Getting him on the way to a bakery was simply a low blow. There should be something somewhere written against that. Not that Hell was particular about rules or doing anything by the book. By any book, really. And at this hour of the morning? Most of London isn't even awake yet. That's just bloody rude, that is.
He had gone by food, mostly to pass the time, while the angel was somewhere upstairs doing...whatever he had been doing for hours. Filing books? Dusting the selves? Talking to the paintings? Crowley doesn't quite know, but he saw the time and figured he'd step out to get the angel something to eat.
He thought all of this was over. But of course it isn't. Shax wasn't just about to leave them alone, not after what happened. She'd sent some of her goons - real bottom of the barrel ones, what with the understaffing getting worse and worse by the year - and Crowley had lost them down a few alleys, but they played dirty. Of course they did. He should have brought the bloody car.
He doesn't quite remember everything he did down there, but they sure had some new ways of doing things. Not a proper complex thought through any of their heads, but enough brute force that he was still feeling it now that he was dragging himself back to the bookshop. With warm croissants.
He pushed the door open and ambled his way inside. His sunglasses dropped on a pile of books, his coat painfully pulled off and tossed somewhere, he doesn't care to check. Box of croissants deposited on the front table, which he pushes himself around round so that he can drop on the sofa with a heavy, achy grunt.
He should check on Aziraphale. In a minute. He can feel that he's around, and it doesn't feel like he's in danger.
That's good. Just, give him a minute.
He doesn't notice that, well, it's likely not even that same morning.]
thy will be done friend. And S2 SPOILERS
Getting him on the way to a bakery was simply a low blow. There should be something somewhere written against that. Not that Hell was particular about rules or doing anything by the book. By any book, really. And at this hour of the morning? Most of London isn't even awake yet. That's just bloody rude, that is.
He had gone by food, mostly to pass the time, while the angel was somewhere upstairs doing...whatever he had been doing for hours. Filing books? Dusting the selves? Talking to the paintings? Crowley doesn't quite know, but he saw the time and figured he'd step out to get the angel something to eat.
He thought all of this was over. But of course it isn't. Shax wasn't just about to leave them alone, not after what happened. She'd sent some of her goons - real bottom of the barrel ones, what with the understaffing getting worse and worse by the year - and Crowley had lost them down a few alleys, but they played dirty. Of course they did. He should have brought the bloody car.
He doesn't quite remember everything he did down there, but they sure had some new ways of doing things. Not a proper complex thought through any of their heads, but enough brute force that he was still feeling it now that he was dragging himself back to the bookshop. With warm croissants.
He pushed the door open and ambled his way inside. His sunglasses dropped on a pile of books, his coat painfully pulled off and tossed somewhere, he doesn't care to check. Box of croissants deposited on the front table, which he pushes himself around round so that he can drop on the sofa with a heavy, achy grunt.
He should check on Aziraphale. In a minute. He can feel that he's around, and it doesn't feel like he's in danger.
That's good. Just, give him a minute.
He doesn't notice that, well, it's likely not even that same morning.]