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It’s a waltz.
The worst kind of waltz. It’s a waltz on one, two, three, a thousand, an infinity of times going fast, too fast, faster way faster than it should, amplifying everything that ought to be kept silent, and the noise, and the speed, the fucking speed, the stampede overtakes everything, tramples on everything redeemable about him.
Redeemable ? Crowley ? No. There is no such thing as a shadow, a ghost of a hope for some kind of redemption for him. Why should it ? Why even bother with wondering about hope and redemption and happiness, and, no, not even happiness, but just something else, something better, something not so constantely sad.
Because. Here is the thing. It’s a waltz, in the back of his brain, a never stopping waltz, a lingering waltz, and occasionnally, it’s not the loudest thing in there.
Occasionnally.
But Crowley introspects, Crowley thinks, Crowley feels, a whole orchestra of feelings, and then thinks about the feelings, and more than often they shift.
Most of the time, they are shitty feelings. About humanity, about Hell and Heaven, and the impossibility of free will, and feeling trapped, and shit shit shit why him why him ?
And if they were happy feelings, like the smile of an angel aimed specifically at him, then it becomes suffering. He doesn’t deserve this smile. Maybe it’s not a genuine smile. Is that better ? That it wasn’t a genuine smile ? He didn’t deserve a genuine smile in the first place anyway.
Does he deserve anything at all, actually ? Are the guilt, the sadness, the despair, all parts of his Punishment with a capital P, or are they something he is inflicting on himself ? Which one is better, being at Her mercy even in the darkest parts of his mind, or being the artisan of his own misery ?
Does it matter anyway ? What matters ? Did the smile matter ? It shouldn’t. Nothing should. Not that smile. Not those feels. Not Crowley.
Crowley. Crowley. Crawly.
He should have kept the name.
He can pretend to be Crowley all he wants, it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter.
He was made to crawl. The name was merely a reminder.
But waltzing ? Well. You need feet to waltz, don’t you ?
There’s a way for him to stop having feet. There’s a way to stop waltzing. To dull the pain. At least for a while. Until the next dance begins.
Silently, the demon shapeshifts, back to what he was meant to be. A snake. The brains of snakes, wonderful things, are not made for understanding waltzing. The stampede feels more distant.
It will come back. But for now, the snake can rest.