Hi there! I just finished reading Good Omens not so very long ago and have since had several unshakeable plot bunnies rear their ugly heads. This is sure to be the first of several. I do hope it pleases you.
The woman screamed. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Aziraphale had warned him. She's going to find out somehow, he had said. If you don't tell her, I will.
Fat chance, Crowley had retorted. But now, here he was, yellow eyes shining and wings spread in full demonic glory in front of the woman he had almost thought he might love, or at least was very fond of. He wasn't supposed to be able to love. Something was wrong with him.
He had been shaking out his wings when she knocked on the door.
"Anthony? What was that noise?" she asked, entering before he'd gotten a chance to put a shirt on.** She saw. Full, glossy, feathery wings protruded from his back. Then she screamed.
"What the hell are you?!" she shrieked as he whirled around, startled wings spreading, ripping the towel rack from the wall and shattering the lights above the mirror.
He stared at her with serpentine eyes, almost but not quite pleadingly, but he knew she could not read his expression. The eyes, they say, are the windows to the soul. But his eyes weren't remotely human, nor did he have a soul. A strange feeling welled up in him. Shame. "Samantha…I…"
She had gone completely pale, staggering back into the bedroom and falling into a chair. He folded his wings, threw on a t-shirt, and went out after her.
"Stop," he commanded with a wave of his hand. She fell silent. He crouched down to face her and tried to take her hands, but she backed away as though his very touch would burn her. "I'm not going to hurt you."
She stared.
He sighed and raked a hand through his damp hair. "Ssshit," he hissed. Her eyes, if they had gone any wider, would have popped from their sockets. "Well, here goes nothing. I guess it had to happen one way or another." If he had been mortal, he would have taken a very deep breath at this point. As it was, their eyes were locked with each other, both unblinking. Neither seemed to breathe.
"I'm a fallen angel," he admitted quietly. "A demon."
Samantha recoiled even further into the chair, tipping it over. She continued to inch backwards as Crowley sidestepped the chair and advanced on her, his gaze darkening to a glower.
"Ssstay where you are." he ordered, pointing. She froze in place, still trembling slightly. "I'm going to take you home." he told her as he pulled on his shoes and covered his unnerving yellow eyes with his shades. You're going to go to sleep, and when you wake up, you will not remember me."
She nodded meekly and followed him out of his apartment. On the way out he grabbed a tape that hadn't been turned to Queen yet. Some Mozart might calm her down until he got her back. He didn't want a nervous wreck puking all over the dash of his Bentley.
Piano Concerto no. 21 played softly as he sped along with the girl shivering and sweating in the passenger's seat. He was sure any second she'd either be sick or soil herself. In any case, he was not going to be happy to have to clean it up.**
They arrived at her flat surprisingly without incident, other than Crowley double-parking. He unlocked her door with a gesture and led her inside, steered her towards her bedroom and eased her down on the bed. With the covers around her trembling form, she finally closed her eyes and drifted off.
He left.
The frantic strains of Symphony no. 25 in G minor soothed him as he drove back, paying an uncharacteristic amount of attention to his surroundings as he went along. Both hands at ten and two, head bent forward, eyes locked on the road, yet still he wove in and out of traffic at an impressive 98 miles per hour. He drove, he thought vaguely, like Cruella de Ville.
Upon his arrival, he was careful to take the tape out and bring it back inside. He went through the motions of cleaning up the mess that had been made. Which wasn't much of one, to be honest. He noted with grim humor that his flat was always immaculate.
He unfurled his aching wings and lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Why must it always end this way? A demon, doomed to love, as if all the torments of Hell hadn't been enough already. No one in their right mind could love him in return. He was evil incarnate walking the Earth.
Crowley sighed. The angel had been right. Damn him.
"Goodbye, Samantha." he breathed, and closed his eyes.
With any luck, when he woke up he wouldn't remember her, either.
*He had been in the shower, which technically he didn't need to do, as he could just wish himself clean, but that he did whenever he had human guests so they wouldn't think he lacked any and all concept of personal hygiene.
**Not that he couldn't simply by wishing it so, but the leather seats had always given him particular trouble.
Poor Crowley. Why does he have to actually like people?
Reviews much appreciated. They let me know whether or not I should continue with the plot bunnies. I should probably let them out anyway. They're starting to gnaw on my brain.