(no subject)

[a_fell]

It's chilly outside by Aziraphael's standards, and cold enough to - well, something unrepeatable (and physically impossible) by the standards of others of his acquaintance. His scarf and coat are draped carefully over a chair to dry while he warms up with a bottomless pot of tea and a paperback book of crossword puzzles. He's already done the one from the newspaper; it was finished, in fact, well before noon. He's currently on page thirty-seven of the crossword book, and the pencil he's using is looking quite the worse for wear.

He glances at the door with something approaching exasperation between scribbles, his lips compressing into a thinner line with each quarter-hour that passes.