milliways_bar | (no subject)

Ordinarily, this would be - well, ordinary. Crowley would slither comfortably into the seat opposite, would set down his wine glass or his coffee cup or his heavy mug of tea with a proprietary clink, spread out to take up far more space than he ought to be able to, and open with some sort of remark concerning Raguel's expression and the variety of objects of differing levels of sourness which he might have swallowed to make him look that way.

"Evening, sunshine," Crowley says.

(Hey, three out of four isn't bad.)

"Evening," Raguel all but growls. After a moment, he makes something of an effort to be presentable - or at least engaged - and sits a little straighter in his seat.

"Up to no good, I take it?"

"You tell me," Crowley replies after a slight pause, one eyebrow lifting a little. "Am I interrupting?"

"Not really; just watching," he says. "And it turns out that my companion here isn't that interesting," he adds, nodding toward the glass.

"That's just because you haven't gotten to know it yet," he says, with a somewhat perfunctory glance at the level of beer in the glass. "Open up a bit, and you'll soon get on like a house on fire."

"Not a bad idea," he says, staring into the glass again, "except that this is my eighth one. Maybe around the eleventh we'll start to really communicate. I think if it talks back, though, I'm going to have to have a chat with Bar."

That eyebrow inches a little higher.

"Not to pick sides or anything, but I think if it you drink enough to make your beer start to talk back, it'll be nobody's fault but your own."

"I'm not sure that much beer exists. But I guess I see your point." He glares at the bubbles for another moment, realizes he's hunching again, and sits up.

"Anyway, it's hard to argue if I don't like what it has to say."

"It's beer," Crowley says, settling back into his seat and generally making himself at home. "I can't possibly think of anything you'd disagree on."

"No, there's not much," he agrees, "but I have that alienating sort of effect."

Perhaps realizing that this sounds quite a bit more bitter than he'd intended, he picks up the glass and takes a generous gulp.

"Oh, really," Crowley says, which - let's be honest - probably would have been irritatingly unhelpful even if he had bothered to inflect the question.

"Mm," he says, noncommittal, which would also be irritatingly unhelpful in any number of situations.

"I'm actually surprised that you're still here."

"I can't work out whether I'm supposed to be offended by that," Crowley says after a slight pause. "Or whether you really and truly are pathetic enough to try fishing for compliments from me."

He looks uncharacteristically thoughtful.

"Neither, really. People being unreliable; suppose I should expect it." He waves the hand not currently wrapped around his glass through the air.

"I'm just-- maybe best to ignore it, I think. Unless you want to compliment me, but that would be a little weird."

"Or," he replies, spreading his hands, "you could just stop trying to drop hints like bombs in a Michael Bay film, and tell me why you sound about two steps away from writing bad poetry on the backs of bar napkins. I mean, if there's something going around, I want to make sure it isn't catching."

Raguel glares at him blearily. It makes a change, at least, from glaring at the beer - and even if he doesn't know who Michael Bay is, the message is clear enough.

"Coyote left town. Moved out of her place. Didn't mention it to me, didn't leave a forwarding address."

He starts to add more, but that pretty much covers it. His hand tightens around the glass, then he looses it consciously before it can break.

Okay, so it's not as though Raguel has what you'd call an abundance of possible causes for moping. It's a short list, and Coyote was always likely to be on there. But at the same time...

"Er. What?" Crowley says.

What?

He lets go of the glass altogether, putting his hands in his lap, and stares fixedly at it.

"My-- someone I considered a close friend. Moved away. Without saying anything."

He lifts his eyes to Crowley and makes an effort to loosen his posture.

"Don't worry, there's no bad poetry on the other side of that napkin."

"Well, yeah, I just. Just - " he waves a hand, "okay, back up a second. Okay. How d'you mean, 'moved'? Are we talking 'new name on the postbox' moved, or 'door hanging off its hinges and signs of a struggle' moved?"

"New-name-on-the-postbox moved," he says quickly. "Only there wasn't a new name, place was empty. Neighbor didn't know where she'd gone. No struggle."

He shakes his head, eyes on the glass once again.

"Probably shouldn't bug me."

"Shut up," Crowley says summarily. "And you - have you seen her since? No?"

"Yeah. She's fine," he adds, though Crowley hadn't precisely asked.

"Said it was for safety, so. Guess there was a good reason for it."

Behind Crowley's sunglasses, there's a faint suggestion of eyes widening - and then being rather emphatically rolled.

"Right. Good job on adding in those important details at the beginning, Raguel."

"Yes," he says, but it sounds clipped, as though there was more that has been bitten off.

"Do I strike you as the sort that needs protecting?" he asks after a moment.

A long, blank stare.

Finally: "You really need to start at the beginning for me, here."