Crowley would have whole-heartedly agreed that a healthy paranoia around demons was key to a long and successful existence. He was living proof of why you shouldn't really go around trusting demons. He'd spent little over six thousand years not trusting his coworkers and it had only landed him the occasional drawing-and-quartering.

"Uh," said Crowley. It was always a great start to launching a counter defense. Not that there was much to say - he was a bloody demon, and it was pretty obvious with the scaly feet and feathery wings. Humans would take from that what they would.

He managed to partially stuff his hands in the half-hearted attempt at pockets that came with his Top Shop skinny jeans, looking just a tad sullen.

"In most cases yeah, always good idea to keep your guard up. M'pretty much retired these days though, so if you're worried about the sanctity of your immortal soul, I'll get it out the way quick. No, I don't do that sssort of thing anymore."

Not that he did it much when he was actually working either; humans were astonishingly good at doing his job for him, and he just took all the credit, and raked in the commendations that meant buggerall. Never a raise, never up for a promotion, and he practically carried Hell on his shoulders while the likes of Hastur and Ligur tinkered away on priests and politicians.