That meme!

Comment with a character, and I will tell you what-all Crowley makes of them. If you have a preference for future!Crowley or present!Crowley, say so - otherwise I will just go with... whichever one I feel like.

    From: XXX.XXX-XX.XX-XXX.86502 ( Read more... )

Crowley left his coat and scarf, but there's no snow outside. Even terraformed, Londinium is a central planet, close to the sun; its winters tend to be mild. So there's no snow outside. It's only dark, and cold, and Crowley's back, black-clad and ram-rod straight, is hard to spot at first, but for the noise of him crunching swiftly and stiffly over ( Read more... )

Crowley sleeps well enough on the plane; the flight is long, and first class is quiet, and almost empty. There aren't so many people coming out this way at the moment. He refuses the complimentary newspapers. He's seen too much of that headline. That's sort of the point ( Read more... )

The Green Dragon docking gates in Londinium Port are nearly always busy; few enough carriers make the long haul in from the Rim without layovers, and Green Dragon have a reliable patronage amongst those with somewhere to be - or somewhere to be away from - in a hurry ( Read more... )

The setting: Crowley's place on Londinium, first rented in order to facilitate making the right friends and influencing the right people (and whispering in the right ears) in the weeks preceding the vote on the IIGA. Which function then evolved, following its success in the senate, into doing much the same thing in order to secure, for Bentley ( Read more... )

Hiss.

The sound of one of Serenity's lesser airlocks swinging shut ( Read more... )

It only made sense, once Crowley'd found out just who was behind the omnipresent name and strangly elusive face of Nicolas Rosse. No direct infiltration, of course - even Crowley isn't that stupid. But if he'd perhaps known a nephew of a son of a family friend, recently moved to the Core and short of work, and if he'd maybe talked to some people ( Read more... )

The sound of Crowley thudding into the brick wall on the opposite side of the alleyway is almost exactly in time with that of the door to Milliways slamming shut behind him.

Which is a good thing, really, because he bounces.

"..." he says finally, from somewhere between Raguel's elbow, his own wing, and the ground.

The drive to York had gone quicker than it might; the roads had been curiously empty for a weekend, and Crowley had taken great pleasure (leaning back in the wide leather seats, and smiling like a snake) in gunning the Bentley down the highways at a full throttle well over the speed limit. Aziraphael, intent on listing out book dealers to visit - ( Read more... )