Crowley had told Michael that there were finer things in the world to be had than a place that was simultaneously a Pizza Hut and a Taco Bell, so, being the sort who automatically had the right attire for the Red Wagon, he'd decided to give it a shot.

He'd been considering the consistency and strangeness of this thing called a "jacket potato" when the commotion had started outside. He stopped mashing his fork around in the thing and turned, not believing his ears. There was no way --

-- was there?

-- maybe there was.

Okay, there absolutely was. He got up and set his fork down, moving quickly toward the front of the house to put a hand smoothly on the usher's shoulder.

"Sorry, Kristof, she's my plus one. It's my fault, I forgot to tell her about the dress code. ... Twenty percent off next time you come in, if you do me a - what is it? A solid?"

He pursed his lips and met her eyes over his shoulder, trying not to explode with glee. Eleanor.