbey is that he, Crowley, is around to take matters into hand. The juice of the apple bursts across his tongue, tart and sweet and almost forgotten after so long.
It's good to watch him work, but here again there is a double-edged sword. Aziraphael thinks he understands the hardness that fleets through Crowley's smile when he cows another tree into verdant submission; thinks he understands, and wishes that he didn't. Not like this.
There's only so long, of course, that they can hide the fact that someone's staying in the gatehouse. If nothing else, the smoke wafting from the chimney in the evenings is bound to be a giveaway. By the time Crowley's been there three days, people have no doubt begun to wonder. Aziraphael, waking him in the morning as he slides from beneath the covers and from beneath Crowley's arm, decides that it might be best if he were to pop back up for a short while, carry out a few of his duties as Prior, and (for all the world as though he'd never do anything more) assess the situation. Crowley nods, only half-needing to feign sleepiness, and rolls over to doze off again. After a little while, he doesn't need to pretend at that, either.
With the gatehouse to himself for a few hours of the afternoon, Crowley's at a loss for what to do.
Eventually, out of habit, he puts the kettle on, and steeps a teabag long enough to leave the faint aroma of Earl Grey hanging in the air. He reads for a little bit, but finds he cannot concentrate; he thinks about investigating the building works that Aziraphael had talked about, but decides that even if it is close enough to walk, if he really wanted to, he -
Well, he doesn't want to. He doesn't feel like it. No big deal.
In the end, as it turns out, they needn't have worried. Oh, the shepherds are curious enough - anyone would be - but that's about all there is to it. Never in living memory has Southdown Abbey turned away anyone come to its gates looking to leave behind a past; perhaps as a result, the community there is an eclectic one, fiercely loyal to their Prior and not overly given to asking questions best left unanswered.
(Or, as Crowley likes to put it: they know how to mind their own damned business. Pun fully intended.)
It's only been four days since the shaky transport from Jubilee landed, and a borrowed skimmer touched down unannounced on the Southdown landing pad. But then, four days is an age by some reckonings. There's no skimmer this time, no craft of any sort to give Aziraphael a little warning. Even so, as he sets out towards the gatehouse from the abbey proper late in the afternoon, he knows who's arrived - would know, in fact, even if he couldn't sense it. Raguel is standing in the middle of a field almost halfway between the two, talking to the homemade scarecrow set to guard the neat rows of vegetables. Some of the stuffing is coming out from underneath its ragged hat, and Raguel tucks it back in almost tenderly as Aziraphael watches.
The hazy sunlight has slanted dramatically, casting a near-complete shadow across half of the scarecrow, and as Raguel whispers earnestly to it Aziraphael has to struggle to rid himself of the illusion that the thing is moving. Raguel, he notes, is crushing the nearest tomato plant.
He clears his throat.
"Hello," Raguel says, without turning around. "I, er." He stops, as though he's forgotten why he's standing there, and pokes at the stuffing once again.
"Good afternoon," Aziraphael replies, an arch tone beginning to creep into his voice. It's been a long day, and although his patience for this sort of thing is not so thin as it once was, he has, at this point, run into more delays than he'd have thought possible for a single afternoon. In the distance, he can see the smoke rising from the gatehouse chimney, pale grey and enticing.
"Crowley's better?" After a moment Raguel turns, sheepishly, and Aziraphael feels a part of himself thawing a little at the question.
"Yes," he replies, after only a short pause. "I'm off to make sure of it now, in fact."
"I'll come with you." Raguel says it almost as though it's a question, but takes a step forward before Aziraphael can even think to move; he has to trot for a few yards to catch up with the demon.
The walk passes in silence.
"I expect he's sleeping at the moment," Aziraphael says, slowing as they near the front door. He offers it without explanation, but whether or not his voice gives anything away is another matter. Crowley has been sleeping a lot, the past few days.
"Is he okay?" Raguel asks, suddenly frowning in concern.
"He will be. It's early yet."
"Okay," Raguel says, following Aziraphael quietly inside. They're barely over the threshhold before he gives his answer the lie, angling a few inches over to see through the half-open bedroom door. Aziraphael, though, only notices because he does the same.
Crowley is stretched out on the bed, one arm dangling bonelessly off the side. But even as they watch, he snorts a little, and pulls his arm back up, scratching his stomach through his shirt.
Raguel's demeanor becomes suddenly urgent. "I should go before he wakes up."
"You should not," Aziraphael says calmly. "Help me put the tea on first, at least; I certainly need some, and Crowley can just about drink it now."
Aziraphael, it's worth remembering, is an angel, and whatever else one might say about him (his penchant for fraternising with the enemy, for one thing), he has long mastered that particular tone which, though mild - even gentle - nevertheless brooks no resistance whatsoever. He turns, and glides off toward the kitchen without waiting for a response.
By the time Raguel joins him a moment later, Aziraphael has already pulled down three mugs.
On Sunday, Crowley takes that walk upriver after all.
When Aziraphael returns, the day's business taken care of, he finds Crowley elbow-deep in a violent critique of Raguel's gardening efforts around the gatehouse. The plants are trembling, and glorious.
Inside, on the low coffee table, the firelight gleams on a metal plaque, twisted and mangled at one end by a long-fingered handprint.
It says: NORTH CENTRAL POSITR BY APPOINTMENT OF PAR AND THE COUNCIL OF
It's still difficult, in more ways than one, to slide away from Crowley. Perhaps it's worse in the cold, lightless pre-dawn which has often been his rare time alone as Prior. It's quiet, of course, allowing for reflection and prayer, time to wish a good morning to the stars as they wink out with the gradual rise of dawn. But the bed is warmer than usual, and Crowley even more so, and the shock of cold air when he wriggles out from under his sheet is intense. But Aziraphael has a plan - a Plan, in fact - and he's not about to be tempted from it, no matter how, well, tempting it is. And no matter how frigid the kitchen seems by comparison.
It's the smell that wakes Crowley, as he rather thought it might, and he can't quite suppress an anxious twist when the demon pads through into the living room, a bewildered look on his face. It only intensifies when his gaze slides down and he sees Crowley's hand pressed to his stomach, the way Crowley never seems to notice it does when... when.
Aziraphael's heart is sinking fast - so it's nearly dizzying when it crashes head-on into a sudden flood of relief; when in the next moment, just before Aziraphael opens his mouth, Crowley's stomach rumbles loudly.
His eyes glitter dangerously when Aziraphael offers to cut the crusts off for him, and the angel has to suppress the urge to haul him up from the sofa right then and there and crush him in his arms. Instead, he simply hands Crowley a plate, the corners of his mouth twitching, and watches as he tentatively picks out the insides from a thick slice of freshly-baked bread.
Emboldened, they slide under the covers together that night, Crowley's eyes wide and luminous in the moonlight. He curls behind Aziraphael as usual, arm wrapped around him as has been their habit since he returned. But with one less layer between them, one less barrier, Aziraphael can feel Crowley's heartbeat more strongly than ever. It's faster than it has been, these past six nights, but Aziraphael doesn't say anything, and it slows soon enough.
He thinks to wake with the dawn again; to have some time to simply lay like this, feet tangled beneath the covers, breathing in sync. What wakes him is Crowley's elbow in his ribs. He opens his eyes to the wrong side of the bedroom, arm stretched out across empty sheets, and the sight of the demon pressed against the wall (hand pressed against his stomach).
"You know," Aziraphael says cautiously, over breakfast (bread again; no butter or jam for Crowley), "it has been a week. Perhaps you ought to - "
"I know," Crowley says, looking out the window. He sets down his teaspoon, just managing not to drop it instead. "I know."
He's seen a few news reports already, the ones from this time last year. He doesn't want to talk to people. That's part of it.
Later, when Aziraphael has gone to discuss the likely harvest yield with Shepherd Ng, Crowley slips silently into the Prior's quarters and seats himself at the Cortex hub there. It's outdated - ancient, even - but it doesn't dare give Crowley any trouble. He sets his encryption, and an address redirect, and begins to catch up to the world. He starts at the beginning.
(Though he's seen a few news reports already, the ones from this time last year.)
It's good to watch him work. Not only for the obvious reasons: that it's Crowley, that he's home again, that this is familiar, and comfortable, and lovely; that Crowley himself admittedly makes quite the picture, hand pressed to the bark of an apple tree beneath the stippled sunlight. It's good to watch him work because of how Crowley seems to enjoy it, a sharp grin of satisfaction slicing across his face with each piece of fruit that nervously swells a little heavier on its branch, with each terrified leaf that has even dared to hint at the coming of autumn unfurling again, glossy green blooming back across the onset of oranges and reds.
They stroll down the dappled cloisters together, grass swishing about their feet, Aziraphael a little behind (or a small way ahead) each time Crowley detours to whip another one into shape. A little after two, they spread a blanket on the ground, and Aziraphael eats a sandwich and a windfall apple while Crowley opines at some length on the sad state of affairs here, and how lucky the abbey is that he, Crowley, is around to take matters into hand. The juice of the apple bursts across his tongue, tart and sweet and almost forgotten after so long.
It's good to watch him work, but here again there is a double-edged sword. Aziraphael thinks he understands the hardness that fleets through Crowley's smile when he cows another tree into verdant submission; thinks he understands, and wishes that he didn't. Not like this.
It's all about discipline.
It's all about control.
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With the gatehouse to himself for a few hours of the afternoon, Crowley's at a loss for what to do.
Eventually, out of habit, he puts the kettle on, and steeps a teabag long enough to leave the faint aroma of Earl Grey hanging in the air. He reads for a little bit, but finds he cannot concentrate; he thinks about investigating the building works that Aziraphael had talked about, but decides that even if it is close enough to walk, if he really wanted to, he -
Well, he doesn't want to. He doesn't feel like it. No big deal.
In the end, as it turns out, they needn't have worried. Oh, the shepherds are curious enough - anyone would be - but that's about all there is to it. Never in living memory has Southdown Abbey turned away anyone come to its gates looking to leave behind a past; perhaps as a result, the community there is an eclectic one, fiercely loyal to their Prior and not overly given to asking questions best left unanswered.
(Or, as Crowley likes to put it: they know how to mind their own damned business. Pun fully intended.)
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The hazy sunlight has slanted dramatically, casting a near-complete shadow across half of the scarecrow, and as Raguel whispers earnestly to it Aziraphael has to struggle to rid himself of the illusion that the thing is moving. Raguel, he notes, is crushing the nearest tomato plant.
He clears his throat.
"Hello," Raguel says, without turning around. "I, er." He stops, as though he's forgotten why he's standing there, and pokes at the stuffing once again.
"Good afternoon," Aziraphael replies, an arch tone beginning to creep into his voice. It's been a long day, and although his patience for this sort of thing is not so thin as it once was, he has, at this point, run into more delays than he'd have thought possible for a single afternoon. In the distance, he can see the smoke rising from the gatehouse chimney, pale grey and enticing.
"Crowley's better?" After a moment Raguel turns, sheepishly, and Aziraphael feels a part of himself thawing a little at the question.
"Yes," he replies, after only a short pause. "I'm off to make sure of it now, in fact."
"I'll come with you." Raguel says it almost as though it's a question, but takes a step forward before Aziraphael can even think to move; he has to trot for a few yards to catch up with the demon.
The walk passes in silence.
"I expect he's sleeping at the moment," Aziraphael says, slowing as they near the front door. He offers it without explanation, but whether or not his voice gives anything away is another matter. Crowley has been sleeping a lot, the past few days.
"Is he okay?" Raguel asks, suddenly frowning in concern.
"He will be. It's early yet."
"Okay," Raguel says, following Aziraphael quietly inside. They're barely over the threshhold before he gives his answer the lie, angling a few inches over to see through the half-open bedroom door. Aziraphael, though, only notices because he does the same.
Crowley is stretched out on the bed, one arm dangling bonelessly off the side. But even as they watch, he snorts a little, and pulls his arm back up, scratching his stomach through his shirt.
Raguel's demeanor becomes suddenly urgent. "I should go before he wakes up."
"You should not," Aziraphael says calmly. "Help me put the tea on first, at least; I certainly need some, and Crowley can just about drink it now."
Aziraphael, it's worth remembering, is an angel, and whatever else one might say about him (his penchant for fraternising with the enemy, for one thing), he has long mastered that particular tone which, though mild - even gentle - nevertheless brooks no resistance whatsoever. He turns, and glides off toward the kitchen without waiting for a response.
By the time Raguel joins him a moment later, Aziraphael has already pulled down three mugs.
Reply
When Aziraphael returns, the day's business taken care of, he finds Crowley elbow-deep in a violent critique of Raguel's gardening efforts around the gatehouse. The plants are trembling, and glorious.
Inside, on the low coffee table, the firelight gleams on a metal plaque, twisted and mangled at one end by a long-fingered handprint.
It says:
NORTH CENTRAL POSITR
BY APPOINTMENT OF PAR
AND THE COUNCIL OF
Reply
It's the smell that wakes Crowley, as he rather thought it might, and he can't quite suppress an anxious twist when the demon pads through into the living room, a bewildered look on his face. It only intensifies when his gaze slides down and he sees Crowley's hand pressed to his stomach, the way Crowley never seems to notice it does when... when.
Aziraphael's heart is sinking fast - so it's nearly dizzying when it crashes head-on into a sudden flood of relief; when in the next moment, just before Aziraphael opens his mouth, Crowley's stomach rumbles loudly.
His eyes glitter dangerously when Aziraphael offers to cut the crusts off for him, and the angel has to suppress the urge to haul him up from the sofa right then and there and crush him in his arms. Instead, he simply hands Crowley a plate, the corners of his mouth twitching, and watches as he tentatively picks out the insides from a thick slice of freshly-baked bread.
Emboldened, they slide under the covers together that night, Crowley's eyes wide and luminous in the moonlight. He curls behind Aziraphael as usual, arm wrapped around him as has been their habit since he returned. But with one less layer between them, one less barrier, Aziraphael can feel Crowley's heartbeat more strongly than ever. It's faster than it has been, these past six nights, but Aziraphael doesn't say anything, and it slows soon enough.
He thinks to wake with the dawn again; to have some time to simply lay like this, feet tangled beneath the covers, breathing in sync. What wakes him is Crowley's elbow in his ribs. He opens his eyes to the wrong side of the bedroom, arm stretched out across empty sheets, and the sight of the demon pressed against the wall (hand pressed against his stomach).
Reply
"I know," Crowley says, looking out the window. He sets down his teaspoon, just managing not to drop it instead. "I know."
He's seen a few news reports already, the ones from this time last year. He doesn't want to talk to people. That's part of it.
Later, when Aziraphael has gone to discuss the likely harvest yield with Shepherd Ng, Crowley slips silently into the Prior's quarters and seats himself at the Cortex hub there. It's outdated - ancient, even - but it doesn't dare give Crowley any trouble. He sets his encryption, and an address redirect, and begins to catch up to the world. He starts at the beginning.
(Though he's seen a few news reports already, the ones from this time last year.)
Search and rescue services have been dispatched from the Alliance skyplex Aventine to look for the flagship of engineering giant Bentley Aeronautics, which disappeared from the Burnham quadrant some time after LIL1900h yesterday evening.
Following news of a Reaver attack on the Lilac town of Amesbury on Thursday, Bentley CEO Andronicus Crowley is known to have departed the company's Lavinia headquarters en route to the site of the attack, accompanied by some 15 to 20 Bentley employees whose identities have yet to be confirmed. The flagship remained in broadwave contact with the Bentley outpost in Amesbury until approximately 1900h local time, when the final transmission is recorded as taking place. Since then, no distress calls or signals have been picked up.
It's been seven days since Crowley returned to Southdown Abbey.
No rest for the wicked.
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