[Anderson has become so adept at zoning out during the mandatory orientation that he manages to overlook the rather conspicuous white-haired, white-clad man dawdling around, and it isn't until much later that he stumbles upon them outside a bookshop. He had Crowley's photographs long enough to burn into mind the appearance of the angel in them, so it doesn't take more than a split of a second for him to be sure of who - or what, rather - he's looking at.]

Excuse me.

[His expression is sour as approaches. Not because he's angry at the angel, but because he's angry at LIEs for ensnaring a holy being. He forces himself to unfurl his hands before stepping up to the man, looking them up and down. A little too intently, perhaps, but that's rather predictable of a holy man. He's only moderately more angry than he is excited.]

I'm an... [How to word this.] Well, I know Crowley, lets say, and he's mentioned you. I've seen some photographs as well, so forgive the abrupt approach, but you're rather unmistakable.

[He folds an arm at his midsection and performs a deep bow. That's customary with bishops and the pope, and it seems like it should be customary with angels. It earns them a few glances. Openly approving, since it's a submissive bowing to a dominant.]

Father Alexander Anderson.