Who: Crowley & OTA What: He's a demon with a mission When: Saturday night Where: A liquor store? Warnings: A depressed, PTSD suffering demon, anything could happen
This was getting ridiculous. He should be over it. After all, it had been months since the Apoca-not. Months since he'd been brought here, safely away from Hell's eyes. Even if the bureaucrats of Heaven and Hell didn't intend on leaving them alone, they weren't here.
So why did he still feel like he had to look over his shoulder every few minutes? For all intents and purposes, they were free, but Crowley felt as on edge now as he had when he'd first Fallen and Hell was getting its shit together. No one knew what anyone was doing and the hierarchy was taking its sweet time to form and everyone was still adjusting to their new, non-angel forms. It was like that, only more...human.
What he wanted to do was get a couple of nice bottles of wine, some of those greek pastries Aziraphale loved so much, and stay curled up in the house. Maybe he'd get the angel to read to him if he looked pitiful and cold enough. But honestly, that was nearly as miserable these days. He had to find a way to get over that, too. But, well, six thousand years and all...
So instead of wine, he was eyeing whiskeys. Old reliable, Mr. Jack Daniels? A classic like Crown Royal? Jameson, that was always nice. He'd been there the day that one had been founded. But then he picked one up and wrinkled his nose in absolute disgust. "What the fuck?" he yelped, not actually caring who was around. "Peanut butter whiskey? Are we sure the Earth was actually worth saving for this monstrosity?"