#creeping-crowley

[creeping-crowley]

Due to personal reasons my emotions are going through the roof.

[heavenlyxrunaway]

@creeping-crowley || closed starter

    Running away from Heaven wasn’t an easy thing. With the threat of war looming ever closer, far too close for Ellios, he did the only thing he could think of. Be a coward and run like a mad man. Perhaps running to earth wasn’t that good of an idea- but where else was he going to go? Earth had something no other place did. A rebellious angel rumored to be in line with an equally rebellious demon, the perfect guide to humans. There was an issue though. He couldn’t seem to find the angel. But finding the demon- that wasn’t too difficult.

    Even an angel who has never been around a demon, like Ellios, could sense them. He had prepared himself for what he was warned about. An evil, dark, cunning snake. A beast among men. A heartless creature. Maybe he had the wrong person, because the one he tracked down looked nothing like that.

    “Excuse me, sir.” Ellios said, rather unsure of himself. This man was a demon, that much was clear, but perhaps he wasn’t the right one? “Are you Crowley? The corruptor? The snake?”

[creeping-crowley]

♱ Satanic Panic ♱

Something in the air felt wrong.

The perpetual absence. The sudden drop in the atmosphere that comes in the breath between lightning and thunder. A plummeting sensation of wrongness had settled over London beneath the darkened clouds that chanted for rain. From outside, everyone was stirring and hurrying about the Mayfair streets, scurrying about as the first errant drops of the coming storm cascaded downward.

Crowley was busy. What he was busy with few acknowledged as a real task, but he went about the routine with just as much (if not more) dedication than to most of his other work-related endeavours. Every week he would patrol his flat, tending to the plants and stirring the petrifying knowledge into them of what happened if he noticed any failures to thrive. As he went about his business (with a good degree less discussion than he usually made), Crowley permitted his attention to dip in and out of the news report on the television in the living room.

The disembodied voice echoed softly throughout the flat.  A man’s voice presented numerous stories in a stern sort of severity- the way one might deliver the news that a family member had suffered an unfortunate accident.

‘With last year being London's bloodiest in almost a decade, as the number of homicides reached 135, the plague of knife crime is not nearing its end.’

Crowley closed a window as the first drops of rain devolved swiftly into a torrential downpour.

‘…Slews of schools across London have introduced them…But for some people, the implementation of knife arches comes too late.’

The TV flickered, jumped, then continued. A low rumble shook the sky.

‘Tory leadership contender Jeremy Hunt has refused to guarantee that the UK will leave the EU before Christmas, but said he "expects" it to happen by then.’

Crowley rolled his eyes. There was a rumour flying around that he’d had a hand in setting Brexit in motion. A rumour that Crowley had not directly addressed to anyone. Nor did he intend to.

‘Up to 160,000 Conser—’ The power blinked, crackling as another rumble of thunder passed overhead.

Ignoring it, Crowley moved onto the next plant. A quiet frown crossed his features. He had already started to tune out the topic as talk of politics babbled away across the empty rooms.

‘…voting for their next party leader - and UK prime mini—’ Static broke the report, lulling into a temporary hiss until the voice returned.

‘… replace Theresa May.’

A flash of lightning filled the room with a temporary brightness. And then it was gone.

As was all the brightness. And power. And sound.

Crowley ignored it. Moving on to the next plant that trembled at his mere proximity.

From the living room the distant hum and crackle of static flickered in and out, picking up on the hollow tone of the reporter’s voice but failing to provide enough clarity for his words to carry in anything more than an indistinct hum. The lights did not turn back on.

“…Well that’s not good.” The demon remarked at last with an absent sort of tone that implied the comment was not entirely tied to the thoughts he was having towards the power cut. Or the storm.

“IT’S SIMPLY DREADFUL, CROWLEY.”

The silky tone of his Master oozed from the sound system, echoing out of the hollow reporter’s mouth.

Static continued to pick apart at the voice, but the message came loud and clear. After a long moment of remaining rooted to the spot, Crowley abandoned his plant mister and skirted back into the living room. Perhaps this was what he had possessed such a vile feeling about. He’d felt some sort of ill-will in the air and now Satan himself was reaching out- it had been a while since they had spoken. He certainly sounded significantly less angry on this occasion.

“YOU’VE QUITE MARVELLOUSLY OUTDONE YOURSELF, CROWLEY.”

“Err.” A faint noise of acknowledgment sounded at the back of the demon’s throat as he eyed the static that danced across the television screen, playing with the features of the news reporter and occasionally causing his expression to twitch into a wicked smile.

Well hang on, Brexit hasn’t actually been completed yet. Wasn’t this a little early for a commendation?

“YOUR EFFORTS TO CORRUPT OUR ENEMY FROM THE INSIDE OUT HAVE BEEN RECOGNISED, CROWLEY.”

Crowley squinted. Perhaps this wasn’t to do with Brexit.

“WHILST MY DUKES AND BARONESSES HAVE SECURED ME SOULS OF THE MORAL KIND, YOU HAVE EXCEEDED EVEN THEIR WORK, CROWLEY.”

A thin sheen of sweat began to creep across Crowley’s forehead.

“HEAVEN HAVE INFORMED ME THAT THE NECESSARY PAPERWORK WILL BE COMPLETED SHORTLY, CROWLEY. THE ANGEL OF THE EASTERN GATE IS OURS AND IT’S ALL THANKS TO YOU, CROWLEY. HE WILL BE COLLECTED SHORTLY FOR THE PROCESS TO BEGIN. YOU HAVE ACHIEVED THE UNACHIEVABLE, CROWLEY. AND

YOU

WILL BE

R̸̨̛͙̱̙̭͐́̐͗͝ Ẹ̴͍̼͎͉̩̫̝͙̮͖̣̪̪͈͑́ Ẃ̸̗͍̼͐̀̄̀ Ḁ̶̞͇̒͐̒̽̊͌́̅̽̊̌͘͝͝͝ Ṟ̸̡̡̜͕͎͚̮̲͇̼̥̗̀̒̍̍ͅ D̸̛͎̗̅̅̎̆̈͆̽̌̕͜ È̸̛͙͉͙̣̯̦̤̤̭̯͋͐͂͗̎͑͘͘ D̶̡̖͕̦͙͚̮̻͎͖̼̰̤͋͆́̈͒̎̄ “  

“…Thank you, lord.” Crowley breathed. His voice almost as numb as the news reporter’s.

A horrified sinking sensation bored its way through him.

How?

What had taken place in recent history to justify such a vast overreaction from heaven?

Deep down, a part of Crowley felt he knew. Along with the mounting fear, there kindled a deep, unforgotten hatred. A hatred towards the ones who had likely come to this decision. The ones who were about to enact a ritual of such pain, hurt and humiliation it had stripped away the very essence of every angel that survived it.

A thought stuck in Crowley’s mind as the television flickered back to life and the reporter began drawling on about referendums and deals once more.

They were coming to collect Aziraphale.

Scenes of the bookshop engulfed in flame flashed back into the demon’s head. He scrambled out of the flat as though it had been doused in holy water. Like a bat out of hell. Or like one whom had the fear of God put into them. The latter would be the most accurate.

Half-throwing himself into the Bentley, Crowley set himself hurtling towards the first place he knew the angel would be. With the help of breakneck speeds, tactically willing traffic lights, officers and pedestrians out of the way, Crowley worked to slice his journey down to a mere fraction of what it should have been.

“Call Aziraphale.” A wracked voice that hardly sounded like his own demanded.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. Until an automated voice ended the call after a redundant offer to leave a message. With a snarl Crowley smacked the steering wheel.

“CALL. AZIRAPHALE.” The phone shuddered.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

Nothing.

Faster than should have realistically been possible, the Bentley pulled up by the bookshop. No fire. At least not visibly. Ignoring the ‘Sorry, we’re closed!’ sign and the locks, Crowley entered. The entire bookshop radiated the essence of Aziraphale- every corner was so thoroughly steeped in love and many cared-for volumes that it felt as though he was always there even on the occasions where he was absent.

“AZIRAPHALE!” He couldn’t not shout. By this stage it was horrifically urgent.

“AZIRAPHALE YOU BASTARD DON’T DO THIS TO ME AGAIN.” Crowley’s voice shattered mid-roar. Saving little time, he tore into the back room, growing frantic. Snake-like eyes bolted across the room for the sign of anything that appeared remotely out of place. The sign of a struggle. Anything.

“WHERE ARE YOU!?”

“IT CAN’T HAVE HAPPENED YET!” Desperation twisted his tone upward.

After pacing the shop a good number of times, Crowley fell to his knees atop the thread-bare carpet that covered a neatly-drawn chalk circle. He wasn’t supposed to be in such proximity to it. But it hardly mattered now. Golden eyes lifted, pleading skyward for someone, anyone, anything- some divine voice that had cast him aside only just after time began- to listen.

“YOU CAN’T DO THIS!

HE’S—

HE’S GOING TO LOSE EVERYTHING AND IT’S ALL MY FAULT!

I’M THE ONE YOU SHOULD BE HURTING! NOT HIM! HE’S GOOD, KIND, FORGIVING—NONE OF THE BAD STUFF WAS HIM! WHY DO YOU PREACH FORGIVENESS BUT NEVER PRACTICE IT? YOU’RE GOING TO BE THE REASON THERE ARE NO GOOD THINGS LEFT!”

A series of deep, ragged pants stole Crowley’s words away. No reply.

They never replied.

Frustration spurned him back into motion. Although a dawning part of Crowley knew that if Aziraphale was not in the bookshop and failing to answer his phone, he was too late. But abandoning the search was unimaginable. He had to find him.

In a series of stray attempts to locate the angel’s aura, Crowley simply found himself stumbling upon various places they had met over the previous two weeks: places that had been touched by the angel’s aura. Restaurants, cafes, The British Museum and Hyde Park. Two hours later, Crowley returned to his flat, soaked through from his attempt to battle the rain on his hunt. Outside, thunder and lightning continued their violent dance. He had not given up, but a grim realisation had presented itself to Crowley: now that he had exhausted his most likely options (and checked the bookshop once more for good measure), it would make sense to reconvene, dry off and attempt to focus somewhere more quiet in order to tap in to Aziraphale’s energy.

It was difficult to not feel defeated as he scaled the stairs to the flat. Once entering, Crowley kicked off his sodden shoes. With a wave of his hand, the rainwater vanished from his clothes, leaving the only evidence of his trip outside in the mop of sodden auburn hair atop of his head. After a couple of steps, Crowley stilled.

‘Thanks very much and hello! Welcome to The Chase, tonight four celebrities will be raising money for a charity of their choice. Hello, yes, welcome to the show Ian,’

That’s strange.

He hadn’t left the television on when he’d left.

Warily, Crowley began to slink towards the living room. A familiar shape sat on the sofa. No-less tense, Crowley edged over the threshold. He didn’t need to see Aziraphale’s face to know he was too late. At Crowley’s presence the television flickered, blinked, and switched itself off.

“Angel…” The word dripped painfully from his mouth, thoughtless in the very moment of things.  

Not anymore…

Resignation swept over the demon as he rounded the sofa to catch a glimpse of Aziraphale’s face. It was too late. There was no undoing such an act. Hopeless guilt writhed across Crowley’s features as he inched closer, not quite knowing what one says to someone who falls and does not mean to. Crowley had been in the minority in that sense (and nobody had offered him any words of assurance when the day of his fall had taken place).

“What have they done to you?” A mournful whisper encapsulated Crowley’s words as he uttered them. Golden eyes drank in the extent of the damage. With great care to be gentle a finger extended to run reverently along a coal-black feather. Oh, the world was wicked.

It was unjust.

But never quite so much as those who had created it all.

(( @gaily-gavotte ))

[creeping-crowley]

Yo, friendly reminder that if you send me an ask anonymously, please put the name of your blog at the end rather than the name of the character. That way I know who I'm responding to. Cheers!

Will be looking at my asks and drafts later on today. Feel free to send some if you want an interaction.