Date: 2019-08-14 09:01 am (UTC)
salutosinedelectat: Sword, angry, nervous, scared (flaming asswhoopin)
Aziraphale rushes through the back corridors of the bar, trying to ignore the sounds in the main room. That thud and the clatter of the crowbar. And what is, he's sure, a building that's beginning to be slowly consumed by not just fire, but Hellfire. Yes, he's going to try to push those thoughts aside and imagine that everything's absolutely, positively, verifiably fine.

He stops, hesitating, then pushes open the bathroom door, finding a small group of humans hiding from the commotion. "This way! Come on, quickly now," He signals them along, a mixture of English and Japanese as he guides them towards the back door, which miraculously swings open before any of them touch it.

He hears more voices from the kitchen, and he rushes in there to do the same, guiding them through, trying to cast a net over the building and try and sense any other humans.

The booths-- the private booths across the small building, he needs to check those, which puts him passing through the door to the main dancefloor. But it's stronger than him, the need to look in, to check-- to hope Crowley's keeping his promise of staying in one single physical piece.
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