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 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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