[ This seems to make him wince, all the same. God's expression does something complicated and unhappy around the eyebrows and the corners of his mouth. He fidgets with his tea, then sets it down again, restless. ]
It was unkind of me. [ He says this like disagreement, like correction. ] I was impatient... I was scared. With Number Seven on the doorstep...
[ He does not finish this thought, either: it is left muddy and uncomfortable. He moves on to one worse. ]
You missed something of a mess, while you were under. [ Under usually meaning submerged for the battle but here meaning down for the count. ] I won't bury you in the details, not today. Not with so much else to worry about. Hell, I'm still getting the shape of it, myself.
[ He touches his mug of tea. He looks at it. He looks at her. The set of his mouth is grim, the light in his eyes gone distant. ]
The Saints of Joy and Patience, [ and he says it soft, says it grave and flat as old worn stone, ] are dead.
[ Just that. It hangs unexamined, heavy as a stormfront. The moments of silence drag. ]
None of it matters, [ God adds, conversationally, ] now that we're here. We have bigger fish to fry, apparently. Some really weird calamari to make. Our priority is dealing with whatever this town throws at us, and some of these are curveballs I really didn't see coming.
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It was unkind of me. [ He says this like disagreement, like correction. ] I was impatient... I was scared. With Number Seven on the doorstep...
[ He does not finish this thought, either: it is left muddy and uncomfortable. He moves on to one worse. ]
You missed something of a mess, while you were under. [ Under usually meaning submerged for the battle but here meaning down for the count. ] I won't bury you in the details, not today. Not with so much else to worry about. Hell, I'm still getting the shape of it, myself.
[ He touches his mug of tea. He looks at it. He looks at her. The set of his mouth is grim, the light in his eyes gone distant. ]
The Saints of Joy and Patience, [ and he says it soft, says it grave and flat as old worn stone, ] are dead.
[ Just that. It hangs unexamined, heavy as a stormfront. The moments of silence drag. ]
None of it matters, [ God adds, conversationally, ] now that we're here. We have bigger fish to fry, apparently. Some really weird calamari to make. Our priority is dealing with whatever this town throws at us, and some of these are curveballs I really didn't see coming.