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(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.]

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[ daylight looks at crowley with clear gratefulness at the offer of the tailor's card because there are only so many poorly sized socks that he can take in a week.

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.

[Once he's found the card amongst the purely ridiculous amount of other ones he has — he deals with a lot of contractors and sales reps for work, he really needs to get a proper card holder — he hands it over to Daylight.]

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?

Thanks! I've got to get some actually fitting clothes sooner or later. [ daylight takes the card and pockets it, taking pains to make sure it stays in his pocket. another downside of wearing clothes that don't quite fit you: pockets are stretched out, making it more likely for things to fall or for things to not fit at all. tragic.

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.

[There's something a little amusing about "younger than either of us", but Crowley decides to hold off on pointing out that most things in existence are younger than him. It doesn't have much relevance on the conversation at hand.]

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.

Hmmm. The idea would fit into the feeling of how- [ daylight makes a vague gesture with his hands, like he'll catch the phrase he's trying to figure out. ] -there's this sense of a push-and-pull? Take-and-give? Something like that.

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.

I'll agree with that, not everything being given was exactly useful.

[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.

[ daylight rubs the back of his neck when that's correctly pointed out, humming thoughtfully.

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.

[He snorts in amusement at fucking buckwild, more so because they're in church. Feels a little blasphemous, to cuss in a church, it's good for the demonic soul.]

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.

Fingers crossed they will. [ when he used his powers in the past - not a lot of times, much to his regrets now - he clearly remembered communicating with the devices. ship navigations and security systems and even, a memorable time, a sentient starcruiser.

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.

[The idea that the... whatever behind all this might have some base of operations is a nice one, because it means they could potentially find it, like Daylight says, but...]

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.]

[ ... hm. that’s a really good point to make. with things weird as they are in this town, why wouldn’t the the control room/control point/bad guy room not be on the planet itself?

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. ]

[For a demon, Crowley puts a decent amount of stock in hope; he's often more optimistic than Aziraphale, when it comes to hoping for a good future, but he's well aware that hope isn't enough to change anything.

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.

[ daylight is now pretty happy he has such an expressive place. he can feel his eyebrows shoot up on his forehead and that strangely specific phrase 'and disappear into his/her/their hairline' makes a lot of sense.

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. ]

[Without wanting something in return earns a scoff of bitter humor. He can't think of anything that could be asked of him that Hell hasn't already taken. They've got both a metaphorical and literal pound of flesh, and then some. Even what happened to Ray isn't that different from how easily Satan can slip into his mind and render him useless.

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.]

Hmm. I guess we’re going to find out, sooner or later, like you said. Preferably sooner so we can make an informed choice a lot faster.

[ all the same, daylight visibly flinches at the idea of them needing to come to blows with the locals of the town. his own mixed feelings of them or not, the idea of setting their town on fire or terrorising their leaders is something he rather not do. last thing their group needs is a literal townful of angry citizens after their butts before they can properly defend themselves. he would like to create forcefields again, thank you very much.

and much as he misses the ones he had to leave behind — something that’s not universal, he now knows and has to acknowledge because, yeah, differences in everyone — he rather not resort to extreme measures to get back to them.

hopefully, that never comes. right now, daylight is hoping to build ties with them. starting here, he now remembers with a jolt. ] The priest leader guy— You said he was in his... office for priests, right?

[ daylight keeps nailing it with the terminology, heck yeah. ]

[His own preference, yet again, skews slightly different there. He wouldn't mind waiting a lot longer to find out whatever it is that's wanted of them; the suspense doesn't particularly trouble him. He's used to living in a constant state of anxiety.]

His office for priests, that's — yup, got it in one.

[With a tone that suggests he absolutely did not get it in one.]

Anyway, he might be, m'not his keeper. I don't even like the bloody church.

[Feeling the need to make that very clear.]

[ daylight nods, trying to keep his smile back because yep— he can tell that antonia isn’t fond of the church. which makes his being here interesting but daylight has a feeling asking or bringing that up might not.

go well. he remembers his last attempt to ask something like that with dialup.

besides— antonia has helped him a lot as is. so he nods, giving antonia a thumbs up in guaranteed. ] Thanks, buddy! Gonna talk to him for a bit.

It was nice talking to you. If you ever wanna chat, feel free to hit me up or drop by Loomis Drive, 101! [ preferably the latter, to be on the safe side. ]

[There's a slight wrinkle of his nose at buddy; nothing personal, really, it's just the Americanness of it all. Even if Daylight isn't actually American.]

Mm, sure. [Was it lovely talking to him? Talking about the whole kidnapping business isn't super fun, still, he won't argue.] Have fun with your priest, I'll see you around.

[It's a bit mocking, the lazy salute he gives before heading out the door, but he's just Like That. Sorry.]

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(open) to feel anything deranges you

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