aj_crawley | (no subject)

(no subject)

It's shading towards sunset, and the pink and gold light that streams in through the windows makes Crowley's Lavinia apartment look warmer, less sterile than usual. In fact, so well do the stylishly neutral tones pick up the evening glow that the place, usually so impersonal, looks positively welcoming. This, however, is in stark contrast to the atmosphere inside, tense from what you might call a heated discussion, but is really somewhat too one-sided for that.

Crowley, looking not so much unhappy as supremely frustrated with the world in general (and certain parts of it in particular), is brandishing a sheet of digital paper on which a newsfeed shimmers gently, paused on an article. Its headline: BENTLEY RIOTS ON LILAC: TENSION RUNS HIGH IN AMESBURY.

The living area's other occupant, one Senator Gabriel Tam, is comfortably ensconced in an armchair, on a swing-stop from a brief political tour of the inner planets. For his part, rather than incensed, he instead looks... sort of resigned. Which probably has at least as much to do with the fact that, after a silent contest of wills, he allowed Crowley to serve him tea instead of scotch, as it does the fact that Crowley doesn't look likely to stop ranting any time soon.

" - not rocket science," he's fuming. "Well - it is rocket science - that's the fucking point. Obviousssly we need skilled labour out on the border sites, and whether or not I'd like to do all my hiring amongst the local bloody colour, they don't have the skill-set. I mean, we're hiring everyone young enough and smart enough that we can train up, and everyone we brought out with us is less'n a decade away from retirement. I think," the digital paper fwishes onto the low table-top, "everyone's being a bit unrealistic. Do they want the damn defenses to get built or not?"

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"I think," Gabriel says dryly, "that they've got at least as much of an interest in having good defenses as you do."

He's drumming his fingers absently against the arm of the chair.

"Well, personally, I think there might be certain other interested parties involved here," Crowley replies darkly. "As you said - ungrateful enough to complain, sure, but stupid enough to actually start rioting against the company that's building their fortifications? That's the thin red line between them and the Reavers? I doubt it."

Crowley looks down at his tea, glaring at the inoffensive brew as though it, personally, were the source of all his troubles. There are shadows under his eyes, and they make the yellow-gold seem even harsher, even fiercer. The tea ripples in fear, and tries, discreetly, to climb the side of the mug and escape.

"I think someone is... inciting." He gives the word a terrible, dangerous weight. "Fomenting."

He leans forward, at this.

"Anyone in particular?"

His eyes have narrowed.

"Put it this way," he says. "Who else do we know - what other companies can you think of - that might have an interest in the IIGA contracts?"

"Do you want the short list, or the long one?" Gabriel counters.

"Fair," he concedes with a snort. "But there's only a few who'd want to see Bentley go down for - " he pauses delicately, or at least as delicately as his mood will allow, " - other reasons."

"Mm-hmm."

This time, his pause is a little more careful.

"Somehow, given certain of your ... associates ... well, I'd had the impression that there was something of an understanding there, of sorts."

"Yes."

Yellow eyes, unhidden if not quite unguarded, flick to Gabriel's face and then away again.

"For a while, anyway. We worked together, every now and again; in the short-term, at least, that faction - " (the Red, he avoids saying, irrationally uncomfortable with the word), " - and my... side have had some of the same goals."

He did what he had to do, to get Bentley into the fold, to make Bentley the best. There's no shame in his face.

"'Course, I was funnelling money to Tet at the same time. And if they didn't suspect after the incident at the Academy," Crowley's mug turns slowly in restless hands, widdershins, "I more or less blew my cover for good when Bentley declared for you. I'm not just a business or political rival anymore."

He nods, very slowly; taking it all in.

"What about your associates on the other side, as it were?"

His forehead furrows slightly.

"Tet? Or do you mean Aziraph- Prior Fell?"

He's not sure why the correction; it's not as though Gabriel doesn't know the angel's name.

And yet -

"I meant the Prior, yes."

"What about him?"

"... I guess that answers that," he says, not without a hint of ruefulness.

"It's quite a precarious position that you're in, Crowley. Is there anything I can do?"

Still fragile in health or not, mortal or not, Gabriel Tam seems not only perfectly serious but unconscious of any associated irony.

"Watch your back," Crowley says simply. "Bentley's going to be taking some knocks for this - as per the plan, I assume - and I doubt it'll reflect well."

His thumbnail flicks back and forth across the rim of his mug - a thin, irritating sound. Suddenly, a harsh bark of laughter.

"If they start pushing for some kind of inquest, you need to be ready to disown me."

Gabriel looks startled.

"What?"

Sitting back in his chair, Crowley gives Gabriel a Look - one he's gotten very, very good at (and one he's had a very, very long time to practice). And maybe - maybe it's just the scar, the way it pulls and disfigures the muscles of his face, that's tugging the corner of his mouth up into a sardonic grin.

"You don't seriously think Bentley's clean, do you?"

"If not, you've been hiding it very, very well for a long time," Gabriel counters.

"You do remember my line of work before I ended up here?"

A beat.

"Of course, given your particular resources..."

"A man of faith."

And it says something, that those words, from Crowley, can be ironic, but not mocking. What that 'something' might be isn't clear, exactly. But - it's something.

(What it's doing right now: covering up just how big this is, how serious. And how flat Crowley's eyes can get, when he's... calculating.)

"I've plenty of resources, and I'm better than most at hiding these things. But if there's an inquest, and if Blue Sun or North Central have an inside man on that inquest, which you can count on, then I - not to phrase it too delicately - am in yī dà tuó dàbiàn."

Lazily, leisurely, he sets his tea to one side and crosses his legs, every inch the demon at ease.

"They will know," he says, voice clear and precise, "exactly where to look. Guĭ, I stole half those bribes and dirty deals out from under them."

Long seconds of silence pass before he pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a series of soft curses under his breath.

"...ō, zhè zhēn shì gè kuàilè de jìnzhăn," he concludes. "Is there anything to be done?"

"I have to nip this in the bud - I don't think it's too late, yet."

He steeples his fingers in front of him, this time tapping his thumbnails against a button on his shirt with a quiet clacking sound. It's better than the rim of his mug, but not by much - another quiet semaphore ticking out the demon's thought process.

"Problem being, I can't do much more than damage control unless someone is able to dig up a concrete link between North Central and the..." one hand disengages, waves towards the shimmering newsfeed on the table. "The unrest."

Back again; tick-tick.

"So consider this your heads-up."

"Heads-up with respect to what, precisely?" Gabriel counters.

"What are you planning?"

A dry, humourless snort, as Crowley's fingers abruptly stop tapping.

"Nothing - that's what has me worried. I meant... consider this your warning to be ready to jump ship, if somebody holes us under water-line."

"We'll see," he temporizes. "But you can consider me duly warned."

"Your funeral," he says, with a restless shrug.

He's done the least that he was obligated to do. If Gabriel wants to sink his career through loyalty to the wrong people at the wrong time (he thinks, completely ignorant of any hypocrisy), then that's his choice.

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