Confusion [narrative/open]
The demon known colloquially as Crowley, was confused. First of all, he was on a bed. Which, while in and of itself wasn’t strange - he liked to sleep a great deal, it was that he wasn’t in his own bed. That much registered with him. Except where he was, was clouded. He didn’t know how he got there at all. When he tried to sit up, he ended up flopping back down. It was hard to sit up. Exhausting even.
Clasping his hands on the bed, slowly, he inclined his body back into a sitting position. He distinctly knew his wings were sore. The kind of sore they only felt when he laid upon them for a long period of time.
Wait. Wings? His wings were out? How did that happen? He was usually so very careful about that.
Slowly, Crowley opened his eyes, and realized he was wearing an off-white cotton sort of garment. Not his usual dark colors and suits. It was also exceedingly bright. No sunglasses. Why did he not have his sunglasses. Serpentine eyes looked about the room. He was in a room. Shut in the room by the looks of things.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, he noticed a tug at his hand. The kind of tug like scotch tape stuck to the back of his hand. What in hell was that? There was gauze on the back of the left hand of his human form. Secured in place with tape. Everything felt kind of fuzzy around the edges.
He’d been drugged, he decided. Somehow. And not quite exorcised but bespelled to be kept in place, he understood as he took in the solid walls and door that were inscribed with script in Aramaic and Latin, and sigils few mortals would understand. Crowley knew that while the door would open and people could come in, he would not be allowed to leave. Not with scripture surrounding the doorframe.
Something was keeping him there.
Which frankly, he was rather apathetic about. He just didn’t care. Crowley felt… well, he wasn’t sure. But it felt like he didn’t care what it felt like. It just was.
Standing slowly, he moved toward the door and peeked out the window. He didn’t care about the gauze on his hand, he didn’t care that he wasn’t in his flat, in his own clothes, without his sunglasses, without knowledge of what happened to his Bentley, with his wings out. He just didn’t care. He was instead, curious.
Where was he? How long had he been there? Why couldn’t he seem to think straight?