Crowley is walking along, heading back from a spot of tempting some rather dull humans when he spots him. Well, both of them. One is slightly taller than the other but considerably more rotund. Crowley knows some humans have problems with their metabolism, others health problems, and others still who just can’t shift the fat, but this child seems to be none of those. If anything, it’s a lot of baby fat and the kind of gluttony hell would love to get their grimy fingers all over. The other child is thin—thinner than Crowley is and he’s pretty much skin and bones, much to Aziraphale’s constant worry—with darker skin and a sort of watchful wariness that Crowley recognises from his time in hell.
“You’re such a freak!” The rotund boy’s words echo across the garden of the house they seem to potentially live at—or at least one of them does—and reach Crowley’s ears easily enough. They instantly make him narrow his eyes behind his sunglasses. “No wonder your parents died! Probably to get away from you!”
What. The. Fuck.
Bullying someone for being different? Okay yes, it’s a thing humans do. It’s a thing all beings capable of thinking seem to do, Crowley thinks, considering the way heaven and hell handle things. But using the fact that someone is an orphan to bully them? Oh that’s just plain evil.
A bit too evil for Crowley.
So he does something about it.
“Nasty brats like you occupy a very special place in hell, you know?” he says, casually, enjoying the way the rotund boy jumps in surprise at his voice directly behind him. Crowley’s height is, as usual, definitely useful right now. “Not a nice place, mind, but it’s definitely special.”
The boys both look at him—one hopeful but wary, the other with dislike and fear. He finds both expressions pleasant.
“Who—who are you?” The rotund boy demands, voice pitched high in fear. Fear of being caught being a bullying little prick.
“I’m a demon.” Crowley gives the rotund boy a rather nasty, mocking smile. It’s specifically designed to instill fear in people and he’s especially pleased to find it’s very effective on this little brat.
Now, normally, Crowley loves kids. He hates the idea of hurting them, of anyone hurting them, but he’s also aware that children can be cruel. Especially spoiled children who haven’t been taught any better, like this little berk. So he’s going to terrify the life out of this kid and hopefully make the life of the other one a little less harsh.
“If you want to bully someone, you really shouldn’t use their family to do it. Definitely seals the deal for you ending up down below,” he says, rocking back and forth on his feet a little. The thinner boy frowns a little at him and Crowley flashes him a smirk.
‘Play along’ it says.
Thank someone the thinner boy is quick on the uptake.
“I’ve heard that if you bully someone for being different just because you don’t know any better, you get sent to hell and get tortured,” the thinner boy says, a little conspiratorially and Crowley’s smirk grows.
“Oh yes,” he agrees, nodding. “Satan himself comes and has a go at you and that is not fun.”
The rotund boy, whatever his name is—Crowley decides to call him Piggy, owing to the way his face scrunches up like a sow’s face, and yes, it’s a rather nasty comparison but he’s a demon and the kid deserves it for being a bully—scowls at him. Okay so maybe Crowley won't call him Piggy. The kid is a kid after all and whilst Crowley may be a demon, calling a kid names is just not right. Especially when he's over six thousand years old and this little brat doesn't even look like he's eight.
Also it's kind of not good to link the name to the kid's weight. Not his fault his parents have probably made him this gluttonous. Right?
Probably shouldn't describe him by his weight either... hmm.
“I don’t believe you!” The slightly-taller boy declares, his bravado returning now that reason is trying to reassert itself. “Demons don’t exist!”
Well, Crowley can’t have that now, can he?
“Want proof?” Crowley cajoles, knowing just what he’s going to do and relishing in it. The rotund boy nods, scoffing derisively but the scoff turns into a scream of terror when Crowley lowers his sunglasses.
“AAAAHHHH!” The bully screams screamingly, turning tail and rolling away across the neatly cut lawn of the house.
Crowley watches him disappear inside the house with a satisfied smirk on his face before he turns his attention to the thin boy who has remained, not in the least bit afraid of him.
“So, who are you then?” Crowley asks the kid, flicking his glasses back up to hide his eyes—the kid is staring at them strangely, not afraid but, strange.
“Harry.” The boy replies but the pronunciation is all wrong, full of sibilance where it shouldn’t be.
Oh, Crowley thinks, oh. Well then. That explains everything then, doesn’t it?
“Nice to meet you Harry, I’m Crowley,” he replies in the same manner as the child, amused to note that Harry doesn’t notice the unusualness of it all.
He likes this kid.
Maybe he’ll visit him now and again—it’ll be a good way to pass the time.