"Oh really!" he both brightened and then looked a tad--not skeptical, because a boy his age certainly could (and young persons had throughout the millennia), but--concerned. Reluctant to share something about himself, maybe.
The thought was interrupted by the threat of purple hair and Aziraphale made a very despairing whine as he glanced around for a reflective surface, the mess around them forgotten.
"Is it? Does it look bad?" He caught sight of himself in a copper cup and, though the color and image were both distorted, it gave enough of an impression to warrant an unhappy grimace. He tugged at the hair as if trying to see the extent of the damage. "I look like a punk*."
*(A foppish and old-fashioned punk, perhaps, though that was a stretch; he actually looked a bit like Mrs. Slocombe in a pale purple, but that was beside the point.)
no subject
The thought was interrupted by the threat of purple hair and Aziraphale made a very despairing whine as he glanced around for a reflective surface, the mess around them forgotten.
"Is it? Does it look bad?" He caught sight of himself in a copper cup and, though the color and image were both distorted, it gave enough of an impression to warrant an unhappy grimace. He tugged at the hair as if trying to see the extent of the damage. "I look like a punk*."
*(A foppish and old-fashioned punk, perhaps, though that was a stretch; he actually looked a bit like Mrs. Slocombe in a pale purple, but that was beside the point.)