Happy Holidays, lilbanili!
Title: Signed, Stamped, and Delivered (In Triplicate)
Recipient: lilbanili
Author: aviss
Characters: Crowley, assorted demons
Rating: PG
Prompt: Crowley and Hell, whether he's being attacked or getting instructions or just thinking about it. This can be serious or funny, whatever you want. Any rating.
Author's Notes: I tried to be a bit more serious and reflective, but in the end it wanted to be silly, I hope you like it!
Summary: Crowley gets a commendation. He should have known better than to give hell new ideas.
Being discorporated was a pain in the arse, Crowley decided.
It wasn't just the actual pain of having his soul forcibly removed from the body it inhabited, though that hurt plenty and was never fun. It wasn't the humiliation of losing another fight with the blessed angel, even if he was sure the angel was licking his own wounds at the time or maybe asking for his own replacement body; Crowley had dealt plenty of damage before being tossed out of his body. It was going down below to get another one what really got to him.
Hell, as it happened, was a dreary place, filled to capacity with tortured souls and sour faced demons he'd much rather not have to look at. He avoided going there as much as he possibly could, and it wasn't hard to remember the reason; the inhabitants of hell didn't like Crowley very much. Well, actually, they didn't like anyone very much; it was part of being demons. But Crowley was up there in the list of least popular demons in hell in spite, or maybe because, the many commendations he got for his work.
The main reasons, he knew, were his methods. Demons took pride in their work, corrupting souls one by one to ensure their fall. They dedicated years to a single project sometimes. Crowley didn't see the point in that. And, though he would never admit it, didn't see the appeal in damnation. He had tried it for himself and didn't quite like the taste it left in his mouth; he wasn't going to subject anyone to it. Crowley liked people.
What he did, was he was good at, was annoyance. It was a talent, Crowley was able to find the thing that would cause the greatest amount of discomfort and irritation to a large number of people, ensuring this way they weren't feeling up to good deeds. It was good enough for him, and it seemed to please his boss, so he didn't see a reason to stop and go back to one on one temptation.
That was how he got his latest commendation, some hundred years back. He had been in Ur by chance, but the presence of an angel had piqued Crowley's curiosity, and he had stayed for a few weeks to see what was happening. The angel had been involved in some breakthrough, getting people to leave written accounts of what they did and helping them evolve into a more civilized version of themselves. Crowley had also done his part, whispering some key words into the right ears: signed, stamped, filed, and his personal favourite, in triplicate. By the end of his stay, the mood had changed considerably from ecstatic to irritated, and Crowley had received a commendation for an evil, or more like annoying, job well done.
But that had been a long time ago, and though demons were notoriously good at holding grudges, that didn't explain the nasty looks Crowley was receiving now.
"That's him," a female demon Crowley didn't recognize said when Crowley passed by her, "Crowley." The name was spat like a curse, something not that unusual in hell.
Her companion narrowed his eyes at him as if Crowley was personally responsible for his fall. "Bastard."
Crowley blinked, just the once, and kept on walking. He was used to some level of hostility, but normally demons were craftier than that. Insults and curses weren't the preferred method down below, backstabbing was. Nonplussed, Crowley headed straight to his boss' corner of hell. The less time he spent down there, the better for his health.
The first thing he noticed was that where before were nothing but rows upon rows of racks for the tortured souls, now stood some small rooms with tiny desks and demons sitting behind them. That was odd.
He ignored them and went to Bereheth. He was one of the angels that fell right before Crowley, and commanded some respect, or fear, among the lesser demons.
"I need a new body," Crowley said the moment he stood next to him, the proper amount of respect in his voice. "I fought a Principality, and my last one was destroyed."
Bereheth looked him up and down, a nasty smile curling his mouth. "Things have changed, Crawley."
"Crowley," he corrected automatically, and then cringed in response to the look he got.
"Crowley. You have to go through the proper channels now."
He must have spent more time on Earth than he believed, because Crowley had no idea what he was talking about. "The proper channels?"
"I think you'll like it. It was your idea, after all." Bereheth smiled at him, all teeth and no humour, and Crowley felt the urge to run and hide under one of the new desks. "Go to office 2."
He stood for a minute staring at the empty space where his boss had been, and then shrugged and headed back to the rooms he'd seen before. It wasn't difficult to find office 2, and there were two demons standing in front of the desk when he arrived, arguing with the clerk sitting behind it.
Crowley waited for a while until they finished, the two demons pushing past him and glaring hotly.
"I need a new body," he said once he was standing in front of the desk. This close he could see it wasn't a demon sitting there, but the condemned soul of a middle aged human.
The man looked at him, completely uninterested. "Do you have requisition form 34?"
"What?"
"Requisition form 34 for the use of a new body on Earth," the man repeated, looking back at the stack of parchments on the desk.
"I don't--" Crowley began, wondering if this was a very elaborate scheme from the other demons to laugh at him, though they weren't big on the sense of humour department.
"We can't relinquish a new body without the proper forms filed. Go to desk 31 and get the form. Fill it and bring it here. You, of all people, should know this."
Crowley wanted to say he had no idea what he was talking about, but he was beginning to suspect this was no elaborate joke. Or, if it was, the joke was on him.
"Look, I just need a body," he repeated in his most menacing tone.
The man wasn't cowed. "And I need the form." Crowley took a step forward, glaring. "If you want to torture me, you have to join the line. It's back to the rack for us when our shift is over, and you people take it out on us as if all this was our idea instead of yours."
He decided against arguing anymore, the image of a harassed looking clerk in Ur springing suddenly to his mind.
"Desk 31 you said, then?" The man nodded and Crowley left without another word. He was beginning to see where the increased hostility was coming from.
He followed the rows of desk, looking for the one he had been directed to. For some reason, the desks ended at number 10. He looked around, looking for a sign of the direction he needed to take, unwilling to ask any of the demons milling about and shooting dark glares in his direction. He finally spotted a tiny arrow and decided to follow it. Down the corridor were more desks on both sides, and Crowley counted the numbers as he walked. There were demons coming from the other end of the corridor, and all of them looked murderous and the worse for wear. One of them was covered in scratches and cuts, and another looked singed around the edges. Both of them took a menacing step towards Crowley the moment they spotted him, and he scurried past before they had the chance to stop him.
The corridor ended after desk 30, and there were six doors with the rest of the numbers in a semi-circle at the end. Crowley went straight for the one he wanted and opened the door.
He slammed it shut a second later.
The desk was there as it was to be expected. What was unexpected was the fire pit before it, or the thorny bushes flanking the path leading to it, and invading it at some points, or the unfriendly looking beasts seemingly sleeping on it. And suddenly everything made that much more sense, because demons were resentful creatures who would begrudge a commendation for centuries, but that level of open hostility usually was reserved for something personal. And they blamed Crowley for this because, of course, Hell would take an idea that was already irritating enough and turn it painful for everyone involved. If there was something that Hell enjoyed more than tormenting condemned souls, was torturing its own people.
If Crowley survived getting the blessed form, he was going to run out of Hell as fast as his new body allowed him.
One thing was clear, there was no way Crowley engaged the angel in a fight ever again and risked being discorporated.
Steeling himself, Crowley opened the door and went to get the form.
…
His limp was almost unnoticeable as Crowley headed back to desk 2, and the rips and burns on his clothes would be easily fixed once he was out of there. He was still bleeding a bit, and the scratches itched something awful, but he was in one piece. Mostly. And he had the blessed form clutched in his hand.
He filled it with all the stupid details about the fight he could remember, and waited as the demon in front of him finished. Once the desk was empty except for the clerk, Crowley advanced and slammed the form on top of it.
"Here is the form; can I have a new body now?"
The clerk took it and scanned it quickly. "You still need--"
Crowley cut him off. "Is this not the right form?" He had not looked at what was behind the rest of the doors, but it couldn't be good.
"Yes, this is the form you need to submit. In triplicate."
Recipient: lilbanili
Author: aviss
Characters: Crowley, assorted demons
Rating: PG
Prompt: Crowley and Hell, whether he's being attacked or getting instructions or just thinking about it. This can be serious or funny, whatever you want. Any rating.
Author's Notes: I tried to be a bit more serious and reflective, but in the end it wanted to be silly, I hope you like it!
Summary: Crowley gets a commendation. He should have known better than to give hell new ideas.
Being discorporated was a pain in the arse, Crowley decided.
It wasn't just the actual pain of having his soul forcibly removed from the body it inhabited, though that hurt plenty and was never fun. It wasn't the humiliation of losing another fight with the blessed angel, even if he was sure the angel was licking his own wounds at the time or maybe asking for his own replacement body; Crowley had dealt plenty of damage before being tossed out of his body. It was going down below to get another one what really got to him.
Hell, as it happened, was a dreary place, filled to capacity with tortured souls and sour faced demons he'd much rather not have to look at. He avoided going there as much as he possibly could, and it wasn't hard to remember the reason; the inhabitants of hell didn't like Crowley very much. Well, actually, they didn't like anyone very much; it was part of being demons. But Crowley was up there in the list of least popular demons in hell in spite, or maybe because, the many commendations he got for his work.
The main reasons, he knew, were his methods. Demons took pride in their work, corrupting souls one by one to ensure their fall. They dedicated years to a single project sometimes. Crowley didn't see the point in that. And, though he would never admit it, didn't see the appeal in damnation. He had tried it for himself and didn't quite like the taste it left in his mouth; he wasn't going to subject anyone to it. Crowley liked people.
What he did, was he was good at, was annoyance. It was a talent, Crowley was able to find the thing that would cause the greatest amount of discomfort and irritation to a large number of people, ensuring this way they weren't feeling up to good deeds. It was good enough for him, and it seemed to please his boss, so he didn't see a reason to stop and go back to one on one temptation.
That was how he got his latest commendation, some hundred years back. He had been in Ur by chance, but the presence of an angel had piqued Crowley's curiosity, and he had stayed for a few weeks to see what was happening. The angel had been involved in some breakthrough, getting people to leave written accounts of what they did and helping them evolve into a more civilized version of themselves. Crowley had also done his part, whispering some key words into the right ears: signed, stamped, filed, and his personal favourite, in triplicate. By the end of his stay, the mood had changed considerably from ecstatic to irritated, and Crowley had received a commendation for an evil, or more like annoying, job well done.
But that had been a long time ago, and though demons were notoriously good at holding grudges, that didn't explain the nasty looks Crowley was receiving now.
"That's him," a female demon Crowley didn't recognize said when Crowley passed by her, "Crowley." The name was spat like a curse, something not that unusual in hell.
Her companion narrowed his eyes at him as if Crowley was personally responsible for his fall. "Bastard."
Crowley blinked, just the once, and kept on walking. He was used to some level of hostility, but normally demons were craftier than that. Insults and curses weren't the preferred method down below, backstabbing was. Nonplussed, Crowley headed straight to his boss' corner of hell. The less time he spent down there, the better for his health.
The first thing he noticed was that where before were nothing but rows upon rows of racks for the tortured souls, now stood some small rooms with tiny desks and demons sitting behind them. That was odd.
He ignored them and went to Bereheth. He was one of the angels that fell right before Crowley, and commanded some respect, or fear, among the lesser demons.
"I need a new body," Crowley said the moment he stood next to him, the proper amount of respect in his voice. "I fought a Principality, and my last one was destroyed."
Bereheth looked him up and down, a nasty smile curling his mouth. "Things have changed, Crawley."
"Crowley," he corrected automatically, and then cringed in response to the look he got.
"Crowley. You have to go through the proper channels now."
He must have spent more time on Earth than he believed, because Crowley had no idea what he was talking about. "The proper channels?"
"I think you'll like it. It was your idea, after all." Bereheth smiled at him, all teeth and no humour, and Crowley felt the urge to run and hide under one of the new desks. "Go to office 2."
He stood for a minute staring at the empty space where his boss had been, and then shrugged and headed back to the rooms he'd seen before. It wasn't difficult to find office 2, and there were two demons standing in front of the desk when he arrived, arguing with the clerk sitting behind it.
Crowley waited for a while until they finished, the two demons pushing past him and glaring hotly.
"I need a new body," he said once he was standing in front of the desk. This close he could see it wasn't a demon sitting there, but the condemned soul of a middle aged human.
The man looked at him, completely uninterested. "Do you have requisition form 34?"
"What?"
"Requisition form 34 for the use of a new body on Earth," the man repeated, looking back at the stack of parchments on the desk.
"I don't--" Crowley began, wondering if this was a very elaborate scheme from the other demons to laugh at him, though they weren't big on the sense of humour department.
"We can't relinquish a new body without the proper forms filed. Go to desk 31 and get the form. Fill it and bring it here. You, of all people, should know this."
Crowley wanted to say he had no idea what he was talking about, but he was beginning to suspect this was no elaborate joke. Or, if it was, the joke was on him.
"Look, I just need a body," he repeated in his most menacing tone.
The man wasn't cowed. "And I need the form." Crowley took a step forward, glaring. "If you want to torture me, you have to join the line. It's back to the rack for us when our shift is over, and you people take it out on us as if all this was our idea instead of yours."
He decided against arguing anymore, the image of a harassed looking clerk in Ur springing suddenly to his mind.
"Desk 31 you said, then?" The man nodded and Crowley left without another word. He was beginning to see where the increased hostility was coming from.
He followed the rows of desk, looking for the one he had been directed to. For some reason, the desks ended at number 10. He looked around, looking for a sign of the direction he needed to take, unwilling to ask any of the demons milling about and shooting dark glares in his direction. He finally spotted a tiny arrow and decided to follow it. Down the corridor were more desks on both sides, and Crowley counted the numbers as he walked. There were demons coming from the other end of the corridor, and all of them looked murderous and the worse for wear. One of them was covered in scratches and cuts, and another looked singed around the edges. Both of them took a menacing step towards Crowley the moment they spotted him, and he scurried past before they had the chance to stop him.
The corridor ended after desk 30, and there were six doors with the rest of the numbers in a semi-circle at the end. Crowley went straight for the one he wanted and opened the door.
He slammed it shut a second later.
The desk was there as it was to be expected. What was unexpected was the fire pit before it, or the thorny bushes flanking the path leading to it, and invading it at some points, or the unfriendly looking beasts seemingly sleeping on it. And suddenly everything made that much more sense, because demons were resentful creatures who would begrudge a commendation for centuries, but that level of open hostility usually was reserved for something personal. And they blamed Crowley for this because, of course, Hell would take an idea that was already irritating enough and turn it painful for everyone involved. If there was something that Hell enjoyed more than tormenting condemned souls, was torturing its own people.
If Crowley survived getting the blessed form, he was going to run out of Hell as fast as his new body allowed him.
One thing was clear, there was no way Crowley engaged the angel in a fight ever again and risked being discorporated.
Steeling himself, Crowley opened the door and went to get the form.
…
His limp was almost unnoticeable as Crowley headed back to desk 2, and the rips and burns on his clothes would be easily fixed once he was out of there. He was still bleeding a bit, and the scratches itched something awful, but he was in one piece. Mostly. And he had the blessed form clutched in his hand.
He filled it with all the stupid details about the fight he could remember, and waited as the demon in front of him finished. Once the desk was empty except for the clerk, Crowley advanced and slammed the form on top of it.
"Here is the form; can I have a new body now?"
The clerk took it and scanned it quickly. "You still need--"
Crowley cut him off. "Is this not the right form?" He had not looked at what was behind the rest of the doors, but it couldn't be good.
"Yes, this is the form you need to submit. In triplicate."