R&R please. This isn't really a first draft, but it was done over several days with very little sleep and a lot of stress. It's a bit of a taster, and I'd like constructive criticism and ideas. And please Gods give me a better title o_O I know it's not desperately original, but the idea of Crowley as a human's been knocking around in my head for about ten years now, so I figured it was about time I put it down on paper.
Disclaimer:Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett's. Not mine.
Changes
Prologue
The wind picked up and played with long dark hair as a lover would. It caressed his skin, filled his body, became a part of him. From the roof of his Mayfair apartment block Anthony J. Crowley sighed and looked out on the city. Millions of people crammed into a space that would have better suited a few thousand. Lights twinkled in the myriad buildings, a beautiful display that cost resources the planet couldn't afford. Below on the street, a man and woman kissed goodnight, and after a moment, the woman blinked flirtatiously at the man and invited him in. Crowley watched the display disinterestedly. A small mewl from his side startled him a little, and he looked down to see a tortoiseshell kitten at his side, looking up at him with its big green eyes. It belonged to the woman who lived below him, he recalled, and reached out a hand to stroke it, with no small amount of nervousness. Animals didn't like him, and he thought he might start panicking if it drew blood. This kitten didn't seem to mind him, however, and clambered onto his lap. Running a hand through the kitten's fur, he continued his survey of the London night. He wasn't even sure why he was doing it save that it was better than sitting in his apartment and fretting.
He suddenly found that all he was doing up on the roof was fretting. He sighed. "What do you think, kitty?" He asked the cat on his lap. It just purred contentedly. "Punishment or a second chance," he mused. He couldn't decide himself.
YESTERDAY
A knock on the door had woken him from a pleasant dream. He couldn't remember precisely what it had been about, but the reluctance to wake indicated it had been pleasant enough. He lay there in bed, annoyed at being woken up, and feeling odd. He stretched, sat up, but the feeling of strangeness hadn't gone away. There was another knock at the door, less polite this time, and he sighed. He supposed he'd best answer it. They sounded insistent. Swinging his legs out of bed, dressed in nothing more than a clinging pair of silk Versace pyjama bottoms, he made his way over to the door and he wondered if he had a hangover. He hadn't been drinking last night, so it seemed unlikely. Maybe he had a cold. Could demons get colds?, he wondered, and opened the door. He stared, forcing himself not to slam the door and go hide behind the sofa.
"Hastur. And Michael. Wow. Who'd've thought, huh?" "May we come in, Kyriel?" The archangel used his name, his old name that he'd not heard in over six thousand years. Bitterness and something akin to hatred washed over Crowley. How dare Michael use his angelic name? He had been the one to cut off his wings, tearing them from his back with one swoop of his flaming sword and stealing his divinity. Hastur interrupted his burst of angry self-righteousness by pushing past him and reminding him that no matter how much he hated Michael, he despised Hastur a thousand times more. And knew it was returned tenfold. Crowley stood aside to let the angel in. He could feel the beginnings of a headache, somewhere underneath the anger and the fear. Whatever a Duke of Hell and the highest of the angels could want with him, it was unlikely to be good. Especially not after his part in averting the apocalypse. He vaguely hoped Aziraphale wasn't about to get a similar visit.
"Hey guys, you want a drink, or-" His attempt to remain cool sounded miserable and scared. *Pathetic,* he thought.
"Please sit, Kyriel," Michael said in his musical voice, and the name was like fingernails down a chalkboard. The only reason he didn't say anything was because he was too afraid it would get him into even more trouble. Looking away from Michael, he looked to Hastur, which was a mistake. The demon was grinning widely and unpleasantly. Crowley's headache grew. "We have been sent to inform you of the consequences of your part in the aversion of the apocalypse. Representatives of both Heaven and Hell have convened and-"
"You're being punished, Crawly," Hastur grinned through his too-sharp teeth. Crowley's heart skipped a beat. "Or haven't you noticed yet?"
What? Crowley thought dimly, feeling realisation suddenly hammering on his walls of forced ignorance.
"Mmm," intoned Michael. "Though we are thinking of it as more of a second chance," he added.
"...What?" Crowley asked in a very small voice.
Hastur sniggered. It was the most unpleasant sound Crowley had ever heard. It felt like it was something alive that had got under his skin and was writhing and burning like acid. "You've not noticed?" He asked and laughed.
Michael ignored his counterpart. "You are human, Kyriel."
Oh.
That explained the feeling strange, then. His mind seemed to have grinded to a halt, and he looked from one of them to the other, not sure what to say, and not trusting himself to speak.
Michael didn't seem to notice. "And as such, you have free will. You can do as you wish. And your actions shall speak very loudly to us, Kyriel." Was the angel saying his name as much as possible just to irritate him? Though it was less irritation than having his still-beating heart torn out of his chest. "So be mindful of what you do, for we will judge you for eternity." That had sounded distinctly threatening.
"What, again?" Crowley said softly. Michael raised a perfect blond eyebrow, and then stood.
"Our superiors felt it was best that you were informed by us," Michael said. "All of your Powers are gone, of course. And everything you created with them is gone also. We'll leave an outfit for you so that you may purchase that which you will need. And beyond that, I can only advise you to think well on what to do with your new life."
"However short and grisly it may be," Hastur added with a hideous grin. Crowley had noticed that the demon had said very little during the exchange, and got the feeling that he'd be hearing his voice far too soon and too often for his comfort.
"Aziraphale...?" Crowley asked.
"Aziraphale did as he thought best, and thus deserves no punishment." Crowley nodded, strangely comforted at Michael's words. At least one of them was getting away with it. Michael turned in his perfection to Hastur. "Come, Duke Hastur. There is much to be getting on with."
"Yes," Hastur grinned at Crowley as he passed, and followed Michael out of the door. As soon as they were gone, Crowley collapsed on the couch. Mortal. He was mortal. A shudder ran down his back. It was better than he'd dreaded, yet worse than he'd hoped for. And the last thing he'd expected. He wasn't quite sure what to think, so instead he wandered around his flat and started to plug things in that had never before felt the delight of electricity running through their circuits. The fridge had been emptied, as had all his cupboards, save for a tin of fruit cocktail that Crowley didn't remember buying. He then wandered into his bedroom and opened the wardrobe to find a lonely ensemble. Pulling on jeans and a jumper, he found a pair of boots he'd actually bought and found his wallet. He had a bank account, and it all had real money in it. He had hoarded a collection of ancient trinkets and sold them one day, for reasons he still wasn't sure of but was infinitely glad for. He then picked up his car keys and left the flat.
Wandering down the stairs toward the Bentley, he concentrated very hard on not thinking. He would need clothes and food. Humans shopped when they felt depressed, he had seen a report on the news. Spending made them feel better, it seemed. So that's what he would do.
He had spent four hours in London after parking on the outskirts of the City, frustrated beyond belief by the traffic now he couldn't just get past it with a single thought.
Thankfully his body, the one he had been wearing for several centuries was young and healthy, or so it seemed at least. He guessed he was about twenty-three, and had hard muscles underneath incredibly pale, alabaster skin. Amazing how you never notice these things when you're immortal. It had been the changes that had shocked him most, though. He'd passed a mirror in a department store and caught sight of himself. And stared. His eyes were blue. Not the innocent azure of Kyriel, but closer than they'd been since before time began. That had been a shock, and Crowley cursed Michael repeatedly for bringing up old and well-buried memories of Heaven. Heaven was something he tried not to think of too often, and the human mind couldn't quite comprehend it. But he knew that he had been happy there. Well, that wasn't quite true. It wasn't the place that had made him happy. It was the company, and that of one angel in particular. He'd closed his eyes and forced the memories away, and thrown himself into shopping.
It was fortunate those trinkets had made him several million pounds, because he spent like a demon. Designer clothes that he couldn't even carry and needed to get delivered, and then he'd just got a woman whose job it seemed to do your shopping for you - remarkable how lazy humans can be - to get him any food he might need. That too he had delivered. Shoes, books, DVDs, an amazing variety of wonderful smelling lotions and potions for the bathroom - he had bought anything he'd seen and desired. And then he'd made his way back to the Bentley, feet hurting, and driven home. He'd waited until the food got delivered, got the delivery man to put it all away for him with the help of a fifty-pound note and then collapsed on his bed.