Chapter Text
Being no longer considered a part of Hell’s ranks had its benefits.
Those being the freedom to do (almost) whatever the Hell he wants. He doesn’t technically need to worry about what he says or what he does anymore. Incessantly keeping an eye on what might or might not be considered ‘good’ was getting exhausting as the days went by, so Crowley liked to count his blessings.
He could go wherever he wanted without another Demon breathing down his collar, making sure he had a purpose for where he was going, and there was some wrongdoing he was going to commit.
He could see Aziraphale whenever he damn wanted to, instead of constantly looking over his shoulder and left to right to make sure that no one was aware he was ‘fraternising’ with an Angel. He really enjoyed this particular benefit, because previously, in the land of ‘Crowley’s life on Earth needs to be monitored otherwise he might do something stupid like preventing a suicide’, being seen with the Angel would have had him labeled as a traitor. He had to make sure he did it carefully. Now he could do it whenever he wanted without that fear tailing him wherever he went.
Being no longer considered a part of Hell’s ranks, however, also had a long list of cons. That being he no longer owned his apartment that he’d lived in for several centuries now.
It’d been barely three days after armageddon had taken place, – or rather, the lack thereof – he’d been planning a day trip to Aziraphale’s bookshop. Feeling rather confident after the Angel showed no aversion to his suggestion of a drink at the Ritz, Crowley had endeavoured to take Aziraphale to the duck pond next and suggest they go on a drive together. He’d found a waterfall just off the city that he knew the Angel would appreciate more than Crowley’s damaged eyes did.
A Demon had shown up on his doorstep, and while she didn’t appear to have any malice intended, Crowley had had to take a moment before opening his door because his hammering heart had gone crazy with remembered fear from the last time he’d gotten on Hell’s bad side.
This time he’d been let off easy because Hell was afraid he’d gone native.
“How can I help you?” He managed to maintain his composure as he opened his door into her knocking a third time.
She’d grimaced, clearly taking in his dishevelled complexion – he had only just woken up after a long nap so Crowley was a little disgruntled by this – and he shut the door in her face.
He took a moment to fix himself up, snapping his fingers and fixing his hair and whatnot before opening it again. Pretending nothing had happened, “h’lo, howc’n I help you?”
She raises an eyebrow, “Crawly.”
“Crowley.” He corrects, probably for the umpteenth time, “how many times do I have to say that. It’s Crowley . Seriously, s’been centuries since I changed it.”
The Demon shrugs at him, “ Crowley . I hate to show up like this, but I’ve been charged as your replacement.”
Crowley hums at her, “mm, kay?”
She holds a piece of paper up at eye level, her eyes glint as his stomach drops.
It’s clearly an internet generated template, but the point gets across easily enough.
It reads; EVICTION NOTICE
This notice is sent to
DEMON CRAWLY
(Tenant)
and further directed to all residents, occupants, subtenants, and any others in possession of the Premises.
Property Address: MAYFAIR FLAT ISSUED TO DEMON CROWLEY in accordance to HELLS PLANS (Premises)
Lease Start Date: THE BEGINNING (Lease)
In accordance with your lease and the laws located in this State, after service on you of this notice, you are hereby given the following instructions:
(Check the Appropriate box)
() Nonpayment. Within _____ days, the Landlord demands the total amount due:
Past rent: $ ____ For the period of: _________
- Late fees: $____ details: ___________
- Other fees: $____ Details: __________
Total amount due: $_______
Payment instructions: _______________________________________
If the above payment is not made within the required timeframe, the Tenant will be required to quit and deliver possession of the Premises.
() Noncompliance. Within ____ days, you are hereby required to remedy the following violation of your lease: _________________________________.
This is a non compliance with your lease. You are hereby obligated to notify the landlord by the end of the notice period that the violation has been cured or quit and deliver possession of the Premises.
(\/) Illegal activity. Surrender possession of the Property due to VIOLATION OF HELL within IMMEDIATELY days of this notice.
If you have further questions about the violation and its resolution, see the property manager’s contact information below;
Phone: __________________________________________
Other: PLEASE DO NOT CONTACT US.
Sincerely, LORD BEELZEBUB
Crowley bites the inside of his cheek and then raises an eyebrow. “I think you’ve got the wrong person… uh…”
“Shax.” She responds.
“Shax, this one here is issued to… it says ‘Demon Crawly’.”
“Don’t get smart, Crowley.”
“Pretty sure I changed my legal name, therefore this document is incorrect.”
Shax stares at him, “would you like me to call higher authorities to act on this?”
Crowley’s mouth goes dry, “not particularly. It’s just, technically the document isn’t valid, because A) the property manager is actually a human who lives on this Earth at this very moment, and B)...” He trails off at Shax’s expression which is very quickly turning into annoyance. “Yeah okay.” He takes the eviction notice from her, “I know it says immediately, but could you give me a few hours to clear out?”
Shax’s lips twist into a smile, “sounds wonderful. See you soon then I suppose…”She appears to notice Crowley’s pile of unopened mail at her feet that he’d yet to collect. “Anthony.”
Crowley blinks and she’s gone. Then he adjusts his sunglasses and his composure and shuts himself back inside.
Yes the cons, it appeared, were limitless…
He began by gathering up his plants, trying not to explode from the effort of having to pick and choose what he kept.
Most of the furniture didn’t belong to him, so that was fine. The issue was his small collection of books he’d received from Aziraphale over the years.
Usually as a secret gift, but Crowley only had one friend, and there was no way it wasn’t the Angel who’d sent them.
Usually they had a note inside in his handwriting. Usually something along the lines of;
‘Thought you’d enjoy this one.
Read this and thought of you.
I know you prefer something different, but I read this and couldn’t get it out of my head that you would enjoy it nonetheless.’
Crowley had read each and every one, and every time he’d been surprised that his Angel was right, smack on his taste for reading every single time.
He needed to keep every single one. It wasn’t something he could just get rid of because he no longer had space. There were only about eleven in total, he managed to fit them perfectly into the Bentley’s glovebox. The rest of his books – most of them about more recent astrology, their pages filled with close ups of his stars – went into the boot of the Bentely.
He did his very best to condense each and every one of his plants into as little pots and boxes as possible before sliding them into the back of his car. It was like playing an incredibly annoying game of tetris, and Crowley could feel his plants shaking for fear he might take his frustration out on them.
“I can’t do that.” He told them firmly, “that’s what they do to me.” He didn’t even have the heart to chuck his plants down the garbage disposal, which was why most of the ones with spots merely were moved to a better lit room with the rest for special treatment until the spot was gone.
The others didn’t need to know that though.
When he was done, his flat was no longer his, and the door locked him out once he closed it for the last time.
He tried not to feel the loss too much. Afterall, as a Demon, nothing was ever constant for him. It was going to happen eventually.
Then he tore up the eviction notice and set it on fire. He watched it burn until it was nothing but a pile of ash on the floor.
No more evidence of his compliance with Hell. Crowley may be a Demon, he may technically still be owned by Satan himself. But Crowley was free of all ties that held him there. And for now, he was free of Hell itself, because they were afraid of him.
The con to being free was over and done with, the Bentley would serve him just as well as the flat did.
There were no more cons…
Or so he’d thought.
Some Demons must have caught wind that Crowley had been evicted because it was barely a week before he caught some of them with corporations tailing his car.
It made him nervous – though he refused to let it show on his face – and he found himself at Aziraphale’s bookshop several hours earlier than they’d planned.
He resists the urge to look over his shoulder as he enters, not wanting to give them the satisfaction. Although he does feel a spark of his own that they cannot follow him inside.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice sounds from behind a bookshelf, “is that you my dear?”
Crowley sidles over towards his voice, “yeah, Angel. Thought I’d come a little earlier and offer you a–” he considers a reason to show up and then recalls a bottle of wine he’d bought a few days earlier “wine I found. Didn’t want to try it without you.”
Aziraphale’s head pokes around from behind a shelf, a pile of books in his hands, he’s reshelving. His blue eyes light up, “Oh! What a lovely surprise.” However, the Angel’s tone tells Crowley he’s come at the wrong time. “I’m a little preoccupied at the moment, but you’re welcome to pour me one while you wait.”
Yep. There it was.
Crowley bites his lip, glancing nervously out the window, “nah s’alright. I don’t want to intrude if you’re working. I”ll come back later.”
Aziraphale was clearly distracted, – which Crowley couldn’t blame him considering he had shown up with no warning – and only hummed in response.
Crowley flexes his fingers nervously before exiting the bookshop. Looking both ways.
It was then that he realised his Bentley was gone.
That wasn’t the part that worried him. His Bentley came and went whenever it wanted, it sometimes spent the days Crowley was passed out and intoxicated in his flat – which wasn’t his anymore – at some resort, or getting its oil changed. It always, always, came back some time later, honking indignantly and playing a Queen song at full volume. Freddie Mercury blaring at full volume about how ‘ The show must go on, the show must go on.’
The part that worried him was the sight of a Demon in the corner of his eye beckoning for him. They’d gone to their best effort to hide any demonic traits from the public, but Crowley could smell its stench a mile away.
He made up his mind then and there, that he was going the other way. Turning on his heel and fleeing in the opposite direction. Not quite fast enough that his pace could have been considered running. But definitely swift enough that he found himself several blocks down before he realised he should have just gone back inside the bookshelf and waited the Demon’s out.
He curses himself a brief second before a shadow falls over him, swathing him in darkness, and sending a prickle of fear up his spine.
He considers the distance between himself and Aziraphale’s shop, and wonders how difficult it would be to run there with his demonic friend trailing after him.
He considers miracling himself there, but he’s already on thin ice with Hell to begin with. If this was them quietly dragging him back to Hell, he really did not want to add unwarranted miracles to his long, long list of crimes against Satan.
“Crowley.”
Crowley spins around, biting the inside of his mouth as not one, but an unexpected four Demon’s corner him against a building. He glances around, hoping some bystander, or passer-by might take notice, but there’s no one.
“Hey guys.” Crowley glances behind himself when his back hits the brick behind him. “Fancy a glass of whisky?” He glances between the four of them as they advance. “Or wine?”
He’s grabbed roughly by the collar, one their hands fisting in his jacket. Their red eyes gleaming as Crowley resists the urge to throw them off immediately, he probably could, but there were four of them, and one of him. It wouldn’t make much of a difference. “Or a scotch? Oh, I’d love a scotch.”
Of course every thought of reasoning with them is tossed out of the hypothetical window when the second one throws a punch into his stomach and Crowley doubles over.
His legs are kicked from beneath him and Crowley hits the ground with a breathless gasp of pain.
“I’d love t’talk about this.” He wheezes. ‘Whatever it is, I've done th’s time. I can explain.”
He takes a steel capped boot to the face and the world blinks out into darkness.
-
He wakes up choking and spluttering. World spinning before his watering eyes as he struggles to get free of the pressure around his throat. It takes him a long moment to come back to himself and realise there’s a rope around his neck, and that rope is attached to something high, high above him.
He tries to shift his position only to find his hands bound at the wrists with cold metal. The cuffs are chained to a link on the ground, holding Crowley in a kneeling position.
He’s stuck, his head haltered and angled towards the murky grey ceiling, wrists anchored to the ground.
When he shifts his weight across his hips, he can feel the pressure of something holding his ankles to the floor as well.
He’s definitely well and truly. Stuck.
There’s a moment of panic, where his chest tightens, and his throat constricts. Because the gloom of the place reminds him all too much of Hell. And the grey, depressing cells he’d spent his fair share of time occupying.
It takes him a while to convince himself that it can’t be Hell. If it were, he’d know. Hell had a certain smell, a certain air texture. And it wasn’t this.
Besides, Hell wasn’t on the best of terms with him. Last he’d heard, they were trying their best to pretend that he didn’t exist due to Aziraphale’s fiasco down there after the lack of Armageddon.
They were covering it up, pretending it didn’t happen. After all, it’s not every day a Demon can waltz down to Hell on trial, sit in a tub of Holy Water and then walk straight out.
There’d be riots if that were to happen, and Beelzebub wouldn’t want that.
So no, this wasn’t Hell. It was probably just some dark, dank, and mouldy basement in some unknown Earthly location and the restraints binding him in a kneeling position weren’t cursed snakes digging into his arms. They were just metal cuffs and coarse ropes. He’d get some ropeburn and perhaps some bruising around his wrists from how tight they were bound around them. But they were just that.
His kidnappers had – annoyingly – been good at the knots. The rope around his neck is tight. Tight enough to be a lingering worry at the edge of his brain. But not tight enough to discorporate him unless he actively tried. The rope is also short, so short in fact, that he’s been forced to have his head angled towards the roof.
This means he can’t see how exactly the rest of his body is bound. But Crowley is used to shitty vision. His other senses are heightened, and the more he thinks about it, the more he can sense them.
He can sense that alongside the cheap metal rings around his wrists, there’s also a few loops of rope. He can feel the bite of the individual strands digging into his rubbed raw flesh.
He can feel the loop of ropes around his ankles. And more importantly, he can feel the cold air of his cell on his feet, which brings him to the idea that they’ve taken his shoes.
It’s an ominous thought, but it’s the least of his worries so he tries not to dwell on it for too long.
His kidnappers, – even more annoyingly – were surprisingly nowhere in sight. This was new. Usually in his experience they liked to gloat over his helplessness.
Which brought him to his next question. What did they want? Although, the more he considered it, the more he had a sneaking suspicion he already knew.
He’d gotten away with stopping Armageddon which automatically made him public enemy no. one. There was also the matter of allegedly being Satan’s favourite for a while. And then there was also the tiny little fact that they just, for some dull reason, enjoyed torturing him.
All Demons are fucked to the head. This could be anything.
He takes in his surroundings, which annoyingly doesn’t take very long because of the fact that he’s in a small, closet sized room with cement for walls, floor and ceiling. He’s chained in the centre, beneath what appears to be a small, yellow, basement hanging light.
Yes. He’s considered miracling himself out of the chains. But found rather too quick into waking up choking, that this option is not available. And not because of the previous reasoning and long list of treasonous activities.
Something, or someone, was blocking them. Either they’d cursed the restraints, or they’d gotten a miracle blocker – the latter was more likely – both of which were effective enough, and Crowley was rendered useless, and helpless.
He swallows pathetically, longing to hunch his shoulders and let his eyes close in fatigue, but even the slightest slackening in his posture puts pressure on the rope tied ever too tightly around his throat. He doesn’t technically need to breathe, but he can definitely choke to death. This is not something he wishes to be discorporated by. He would also like to keep Hell from gaining a reason in keeping him down there. If he loses this body he very highly doubts they’ll give him another.
Despite the circumstances, he’d like to be tortured above the ground thank you very much.
A door hits its hinges to his right, jerking him out of his thoughts, making his chains clink metallically against each other, and telling him that his captors had placed him facing a wall.
Crowley shifts uncomfortably on his knees at the sound of footsteps quickly getting closer. “Ah good.” His throat burns from talking at the angle it’s at, “I was getting bored.”
“Silence or I’ll cut out your tongue and we’ll see if that works better.”’
Crowley shuts up, his throat bobbing as he swallows. He doesn’t want that. He really does not want that. These are Demons he has to remind himself they’re incredibly stupid, creative, and don’t care how damaged you are when you come out the other end. At this point the potential of them just outright killing him is also there.
The other three enter to his right.
Crowley’s chains jangle as he shifts uncomfortably.
One of them pulls out a piece of paper and begins listing off Crowley’s crimes and his hopes sink. This is a vigilante trial then. It’s going to be something along the lines of ‘Hell wouldn’t punish you properly, so we’ll do it ourselves.’
“Stopped Armageddon, which in turn prevented the Great Plan. Conspired with an Angel.”
When they’re done, Crowley shivers. “What’s the sentence then guys?”
The one closest to him narrows its eyes, a cruel gleam beginning to show. “You’ve got several. Do you want us to list them?”
Crowley bites the inside of his mouth, swallowing against the rope around his throat. “I would very much appreciate that thank you.”
The one with the paper reads out, “use of manners in everyday conversation.”
He rolls his eyes, “now that one's just pulling at strings.”
They shoot him a glare and Crowley, rather fond of his tongue, clenches his jaw.
“Regular beating.” The other one begins, “twenty lashes…”
Crowley hums in response, trying not to let his dread show on his face.
“Beating with brass knuckles. Blessed Knife.”
It goes on and on until the other three demons finally begin to show a little impatience on their faces.
The paper list is snatched from the thick ones hands, “enough! I regret letting the fucking trial take place anyway. The runt didn’t deserve it.”
Crowley tries to mentally prepare himself, but really, it is quite impossible when facing the prospect of endless torture.
He feigns nonchalance despite his growing dread. “Alright, get on with it then.”
And so it begins.