[ Crowley had never really been partial to either knights (excluding that time in the late tenth century, but Aziraphale was always the exception to any of his rules), nor public transport. He'd taken the tube once.
He wouldn't again.
But he was quite enjoying the Knight Bus. Probably one in the minority there, if the sickly green hue of many of his compatriots were any indication.
But really, what was the fuss? The interior was luxurious (the tacky chandelier, he thought, was a particularly nice touch), and doing a hundred and five in central London really wasn't all that big of a deal; he did it all the time in the Bentley.
In fact, the Knight Bus seemed to operate on almost exactly the same rules as his car, weaving through the narrow gaps between vehicles and always being exactly where the traffic wasn't.
He flashes a grin to his neighbour, deciding to do the most irritating thing possible on a ride like this; start up small talk. ]
So, the eighties, eh? Good time for music - reckon they'll let us out the little magical bubble world to catch a concert or two...? Maybe lob a pie in old Thatcher's face?
b. The Leaky Cauldron
[ It's not even gone noon, but Crowley, not a stranger to being daydrunk and a Bad Influence on Impressionable Minds, is eyeballing the rather impressive collection of beverages on display. He's sure magic can only improve liquor.
...Right? ]
Let me guess... Fire Whiskey actually makes you breathe fire...? Sounds novel.
c. Madame Malkin's
[ Crowley is not used to buying clothes. Oh, he is certainly a fan of high fashion and and the rampant, exorbitant consumerism surrounding it, having a number of infernal commendations from Down Below for what was only tangential involvement on his part in the creation of such. But he's never actually partaken. He'd just will his garments into existence, without having to bother with the tedium of getting fitted by a tailor.
And really, he'd be fine as-is on the streets of London despite technically being a good three and a half decades ahead of the curve. But men's fashion hadn't changed all that drastically since the seventies (and really, it had been going at a snail's pace since the Regency era. Say what you please about the French courts of the 18th century, the clothing was anything but dull.)
Still, skinny jeans and blazers are not the look du jour of wizards, and Crowley is eager to fit in as quickly as possible. After all, he can't simply will himself out the memories of humans. Next best thing to achieving the anonymity he's grown so used to is to blend in as seamlessly as possible with the humans he'll be spending the foreseeable future with.
As of right now, he's currently parked himself in front of a mirror, trying on a not-insignificant number of hats. Nothing like indulging in a bit of Vanity to make this less tedious.
...And perhaps irritating the nearest customer with inane conversation. ]
Which one d'you reckon?
[ He asks, brandishing two near identical hats. ]
I like the little feather flourish on this one, but I can't help but think it makes my head look a bit bulbous. This one's much sleeker, but it seems a bit dull.
II. School Grounds
a. Flying Lessons
[ Crowley, Fallen as he may be, is no stranger to flying. His wings did not burn in the sulfur pits with the rest of him, and remain functional and well-groomed to this very day. He's even taken to the skies in the past decade, though such things have become much harder with all the planes and helicopters and drones able to spot him.
...And once upon a time before time, he'd moved at speeds incomprehensible to humans through the void of space, zipping through wormholes and shaping stars and nebulae with a cadre of other angels.
That is to say, Crowley shouldn't be eyeballing the broom with the sort of look he reserved for the houseplants that had the nerve to start shedding leaves on the good carpet. It's a haughty look, his upper lip curled in the sort of disgust that suggests a future trip down the garbage disposal. Or in the broom's case, the nearest woodchipper.
So, when confronted with less than ideal circumstances, Crowley does what he always does in this sort of situation; grouse about it. ]
You'd think with all the jumped-up trust-fund students, they could afford brooms that don't look like they're going to leave splinters in the delicates. Bugger me sideways, this thing is in a state.
b. The Grounds
[ Crowley loves a good wander, even if his backside's gone a bit numb from the flying lesson. Brooms, really. Worse than horses and he'd never got the knack for those either.
The grounds truly are lovely. Green and gorgeous, with the rugged highland terrain all around. They must be well and truly in the middle of Nowhere, Scotland, because even he's having trouble spotting anything like a familiar landmark in the surrounds. And he knows Scotland very well - done some of his best temptations here over the last thousand years.
Eventually he approaches the edge of the Forbidden Forest. There is something to be said about Crowley and any sort of tree with a big 'Forbidden' sign tacked onto it. A whole forest can hardly help but draw his interest like a moth to the flame. ]
Crowley ⛧ Good Omens (TV)
a. The Knight Bus
[ Crowley had never really been partial to either knights (excluding that time in the late tenth century, but Aziraphale was always the exception to any of his rules), nor public transport. He'd taken the tube once.
He wouldn't again.
But he was quite enjoying the Knight Bus. Probably one in the minority there, if the sickly green hue of many of his compatriots were any indication.
But really, what was the fuss? The interior was luxurious (the tacky chandelier, he thought, was a particularly nice touch), and doing a hundred and five in central London really wasn't all that big of a deal; he did it all the time in the Bentley.
In fact, the Knight Bus seemed to operate on almost exactly the same rules as his car, weaving through the narrow gaps between vehicles and always being exactly where the traffic wasn't.
He flashes a grin to his neighbour, deciding to do the most irritating thing possible on a ride like this; start up small talk. ]
So, the eighties, eh? Good time for music - reckon they'll let us out the little magical bubble world to catch a concert or two...? Maybe lob a pie in old Thatcher's face?
b. The Leaky Cauldron
[ It's not even gone noon, but Crowley, not a stranger to being daydrunk and a Bad Influence on Impressionable Minds, is eyeballing the rather impressive collection of beverages on display. He's sure magic can only improve liquor.
...Right? ]
Let me guess... Fire Whiskey actually makes you breathe fire...? Sounds novel.
c. Madame Malkin's
[ Crowley is not used to buying clothes. Oh, he is certainly a fan of high fashion and and the rampant, exorbitant consumerism surrounding it, having a number of infernal commendations from Down Below for what was only tangential involvement on his part in the creation of such. But he's never actually partaken. He'd just will his garments into existence, without having to bother with the tedium of getting fitted by a tailor.
And really, he'd be fine as-is on the streets of London despite technically being a good three and a half decades ahead of the curve. But men's fashion hadn't changed all that drastically since the seventies (and really, it had been going at a snail's pace since the Regency era. Say what you please about the French courts of the 18th century, the clothing was anything but dull.)
Still, skinny jeans and blazers are not the look du jour of wizards, and Crowley is eager to fit in as quickly as possible. After all, he can't simply will himself out the memories of humans. Next best thing to achieving the anonymity he's grown so used to is to blend in as seamlessly as possible with the humans he'll be spending the foreseeable future with.
As of right now, he's currently parked himself in front of a mirror, trying on a not-insignificant number of hats. Nothing like indulging in a bit of Vanity to make this less tedious.
...And perhaps irritating the nearest customer with inane conversation. ]
Which one d'you reckon?
[ He asks, brandishing two near identical hats. ]
I like the little feather flourish on this one, but I can't help but think it makes my head look a bit bulbous. This one's much sleeker, but it seems a bit dull.
II. School Grounds
a. Flying Lessons
[ Crowley, Fallen as he may be, is no stranger to flying. His wings did not burn in the sulfur pits with the rest of him, and remain functional and well-groomed to this very day. He's even taken to the skies in the past decade, though such things have become much harder with all the planes and helicopters and drones able to spot him.
...And once upon a time before time, he'd moved at speeds incomprehensible to humans through the void of space, zipping through wormholes and shaping stars and nebulae with a cadre of other angels.
That is to say, Crowley shouldn't be eyeballing the broom with the sort of look he reserved for the houseplants that had the nerve to start shedding leaves on the good carpet. It's a haughty look, his upper lip curled in the sort of disgust that suggests a future trip down the garbage disposal. Or in the broom's case, the nearest woodchipper.
So, when confronted with less than ideal circumstances, Crowley does what he always does in this sort of situation; grouse about it. ]
You'd think with all the jumped-up trust-fund students, they could afford brooms that don't look like they're going to leave splinters in the delicates. Bugger me sideways, this thing is in a state.
b. The Grounds
[ Crowley loves a good wander, even if his backside's gone a bit numb from the flying lesson. Brooms, really. Worse than horses and he'd never got the knack for those either.
The grounds truly are lovely. Green and gorgeous, with the rugged highland terrain all around. They must be well and truly in the middle of Nowhere, Scotland, because even he's having trouble spotting anything like a familiar landmark in the surrounds. And he knows Scotland very well - done some of his best temptations here over the last thousand years.
Eventually he approaches the edge of the Forbidden Forest. There is something to be said about Crowley and any sort of tree with a big 'Forbidden' sign tacked onto it. A whole forest can hardly help but draw his interest like a moth to the flame. ]