The lecture hall is packed, experts and students alike attending from all over the world. Anyone would feel honored by the attendance, not to mention the buzz the event has been generating for nigh a year. Rumors were flying, whispers about the potential of a Nobel Prize being awarded.
Any normal human would be feeling at least a bit anxious, probably sweating and dropping notecards all over the place in a tizzy of excited nerves.
Good thing Crowley isn’t human, then.
Aziraphale was in the audience, of course. Aziraphale, the angel who never let him live his mistake down, who brandished his book at any and every possible moment like both weapon and shield, only ever silenced if Crowley managed to kiss the thoughts out of that heavenly body.
He’s going to kill him. But it’ll be worth it to get everyone off his back.
It’s time. Throwing open the door to the hall, Crowley announces his entrance by taking the loudest, most obscene slurp ever heard in the history of man from his 7/11 slurpee, burping immediately after. The room goes silent at once, every eye on him as he rolls down the aisle in freshly bought heelies, standing tall to proudly display the hot pink crop top he’s wearing. Obnoxious and curly letters proclaim “Bottom Space Bitch” in loud colors, most definitely an eyesore to any who look at it. Forfeiting his normal skinny jeans, he sports a pair of space-print leggings (styled after Alpha Centurii, of course) that leave nothing to the imagination, every curve of his body on display. On top his head rests a dark green beanie, a silver snake adorning it.
It doesn’t take long for him to find his angel’s horrified face and he tosses him a wink, raising the slurpee cup in greeting. The embarrassment ripe in those eyes causes him to chuckle, taking another noisy drink.
Not a sound beyond his own can be heard in the room as he rolls to the stage, deciding to put a pin in the entire affair by jumping directly up to the raised floor rather than taking the stairs like a civilized being. He’s a demon, after all; manners only matter if they serve his purpose.
I did it, he thinks, turning to gaze upon the stunned audience. I’ve broken their admiration.
He hasn’t felt this proud since designing the M25.
“Hello,” he says, tapping the mic and grinning when feedback echoes throughout the room. “I’m Anthony J. Crowley, and everything you thought you knew is wrong.“
Before he can continue the entire room stands, their boisterous applause causing him to take a step back in surprise. What’s this? Whistles break out of the crowd, and people begin shouting absolutely ridiculous things.
“What a breath of fresh air!”
“Thank you for bringing life into the field again!”
Mouth open, he pops down his sunglasses, eyes scanning the crowd is disbelief. They... like it? This train wreck of a man he created?
Well, now what is he supposed to do?
His gaze lands on Aziraphale, sitting in third row center, arms folded and laughing the hardest he’s ever seen. Eyes narrowing, he hisses under his breath.
This event just turned from fun prank into boring lecture.
And he’s going to make sure to thank Aziraphale for it later. Properly.
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