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Ummmm. I wrote this too fast, too late at night, and skdjfdsl I have to go to class now, but Holly made me post it. Originally an AU of Holly's AU of Fahye's AU, but now apparently a sequel to 2522 and Rematch.
Disrepair
"Only in self defence," Crowley interrupts, stalling for time, his eyes cutting sideways towards Mal for confirmation.
"Nobody who wasn't plannin' on killin' us first," the captain agrees, fingers twitching gently near his hip as the rest of the crew crowd behind him. Jayne and Zoe do likewise, shifting their weight gently on the balls of their feet. Wash's arms are wrapped protectively around Naomi; Simon is trying to stand in front of Kaylee and River at the same time. And River is conning her vantage.
The marketplace is as busy as it ever is on a Saturday morning - busy enough that nobody's yet noticed the little face-off wedged between the fruit stalls and the flower-sellers. River's eyes flicker quickly and coldly over exit routes, blind spots, potential weapons. Her lips shape words, silent, as though in an echo of something only she can hear. Someone's coming.
"Nevertheless," Raguel says, taking another implacable step forward. He's smiling a little, and that's the worst of it - like he's explaining this to errant children. "Murder is murder. Excuses aren't relevant."
"You do it," Crowley says. He looks like something sharp is twisting in his gut, and his fingers too are twitching restlessly.
"Sorry?"
"Kill people, I mean."
Raguel blinks.
"Well, yes. But only because..." he stops, confused, as Crowley raises an eyebrow at him (with a grin no more real than Raguel's smile). Raguel shakes his head, and his fingers click through the seven wooden scrabble tiles in his pocket. "My assignment still stands."
Crowley's eyes slide off to the side again, and then snap back to Raguel's face.
"Not," he says, raising his voice just a little, "if they're on neutral ground."
"Someone's coming," River whispers again.
And then the only thing that's audible, over the crash as a blur of fair hair and black cassock knocks Raguel into a fruit-stall, and the whoomph that sounds like a bar of magnesium erupting into flames, is Mal's voice screaming the order to "Run!"
There's no other sound from the crew of Serenity after that; there's no time for it, or for looking back, or for anything other than keeping heads down and elbows in and making it back to the ship, to the door to Milliways. Neutral ground.
Raguel's fall is broken by apples. He doesn't give a thought to the irony. People have most certainly noticed the proceedings now, and the shouts of the stall owner and the crowd swirl around the edges of his consciousness. But his attention is on the figure of Prior Fell straightening up. And more pressing still, the fiery length of sharp-edged steel in the angel's hand, flames dancing to an achingly familiar white at the tip. Raguel reaches out to touch them, imagining what they must feel like, and Aziraphael, horrified, jerks the sword backward.
That's why he's off his guard when Raguel lunges.
The two of them clatter gracelessly backwards, landing in greenery and broken terracotta, and scramble for their feet again. Aziraphael starts to say his name, but doesn't get to finish; the breath jolts from him when Raguel backs him up against a steel pillar, wrapped in vines and ferns to look like a tree. The sword is between them, pressed between their chests, and their clothes do not burn, though Raguel can feel the heat of the flames licking at the underside of his chin.
And then... nothing. Nobody moves. Aziraphael is tense against him, waiting for whatever may come, but Raguel simply looks calmly, thoughtfully, into the angel's blue gaze. This is not his assignment, after all. This is - not his assignment. This is not Justice.
He needs to rethink his strategy.
He's distracted when Aziraphael's eyes flick sideways. Instinctively, he follows them, and then blinks in surprise when he sees that his free hand - the one not wrapped around Aziraphael's at the hilt of the sword - is fastened around the blade.
"Oh," he says, to the sound of sizzling, and then blurts out a laugh.
It doesn't smell as bad as he'd have thought it would. In fact, it smells sort of... clean, and sharp. Like the air, above cloud level. He tightens his fingers around the warmth, and his eyes slip halfway shut as he breathes in another lungful. Or tries to.
"Raguel," Aziraphael says, gently.
"I," Raguel begins, and then pauses, registering the hand that has fastened around the back of his collar. He cranes over his shoulder to look down at the handles of a pair of gardening shears, protruding from just above his right kidney, and then up into Crowley's eyes. They look almost apologetic. "Damn," Raguel says, annoyed.
Crowley teeters when the bigger demon sags back against him, but Aziraphael steadies them.
"It's not so bad," Crowley promises tightly, "once you get used to it."
There's a bit of a to-do when something trips the bio-alarm on Nic Rosse's incoming post, but it turns out to just be a feather (dark grey, slightly scraggly). There's also a neatly-written report ( 'agent of the Enemy unfortunately present at scene'; 'arrived too late as back-up'; 'willing to supervise and assist with re-corporation adjustment period as compensation' ), and a small plastic baggie (ratty wallet, some scraps of paper, nine scrabble tiles; 'D - I - S - R - E - P - A - I - R').
Disrepair
"Only in self defence," Crowley interrupts, stalling for time, his eyes cutting sideways towards Mal for confirmation.
"Nobody who wasn't plannin' on killin' us first," the captain agrees, fingers twitching gently near his hip as the rest of the crew crowd behind him. Jayne and Zoe do likewise, shifting their weight gently on the balls of their feet. Wash's arms are wrapped protectively around Naomi; Simon is trying to stand in front of Kaylee and River at the same time. And River is conning her vantage.
The marketplace is as busy as it ever is on a Saturday morning - busy enough that nobody's yet noticed the little face-off wedged between the fruit stalls and the flower-sellers. River's eyes flicker quickly and coldly over exit routes, blind spots, potential weapons. Her lips shape words, silent, as though in an echo of something only she can hear. Someone's coming.
"Nevertheless," Raguel says, taking another implacable step forward. He's smiling a little, and that's the worst of it - like he's explaining this to errant children. "Murder is murder. Excuses aren't relevant."
"You do it," Crowley says. He looks like something sharp is twisting in his gut, and his fingers too are twitching restlessly.
"Sorry?"
"Kill people, I mean."
Raguel blinks.
"Well, yes. But only because..." he stops, confused, as Crowley raises an eyebrow at him (with a grin no more real than Raguel's smile). Raguel shakes his head, and his fingers click through the seven wooden scrabble tiles in his pocket. "My assignment still stands."
Crowley's eyes slide off to the side again, and then snap back to Raguel's face.
"Not," he says, raising his voice just a little, "if they're on neutral ground."
"Someone's coming," River whispers again.
And then the only thing that's audible, over the crash as a blur of fair hair and black cassock knocks Raguel into a fruit-stall, and the whoomph that sounds like a bar of magnesium erupting into flames, is Mal's voice screaming the order to "Run!"
There's no other sound from the crew of Serenity after that; there's no time for it, or for looking back, or for anything other than keeping heads down and elbows in and making it back to the ship, to the door to Milliways. Neutral ground.
Raguel's fall is broken by apples. He doesn't give a thought to the irony. People have most certainly noticed the proceedings now, and the shouts of the stall owner and the crowd swirl around the edges of his consciousness. But his attention is on the figure of Prior Fell straightening up. And more pressing still, the fiery length of sharp-edged steel in the angel's hand, flames dancing to an achingly familiar white at the tip. Raguel reaches out to touch them, imagining what they must feel like, and Aziraphael, horrified, jerks the sword backward.
That's why he's off his guard when Raguel lunges.
The two of them clatter gracelessly backwards, landing in greenery and broken terracotta, and scramble for their feet again. Aziraphael starts to say his name, but doesn't get to finish; the breath jolts from him when Raguel backs him up against a steel pillar, wrapped in vines and ferns to look like a tree. The sword is between them, pressed between their chests, and their clothes do not burn, though Raguel can feel the heat of the flames licking at the underside of his chin.
And then... nothing. Nobody moves. Aziraphael is tense against him, waiting for whatever may come, but Raguel simply looks calmly, thoughtfully, into the angel's blue gaze. This is not his assignment, after all. This is - not his assignment. This is not Justice.
He needs to rethink his strategy.
He's distracted when Aziraphael's eyes flick sideways. Instinctively, he follows them, and then blinks in surprise when he sees that his free hand - the one not wrapped around Aziraphael's at the hilt of the sword - is fastened around the blade.
"Oh," he says, to the sound of sizzling, and then blurts out a laugh.
It doesn't smell as bad as he'd have thought it would. In fact, it smells sort of... clean, and sharp. Like the air, above cloud level. He tightens his fingers around the warmth, and his eyes slip halfway shut as he breathes in another lungful. Or tries to.
"Raguel," Aziraphael says, gently.
"I," Raguel begins, and then pauses, registering the hand that has fastened around the back of his collar. He cranes over his shoulder to look down at the handles of a pair of gardening shears, protruding from just above his right kidney, and then up into Crowley's eyes. They look almost apologetic. "Damn," Raguel says, annoyed.
Crowley teeters when the bigger demon sags back against him, but Aziraphael steadies them.
"It's not so bad," Crowley promises tightly, "once you get used to it."
**********************
There's a bit of a to-do when something trips the bio-alarm on Nic Rosse's incoming post, but it turns out to just be a feather (dark grey, slightly scraggly). There's also a neatly-written report ( 'agent of the Enemy unfortunately present at scene'; 'arrived too late as back-up'; 'willing to supervise and assist with re-corporation adjustment period as compensation' ), and a small plastic baggie (ratty wallet, some scraps of paper, nine scrabble tiles; 'D - I - S - R - E - P - A - I - R').
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*incoherents around*
So. I guess this makes it my turn.
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And it's the fic that never ends... it just goes on and on my...
Damn.
:D! Please do keep going, on behalf of the peanut gallery. This is all kinds of terrifyingly awesome.
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*puts it on the list immediately following current WIP. which has Nothing To Do With Rogue Angels, Thank You.*
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*and compulsively refreshes tabs*
(Sophie? AUGH EEE YAY AUGH. That's all I've got for coherence.)
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But ... um ... I can't get to the previous parts, not being a priviledged character like you. Any other places they might be readable by us plebes? Please and thanks? ;]
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I am tempted to write Jayne-POV but I don't know what happens next.
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*opens semagic*
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And round and round and round it goes.
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Because the first word I came up with that was the correct number of letters is not in fact one that is left when you subtract two letters from 'disrepair'.
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D:!!!
Ngk. No words. *weeps*
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And I have to thank Lunzie for pointing that out, because I hadn't even noticed the discrepancy on my first read.
Drat you anyway, Sophie. *wibbles lots*
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I hate you all.
*under couch*
*correction
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And I'm still crazy about the 'hmm, that smells interesting!' reaction to his HAND BEING ON FIRE. Stark raving bonkers. Though the image of attack!Aziraphael flying through the air in a cassock is kind of the anti-woe. *clings to it*
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*sighs, facepalming*