It's a note on heavy white paper written in golden letters with careful calligraphy that could well be an invitation to a royal wedding, except that the text doesn't mention any dress code or give the address of a restaurant, but rather reads:
Mission: Kill the demon Crowley.
It's not signed.
Well, at least it was worth making the tea, which is SENT flying beautifully through the air as if it were one of Crowley's sprinklers.
To kill him. TO KILL HIM! It's just... it's just... THEY ARE... It's ineffable what he's thinking about them.
If necessary, they will come to install a tap of holy water for you.
No! He doesn't want... no! What kind of... MONSTERS are they?!
You're having this conversation the wrong way.
What's the right way?!
Well, with your stupid husband. By the way, I can't believe you went up to heaven with the ring on your finger. Tremendous.
I would be talking to Crowley if he... if he wasn't God knows where!
Crowley accelerates down the street again, angry because this is going to be a disaster and if the bloody angel ever bloody listened he wouldn't now have to be making plans to drink an entire collection from a winery of who knows how much ancient bloody ALONE.
It wasn't his fault... what... didn't he hear?
The car and clothes turn black again with a snap of his fingers, and his glasses stop being heart-shaped as he keeps driving faster than usual. In fact, he's back to wearing long sleeves because of the bloody weather in London.
It hasn't been a minute of white. What a low tolerance.
"At least say goodbye to me a little better" he mimics himself in falsetto, angry also because he would have wanted to give him a kiss. Yes, again. But he was afraid that would predict a final farewell, so he had sent him to death again with a "fuck you." Bloody hell, eternity was going to be horrible with that bloody feeling of guilt.
Yeah, yeah... It's a bit of a harsh farewell. Yeah
He parks the car literally in front of the bar's entrance he finds, making it crash through the wooden and glass doors in an extremely dramatic way and then he fixes everything with a snap of his fingers so no one questions how he managed to keep a car intact since '26 when he makes those entrances into places.
You love drama, Crowley.
It might be better to start with the gin before he realizes what he's doing.
And an indefinite amount of time passes, truthfully, before... Hastur shows up on some TV that happened to be airing football.
"What are you doing, Crowley?"
Crowley, who was already seated at the bar, tethered to another bottle of something because... what's with British characters and their budding drinking problems? They all have that issue. Even the angel. Must be the islands...
"What the fuck are you doing, Crowley?" is closer to the correct question.
"I'm drinking in a bar. I'm an adult and I'm drinking in a bar, Hastur. What the fuck does it look like I'm doing?" Crowley protests because he's also doing this in a public place with more people watching the TV in astonishment.
"You urgently need to come down. Beelzebub wants..." chuckles "to ask you something."
Crowley hesitates, feeling himself holding back from replying, "Beelzebub can kiss my..." with his heart racing. Suck up to them again, Crowley.
YOU ARE READING
Sin City (English)
Fanfiction"I know, for God's sake! But we can't do foolish things," protests Aziraphale, concerned. "Let's not overextend ourselves either," Crowley replies, raising his hands towards him. "We're not in a position to demand more of ourselves than we're capab...
