un_fallen | (no subject)

(no subject)

Raguel doesn't like being this close to the Core if he can help it, but business has taken him there and he always follows business, even when it runs.

The location means he finds himself in the bar of a larger club than usual, trying to dig up some information on the particularly fleet-footed, paranoid target who'd jumped onto the nearest ship and fled for the Core. Raguel had watched the ship take off, then went to find something to eat before following. More interesting if you let them get a head start. But the chase that began with the border planets has led him to this dive, all sleek screens and dust-free furniture, and he's never been what you'd call comfortable with luxury.

He didn't bother wishing up any nicer clothes as he doesn't intend to be here long. He's in the middle of a nice chat with the shapely bartender about what she had for breakfast (he could almost see it, with a neckline that dipped that low) when he sees a still image of Crowley come up on the video newsfeed behind her.

He's already entertained some vague ideas about stopping off on Lavinia as long as he's in the neighborhood, so to speak, and if Crowley isn't at home then there's little point in him going by and scaring the Bentley employees. Besides the fun of it, of course.

He turns up the silent feed with a gesture, and the girl behind the bar disappears with some loud excuse about power fluctuations and nosy customers. Completely absorbed now, he doesn't notice.

"...ship's location is currently unknown," says the reporter, "but it is now feared that Bentley Aeronautics' flagship, as well as its CEO, have fallen prey to the very Reaver collective the group was following to Amesbury."

Five minutes later, he's waving Southdown Abbey.

After Aziraphael comes into the room, sits down, dismisses his messenger, fiddles with the reception, and can't reasonably occupy himself with other minutiae, the fact that Raguel hasn't actually said anything becomes much more conspicuous. When Aziraphael looks up, Raguel is watching him and twisting at the hem of his fraying shirt. Finally he leans in, anxious eyes searching the angel's face.

"Do you know?"

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There's little there to see, even for one who knows -- knew? -- knows him as well as does Raguel. And it's only those so very, very familiar with Aziraphael's face who might discern the faintest of raw, fragile edges to his closed expression; only those so very, very familiar with his voice who might hear something more than silence in the time (just a fraction of a second too long) it takes the angel to react to being spoken to.

"Do I know what, Raguel?"

He's not in the mood for obtuseness. Not now.

Raguel is very, very familiar with Aziraphael, and the evidence he doesn't want to discover is right in front of him. Still, he could be mistaken; it could be that one of them is tired or stressed or was interrupted for this wave just when he was right in the middle of a sermon or a murder.

There's still a chance that he's wrong.

"Do you know what's happened to Crowley?" he says, but his voice has become several degrees quieter, like that of a scolded child.

Absurdly, ridiculously, Aziraphael finds himself feeling a little ashamed of himself. And if there's room for the feeling, it's perhaps because he has had this conversation so many times now -- because there are so many people to tell. By now, all the grief, and the shock, and the ragged, untidy emotions have been shut up somewhere in the back of Aziraphael's mind, acknowledged only when the angel is utterly alone. By now, when he summons up the will to sit down in front of this blasted, green-screened device and update yet another grieving branch of the family, it's through little but a cold, heavy weariness weighing down the hollow of his chest.

And now, of all things, he feels ashamed of speaking shortly.

"Yes," he says, and although the response seems rote, mechanical, his voice is nevertheless a little gentler. All other things aside -- this is Raguel. "I do."

Still vague, but it seems to confirm - at least in part - what he's been fearing, as his worried expression grows into a troubled frown. Agitated, he looks to the side, down, rocks in his seat, mutters to himself. His hands start on that ragged hem again.

"Can you tell me what you know?" he asks, after several false starts.

There haven't been many that have asked. Whether they believe what they've read in the feeds or not, he's Uncle Ezra. He is what he is, even if their idea of it is a little nebulous, and they tend to accept what he tells them.

There haven't been many that have asked.

Aziraphael's throat bobs a little, beneath the stiff cloth of his shepherd's collar.

"What I know doesn't amount to much, I'm afraid," he says quietly. "I imagine you've seen what there is to see on the news?"

He makes a derisive noise that might have been a snort if it was a little louder and contained a scrap of humor.

"Hearsay. Rumor. Suspicion. Guesswork," he rattles off. "Nothing solid. No one I would trust, with all their guesses. They're just--" one hand releases the shirt to wave wildly through the air-- "talking."

"Yes," Aziraphael says again.

He looks away: first down at his hands, resting calmly and precisely on the edge of the rickety desk, then to the side, where the dusty light outside the window might be a late dawn or an early twilight. It paints the spartan room in blues and greys; the only splash of colour is the bright glow that picks out the angel's profile against the stone behind him.

And then finally, when there is nothing else with which to postpone the admission, Aziraphael looks back at the screen.

"They're not wrong. He was -- "

"He was shot, first."

All the fidgeting comes to an abrupt and unnatural halt.

"Shot," he repeats blankly. "Shot and he couldn't fight them. That's why. Someone shot him. Reavers on the way. Wángbadàn de biăozi and they shot him."

In another moment it's clear that there are tears glistening visibly in Raguel's eyes now, but there's no telling whether they're brought on by anger or grief. Maybe both. The effect is startling.

"Oh, for goodness'-- "

Aziraphael looks away again sharply, thumb rising quickly to swipe at the corner of an eye. He's managed well so far, but perhaps it's not so surprising that it's this, more than anything in days, that makes his ribs feel too tight to draw unnecessary breath.

"Yes -- "

He clears his throat, and tries again.

"Yes. They shot him. For which we might thank them, I suppose; he wasn't..."

This is more difficult than he'd imagined. There haven't been many that have asked. And Aziraphael hasn't been specific. But whatever Raguel is now, and however that might sit between them, Aziraphael owes him this, at least.

"It was quicker than it might have been otherwise."

Raguel is not about to be consoled by this; he shakes his head, drawing a shuddering breath.

"If it was otherwise, he'd have had a fighting chance," he insists. "Not - murdered. They knew. They knew." His voice drops into a nonsensical rumble that's likely liberally sprinkled with profanity.

A couple of the tears spill over, but he doesn't seem to notice.

Aziraphael does, and needs abruptly to try and swallow down a feeling he can't quite put a name to: one part sudden, fierce desire to simply press whichever button it is that will end this, to walk away, to not have to watch this, to not have to think any more about what happened, to not be having this conversation -- and one part painful, treacherous longing for Raguel to be here, and not... not wherever he is.

(he does not want to be alone)

"Stop it." Flat; not quite harsh. "He'll be back."

Unspoken: they'll both be around when he does.

Raguel blinks, looking startled as though he'd forgotten where he was.

"Sorry," he mutters, but as he still doesn't make any move toward straightening himself up, drying his face, or wiping away the desolate expression, it seems he was just talking about the profanity.

"Yeah, he'll be back, but. I should have. They couldn't. I'd."

There doesn't seem to be any more; he simply stops talking.

I should have, Raguel says. Aziraphael has wondered sometimes whether -- or when -- they'd ever have common ground again. And now they do. Now they do, and the irony is so bitter and sharp that it's like a knife to the heart.

I should have.

A slight crack in Aziraphael's composure, his voice, when he replies, "I know."

Empathy is not something that Raguel hears very often. As such, it makes him take notice in a more present way than, perhaps, he's displayed so far.

"Aziraphael," he says seriously - or as seriously as one can with wild hair and tear-tracks disfiguring a tired face. "I'm coming to Persephone."

"Oh, my dear, that's really not necess-- "

It dies in his throat.

He's had this conversation so many times.

Raguel just looks at him with that implacable expression that says his mind is made up.

"Shouldn't have to go through this alone."

And Crowley would want Aziraphael looked after. That's the important thing, he tells himself.

"I'm really quite alright, Raguel," Aziraphael says, looking down at the desktop. And yet --

Raguel knows he's lying, of course. That's a given, and clear enough to both of them. What's important, what matters, is that Aziraphael no longer has the will nor the energy to lie with conviction.

A small line appears on Raguel's forehead. The statement is so ridiculous that there's not even a point to contradicting it, but the angel is looking more wretched by the second.

"I don't want to go through this alone, either."

Aziraphael is an angel.

And if he ignores all else, if he pretends there is nothing else between them nor has there ever been, there is still this:

Aziraphael is an angel, and this is a cry for succour.

"Alright," he relents, face wan in the dying light.

(He does not want to have to pretend. He does not want to have to face the complicated and awkward and anxious dance that is every minute spent in Raguel's company. He is too tired to lie with any conviction.)

(But he is too tired to lie with any conviction.)

It's not hard to see the conflict on Aziraphael's face, not when his defenses are nearly gone. It isn't easy to watch, and Raguel opens his mouth to take back what he's suggested. After all, things tend to go exactly the wrong way when he talks to Aziraphael alone. He may mean to reassure, but he wasn't even good at that sort of thing as an angel.

Aziraphael's expression, though, carries a lot more than just annoyance. Crowley'd want him to help. Or he just wants to feel like he's doing something to help. Or he really doesn't want to be alone.

Better to explain these things in person.

"Okay," he says. "I'll be there in a couple days."

"'A couple of days', my dear," Aziraphael says automatically.

And just like that, when the rest of the angel's brain catches up, something very like a smile flits across his face. Small, and wry, and a little sad -- but a smile (or something like it) all the same.

Once the startled look fades (such a familiar situation, and such an alien one), he can feel a softening of pent-up tension running from head to toe. He doesn't smile, exactly, but his expression is a little more open, a little more hopeful.

"Yeah. A couple of days," he repeats slowly. "I'm not that far." He glances around guiltily.

"Well, I am, but I can travel pretty fast."

"Do try not to do anything terribly illegal, Raguel," Aziraphael murmurs.

The angel yet looks drained, and sorrowful, but now that this, at least, has been decided, it's somehow a little easier to speak lightly of it.

"I'll pay them," he says, with the air of one making a great sacrifice.

"Their choice to push the ships faster. Might be chased."

He looks a little sly at this, as though no one will notice.

Aziraphael's small, sharp intake of breath is barely noticeable; so too the tiny flinch that escapes before the angel can stop it.

Damn it.

It's like clockwork. Things go exactly the wrong way when he talks to Aziraphael alone.

"Sorry," he says, "'M sorry. I'll hurry."

His hand doesn't twitch towards the controls, but on the worn desktop, his fingertips show white for a moment with the effort.

"Do," he says.

"Okay," he says, but doesn't break the connection.

"You remember, it's okay. Somebody said that it will be."

His attempted reassurance might be more convincing if he looked like someone who had the slightest idea what he was saying.

This time he does reach for the controls, and for the briefest of moments, the green tint fades and the screen shows true.

"Yes," Aziraphael says. "Crowley. Zài jiàn, Raguel."

The screen goes black.

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