(Untitled)

[un_fallen]

Crowley has been surprisingly charitable for most of the time spent in Raguel's new apartment - criticizing everything, of course, but only in the most general way. He pronounces it barely habitable, which Raguel takes to mean that he's done a decent job. And if the shower (and by necessity, the bathroom) has slightly larger dimensions when

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[aj_crawley]

Looking out over the city, Crowley raises a hand to the sun, sighting through the shutters of light and dark that dapple his face through his fingers.

"I've found," he says, "that people have a depressing tendency not to look up."

He's wearing a coat that seems absurdly heavy for Los Angeles, even during winter-time; it's hanging open, still, under a loosely-wound scarf. Black on black on more black, of course, so that he looks like a ready-made silhouette against the skyline.

He turns to Raguel and grins.

"It's your stomping ground, though. How d'you usually head out?"

[un_fallen]

"I walk," he says, "but I think going the usual route would take too long. If I'm really in a hurry, I'll drive. It's still not what you would call fast."

If Raguel really had any idea of what Crowley would call 'fast' in a car, he might not even have suggested it.

[aj_crawley]

"Yeah?" Crowley asks, interested. "What do you dr- er."

The question trails away quickly, though, as Crowley realises that he might not actually want to know.

(And besides, if it doesn't go fast, what's the point?)

[un_fallen]

Raguel grins, amused.

"Whatever I can find that no one else wants. Abandoned cars, usually. Trucks. Once an 18-wheeler with only six wheels. They usually need a little help getting started, but they get me there okay."