un_fallen | (no subject)

(no subject)

A light rain is falling onto the wastes of Jubilee; still falling, if indeed it has ever stopped. The ground is beyond saturated, colorless mud and desolation as far as the eye can see, and the rain only promises to intensify. A bleak horizon is broken only by a low, equally colorless fueling station nearly invisible in the murk.

Raguel stomps around in it, his shoes making schlock, schlock noises in the mud, and if he realizes it's raining he pays it no attention. He felt something: perhaps no more than the stirrings of a wildly overactive imagination, but this was oddly familiar. By long practice he's learned to sort the instinct from the white noise and confusion that clouds most of his mind, and Raguel has always trusted his instincts.

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He turns back, not finding another living creature for as far as he can see. He'd wander off to investigate, but for once his focus is in one place.

He sinks into the mud once again, but sits still rather than lying down. Something is clearly wrong and Crowley's not able to tell him what it is. He waits, impatient.

Crowley's trying to push himself up again. Less urgent now that Raguel has at least arranged for the rain to give them some space, he's trying for a sitting position first.

He's up on his elbows, so far steady in the treacherous mud.

Raguel reaches out more than once to help, but always remembers the no-touching rule at the last moment. Crowley didn't have a problem sitting up before, though, which suggests that he's worse off than usual this time.

It's been a while, he thinks at random, but he's not quite sure how long. He frowns and watches, silently buffering the air behind Crowley in case of a slip.

He notices his abdomen for the first time, which is almost enough to cause one. Not anything about it, exactly, but rather just that it's there; that instead of merely the raindrops and the damp cloth against his skin, he can feel the muscles moving beneath the skin, slowly contracting as he pushes himself upright.

- Oh. The

A shudder runs through him. A twitch, like he'd meant to move a certain way, and then hadn't.

Finally, he's sitting.

"Good," he says, to Crowley's change in position. He makes quite the bizarre cheerleader, kneeling now and sitting on his (expensive, mud-coated) heels.

"Looking better," he pronounces, by which he probably means 'alive' and 'human.'

This time, he's together enough to shoot Raguel a narrow, poisonous glare - not the same violent anger anymore, but still more than a little vicious. And, under the circumstances, probably not something Raguel should take too personally.

"Y-" he starts to say, and then realises very, very quickly why this isn't a good idea.

Crowley doesn't look nearly so good now; in fact, he looks like he's trying not to throw up. Raguel bites his lip and tries not to mention it.

The poisonous glare he counts as an improvement, though; it's unfortunately familiar enough that he takes it as proof that it's actually Crowley in front of him rather than as anything else.

Before, his abdomen; now, his tongue. Crowley presses his lips together hard, and tries not to let his throat close up against the sensation - wet, and slab-heavy, and fleshy in his mouth.

His stomach heaves, and he leans forward in a dry retch.

Well, this is not good. Even Raguel can see that.

"Nothing in there," he points out, nodding toward Crowley's stomach with a worried expression.

"I could," he adds, reaching a hand forward and making a twirly gesture, "but you should stop, if you can."

Crowley's hands are braced on his knees, but one comes up again as he manages to shake his head - a rather clearer message, this time.

The rain falls, but not on them.

Face grey, Crowley looks up at last. And after a long moment, manages an indistinct, "When."

He has to think very hard about this one, but at least the question is difficult to misinterpret.

"Around a year ago," he says at last, slowly.

And given Aziraphael's reaction, perhaps he should wait a bit to talk about Lizzie.

Like a high, clear note, something wavers in Crowley's expression, and he says, "Is - ?"

"Everybody's fine," he says, glancing away.

"Well. Angel's fine. Think most of the ones you kept up with are fine. And I'm always fine," he finishes proudly, though Crowley had not precisely asked.

They've gone through this sequence of questions before; it's not hard, somehow, to remember his lines.

Jubilee.

He tries to think, but he can't.

No great surprises here, either: when Raguel finally looks back around, the first thing Crowley does is reach out a hand to be pulled to his feet.

Raguel's surprise at Crowley's sudden recovery is visible on his face, but it doesn't last long. There's a swirl of shifting emotions there, and it might not mean anything at all.

He obliges by rising out of his crouch, though, and reaching carefully for Crowley's outstretched hand.

If it seems too soon for Crowley to have recovered, that's because it is. He nearly recoils from the touch of skin against skin, and isn't any great shakes at staying upright, either.

But he's been gone a year.

(He tries to let his mind only skirt around the edges of it: he's been gone a year.)

If he really knew the camouflaging effect of his shifting expressions, Raguel would be extremely grateful. Right now, there is an extremely somber one that hovers uncertainly on his face. He keeps a hand out since Crowley is less than steady.

"Persephone?" he asks, as though there was any question there.

There aren't any craft docked at the station - nothing that'd break atmo, so far as Crowley can make out.

But there will be.

When he manages to filter the meaning of Raguel's question through the noise of it, Crowley looks back at him and nods.

(That's another formality, and they both know that, too.)

He remembers that bit of this conversation too, and nods back.

"Can rest at the station till the ship comes. Rest out here, too, just. Wet." He gestures at the low blanket of unmoving clouds.

The mud isn't the only thing that makes the walk to the station difficult, but it definitely doesn't help.

Crowley's fingers end up leaving bruises on Raguel's shoulder, but they don't last.

Raguel is more concerned with Crowley's ability to hold on for that distance, but they move slowly and carefully, one foot in front of the other, and they make it without incident. There are very few people around, and those that are seem to look right past them as they approach.

"We're leaving tomorrow," Raguel explains as they pass a calendar mounted on a board of messy bulletins.

By then, Crowley's wearing what it takes to fit in, with the exception of a pair of shoes. The floor is cold beneath his feet, but it's better than shoes.

The light in the corridor flickers tiredly, but the room is dark, and passes for quiet. The chair in the corner isn't the most uncomfortable Crowley's ever sat in, and for the moment, that'll do. He's holding himself carefully enough that it doesn't much matter.

Raguel doesn't bother to turn a light on, but gestures to the bed.

"I'll call you when the ship comes. Not a good place to sleep, on board; it was bumpy."

And loud and dirty and hardly spacious enough to carry anyone. But out here, you take what you can get.

Crowley nods faintly, head already tipped back against the wall, but stays in the chair.

He's been gone for a year.

Out here, you take what you can get.

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