The night Crowley's life changed forever because of a sodding bullet impaled his shoulder. Roaring in pain, he dug his fingers into bleeding flesh and removed the bullet baptized in his blood. His shoulder throbbed and Crowley bit his lip as he felt the edges of his flesh pulling toward one another, wrapping themselves in knots as the lesion healed shut. Falling to his knees, a trail of swear words reverberated off the walls of the dark city alley. He knew the Quarryman would be on his tail, looking for another demon life to take. Oh, did he have something in store for them! He'd let this wound scar and its lasting mark like a badge of honor. It was time to teach the demon hunters one final lesson before he snuffed the pathetic life from their frail human bodies.
It was their biggest mistake those humans would ever make, fatal, in fact. Hadn't anyone ever warned them? The one thing one never does, if possessing any intelligence of any kind or valuing one's continued existence or hoping to see another sunrise, is to never place a demon in a trap when he is angry or injured. Crowley looked forward to seeing the fear in each of them as he broke them, one by one.
Crowley felt a pressure pushing against his temples, something between a high and a headache and he wasn't quite sure which. It danced beneath his skin akin to an electric current traveling along a wire until it came to his shoulder. Golden Sparks danced on his skin as golden flames jumped up from his black silk shirt.
"Bloody Hell!" he immediately patted the heat burning a hole through is three thousand dollar Gucci shirt. Bullocks, that was his favorite shirt and his tailor wouldn't be back in Losandres until next week. He liked his clothing personally tailored to fit his tall, lanky frame. The sensation became an electric shock, eliciting another slew of profanity from Crowley's lips before it became a fiery itch that demanding scratching.
He couldn't resist the urge to rend the black silk to get to wound that when from throbbing to buzzing to burning. Seeing his skin beneath the streetlight, he saw what looking nothing like a healing scar, but much more intricate. He whipped off his sunglasses and stared at the tiny, ornate black embellishment covering the mark. Instead of a random reminder of the bullet that embedded in his flesh, he found the blemish covered by a perfectly embossed black outline of a small rose, no bigger than the pad of his thumb.
"Oh, fucking bullocks," he swore, serpentine eyes widening at the embellishment marking his shoulder. He knew humans were cursed to have them and, occasionally the random alien, but never had a demon borne the mark of a soulmate. Damn it! That meant he had ascended and no longer fully demon, but some of his angelic nature had returned. He knew he shouldn't have saved that child's life. He never meant to fall, he rather, well, sauntered downwards inadvertently. Now, one moment minute of weakness meant he'd been marked. Oh, yes, Sky Mummy was the creator of irony.
He had to get the Weeping Angels off of his trail. Stupid prats weren't clever enough to look upward. Black wings unfurled to their full span, bathed in the dim golden aura of the streetlight only a few feet away. Catching a wind current, Crowley launched himself from the air, gracefully landing on the rooftop of the warehouse forming one side of the alley.
The footfalls of heavy boots grew closer when an unexpected voice broke the tension permeating the area.
"Stop it, right there!" The voice was feminine and, undeniably, English. He heard the cold determination in her voice. "Detective Rose Tyler, LPD!"
"Only one of you and a dozen of you," a gravelly male voice spoke from beneath a gray hood. Lifting a war hammer haloed in a blue electrical current. "The odds don't look good."
"One of me, twelve of you," she gave a shrug. "I think the odds are rather even."
A soulmate. Oh, how Mummy Dearest had a nasty sense of humor. What bloody sodding timing to give him a soulmate! The idea kept droning around in his psyche, flitting between absolute joy and stupefaction. His entire existence, Crowley had, if secretly examining his being for symbols showing that he wasn't eternally damned. That was the difficulty with the total twin flame construct. It was the consort of one's quintessential essence. Demons and angels were of the same ilk, creatures of spirit and ether, nurtured by ambrosia and made of starlight until evil tainted the beauty and stripped the fallen being of heart and light. If one ascended, even a millimeter, said demon was endowed with a soul. Crowley realized that he was effectively trapped between the demonic and divine.
This changed everything. Once one heard the beauty of a soulmate's voice, the soulmate imprinted upon the unwilling sod who fell victim to Her ineffable plan. He felt a heart thumping in his chest. He had no heart or he hadn't five minutes ago. Now, he thought he heard a quartet of beats flawlessly syncopated with a newly-existing pulse. To be one of the ascended, rising in goodness toward Heaven wasn't always a good thing.
Crowley cursed the heavens for picking now of all times for endowing him with a soul that would change the very substance of his existence. What the bloody hell was he supposed to do now? He had lost his connection with the infernal and the profane, meaning that while he might be redeemed, his existence had been shortened to a finite span of millennia. He never thought it would happen to him because the Reckoning, the ascending, was merely the stuff of legend.
Crowley, libertine and demon that he was, had experimented. Quite desperately, really. But it hadn't changed the fact that no markings were forthcoming. No scar, no little burn, nothing to show his soul was connected to the pain and happiness of another. Of course, markings on their own were no guarantee for happiness. The soulmate had to be found. But now, that Crowley knew... Weeelll, he would find his soulmate. He was a genius, after all.
Lost in his own thoughts, a scream broke his reverie as he watched the mob of hooded demon hunters attack the woman in the alley. Crowley saw she had a severe injury but, he thought it was wisest to let her sort it out. No soulmate of his was some jeopardy-friendly little ape, but something of a bad wolf in disguise lurked badge she wore on a chain around her neck. He wanted to see what she was made of because he only took the best.
One of the Weeping Angels lifted his war hammer high, electricity crackling around it with a charge capable of killing a mortal. Crowley saw Detective Tyler lying on the ground, stunned by an unexpected blow to her temple. He spread his wings, ready to launch into full attack when he saw the good detective abrupt rise to her feet, her eyes shining bright with golden light. Oh... .OH. She wasn't a mere mortal, after all, not one bit. Tickety boo! She went from beautiful blonde to alien in 3.5 seconds. Raising her hand, she passed it from left to right, turning twelve hood fingers into twelve piles of ash.
He saw the exertion of power she possessed took it's a toll on her form when she crumpled into a heap. With a whoosh of wings in the lamplight, Anthony J. Crowley caught Detective Rose Tyler before she hit the ground. He felt four heartbeats pound against his chest as he saw her lying in his arms unconscious. He pressed a tender, lingering kiss to her brow, letting a breath of regeneration energy swathe around the bleeding gash. Crowley miracled away the deep laceration on her brow, thinking while he liked scars, she probably didn't. He materialized his favorite black suede trench coat given to him by Alice Cooper, wrapping it around the Detective to keep her warm. She'd suffered an electrical attack of 50,000 volts and she had survived.
"Ooh," she mumbled, bringing a hand to her brow. "My head."
"Just lie still, Angel," Crowley wrapped her inside of his favorite coat. "You took a nasty blow."
"What day is it?" Rose blinked, trying to clear her blurry vision.
"Tuesday."
"What time is it?" she asked, wincing when she moved too quickly.
"Easy there, Detective," he soothed her growing anxiety with his best seductive voice. "It's Tuesday, 6 pm, October."
Rose shook her head, staring up at Crowley for the first time. With a speed that bordered beyond human, she skittered out of his arms until she was against the back of the brick warehouse. "What are you?"
"You mean, what was I?" he countered. "Oh, have I changed?"
"Your eyes look like a snake's," she reached for her weapon and found her holster empty. She untangled herself from Crowley's coat.
"Hmm, interesting." he ran his tongue over his lips. "Now then, calm down. Tell me what do I look like?'"
"Blimey," she replied, finding her Glock in the dark and aiming it directly at his chest. "Haven't you looked in a mirror lately, mate?"
"Actually, ah," he paused, thinking about it for a moment. "No. Now, what do I look like?"
"Well," she spoke to him in a quiet, slow voice that one used with a child.
"No, no, no, wait!" he exclaimed. "Don't tell me."
Crowley rotated his wrist. Nodding in satisfaction, he shook a leg. Long slender fingers ran over his head, then down his cheeks. "Hmm, two arms, two legs, hair! I'm not bald and I have sideburns," he grinned, then scowled. "Or really, really bad skin. Tell me, uh, Detective," he stopped. "What's your name?"
"Detective Rose Tyler," she answered. She had to admit, that whoever this mad man was, he had great hair. He had really great, tousled and artfully disheveled hair. "Losandres Police Department."
"Rose Tyler," he savored the name of his soulmate on his tongue. "And be honest with me because I'll know. Am I ginger?"
"What sort of nutter are you?" her face scrunched in an expression of disbelief.
"The best kind, I assure you," Crowley grinned. "So, am I ginger?"
"Yes," she slowly rose to her feet, not pointing her Glock at him, but not holstering it either. "You're quite ginger."
"Molto bene!" he hollered, jumping up in the air in victory. "I always wanted to be ginger!"
"What's your name?" Rose asked, keeping a good distance between the black-winged, snake-eyed ginger and the alley opening.
"Anthony J. Crowley."
"Is that a stage name like Alister Crowley?"
"No, God-given, I must admit." Crowley never appreciated his Mother's strange sense of humor.
"So, what are you doing in this neighborhood at this time of night?" she glanced over her shoulder. "Not exactly prime real estate, you know."
"I'm out for a lovely evening stroll?" he offered a question with a question.
"Yeah? Being followed by twelve hooded vigilantes?" she stood akimbo from him, slowly backing toward the alley entrance.
"Might've been," Crowley hedged, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Where are you from?" the Detective asked. "You sound like you're from London."
"Here and there, just passing through, but yet, London, if you like." "You sound like a Londoner yourself, Detective."
"Doesn't matter."
"South Londoner, definitely, by the soft glottal stops when you pronounce your t's," Crowley nodded, circling her as one might as if she were up for auction. "Union Jack shirt which implies distinct homesickness for the UK. The calluses on your hands denote frequent gun usage. Since police don't carry guns in the UK, that means you didn't receive firearms training there. By the way you handle your pistol, I'd say you've been doing it for at three or four years. "
"You think you're so impressive," she scoffed, laughing in spite of herself.
"I am, too, so impressive," he retorted. Damn it. He couldn't stop the flood of words even if he wanted. The demon bit deeply into his lip, waiting for a look of fear or anger or regret to show on Rose's face. "So, what to go have a cuppa, Detective? Tea does a body good. I think we've both had a bit of a rough night and those tannins are just the thing needed to be rid of those stress-induced free radicals-"
"I'm asking the questions here," Rose interrupted Crowley, slowly surveying him. "I have a few of my own,"
"Then ask away, Detective, ask away," he bowed. "Your wish is my command."
"I saw you get shot," she took a tentative step closer to Crowley, gingerly holstering her sidearm. "I saw you bleed, Mr. Crowley."
"Please," his voice dark and low. "Call me Crowley."
"Crowley," Rose continued, reaching out to touch the small black rose tattooed on his right shoulder. "You were shot and you took the hit. I saw you. How do you not have a scratch on you?"
"Ah, the benefits of immortality, Detective," he picked up his sunglasses from the asphalt, wiped the lenses clean with the remnants of his ruined designer shirt and put them on. "Being damned isn't so bad once you get used to it. Regeneration is one of the perks."
"Immortality?" she asked, one brow raising in question. "Hardly."
"No, truly," he assured her. "Formerly demon, now, something else. Still have regenerative properties, apparently."
"Bullshit," she muttered, giving him a long second look."How do I know you? You seem familiar."
"Might we have shagged?" he waggled his eyebrows at her. "If not, we could."
"Shag this, mate," she rolled her eyes and flipped him off. "We're done here. Anthony J. Crowley, I don't deal with demons. You're fine. I must've hit my head. I'm going to forget about you, go home and have a glass of wine. Have a nice life."
"I just saved your life, Detective," his voice held a bit of a whinge. "At least, do me the honor of your company with a cuppa. I know a nice little pub not far from him with the best tea in Losandres."
"Forgot my purse, me," she turned away. "Forget about me, Crowley."
He stood in the alley slack-jawed as she picked up his black suede trench coat and dusted it off before handing it back to him. He took it from her as he shucked on his coat.
"At least, let me walk you home," Anthony exclaimed, jogging to catch up with the Detective. "It's not safe for you to be out this time of night. You need to go to hospital, anyway. And how do you explain those twelve piles of dust?" Crowley pointed with his thumb toward the twelve piles behind him.
She kept walking without looking at him. "If you're a demon, then I'm a trans-dimensional interstellar entity with the power to bring life and death with a wave of my hand. Take the blue pill, Crowley, go home, go to bed and believe whatever you want."
"Ooh, Viagra," he grinned at her.
"Wanker," Rose stopped as she reached the sidewalk. "Or if you keep following me, you'll see just how deep this rabbit hole goes. Go back to your life of telly, booze and bimbos-"
"How do you know I've been drinking?"
"I can smell it on you," she walked to a brown four-door sedan. Opening the driver's side door, she left him gawking at her on the sidewalk. "I have some pretty amazing abilities of my own."
Crowley flipped up the collar of his coat, trying to figure out what he'd say next. He wanted to make a good first impression on his soulmate and this wasn't going the way he had expected at all. Detective Rose Tyler was something more than human, but he just couldn't figure out what. Maybe that was why she was nonchalantly walking away after encountering a demon with amber serpentine eyes.
Still, she appeared human and he didn't want to overwhelm her. Humans were easily overwhelmed and tended to deny or rationalize anything they didn't understanding. Crowley knew that Rose Tyler was, indeed, someone extraordinary and he wanted to get to know her. "That was amazing, Detective, what you did back there. Turning them all to dust."
"It wasn't amazing, mate," she opened the driver's side door. "It was self-preservation."
"Still, amazing," he replied, his voice quiet and deep.
"Excuse me?" she asked, not quite believing his reaction to what had just happened. Lesser men had fainted when she showed even a fraction of her true self.
"What do you desire most in the world, Rose Tyler?" he inflected his voice with a seductive tone that seemed to border on hypnotic. He watched Rose pause with a blank look on her face, blink a few times and purse her lips in contemplation.
"Nice try," she shrugged. "Doesn't work on me. Not human."
"I rather figured that," he leaned on the roof of her car. "Still what do you want? Anything you want. I'll take you anywhere you want to go."
"You know what I want?" she flashed the demon a brilliant smile with a bit of pink tongue peaking through her teeth. "I want chips."
"Chips?" he asked, sliding down his sunglasses to peer at her, amber eyes gleaming in the lamplight. "C'mon, Detective, tea and chips on me."
"Tea and chips," she nodded slowly in agreement, motioning for him to get in the car. "Better with two."
"Ineffably. Allon-sy!"
NOT THE JOURNEY'S END . . .