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.]
no subject
Peter probably could benefit from a conversation on being honest with people that care about you and that hiding things only makes them worry more, but to be honest he wouldn't really listen at this point in their social link. maybe one day!!! as it is he just nods, glad that his accidental faux pas didn't cause too much damage.
as for the topic change, Peter answers after the nice waitress returns with his coffee. he puts some ice in it so he can get away with drinking it immediately. shocking, no sugar or cream, but that's mostly due to laziness. takes way more time to drink coffee if you put stuff in it. ) I'm trying to find a job. I worked at a paper back home, figured I could do that here, but so far no luck. How about you?
no subject
[Surprisingly, not a 'British people have terrible teeth' stereotype but instead a 'Dagon's essence is very close to that of an eel'. Not that Peter is going to know those specific details, it just seems like Crowley is talking shit about his boss.
He will also be talking shit about Peter at some point, behind his back, about his absolutely bonkers coffee drinking habits. Did iced coffees exist in the 60s? Just order an iced coffee.]
I wasn't thinking the Daily Bugle was an instrument manufacturer. [Crowley is smart, sometimes.] I'm at a construction company, managing all their projects. Boring work, but it's not hard and the pay's alright. Not bad for my first proper job.
[Like, okay, tempting humans to sin is his official job, but that doesn't really count. It isn't as if he gets paid.]
no subject
speaking of the coffee he's drinking now, he chokes on a mouthful at the mention of this being Crowley's first "proper job". weren't they just badmouthing bosses? how does that work, if he's never had one before? he makes a face, swallows, and then manages to ask, )
How'd you have a boss if you didn't have a job? ( that's just a tiny bit confusing, thank you. )
no subject
He lifts a shoulder in a half-assed shrug, reaching for his own coffee to buy himself some time. He does put a little sugar in it, which he hates that it's necessary, but he's found his human tongue can't handle bitter coffee.] I mean, I had — work, I suppose. But I didn't exactly ask to be doing it, or get paid. So, uh, this is a novel experience?
[HEY CROWLEY THAT SOUNDS BAD MAYBE]
no subject
Wait, so— at kind of work was it? ( was he mixed in with the mob? was it some sort of family position that he couldn't get out of?? ?? ? maybe it's good he got mass kidnapped if he was stuck in such a strange and ill-paid forced position with a terrible boss. )
no subject
Trying to explain it wouldn't make it sound any better, though.]
Not the sort that gets discussed in polite company. [It's said casually; he's more aware of his words now, how they could be interpreted, but he figures any conclusions Peter draws aren't any worse than admitting what he is.
It's one thing to talk about it with Ray, or even Archer, but teenagers don't need the weight of that.] What did you do at your Bugle? Maybe I can ask around, see if anyone has work available.
[He's not sure if that's going to work as a distraction, but hey, points for trying.]
no subject
maybe he had a bad life before, and maybe being out of it is just what he needed to do something better. so he'll let it go, for now.
but he's not gonna forget, either. even if he will let it go, for now. )
Photographer. There was, uh, this kinda famous crime-fighter guy. And only I could get decent pictures of him. ( it is always awkward to confess that he makes a living off glorified selfies, but since he isn't admitting that he's also )
no subject
Either way, he's grateful the subject is dropped, because he'd prefer to avoid admitting that he's a horrible person. It's nice to pretend, for a little while, that he isn't.]
A crime fighter guy. [Mildly. But also, judging, a tiny bit.] You actually any good at photography, or did you have dirt on this bloke?
[Not the worst assumption to make.]
where'd the rest of that sentence go? we just don't know
Good enough, I guess. I was in the photography club at school, girls used to ask me to take pictures of their boyfriends car. ( he makes a bemused face. ) I think that is some kinda backwards compliment.
( they are both spared further awkward conversation as the waitress arrives, food in tow. Peter is modern enough that he has yet to not be astonished by how much food 50¢ can get you. ) Holy moley. Thank you. ( directed at the waitress, who smiles and puts an unreasonable amount of whipped cream on his pie before heading off to another patron. and then, again, to Crowley, ) Thank you, too. I'll pay you back when I get that job, maybe. ( when. gotta think positive. gotta believe it'll happen!!
he tries to not tear his plate apart and eats reasonably, as his aunt raised a fairly respectable nice jewish boy. so it's only after a few bites that he admits, ) Lunch is pretty much my only meal that isn't toast or something I warmed up from a can.
it belongs to god now
[It's the only thing he can think to say about that without being really unkind, and he isn't much interested in being unkind to someone who's been decent to him. He tends not to have much to do with teenagers, not even for work, since that always feels far too scummy, but he has a vague concept that high school is awful. Sounds like it might have been for Peter, too.
It's good to know he's halfway decent at it. Maybe he can ask around, see if anyone he knows through work is looking for a photographer.]
S'fine, like I said, now we're even.
[Crowley has, perhaps notably, not touched his own food since Peter sat down, aside from moving it around on his plate a little. It's not really a conscious thing, he just feels weird about eating while someone is paying attention to him.
He does drink some of his coffee while Peter is busy with his first few mouthfuls, at least.] You ought to give cooking a try, if I can manage it, it can't be all that difficult. Your folks are buying groceries, right?
[He'll stand for a lot of things but he draws the line at child neglect, even if Peter is on the edge of what could be considered a child, really.]
no subject
at the moment, Peter is too hungry to note that his company is not equally ravenous. he will note it at some point. probably if he gets to the point that both his plates are nearly empty and can compare them to a mostly full one. so Crowley's got some time. )
Yeah, maybe I can find a cookbook or something. My aunt said I could only cook with supervision after I set some Easy Mac on fire, but that was a few years ago. ( he's 19 now, SURELY he's got a few more bits of common sense knocking around to figure out how to follow basic cooking instructions. ) Huh? Oh. Yeah, sure. And the townies are always bringing stuff over, but uh...
( he lifts his eyebrows in an unspoken woof. yeah, the creepy neighbors do bring food, but is it edible? that's debatable. )
no subject
Or acne. Humans really do just suffer every day.]
I've never missed the internet more than while trying to bloody recipes here. [Because unfortunately many of the cookbooks are filled with the same sort of recipes that the locals have been handing off to them.] Should I ask what Easy Mac is?
[He's a normal human person, yes, thank you for asking.]
no subject
Yeah, I bet "Jello Salads for the Modern Host" would get old after awhile. ( Peter doesn't know for sure that's a cook book available in Santa Rosita, but also he wouldn't be even remotely surprised if it was. that's probably the one non fiction section he hasn't browsed a little at the library, but now... by golly, he's going to.
luckily for Crowley, Peter doesn't presume his ignorance on trash American junk food is that he's inhuman. more that he's old and has some modicum of taste. )
Microwavable mac and cheese. The orange powder kind. ( so, you know. not the decadent, easily appreciated good stuff. it seems as if Peter has finally noticed the disparity in their consumption of their meals and has to wonder, ) Did it come out too hot or something? ( was it not quite right??? did it smell bad??? there had to be a reason why he wasn't eating. peter once attempted to eat a robbie provided dish that included styrofoam, so clearly he does not comprehend not eating what is set in front of you. )
no subject
I think I'm impressed you managed to set it on fire. [He's still... not entirely grasping the concept. Why is there powder involved?
The question confuses him for a second, but after glancing down at his food, he puts two and two together.] Ehh, s'fine. Just not big on eating and talking.
[It's more that he feels strangely self-conscious about eating, especially in front of near strangers. Sharing a meal strikes him as being far too intimate a thing, to do around people he doesn't know that well.]
no subject
I guess I was not supposed to cook it that long? And that there was supposed to be water involved. But I stand by the assertion that if it requires instructions, it isn't actually that easy. ( it's clear he has had debates on the subject before. Peter does feel a little bad about making a tiny fireball in his aunt's microwave, though. it was never the same after that one... )
Oh. ( kinda weird. is this a British thing? Peter looks like a bemused puppy, but since he's a well meaning one, he does offer, ) I can take this to go if you want? ( perhaps a more reasonable offer would be to stop talking but Peter must be self aware and knows his limits on that particular subject. )
no subject
Sorry, but I can't say that adding water would make it difficult-mac. [He thinks he's sooooo funny, as if he also wouldn't likely cock up Easy-Mac were he to try it without reading the instructions.
He wrinkles his nose at the question, waving it off. He knows that probably wasn't the best answer, but every other excuse he considered would make it sound like he had some kind of eating disorder. Not the impression he wants to give to strangers.] Isn't a big deal. I'll have 'em pack up whatever I don't finish, saves having to cook anything for dinner. M'not that hungry, anyway.
[His metabolism seems to have somewhat remembered that he's a serpent, or maybe it's just a mental thing, but he doesn't really get hungry all that often. Half a sandwich will tide him over until dinner, probably.]
no subject
( Peter smiles, though, so apparently at least one other person thinks Crowley is funny, too. it might not be a compliment, though, because Peter finds pretty much any attempt to make a joke at all funny.
that says, he feels at least a little weird for wolfing down a good 60% of his plate before Crowley has even managed a bite. clearly a lack of appetite is not something that troubles him, despite his spider physiology. )
So you come around to order something and not eat it? ( he's not judging, exactly, but... that's kind of weird, Crowley, you know that, right? )
no subject
Mod-mac has a bit of a ring to it, there could be something there.
[Maybe worth exploring when he gets back home, that sort of pre-processed nonsense always earns a few decent marks in Hell's books, despite being overall rather harmless.]
Well — [He makes a face at Peter, clearly annoyed at the line of questioning, but more for the fact it's pointing out his weirdness than anything.] — turns out that if you don't eat occasionally, you pass out. These bodies were poorly designed.
[NOT HELPING]
wrap here or on yours??
( it's teasing but also a little bittersweet. Peter pokes around his plate, finding the incredibly reasonable diner food lacking a little something he hadn't realized until he brought up Aunt May. whatever. it's fine. )
Thanks for the lunch anyway. It'll hold me over a few hours, maybe. ( Crowley, just be glad you aren't in a teenage body. they're black holes and will empty a kitchen in hours of grocery shopping. )