Chapter Text
Crowley had things to do. Randomly being summoned was, for any demon, inconvenient at best.
He could feel it coming, like a migraine aura. It would start as a sudden change in his field of vision, then the flashing started in his periphery. That stage usually lasted about ten seconds, then he was yanked unceremoniously to somewhere he never asked to be.
Every demon had their words, of course. It was built into their DNA. Be a demon, get summoned. One of the many prices to pay for Falling. It happened less as the millennia wore on, though. The languages that the words belonged to were lost over time.
Crowley had had it happen before, mind. Some enterprising churches, temples, clerics had stumbled upon the right combination of words that would summon him. Some on purpose, some by chance. That’d been a fun Halloween night in 1950 when he suddenly manifested at a sorority “seance,” scaring the bored teenagers with an Ouija board nearly to death.
These days, it was a rare thing, being summoned. Having the warning aura was a blessing, ironically, because Crowley could obscure himself from visibility before he manifested. The would-be summoner would say the words, nothing would appear, and they would shrug, assume they’d failed, and move on. Crowley would stay very silent and very still for a few moments, then magicked himself back to wherever he was before the interruption. Annoying, yes, but came with the territory.
This was wholly different. When he felt the oncoming aura on December 22, 1978, he sighed, put down the magazine he was reading, and rubbed his eyes under his sunglasses. It’d been a long time since anyone had figured out his words. He had just finished his reworking of the plans for the new M25 roadway around London and was enjoying a quiet night off after his presentation to the lower-downs in Hell. He was particularly fond of his big wrap up. “Can I get a wahoo” landed like a lead balloon with the assembled demons, but Crowley knew it was a winner. Wrong crowd is all.
He sat up and waved his hand, pulling down a veil of invisibility. He was too tired to cause a ruckus tonight. The flashing intensified until
-POP-
he was in the most garish bathroom he’d ever seen, and that was saying something. Pink tile, faux gold fixtures, green towels. He was sat on the tub’s edge, beholding a very unexpected scene.
A young boy, early teenaged, was on his knees in front of the toilet. He had white-blonde hair and a very red face. He looked miserable, and was currently groaning while clutching his abdomen. He took a few panicked breathes and unloaded his stomach contents into the porcelain cistern.
“Oh Azzie, again?” A woman bustled into the bathroom, looking rather put-upon. “I thought you were done.”
“Sorry Mama,” the boy gasped when he was done.
‘That’s rather cold,’ Crowley thought. He’d always had a soft spot for kids he’d never admit to. ‘Poor kid’s suffering.’
“Well get back to bed when you’re done. The guests can hear you.” She checked herself in the bathroom mirror and rushed back out the door, closing it behind her. Crowley then noticed the sounds of a party.
“Wow,” Crowley accidentally said out loud. The boy, Azzie, startled, looking towards him, but seeing only the tacky pink tile. ‘Whoops.’
Crowley held his breath.
Apparently figuring he’d been hearing things, Azzie slowly and painfully stood, rinsed his mouth at the sink, and stared at himself for a while in the mirror. Unlike his mother, he didn’t smooth his hair or touch up any makeup. Instead he sniffed miserably, rubbed his eyes, and left the bathroom.
“Well that’s the saddest thing I’ve seen in a while,” muttered the demon. And he’d seen some damn sad things over his tenure in Hell. But those things were deserved. There’s no innocents in Hell. This poor kid just looked sick, and his mom didn’t seem to care except that it was affecting her good time.
Crowley shook his head. How had he been summoned here, anyway? He scanned the party below. No Ouija boards, no one so drunk they were speaking in tongues, nothing that would have triggered his presence.
Well it was a weird decade. Maybe the discordant music he was hearing had something to do with it. Deciding he didn’t care enough to investigate, he shrugged, waved his hand, and magicked himself home. He’d figure it out when he wasn’t so tired.
Before his departure, though, he flicked his wrist toward where he’d sensed the boy’s bedroom was, leaving behind a glass of water, a cool compress, and some Tylenol on his nightstand.
December 23, 1978
‘Really? Again?’
The familiar feeling was back, obscuring Crowley’s vision and ruining his plans. He was still basking in much deserved self congratulations over the M25. He’d found a bottle of a particularly nice vintage in a shop in SoHo earlier that afternoon, and was about to imbibe enthusiastically as the clock struck 4pm. He’d just popped the cork when the flashing began.
“Son of a bitch…” he actually said out loud to his empty apartment before
-POP-
he was in a child’s bedroom, replete with Star Wars merchandise, a single bed, and the smell of sick. The room was dim, as the shades were drawn, but Crowley could see well enough to make out the boy from yesterday, leaning half out of the bed, garbage can in hand, looking and sounding just as miserable as before.
Crowley quickly waved his hand and pulled a veil around him. The boy must not have noticed him, because he flopped back onto his pillow and shut his eyes without a fuss.
‘Why the Heaven am I here again?’ Crowley scanned the house but no one else was home. No one around to summon him, and he doubted the boy was in any state to be reciting the ancient scripture that would bring him to this sad scene. He silently crept to the window, peeking out the curtains. The yard and street below looked idyllic, covered in snow, like a Norman Rockwell painting about Christmas. Decorated houses lined the street, cars sauntered past, it was even gently snowing. Hardly the scene that you’d expect would bring about a demon.
“Hello? Is someone there?” The boy, Azzie if Crowley remembered rightly, asked the room. He evidently noticed the change in light when he’d parted the curtains, because he had lifted his head and was blearily looking in Crowley’s direction.
The demon left the curtain fall closed, not answering. After a few moments Azzie must have decided the investigative energy he was expelling wasn’t worth the effort, because he groaned and put his head back onto the flat pillow.
Crowley felt a stab of sadness. Didn’t this kid have anyone to care for him? He looked pale and sweaty, and the air was stale.
‘Okay, let’s fix that.’
If anyone was taking stock after Crowley had left, they would have found clean sheets, a fluffy pillow, and a room full of fresh warm air. They’d have wondered how the boy seemed to have had a shower when he’d never left that newly clean bed. They’d finally have found a refreshed glass of cool water on the nightstand, more Tylenol, and peacefully sleeping Azzie in new pyjamas.