ways_back_room | And with a Crash-

Fading out is an echo of two voices...

"He's an angsty, emo, heartless sorcerer swordsman."

"He totally needs to get laid, then."

There's never a good closet around when you need one- at least, ever since someone came up with Rule #3. So what if Laini and Zelgadiss missed the stairs and whatever else door they were aiming for- They're at least out of the bar right now, and Laini is doing her best to get him out of his clothes.

(As for hers- Shapeshifter. That will only take a moment, unless he wants to help as well!)

They crash the door into the back room and onto a convenient couch. Zel winces a bit as the back of his head hits the armrest (because Laini is totally doing the pouncing) and, noticing their surroundings, says eloquently, "Um. Where are we?"

Laini blinks, maybe finally distracted. Somewhat. "Good question- though someone did leave a drink here."

Zelgadiss eyes said drink. It's blue. Very blue. "Yeah, but what sort is it?"

BACKROOM INVASION! Tag freely! Threadhop! Make crack! It's not canon and it doesn't really happen! Allons-y!

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"Hm?"

Phoenix looks away from the door, eyebrows raised.

There's a look slanted to the left. Look slanted to the right.

"...Me?"

"Yeah."

Crowley sneaks a glance over, then scans the room again - for people he knows, perhaps, or just to make sure that nobody's listening in.

(The latter seems more likely, since he appears to be trying to speak without moving his lips very much at all.)

"Listen, um. Are you... You're not, er."

"...Not what?"

There are so many possibilities there. Not British? Not a Windows user? Not, in fact, truly female and instead the product of an unannounced sex change?

"Are you..." Crowley sort of looks like he wants to die.

"Are you stuck to the couch?"

...Awww, he's so cute when he's flustered.

Phoenix blinks, closes her laptop, and, demonstratively, stands up to walk over to Crowley's couch.

"Not so much. Need me to get a crowbar?" she says in an undertone.

"Please don't," he says hurriedly. "I'll just. No, I'm fine. I'll just wait 'till everyone else goes home, and then... gnaw my own torso off."

Blink.

Peer.

"Could you seriously do that?"

What? She's curious!

"I could try."

He does look as though he's considering it, honestly.

"I think the crowbar would be less painful, though," she says helpfully.

"Well, I'm willing to consider options here," he says, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. "Just - not when there's an audience."

Ah-hah.

Phoenix eyes the blanket on the other couch consideringly. "One second," she says, and dashes away.

When she returns, it's with four free-standing lamps, which she quickly arranges around the couch; keeping them unplugged, she drapes the blanket over top and ducks underneath.

Voila! Instant fort.

She pulls out a crowbar from behind her back.

"This better?"

"Wow," Crowley says sarcastically, "because this isn't obvious at all."

That's not a no, though.

"But there aren't any witnesses now!" Phoenix points out, logically.

And still wielding the crowbar.

"Yes, yes, fine," Crowley huffs, eyeing the crowbar warily. "So, how do you propose - ?"

Before he's even finished speaking, Phoenix is wedging the crowbar underneath him and applying, as they say, the proper leverage.

Ponderously, inevitably, and incredibly loudly, the couch tips, tips, tiiiiips, and then CRASHES over, taking the blanket and two of the lamps with it.

From the small cavern formed by the back of the couch, the bench, and the floor, comes Crowley's voice:

"This is the worst day ever."

"Ow?" comes Phoenix's own voice from not too far away.

Claaaaaaang. The crowbar goes skittering out from under the mess.

"So," he says finally. "I'm Crowley."

"Phoenix." Still flat on her back, she offers a hand. "Friend of Wash's. Nice to meet you."

A hand stretches out of the space beneath the couch to shake it.

"I don't usually spend all my time stuck to couches. Not literally, anyway."

"Oh? How else do you spend it?"

(Yeah, she already knows, but casual conversation after almost getting killed by a falling couch is always the way to go.)

"Currently? Making influential inroads in the new administration - in the UK, I mean," he adds, as if his accent didn't make it perfectly obvious. "You?"

"Trying to get a job and catching up on all the TV shows people've been saying I should watch since there isn't anything new on." Very, very wry, "I'm having way more success at the latter than the former."

She rolls her head to the side, eyeing him. (Sort of.) "You didn't have anything to do with the writer's strike, did you?"

"No," he says, sighing down at the floor, "but I wish I had. I'm thinking of claiming credit for it anyway; the amount of reality shows on the telly has at least tripled."

"I know," she says, pulling a face. "And they're doing stuff like cleaning up Dexter and sticking it on primetime broadcast. How the hell do you even manage that?

"...American Gladiators isn't that bad, though."

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aj_crawley - 2008-01-22 06:07 (UTC) - Expand

bcgphoenix - 2008-01-22 06:10 (UTC) - Expand