Andronicus Crowley slouches a little lower in his uncomfortable plastic chair, tiredly wondering why even the most expensive of private hospitals seem unable to stock their cafeterias with anything but the vilest-tasting coffee, or to serve it in anything but the sort of undersized, faintly stained coffee cup that the demon is currently nursing
( ... )
There's a scuffle outside the open doorway, the sort of scuffle that can only be the result of a person tripping over several carts of supplies and scattering them across a wide expanse of hallway, blocking traffic irreparably. Profuse apologies follow.
A few long moments later, a tall, blond man stumbles into the cafeteria, satchel in hand. He's pale, and rumpled, wearing the dust of a week's travel aboard a rickety rust-bucket of a ship. His eyes scan over the room's occupants once without recognition, then stop. Go back.
"Bloody-- Crowley," he says, his voice thick with a heady mix of emotions, before he weaves around table after table as quickly as he can manage -- "Excuse me, pardon me, please, madame, control your toddler" -- and grabs Andronicus Ji Crowley out of his chair and into his arms.
"What," Crowley begins blankly, blinking in surprise at the view over Aziraphael's shoulder.
Meetings of distraught friends and relatives are not a particularly uncommon sight in a hospital cafeteria; after a moment or two, the patrons turn disinterestedly back to their unappetising fare. Nobody's looking, then, at the exact moment when Crowley realises two things:
1) right now, he doesn't care what Aziraphael is doing here, because
2) right now, Aziraphael is here.
Nobody's looking, when Crowley nearly lifts the angel off his feet.
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A few long moments later, a tall, blond man stumbles into the cafeteria, satchel in hand. He's pale, and rumpled, wearing the dust of a week's travel aboard a rickety rust-bucket of a ship. His eyes scan over the room's occupants once without recognition, then stop. Go back.
"Bloody-- Crowley," he says, his voice thick with a heady mix of emotions, before he weaves around table after table as quickly as he can manage -- "Excuse me, pardon me, please, madame, control your toddler" -- and grabs Andronicus Ji Crowley out of his chair and into his arms.
"Idiot. Do you never check your messages?"
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Meetings of distraught friends and relatives are not a particularly uncommon sight in a hospital cafeteria; after a moment or two, the patrons turn disinterestedly back to their unappetising fare. Nobody's looking, then, at the exact moment when Crowley realises two things:
1) right now, he doesn't care what Aziraphael is doing here, because
2) right now, Aziraphael is here.
Nobody's looking, when Crowley nearly lifts the angel off his feet.
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