The Bar at the End of the Universe

" - just think we ought to consider the possibility that it was sent to us for a reason, my dear. That's all."

"Yeah, well. That's what he said."

Three figures tromp down the stairs into the bar, one after the other. First Andrew, slightly dusty but no worse for the wear after his morning adventure. Then Aziraphael, clutching a large, dark volume to his chest as though it were the Crown Jewels. And then Crowley, rubbing his head irately, an empty banana skin dangling from his other hand.

They pause at the bottom of the staircase, and take in the scene.



"Wow," Crowley says, finally. "You weren't kidding."

[OOC: Three characters, one post; tag any or all.]

Crowley is ignoring his lunch (a large mug of coffee) in favour of today's Times, which is open to the crossword page in front of him. However, he doesn't seem to be paying the puzzle itself all that much attention either - which oughtn't be judged so much by the look on his face, which is appropriately thoughtful, as by the fact that he is neatly colouring in all the white squares.

Someone, somewhere, Crowley's quite certain, is playing Silly Buggers. Because that's it. That's the only reasonable explanation he can think of - barring a startling rearrangement of national geography, which he'd probably have noticed - for why the weather forecast for Scotland should be both warmer and sunnier than the weather in London.

He'd tried positive thinking for a little while, planting himself upon a bench in St. James' Park and glaring at the wan excuse for a blue sky, but it hadn't seemed to do much except make the ducks even more nervous than usual. Eventually, logic had won out: not only would the grounds at Milliways probably be more temperate, he also wouldn't need to convince any passers-by that they weren't seeing a large pair of black wings being used to soak up extra sun.

Therefore: Crowley, out back, well-groomed wings on display for the world to see.

He's not sunbathing, though.

He's scuffing his toe thoughtfully at the edge of a patch of scorched, blackened, grass, at the centre of which sits the ragged shell of a tree-stump. It's a pity, of course; Crowley seems to recall a particularly well-disciplined apple tree, if memory serves. But that's not what has him still standing there, hands in his pockets. The place has a tang about it, see; the faintest of sickly-sweet notes that waits for you to notice it and then wafts into your nostrils and crawls down to the back of your throat. He can taste it on the air, even if he couldn't feel it with other, different senses.

Power.

And decay.

The grass is coated with cinder-grey dust, and with the crumbling wood-chips that are all that remain of whatever was wrought here. Crowley knocks one gently with his boot, and then hunches his shoulders, wing-feathers ruffled by a sudden, chill breeze.

Someone's been playing Silly Buggers.



[OOC: Mun has succumbed to the tired; all slowtimes will be tagged in the morning!]

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.)