Who are the people in your neighborhood...
Crowley had grown weary of reading the books he'd gotten to take to Aziraphale in the clinic, so he sauntered into the rec room to do battle with the bookshelf. He had always believed that Good and Evil were just names of sides, but that was until he'd encountered the shelf and the jukebox. Leave it to Knowledge and Electronics to prove to him there was such a thing as true, pure Evil beyond the grasp of Below.
He took note of the tall ginger woman sitting at a table pouring over books. She was a bit of posh in this hovel, but still a woman and he shied away from her. When he did, he nearly tumbled over a young girl with her hair in pigtails, reading one of those bodice rippers as she sprawled out on the floor. She may have thought she was out of the way, but Crowley shot her a withering look.
The shelf was already occupied and was clearly confused by the disparate psyches of the spiky haired lad that Crowley had noticed in the lab working diligently...even if he did dance around a bit and sing along poorly with snatches of punk music. American punk music...if there could be such a thing. The other fellow was tall and had the look of a convict philosopher, or as they said in the vernacular, a drop out.
Stu Redman wandered in and it may have been a blessing or a curse, but the jukebox abruptly cut the Queen it was playing in favor of blaring Willie Nelson. Stu grinned but it was clear that no one else in the room appreciated it. Not even Harkness, who Crowley was certain would shag anyone...including Willie Nelson.
Death stepped meekly from her room, her hair tangled and twisted and she glared at the machine which gradually lowered the volume. Crowley smiled at her and she returned it from across the room, sinking into a chair, clearly tired and unwell still.
Crowley returned to the shelf and in front of his face loomed seven copies of the Bible.
Could he ever get anything else?
[ooc: In the spirit of Tag Someone New Week, I'm giving you ALL of them. Stu Redman, Jack Harkness, Crowley, Death, Greg Sanders, CJ Cregg, Chris Stevens and Claire Bennet. Put the pup name in your subject line so I can keep track, and tag one you haven't talked to yet!]
He took note of the tall ginger woman sitting at a table pouring over books. She was a bit of posh in this hovel, but still a woman and he shied away from her. When he did, he nearly tumbled over a young girl with her hair in pigtails, reading one of those bodice rippers as she sprawled out on the floor. She may have thought she was out of the way, but Crowley shot her a withering look.
The shelf was already occupied and was clearly confused by the disparate psyches of the spiky haired lad that Crowley had noticed in the lab working diligently...even if he did dance around a bit and sing along poorly with snatches of punk music. American punk music...if there could be such a thing. The other fellow was tall and had the look of a convict philosopher, or as they said in the vernacular, a drop out.
Stu Redman wandered in and it may have been a blessing or a curse, but the jukebox abruptly cut the Queen it was playing in favor of blaring Willie Nelson. Stu grinned but it was clear that no one else in the room appreciated it. Not even Harkness, who Crowley was certain would shag anyone...including Willie Nelson.
Death stepped meekly from her room, her hair tangled and twisted and she glared at the machine which gradually lowered the volume. Crowley smiled at her and she returned it from across the room, sinking into a chair, clearly tired and unwell still.
Crowley returned to the shelf and in front of his face loomed seven copies of the Bible.
Could he ever get anything else?
[ooc: In the spirit of Tag Someone New Week, I'm giving you ALL of them. Stu Redman, Jack Harkness, Crowley, Death, Greg Sanders, CJ Cregg, Chris Stevens and Claire Bennet. Put the pup name in your subject line so I can keep track, and tag one you haven't talked to yet!]