Re: Leela at-bateyeeyecaptainSeptember 18 2009, 03:52:59 UTC
He'll be able to hear the growl and the splintering of wood beneath her fingertips as she grips that bat tighter, even given the 60-foot space between them.
Even if he couldn't, he can certainly see the malice on her features.
Re: Leela at-bataj_crawleySeptember 18 2009, 04:11:01 UTC
The crowd oooooo's again at Leela's challenge, but it quickly dissolves into a ripple of laughter as Crowley turns to the stands and spreads his hands in a comically exaggerated shrug. Some people, is he right, folks?
Turning back, he rolls the ball along his fingers a few times, flips it up into the air, and catches it.
Re: Leela at-bataj_crawleySeptember 19 2009, 01:58:47 UTC
Castiel and Meg, sensible... beings that they are, have already exchanged silent Looks and then wordlessly resumed position. Crowley, though, for his part, waves a dismissive glove at Leela - water off a duck, sweetheart; water off a duck - trotting down to scoop up the ball from the grass and taking his own damn time strolling back up to the marker.
He toes the dirt in turn; he rolls his shoulders, and adjusts the brim of his cap; and then, finally, he winds up.
Starting with a return of the Enigmas to their defensive positions.
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He brings his foot back to the marker again, winds up... and sends the ball flying some way out of Leela's strike zone.
How embarrassing.
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"Hey, buddy, my bat is over here!"
Or at least stare at her breasts! Come on, anything but the eye.
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It's just... you know. It's an eye, is all, and it's kind of -
- No. Focus.
Crowley breathes in one long lungful, nostrils flaring, and fixes his eyes on the bat.
Low but accurate, he lets fly again.
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Swing and a miss!
Curse you, vile eye, for the lack of depth perception!
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The ball smacks back into Crowley's glove, but before he pitches again, he holds it up between long, dastardly fingers for Leela's inspection.
Hey buddy, his expression seems to say. The ball is over here.
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Even if he couldn't, he can certainly see the malice on her features.
"Just you try me again!" she challenges.
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Turning back, he rolls the ball along his fingers a few times, flips it up into the air, and catches it.
Wind-up.
Pitch.
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There's a definite CRACK, whistle, and thump.
(The CRACK was the ball glancing off the bat,
the whistle was its brief upward soar through the air,
and the thump was it ricocheting off Leela's head as it fell back to the earth, dead.)
"OW!"
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The pitcher's just having a coughing fit. Don't mind him.
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Heckling isn't really a concept that angels are familiar with.
His eyes follow the ball as it bounces off the hat, and might actually wince slightly behind his mask when it makes contact with her head.
Castiel grabs the ball, straightening up out of his crouch.
"Are you all right?"
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"Yeah, are you okay? Do you need to sit down, or . . . we can get Dr. Cullen . . ."
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Her attention, though, is on the COUGHING FIT happening over on the pitcher's mound.
She slants her eye at Crowley.
"Oh yeah. I'm perfect," she says in reply to both Meg and Castiel. "Luckily, I used my volumizing conditioner this morning."
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Batting helmets can take a lot of abuse -- so, apparently, can volumizing conditioner -- but, um. Yeah.
"We can resume if you want, but if you need a minute . . ."
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(And, possibly, stealing Meg's line.)
She picks her bat back up, toes the dirt, and gives Crowley a glaaaaaaaaaare.
She points.
Oh yeah, this one's coming for you, buddy boy.
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He toes the dirt in turn; he rolls his shoulders, and adjusts the brim of his cap; and then, finally, he winds up.
Special delivery for Turanga Leela, c/o DESTINY.
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