(Untitled)

[a_fell]

A flood of people from the theatre; a night out at which is not, perhaps, what it was but it's still an occasion worth dressing for - an explosion of colour and noise bundled carefully into black cabs and ferried away to home, or drinking, or whatever illicit encounters are lined up for the night

Comments

[aj_crawley]

Crowley has his hands in his pockets as well, but the pockets of a thick, black wool overcoat that reaches nearly to the knees of his suit. And really, for February, it's not all that cold, but he's wrapped fair up to his nose in a black scarf, too.

The shape of his cheeks suggest he's grinning underneath, though.

[a_fell]

"Well that was quite the charming performance," Aziraphael eventually opines. "I don't think I've had a chance to see it done since the late '50's, in Stratford. And that one was memorable only for Rosalind's unfortunate speech impediment, which caused the front three rows to rather wish they'd brought umbrellas."

Possibly he's a little nervous.

[aj_crawley]

There's a rather thoughtful silence.

"I think I saw that one" Crowley says, finally. "Did they tour? 'S not the kind of thing you, you know, forget. Thime thravelth in diverth patheth with diverth perthonth."

A sideways glance at Aziraphael, who looks torn somewhere between amusement and a quiet horror. The corner of Crowley's mouth twitches, behind his scarf, and he obligingly turns up the volume, for the benefit of passers-by in the street.

"I'll thell you who Thime ambleth withal, who Thime throth withal, who Thime gallopth withal, and who he thtandth thtill withal..."

[a_fell]

Amusement and quiet horror evolves quickly into disbelief, followed closely by uncontrollable snorting as Aziraphael tries frantically to maintain some trace of decorum. He eventually manages a muffled mumble, from behind a hand clasped in desperation over his mouth.

"Crowley, people are staring."