A/N: Another one for the pub!verse (new? check the link on my profile for explanations and the fic list in chronological order). This one's just Good Omens, but it explains how Crowley ended up on the path to becoming SPN!Crowley. Hope you like it! Reviews make me smile.
The call, when it comes, is not particularly unexpected. He's been waiting for it for over a year now, since they stopped the apocalypse-that-wasn't. For a month or so – after the first night where he and Aziraphale had gone and gotten gloriously drunk in celebration – he'd moved constantly, skipping all over the globe, never spending more than a night in one place.
Slowly, when he'd realised that the lower reaches of Hell were not, in fact, particularly interested in finding him and exacting bloody vengeance, he slowed down, moving from week to week, and then finally just gave up and settled back in a flat in London. Aziraphale had just rolled his eyes and told him he'd been overreacting, and they'd settled back into the old routine of dining at the Ritz and alternating between each others' residences to get drunk.
Now, with the television reporter's voice suddenly changing from a light, bubbly BBC accent to the dulcet, buzzing tones of Hell's agents, he wants to shake the angel and yell, "See? I told you they'd find me, I told you they'd come, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," but he can't do that, so instead he lets out a low hiss of irritation and tries to ignore it.
"CROWLEY. DO NOT IGNORE USZZ."
Crowley gulps, and quickly switches the screen off, even getting up to pull the plug out of the wall. He's entirely unsurprised when, a few seconds later, the screen flickers on again in a wave of black and white static, and blesses profusely under his breath.
"CROWLEY," rasps out the television, with the grinding, crunching sound of a lorry reversing over glass. "WE HAVE BEEN WATCHING YOU FOR QUITE SZZOME TIME NOW."
"I bet you have," mutters Crowley under his breath, and then jumps slightly when the television glares at him. Technically, that should be impossible, but Hell just doesn't think about possibility, so the impossible doesn't bother them. "And...?" he continues quickly, trying to seem unbothered.
"WE ARE... CONCZZERNED." The voice doesn't sound concerned. It sounds angry.
"Ah, yes. The- the 'apocalypse' business," says Crowley, voice high and nervous. "That- I've been meaning to file the report, I mean- it wasn't my fault the baby got lost, I handed it over to the appointed-"
"NOT ABOUT THE APOCALYPSZZE," snarls the voice, and now there's the hint of buzzing in it that Crowley associates with bad, bad things, and he wonders what in Manchester's name this could be about if it's not about the Apocalypse. What else could possibly make his superiors so-
"WE ARE WORRIED ABOUT YOUR RELAZZTIONSHIP WITH THE ANGEL."
Ah. "Relationship?" he practically squeaks, and swallows hard. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I am merely trying to tempt the adversary into-"
"DO NOT LIE TO USZZ!" The voice is loud enough to hurt his ears, and he cringes. "WE INVENTED LIESZZ. WE ARE AWARE OF THE NATURE OF YOUR RELATZZIONSHIP TO THE ANGEL."
"Well then," says Crowley desperately, mind working a hundred miles an hour to find a way out of this thrice-damned situation and finding none. "You'll know that there's nothing-"
"WE KNOW THAT. BUT WE ARE ALSZZO AWARE OF YOUR... FEELINGSZZ TOWARDSZZ HIM." The voice drags its way over the word feelings, the rasp of chalk down a blackboard, as if it finds the whole prospect of emotions in general to be messy and distasteful. "IT ISZZ MOSZZT... UNORTHODOXZZ."
"I'm not-" starts Crowley, because he knows, he knows what they'll do to Aziraphale, and he can't let them, won't let them, but there's nothing he can do. No way he knows of standing up to Hell itself.
"DO NOT LIE!" shrieks the television again, and he shudders, hands flying to cover his ears, because the anger is palpable as waves of psychic fury rolling out from the television.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly, when he can uncover his ears again, pulling himself to his feet. "I-" He can't bring himself to say he didn't mean it, that it was wrong, because they're more lies. "Please don't kill him," he says instead, knowing how pointless it is to beg, but doing it anyway. "Please. He didn't know, he's not worth it, I'm the one to blame, take-"
"YOU INSZZTEAD? HOW TOUCHING." It takes Crowley a minute to realise that the scratching noise is supposed to be laughter. "NO, NO, THERE WILL BE NO KILLING. NOT TODAY." Crowley wonders exactly what that means, but all he can feel is relief, because why would Hell lie about something like this?
"NO," continues the television. "WE HAVE A LITTLE RELOCATION FOR YOU. A NICZZE JOB IN AMERICA. VERY... EXCZZITING. I'M SURE YOU'LL ENJOY IT." It could be worse, Crowley supposes. A few decades out in the 'Colonies', as Aziraphale still calls them – ridiculous angel, brain a couple of centuries behind the rest of the world – and then back to England when the big bosses have forgotten about him again. Win-win. It could be worse.
"OF COURSZZE, THE ANGEL WILL HAVE TO THINK THAT YOU ARE DEAD."
...And now it couldn't be worse. "But-"
"THERE WILL BE NO ARGUMENTSZZ. OR THE ANGEL DIESZZ."
Crowley shudders reflexively. No. No, this is not an acceptable outcome. "But-"
"YOU HAVE AN HOUR TO LEAVE. YOU WILL FIND INSTRUCTZZIONSZZ IN YOUR CAR. And the weather today is looking-"
Crowley switches the television off with a thought, legs buckling and dropping him into the sofa, pale-faced and shaking. He slides through emotions like they're sand, water – shock, fear, hopelessness, despair, desperation, frustration, anger, fury-
And suddenly he's on his feet, breathing hard, and his flat is in ruins.
He can't remember breaking the furniture and tearing the curtains, smashing the television into a pile of unrecognisable plastic and glass, but he must have, because there it is and his knuckles are bleeding.
Staring around the ransacked room, he feels the strange urge to laugh – he's already done half the job he was told to do. It looks like there was a fight, and a violent one at that. The only things missing are... "Burns and bloodstains," he murmurs to himself, swallowing down the mildly hysterical giggles. With a flick of his fingers, one of the knives from the kitchen is in his hand. "Forgive me, angel," he murmurs, closing his eyes, and lowers the tip of it to the inside of his arm.
xXx
It takes Aziraphale over a week to visit the flat. For the first four days or so, he assumes Crowley's busy, maybe travelling somewhere overseas. It's not unlike the demon to take off with no warning and return days later with some strange foodstuff or odd trinket he'd found on his travels.
For the next three, he convinces himself that he's worrying too much, that Crowley's a big demon and can take care of himself.
On the seventh day, he remembers there are bigger demons, spends half an hour tracking down Crowley's most recent place of residence – he moves far more often than can possibly be normal or healthy, Aziraphale's sure – and appears outside the door of the flat. He knocks once, twice, and waits.
He knocks again.
After a moment, the door ceases to be solid because Aziraphale tells it to, and he steps through it, into the living room – the living room, with its broken furniture and scratched walls and blood- and blood-
And the kind of burns left by an exorcism, the kind that would kill a demon forever.
For the first time since World War II, he falls to his knees and cries. And tries not to remember that, back then, Crowley had been there with an arm around his shoulders.