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[aj_crawley]

Crowley has plenty of things to be crabby about, not least of which is the fact that summer is starting to come to a close, picking up and slouching off towards next year before September can come along and book it for loitering. The forecast for the next week, though, is still just about acceptable, so what's currently occupying the top few slots on his list is the fact that Aziraphael, with all his understated, tweedy reserve, is being utterly and absolutely insufferable about that flower show thing. The forecast for that is pretty good too, which is bad (if you follow). Sunshine and rainbows belong in the sky where Crowley can lounge about beneath them, not emanating smugly from the other side of the breakfast table.

Thus, faced with the fairly simple choice of going mad or going out, Crowley has relocated his Friday night to one of Milliways' better people-watching tables and is picking at a meal of fried paradoxes and wine with an indefinable air of Bah. Humbug.

(There's a newspaper on the table in front of him, opened to the offending article. Thorn Cross Young Offenders Institution, be prepared for an onslaught of low-grade, slowly-demoralising evil. Crowley's thinking a mild outbreak of gastroenteritis coupled with an untimely plumbing disaster, and then seeing how it goes from there. We're looking into the abyss, here, people.)

Comments

[realmrsreynolds]

Sallie doesn't do 'bah humbug' very well, on the whole.

Regardless, the face is a new one to Sallie's eyes and he gives the dark-haired man a small wave.

Wine and paradoxes though? Bleck.

[aj_crawley]

Catching it out of the corner of his eye, Crowley returns the wave with a nod that comes across as surprisingly civil, all things considered.

Hey, even he's not stupid enough to disrespect little old ladies.

[realmrsreynolds]

The nod is enough encouragement for the lady to take the opportunity to correct the culinary injustice going on over at the table, so at the bar she acquires a wedge of peach cobbler on a small plate.

It has to be better than fried paradoxes, at the very least.

"I didn't make it," the woman starts ruefully, "But I'm sure Bar did a fine job with it."

[aj_crawley]

"Er."

Correction: even he's not stupid enough to disrespect little old ladies, within certain reasonable limits - limits which do not include accepting gifts of combs, spinning wheels, or any food of more-mysterious-than-usual origin.

Even in Milliways.

Especially in Millways.

"No offense," he says, eying the plate (and Sallie) warily, "but if that's going to turn me into anything or rope me into whatever magical jinx is going around, I'd rather not."

[realmrsreynolds]

"Fair enough. Do you care if I eat it then? It smells rather nice and all."

Sallie doesn't quite wait for a reply as she sits across from the man, rolling the fork across her slim knuckles for a second.

"I just saw...those paradox things. Wanted to suggest an alternative to that confusion if I could is all."

[aj_crawley]

"I like paradoxes," Crowley says, sounding a little defensive.

(He blinks a little at the sudden population boom in Tableville, but it's hidden behind his sunglasses. And in any case - what did he come here for, if not to be distracted?)

"Though I suppose you won't mind if I don't offer you any, then."

[realmrsreynolds]

"Not at all, you can keep to your own," Sallie shoos the notion away magnanimously with one hand. (The one not holding the fork.)

Sallie squints around her first bite of dessert. "British?" she hazards carefully. "I've been workin' on getting accents down."

[aj_crawley]

"For a given value," he replies, with a noncommittal sort of shrug.

People can judge their righteous little hearts out, of course, but it's still - annoying when certain revelations kill an evening's conversation.

Crunch, goes a paradox.

[realmrsreynolds]

Sallie then pegs him for a traveling sort of man, what with the sunglasses and all, munching on her own snack for a moment consideringly.

"Never made it to that part o' Earth-that-Was, really. My son did once I think? Most of my friends from that world are American."

[ooc: giving up on crap wireless. will tag again in the morning? many apologies. D: D: D:]

[the_cupbearer]

Ganymede happens to be doing the same thing; people-watching.

He's not considering anything like what Crowley is, though; as his fingers play over the smooth, cool metal of the collar around his throat, evil--aside from the playful kind that's about the worst he's capable of--is the last thing on his mind.

Forgive the little immortal. He may be staring at you, Crowley, even if he doesn't fully intend to be.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley's hardly one to judge (though that rarely stops him); he's more or less as nosy as the day is long, even if the sunglasses do make things more discreet.

This time, though, he's in the middle of one of his periodic contemplations of the newspaper in front of him - so it's a minute, or perhaps a little more, before the vague sense of being watched prompts Crowley to lift his gaze and look around.

[the_cupbearer]

There must be quite a bit on the boy's mind, he hasn't blinked yet. It's rather strange, really, to see him staring at anything for longer than a minute or so.

He's obviously not unconscious, or that odd kind of asleep with one's eyes open, as his fingers are still moving around the cool, light metal ring against his skin, turning it around, around, around.

[aj_crawley]

Awkward.

Even if Crowley did have something in his teeth, there's no way the kid is close enough to see it, and he's confident that his hair is still at an acceptable level of 'artfully tousled'.

So...

He raises his eyebrows slightly at his apparent audience of one. It's a little pointed.

[the_cupbearer]

The movement does make him stop staring, at least. He blinks once, twice, before actually moving the focus point of his gaze.

He takes in the raised eyebrows, and since Ganymede knows he has, lately, this tendency to stare while he thinks, he ducks his head out of habit, though it comes right back up. "My apologies."

[aj_crawley]

"No worries," he replies, with a small wave of his hand. "I just didn't know if I'd stolen your table, or something."

Not that he'd have given it back, but that's not the point.

[the_cupbearer]

"No, you haven't," he says, still shaking his head as if to clear the thought. "I just...was caught in a thought. I didn't mean to stare," she murmurs, with a little smile.

Bright, for all it is small. "Why do you wear sunglasses, here? It's not very bright."

[aj_crawley]

A shrug.

"Habit," he says, which is as true as anything else. "I don't have standard-issue eyes, and this is the laziest option, outside."

[un_fallen]

A shadow falls across his table. It was inevitable, really.

"Don't tell me that I'm gonna be the upbeat one, here," Raguel says, eyeing Crowley's pout scowl. It's not obvious to look at him, but to anyone paying attention he might as well be sulking underneath a small, localized thundercloud.

[aj_crawley]

"I'm upbeat," Crowley says, pouting scowling up at Raguel. "I'm on top of the world."

[un_fallen]

"Uh huh," he says, stealing the chair opposite.

"What's put you on top of the world, then?"

[aj_crawley]

"Flowers," Crowley says darkly.

[un_fallen]

"Ah," he says, nodding. "Dastardly things. Is that a word? Um. Cheerful things."

[aj_crawley]

Crowley pushes the newspaper towards Raguel, snagging a fried paradox on the way back.

[un_fallen]

Raguel scans over the newspaper.

"Don't feel bad," he says at last. "I'm sure your 'true colors' are well known by anybody who cares to know them. Honesty's not so relevant."

[aj_crawley]

"Honesty is - wait, what?"