"I'm ready now," Crowley says simply. "Lets shake the dust of Seville from our shoes."
Fortunately Aziraphale had provided Crowley with shoes as well as new clothes, so that's what they do, though not so literally. Crowley does first take time to try and bestow a proper, sober blessing on Fernand: safety and prosperity and friendship. All things the clever barber can provide for himself, perhaps, but Crowley feels a debt is owed.
In his exhausted state he's not entirely sure that vague beneficence works, however, so he adds a lesser blessing as well just in case. It's a funny thing, but Fernand finds he never has to sharpen any of his blades or scissors again, and despite their sharpness they almost never nick his customers by mistake.
* * *
Crowley doesn't remember much of the first few days of the carriage journey. He spends most of it asleep, then waking long enough to hydrate, exchange a few words and embraces with Aziraphale, to ground himself as much as can be done in this liminal traveling space, then sleeps again. For the first day or so it's less sleep and more a full exhausted collapse, like that first night. And it helps; his color stops being so pale and greenish, and he stops wincing at loud sounds and bumps in the road (though the road does seem to be unnaturally smooth, all things considered).
He spends more time awake after that, still tired and quiet but able to sit and talk, or look at the scenery, or listen and smile as Aziraphale practices whatever instruments may be practiced in a moving carriage. His sleep becomes more restless, and there's no question that his dreams are fraught. But a soft word or melody or the gentle stroke of a hand chases them away. The restless, haunted look isn't fully gone, but it diminishes.
Their coachmen idly notices now and then that they're making truly excellent time, and don't run into the usual sorts of obstacles that tend to plague even the most well-known roads. No breakdowns or unexpected animals or horses throwing shoes. Only smooth, quick travel.
There are many more things he doesn't notice.
They appproach the border between the countries in a few days, and Crowley calls a halt, his first. He's been almost entirely and uncharacteristically passive so far, letting Aziraphale make all the decisions about when or if to rest, obediently eating or drinking whatever is given him. His miracles have been sparse and small.
But he's adamant that they halt at the rest stop before the border. The coachman says it isn't necessary and the horses will be fine for another few hours yet--or means to, but somehow he finds himself pulling off the road all the same. There's a small inn here, and despite having not been hungry at all a moment ago he suddenly decides a bit of late lunch wouldn't go amiss. The horses, of course, are only too happy to be allowed to graze and lie in the sun for a time.
"Walk with me?" Crowley says, holding out a hand to Aziraphale. "Not too far. Just a little ways off." His jaw twitches a bit with nervousness, but his eyes are determined.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
Compulsive research says more like two weeks plus. But I have ideas.
Date: 2020-05-29 01:41 am (UTC)Fortunately Aziraphale had provided Crowley with shoes as well as new clothes, so that's what they do, though not so literally. Crowley does first take time to try and bestow a proper, sober blessing on Fernand: safety and prosperity and friendship. All things the clever barber can provide for himself, perhaps, but Crowley feels a debt is owed.
In his exhausted state he's not entirely sure that vague beneficence works, however, so he adds a lesser blessing as well just in case. It's a funny thing, but Fernand finds he never has to sharpen any of his blades or scissors again, and despite their sharpness they almost never nick his customers by mistake.
* * *
Crowley doesn't remember much of the first few days of the carriage journey. He spends most of it asleep, then waking long enough to hydrate, exchange a few words and embraces with Aziraphale, to ground himself as much as can be done in this liminal traveling space, then sleeps again. For the first day or so it's less sleep and more a full exhausted collapse, like that first night. And it helps; his color stops being so pale and greenish, and he stops wincing at loud sounds and bumps in the road (though the road does seem to be unnaturally smooth, all things considered).
He spends more time awake after that, still tired and quiet but able to sit and talk, or look at the scenery, or listen and smile as Aziraphale practices whatever instruments may be practiced in a moving carriage. His sleep becomes more restless, and there's no question that his dreams are fraught. But a soft word or melody or the gentle stroke of a hand chases them away. The restless, haunted look isn't fully gone, but it diminishes.
Their coachmen idly notices now and then that they're making truly excellent time, and don't run into the usual sorts of obstacles that tend to plague even the most well-known roads. No breakdowns or unexpected animals or horses throwing shoes. Only smooth, quick travel.
There are many more things he doesn't notice.
They appproach the border between the countries in a few days, and Crowley calls a halt, his first. He's been almost entirely and uncharacteristically passive so far, letting Aziraphale make all the decisions about when or if to rest, obediently eating or drinking whatever is given him. His miracles have been sparse and small.
But he's adamant that they halt at the rest stop before the border. The coachman says it isn't necessary and the horses will be fine for another few hours yet--or means to, but somehow he finds himself pulling off the road all the same. There's a small inn here, and despite having not been hungry at all a moment ago he suddenly decides a bit of late lunch wouldn't go amiss. The horses, of course, are only too happy to be allowed to graze and lie in the sun for a time.
"Walk with me?" Crowley says, holding out a hand to Aziraphale. "Not too far. Just a little ways off." His jaw twitches a bit with nervousness, but his eyes are determined.