I own nothing but the DVDs which I hoard like precious gold.
...
He staggers away from the road, away from the torchlights and gunfire, clutching his bleeding side. Another shot rings out, catching his left leg, and he goes tumbling head-over-arse into a ditch. In the dark, it must seem to his pursuers that he's disappeared. Fighting desperately to maintain that illusion, he crawls through the muddy grass and over to the high wooden fence that trims the trench. Gripping the rain-dampened slats of wood, he pulls himself along some ten meters before his fumbling fingers locate a gap wide enough for him to squeeze through.
His suit jacket catches on the way in, tearing in half, and the fresh wound in his leg drags over a splinter. He bites down on his tongue to muffle a shout, tasting blood, and wishes he had energy enough to spare for a quick numbing Influence.
He emerges (one shoe less, having lost the struggle with the fence) into what looks like a junkyard or... no, it's a scrapyard, rusting cars and spare parts littered about. Breathing hard, he heaves himself upright and limps away from the sound of the search party and toward the most windproof-looking automobile.
A low growl to his right makes him freeze, and he curses himself for the hundredth time that night for losing his sidearm two states back. He turns to face the massive, slavering junkyard mutt that's eyeing him like a pound of sirloin.
"Easy, now, pup," he tells it carefully, raising a hand and calling on every moment of his dog-training days. "Nice boy," he tries.
The dog considers this, then decides that no, in fact, it isn't a nice boy. It takes two menacing steps forward, looking like it's debating the merits of leg meat versus neck meat, but it halts in surprise when he snaps, "Stay!", using every last drop of Influence he has reserved. Against all odds, the dog's rabid brain seems to recognize this newcomer as an authority figure, and it whines once.
"Sit!" He orders desperately.
The dog sits.
He offers a hand. The dog takes a few cautious steps and licks his palm, swiping away the blood. "Good," he whispers, "Good boy."
He stumbles toward the car and the dog follows him, wagging the stump of its tail and snuffling curiously. He pries the door open, wincing at the screech of rusty metal, and hauls himself inside. It's cramped and the seat is half-gone, chewed to the springs, but it cuts down on the windchill. The dog huffs and settles just outside the door as it swings shut.
...
The first thing that he notes upon waking is that everything is sore. Not in the good way that indicates a night well-spent, but the way that suggests sleeping in an awkward position in the drafty, cramped backseat of an abandoned car. Which makes sense, because that's exactly what he was doing the last time he checked. What doesn't make sense is the fact that he seems to have migrated somehow to a considerably warmer, if somewhat lumpier and creakier, environment. He's instantly gripped with fear, but he clamps down on it- if he'd been caught by them, he'd be strapped to a steel table, not nestled in a slightly musty bed.
He risks a groan.
There's a chorus of small voices gasping in unison at ear level, so he cracks an eye. He is met with three wide gazes- green, hazel and blue.
"Ohh, what fresh hell?" He grunts.
"You said a bad word," a youthful but strangely gruff voice informs him. He manages to connect it to the blue eyes and dark hair hovering next to his face.
"Yes, thank you," he replies, lacking the coordination at the moment to rub his brow.
The one on the end- the green eyes and freckles- turns away and shouts at ear-splitting levels, "UNCLE BOBBY, HE'S AWAKE!"
The hazel-eyed one, which is a few inches lower than the other two, says nothing.
The sound of something heavy on wheels enters the room, and his vision is suddenly filled with a considerably older, ruggedly bearded face. "Yup," the man- presumably Uncle Bobby- says, halting his wheelchair a few feet away. "He's awake. Does he speak English?"
"Yes," he snips, scowling up at this strange lumberjack and his strange urchins.
"Good, because my French is pretty basic and my Japanese has gotten rusty." The gruff man leans back, settling next to the bed, and the children- three boys in pajamas who look about six, seven and three, respectively- huddle around him, staring. "So, you gonna gimme yer name, or do the boys get to give you one?"
'The Boys' look delighted at this prospect, and the blue-eyed one furrows his brow in deep concentration while the freckly one grins maniacally. The smallest child pushes long hair out of his face and frowns.
"Crowley," he supplies quickly, before anyone has a chance to name him 'Buttercup' or 'Assbutt' or whatever other charming thing their half-baked brains can come up with. It's one of a dozen aliases he's used, and he's always been particularly fond of it. He just hopes it matches whatever ID he happens to have in his wallet- if he still has his wallet.
"That yer first name or yer last?" Uncle Bobby asks skeptically.
"Yes," Crowley answers as sardonically as possible.
The bearded man scowls, which prompts a round of stifled giggles from Freckles and a suspicious squint from Blue Eyes.
"Uh-huh." Bobby turns to the children. "Kids, how 'bout you get on into the kitchen and get yerselves a snack while I have a chat with our guest?"
The children shuffle out obediently, and Crowley notes for the first time that the door to this room is solid steel, several inches thick- in fact, the whole room looks like something out of the Hostel movies. He shifts uncomfortably, wondering if maybe he'd have been better off if his former colleagues had got hold of him. He presses with his mind, with the little strength he has left, trying to urge this man into trusting him.
"Okay," the larger man glares from under the brim of his hat. "You wanna tell me why and how you ended up bunkin' in one of my cars with no wallet, one shoe, and a couple bullet holes in yer hide?"
So much for trust.
"Erm," Crowley tries.
He gets an unimpressed eyebrow-raise.
"I'm from New York," he starts cautiously, falling back on one of his oldest aliases, the most reliable and the least likely to be recognized.
"You don't sound like you're from New York."
"Not originally, no," he admits easily- as easily as is possible with the wounds in his side and leg starting to throb with a vengeance. "London-born. Moved to New York ten years ago. I'm a literary agent."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"I was passing through, on my way to California to meet with a writer. Only meant to be in town for a day."
He glances up at Bobby's face to gauge his reaction; he seems to be buying it, so Crowley continues.
"Simply put, I was mugged. Couple of misguided youths took me by surprise on the road when I was out for a stroll. They got my wallet, shouted a few threats. When I tried to run, they shot me." He wants to throw some emotion in, put some force and conviction into his words, but the pain is creeping into the corners of his consciousness, blurring his already-shaky vision.
The American snorts. "Well, that's a pile of horseshit, but I'm sure the sheriff'll be able to clear a few things up when she gets here."
"Good," Crowley says automatically. "Wonderful. I'm sure everything will be sorted."
The only reaction that gets is another skeptically raised eyebrow.
Clearing his throat, he asks in his best raspy-weak-help-me-I'm-frail voice, "Any chance I could get a drink?"
Bobby scrutinizes him a few moments longer before nodding. "Yeah, the painkillers tend to dry out yer throat. What do you want?"
"Scotch, preferably," the Englishman says with the best grin he can manage. "But lacking that, water will do just fine." The grin lasts only a few seconds before a bolt of pain turns it into a sort of shaky grimace.
"Right," his host grunts, turning and wheeling to the door. "Back in a sec."
"Mmhm," Crowley lays his head down on the pillow, feigning sleepiness (although not feigning as much as he'd like to be). He listens closely, hearing the wheels echo down a brief corridor, followed by the sound of a lift being shut and creaking away into the distance above.
He takes a deep breath, wincing at the protest his side raises, and forces himself to roll over the edge of the cot. He intends to catch himself on his hands and right knee, but of course that goes to hell and he lands heavily on his left side. He curls involuntarily into a wheezing ball of agony, fists clenching as he bites back the shout in his throat. He wastes a few precious seconds lying there trying to tamp down the urge to crawl docilely back into the bed and sleep. Finally, he heaves himself onto his knees and, using the mattress for support, up on both feet, where he balances, swaying slightly but upright nonetheless.
He feels a swell of pride and turns to take three triumphant steps toward the exit.
Then several things happen at once: he hears a door slam somewhere above him, feels an unexpected and unpleasant ripping sensation near his right kidney, feels his knee give out, and is quite suddenly and violently reintroduced to the floor, face-first.
...