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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 Crowley walks out of it than when he walked in, Raguel doesn't mention it.

It's late afternoon when they step out into the hallway and furtively climb the ladder to the roof. It's not much of a view, but the sunlight through dry air casts sharp shadows that make the grunge a little harder to see.

"You don't think anyone will notice us, with the sun still up?" Raguel asks, a little nervously.

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"I'm just confused, considering that the window you had in your last place didn't even let any daylight in..."

"Sure it did," he insists. "Some. Well, enough. Anyway, the new window wasn't for light - it was for air. Stuffy place."

"In Los Angeles? Well, I suppose it depends on how you define 'air'. Anyway, it's all double-glazing from here on out."

He laughs, but Crowley's point is made in the rusty sound of it.

"Not in Los Angeles, but I see what you mean. Does double-glazing mean I can't open the windows?"

"No, you can open them - I'm just not sure why you'd want to let the smog in. Unless you feel more comfortable having a layer of grime over everything."

"Sometimes it's nice at night," he says, a little sulkily. "But I guess it depends how you define 'nice.' Breeze off the water, maybe, and by the time it gets to me it smells like exhaust and fast food." He shrugs, but it's lost in the movement of the wings.

"But it's still a breeze."

"It might be a little less rank up on the roof," Crowley suggests.

"Think so?" he says, thoughtful. "Haven't really tried it in the new place. Tonight's the first time I've been up there."

"Well, from the look of it, it doesn't seem like anyone else is up there much, either. You'd probably have it mostly to yourself."

"Yeah," he says, as they glide over the outskirts of the city. "I don't think people are supposed to go on the roof. Doubt that stops them, but it probably makes a few think twice."

"You could always 'misplace' the key..."

"I don't think I'm supposed to do that," he says. "People tend to leave me alone when I want to be left alone, though. Except in Milliways."

"A hint?" Crowley asks, archly.

Raguel snorts.

"If I needed to drop hints I wouldn't go to Milliways."

"And yet you spend all that time lurking in shadowy booths."

A sudden burst of noise below, louder than the growing hum of city sounds: a car, windows down, music blaring.

Afterwards:

"In any other place, they'd probably warn the younger waitresses to steer clear."

"I'm not lurking," he insists, "I'm watching."

Because that is so much better.

"And waiting," Crowley intones.

"Exactly," he says, and it's a moment before he thinks to clarify.

"For something to happen that I can do something about, not for the waitresses."

"You know, you really don't need to," Crowley says after a moment. "When there are Incidents in Milliways, they tend to be noticeable enough that they don't need watching for."

"They do kinda hit you square in the face," Raguel agrees, and now they're over familiar streets. (They're all familiar.)

"But I guess in Milliways it's more habit than anything. I like to be able to see the whole place, and the way to do that is usually from a corner."

There might be more, but he has to concentrate on flying straight and not making a detour to see exactly what the guy below has in his trunk or what that one is selling or what the other one did this morning before breakfast. He knows, anyway.

Crowley can tell. Or make an educated guess, anyway; it's not hard to follow Raguel's gaze, and not much harder to extrapolate what he's thinking.

This isn't Crowley's city - but some of the things they're flying over, you could probably call his territory.

"What's the hardest part of a vegetable to eat?"

Raguel blinks at him gratefully. It's not a complete distraction, but it certainly doesn't hurt.

"Uh. I have a feeling it's not 'the seeds.'"

"No," Crowley says, waiting to make sure he's gotten as much of Raguel's attention as he's likely to.

"The wheelchair."

There's a pause.

"Oh my god," Raguel says at last. "You eat people?"

He's making a valiant effort not to laugh. It really is a terrible joke, after all. Both of them.

"With some fava beans," Crowley agrees, "and a nice Chianti. What separates man from beast?"