anthony crowley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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logsville2021-01-13 10:51 pm
demonicmiracle) wrote in logsville2021-01-13 10:51 pm
(open) to feel anything deranges you
Who: Crowley & you, perhaps??
When: First half of January
Where: Around town
What: Hanging about town, feel free to run into him wherever!! Prompt 2 is less for immediate interaction but I'm cool with anyone saying they've seen his "serial". Alternatively: HMU if you'd something specific I'M BAD AT OPEN POSTS
Warnings: Alcohol in the first prompt. Torture in the second prompt
a) day-to-day routine; open
[Before the Antichrist, back on Earth, Crowley's routines were often defined in years, decades, rather than in days. It was defined by assignments, by travel, by the occasional evening spent with Aziraphale for every half dozen years that passed. Moving in to the Dowling's residence to raise Warlock had changed that, routine became dressing the boy, feeding him, playing with him outside of his lessons, popping him into a bath at night and then reading him stories before bed. The evenings had been reserved for Aziraphale, when Crowley could sneak out to the little gardener's cottage, where wine and company would be waiting.
In Santa Rosita, the routine has shifted again.
Made woefully human and aware of the dangers present in town, he's taken up new habits. Running being one of them, as loathe as he is to do it. He often goes in the morning, hair tied back in a bun, hating every moment of it even as his stamina improves. On the days he sleeps in accidentally, or is distracted in the mornings, he ends up going once he's home from work, sticking to the sidewalk and nature strip to avoid running afoul of any cars, when it's dark.
The rest of the work week is relatively simple. He stops for coffee on the way to work, and while he often nips home on his lunch break to eat with Aziraphale, sometimes he'll grab something at a nearby diner or café, stopping by a park to toss crumbs to the pigeons, or taking up a spot at a diner counter. Throughout the week, he visits the butcher or the grocer, picking up supplies for the week, mulling over whether Aziraphale would prefer pork chops or steak. They've got better at cooking, the both of them, the simple act of taking care of bodies that were suddenly too human, too fragile, that need so much upkeep.
There's the occasional deviation from the routine. As wonderfully domestic as it is, living with Aziraphale, sometimes it gets a bit too much. It's too nice, not the type of thing a demon should be allowed to have. Those are the evenings he finds his way to a bar, nursing a drink and getting lost in his thoughts. If he spots anyone he recognizes, someone who isn't local to the town, he'll offer a little wave or nod in greeting. He's not opposed to company, he just needed to get out of the house.]
b) Science Fiction Double Feature; CW Torture, mostly vaguely described but it's Hell, y'all. They aren't nice!!!
[It had seemed like a safe enough idea; go to the drive-in, catch a movie with Aziraphale, eat terrible junk food. And he always loves a good spooky movie, even when apparently living one.
He isn't expecting to see himself on the screen.
Immediately, he knows what memory is being played out. He wore that particular style of tunic for a long time, but the fact he's sitting on a cramped chair in a dimly lit room, fingers twisting anxiously around the fabric of his belt, tells him everything he needs to know.
Crawly. Come. The voice is deep and rich, seeming to emanate from all sides. On the screen, Crawly gets to his feet quickly, eager to get this over and done with, walking through the open door at the end of the room with his head respectfully bowed.
Inside the room, it's all darkness and fire, and Crawly looks uncomfortable, in pain and trying to hide it. There's a roar from somewhere in the room, and he falls to his knees as if pulled down, fingers scrabbling at the cold stone beneath him as he forces himself not to make a sound.
You failed. It was a simple job, Crawly. I expected better from you.
The version of himself on the screen turns as if looking to the camera and winks, yellow eyes fully on display. He started wearing glasses, once he got back on Earth, but he'd relied on the veil when necessary, until then. Crawly opens his mouth as if to speak, but another roar cuts him off and he simply bows his head in supplication and pain, nearly on all fours on the floor.
The Dukes Hastur and Ligur will be responsible for punishing you. And then it's five years in a pit.
No one needs to come drag him away. Crawly staggers to his feet, gathers his tunic up so he doesn't trip on it as he returns out to the hall, where two men are waiting. They're dressed in tattered robes, one with white hair and a toad atop his head, the other dark skinned with a chameleon plastered to the side of his face.
The way they smile at Crawly is a threat. They grab him roughly by the shoulders, bind his wrists and drag him to the wall, where he's pinned against it, arms strung up above him. The look on his face is the look of someone determined not to show a single flicker of emotion, even when the first knife plunges into his arm.
He's lost track of the times he's been tortured, but he remembers this being one of the worst, because after the knives and fists and hot brands burned into his skin. After Ligur has taken a few fingers and Hastur has cut out his tongue, a third person enters the room, wearing thick leather gloves and carrying a single, large metal nail. The sort of thing used in construction.
Do you know what this is, Crawly? Ligur, the dark skinned man, asks.
Crawly spits blood at him, because it's expected, because he can, because it doesn't matter that Hastur punches him in the stomach in retaliation.
I wonder what it'll do to you. It's got his blood all over it.
Hastur pulls on a pair of his own leather gloves, takes the nail and drags it along the exposed skin of Crawly's bicep. Smoke hisses up from his skin and he makes a sound for the first time, a pained whimper as he tries to pull away from it, his attempts useless with how tightly he's bound. The Dukes laugh, even as Ligur is moving beside Crawly, grabbing a fistful of his long hair, using it to yank his head back despite his struggles.
Ligur lines the nail up against the soft hollow of Crawly's throat, and the screen goes black with the sound of his ragged, wet scream.]
"Tune in next week for the thrilling second part!"
/end content warnings
c) [insert Hozier reference here]
[In the wake of everything, his wings returning, being with Aziraphale, the awful display at the movie theater, Crowley finds himself going for a walk on a Saturday afternoon, his feet carrying him towards the nearest church without any input from his brain. It's not his first time coming here, but that had been a quick visit, testing a theory about his current predicament and consecrated ground.
That isn't why he's here, now.
The church is quiet, any stragglers from the morning service seem to have filed home, and if there's a minister, he isn't around right now.
Uncomfortable is the most appropriate way to describe how Crowley feels, walking between the pews. It had been different rescuing Aziraphale from the Nazis, he'd had a purpose then, was all flash and distraction until the bombs fell. This time, he's alone, here for a reason he can't quite name, searching for something he isn't certain he wants to find.
He sits somewhere in the middle, hesitant to stray too far from the exit. He doesn't kneel, doesn't clasp his hands together, doesn't bow his head. It's tipped back, instead, staring up at the ceiling and to the sky past that.
At least until he hears the door open and footsteps at the entrance, at which point he hastily gets to his feet, planning to slip out and pretend he was never here at all.]
When: First half of January
Where: Around town
What: Hanging about town, feel free to run into him wherever!! Prompt 2 is less for immediate interaction but I'm cool with anyone saying they've seen his "serial". Alternatively: HMU if you'd something specific I'M BAD AT OPEN POSTS
Warnings: Alcohol in the first prompt. Torture in the second prompt
a) day-to-day routine; open
[Before the Antichrist, back on Earth, Crowley's routines were often defined in years, decades, rather than in days. It was defined by assignments, by travel, by the occasional evening spent with Aziraphale for every half dozen years that passed. Moving in to the Dowling's residence to raise Warlock had changed that, routine became dressing the boy, feeding him, playing with him outside of his lessons, popping him into a bath at night and then reading him stories before bed. The evenings had been reserved for Aziraphale, when Crowley could sneak out to the little gardener's cottage, where wine and company would be waiting.
In Santa Rosita, the routine has shifted again.
Made woefully human and aware of the dangers present in town, he's taken up new habits. Running being one of them, as loathe as he is to do it. He often goes in the morning, hair tied back in a bun, hating every moment of it even as his stamina improves. On the days he sleeps in accidentally, or is distracted in the mornings, he ends up going once he's home from work, sticking to the sidewalk and nature strip to avoid running afoul of any cars, when it's dark.
The rest of the work week is relatively simple. He stops for coffee on the way to work, and while he often nips home on his lunch break to eat with Aziraphale, sometimes he'll grab something at a nearby diner or café, stopping by a park to toss crumbs to the pigeons, or taking up a spot at a diner counter. Throughout the week, he visits the butcher or the grocer, picking up supplies for the week, mulling over whether Aziraphale would prefer pork chops or steak. They've got better at cooking, the both of them, the simple act of taking care of bodies that were suddenly too human, too fragile, that need so much upkeep.
There's the occasional deviation from the routine. As wonderfully domestic as it is, living with Aziraphale, sometimes it gets a bit too much. It's too nice, not the type of thing a demon should be allowed to have. Those are the evenings he finds his way to a bar, nursing a drink and getting lost in his thoughts. If he spots anyone he recognizes, someone who isn't local to the town, he'll offer a little wave or nod in greeting. He's not opposed to company, he just needed to get out of the house.]
b) Science Fiction Double Feature; CW Torture, mostly vaguely described but it's Hell, y'all. They aren't nice!!!
[It had seemed like a safe enough idea; go to the drive-in, catch a movie with Aziraphale, eat terrible junk food. And he always loves a good spooky movie, even when apparently living one.
He isn't expecting to see himself on the screen.
Immediately, he knows what memory is being played out. He wore that particular style of tunic for a long time, but the fact he's sitting on a cramped chair in a dimly lit room, fingers twisting anxiously around the fabric of his belt, tells him everything he needs to know.
Crawly. Come. The voice is deep and rich, seeming to emanate from all sides. On the screen, Crawly gets to his feet quickly, eager to get this over and done with, walking through the open door at the end of the room with his head respectfully bowed.
Inside the room, it's all darkness and fire, and Crawly looks uncomfortable, in pain and trying to hide it. There's a roar from somewhere in the room, and he falls to his knees as if pulled down, fingers scrabbling at the cold stone beneath him as he forces himself not to make a sound.
You failed. It was a simple job, Crawly. I expected better from you.
The version of himself on the screen turns as if looking to the camera and winks, yellow eyes fully on display. He started wearing glasses, once he got back on Earth, but he'd relied on the veil when necessary, until then. Crawly opens his mouth as if to speak, but another roar cuts him off and he simply bows his head in supplication and pain, nearly on all fours on the floor.
The Dukes Hastur and Ligur will be responsible for punishing you. And then it's five years in a pit.
No one needs to come drag him away. Crawly staggers to his feet, gathers his tunic up so he doesn't trip on it as he returns out to the hall, where two men are waiting. They're dressed in tattered robes, one with white hair and a toad atop his head, the other dark skinned with a chameleon plastered to the side of his face.
The way they smile at Crawly is a threat. They grab him roughly by the shoulders, bind his wrists and drag him to the wall, where he's pinned against it, arms strung up above him. The look on his face is the look of someone determined not to show a single flicker of emotion, even when the first knife plunges into his arm.
He's lost track of the times he's been tortured, but he remembers this being one of the worst, because after the knives and fists and hot brands burned into his skin. After Ligur has taken a few fingers and Hastur has cut out his tongue, a third person enters the room, wearing thick leather gloves and carrying a single, large metal nail. The sort of thing used in construction.
Do you know what this is, Crawly? Ligur, the dark skinned man, asks.
Crawly spits blood at him, because it's expected, because he can, because it doesn't matter that Hastur punches him in the stomach in retaliation.
I wonder what it'll do to you. It's got his blood all over it.
Hastur pulls on a pair of his own leather gloves, takes the nail and drags it along the exposed skin of Crawly's bicep. Smoke hisses up from his skin and he makes a sound for the first time, a pained whimper as he tries to pull away from it, his attempts useless with how tightly he's bound. The Dukes laugh, even as Ligur is moving beside Crawly, grabbing a fistful of his long hair, using it to yank his head back despite his struggles.
Ligur lines the nail up against the soft hollow of Crawly's throat, and the screen goes black with the sound of his ragged, wet scream.]
"Tune in next week for the thrilling second part!"
/end content warnings
c) [insert Hozier reference here]
[In the wake of everything, his wings returning, being with Aziraphale, the awful display at the movie theater, Crowley finds himself going for a walk on a Saturday afternoon, his feet carrying him towards the nearest church without any input from his brain. It's not his first time coming here, but that had been a quick visit, testing a theory about his current predicament and consecrated ground.
That isn't why he's here, now.
The church is quiet, any stragglers from the morning service seem to have filed home, and if there's a minister, he isn't around right now.
Uncomfortable is the most appropriate way to describe how Crowley feels, walking between the pews. It had been different rescuing Aziraphale from the Nazis, he'd had a purpose then, was all flash and distraction until the bombs fell. This time, he's alone, here for a reason he can't quite name, searching for something he isn't certain he wants to find.
He sits somewhere in the middle, hesitant to stray too far from the exit. He doesn't kneel, doesn't clasp his hands together, doesn't bow his head. It's tipped back, instead, staring up at the ceiling and to the sky past that.
At least until he hears the door open and footsteps at the entrance, at which point he hastily gets to his feet, planning to slip out and pretend he was never here at all.]
this is clearly a sign to give him a try
This is the being responsible for original sin.]
I'm not going to scream, André.
[He gives Daylight a once over because damn, boy, but he's seen weirder in his life than eight foot tall Jonas brothers, so he's not about to faint or anything.]
Minister. The word you're looking for is minister.
[If this is the dude that he talked to about religion earlier, Crowley is going to throw himself into the lake.]
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because the first thing the jonas brother-lookalike says, ]
It's Daylight. [ he pockets his hands into his comically tiny jacket and huffs, looking a little puzzled by being addressed by a name and a regular name at that. still- he looks around, trying to see if it's really just them inside the church. ] Have you seen the, um, minister guy when you came in? He was a pretty nice guy when we last met. Gave me the bible without making me endure a whole lecture for it
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I — yeah, it's — never mind. [Obviously his name isn't André, but now that Crowley knows his actual name and has put the pieces together, he figures that a reference to wrestler-slash-actor from Earth isn't going to make much sense, so.] He's probably in the rectory, it was empty when I got here.
[In the sort of tone of someone who thinks they're about to be accused of something. He definitely didn't murder the minister or anything, officer.]
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daylight is quick to raise his hands up and flash a bright and chipper smile. (and just as quick to try and fail in keeping his sleeves from being too tight around the elbows, urgh. this height thing sucked.) ]
Wanted to be sure, is all. I know Sundays are when churches are at their busiest but, thought, I don't know, this place could be closed on the non-Sundays. [ definitely not a religious person. ]
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You really are rubbish at this, aren't you? [And then, because otherwise that rhetorical question would seem kind of creepy as well as rude.] I'm Crowley, we talked on the — things.
[The shitty Apple watches.]
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Oh! Crowley! [ yeah- the cool dude who helped him out with his human problem.
his eyes light up in recognition and one of his raised hands becomes a now waved one, his smile becoming a lot more genuine. ] Hey! Yeah!
We talked on those shitty walkie-talkie things. [ he winces, realising he's talking a bit too loud and he adjusts the volume of his voice. ] Thanks for the advice earlier, man. It was super useful the last time I was here.
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He's just... going to walk closer, even if it means looking up slightly more, to save Daylight have to raise his voice. This whole thing is mortifying enough as is.]
Why are you back, if it went well last time and you got your Bible? Don't tell me they sucked you in with their shite.
[Ignore the part where he is also in the church by choice.]
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he's not interested in religion, personally, but he is interested in what (and who) he learned thanks to it. ] I just like talking to the guy here? Wanted to say thanks for giving me a Bible since I think it's a hit with Agatha. Thought it'll be nice to let him know that it means a lot to both of us.
Plus he's pretty friendly. Not... creepy-friendly, like the others. [ last time they chatted to each other, the guy wasn't smiling like he'll unhinge his jaw and bite daylight's face off if he so much as frowned too much. that's a vast improvement to the last conversations he's had with the townsfolk here. ] Doesn't hurt to make friends with some of them, yeah?
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I suppose it doesn't. [Hurt to make friends, although he seems somewhat skeptical.
But also: he doesn't particularly want to talk about all that! Time for the world's least subtle segue!] So — you have a growth spurt recently?
[Just guessing, based on the fact that he also woke up with something returned to him, and he knows Daylight isn't human.]
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upon being reminded of his gifted/curse new height, daylight immediately wrinkles his own nose and barely holds back the mournful moan. he tries to tuck his hands in his jacket but the pockets are too small and this sucks. ]
Yeah. Got this weird thing around this month. [ he barely keeps himself from sounding petulant. he's an adult, more or less. he should be able to handle this with a bit more maturity and grace. ] It's a headache and a half trying to find anything that fits me these days so I have to go see a tailor soon.
You wouldn't happen to know anyone else who got a growth surprise or a surprise addition to themselves, do you? [ because daylight does not want to believe he's the only one suffering like this right now. (that and he knows takame also regained his appearance so it seems to be a thing their group is experiencing, possibly.) ]
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I've found a decent tailor, actually. Think I've got his card somewhere in my wallet.
[Which is, naturally, in his back pocket, so he digs it out to start rifling through, glancing up to show he's still listening, scoffing in amusement at the question.]
Mmhmm, sure do. Seems most folks have gotten a part of themselves back, or a possession they had from home. Not sure why.
[He could've just said he got his wings back, but it feels far too personal. It was one thing telling Ray, who's a friend, and another to tell a stranger.]
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the expression takes a turn for the thoughtful when he hears confirmation that others are getting back parts of themselves. so the theory he's been sharing with others- ] The others and I have been thinking it's a- [ he makes a vague, frustrated gestured with his hands. ] I don't know, a reward? For surviving the crazy December stuff in one piece?
It's one of the most significant things that happened to us. Not to mention something we have direct involvement in.
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Here we are, he's a decent bloke, you can tell him Antonia sent you his way.
[Is that his name? Not really, but it's not not his name, either, so it's easy enough to use it with the townsfolk, since they're generally expecting him to play the role of wife.
It is what it is.]
I'd thought at first it might be, you know, whatever hold they've got on us loosening, but I know someone who got a weapon, not just a part of themselves. So... [That theory had gone down the drain. He shrugs.] Could be from whoever played Santa?
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clothing issues aside... the question about who could be behind it and what this is happening at all grabs his attention. his expression becomes surprisingly thoughtful as he crosses his arms and tilts his head to the side, considering the words. ]
That would be an interesting candidate for who might be behind this. I was thinking that the Santa Claus who gave us the gift was a kid. Someone who has to be younger than either of us, at least. [ he rubs the back of his head, humming thoughtfully- ] Reason I asked for a Bible in the first place is because I asked for a gift for Agatha. A Bible.
Ended up getting a book of prayers meant for kids instead. Agatha got the same thing. It's a weird gift, sure, but it doesn't feel... malicious, I guess is the best word for it.
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Yeah, uh – Avery mentioned. About your book of prayers, we had the same thought about it being a child.
[They'd come to it about the same time, though he'd been the one to voice it, thinking about the gifts and the voice they heard, how the apology was framed in the note that came with the toy. It had reminded him of Warlock, but then, he's been thinking about the Antichrist a lot, recently.]
It'd make them powerful, if they're going toe to toe with whatever dragged us here. Not with the toy gifts, but the rest of what's been done, you getting tall and all that business. One force is trying to keep us human, the other's trying to help.
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And I guess the one trying to help is a bit handicapped on their end. Don't want to sound like I'm complaining but t feels like the definition of 'gaining something back' is... you know. Varying with all of us.
[ example: daylight's obnoxious new height versus wrathion's ability to make illusions. ack. he hopes something more useful is given back to him, like an ability or armour to withstand murderous reindeer attempts.
daylight looks down at his wrist, where the walkie-talkie thing would be if he had it done. ] Do you think the one helping us also gave the walkie-talkie things? So we can communicate safely and a lot faster than if we did it on phones and stuff? I always wondered why everything seems so normal and grounded and then we have those gadgets. Stuff is straight out of a spy film.
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[He wouldn't trade getting his wings back for anything, but he's already figured out that they're effectively clipped, that he can't fly, so they're hardly useful in any way. He can't use them to get to safety should he need to, or protect himself. They're just — there.]
Huh. [It's a thoughtful huh, because that idea hadn't occurred to him before, that the wristwatches might not be designed to spy on them, but to help them.] Might be? Hard to say, though, it isn't as if any of this came with instructions. They could just as easily have been left by whoever brought us here, to keep an eye on us.
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it could be a case of someone using this to track them or to eavesdrop on them. that thought has been entertained in his head enough times already. but at the same time: ] Given half the stuff we said, you'd think they would have busted down the doors to our very nice houses by now. They've gotten Forcibly Nice and Insistent on lesser things from my talks with them.
Stuff we said here would have them... [ he huffs, trying to find a way to phrase 'fucking buckwild' without using the phrase itself.
... nope. he cannot. ] Would have them going fucking buckwild. Man- I wish I can talk to machinery again. Being able to learn what's really in it and how it ticks would help us out a lot.
no subject
S'different though, isn't it? That's the locals, not whoever's actually running the show.
[He's working on the assumption that they're two different things, that the people populating this place aren't actually in power. They're pieces of the puzzle, same as all the rest of them brought here.
Maybe whoever's listening in is simply biding their time.]
With any luck, you'll get that back next. Talking to machines. If those things will even talk back.
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granted, those were all a lot more advanced than what they're working with here but he's got to hope it works. if they don't, what else can he do to help? be a distraction when others are doing something? (actually... that's not a bad idea wait get back to the discussion, daylight.) ] Either that works or we, against all odds, find out where their base of operations is. If not all of the locals are involved in this mess then they've got to be hiding stuff somewhere, anywhere, to keep them from stumbling across it.
That would suck, wouldn't it? Having your big complicated plans hiccuped because someone did a whoops-a-daisy while you were planning nefarious things.
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What makes you think whoever's running this show even exists on this physical plane?
[It also seems like the locals wouldn't even notice if they stumbled into an evil lair, but that's a secondary concern. Crowley hasn't at all been thinking about, say, a bunch of people huddled in a room plotting their schemes.
But then, he's used to God and Satan, so that likely colours his expectations.]
no subject
daylight presses a fist to his mouth, grunting underneath his breath while. in the end, the most obvious and honest answer pops out from him: ] Because we have to hope there’s someplace we can hit up. That’s the best scenario for us.
Otherwise, we’re stuck here until we can build something to allow us access to the place or one of us gains access to powers that can help us in this and use it. [ which is, you know, not the best scenario for them.
woof. ]
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He's quite for a moment, thinking, before he shrugs.]
Would it really be that bad? Waiting it out?
[Sure, it's a little dangerous, but so is life. He's more free here than he'll ever be, back home.]
We've got comfortable houses, and it isn't hard to pick up a job, get money and food. S'a bit boring, the town being as small as it is, but it's not the worst situation I've been in.
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but after composing himself and thinking about it - looking down at the ground, tucking a hand under his chin while mulls over the newly offered angle - daylight can't help but be stuck on something: ]
... It's not bad, in the grand scale of things, but all of this- [ he makes a twirling gesture with a finger as he speaks, looking around them. ] -being given to us? Just like that? It's nothing but fishy. People or things don't do this stuff without wanting something in return.
[ and, in his experience, it's usually a lot that they're asking for. he doesn't mind helping if that's whatever/whoever wants that but why the secrecy? the weirdness? the threat of keeping them in line or else? ] And I rather not wait it out. We might be able to buckle down and hope for the best but what about others back home?
[ maybe it'll be like he left for an hour, with no one the wiser. maybe it'll be a century or more since he's vanished from thin air, leaving no traces of what happened to him. the uncertainty of it is what kills daylight the most, considering the situation he had to leave behind and the loved ones who are counting on him. ]
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But that's too much to share with a near stranger.]
What about 'em?
[He shrugs; there's not a single person back in his world that he cares about. It'd suck that the world will end, but that's likely going to happen anyway, unless he and Aziraphale pull something clever out of their arses at the last minute.
God, he wishes he had a cigarette.]
Doesn't matter. I imagine we'll find out what they want sooner or later, and if it's more than people want to pay, we can always, Hell, I dunno, kidnap the mayor, set the town hall on fire. Get up to some proper civil disobedience.
[Is that a solution? Probably not, but 'cause problems on purpose' is about the best he has to offer, right now.]
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