[All in all, Christmas isn't the worst Christian holiday — that prize goes to Easter — but the whole thing is annoying, all the fake cheer and togetherness, and it turns out the whole experience is even worse when he's human and powerless and keeps opening doors to end up in some stupid Christmas fête.
He shivers at the burst of cold and turns around on instinct, only for the door to seem to have returned to the gingerbread cutout it was before.]
Right, 'course, can't have anything in this shite town.
[At least he has his coat on, pulled tight around himself as he pokes around just for the sake of poking around, wanting to see what's going on here. He brushes off attempts from the elves to get him to join in the festivities, getting crankier each time, occasionally snapping harshly enough to earn startled looks from the Robbies and nearby townsfolk. He often takes that as his cue to circle back to the bar set up, even if he's disappointed each time that the glühwein is non-alcohol, but at least it's warm.
Once or twice, he lingers by the entrance, looking skeptical as he regards the mailbox set up, commenting to whoever's nearby:]
That's got to be bollocks, right?
[Normally, he'd be entirely certain it's bullshit, but there's the whole… vibe this town has going on that makes him wonder.]
christmas village; ice-skating
[Despite his overall reluctance towards all this Christmas business, there is actually some fun to be had in the village if he ignores the garish directions and carols being sung by some awful children. He learned to skate a long time ago, back in Finland when they were using antler and bone rather than steel, since gliding across the ice was far easier than trudging through the snow, even for a demon, and got a lot better at it over the centuries. He resents having to rug up, but his coat's nice at least, and the leather gloves help when he takes the occasional spill.
He's not one for physical activity by nature, sloth is a sin, after all, but there's something slightly therapeutic about focusing on how his body moves, on avoiding other skaters, on keeping himself upright, rather than letting his mind whirl with every other anxious thought it's usually crowded with. For the first time since arriving in this shitty town, he actually relaxes enough to enjoy himself.
When he takes a turn a little too fast and nearly careens into someone, having to reach out to brace on their shoulder, he's in a good enough mood to just laugh.]
Oof, sorry, got a bit carried away. You alright?
gala
[If there's one thing that Crowley's come to love over the millennia, it's a good party. It doesn't have to be fancy, he can enjoy himself just as easily at some quiet, casual thing as he can at a proper ball, although usually that has a lot to do with the fact that parties are a veritable feast of easy temptations. For now, he'll have to make do with simply enjoying socializing, when he can slip on a familiar mask and take comfort in it.
After much deliberating over various outfits, he's finally settled on a dress that's slightly outside his usual fare without being too garish, complete with low heels and pantyhose (he'll make some concessions to beauty standards, but he's not shaving his legs). In deference to both the cooler weather and the HHA, he's added a shawl in the same green as the skirt, enough to grant him entrance with only some small tutting.
While not necessarily a social butterfly, he's using this as an opportunity to do what he does best, and see where there's trouble. In a town like this, that generally means collecting gossip, so he puts in the effort to talk to even the strange Stepford townsfolk, learning what he can about who they are, how they relate to each other, what they want. Without any demonic powers, he can't sense any of what's going on underneath the surface, but it's oddly relaxing, playing this familiar game. He knows how to be charming when he has to be, especially when the rules are so rigid and expectations so clear. He seems to be getting along famously with the locals, now that he's clued in on how to talk to them. It's probably a little unnerving.
When he isn't schmoozing, he's taking a page out of Chief Harding's book, topping up his glass of punch with the flask he'd snuck in, or suspiciously eyeing the food that's been laid out, occasionally braving some of the safer looking fare. He might, at some point, try to knock over the pickle tower, just out of spite.
Later in the evening, when everyone's distracted by the mayor's speech, he makes an attempt to slip further into the town hall, wandering down dark hallways and testing the locked doors.
Eventually, he's escorted back by a stray police office, making vague excuses about being lost, until they let him rejoin the party.]
no subject
[All in all, Christmas isn't the worst Christian holiday — that prize goes to Easter — but the whole thing is annoying, all the fake cheer and togetherness, and it turns out the whole experience is even worse when he's human and powerless and keeps opening doors to end up in some stupid Christmas fête.
He shivers at the burst of cold and turns around on instinct, only for the door to seem to have returned to the gingerbread cutout it was before.]
Right, 'course, can't have anything in this shite town.
[At least he has his coat on, pulled tight around himself as he pokes around just for the sake of poking around, wanting to see what's going on here. He brushes off attempts from the elves to get him to join in the festivities, getting crankier each time, occasionally snapping harshly enough to earn startled looks from the Robbies and nearby townsfolk. He often takes that as his cue to circle back to the bar set up, even if he's disappointed each time that the glühwein is non-alcohol, but at least it's warm.
Once or twice, he lingers by the entrance, looking skeptical as he regards the mailbox set up, commenting to whoever's nearby:]
That's got to be bollocks, right?
[Normally, he'd be entirely certain it's bullshit, but there's the whole… vibe this town has going on that makes him wonder.]
christmas village; ice-skating
[Despite his overall reluctance towards all this Christmas business, there is actually some fun to be had in the village if he ignores the garish directions and carols being sung by some awful children. He learned to skate a long time ago, back in Finland when they were using antler and bone rather than steel, since gliding across the ice was far easier than trudging through the snow, even for a demon, and got a lot better at it over the centuries. He resents having to rug up, but his coat's nice at least, and the leather gloves help when he takes the occasional spill.
He's not one for physical activity by nature, sloth is a sin, after all, but there's something slightly therapeutic about focusing on how his body moves, on avoiding other skaters, on keeping himself upright, rather than letting his mind whirl with every other anxious thought it's usually crowded with. For the first time since arriving in this shitty town, he actually relaxes enough to enjoy himself.
When he takes a turn a little too fast and nearly careens into someone, having to reach out to brace on their shoulder, he's in a good enough mood to just laugh.]
Oof, sorry, got a bit carried away. You alright?
gala
[If there's one thing that Crowley's come to love over the millennia, it's a good party. It doesn't have to be fancy, he can enjoy himself just as easily at some quiet, casual thing as he can at a proper ball, although usually that has a lot to do with the fact that parties are a veritable feast of easy temptations. For now, he'll have to make do with simply enjoying socializing, when he can slip on a familiar mask and take comfort in it.
After much deliberating over various outfits, he's finally settled on a dress that's slightly outside his usual fare without being too garish, complete with low heels and pantyhose (he'll make some concessions to beauty standards, but he's not shaving his legs). In deference to both the cooler weather and the HHA, he's added a shawl in the same green as the skirt, enough to grant him entrance with only some small tutting.
While not necessarily a social butterfly, he's using this as an opportunity to do what he does best, and see where there's trouble. In a town like this, that generally means collecting gossip, so he puts in the effort to talk to even the strange Stepford townsfolk, learning what he can about who they are, how they relate to each other, what they want. Without any demonic powers, he can't sense any of what's going on underneath the surface, but it's oddly relaxing, playing this familiar game. He knows how to be charming when he has to be, especially when the rules are so rigid and expectations so clear. He seems to be getting along famously with the locals, now that he's clued in on how to talk to them. It's probably a little unnerving.
When he isn't schmoozing, he's taking a page out of Chief Harding's book, topping up his glass of punch with the flask he'd snuck in, or suspiciously eyeing the food that's been laid out, occasionally braving some of the safer looking fare. He might, at some point, try to knock over the pickle tower, just out of spite.
Later in the evening, when everyone's distracted by the mayor's speech, he makes an attempt to slip further into the town hall, wandering down dark hallways and testing the locked doors.
Eventually, he's escorted back by a stray police office, making vague excuses about being lost, until they let him rejoin the party.]