"What are you going to do?" Crowley says, finally dropping into one of the stools nearby. Salt, wine? Is this an exorcism? Crowley doesn't know. All he knows is that he hurts, and he's supposed to be the one taking care of Aziraphale right now, which only makes the whole situation that much worse.
He clicks his fingers, and a cabinet full of spices opens up, all of them purchased sometime in the 1970s, none of them bad. Crowley purchased most of the food in this house around that time, but none of it has spoiled. He doesn't bother cooking or taking care of anything here. This place is more like a pit stop and somewhere to house his beloved plants.
"It can't be as bad as it looks," he says. "Really, Hastur's not that...I mean, he can be, but he's not all that good at cursing."
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He clicks his fingers, and a cabinet full of spices opens up, all of them purchased sometime in the 1970s, none of them bad. Crowley purchased most of the food in this house around that time, but none of it has spoiled. He doesn't bother cooking or taking care of anything here. This place is more like a pit stop and somewhere to house his beloved plants.
"It can't be as bad as it looks," he says. "Really, Hastur's not that...I mean, he can be, but he's not all that good at cursing."