The chair nearly tips back when he jerks up, almost sending his bowl of untouched stew backwards all over the carefully inked out notes before him. The whole left side of his face feels stiff and slightly sore, his mouth dry and starchy. He knows that he's supposedly superhuman and everything, but a whole day of mental strain, sleeping on a desk and ignoring dinner had about the same affect on nearly anyone. Straightening himself in his chair, he rubs his eyes and then checks the parchment and his own cheek for any ink stains that he may have caused by smudging the writing when he fell asleep. It wouldn't be the first time he went to bed late at night and woke up with an ink stained pillow in the morning. No one had seen him make that mistake yet though and he had some dignity to preserve.
No ink, but he'd definitely fulfilled the go to bed late part of the tale. What time is it anyway? He can't tell in his windowless office with the dying light of the gas lamp as his only indicator to how long he's been here. The stew's gone completely cold as well, but he isn't one to waste especially when food is still considered precious. Funny thing, how it was so easy to just throw away something that'd been too much to finish, slightly off or just slightly past it's expiration date back then in the day. In some ways, waste was always worse when there was much to waste and now waste was being used to rebuild the very foundation they'd lost. Back then, what one man didn't want, another did and now nobody wanted anything, so everybody wanted everything. And since he was sure that no one else was awake at such a time to want his cold stew, he finishes it in the last light of the lamp, giving his own personal thanks to the lord for his meal.
Cold, slightly congealed, but it's a delicious end to the day of mental strain though he is already to starting to nod off again from the tiredness that clutches at his eyelids and tries to drag them down. Running a hand through his messy locks, he huffs in frustration. Vanity is a sin, but a priest still has to look proper.
Gathering up the papers, putting aside those with his sleep riddled scribbles for him to discern and recopy later, and replacing the wick and oil in his lamp, he stands and pushes in his chair. In his other hand he carries the bowl to wash up and replace, meaning that he has to use his body to open up the door. Still held gently by the lasting tendrils of his nap, the door swings outward with too much force in the unfortunate direction of Laisander. (I hope this isn't too much assuming, I took outside the study door to be one of the walls on either side not opposite).
The sound does wake him up and he turns the door away with his foot since his hands are still full. Even with his best intentions, Laisander seems to have the worst luck.
"What are you doing outside me door." It's not a question, it's a demand as the demon narrows his eyes and his lips unintentionally pull back into a snarl. His teeth glinting in the light of the gas lamp, sharper by the shadows and by his own unconscious intent. Looming over the angel, he takes a moment to take a breath before he gently puts down the gas lamp and bowl. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leans back on his heel and closes his eyes, trying to pretend he's reprimanding a child instead of teetering on the edge of tearing out the angel's throat. He shouldn't even have given the man a chance to defend himself, because it's obvious isn't it? Outside his door in the middle of the night, either the angel was very bed at being stealthy at eaves dropping or he had just caught the man attempting to enter his office. Of all the nights to work late.
"You have one minute to explain."