Breaking dishes [Crowley and Ambrose]

The castle cook was taking in dishes after lunch. He considered it a success, everything had run smoothly. He'd placed little cups for all the used cutlery so he didn't have to pick it up. There had to be at least 100 utensils for each sitter, and Crowley didn't want to deal with that fiddly nonsense. Tonight he'd pick up less that yesterday though, which was definitely a relief.

Some plates were still untouched. Crowley wasn't sure why, maybe people weren't hungry or something; In any case he'd leave them til' last since they weren't stackable without a horrible mess. If it was because they didn't like what he'd made then that was tough. Crowley had a policy- take it or leave it. A few students were still around and he might have be hurrying them out by packing up. He didn't give a damn. As far as Crowley knew he wasn't given a bonus for being nice.

Menus for the next week, was in the wall- If someone was terribly opposed to either then a some nice words and a day in advance was needed. The place wasn't a restaurant.

He had his arms laden wish stacks of dishes, waiter style and was heading to the kitchen, humming a little tune to himself.

A few students were still around, most of them chatting nonsensically about nonsensical things. Things, matters-- most of their food had been completed and they were onto other things. Nonsensical things. It was a repetitive phrase--
CANDIDATE! How your food?
I haven't had food in years, myself.
--but, it was all he could think of, with the noise.

Words were hard to get through. Actions always had commentary, no matter how trivial. Take this meal, for example: Ambrose wasn't hungry, but he figured he should try eating regardless. Two hours later, not a bite had been taken, The Powers rattling his brain back and forth, back and forth . . . Something in him, perhaps Them Themselves, told him a while back that They would eventually stop or at least slow down. The voices always lied, though. Always.

Ambrose finally gave up on the food, getting up from his chair slowly as to not shake his head too much (it often hurt just to tilt it to the side) and pushing the chair in. This action took about five minutes, commentary included.
And now, he pushes it IN . . . Just leave it be, for chrissake.
What are you doing, a wildlife commentary?
A few piercing giggles, then: Ooo, that's a good idea! "The Candidate roams in his native environment . . ."

The few outside voices weren't helping with the noise. Not at all. So, Ambrose made his way to the door, grabbing up the plate before one would bother him with their complaining. It was too much effort to walk it over to another place, so the boy merely stacked it on top of the others. Was someone carrying all of those dishes at once? No matter-- another one wouldn't make much difference. Not that They allowed him to think on such things . . .

Not much attention was paid to as Ambrose passed, although Crowley did notice that he looked off by comparison to the first meeting. Maybe he was ill or something, the manticore hoped he didn't catch anything from him. Maybe he got a disease from kissing that girl? Ironically, she was dressed as a dog. Werewolf, whatever.

He saw the plate get passed and it could have unbalanced the others if he wasn't expecting it. Could have, but Crowley was a bit less green that all that plate-smashing jazz. But he dropped it anyway, because he had other policies than 'don't like, don't eat'. It was to keep aces in sleeves til' it was necessarily. Or maybe the cook was just bored, and stirring trouble. He was apt enough to steady the plate his fingers, and did so out of practice. then it slipped out, quite convincingly, the way it would if it were knocked

It dropped for what seemed o be forever then- SMASH, the noise of the crash, a plate shattering, echoed through the dining room and created an eerie silence between the last 2 eaters. Then they scuttled out the nearest exit.

"Watchit-! You blind or something?" He snapped at the boy, and sighed whilst shaking his head slightly. If he was tutting at him it wouldn't be entirely out of place. If the boy was going to walk right past him he'd get shove in the shoulder for his troubles.

Why didn't he catch that?
You made him drop a plate, Candidate! one shouted over the chorus of Their chatter. APOLOGIZE!

For what? Ambrose hadn't even noticed the fall in the first place; stopping after another weary step, he slowly glanced over towards the slightly familiar figure, his mind not in a fog but crowded nevertheless. It was hard to focus on anything, eyes narrowing slightly in an effort for a better look . . . No good. He could only make out an outline at best. The horrid effort only darkened the bags underneath his eyes.

No, he wasn't blind. The boy might as well have been, though.
Such a question was not heard, though, and therefore not answered.

The boy merely attempted to walk past the figure, his eyes dead set on the entryway ahead. This was more and more becoming a noisy environment-- he didn't need more chatter than necessary, especially aimed towards himself. Their voices got louder when talking to another . . .

When no reaction was received, not even a look he thought maybe the boy was blind. Or maybe ignoring him; now he was squinting at him, Crowley didn't like it. It was...an all too familiar feeling, of being looked at all too closely. He scowled at no particular thing present, just everything.

Mother had always told him as a boy 'because you're special', but it was because he was a freak. Who had to stay inside his whole life for safety, who could never be seen. Ever. The dark circles beneath Ambrose's eyes made the man wonder if he ever slept within the past month or so. He came to the answer of no.

With a little 'tsh' and a sneer growing on his face he did as he intended to- pushed the boy, by throwing a wing out-which had the strength of an arm- in the direction in which he though the boys back was. Maybe a little too hard, damn the boy for...being there. After that he'd continue walking towards the kitchens

The wing caught him off-balance, sending the boy almost tumbling to the ground--
HEY, CANDIDATE, WHY DIDN'T YOU CATCH YOURSELF? WHY DIDN'T--
--but, he managed to partially snap out of the daze with the reminder of what was in front of him, catching himself before landing face-first and instead flipped himself back up onto his feet. The action took too much energy, though; by the time all was done, Their voices were overcoming his singular one once more. Power through it . . . He had to say something.

"You," he glared, his voice audible enough in the near-empty hall to carry over towards the winged-and-tailed man. The features only gave him more reason for frustration. "Apologize."

Two words and a self-catch; that was his limit from the hit. He didn't even heard the last word spoken, his mind already being too overcrowded to literally hear himself think. They weren't pleased.
You kicked us out?
WHAT WAS THAT FOR?
You ass! After ALL We've done for you, you DARE to kick us out?

He was back to square one. Back to square one and in the middle of a confrontation.

Him? Apologize? He did see what for, just didn't see why he would do such a thing. Nobody seemed to be forcing him to, and certainly not this boy.

"Come get your apology." He said, a bit louder than needed for a person with raised volume. No change to tone because he wasn't one to shout; Emotions in the middle of this? That would be embarrassing. The simpleness of the statement could come off as patronizing, but Crowley didn't mind- he almost intended that.

The source of this all seemed to be frustration, he'd been thinking about his family and his forced estrangement to them. How much less painful would it be to forget? Forget Everything. Unfortunately the nearest thing to him was going to take the brunt of his frustration.

The unsmashed plates were placed on the nearest table and he turned sharply to Ambrose, raised his wings slightly to give the impression of a bigger appearance. He gave a sharp-toothed smile.

"Come on, not got all day."

While the words actual words were lost in the sea of Others', the message itself was clear: no apology. As for any necessary context, They willingly provided.
Candidate, did you HEAR that? So condescending~
Good to know. His eyes narrowed slightly.

Ambrose stood his ground-- not because he was brave or stubborn but rather because walking over to the person was a pointless exercise of his limited mental abilities. The man (one with wings and a tail, annoyingly enough) could and would continue their one-sided conversation at this distance; five steps were too much in the boy's mental state.

Say something, Entropy!
Yeah! --Yeah!

And then, the man's smile. Ambrose did all he could to smile back, followed by his shot-in-the-dark response: "No."