"Edwin can help" says Charles.
Crystal raises an eyebrow at him. He smiles sunnily.
"Edwin would sell me to Satan for one corn chip," she says.
Edwin, from his spot at the desk, lowers his book enough to give her a longsuffering look. "This feels like one of your obscure internet references," he says. He still says "internet" like the word doesn't belong in his mouth.
Crystal gives him a bland smile. "The internet isn't obscure," she says. "You just don't know anything about it because you're a million years old."
"One hundred twenty four," he says, because he's a pedantic little shit.
Charles is chuckling in the corner, because he has low tastes and thinks Edwin being a pedantic little shit is hilarious.
"At any rate," says Edwin crisply, "As a fugitive from hell, negotiating with Satan would hardly be in my best interests. Also, as a fugitive from hell, I have no interest in seeing anyone sent there unjustly, much less someone I have grown... attached to."
She feels her smile warm a little at that, and turns her head so that Edwin won't see. Love you too, Edwin.
"Finally," he concludes, "I am dead, with no need to eat, and therefor have no use for corn chips. This accusation does not make sense."
Crystal chokes at the affronted dignity in his voice, but pulls her expression back under control, only turning back to Edwin when she's sure she can look disdainful without her lips twitching. Charles dying of laughter in the corner isn't helping, but she manages.
"It's a meme," she says loftily.
Edwin's longsuffering expression turns pained. "Half the time, I am sure you are making these things up to aggravate me," he informs her.
She isn't, but only because the reality aggravates him plenty without any embellishment.
"Is it working?" she asks, and finally lets herself laugh when he picks up his book again and glares daggers at her over the top of it.
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