in the crowded restaurant, he had managed to acquire one of the last tables even without the help of a Miracle and was now pondering the menu with concern. Paying for things was important, of course--workers deserved to be paid for their efforts--but he was just not used to being without funds, either real or miracled. And these prices weren't so much high as they were just... Well. To put it bluntly, he was flat broke.

Aziraphale looked up at the odd young man who approached, eyeing his hair. Oh. A Punk. Crowley had known a few from that 'scene' back in the Nineteen-Eighties. Odd fellows, tended to like to wear dark clothes, listen to detestably loud music, and act tough. It was no surprise Crowley like them. Still, he didn't look terribly dangerous and his hair, ridiculous and spiky as it was, was also strangely charming. He'd certainly never seen anything at all like it.

"What curious hair!" he remarked pleasantly. "How ever do you get it to do that? Ah, pardon my manners. Are you looking for a table? I'm afraid there aren't many, so please, have a seat," he added with a gesture to the open chair. It wasn't common for him to share a meal with a stranger, but since everyone here was a stranger, it was bound to happen more often now. "My name is Mr. Fell."