Chapter Text
The trouble with “Keep Out” signs is that it’s so easy to pretend you can’t read them. Or perhaps that’s more of a reflection on the trouble with Crowley, who can most definitely read, but also happens to be quite keen on ignoring signs. Mostly out of spite, and entirely out of curiosity.
Crowley has been ignoring “Keep Out” signs for much of his adult life, and tonight is no different.
A creature of solitude and self-proclaimed fan of all things “spooky”, Crowley has made a habit of going on the occasional evening stroll through the cemetery. Well, a cemetery. He tries not to visit the same place too many times, to avoid getting caught.
Tonight, he’s hopping the fence to Heaven’s Gate Cemetery, because he’s never been there before, and because, like so many others he’s trespassed, it says “Keep Out”. And also because he keeps hearing noises and that’s decidedly very spooky, so. Obviously he’s got to check this out. He snorts a chuckle at the cemetery’s name as he makes his way past the fence and into the dead grass that provides a decidedly not-heavenly landscape for the centuries old headstones.
“Right, who are you lot, then?” he muses aloud, quieting himself to a whisper partway through the sentence as he remembers the strange noises he’d heard. Probably just an animal, a bird or something, he thinks, but he’s not feeling like taking chances. He’s an astronomer, for heaven’s sake– he’s not exactly prepared to fight anyone. Certainly not prepared to fight off any zombies– not that he believes in such things, of course. Or ghosts. But if there were ghosts, he wouldn’t want to have to fight them. Can you even fight a ghost? he wonders. Can’t touch them, how would you– “Shit!”
Crowley startles when a bird flies right past him, nearly batting his face with its big black wings. He thinks they’re black, anyway. Hard to tell in the dim light. Anyway, it’s gone in the blink of an eye, and Crowley stumbles back from the startle of it all, the backs of his knees hitting a headstone and causing him to tumble over it. He hits his head when he lands, on the front of another stone, and it knocks him unconscious for a few minutes before he comes to.
He sits up, rubbing the back of his head with a groan, and hisses when he feels something damp on his hand. Blood, he figures. That’s all well and fine– He’s something of a doctor. Or at least he would’ve been if he’d completed medical school. He dropped out in pursuit of a philosophy degree, thinking he could teach or something, then left school and the idea of being a professor behind altogether upon deciding that he didn’t want to have to answer to anyone and he could take care of himself, thanks.
After six years of working at a local music store he went back to school and got a degree in astronomy. He’s… Well, he’s still working at that same music store. Owns it now, actually. But he still hopes to do something with that degree someday…
It’s a work in progress. He’s a work in progress. S’what life is, isn’t it?
…Maybe he should’ve stuck with that philosophy degree, he thinks.
Anyway, point is, he knows enough to know that the blood on the back of his head isn’t anything serious. He doesn’t need immediate medical attention. Which is great because he’s hearing noises again. Investigating the noises sounds a lot more fun that getting some stitches, in his opinion.
He picks himself off the ground and brushes the dirt off his clothes. He’s pretty sure the stains will come out, but if not, he’s got five other pairs of the same too-tight black jeans, so he’s not too worried about it.
He starts walking in the direction of the sounds he’s hearing. Well, limping, really. He must’ve twisted his ankle or something. He’s not really thinking about it anymore, because he now recognizes the sounds to be human. Someone’s huffing, grunting, and he’s quite sure there’s also the sound of dirt being shoveled, and– ohhhh. Grave robbing. Fantastic. He’s just walked in on a grave robbing. He wishes he’d brought his sunglasses– even if they couldn’t actually hide him from any harm, they always made him feel just a bit hidden, and just a bit safer.
Whoever’s doing the robbing doesn’t seem to notice him, so he crouches behind a headstone and holds his breath. Then he realizes he’s too far away and the robber is far too busy to notice his breathing, so he exhales and silently asks himself why in the hell he’s sticking around for this.
But then he thinks of his flat–cold and grey and empty–and decides this is far more fun than spending yet another night alone.
Whoever this person is, they seem to be finishing up, shoveling dirt back into the grave they’d dug up. Crowley grimaces, peeking over the headstone, and frowns at the sight.
The grave robber– a man, he thinks (if he’s going to make assumptions based off the ridiculous construct of gender, which he himself isn’t the biggest fan of)– has an electric lantern, resting in some sort of metal cart. It makes it a lot easier to see, and Crowley does not like what he sees. Well, he wasn’t going to like what he saw, anyway, but this was… more disturbing than the usual grave robbery. Not that he’d seen a whole lot of grave robberies in his day. None, actually. This would be the first. But– Anyway, the cart was full of limbs, was the thing. Bits and pieces of what had to be at least three corpses, but no actual full bodies.
Well, maybe they were buried like that, he thinks. Maybe there was an accident or something. The headstones in this area look much more modern than the ones at the entrance, so he’s pretty sure these are newer corpses, not old ones. He rolls his eyes at himself upon realizing that of course they’re new corpses, the centuries-old ones would have decomposed by now.
The grave robber pats the dirt with the shovel and seems satisfied with their work, wiping the back of their wrist on their brow as they visibly exhale, and Crowley realizes that very soon he is going to possibly face being caught by a probable psychopath. There’s only one way in and out of the cemetery, as far as he knows. And Crowley’s directly in the path of it.
Crowley holds his breath and rubs his fingers over the metal snake on his belt. It’s the closest thing to a weapon he’s got. He wonders if it’ll do enough damage if he whips it at an attacker.
He’s about to unfasten his belt when he sees the robber pull the cart in the opposite direction. Huh. Must be another way out then.
Against his better judgement–or perhaps because he lacks better judgement altogether, Crowley crawls from headstone to headstone, following the robber’s path out of the cemetery. They stop at a broken gate where they’ve parked their car. Er, van. Big van. Big not-at-all-suspicious-looking white van. It’s hidden behind overgrown greenery, but Crowley can see enough to make out what they’re doing. He watches as they load the cart onto a ramp and into the back of the van, then close everything up and get in the drivers seat.
It’s then that Crowley bolts down to where he’s got his Bentley parked, all the way back at the front entrance. He gets in and closes the door with heaving breath, trying to process exactly what he’s just witnessed.
The van pulls out from around the corner and onto the main road, and Crowley takes a breath.
He should go to the police. He’s, like, at least 97% sure he should go to the police.
He doesn’t go to the police.
Instead, like someone with poor impulse control would do, he starts his own car and follows the man back to his house.