anthony crowley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
demonicmiracle) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
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.]
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It's not making a "big deal" of it, it's... telling me things. Things I want to know. Things I should know.
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You were so – [scared? upset? Both of those words seem too big.] — worried, the first time it happened. I thought I was saving you the concern.
[Which isn't... entirely a lie, but he really does know better, knows that he should've told him straight away rather than covering it up for a handful of weeks.]
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[He tries to say it gently, but there's still a slightly angry edge to it — one he can't help; he's scared now. He's upset now. This didn't save him anything, only delayed it.]
There's nothing you can do to make me not feel concerned for you. I love you, you dope.
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But being reminded that Aziraphale loves him, despite being called a dope in the process, is enough to soften the edges of whatever defense he'd been tempted to raise.
He sighs, setting the magazine down so he can give Aziraphale more attention.]
I'm sorry. I thought — it seemed the better way to handle it. M'not used to all this business, it was different, in London.
[For so many reasons, both because they were far more invulnerable and because it wouldn't have been safe, to openly care about each other. He's still getting used to it.]
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[And Aziraphale's torn over that: half of him misses home, half of him doesn't mind. That half of him might even prefer it here, if it means he can have Crowley.
But having Crowley here means magical portals into frozen lakes infested with hungry monsters.
So.
There's that.]
I'd fuss over you even if you got a paper cut.
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Strange thing, that.]
Oh, I get those all the time, paper is a bloody menace. And bruises, I swear I've no idea how I get half of them, got no memory of hurting myself, but there it'll be, a bruise.
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Or maybe even more unamused.
Maybe.]
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[It was a joke! Is he not allowed to make jokes! This is all very confusing for a demon who's never had any kind of relationship before.]
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[LIKE, WHAT IS HE EVEN DOING? HE WORKS AT A DESK.]
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[Great invention, both practical and very annoying, when in the hands of a child who takes too much enjoyment from popping every bubble while their parent is trying to concentrate.
That isn't the point.]
It isn't as if they hurt. I think I'm just delicate.
[Said with a smug little grin, because he's desperately trying to get Aziraphale to smile.]
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[Aziraphale sighs. He doesn't know how to explain himself, and that's the more frustrating part of this conversation.
Maybe he'll try something else. He abandons his book, moves to the chair Crowley's arranged himself in, and leans down to kiss him.]
— I just worry, is all. I can't change that.
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Still, he softens when Aziraphale moves, stretching up to meet him half way for the kiss.]
I know, love. But I'll be alright. I've got you to look out for me, don't I?
[Part way between teasing and being painfully, stupidly earnest.]
no subject
Are you enlisting me as your... guardian angel?
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[It could sound exasperated, but his hands are gentle as he reaches up to rest them against Aziraphale's cheeks, and his smile is fond.]
Like you weren't already.
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I'm rather afraid I'm terrible at guarding. You do recall how things went with the tree?
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[He isn't brave enough to say that now they're in the same side, but the suggestion is obviously there.]
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[Part of him is still angry, because part of him is still afraid — and one is easier than the other. But easier than both is love, and not just because he's an angel.
He's glad he's realized that.]
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[Because calling him an old snake is clearly flattery.
Crowley draws his hand away from Aziraphale's cheek, taking the angel's hand with it. A slight movement has him holding it gently, so he can draw it down for a kiss to his palm.]
I know it's not — easy, when we're like this. [Aziraphale was made to protect, and being human makes that incredibly difficult. Especially with all the danger here.] If something happens again, I'll tell you, yeah? No more secrets.
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[The kiss against his palm makes him smile, makes him blush a little. Crowley's so incredibly affectionate — more than any angel or demon or human Aziraphale's ever met.
It boggles the mind, a bit.]
You're very sweet. I know I tell you that often, but...
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Oh, bugger off. I am not.
[That's not the sort of compliment he's willing to accept, even so far away from Hell.]
See if I ever make any more promises.
[Cranky because Aziraphale's right, aren't you?]
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[DEAL WITH IT, CROWLEY.
Aziraphale beams at him.]
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Instead, he screws up his courage, and goes with something that's oddly akin to spite, except it's ruined by the fact that he's being spitefully sweet.]
Fine, if you insist. [With a pause, for dramatic effect:] Let's get proper rings. For us, not the ones we woke up with.
[There!! Take that amount of sweetness.]
no subject
Crowley may be trying to be a shit, or prove a point, or — whatever, but the suggestion is...
Aziraphale purses his lips.]
There has to be an ask, Crowley. One cannot simply say "let's get rings."
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Why not? We're already married.
[Those words still make him a little giddy, but he does a decent job of hiding it.]
no subject
[The point is, asking would still be.
Fine.
With him.
If one of them were to ask.]
— I mean, it's hardly legitimate.
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Nothing to see here folks.