Miracle Day drabble
This one is for myjedimindtrick who played the game and won. Hope you like it. Sorry it took so long.
Word Count - 3405
Genre: SPN/TW crossover
Pairing: Not really one, gen I suppose
Rated: R for Crowley's dirty, dirty mouth.
Warnings: Bad language, hellhound cuteness
Miracle Day? Fuckin' bloody pain-in-the-arse day more like. Crowley stomped angrily across the warehouse, his discarded knife skittering to a halt somewhere under a pile of broken cardboard boxes.
What kind of demon was he if he couldn't get any bloody souls because the stupid sods couldn't be bothered to die properly? Even letting Fido loose didn't have any effect. Poor sausage just sniffed at the bodies and then gave Crowley the big puppy eyes. Currently his favourite hell hound was curled up in a corner, licking at his paws, looking sad and confused.
Same as Crowley really, except replace sad with totally, sodding pissed off. He gave the body another glance. It was beginning to reek a bit, copper stink of blood, darker smells of shit and piss. Eyes rolled in the sockets, the demon trapped inside trying desperately to plead with Crowley. Wasn't going to do him much good, since his tongue was currently ten feet away from his mouth.
Crowley spat on the floor and clicked his fingers. Fido ambled over, leaning his heavy, horned head against Crowley's hip. Crowley rubbed his fingers along the arch of exposed bone over one of the hound's eyes, itching at the scaled skin beneath. Sulphurous breath panted out as the hound whined in pleasure, forked tongue lolling out between rows of serrated teeth.
The two turned and strolled out of the warehouse, leaving the mess of blood and tissue behind. Just outside Crowley stopped to light a cigarette, sucking in a deep lungful of nicotine and tar before tossing the still burning match behind him.
There is a soft noise, the sound of air being sucked in towards an empty space before a blossoming heat rolled past him carrying a wordless scream and the smell of cooking flesh. Finally, Crowley's mouth curled in a small smile. He was going to find out who started this whole sodding mess and then, once he got them to fix it, he was going to take his time killing them.
---II---
He knew it would have nothing to do with the Winchesters - they were finding the whole thing as weird as he was. Same with the angels. They were just as ticked off as Crowley with the whole 'lack of souls' thing. No, this had somebody else's stench all over it. And Crowley had a good idea exactly who that was.
Unfortunately, Cardiff was a complete dead end. The Hub a barren hole, everything gone, emptied out. He tracked down a woman, her scent was all over the place, mixed with 'his' and loverboy's. Found another empty house. A home - baby things, socks on the floor, half empty bottle of wine. But no people.
The hell hounds were having a great time running up and down the beach, snapping at the white foam that crested the eternal roll of the sea. Crowley took a deep lungful of the salty sea air, almost like home. He let his eyes slip closed, just for a moment, an instance of memory. Dark lashes lifted and he shivered his skin, almost echoing the hounds as they shed the cold, briny water.
This wasn't home, not any more. Home was where you made it and his was a lot warmer than this. He kicked at the sand with his $300 loafers and, whistling for the pups, headed back to the airport to fly home. Once he got there though he realised that all the players were now back, somewhere on this tiny island.
---II---
Crowley could smell him as soon as he got into the airport. That distinctive mix of wool and gun oil and age. He'd been here, and not that long ago. But it wasn't here where the whole stupid thing had started. Crowley had had people working on it as soon as the proverbial had hit the rotating blades.
But tall, dark and annoying was involved somehow and if it gave Crowley a reason to go yell at him again, who was he to turn down such an opportunity. He walked slowly through the concourse working on his plan. He did like airports; the stench of despair from delayed flights, the guilt from returning husbands who enjoyed a little pleasure with their business trips, greed and avarice fed by the luxury shops, panic and fear and the underlying buzz of general displeasure from those working there without recognition or thanks.
A brief tickle ran down his spine and he turned to look at the man sprawled out on one of the seats that filled the main floor of the airport. His pale grey eyes raked up and down Crowley's form and he smiled, slow and lascivious. Crowley turned away and took another step before he turned back and walked slowly over.
The man shifted slightly, knees falling away from each other as he managed to make the hard plastic seats look like the most comfortable thing you could imagine. Crowley took in the length of leg encased in what looked like a grand's worth of wool suit trousers, the slender but muscled chest under the pale grey silk shirt. He smiled slowly, dark eyes showing his interest.
He leaned in, placing his hands on the armrests to either side of the young man. Warm scent of lust and greed mixed with...mmm Boss Bottled...very nice. Crowley watched as the young man's eyes fluttered closed, a shiver tracking over the pale skin. And he was aware of Crowley's power too. Very interesting.
“I'm a touch busy just now, places to go, people to kill. But I'll see you real soon.” Crowley murmured gently. The soft lips just inches away from his curved in another slow smile and long fingers wrapped around one of Crowley's wrists, uncurling his fingers from the chair and slipping a business card into his hands.
“I look forward to it.” With a soft movement the man was suddenly standing beside Crowley, close enough that Crowley could feel breath tickle the fine hairs on the back of his neck. “Mmmm, that's my flight. I'll see you around.”
Crowley was almost tempted for a moment to forget all about the inconvenience of Miracle Day and follow the little slut, but he tucked the card into his breast pocket and dragged his eyes away from the slight sway of slim hips. Business first, pleasure later.
Yet another reason to smack the annoying Jack Harkness around for a while.
---II---
It was surprisingly easy to track Harkness down. Being the only person who could die in the whole world made his soul shine like a Beltane fire. The only hard part was getting to where he was. Crowley was a bit low on usable power just now. Obviously, all the souls that were already in Hell were fine, but they were tied up, a thirty day notice account if you will.
Usually he took his power from the souls that were on their way to being damned. Everyone who made a deal, all those petty little bugs who thought their soul was such a tiny little thing to give up, well worth a bigger office or bigger breasts.
But since they weren't dying, the power flow was cut off. Crowley sighed, and made his way over to the waiting rank of taxis. He'd just have to travel the old-fashioned way.
“Excuse me.” He tapped the shoulder of the man just entering a very nice limo. The man turned round, frown already creasing his brow. He brushed at the shoulder of his Armani suit, as if Crowley had contaminated it with his touch.
“What? I don't know you. Fu -“
“Nice suit. Shame about the blood on it.” Crowley cut the man off, mid-curse.
“What blood? Where? Goddammit!” The man twisted, staring down at the grey silk, fingers tracking across the material worriedly. Crowley wrapped his fingers around the back of the man's skull and bounced his head off of the roof of the car. The man's nose cracked, blood running from it, mixing with the blood that ran from his mouth where he had bitten his tongue.
Red droplets spattered down on to the grey silk.
“That blood.” Crowley smirked and pushed the man away from the car, already forgotten before his ass hit the pavement. He slid into the limo and met the driver's eyes in the rear-view mirror. Crowley concentrated for a moment and then smiled.
“Head towards Swansea. I'll tell you where to go. The driver nodded, slipping the car into drive and pulling easily into traffic. Crowley looked around the interior of the car and spotted a small bar. He opened it up and pulled out the half-sized decanter, eyeing the amber liquid inside. He removed the stopper and inhaled, another smile settled across his face as he poured a couple of fingers of a very nice whisky into a glass. His day was looking up.
---II---
Ordinarily, Crowley would have found the camps interesting; a little reminder of home, other periods in history when man's inhumanity to man had souls pouring into both Heaven and Hell. The sheer number of deals he'd managed to make in those five years alone had bumped him seriously up Hell's hierarchy. But, once again, he was one step behind Harkness and his pretty, little Welsh chippy.
He'd made a note of the American male, dark skin slicked with sweat from the constant pain he was in. He was far too nosy, got to be involved somehow. Crowley sent Cerce to watch him, the Hellhound bitch staring back at him hopefully, head drooping when Crowley shook his head firmly at her.
“Just watch him darlin'. We'll get you all some tasty souls soon, Daddy promises,” he cooed at her.
He followed the trail. Jack and Gwen aren't exactly subtle, attracting all kinds of attention. But then suddenly they all disappeared. None of them are in Wales any more and Crowley cursed, long and fluently.
He looked for Cerce, reaching for the small part of him connected to her, seeing through her multi-faceted eyes. She was definitely not in Wales, in fact she was on the other side of the world, somewhere around Buenos Aires, feeling bereft and confused, following Rex.
Why are they there? What on Earth is in Buenos Aires and where is Jack? Crowley sank back into the pile of pillows he'd stacked up on the hotel bed, thinking. He needed data and he needed it now. Sliding off the bed he slipped back into his loafers and straightened his tie, fastened the buttons on his jacket and exited the hotel room.
It only took a couple of doors before he found what he wanted. The man opened the door, tie loose around his neck, shirt buttons undone to reveal greying chest hair. The hair on his head was receding towards his back, his paunch straining the button on his slacks. Crowley knows him for what he is straight away - a damned soul.
Crowley smiled politely.
“Excuse me, but may I borrow your laptop?” His tone is achingly proper, an eyebrow delicately arched in enquiry. The other man just scowled, fist clenching at his side.
“What the fuck? What? Who goes around knocking on hotel doors asking to borrow someone's laptop? Do I look like a fucking internet café to you?” The man went to shut the door in Crowley's face. Crowley laughed, a soft chuckle that grew and swelled, revealing even white teeth, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“No, you know what you do look like though?” Crowley's question is almost metaphorical as he wrapped a hand around the man's throat, lifting him bodily. “A dead man.”
“Fuck you, man. You can't kill me, no one can kill me. Nobody dies, don't you read the papers? He laughed and choked and Crowley grinned wider.
“Oh you'll die all right. As soon as I find Jack and sort out this mess, you and me,“ Crowley shook the man, as if for emphasis, “we're gonna have some fun.” He leant in, sniffing ostentatiously at the man's neck, inhaling the scent of sweat and fear and cheap alcohol. He dropped the man to the floor, kicking him hard in the stomach, watching the body almost fold around his foot. Crowley stepped over him and lifted the laptop from the man's bed, glancing at the screen.
He shook his head slowly, sucking air in through his teeth before letting it out on a long sigh. “Oh, we have all kinds of special fun things reserved for people like you.” He leant down again, almost nose to nose with the now quivering mass of flesh.
“I know exactly who you are William, and I know where you live. We're gonna see each other again real soon, Billy boy.” Crowley straightened up, smile widening, revealing far too many teeth. “I'll even let you play with the puppies.” The man's eyes widened as small snapping snarls came from around Crowley's feet, the feel of tiny, invisible claws sinking into his legs bringing a scream to his throat.
Crowley waggled his fingers in a gesture of farewell and left the room. It's a long painful, moment before a whistle sounded and tiny fangs tore themselves from the man's shaking body, blood welling and dripping, sinking into the carpet as William curled up in a ball and rocked slowly, words descending into babble, into snot and drool.
The maid found him like that the next morning and phoned the police who took him to one of the detention centres.
Crowley went back to his room and coughed slightly, a small trail of black smoke trickling from his throat and oozing down to the laptop, where it slid in through the USB port. The screen flickered and stuttered, red text scrolling rapidly up the screen before it settled on a log-in screen.
Crowley typed in his name, which involved several uses of the Alt key to insert special symbols and a complicated six-fingered simultaneous button push. He scrolled through several screens until he found what he was looking for. A list of strange occurrences in Buenos Aires. A list that also matches events in Shanghai.
Crowley put both locations into Google Earth and stared at the resulting screen for a long moment. Well, if Rex is in Buenos Aires, it looks like he is making a trip to Shanghai. Which is going to be problematic, considering the way China is currently locked down and the fact that he is running very short of time.
He was going to have to take a short-cut. He hated having to take a short cut. Growling, Crowley summoned up Puppy. The giant hellhound appeared and nearly bowled him over with his enthusiastic greeting. Crowley patted his scaled skin and settled him down, rubbing at the bare skin on his neck, the hanging wattle under his chin.
“Now Puppy, Daddy's going to have to take a trip. Unfortunately, due to certain circumstances caused by a certain someone, Daddy is going to have to leave his vessel here. I want you to guard it.”
The hound whuffed loudly, the smell of sulphur and burning flesh filling the room. Crowley sliced his palm open, letting the blood well up before he started painting small sigils on the door and the window. He also painted one on each wall, slicing into his hand again to re-open the wound.
He sat down on the bed and Puppy came over, leaning his heavy, horned head onto Crowley's thigh, forked tongue licking at his master's hand. Crowley coughed. He disliked having to do this but, cut off as he is, transporting his vessel is just too hard, he's going to have to travel the old fashioned way.
He coughed again, and a small trickle of black smoke curled from between his lips. He let his head fall back and felt the odd sensation of pulling himself out of his body. It's like removing a hand from a glove, except he's pulling out of a whole body glove, turning himself inside out.
It tickled and itched and was just on the edge of painful as he removed himself from his vessel. Curling in the air Crowley observed, mute and senseless as his vessel collapsed back onto the bed. Puppy watched as the smoke swirled and coalesced into a column that arrowed up into the air before it turned and punched down through the floor.
It's been a long time since Crowley travelled without his vessel and the lack of form leaves him feeling oddly vulnerable; yet another thing to add to the list of reasons he has to inflict pain on Jack bloody Harkness.
He zipped through Hell, could almost see the expanding ripple around him as minor demons rushed to get out of his way. He could certainly hear the rising buzz of fear and worry-laden gossip as they all tried to work out why he was here and who was about to get punished. The air filled with screams and sobbing cries as demons redoubled their efforts.
He knows he's nearing his destination when the demons below him begin to change form, faces flattening, mouths widening to reveal rows of square teeth. Horns multiply and shift around hair pulled into top knots. The Chinese always were more dramatic in their depictions of demons.
Crowley arrowed up again, the whole trip having taken less than a minute. He spiralled out into the chill night air, mixing with the eddies of steam from laundrettes, the fragrant air pumping from the countless restaurants and take-away food stalls. He wanted a vessel, someone strong, handsome too of course.
He followed the undefinable pull towards a blocked off building site, narrowing his attention on a security guard standing watch at the top of a lift shaft. He pulled up, coiling his form around and around, preparing to push himself into his unsuspecting victim.
It comes then, a muffled sound, almost on the edge of hearing. A single gunshot. Time seemed to pause around him, the whole universe caught between one breath and the next. There was another sound, a faint exhalation, the dull smack of flesh meeting concrete.
Crowley shivered in the air, his essence almost boiling as power suddenly gushed into him. It stuffed him full, pushing and shoving at him, trying to get inside, as souls that had been trapped in their mortal bodies were freed all at once, making the trip to heaven or to hell.
He shuddered and roiled, glowing, an almost incandescent black hole against the night sky, as he was forced to take and take the energy rushing through him. If he had his vessel he would be coming uncontrollably, body shaking, torn apart by aching pulses and spirals of painful pleasure.
The mere thought of his vessel had it appearing in the space below him and he poured himself into its familiar confines, filling it to the brim, mouth opening in a long groan of pleasure as tremors wracked him, leaving him shuddering, his hand pushed against his aching cock, other hand shoved up against his mouth to stifle his moans of delight.
Finally, the rush began to ebb and Crowley sagged against the wall, spent and sore, mouth curved in a grin, dark eyes hidden. He could hear the sound of the lift groaning to life, could feel the shaking of the earth beneath his feet, but he was almost too blissed out to move.
The doors opened and dusty figures stumbled out. He recognised the tall form of Jack Harkness, but after what he just went through, Crowley didn't have the energy to do anything. He just let his eyes rake up and down the figure, leered at the long length of leg, the broad chest under a now rather dishevelled shirt.
He grinned, languid and sated. As Jack met his eyes, he ran a hand down over the immaculate line of his shirt, cupped himself through the dampening wool of his trousers.
“I owe you one, Jacky boy. I'll see you around.” He pursed his lips and blew a kiss at Jack's confused expression before he took himself home. Now that all is well with the world he has a grey-eyed stranger to hunt down.
Word Count - 3405
Genre: SPN/TW crossover
Pairing: Not really one, gen I suppose
Rated: R for Crowley's dirty, dirty mouth.
Warnings: Bad language, hellhound cuteness
Miracle Day? Fuckin' bloody pain-in-the-arse day more like. Crowley stomped angrily across the warehouse, his discarded knife skittering to a halt somewhere under a pile of broken cardboard boxes.
What kind of demon was he if he couldn't get any bloody souls because the stupid sods couldn't be bothered to die properly? Even letting Fido loose didn't have any effect. Poor sausage just sniffed at the bodies and then gave Crowley the big puppy eyes. Currently his favourite hell hound was curled up in a corner, licking at his paws, looking sad and confused.
Same as Crowley really, except replace sad with totally, sodding pissed off. He gave the body another glance. It was beginning to reek a bit, copper stink of blood, darker smells of shit and piss. Eyes rolled in the sockets, the demon trapped inside trying desperately to plead with Crowley. Wasn't going to do him much good, since his tongue was currently ten feet away from his mouth.
Crowley spat on the floor and clicked his fingers. Fido ambled over, leaning his heavy, horned head against Crowley's hip. Crowley rubbed his fingers along the arch of exposed bone over one of the hound's eyes, itching at the scaled skin beneath. Sulphurous breath panted out as the hound whined in pleasure, forked tongue lolling out between rows of serrated teeth.
The two turned and strolled out of the warehouse, leaving the mess of blood and tissue behind. Just outside Crowley stopped to light a cigarette, sucking in a deep lungful of nicotine and tar before tossing the still burning match behind him.
There is a soft noise, the sound of air being sucked in towards an empty space before a blossoming heat rolled past him carrying a wordless scream and the smell of cooking flesh. Finally, Crowley's mouth curled in a small smile. He was going to find out who started this whole sodding mess and then, once he got them to fix it, he was going to take his time killing them.
---II---
He knew it would have nothing to do with the Winchesters - they were finding the whole thing as weird as he was. Same with the angels. They were just as ticked off as Crowley with the whole 'lack of souls' thing. No, this had somebody else's stench all over it. And Crowley had a good idea exactly who that was.
Unfortunately, Cardiff was a complete dead end. The Hub a barren hole, everything gone, emptied out. He tracked down a woman, her scent was all over the place, mixed with 'his' and loverboy's. Found another empty house. A home - baby things, socks on the floor, half empty bottle of wine. But no people.
The hell hounds were having a great time running up and down the beach, snapping at the white foam that crested the eternal roll of the sea. Crowley took a deep lungful of the salty sea air, almost like home. He let his eyes slip closed, just for a moment, an instance of memory. Dark lashes lifted and he shivered his skin, almost echoing the hounds as they shed the cold, briny water.
This wasn't home, not any more. Home was where you made it and his was a lot warmer than this. He kicked at the sand with his $300 loafers and, whistling for the pups, headed back to the airport to fly home. Once he got there though he realised that all the players were now back, somewhere on this tiny island.
---II---
Crowley could smell him as soon as he got into the airport. That distinctive mix of wool and gun oil and age. He'd been here, and not that long ago. But it wasn't here where the whole stupid thing had started. Crowley had had people working on it as soon as the proverbial had hit the rotating blades.
But tall, dark and annoying was involved somehow and if it gave Crowley a reason to go yell at him again, who was he to turn down such an opportunity. He walked slowly through the concourse working on his plan. He did like airports; the stench of despair from delayed flights, the guilt from returning husbands who enjoyed a little pleasure with their business trips, greed and avarice fed by the luxury shops, panic and fear and the underlying buzz of general displeasure from those working there without recognition or thanks.
A brief tickle ran down his spine and he turned to look at the man sprawled out on one of the seats that filled the main floor of the airport. His pale grey eyes raked up and down Crowley's form and he smiled, slow and lascivious. Crowley turned away and took another step before he turned back and walked slowly over.
The man shifted slightly, knees falling away from each other as he managed to make the hard plastic seats look like the most comfortable thing you could imagine. Crowley took in the length of leg encased in what looked like a grand's worth of wool suit trousers, the slender but muscled chest under the pale grey silk shirt. He smiled slowly, dark eyes showing his interest.
He leaned in, placing his hands on the armrests to either side of the young man. Warm scent of lust and greed mixed with...mmm Boss Bottled...very nice. Crowley watched as the young man's eyes fluttered closed, a shiver tracking over the pale skin. And he was aware of Crowley's power too. Very interesting.
“I'm a touch busy just now, places to go, people to kill. But I'll see you real soon.” Crowley murmured gently. The soft lips just inches away from his curved in another slow smile and long fingers wrapped around one of Crowley's wrists, uncurling his fingers from the chair and slipping a business card into his hands.
“I look forward to it.” With a soft movement the man was suddenly standing beside Crowley, close enough that Crowley could feel breath tickle the fine hairs on the back of his neck. “Mmmm, that's my flight. I'll see you around.”
Crowley was almost tempted for a moment to forget all about the inconvenience of Miracle Day and follow the little slut, but he tucked the card into his breast pocket and dragged his eyes away from the slight sway of slim hips. Business first, pleasure later.
Yet another reason to smack the annoying Jack Harkness around for a while.
---II---
It was surprisingly easy to track Harkness down. Being the only person who could die in the whole world made his soul shine like a Beltane fire. The only hard part was getting to where he was. Crowley was a bit low on usable power just now. Obviously, all the souls that were already in Hell were fine, but they were tied up, a thirty day notice account if you will.
Usually he took his power from the souls that were on their way to being damned. Everyone who made a deal, all those petty little bugs who thought their soul was such a tiny little thing to give up, well worth a bigger office or bigger breasts.
But since they weren't dying, the power flow was cut off. Crowley sighed, and made his way over to the waiting rank of taxis. He'd just have to travel the old-fashioned way.
“Excuse me.” He tapped the shoulder of the man just entering a very nice limo. The man turned round, frown already creasing his brow. He brushed at the shoulder of his Armani suit, as if Crowley had contaminated it with his touch.
“What? I don't know you. Fu -“
“Nice suit. Shame about the blood on it.” Crowley cut the man off, mid-curse.
“What blood? Where? Goddammit!” The man twisted, staring down at the grey silk, fingers tracking across the material worriedly. Crowley wrapped his fingers around the back of the man's skull and bounced his head off of the roof of the car. The man's nose cracked, blood running from it, mixing with the blood that ran from his mouth where he had bitten his tongue.
Red droplets spattered down on to the grey silk.
“That blood.” Crowley smirked and pushed the man away from the car, already forgotten before his ass hit the pavement. He slid into the limo and met the driver's eyes in the rear-view mirror. Crowley concentrated for a moment and then smiled.
“Head towards Swansea. I'll tell you where to go. The driver nodded, slipping the car into drive and pulling easily into traffic. Crowley looked around the interior of the car and spotted a small bar. He opened it up and pulled out the half-sized decanter, eyeing the amber liquid inside. He removed the stopper and inhaled, another smile settled across his face as he poured a couple of fingers of a very nice whisky into a glass. His day was looking up.
---II---
Ordinarily, Crowley would have found the camps interesting; a little reminder of home, other periods in history when man's inhumanity to man had souls pouring into both Heaven and Hell. The sheer number of deals he'd managed to make in those five years alone had bumped him seriously up Hell's hierarchy. But, once again, he was one step behind Harkness and his pretty, little Welsh chippy.
He'd made a note of the American male, dark skin slicked with sweat from the constant pain he was in. He was far too nosy, got to be involved somehow. Crowley sent Cerce to watch him, the Hellhound bitch staring back at him hopefully, head drooping when Crowley shook his head firmly at her.
“Just watch him darlin'. We'll get you all some tasty souls soon, Daddy promises,” he cooed at her.
He followed the trail. Jack and Gwen aren't exactly subtle, attracting all kinds of attention. But then suddenly they all disappeared. None of them are in Wales any more and Crowley cursed, long and fluently.
He looked for Cerce, reaching for the small part of him connected to her, seeing through her multi-faceted eyes. She was definitely not in Wales, in fact she was on the other side of the world, somewhere around Buenos Aires, feeling bereft and confused, following Rex.
Why are they there? What on Earth is in Buenos Aires and where is Jack? Crowley sank back into the pile of pillows he'd stacked up on the hotel bed, thinking. He needed data and he needed it now. Sliding off the bed he slipped back into his loafers and straightened his tie, fastened the buttons on his jacket and exited the hotel room.
It only took a couple of doors before he found what he wanted. The man opened the door, tie loose around his neck, shirt buttons undone to reveal greying chest hair. The hair on his head was receding towards his back, his paunch straining the button on his slacks. Crowley knows him for what he is straight away - a damned soul.
Crowley smiled politely.
“Excuse me, but may I borrow your laptop?” His tone is achingly proper, an eyebrow delicately arched in enquiry. The other man just scowled, fist clenching at his side.
“What the fuck? What? Who goes around knocking on hotel doors asking to borrow someone's laptop? Do I look like a fucking internet café to you?” The man went to shut the door in Crowley's face. Crowley laughed, a soft chuckle that grew and swelled, revealing even white teeth, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“No, you know what you do look like though?” Crowley's question is almost metaphorical as he wrapped a hand around the man's throat, lifting him bodily. “A dead man.”
“Fuck you, man. You can't kill me, no one can kill me. Nobody dies, don't you read the papers? He laughed and choked and Crowley grinned wider.
“Oh you'll die all right. As soon as I find Jack and sort out this mess, you and me,“ Crowley shook the man, as if for emphasis, “we're gonna have some fun.” He leant in, sniffing ostentatiously at the man's neck, inhaling the scent of sweat and fear and cheap alcohol. He dropped the man to the floor, kicking him hard in the stomach, watching the body almost fold around his foot. Crowley stepped over him and lifted the laptop from the man's bed, glancing at the screen.
He shook his head slowly, sucking air in through his teeth before letting it out on a long sigh. “Oh, we have all kinds of special fun things reserved for people like you.” He leant down again, almost nose to nose with the now quivering mass of flesh.
“I know exactly who you are William, and I know where you live. We're gonna see each other again real soon, Billy boy.” Crowley straightened up, smile widening, revealing far too many teeth. “I'll even let you play with the puppies.” The man's eyes widened as small snapping snarls came from around Crowley's feet, the feel of tiny, invisible claws sinking into his legs bringing a scream to his throat.
Crowley waggled his fingers in a gesture of farewell and left the room. It's a long painful, moment before a whistle sounded and tiny fangs tore themselves from the man's shaking body, blood welling and dripping, sinking into the carpet as William curled up in a ball and rocked slowly, words descending into babble, into snot and drool.
The maid found him like that the next morning and phoned the police who took him to one of the detention centres.
Crowley went back to his room and coughed slightly, a small trail of black smoke trickling from his throat and oozing down to the laptop, where it slid in through the USB port. The screen flickered and stuttered, red text scrolling rapidly up the screen before it settled on a log-in screen.
Crowley typed in his name, which involved several uses of the Alt key to insert special symbols and a complicated six-fingered simultaneous button push. He scrolled through several screens until he found what he was looking for. A list of strange occurrences in Buenos Aires. A list that also matches events in Shanghai.
Crowley put both locations into Google Earth and stared at the resulting screen for a long moment. Well, if Rex is in Buenos Aires, it looks like he is making a trip to Shanghai. Which is going to be problematic, considering the way China is currently locked down and the fact that he is running very short of time.
He was going to have to take a short-cut. He hated having to take a short cut. Growling, Crowley summoned up Puppy. The giant hellhound appeared and nearly bowled him over with his enthusiastic greeting. Crowley patted his scaled skin and settled him down, rubbing at the bare skin on his neck, the hanging wattle under his chin.
“Now Puppy, Daddy's going to have to take a trip. Unfortunately, due to certain circumstances caused by a certain someone, Daddy is going to have to leave his vessel here. I want you to guard it.”
The hound whuffed loudly, the smell of sulphur and burning flesh filling the room. Crowley sliced his palm open, letting the blood well up before he started painting small sigils on the door and the window. He also painted one on each wall, slicing into his hand again to re-open the wound.
He sat down on the bed and Puppy came over, leaning his heavy, horned head onto Crowley's thigh, forked tongue licking at his master's hand. Crowley coughed. He disliked having to do this but, cut off as he is, transporting his vessel is just too hard, he's going to have to travel the old fashioned way.
He coughed again, and a small trickle of black smoke curled from between his lips. He let his head fall back and felt the odd sensation of pulling himself out of his body. It's like removing a hand from a glove, except he's pulling out of a whole body glove, turning himself inside out.
It tickled and itched and was just on the edge of painful as he removed himself from his vessel. Curling in the air Crowley observed, mute and senseless as his vessel collapsed back onto the bed. Puppy watched as the smoke swirled and coalesced into a column that arrowed up into the air before it turned and punched down through the floor.
It's been a long time since Crowley travelled without his vessel and the lack of form leaves him feeling oddly vulnerable; yet another thing to add to the list of reasons he has to inflict pain on Jack bloody Harkness.
He zipped through Hell, could almost see the expanding ripple around him as minor demons rushed to get out of his way. He could certainly hear the rising buzz of fear and worry-laden gossip as they all tried to work out why he was here and who was about to get punished. The air filled with screams and sobbing cries as demons redoubled their efforts.
He knows he's nearing his destination when the demons below him begin to change form, faces flattening, mouths widening to reveal rows of square teeth. Horns multiply and shift around hair pulled into top knots. The Chinese always were more dramatic in their depictions of demons.
Crowley arrowed up again, the whole trip having taken less than a minute. He spiralled out into the chill night air, mixing with the eddies of steam from laundrettes, the fragrant air pumping from the countless restaurants and take-away food stalls. He wanted a vessel, someone strong, handsome too of course.
He followed the undefinable pull towards a blocked off building site, narrowing his attention on a security guard standing watch at the top of a lift shaft. He pulled up, coiling his form around and around, preparing to push himself into his unsuspecting victim.
It comes then, a muffled sound, almost on the edge of hearing. A single gunshot. Time seemed to pause around him, the whole universe caught between one breath and the next. There was another sound, a faint exhalation, the dull smack of flesh meeting concrete.
Crowley shivered in the air, his essence almost boiling as power suddenly gushed into him. It stuffed him full, pushing and shoving at him, trying to get inside, as souls that had been trapped in their mortal bodies were freed all at once, making the trip to heaven or to hell.
He shuddered and roiled, glowing, an almost incandescent black hole against the night sky, as he was forced to take and take the energy rushing through him. If he had his vessel he would be coming uncontrollably, body shaking, torn apart by aching pulses and spirals of painful pleasure.
The mere thought of his vessel had it appearing in the space below him and he poured himself into its familiar confines, filling it to the brim, mouth opening in a long groan of pleasure as tremors wracked him, leaving him shuddering, his hand pushed against his aching cock, other hand shoved up against his mouth to stifle his moans of delight.
Finally, the rush began to ebb and Crowley sagged against the wall, spent and sore, mouth curved in a grin, dark eyes hidden. He could hear the sound of the lift groaning to life, could feel the shaking of the earth beneath his feet, but he was almost too blissed out to move.
The doors opened and dusty figures stumbled out. He recognised the tall form of Jack Harkness, but after what he just went through, Crowley didn't have the energy to do anything. He just let his eyes rake up and down the figure, leered at the long length of leg, the broad chest under a now rather dishevelled shirt.
He grinned, languid and sated. As Jack met his eyes, he ran a hand down over the immaculate line of his shirt, cupped himself through the dampening wool of his trousers.
“I owe you one, Jacky boy. I'll see you around.” He pursed his lips and blew a kiss at Jack's confused expression before he took himself home. Now that all is well with the world he has a grey-eyed stranger to hunt down.