~ Crowley's Perspective ~
Present Day.
Crowley was in a bad mood. He hated just about everything at that moment. In the last week, he had saved the world alongside his best friend. And... Other people, most of whom he's forgotten the names of. There was the Antichrist... Crowley forgot his name. And then there was the witch hunter, the girl he hit with his car...
He could have cared less who they were.
No matter what Aziraphale said, he was wrong. Very, very wrong. Heaven and Hell would have their war. Beelzebub and Gabriel would not stand to lose. They might be left alone for the next few days, in order for the two sides to regroup, but after that...
Crowley didn't know.
Maybe it was time to pay Hell a visit. He swung his feet forward, swinging himself up and off of his throne-like chair. He never sat up straight, and never cared enough to try. The dark walls of his flat looked like the boiling pools of sulfur they had in Hell at night. Crowley liked it. It reminded him daily of how he'd Fallen.
"Stupid," He muttered to himself as he put on his sunglasses, "It's all stupid."
He had never intended to Fall. He always tried to find ways to push away hellish thoughts and bad intentions.
Why?
Because somewhere, deep down, Crowley still hoped to be an angel again. He knew it was impossible. You don't come back from what he'd gone through. But some stupid part of him still wanted to try. Not for himself, he didn't want to do anything for himself. He didn't even want to live for himself.
But he did for Aziraphale.
"STUPID." He hissed, louder than before. Feelings were stupid and so was Hell. And Heaven. EVERYTHING was STUPID. All he wanted to do was curl as a snake and sleep for another century.
Yes, another century. He'd slept through the tenth century because he hadn't felt like dealing with anything. And guess what? It had worked.
Then, there were times where we wanted to spread his wings out and fly to the stars, then give the whole universe the sight of his favourite finger. Especially God. God had done this to him. God had made him like this.
Crowley had created the stars, once upon a time. He had poured his heart and soul into each and every one of them, and they had always been his favourite things. He rolled his shoulders back, letting his wings appear. The feathers were dark and black, smooth and neatly kept. Sometimes he could have sworn there were speckles of light that actually looked like stars on them, but tonight there was nothing. Just black. He frowned at his wings, and folded them away from the world. He snatched his keys off the counter and stepped into the Bentley, running his hands over the wheel and grazing his tongue over his teeth. He stared straight ahead, and turned the keys into the slot, then stepped on the gas. He heard the screech of the tires as he sped away from his flat, pressing a button that clicked open a small pocket. Inside were... Decades of music. Cassettes and CDs... All of it. He took one CD from its case and slipped it into the player.
"Ohhh somebody! Somebody! Can anybody find me... somebody to love?" Crowley sang the lyrics as loud as he possibly could, not caring that his voice was horrific.
"Hellish, actually," he said to himself, proceeding to laugh at his own VERY bad pun. He continued to sing and sway in his war as he drove full speed down the empty roads, not a single car in sight at night time. He hit the breaks as he came upon a looming shadow of a building, and he stepped out of his car, fixing his slightly crooked sunglasses and staring straight ahead.
He made his way over to the look and snapped his fingers, the lock disappearing almost immediately. He shoved the door open, slipped inside and down the very dark stairs. He could barely even see his feet, which was a problem.
A big problem, actually.
He'd never come down to Hell unless it was absolutely necessary. He'd never once made an appearance without being summoned. They were always expecting him, so the lights were always on. Now, it was dark.
Crowley also wasn't amazing at walking. He had a certain swagger to his steps, the way his hips fell into place was slightly off as a result of being a snake. In addition to that, snakes had super crappy vision and Crowley could not see beyond his own nose. He tried to grip the walls, as the staircase to Hell had no railing, but slipped and tumbled down a few steps, crying out in pain and shouting a few curses along with it.
"Blasted FEET." He growled, scrambling to catch himself before standing up. His legs wobbled slightly, but he ignored that.
It was time to make an ENTRANCE.
Crowley threw open the doors to Hell and grinned.
"Guess what BASTARDS?! I'M BACK!"
A few screams followed that statement, along with some swearing and unnecessary hissing.
"Back so soon?" A low voice crooned, and Crowley's smile widened.
"Princess!" He exclaimed, opening his arms, then dropping them at his sides. "What a pleasure!"
Two things - Beelzebub was not a pleasure at all. They were a sassy demon who had too much time on their hands. Crowley hated them with all his being, and hoped one day he could have the pleasure of hitting them with a water balloon full of holy water.
And second, Hell was not at all how you would imagine. It greatly resembles one of the humans' offices, with hallways and desks and things like that. Crowley's desk had not been cleaned in fifty years, and he liked it that way. He was never around anyway. Hell's job was basically just a whole bunch of... paperwork. Crowley hated paperwork. He hated work too. And people.
Okay, Crowley hated most things.
Coming in at number one was the archangel Gabriel, followed by Hastur, a fellow coworker and soon to be Duke of Hell, then Beelzebub.
Down in Hell, everyone had a ranking. Hell used to love Crowley. He used to be one of the favourites. Now he was branded a traitor... That was a long story. A few days ago, the antichrist, Crowley and Aziraphale had stopped the coming of Armageddon together. Heaven and Hell had figured out that Crowley and Aziraphale were best friends (That's what Crowley thought they were, anyway) and both sides had sentenced Aziraphale and Crowley to their deaths. Crowley by holy water, Aziraphale by hellfire. Using some clever, demonic little tricks, Aizraphale and Crowley had switched bodies, and attended each other's executions. They had fooled both Heaven and Hell for now... But Crowley was done playing with fire. They were bound to find out soon enough. Some of the demons in Hell still believed Crowley was actually immune to holy water. He was not. Beelzebub, whether they believed it or not, was not even remotely scared of him and his stylish attitude.
"Do not call me Princess." Beelzebub said grimly. They had short, choppy black hair that was always frizzy. On their head there was a furry fly, an accessory she wore like a crown. They had a black jacket over their striped black and white shirt. Their eyes were a pale blue, and they had small flies that buzzed all around them. They wore bright red converse and black pants, along with a red sash across their chest.
And they was nearly three heads shorter than Crowley.
He bent down to reach their height, bowing in the process. He dramatically waved his hand in a dismissing, rude, inqurtois way.
"Of course,"
"What do you want, Traitor?"
"Traitor? Oh, let's not be so harsh."
"Is murderer better for you?" They said, rolling their eyes and flopping, onto their throne, "I don't have time for you, Crowley. Get. Out."
"Oh, come on, no one liked Ligur anyway."
Last week, Hastur and Ligur, two of Hell's best demons, had been sent to retrieve Crowley and bring him back to Hell for his execution. Crowley had recently acquired a cup of holy water from Aziraphale, and he had pulled the good old 'bucket-on-top-of-the-door' prank and killed Ligur. On purpose.
"Well," Crowley went on, "No one except that angel. She called him by accident in the nineteen hundreds. Always flirting with each other."
That had not been a lie.
What Crowley would say next, was lying through his teeth.
"Ligur was no traitor." Beelzebub said.
"Yeah, he kinda was," Crowley mused, "Ya know, I heard he banged a human -"
"GET. OUT." Beelzeub bellowed, "Demons do not engage in such tomfoolery."
"Whatever you say, Princess. Anyway, I dropped by to see how Hastur was doing -"
Crowley looked behind him, at the staring demons. Eventually he spotted his rival, and fellow Fallen angel, Hastur. He had dirty blonde hair, slightly taller than Crowley. He wore a beige long coat and resembled a scarecrow with pale green eyes.
"Ayyyye, Hastur! How ya been?"
"Better than you, Crowley." Hastur said. His voice sounded like a frog that knew English.
"Look at you!" Hastur snorted, "You think you're so cool, with your red hair, black jacket and sunglasses! You look like you tripped over your own hair on your way down here!"
Crowley grinned, as if that hadn't been how he'd fallen down those stairs.
"At least I look better than you. Sorry about your face, dude."
Hastur hissed, looking ready to strike Crowley.
"That's enough." Beelzebub commanded. Hastur stood down, looking even more irritated. Crowley, however, did not. He swung his arm around Beelzebub, grinning.
"Aww, thanks for helping me out, Princess. I guess I'll be on my way, then."
A few gasped from the demons. No one touched Beelzebub and lived to see another day. Crowley knew he was walking on dangerously thin ice.
And he did not care.
Crowley made his way to one of the two flaming torches beside Beelzebub's throne and took one from its place, examining the flames.
"Souvenir," He told them, "Cheerio, lads," He dipped his head and spun on his heels. He walked back towards gates and slammed them shut behind him.
The only reason he had taken the torch was so he could see the god damned stairs. He made his way back up to earth without difficulty, if you didn't count his legs hurting. There were way too many stars, and he decided next time, he would take the elevator.
Yes, those existed. Employees only.
Crowley sped down the road, singing so loud he could only hear himself, not even the music or his car. He took his hands off the wheel for a minute, watching the trees whizz past him. Or, he was technically going past the trees but whatever.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of shadows dart onto the road.
Crap, He thought as he slammed the breaks so hard he was thrown forward. He slammed his head on the wheel. His eyes were wide and his heart was racing as he blinked a few times. He opened the car door and wiped at his nose, only to notice the warm red it left on his hand.
"Ughhh," He groaned, in annoyance, not pain. He wiped his hand on his pants and examined the front of his car.
Nothing.
"Good grief," He muttered, "It was probably just a squirrel."
He convinced himself he was foolish for stopping the first place, going through all this trouble in fear he was going to hit what? A child? No human children were out alone in the middle of nowhere at night.
And he was a demon! Technically, even if it had been a child, his job was to hit it. Crowley shook his head and got back in his car. He, unlike all the rest of the demons, lied about every mission he'd gotten. He had only ever killed Ligur. That was it. He lied about doing all sorts of horrible things, and preferred avoiding killing and tempting and all that. Crowley was not like any other demon. For one, he had an imagination. Demons did not have those. That was why Crowley's magic was so much stronger. But he would never use it for evil.
Nothing made him angrier than killing children. He simply did not agree. They were so small, so innocent... No one deserved to die that young.
He'd questioned God when She was going to flood the world. He'd been horrified at the deaths of so many children.
Questions, questions, questions. That was what had gotten him here in the first place. He had never wanted to Fall... He just wanted to know why... Why...
He didn't want to think about it. It was the very question that God had cast him out for.
Why were good and evil set in stone? Why couldn't angels be a little bit bad - why couldn't demons be a little bit good?
Why couldn't they speak with one another?
Crowley, centuries later, did not know.
Every night when he arrived home, just as he'd done that night, he'd lay in his bed, wrap himself in blankets and cry.
Of course, no one knew this.
No one would ever know that he cried himself to sleep, every single night. Crowley didn't know why he cried. Sometimes it was because his wings hurt. He could still feel them burning from when he'd Fallen.
And sometimes it was for completely unrelated reasons.
Reasons that involved a certain angel.