Andrew's at a table with several books, none of which seem to have what he's looking for (and also with a finally standardized narration-dialogue style, of which he is of course entirely unaware
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Andrew is between Crowley and Crowley's favourite couch by the fire.
He could always take the long way around, of course, and thereby avoid - well. Awkward conversations, for one thing.
(Among other things.)
Crowley's eyes narrow behind his sunglasses. Mug of tea in one hand, and newspaper in the other, the demon sets off with studied unconcern towards his couch.
Crowley, being particularly aware of Andrew, turns automatically at the sound of his voice, jostles a chair, which bumps into a waitrat, who dumps a bowl of soup over Crowley's foot, who says something extremely rude extremely loudly and spills a regrettable amount of tea onto Andrew's book.
Crowley narrowly saves the rest of his tea from a collision with Andrew's elbow, which is no mean feat considering that he now has only one foot that is not on fire fuck fuckfuck fuck, and - thus incapacitated - must also avoid stepping on the rat squeaking obscenities at his ankle.
At first, Andrew only gets a scowl for his trouble, as if he himself were the avatar of the narrative law that so often lays in wait for Crowley, to ambush him at inopportune moments.
The rat retrieves the empty soup bowl, gives Crowley a beady, mutinous glare, and stomps rattily off towards the kitchens.
He's not, particularly, and it probably shows. But all things considered, Crowley thinks, it might do to be civil.
All things considered.
(Now that he's less occupied with having soup spilled on his foot, something faintly wary is settling in Crowley's posture, his voice, below the surface of his expression. It's well-concealed. But it's there.)
For a moment, it looked like a tall, gaunt figure with deep-set eyes watching Andrew from a position at the bar.
Which is of course ridiculous.
Those are sunglasses.
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Andrew looks confused at something he's just read.
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He could always take the long way around, of course, and thereby avoid - well. Awkward conversations, for one thing.
(Among other things.)
Crowley's eyes narrow behind his sunglasses. Mug of tea in one hand, and newspaper in the other, the demon sets off with studied unconcern towards his couch.
Which means: towards Andrew.
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Crowley, being particularly aware of Andrew, turns automatically at the sound of his voice, jostles a chair, which bumps into a waitrat, who dumps a bowl of soup over Crowley's foot, who says something extremely rude extremely loudly and spills a regrettable amount of tea onto Andrew's book.
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Andrew's on his feet, snatching up the book and holding it sideways to shake the tea off before it soaks into the pages.
"Frell, frell, FRELL--"
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Andrew grabs for a napkin from the dispenser on the table, and starts blotting frantically.
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Deep breath: he sets his tea down on the table (the next table).
Another: the soup that is... everywhere (but especially his foot) is gone.
A third: the pages of Andrew's book are dry.
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Andrew peers closely at the pristine book, looks at the napkin (still slightly tea-stained), and then looks up at ...
"Oh," he says. "Thanks."
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The rat retrieves the empty soup bowl, gives Crowley a beady, mutinous glare, and stomps rattily off towards the kitchens.
"Welcome," he says at last, ungraciously.
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He didn't miss the hopping-about-cursing, even if he was a bit distracted at the moment.
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It does explain why the air in the vicinity is suddenly so aromatic, in a vegetabley sort of way.
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"Ouch," he observes sympathetically.
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He's not, particularly, and it probably shows. But all things considered, Crowley thinks, it might do to be civil.
All things considered.
(Now that he's less occupied with having soup spilled on his foot, something faintly wary is settling in Crowley's posture, his voice, below the surface of his expression. It's well-concealed. But it's there.)
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A pause, and Andrew frowns slightly, more in puzzlement than anything else.
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