Morning comes.
And morning passes.
But early afternoon finds Crowley sitting in the kitchen, eyes closed against the slant of sunlight from the small window. The occasional tinkle of the shop's bell drifts through the flat.
It's rare, for Crowley, to have such a clear mind as this. Not just focused, or free of distractions, but the kind of clear that only comes when everything is in its rightful place.
Elizabeth Sunshine Baudelaire, and Anthony Ezra Tonks-Wrangle.
Tonks-Wrangle, come to that. He's a little nervous about being a Best Man, come Saturday, but that's a worry he can leave for now. It has no place here.
The smell of mingled tea and coffee, and the sound of Aziraphael's voice, subtly insinuating that customers would, perhaps, find what they are looking for in some place not his shop.
The feel of his own kitchen tiles under his bare feet.
For a very little while, in the span of all existence, there is absolutely nothing wrong. Concentrating, Crowley turns this clarity of mind onto himself. Sitting as he is, very still, he can feel everything - is aware of every part of himself. And century in, century out, there's not much difference in any of it. Crowley concentrates.
The demon's force of will is remarkable.
The sunlight from the kitchen window describes a lazy path around the small room.
Finally, as the light takes on a honey-gold cast, with the drawing-near of evening, Crowley opens his eyes. He waits a moment, then picks up the pen lying, discarded, by the morning's crossword. And on the edge of the newspaper, still a little shaky, and still a little untidy, but legible, Crowley writes his name.
And morning passes.
But early afternoon finds Crowley sitting in the kitchen, eyes closed against the slant of sunlight from the small window. The occasional tinkle of the shop's bell drifts through the flat.
It's rare, for Crowley, to have such a clear mind as this. Not just focused, or free of distractions, but the kind of clear that only comes when everything is in its rightful place.
Elizabeth Sunshine Baudelaire, and Anthony Ezra Tonks-Wrangle.
Tonks-Wrangle, come to that. He's a little nervous about being a Best Man, come Saturday, but that's a worry he can leave for now. It has no place here.
The smell of mingled tea and coffee, and the sound of Aziraphael's voice, subtly insinuating that customers would, perhaps, find what they are looking for in some place not his shop.
The feel of his own kitchen tiles under his bare feet.
For a very little while, in the span of all existence, there is absolutely nothing wrong. Concentrating, Crowley turns this clarity of mind onto himself. Sitting as he is, very still, he can feel everything - is aware of every part of himself. And century in, century out, there's not much difference in any of it. Crowley concentrates.
The demon's force of will is remarkable.
The sunlight from the kitchen window describes a lazy path around the small room.
Finally, as the light takes on a honey-gold cast, with the drawing-near of evening, Crowley opens his eyes. He waits a moment, then picks up the pen lying, discarded, by the morning's crossword. And on the edge of the newspaper, still a little shaky, and still a little untidy, but legible, Crowley writes his name.
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