[For someone who can fly, Crowley can't say that he's much a fan of heights. It doesn't help that when he peaks over the edge of the island, everything beneath him is completely dark. There's a familiarity in it that makes his blood run cold, but he's not the type to let that slow him down. Although it does mean he sticks to the island, for now, rather than testing to see if he could fly lower.
As he walks, the ground turns from dirt to concrete and sidewalk, until Crowley is walking the familiar streets of Soho, the appearance of a bookshop stopping him in his tracks.
It's not the bookshop, obviously, because that's all the way back in London, but it's a reasonable enough facsimile that he's caught by the urge to peer inside. So he does. In a way, that helps reorient him, because all the little mistakes are more clear on the inside. A lot of the books are missing titles, the register isn't half as dusty as it should be. And somewhere below him, the ground starts to shudder.
The absolute last thing he needs is this stupid shop crumbling down around him again, so out he goes into the fresh air, something that doesn't solve the problem of the island collapsing. Right. That's enough of that. He was curious at first, but now he's firmly in the camp that this place is shitty, and he's going to go home. All he has to do is concentrate. Physics is, in his opinion, for suckers.
Except nothing happens. No magic. No miracles. To test it, he snaps his fingers to make a glass appear in his hand. That works, but he can't seem to miracle himself to wherever he wants to be. Not a great start to the day, actually. Time to do this the old-fashioned way.
Crowley gets moving again, a little more hurriedly than earlier, although he still makes a pretense at being completely unperturbed by the occasional shake of the ground. The second he spots someone, he's all business.]
Oi, you! [He's not very polite, this tall man dressed like an aging (but still stylish, in his opinion) rockstar, down to the sunglasses on his face.] If you've got any idea what the Heaven is going on, now's the time to spill it.
[He'd like answers, please and thank you. Just without the please and thank you.]
b ; a new voice calling
[It takes every ounce of self-control not to scream on his way down. While this certainly isn't Falling (it isn't fast enough, and it's far too cold), the sensation is close enough that it rattles him to his core. Crowley twists in the air, trying to right himself, pulling his wings from where they're hidden in an attempt to slow his descent, but nothing works.
He's bracing himself for impact, telling himself very firmly that he's survived worse than this, he'll just have to get right back up once it's over and move on, when he slows. As gravity reasserts itself on him, Crowley looks a little like a cat in zero-g, using his wings to orient himself before he touches down.]
Right.
[He says, to no one in particular, straightening up his jacket, putting his wings away and pulling a new pair of sunglasses from out of a pocket, the old ones having been lost in the fall. He slips them back on, hiding his eyes.
And starts walking.
He's not going to let this stupid place get the better of him, not if he has anything to say about it.]
c ; you can hear it if you try
[Everything is fine.
Everything is not fine.
This world, this life, it itches at the edges, like a suit lined with hessian, like a too-tight collar around his throat. The houses are all pretty little cottages, the street is lined with stone walls and all the neighbors smile at each other as they go about their business. It's not quite suburbia, and it definitely isn't American suburbia, but this is what Crowley's brain dragged up when the vines pushed perfect and normal at a demon who really has no touchstone for either of those concepts.
Except something is wrong, he feels it even as he goes through his routine (he's a businessman of some kind, though he can't put his finger on what, exactly, he does. Just that he's very good at it. His bosses love him), there's a piece missing from this version of his life.
At some point, he finds himself standing in front of a church.
It twists something in him that he can't name, a memory or a feeling or - something, equal parts unpleasant while also drawing him in.]
Come on, just go in. It's a church, nothing wrong with a church, what's the worst that could happen? There's not even anyone in there, I can just waltz on in. There's no rules against that. Nothing says I can't just go into a church.
[He's trying to psych himself up, against the strange sense of dread that washed over him when he got too close.]
crowley 🐍 good omens
[For someone who can fly, Crowley can't say that he's much a fan of heights. It doesn't help that when he peaks over the edge of the island, everything beneath him is completely dark. There's a familiarity in it that makes his blood run cold, but he's not the type to let that slow him down. Although it does mean he sticks to the island, for now, rather than testing to see if he could fly lower.
As he walks, the ground turns from dirt to concrete and sidewalk, until Crowley is walking the familiar streets of Soho, the appearance of a bookshop stopping him in his tracks.
It's not the bookshop, obviously, because that's all the way back in London, but it's a reasonable enough facsimile that he's caught by the urge to peer inside. So he does. In a way, that helps reorient him, because all the little mistakes are more clear on the inside. A lot of the books are missing titles, the register isn't half as dusty as it should be. And somewhere below him, the ground starts to shudder.
The absolute last thing he needs is this stupid shop crumbling down around him again, so out he goes into the fresh air, something that doesn't solve the problem of the island collapsing. Right. That's enough of that. He was curious at first, but now he's firmly in the camp that this place is shitty, and he's going to go home. All he has to do is concentrate. Physics is, in his opinion, for suckers.
Except nothing happens. No magic. No miracles. To test it, he snaps his fingers to make a glass appear in his hand. That works, but he can't seem to miracle himself to wherever he wants to be. Not a great start to the day, actually. Time to do this the old-fashioned way.
Crowley gets moving again, a little more hurriedly than earlier, although he still makes a pretense at being completely unperturbed by the occasional shake of the ground. The second he spots someone, he's all business.]
Oi, you! [He's not very polite, this tall man dressed like an aging (but still stylish, in his opinion) rockstar, down to the sunglasses on his face.] If you've got any idea what the Heaven is going on, now's the time to spill it.
[He'd like answers, please and thank you. Just without the please and thank you.]
b ; a new voice calling
[It takes every ounce of self-control not to scream on his way down. While this certainly isn't Falling (it isn't fast enough, and it's far too cold), the sensation is close enough that it rattles him to his core. Crowley twists in the air, trying to right himself, pulling his wings from where they're hidden in an attempt to slow his descent, but nothing works.
He's bracing himself for impact, telling himself very firmly that he's survived worse than this, he'll just have to get right back up once it's over and move on, when he slows. As gravity reasserts itself on him, Crowley looks a little like a cat in zero-g, using his wings to orient himself before he touches down.]
Right.
[He says, to no one in particular, straightening up his jacket, putting his wings away and pulling a new pair of sunglasses from out of a pocket, the old ones having been lost in the fall. He slips them back on, hiding his eyes.
And starts walking.
He's not going to let this stupid place get the better of him, not if he has anything to say about it.]
c ; you can hear it if you try
[Everything is fine.
Everything is not fine.
This world, this life, it itches at the edges, like a suit lined with hessian, like a too-tight collar around his throat. The houses are all pretty little cottages, the street is lined with stone walls and all the neighbors smile at each other as they go about their business. It's not quite suburbia, and it definitely isn't American suburbia, but this is what Crowley's brain dragged up when the vines pushed perfect and normal at a demon who really has no touchstone for either of those concepts.
Except something is wrong, he feels it even as he goes through his routine (he's a businessman of some kind, though he can't put his finger on what, exactly, he does. Just that he's very good at it. His bosses love him), there's a piece missing from this version of his life.
At some point, he finds himself standing in front of a church.
It twists something in him that he can't name, a memory or a feeling or - something, equal parts unpleasant while also drawing him in.]
Come on, just go in. It's a church, nothing wrong with a church, what's the worst that could happen? There's not even anyone in there, I can just waltz on in. There's no rules against that. Nothing says I can't just go into a church.
[He's trying to psych himself up, against the strange sense of dread that washed over him when he got too close.]