[The worst part of all this — although there are a lot of worst parts — is having to figure out the management of a human form. Sleeping is something he learned millennia ago, but eating was always more Aziraphale's indulgence, expect Crowley doesn't trust the angel to actually know how to cook or remember that a body needs feeding three times a day, at least. Crowley's been taking care of Warlock for the past year and change, he can keep to a schedule. He can probably learn to cook. It has to at least be better than the gelatin monstrosities that the locals keep forcing on them.
That particular train of thought is what leads to him standing in the grocery store, staring at the food on the shelves with absolutely no clue where to start and annoyed at the whole procedure. Even though he made the choice to do this, part of him balks at the fact he got shoved into the role of a bloody wife and is expected to do it.
He understands the basics of food, but he's never set foot in one before, not counting the occasional foray into Fortnum & Mason in the earlier days of the century, and it's a long way from the markets he used to frequent.
He's got too much pride to actually ask for help, but the furrow in his brow is obvious above his dark sunglasses, and he keeps muttering curses under his breath, so he's clearly out of his element here.]
two; block party
[For all intents and purposes, a block party seems fairly benign, fairly harmless. He's not sure if that's the case, but it's a decent enough way to get a lay of the land and check out the neighbors, so he pulls together an outfit, selects a pair of glasses — not needing them doesn't change 2000 years of habit — and ventures out onto the street.
None of the food strikes him as especially appealing, but someone's table has a bowl of punch that claims to be alcoholic, which makes the sugary taste of fruit juice worth dealing with. He snags a few crisps while he's at it, eating them for the sake of appearances before he quickly gets bored with the whole affair. He has no idea how humans do this regularly.
At least it's fairly obvious who does and doesn't belong. The locals have an air of ease that no one else shares, so it's someone who doesn't seem to belong that he slinks up next to, flashing a grin.]
If they break out ambrosia salad, we ought to riot.
[Just saying.]
three; always respect the dead
[Looking back, staying out late on Halloween in a creepy Stepford town probably isn't the smartest decision that he's made in his life, but he's still adjusting to the concept of being vulnerable and human, so he doesn't really think about it too much.
That quickly changes when he notices the dead children. At first, he's reminded so sharply of the Flood that he wants to be sick, before he remembers the news about the bus crash and counts the number of children he can see on the street. Even without his usual senses, he can tell they're bad news.
Rather than see what happens if he gets too close, Crowley back tracks and jogs up onto the nearest porch, rapping sharply on the door.]
Not to be a bother, but could I borrow a cup of sugar?
[He doesn't want a cup of sugar, he just figures if he shouts something about waterlogged, decomposing children, no one will come to the door.]
anthony crowley — good omens
[The worst part of all this — although there are a lot of worst parts — is having to figure out the management of a human form. Sleeping is something he learned millennia ago, but eating was always more Aziraphale's indulgence, expect Crowley doesn't trust the angel to actually know how to cook or remember that a body needs feeding three times a day, at least. Crowley's been taking care of Warlock for the past year and change, he can keep to a schedule. He can probably learn to cook. It has to at least be better than the gelatin monstrosities that the locals keep forcing on them.
That particular train of thought is what leads to him standing in the grocery store, staring at the food on the shelves with absolutely no clue where to start and annoyed at the whole procedure. Even though he made the choice to do this, part of him balks at the fact he got shoved into the role of a bloody wife and is expected to do it.
He understands the basics of food, but he's never set foot in one before, not counting the occasional foray into Fortnum & Mason in the earlier days of the century, and it's a long way from the markets he used to frequent.
He's got too much pride to actually ask for help, but the furrow in his brow is obvious above his dark sunglasses, and he keeps muttering curses under his breath, so he's clearly out of his element here.]
two; block party
[For all intents and purposes, a block party seems fairly benign, fairly harmless. He's not sure if that's the case, but it's a decent enough way to get a lay of the land and check out the neighbors, so he pulls together an outfit, selects a pair of glasses — not needing them doesn't change 2000 years of habit — and ventures out onto the street.
None of the food strikes him as especially appealing, but someone's table has a bowl of punch that claims to be alcoholic, which makes the sugary taste of fruit juice worth dealing with. He snags a few crisps while he's at it, eating them for the sake of appearances before he quickly gets bored with the whole affair. He has no idea how humans do this regularly.
At least it's fairly obvious who does and doesn't belong. The locals have an air of ease that no one else shares, so it's someone who doesn't seem to belong that he slinks up next to, flashing a grin.]
If they break out ambrosia salad, we ought to riot.
[Just saying.]
three; always respect the dead
[Looking back, staying out late on Halloween in a creepy Stepford town probably isn't the smartest decision that he's made in his life, but he's still adjusting to the concept of being vulnerable and human, so he doesn't really think about it too much.
That quickly changes when he notices the dead children. At first, he's reminded so sharply of the Flood that he wants to be sick, before he remembers the news about the bus crash and counts the number of children he can see on the street. Even without his usual senses, he can tell they're bad news.
Rather than see what happens if he gets too close, Crowley back tracks and jogs up onto the nearest porch, rapping sharply on the door.]
Not to be a bother, but could I borrow a cup of sugar?
[He doesn't want a cup of sugar, he just figures if he shouts something about waterlogged, decomposing children, no one will come to the door.]
four; wildcard
[hit me with your best shot.]