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.)
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.
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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
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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).
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"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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