aj_crawley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
aj_crawley) wrote2010-04-18 05:53 pm
aj_crawley) wrote2010-04-18 05:53 pm
(no subject)
He tells himself that it's a fit of temper; that that's why he snatches up Aziraphael's ugly overcoat from the coat rack and pitches it out the window, fingers fumbling and furious on the sash. When he slams it down again, before Aziraphael can appear on the street below, the glass rattles reproachfully in its frames.
After that, his flat seems very silent. Very big, and very empty, and very silent.
First, he pads back into the kitchen and picks the wet washcloth up off the floor, because - because otherwise it'll leave a water stain on the doorjamb, and that's good hardwood, that is. Then back to the living room, to at least heap the discarded blankets on the couch, instead of on his floor. Kitchen again, where he thinks about rinsing the rest of the coffee out of his mug and putting them both away, but that seems a little - involved. Right now.
In the bedroom, he sits on the unmade bed for a little while, and then goes to make the call from his office instead.
Uh, hi. Ciao. It's me - obviously, I mean, I don't imagine you've a long list of people in your phonebook. Remind me to give this number out to some telemarketers, will you? Anyway, I know it's balls o'clock there right now, but I figured - well, you're as likely to be just coming in as you are to be nearly waking up, right? Unless I did wake you up, in which case I apologise, and fuck you for letting me go to answering machine. So, listen, something's come up, and I need to see a man about a metaphorical dog in Vegas, of all places. And maybe this is holiday sentiment talking, but as it happens, you do actually rate slightly higher than sitting around in Heathrow airport on Christmas morning waiting for a flight. As does waiting around in a bar where they won't give me the ssstink-eye for ordering a little kick with my coffee before noon. So - so my point is, L.A. to Vegas, I can make in no time. I just need a door. I'll be in Milliways. And seriously, Raguel, if you're lying in bed listening to this and then decide to go back to sleep for another few hours, you're a wanker.
Actually, that was a bad... phrasing, of...
I'll be in Milliways. Merry Christmas. Or something.
He'll give himself half an hour, before he needs to leave. That'll do.
That ought to be enough to make himself presentable.
After that, his flat seems very silent. Very big, and very empty, and very silent.
First, he pads back into the kitchen and picks the wet washcloth up off the floor, because - because otherwise it'll leave a water stain on the doorjamb, and that's good hardwood, that is. Then back to the living room, to at least heap the discarded blankets on the couch, instead of on his floor. Kitchen again, where he thinks about rinsing the rest of the coffee out of his mug and putting them both away, but that seems a little - involved. Right now.
In the bedroom, he sits on the unmade bed for a little while, and then goes to make the call from his office instead.
Uh, hi. Ciao. It's me - obviously, I mean, I don't imagine you've a long list of people in your phonebook. Remind me to give this number out to some telemarketers, will you? Anyway, I know it's balls o'clock there right now, but I figured - well, you're as likely to be just coming in as you are to be nearly waking up, right? Unless I did wake you up, in which case I apologise, and fuck you for letting me go to answering machine. So, listen, something's come up, and I need to see a man about a metaphorical dog in Vegas, of all places. And maybe this is holiday sentiment talking, but as it happens, you do actually rate slightly higher than sitting around in Heathrow airport on Christmas morning waiting for a flight. As does waiting around in a bar where they won't give me the ssstink-eye for ordering a little kick with my coffee before noon. So - so my point is, L.A. to Vegas, I can make in no time. I just need a door. I'll be in Milliways. And seriously, Raguel, if you're lying in bed listening to this and then decide to go back to sleep for another few hours, you're a wanker.
Actually, that was a bad... phrasing, of...
I'll be in Milliways. Merry Christmas. Or something.
He'll give himself half an hour, before he needs to leave. That'll do.
That ought to be enough to make himself presentable.