Crowley snorts at that stinging retort, leaning against the plinth and sucking down the last of his cigarette before flicking it away. Apparently Billy Idol here is under the impression that that constitutes a clever end to that brief conversation. He peers after the retreating blond head and flapping leather coattails, and decides that he's gonna do a good deed.

Or, well. Probably not a good deed, in the larger scheme of things, which would be allowing the would-be burglar to get caught. A smaller, more selfish and personally amusing sort of good deed.

He slouches silently around to lean against the wall where blondie's crouched down holding a crowbar and regarding a grated-off basement window very much as if he's got plans on knocking it in. 'You're not from this time period either, are you?' he remarks idly, and then smirks. 'You're not gonna see any alarms. Not that you'd be able to do much about 'em even if you could, unless you're packing some more impressive kit than that.'

Hi, Anthony J. Crowley, professional bastard at your service.