Prompt: moriarty and crowley are bffs
The first time Crowley was summoned by Jim Moriarty (age six and a half) he was not impressed.
"Look," he explained, "you've mixed up the sigils here and here, and these runes cancel each other out, you're not going to keep anything in a circle like that. See?" He crossed the circle, taking care to step on the wavering lines and smudge them as he passed. "And the crossroads? Completely unnecessary. Nice try, though."
Jim did something complicated with his mouth that was possibly – probably – most definitely a pout. "Didn't want you anyway," he sulked. "Wanted Aleister Crowley."
Crowley sputtered. "That second-rate magician? He didn't have a single idea I didn't give him."
"Go away unless you're going to give me a pony," Jim said.
"Fine!" Crowley snapped. "Kids these days," he muttered, and instantly reappeared in a bookshop in Soho, prepared to forget about the whole thing.
"Somebody's sake, not you again!"
Jim grinned broadly, showing two missing front teeth. "Well? Did I get the runes right this time?"
Crowley scowled at his feet. "Yeah," he admitted grudgingly after a moment. "But if you're still trying for that hack, you're going about it all wrong, this is specifically a demon summoning circle."
"I didn't really want to talk to Aleister Crowley," Jim said, waving a hand. "Pft. Dead occultist or genuine demon? Come on. I was just disappointed. I mean, you don't look very demonic."
"Let me guess," Crowley sighed. "You were expecting tails, horns... pitchforks?"
"At least a whiff of sulphur," Jim said, apparently completely unashamed that his love of cliché was showing. Well, he was eight, Crowley supposed, he could probably let it go this once. Surely he'd learn. "Maybe black eyes like a shark? Nice and creepy."
"Sure," Crowley drawled. "And maybe I'll disappear in a puff of smoke if you use the right Latin."
"Really?"
Crowley rolled his eyes - not that the expression was visible, hidden behind sunglasses, but it was the principle of the thing. He'd say Hollywood had a lot to explain, but since he'd been responsible in the first place... "No," he said. "Sorry to disappoint." He stepped out of the circle with a sigh. "I hope you've at least got wine this time?"
"I thought you said I got the runes right?" Jim demanded.
"You did," Crowley shrugged. "But your circles still need work." He grinned at Jim's annoyed look. "I'm hardly going to tell you how to keep me here, am I? You're annoying enough just summoning me every six months or so. At least you're not bothering with crossroads any more. So," he flung himself into the nearest seat. "What have you been up to?"
"Look, Jim, I like you and everything, you're a nasty little chap, but if you keep summoning me when I'm in the shower, I'm getting a restraining order. I'm warning you – I've got my pick of lawyers."
"Sorry," Jim drawled. He didn't look very sorry at all.
Crowley scowled and conjured up a suit. "Bloody teenage hormones."
"I'm just saying," Crowley said, "criminal mastermind might not have been the right thing to tell your careers advice counsellor. I applaud your ambition, of course, but-"
Fine," Jim snapped. "I'll just get rid of the problem myself shall I?"
"Let's not be hasty," Crowley said quickly, "There's plenty of evil careers advice counsellors can do, crushing of dreams and all that. I tell you what, I'll remove all memory of the incident, and you practise your lying so that the next time someone asks you if you're joking, they'll believe you when you say yes, okay?"
"Sure," Jim said brightly.
Crowley had a sneaking suspicion he'd been played.
"Are you even allowed to be in here?" Crowley said as he sauntered up to the bar, waving a hand at the surrounding pub.
"Sorry to disappoint, but yes." Jim said. "I'm at university now, Crowley – I'm supposed to live here."
"Oh," Crowley said. "Well, mine's a bourbon, I get the feeling I'm going to need it. I usually do after five minutes with you."
"You love me really," Jim said, smirking.
"You're good for a laugh," Crowley said idly, keeping an eye on the pavement outside – and how many passers-by tried to pick up the coins he'd glued there. "Come on, how's the criminal empire coming along? I hope you're better at that than you are at demon summoning."
"You keep coming when I call, don't you?"
"True. And now you can buy me drinks." He raised his glass in salute. "It all works out in the end."
"Crowley, I've met the love of my life!"
"How did you get this number?"
"His name's Sherlock Holmes, he's a consulting detective – it's the exact opposite of me, isn't that wonderful? – and he's sooo smart and-"
"It's three fucking a.m."
"Crowley, what do I do? How can I make him like me?" The 'without drugs or Stockholm Syndrome' went unsaid.
Crowley thought about giving terrible advice before remembering there was nothing he could think of that Jim wouldn't do on his own, and worse.
"Mn. Okay, look, first things first: no explosives. Second: no explosives. Most people are put off, alright, no matter what you think. Strangers are okay, love interests – not so much. Find something in common. Dress smart. Conceal the crazy until it's too late. And finally: call me at this time in the morning again and I will strand you on the M25. I'm serious."
"See you at the Rose and Crown?"
Criminal mastermind or not, Crowley reflected, Jim could do an absolutely astonishing imitation of a hopeful puppy, guaranteed to melt the unwary into a puddle of helpless goo. That he could repeat the feat over the phone was surely a talent worthy of positive reinforcement.
"Sure, whatever."