(no subject)
Crowley had meant to leave, to head back this afternoon. He'd been here already a little longer than he'd meant, after all, or than was strictly advisable. He'd meant to head back. Only he'd been stepping out the door when he'd seen Huma (fucking Huma, how do the fucking birds always know, anyway?) swoop over the skyline of the buildings opposite, letter tied to her leg, and land up on the windowsill, and -
Getting away hadn't become any less urgent, no, nor any less necessary.
Just not, perhaps, in quite the same sense.
He's through half a bottle of Atlantean, before he decides that the anxious faces in the bar, that stupid clock thing that the tense, worried atmosphere centres around, the damn bra, yellow bra above Bar proper, are just not, not, not what he needs to be looking at right now. Just not.
He's walking in a decent approximation of a straight line, as he heads for the back door and thence across the grounds, but he needs to keep his head down. Eyes on the ground, make sure it doesn't go anywhere when he's not looking. Moon's too bloody bright, and he doesn't want any. People in this place are too bastard nosy, is the thing. Doesn't want any passing good... Samaritan asking him what's the matter. And he feels like he needs to have his back to something. Solid.
He's near the treeline, now.
Getting away hadn't become any less urgent, no, nor any less necessary.
Just not, perhaps, in quite the same sense.
He's through half a bottle of Atlantean, before he decides that the anxious faces in the bar, that stupid clock thing that the tense, worried atmosphere centres around, the damn bra, yellow bra above Bar proper, are just not, not, not what he needs to be looking at right now. Just not.
He's walking in a decent approximation of a straight line, as he heads for the back door and thence across the grounds, but he needs to keep his head down. Eyes on the ground, make sure it doesn't go anywhere when he's not looking. Moon's too bloody bright, and he doesn't want any. People in this place are too bastard nosy, is the thing. Doesn't want any passing good... Samaritan asking him what's the matter. And he feels like he needs to have his back to something. Solid.
He's near the treeline, now.