logsinthenight | I want to break free

Entry tags:

I want to break free

characters: Crowley and You
location: The Invincible or your wildcard of a location
date/time: October 5
content: It's been five days since the ferry incident. Crowley has been going into the last stores of the town's liquor.

Isn't it about time someone properly told the ringleader of this whole shebacle off? Isn't it best if that person was you?
warnings: Excessive drinking

Crowley is still feeling miserable. He can't believe everything went so incredibly wrong. People got hurt. Now, if he were just a normal demon, he'd probably be thrilled about this, but he's not and it matters and that is really just overwhelmingly annoying.

If he'd had the time, he'd just curl up and sleep this all off until he wasn't pissed off at himself anymore. In fact, the last time something went this pear shaped it was the whole business with the Archduke Ferdinand. If he'd known planning a simple assassination was going to cause a Great War, he'd have absolutely said 'No Thank You' and moved back on to simpler temptations. So he just slept through the War and his annoyance at the whole thing. He figured a twenty year or so nap would be plenty and he'd wake up feeling refreshed, but no, another War was already in progress by that point.

Now, he literally can't just sleep off a decade or two to get over his irritation at himself and the situation. He has to eat. He has to move, otherwise his muscles will decay. He's trapped in his own corporation, now. And with his leg propped up on a chair in the Invincible, broken and splinted, he feels especially trapped in it.

And also, this town smells horrific. Just when he thought he couldn't hate it here any more than he already does, everything smells like rot.

So, since he can't sleep, he's going to drink. There's only a limited supply of liquor left, and he feels more than a little entitled to it. He has a bottle on his table and one glass in front of himself. He's been here a while and appears to have no intention of going anywhere.

Certainly not to help fix things.

Why should he?

[OOC: Please feel free to come by and bother Crowley. Violent intentions and actions towards him are OK, just don't kill him without a ping in my direction first. You can meet him here at the Invincible where he is feeling sorry for himself, or elsewhere. Feel free to message me at

rude_not_ginger with your wildcard, and we can make it happen!]

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There's something to his voice that seems almost familiar, the timbre or wayward accent tugging at a memory just out of reach. But instead of trying to pull it closer, which of course wouldn't work, she focuses on the man himself, propped up leg and all. She doesn't recall seeing him around before, but she certainly hasn't met everyone here yet, and the eternal darkness doesn't lend itself to meeting all the neighbors.

"I know some people who would agree with that," she comments, pouring herself a hefty glass of the amber liquid that is pretending to be whiskey. "Of course, they're also the ones who usually end up drinking alone, so."

Which is what Crowley was doing until about thirty seconds ago, so he supposes he should be grateful for the company. Though, to be fair, he was rather enjoying wallowing in his own misery alone. Now he's going to have to pretend he's a person and act remotely civilized, which is annoying. He refills his glass and takes a drink.

He watches the amount she pours and raises an eyebrow.

"Bad day?" he asks.

A large sip is taken before Elena even considers speaking, the alcohol burning her throat in a way that's almost pleasant. She knows she'll likely regret this soon, the rank odor of the flowers leaving her in an almost perpetual state of nausea, but it's better to have something in her stomach that will help with her cravings.

"Have you smelled this place?" she counters, gesturing around them with the glass. Though, she's not sure how bad it is for those with human senses — for her, it smells like the damn flowers are in the room with them. "I've been sick for days now."

"Yes," Crowley says, letting out a breath through his nose. "Like Cardiff."

Which is not very nice, but not exactly inaccurate, either.

He takes another drink. "I mean they're bad, but they're not that bad," he says. "They're making you sick?"

Is this what happens when humans smell these flowers? Are their senses all messed up by them?

It occurs to Elena that she'll never know if he's telling the truth about Cardiff. She'll never see Europe, or Asia, or South America. Where she'd once had a world of possibilities to explore over a hundred lifetimes, now there is just... this. Darkness and the scent of death.

Wonderful.

"I can smell them in my room through five layers of air freshener," she confirms, shifting in her seat and making an unpleasant expression. "But it comes with the territory, I guess. I'm a vampire, our senses are heightened."

And what she wouldn't give to be human right now.

"A vampire?" Crowley says, eyebrows up. He's heard of stranger, he supposes. There are a lot of strange things in this town. Still. He gives her a cursory glance up and down, as though looking for what could possibly make her any different than the humans he's seen. She looks so ordinary.

"Blood drinking sort, or is that all myth?" he asks. He doesn't sound particularly worried or frightened, just curious. He supposes he should be, if she were to attack him. It's not as if he could put up much of a fight in his state.

He's not the first one who's been surprised and given her the once-over. He sure as hell won't be the last. Who wouldn't be surprised to find out that vampires are real and one's sitting at your table trying to drink her weight in alcohol?

"Nope, that part's accurate," she answers before finishing off her glass in a prolonged shot. Unfortunately, it barely even gives her a buzz. "Blood drinking, stake to the heart, burning in the sunlight... All true."

"Oh, I thought you sparkled in the sunlight," Crowley says. "And chased after highschoolers----no, wait, that was my lot's book series. Only time I actually read a book series. Brilliant stuff."

He raises an eyebrow as she takes her shot, and then reaches across the table to pour her another. He can handle having a drinking partner who is so, well, committed. He's leisurely working on his own liquor, but he's also been at it a bit longer than she has.

"So, evil or just misunderstood? That's the question for most vampire stories, isn't it?"

And chased after highschoolers — it nearly has her laughing for the irony of it. Meeting her vampire first love by running into him outside the men's room before school... Not quite a story for the present conversation, but still a good memory.

Well, at least he's supporting her quest to get drunk for at least five minutes. She offers him a grateful smile for the drink and then rolls her eyes with something that might have been a laugh.

"Honestly? Depends on the vampire," she answers, gently swirling the liquid in her glass. "I've met some evil ones, some good ones, some... who were kind of in-between. You get just as many variations as you do with normal people."

"What about you?" he says, taking a drink. "Evil vampire? Not that I'm judging, just want to know if I should watch my back or not."

He is, after all, supposed to be an evil demon. What is it Aziraphale calls him? A foul fiend. A foul fiend who feels guilt and distress and takes care of household plants. No real wonder he was always a joke to his coworkers in Hell. At least his work was always good, always created the right sort of low-level malevolence that stirred up problems around Earth.

He just could never get the whole "evil" bit down.

Her expression sobers and she recalls the weeks she'd spent without her humanity. With no remorse or compassion, she'd done whatever she wanted without care for the consequences. She'd murdered an innocent to prove a point, been cruel to the people who cared for her, tried to kill her best friend... But that's not who she is.

"No, I'm not." Her eyes stay focused on the drink in her hand. "You don't have to worry about me. I don't hurt people, and I don't feed without permission."

Not here, anyway. She's not going to become Katherine with an entire town compelled to befriend and protect her while she fed from anyone she chose. Of all the possibilities for Elena Gilbert's future, becoming Katherine Pierce is not an option.

"Why would anyone give you permission?" he asks. "Isn't that a bit like donating blood? I figure no one does that unless they feel guilty."

He refills his glass. He supposes he's asking a lot of questions, but it's a hell of a lot better than talking about this past week with the woman. It's better that she doesn't recognize him or realize who he is. He doesn't need a vampire mad at him on top of the rest of the town.

"I asked if anyone would be willing to donate and some people said yes," she explains, something in her voice alluding to the fact that she's a bit confused about it herself. "I honestly didn't think anyone would, I didn't know anyone here, but so far it's been working okay. I'm still hungry all the time but it's not as bad as it could be. Because trust me, you don't want to mess with a starving vampire."

She's been there, done that, and somehow lived to tell the tale. Of course, she's not alive right now, not technically, but... Well, that's a whole confusing mess. And she's lucky she's not thrice dead thanks to the dumb stunt with the ferry.

Crowley holds up his hands, one of which is holding his liquor glass. "I'm not donating. You wouldn't want my blood anyway."

She might ask why, and he's not about to give up that he's a demon any time soon.

"It's full of..." Go for something good here, Crowley. Be clever. "...gluten."

Bravo.

He lets out a sigh of annoyance at himself and refills his glass. "So we have to eat, sleep, or drink water, is that what people are saying?"

...gluten. Yeah, okay. That's clearly not an actual reason, but whatever. He can keep whatever secrets he wants; she's not forcing anyone to donate. And if it gets to the point where no one wants to donate anymore... Well, she'll cross that bridge when she comes to it, and in the meantime, she'll look into whether there's any vervain in town. Just in case.

"I heard eat or sleep," she says with half a shrug, downing her glass and going for a refill herself. "I'm letting other people test that one, I'm more concerned with my lack of healing right now."

Crowley nods down to his leg. "Looks like anyone who used to be able to heal in the past can't anymore. Or, at least, their powers are limited. Very limited."

He's still so utterly mindblown by what Xayah told him. Three months to heal a broken leg. Three months! It's been a week and he's already losing his mind. Granted, his leg is only bandaged and splinted and he hasn't got any crutches. That's part of the greatness of the town, though, isn't it? Living without some of the basic necessities.

"Could vampires heal themselves?" Crowley could have healed himself if he were back on Earth and alive.

Lifting her glass, she plays with it instead of drinking it, gently rotating the liquid within so it caught what little light is cast from their lanterns. It's strange how, after only a month, she's almost gotten used to the darkness. Is this what her life would have been like without a daylight ring? Perhaps a slightly exaggerated comparison, of course, but still...

"Yep," she confirms with a pop at the end. "Broken bones, cuts, all within seconds. Hell, I could heal a broken neck in just a few minutes."

"Now we have to just wait," Crowley says, scowling at his broken leg. How long does he have with it, did Xayah say? Three months? Figures that his great plans always end in him hurting himself somehow.

"How do they do that, you think? Take away our abilities so easily?"

"Magic? That's usually the cause of everything where I'm from."

Everything was rooted in magic. The creation of the doppelgangers, vampires, and werewolves — all of it was because of magic. Her deaths, aunt Jenna's, Damon's... And yet, despite all the bad magic has done, her life would be so much duller without it.

Crowley lifts his glass to his lips. "Nothing's as simple as just 'magic' where I'm from."

It was always heavenly orders or demonic forces or something along those lines. He supposes, though, if you dig right down to it, it could just be called 'magic'. That could be everything that they do.

"Are you the only one here from your world?" he asks.

If magic was the simple explanation, Elena's not sure she wants to hear the complicated one. She might just take his word for it and enjoy ignorance for a change.

"No, but there's no one here I was close with," she answers, wishing she could say differently. The fact that Kol of all people is here still irks her, even if so far they seem to have come to an unspoken agreement of live and let live. Hopefully it lasts...

So, someone from her world, but not a friend. That actually sounds pretty awful, in Crowley's opinion. He tries to think what it would be like if Shadwell or Hastur arrived in town rather than Aziraphale and that makes him cringe. He'd either be avoiding an annoying human or fighting for his life.

He wonders what this woman is doing with the person she knows.

"Are they also a----" he gestures, making two little fangs with his fingertips.

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I want to break free

hell yeah, late night espresso shots

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