Fic: Crowley & Crowley
Bastard, he thinks.
***
The next time they meet, it’s at a bar after a deal almost gone bad. Almost gone bad, because Alistair while a great torturer lacks at any thing else. And it’s just his luck that the in-charges decided to punish the bastard by putting him in Sales and having him as Crowley’s partner. Crowley’s just happy that the client actually sold his soul, and didn’t throw holy water at them. He keeps up a string of curses at Alistair, who had long returned back to Hell thank Lucifer for that, while he sips on his thirtieth drink of the night. Or was he in the high fifties now? He doesn’t care, he probably lost count a while a go. All he knows he’s ingested a lot of alcohol and has yet to get drunk.
Bugger it all.
He only catches the familiar gaze of yellow snake eyes across the room when he looks up to enjoy the spectacular brawl that’s broken out. The frustration and bloodlust rolling off the brawlers is delicious. Human souls taking one more step towards sulphur and brimstone, without realising it. The Snake raises his glass in a silent toast, yellow eyes glinting mischievously, an amused smirk on his face. Crowley feels obliged to copy the action, to acknowledge a job well done. He also feels a whole better than he earlier did.
***
The eighth meeting is a thing of beauty. [1] It involves three hellhounds, maggots, rats, some of Alistair’s more mundane devices, mead, and an interesting rumour about Beelzebub, Lilith, Mephistopheles and unicorns. This meeting is one all of Hell - well most of it - tries to forget. There never was a prank as brilliant as two separate plans created in boredom, to unexpectedly and unintentionally come together as one. He can still hear Mephistopheles screams of rage, as he conveniently makes himself scarce in Belial’s quarters. If he ever has to be honest about anything - and no matter how much he may deny it, Crowley’s actually honest about a lot of things, much to his annoyance - the kid from Sales has got an imagination, and style.
Surprisingly they don’t get into trouble. Even more surprisingly get into Lilith’s good books - apparently she has a sense of humour. The commendations are like chocolate on apples. They’ve mind-fucked demons after all.
***
Somewhere down the line, between the 1200s after yet another stupid annual meeting - which always lasts for ten hell years - where the various Dukes of Hell displays how astronomically stupid and annoying they are, they become drinking buddies. Crowley has never had anyone to actually bitch too, without his confidant tattling on him. And his companion has long changed from being the Serpent of Eden to him, to ‘that Snake bastard’. They get smashed topside, and then he ends up unexpectedly getting some real big deals, and it’s bloody brilliant. The Snake is also the most philosophical and amusing drunk in history. Crowley will never be able to ever think about some of the pagan gods the same way ever again.
The drunken sex which leaves far too many marks, and includes the most creative use of honey [2] ever, that happens afterwards is the highlight. Crowley leaves feeling more sated than should be allowed for a demon and with the knowledge that, yes the bastard can do a lot of things with that tongue, and more. Much, much more.
He doesn’t even want to get started on what the bastard can do with his hands.
***
The whole drinking mates continues whenever the little Salesman - and he will always be called ‘little Salesman’ or ‘Sales’ because calling him Crowley becomes too confusing for the both of them, and it isn’t worth it unless there are other demons around so that they can fuck with their heads - is pulled topside for a deal. The Salesman is more fun to be around than any one else in Hell, well exclusive of Belial. [3] The fellow knows how things work, how they should work, and knows just how to get under everyone else’s skin, which in Crowley’s books is a plus.
By logical conclusion the sex also continues and it’s bloody fantastic. Sales has nothing against public displays of sexual activity, and it scandalises the poor humans.
***
Neither of them are really the type to do lovers. Friends yes, the term is ambiguous enough, and can be used as a catch all term for business partners, acquaintances, and just colleagues who like to drink together and makes the other’s life miserable, and fuck. Lovers, however, is a whole level of commitment that’s reserved for temptation and suckering in poor sods into selling their souls. It’s something no self respecting demon should actually do, the snake’s taught him. So no, they aren’t lovers he tells one of the girls in Sales who seems to have a thing for the flash bastard. It’s odd, because he’s actually rarely seen any interest in Crowley aside from the whole wanting to know about the Apple story bit. He does however inform her that yes they are indeed having wicked demon sex, and that of course he tops, before shooing her away.
The news spreads like wildfire throughout Hell.
The next day when he’s pulled up topside for a deal he finds himself stuck in a Devil’s Trap. It’s a week, before the Snake actually lets him out, on Belial’s orders. It’s still worth it.
***
It’s the bloody Fourteenth century, and Crowley’s just gotten a commendation for the Spanish Inquisition.
He finds himself in one of his favourite villas drinking himself into a stupor. To anyone in Hell he’s celebrating. In reality he’s trying to forget. Bloodshed, and gore, in the name of faith do no go down well with him. Really, they don’t. It brings back memories of a worse war. He’s forgotten his real name, and he’s blocked out the Heavenly War, and he’d really not like to be reminded of it again, thank you very much. None of the Fallen like to be reminded about it. They don’t like to think about the various crazy family issues either.
There’s a shift in the air, and a tired Sales drops down into the seat next to him, takes a bottle and a big gulp from it. “Congratulations on the commendation,” he says as a way of greeting. Crowley hisses in response. “Yeah these types of things aren’t my cup of tea either.” Crowley hisses again, and wills his alcohol into something stronger, continuing his attempt to get completely smashed.
“Belial’s escaped again.” Sales tells him conversationally, straddling him. “Tied up Alistair, on a pink crucifix, and vanished. I hear she did some more too. Something about an overload of paper hearts decorating Alistair’s office. And something else that freaked out Dagon and Moloch. Didn’t get the details.”
Crowley breaks out into laughter as his clothes vanish, and Sales bites his neck.
***
It’s another annual meeting, and they’ve just been let up for break. The Dukes are being annoying, and it’s nothing new. In fact the Dukes of Hell are always annoying. They make it a point to be annoying. It’s their way of feeling useful to the cause. Crowley finds himself at the Gates of Hell next to the grumpy Snake of Eden from Temptation. Usually Belial would join them but she’s run off. Again. Vanished this time in the middle of the meeting after throwing about more than two dozen stakes at Alistair. Poor Snakey, who had the misfortune of actually sitting next to him, got stabbed by a stray stake. Naturally the administration are organising the search for her. It explains the break in the first place. Despite his companions grumpiness he can’t help but be amused.
“Still don’t bloody understand why the place is a No Smoking Zone. There’s always smoke about anyway.”
“You say it, as if I know anything about the crazy intricacies of Hell.”
“You should, you live here.”
“I never leave the Sales Department, unless it’s for a meeting or Deals. It’s always bright there.”
“Lucky bastard,” good old Snaky grumbles
***
The first time little old Sales meets the Aziraphale, he very understandably nearly has the demonic version of a heart-attack. It takes Crowley a good five minutes to convince him that he has an Arrangement with the Angel, and no, there won’t be any smiting happening. Sales simply stares at Crowley as if he grew another head, which he possibly could if he wanted too. He does contemplate growing one just to mess with the fellow’s mind, but Aziraphale butts in before he can. “Really my dear, I’m not going to do anything, unless I have too,” which is Aziraphale-speak for ‘I’m not going to smite you, unless you’re here to make a deal, and then I have too, because it’s my job.’
Crowley translates. Sales straightens up, nods, and then disappears. Presumably gone off to get utterly and absolutely piss drunk. Crowley can’t blame the bugger. He’s just met an Angel of the Lord, and didn’t even have to fight to make it out alive. His worldview’s just been ripped a new hole, and fucked in there without any lubrication. If there’s any way to remedy this whole thing or help him forget about it, it’s obviously booze.
“Oh dear, the poor thing.”
“Don’t worry angel, I’m sure he’ll get over it.”
***
Crowley does get over it in fact. He gets over it rather easily, and promptly forgets about it. Denial may not be a river on Egypt, but it’s probably one of a demon’s best friends. He’s only reminded of it again around a century or so later when he’s long since been living topside; courtesy of him being one of the people sent topside to find and keep tabs on Belial’s new re-incarnation every time she escapes. He accidentally bumps into Aziraphale on day after a Deal on his way home. The angel, much to his horror recognises him, and then offers him tea. Crowley may be a demon, but he was once upon a time human. And like every human he has some weaknesses, his being alcohol, sex, and tea. And he’ll be damned, again, but Aziraphale makes one hell of a brew.
Still though, a demon’s basic instinct is paranoia, and angels are naturally suspicious of demons, so they do keep their distance and their conversation on blissfully neutral topics.
“He’s still asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Is the bastard trying to give Sleeping Beauty a run for her money?” He wants to makes more comments but Aziraphale has this look, and he really would like not to get smote, thank you very much. “Misprinted bibles?” he asks cautiously after a long pause.
“It’s a hobby actually. More tea?”
“Yes,” he cuts off the please because demons do not say please. The rest meeting goes nicely. They have more tea, chat about a lot of things including and mostly related to the weather. Aziraphale is civil, and Crowley doesn’t spontaneously combust after being in the angel’s presence. It’s sort of nice, which is something he doesn’t want to think about because demons don’t do nice.
He tries not to run the moment he leaves Aziraphale’s presence.
***
“Lilith?” he asks Sales during a visit, completely gobsmacked, and more disgusted by the mental image. “Your new lover is Lilith?”
The hit-and-miss Apocalypse is now fifteen years old, and Adam’s erased everyone’s memories. Life is going on as it always had. He still tempts and wiles, and is occasionally thwarted. He still superglues gold coins to the side-walks and ties up traffic. He’s feeding the ducks every week at St. James Park.
Except now he and the Angel somehow upgraded their Arrangement. And yes while Heaven and Hell are just sides and they’ve already chosen humanity, and the sex is great, he still can’t get over the fact that he’s buggering an Angel. Actually the great sex probably is one of the reasons why it still hasn’t sunk in. Unless there’s boring academic conversations involved, Aziraphale and sex shouldn’t go in the same sentence.
Crowley’s sure it’s actually the 13th Commandment. [4]
Add to that he now has a freaking godson who he genuinely cares about, and whose arse he had to kick to get out of Tadfield and into college. That should have been the Angel’s job. He’s the one who’s supposed to be worried about the boy’s welfare, and responsible for Adam’s good influence. Not Crowley. Crowley’s feeling far too familial, parental, responsible, and relatively un-demonic because of it.
He hoped his visit to Sales would cure that. It actually did for a bit. Sales was informing Crowley about the more juicy bits of the life of Belial’s new re-incarnation. Barring a few things, they’d had a few good laughs taking the usual sadistic pleasure in her misery and the utter demonic glee and appreciation in some of the havoc she causes as a human. But no the Universe has to show Crowley how much it loves tormenting him, because Sales just has to mentions like the smug bastard he is about his new conquest. Crowley’s Go-Someone’s butt-monkey, he knows it.
Sales stares at him over the top of his glass, looking at Crowley, as if he’s gone insane, and he’d have to call the men in white jackets to take him away. He’s sort of right, sort of, because while he hasn’t gone insane, Crowley’s pretty close to insane right now.
“I don’t think you understand what I’m saying here,” he tries again, saying the words slowly and enunciating each syllable far too clearly for a demon who is supposed to be drunk, “Lilith is your lover.”
Sales just gives him this blank stare that makes it obvious that he doesn’t realise the enormity of it. Lilith for all purposes is madly in love with Lucifer. It’s to the point that it probably surpasses the love Lucifer may have held one time for the Man Upstairs. If she’s taken anyone as a lover, it’s because she needs to use them for something. And most of the time, anything Lilith uses is for only one purpose. Sales of course, DOES. NOT. GET. IT. Crowley has to try hard to resist the ancient urge of an angel he still partly is deep down, to look at the heavens, and ask for strength.
Knowing his luck, if he did, it would start raining Holy Water.
He finally gives up, heads back to England - or more specifically to Aziraphale’s bookstore in Soho, to bitch to the Angel. And also being the properly paranoid demon that he is, be prepared for whatever Lilith is planning. He knows whatever it is, it isn’t good.
***
Crowley is sure he’s earned the title of the most buggered son in Creation. Or well if he hadn’t before, he definitely has now. He’s helped the Winchesters, twice, no scratch that, thrice. Betrayed Hell and Lucifer, given up intel on Brady, killed a demon’s nest, and set his hellhound on other hellhounds.
Though the whole ‘Lovers in League Against Satan’ bit was bloody brilliant, if he’s allowed to say so. So was the picture of his kiss with Bobby.
But that was three days ago. It’s been three days since Bobby’s deal to find Death’s location, and nothing’s showed up. Well nothing until the morning, except the location came to him in Ancient Enochian. Death seems to be a sly bastard and has the one-up on the lot of them. This apparently, is a language even Castiel doesn’t know; or more likely he’s forgotten as the language developed. Anyone the angel could ask for help him with this, have him on their ‘To Rend Atom from Atom and Smite’ list, or they’re dead.
Crowley is still trying to figure out if it’s even possible.
Three hours later after no progress whatsoever, Crowley downs a whole bottle of cognac, resigns himself to his fate and goes outside, container of Holy Oil in hand, ignoring the confused gazes of the Functioning Morons in the Singer Household. They’ll follow him to see what he’s up to, he knows this. He can feel their curiosity overpower their suspicion.
He knows only two Angels, well Fallen Angels who he trusts - with his paranoia and all - who know Ancient Enochian, and probably don’t want the world to end either. One of them is currently locked up heavily in Hell, semi-courtesy of him. Even if she had managed to escape by now, she’d probably hold a grudge against him about the whole handing her contract to Lilith bit, and not help him out of spite. So that means he’s down to the other option. Crowley sighs once again, sets up the summoning circle, and lights the Holy Oil just in case, because hey he’s currently one of Hell’s Most Wanted. He has to engage in some paranoia. That being done he starts yelling a lengthy tirade of curses [5] in various languages. He starts with Aramaic, and then Hebrew, Sanskrit, Latin, before winding down to a simple, “Angel fucking Flash-Bastard.” It’s a little therapeutic.
***
Somewhere in London, or to be more specific Mr. Fell’s Books, Soho, Crowley’s caught in a predicament. Said predicament is whether to pry the ‘Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter. Concerning the World that Is To Com; Ye Saga Continuef!’ out of Aziraphale’s hands before he spontaneously combusted from trying to decipher the prophecies. The other option was give up leave the prophecy deciphering to Anathema and Aziraphale, and go join Belial, [6] Gabriel, [7] Newt and Adam on the couch and get drunk. Fortunately enough for them, Agnes Nutter had the foresight to have more than one copy of her second book of Prophecies. Unfortunately, her English and her ability to write semi-coherently got worse as she got old.
Aziraphale is this close to having the Angelic version of an aneurysm.
He’s silently discussing with Adam just how they’re going to distract Aziraphale from the book, when he hears the Summoning. So does everyone else in the bookshop. Crowley doesn’t need to be yelled at twice during a Summoning. Not when it’s his chance to stop the Angel from going into his Smite The World mode. He grabs Aziraphale’s arm and drags him to where he’s being Summoned. Belial shouts out a message for Sales as he leaves.
He makes sure that he appears outside the Angel-trap, just to mind-fuck the other demon. “Angel fucking Flash Bastard? Really? You started out so great too.”
Predictably Sales rolls his eyes. It’s his way of hiding the fact that he was startled. “Oh shut up,” he grumbles getting himself back together. Obviously he wasn’t expecting Aziraphale. “Hello Aziraphale.”
“Hello Mr. Crowley,” Aziraphale greets back with a very angelic smile, still obviously trying to get his bearings. Sales looks like he’s wondering if he’ll combust any moment now.
Sales really looks worse for wear, and Crowley feels just a little bit sympathetic. He was in a similar position twenty years ago. But honestly he should have expected it. After all he helped Lilith get topside. Most of his sympathy evaporates. “Let me guess, it has something to do with stopping the Apocalypse? And you want help. I was wondering when you’d call. Took you long enough. Now what do you and Team Idiot need help with?”
“We found Death’s location. Except we got it in Ancient Enochian,” he stresses on that bit, clearly still somewhat stuck in disbelief about that, “And none of us know Ancient Enochian.”
They’re in the Singer household now, and Team Idiot stares at them, guns drawn. Their angel - Aziraphale’s mentioned that has his name was Castiel - is glaring at them, his Angel-killing blade at the ready. Aziraphale ignores that, claps his hand in delight, all frustration at translting Anges' prophecies forgotten, and promptly clasps his hands over Castiel before the poor Angel can even react. “Oh Castiel my dear, it’s so good to meet you again. It’s been so long.” He then proceeds to bombard the obviously baffled angel with questions about his welfare and the like.
Crowley rolls his eyes - not fondly, because he’s a demon and therefore, he doesn’t do fond - and waves to them. He turns back to Sales amusement back, “Belial asked me to pass on a message. She says that once this is over, you’re her bitch. And um…” now snickering, he turns and points to who he assumes is Dean Winchester, “She told me to tell you that you owe her Angry Sex.”
Dean’s green eyes go comically wide. The other two humans in the room - who still have their guns drawn - look lost as to what’s going on. So does Castiel for that matter. Crowley erupts into full blown helpless laughter, Sales follows suit. Aziraphale’s lips quirk into an amused smile.
At least now it’s guaranteed that stopping the Apocalypse will be fun. And Ancient Enochian is far more easier to translate than word vomit prophecies.
~~~
[1] By mutual agreement of both parties, they resolve to objectively never speak of their third, fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh meetings. In fact they staunchly deny those meetings ever happened. For them it’s erased from reality itself. Any curious demon, human-turned or Fallen who asks is seen less than ten seconds later running away screaming bloody murder in a way that impresses even Alistair. He promptly asks about their technique, and starts a petition to get the both of them transferred into Torture. He’s thoroughly ignored every single time, and his petition rejected.
[2] There were apples too, but he can’t remember that.
[3] Belial is actually Crowley’s favourite demon. [8] She had more issues than probably Lucifer himself. She hated Hell, hated Lucifer, hated Alistair for reasons unknown, hated responsibility, liked humans - not that Crowley could blame her for that, he liked the buggers too - and hence, kept escaping topside and re-incarnating into a human. She also did it in flashy ways, because she liked giving a big shiny ‘fuck you’ to everyone, and tormenting Alistair. This of course would lead into half of the administration sending out recon topside to find her, and then having half of everyone is Sales hound her new form to get her to make a Deal and get her back. There was a reason she was called the Crownless after all, and it was because she was mostly never there to rule over her section of Hell.
[4] It is actually the 17th Commandment. God put it there after a rather awkward conversation on his part with the former Guardian of the East Gate of Eden, about the Nephiliem, and sex positions. It ended up revealing things to him about Lucifer’s and Michael’s sex life before the Fall, which - despite being All Knowing - he really didn’t want to know.
[5] Summoning a demon, Fallen or human converted, is actually much easier than all Spell or Magic books make it out to be. One simply has to draw the appropriate circle, carve the name of the demon they’re summoning, or their description, in runes at the appropriate areas, and ask the demon to come. The Ominous Latin Chanting (or Ominous Aramaic Chanting as it used to be in the older days) is not required. It was added merely to make summoning demons more difficult because while they may hate being in Hell, the yank from Hell to Topside is more painful than any torture Alistair could come up with, and because demons like to look spooky. Cursing out the demon in any language, actually makes them come faster than the Speed of Light doubled.
[6] Who’d shown up at Crowley’s flat three days after her ‘supposed death’ drunk and grumbling about how she hated Lilith.
[7] He’d shown up unconscious, but alive, on the doorstep of Aziraphale’s bookshop being supported by Adam and Crowley. This was two hours after the Goddess Kali had shown up on the same doorstop, shoved a vial into Adam’s hands. This was fifteen minutes after Anathema had shown up, surprising both Aziraphale and Adam who was visiting, breathless and explaining wildly about a prophecy about a meeting where the Gods tested the Vessels, and an Archangel killing another Archangel.
[8] Except for that one time she was piss drunk and nearly killed him, because she mistook him for Alistair.
***
The next time they meet, it’s at a bar after a deal almost gone bad. Almost gone bad, because Alistair while a great torturer lacks at any thing else. And it’s just his luck that the in-charges decided to punish the bastard by putting him in Sales and having him as Crowley’s partner. Crowley’s just happy that the client actually sold his soul, and didn’t throw holy water at them. He keeps up a string of curses at Alistair, who had long returned back to Hell thank Lucifer for that, while he sips on his thirtieth drink of the night. Or was he in the high fifties now? He doesn’t care, he probably lost count a while a go. All he knows he’s ingested a lot of alcohol and has yet to get drunk.
Bugger it all.
He only catches the familiar gaze of yellow snake eyes across the room when he looks up to enjoy the spectacular brawl that’s broken out. The frustration and bloodlust rolling off the brawlers is delicious. Human souls taking one more step towards sulphur and brimstone, without realising it. The Snake raises his glass in a silent toast, yellow eyes glinting mischievously, an amused smirk on his face. Crowley feels obliged to copy the action, to acknowledge a job well done. He also feels a whole better than he earlier did.
***
The eighth meeting is a thing of beauty. [1] It involves three hellhounds, maggots, rats, some of Alistair’s more mundane devices, mead, and an interesting rumour about Beelzebub, Lilith, Mephistopheles and unicorns. This meeting is one all of Hell - well most of it - tries to forget. There never was a prank as brilliant as two separate plans created in boredom, to unexpectedly and unintentionally come together as one. He can still hear Mephistopheles screams of rage, as he conveniently makes himself scarce in Belial’s quarters. If he ever has to be honest about anything - and no matter how much he may deny it, Crowley’s actually honest about a lot of things, much to his annoyance - the kid from Sales has got an imagination, and style.
Surprisingly they don’t get into trouble. Even more surprisingly get into Lilith’s good books - apparently she has a sense of humour. The commendations are like chocolate on apples. They’ve mind-fucked demons after all.
***
Somewhere down the line, between the 1200s after yet another stupid annual meeting - which always lasts for ten hell years - where the various Dukes of Hell displays how astronomically stupid and annoying they are, they become drinking buddies. Crowley has never had anyone to actually bitch too, without his confidant tattling on him. And his companion has long changed from being the Serpent of Eden to him, to ‘that Snake bastard’. They get smashed topside, and then he ends up unexpectedly getting some real big deals, and it’s bloody brilliant. The Snake is also the most philosophical and amusing drunk in history. Crowley will never be able to ever think about some of the pagan gods the same way ever again.
The drunken sex which leaves far too many marks, and includes the most creative use of honey [2] ever, that happens afterwards is the highlight. Crowley leaves feeling more sated than should be allowed for a demon and with the knowledge that, yes the bastard can do a lot of things with that tongue, and more. Much, much more.
He doesn’t even want to get started on what the bastard can do with his hands.
***
The whole drinking mates continues whenever the little Salesman - and he will always be called ‘little Salesman’ or ‘Sales’ because calling him Crowley becomes too confusing for the both of them, and it isn’t worth it unless there are other demons around so that they can fuck with their heads - is pulled topside for a deal. The Salesman is more fun to be around than any one else in Hell, well exclusive of Belial. [3] The fellow knows how things work, how they should work, and knows just how to get under everyone else’s skin, which in Crowley’s books is a plus.
By logical conclusion the sex also continues and it’s bloody fantastic. Sales has nothing against public displays of sexual activity, and it scandalises the poor humans.
***
Neither of them are really the type to do lovers. Friends yes, the term is ambiguous enough, and can be used as a catch all term for business partners, acquaintances, and just colleagues who like to drink together and makes the other’s life miserable, and fuck. Lovers, however, is a whole level of commitment that’s reserved for temptation and suckering in poor sods into selling their souls. It’s something no self respecting demon should actually do, the snake’s taught him. So no, they aren’t lovers he tells one of the girls in Sales who seems to have a thing for the flash bastard. It’s odd, because he’s actually rarely seen any interest in Crowley aside from the whole wanting to know about the Apple story bit. He does however inform her that yes they are indeed having wicked demon sex, and that of course he tops, before shooing her away.
The news spreads like wildfire throughout Hell.
The next day when he’s pulled up topside for a deal he finds himself stuck in a Devil’s Trap. It’s a week, before the Snake actually lets him out, on Belial’s orders. It’s still worth it.
***
It’s the bloody Fourteenth century, and Crowley’s just gotten a commendation for the Spanish Inquisition.
He finds himself in one of his favourite villas drinking himself into a stupor. To anyone in Hell he’s celebrating. In reality he’s trying to forget. Bloodshed, and gore, in the name of faith do no go down well with him. Really, they don’t. It brings back memories of a worse war. He’s forgotten his real name, and he’s blocked out the Heavenly War, and he’d really not like to be reminded of it again, thank you very much. None of the Fallen like to be reminded about it. They don’t like to think about the various crazy family issues either.
There’s a shift in the air, and a tired Sales drops down into the seat next to him, takes a bottle and a big gulp from it. “Congratulations on the commendation,” he says as a way of greeting. Crowley hisses in response. “Yeah these types of things aren’t my cup of tea either.” Crowley hisses again, and wills his alcohol into something stronger, continuing his attempt to get completely smashed.
“Belial’s escaped again.” Sales tells him conversationally, straddling him. “Tied up Alistair, on a pink crucifix, and vanished. I hear she did some more too. Something about an overload of paper hearts decorating Alistair’s office. And something else that freaked out Dagon and Moloch. Didn’t get the details.”
Crowley breaks out into laughter as his clothes vanish, and Sales bites his neck.
***
It’s another annual meeting, and they’ve just been let up for break. The Dukes are being annoying, and it’s nothing new. In fact the Dukes of Hell are always annoying. They make it a point to be annoying. It’s their way of feeling useful to the cause. Crowley finds himself at the Gates of Hell next to the grumpy Snake of Eden from Temptation. Usually Belial would join them but she’s run off. Again. Vanished this time in the middle of the meeting after throwing about more than two dozen stakes at Alistair. Poor Snakey, who had the misfortune of actually sitting next to him, got stabbed by a stray stake. Naturally the administration are organising the search for her. It explains the break in the first place. Despite his companions grumpiness he can’t help but be amused.
“Still don’t bloody understand why the place is a No Smoking Zone. There’s always smoke about anyway.”
“You say it, as if I know anything about the crazy intricacies of Hell.”
“You should, you live here.”
“I never leave the Sales Department, unless it’s for a meeting or Deals. It’s always bright there.”
“Lucky bastard,” good old Snaky grumbles
***
The first time little old Sales meets the Aziraphale, he very understandably nearly has the demonic version of a heart-attack. It takes Crowley a good five minutes to convince him that he has an Arrangement with the Angel, and no, there won’t be any smiting happening. Sales simply stares at Crowley as if he grew another head, which he possibly could if he wanted too. He does contemplate growing one just to mess with the fellow’s mind, but Aziraphale butts in before he can. “Really my dear, I’m not going to do anything, unless I have too,” which is Aziraphale-speak for ‘I’m not going to smite you, unless you’re here to make a deal, and then I have too, because it’s my job.’
Crowley translates. Sales straightens up, nods, and then disappears. Presumably gone off to get utterly and absolutely piss drunk. Crowley can’t blame the bugger. He’s just met an Angel of the Lord, and didn’t even have to fight to make it out alive. His worldview’s just been ripped a new hole, and fucked in there without any lubrication. If there’s any way to remedy this whole thing or help him forget about it, it’s obviously booze.
“Oh dear, the poor thing.”
“Don’t worry angel, I’m sure he’ll get over it.”
***
Crowley does get over it in fact. He gets over it rather easily, and promptly forgets about it. Denial may not be a river on Egypt, but it’s probably one of a demon’s best friends. He’s only reminded of it again around a century or so later when he’s long since been living topside; courtesy of him being one of the people sent topside to find and keep tabs on Belial’s new re-incarnation every time she escapes. He accidentally bumps into Aziraphale on day after a Deal on his way home. The angel, much to his horror recognises him, and then offers him tea. Crowley may be a demon, but he was once upon a time human. And like every human he has some weaknesses, his being alcohol, sex, and tea. And he’ll be damned, again, but Aziraphale makes one hell of a brew.
Still though, a demon’s basic instinct is paranoia, and angels are naturally suspicious of demons, so they do keep their distance and their conversation on blissfully neutral topics.
“He’s still asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Is the bastard trying to give Sleeping Beauty a run for her money?” He wants to makes more comments but Aziraphale has this look, and he really would like not to get smote, thank you very much. “Misprinted bibles?” he asks cautiously after a long pause.
“It’s a hobby actually. More tea?”
“Yes,” he cuts off the please because demons do not say please. The rest meeting goes nicely. They have more tea, chat about a lot of things including and mostly related to the weather. Aziraphale is civil, and Crowley doesn’t spontaneously combust after being in the angel’s presence. It’s sort of nice, which is something he doesn’t want to think about because demons don’t do nice.
He tries not to run the moment he leaves Aziraphale’s presence.
***
“Lilith?” he asks Sales during a visit, completely gobsmacked, and more disgusted by the mental image. “Your new lover is Lilith?”
The hit-and-miss Apocalypse is now fifteen years old, and Adam’s erased everyone’s memories. Life is going on as it always had. He still tempts and wiles, and is occasionally thwarted. He still superglues gold coins to the side-walks and ties up traffic. He’s feeding the ducks every week at St. James Park.
Except now he and the Angel somehow upgraded their Arrangement. And yes while Heaven and Hell are just sides and they’ve already chosen humanity, and the sex is great, he still can’t get over the fact that he’s buggering an Angel. Actually the great sex probably is one of the reasons why it still hasn’t sunk in. Unless there’s boring academic conversations involved, Aziraphale and sex shouldn’t go in the same sentence.
Crowley’s sure it’s actually the 13th Commandment. [4]
Add to that he now has a freaking godson who he genuinely cares about, and whose arse he had to kick to get out of Tadfield and into college. That should have been the Angel’s job. He’s the one who’s supposed to be worried about the boy’s welfare, and responsible for Adam’s good influence. Not Crowley. Crowley’s feeling far too familial, parental, responsible, and relatively un-demonic because of it.
He hoped his visit to Sales would cure that. It actually did for a bit. Sales was informing Crowley about the more juicy bits of the life of Belial’s new re-incarnation. Barring a few things, they’d had a few good laughs taking the usual sadistic pleasure in her misery and the utter demonic glee and appreciation in some of the havoc she causes as a human. But no the Universe has to show Crowley how much it loves tormenting him, because Sales just has to mentions like the smug bastard he is about his new conquest. Crowley’s Go-Someone’s butt-monkey, he knows it.
Sales stares at him over the top of his glass, looking at Crowley, as if he’s gone insane, and he’d have to call the men in white jackets to take him away. He’s sort of right, sort of, because while he hasn’t gone insane, Crowley’s pretty close to insane right now.
“I don’t think you understand what I’m saying here,” he tries again, saying the words slowly and enunciating each syllable far too clearly for a demon who is supposed to be drunk, “Lilith is your lover.”
Sales just gives him this blank stare that makes it obvious that he doesn’t realise the enormity of it. Lilith for all purposes is madly in love with Lucifer. It’s to the point that it probably surpasses the love Lucifer may have held one time for the Man Upstairs. If she’s taken anyone as a lover, it’s because she needs to use them for something. And most of the time, anything Lilith uses is for only one purpose. Sales of course, DOES. NOT. GET. IT. Crowley has to try hard to resist the ancient urge of an angel he still partly is deep down, to look at the heavens, and ask for strength.
Knowing his luck, if he did, it would start raining Holy Water.
He finally gives up, heads back to England - or more specifically to Aziraphale’s bookstore in Soho, to bitch to the Angel. And also being the properly paranoid demon that he is, be prepared for whatever Lilith is planning. He knows whatever it is, it isn’t good.
***
Crowley is sure he’s earned the title of the most buggered son in Creation. Or well if he hadn’t before, he definitely has now. He’s helped the Winchesters, twice, no scratch that, thrice. Betrayed Hell and Lucifer, given up intel on Brady, killed a demon’s nest, and set his hellhound on other hellhounds.
Though the whole ‘Lovers in League Against Satan’ bit was bloody brilliant, if he’s allowed to say so. So was the picture of his kiss with Bobby.
But that was three days ago. It’s been three days since Bobby’s deal to find Death’s location, and nothing’s showed up. Well nothing until the morning, except the location came to him in Ancient Enochian. Death seems to be a sly bastard and has the one-up on the lot of them. This apparently, is a language even Castiel doesn’t know; or more likely he’s forgotten as the language developed. Anyone the angel could ask for help him with this, have him on their ‘To Rend Atom from Atom and Smite’ list, or they’re dead.
Crowley is still trying to figure out if it’s even possible.
Three hours later after no progress whatsoever, Crowley downs a whole bottle of cognac, resigns himself to his fate and goes outside, container of Holy Oil in hand, ignoring the confused gazes of the Functioning Morons in the Singer Household. They’ll follow him to see what he’s up to, he knows this. He can feel their curiosity overpower their suspicion.
He knows only two Angels, well Fallen Angels who he trusts - with his paranoia and all - who know Ancient Enochian, and probably don’t want the world to end either. One of them is currently locked up heavily in Hell, semi-courtesy of him. Even if she had managed to escape by now, she’d probably hold a grudge against him about the whole handing her contract to Lilith bit, and not help him out of spite. So that means he’s down to the other option. Crowley sighs once again, sets up the summoning circle, and lights the Holy Oil just in case, because hey he’s currently one of Hell’s Most Wanted. He has to engage in some paranoia. That being done he starts yelling a lengthy tirade of curses [5] in various languages. He starts with Aramaic, and then Hebrew, Sanskrit, Latin, before winding down to a simple, “Angel fucking Flash-Bastard.” It’s a little therapeutic.
***
Somewhere in London, or to be more specific Mr. Fell’s Books, Soho, Crowley’s caught in a predicament. Said predicament is whether to pry the ‘Further Nife and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter. Concerning the World that Is To Com; Ye Saga Continuef!’ out of Aziraphale’s hands before he spontaneously combusted from trying to decipher the prophecies. The other option was give up leave the prophecy deciphering to Anathema and Aziraphale, and go join Belial, [6] Gabriel, [7] Newt and Adam on the couch and get drunk. Fortunately enough for them, Agnes Nutter had the foresight to have more than one copy of her second book of Prophecies. Unfortunately, her English and her ability to write semi-coherently got worse as she got old.
Aziraphale is this close to having the Angelic version of an aneurysm.
He’s silently discussing with Adam just how they’re going to distract Aziraphale from the book, when he hears the Summoning. So does everyone else in the bookshop. Crowley doesn’t need to be yelled at twice during a Summoning. Not when it’s his chance to stop the Angel from going into his Smite The World mode. He grabs Aziraphale’s arm and drags him to where he’s being Summoned. Belial shouts out a message for Sales as he leaves.
He makes sure that he appears outside the Angel-trap, just to mind-fuck the other demon. “Angel fucking Flash Bastard? Really? You started out so great too.”
Predictably Sales rolls his eyes. It’s his way of hiding the fact that he was startled. “Oh shut up,” he grumbles getting himself back together. Obviously he wasn’t expecting Aziraphale. “Hello Aziraphale.”
“Hello Mr. Crowley,” Aziraphale greets back with a very angelic smile, still obviously trying to get his bearings. Sales looks like he’s wondering if he’ll combust any moment now.
Sales really looks worse for wear, and Crowley feels just a little bit sympathetic. He was in a similar position twenty years ago. But honestly he should have expected it. After all he helped Lilith get topside. Most of his sympathy evaporates. “Let me guess, it has something to do with stopping the Apocalypse? And you want help. I was wondering when you’d call. Took you long enough. Now what do you and Team Idiot need help with?”
“We found Death’s location. Except we got it in Ancient Enochian,” he stresses on that bit, clearly still somewhat stuck in disbelief about that, “And none of us know Ancient Enochian.”
They’re in the Singer household now, and Team Idiot stares at them, guns drawn. Their angel - Aziraphale’s mentioned that has his name was Castiel - is glaring at them, his Angel-killing blade at the ready. Aziraphale ignores that, claps his hand in delight, all frustration at translting Anges' prophecies forgotten, and promptly clasps his hands over Castiel before the poor Angel can even react. “Oh Castiel my dear, it’s so good to meet you again. It’s been so long.” He then proceeds to bombard the obviously baffled angel with questions about his welfare and the like.
Crowley rolls his eyes - not fondly, because he’s a demon and therefore, he doesn’t do fond - and waves to them. He turns back to Sales amusement back, “Belial asked me to pass on a message. She says that once this is over, you’re her bitch. And um…” now snickering, he turns and points to who he assumes is Dean Winchester, “She told me to tell you that you owe her Angry Sex.”
Dean’s green eyes go comically wide. The other two humans in the room - who still have their guns drawn - look lost as to what’s going on. So does Castiel for that matter. Crowley erupts into full blown helpless laughter, Sales follows suit. Aziraphale’s lips quirk into an amused smile.
At least now it’s guaranteed that stopping the Apocalypse will be fun. And Ancient Enochian is far more easier to translate than word vomit prophecies.
~~~
[1] By mutual agreement of both parties, they resolve to objectively never speak of their third, fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh meetings. In fact they staunchly deny those meetings ever happened. For them it’s erased from reality itself. Any curious demon, human-turned or Fallen who asks is seen less than ten seconds later running away screaming bloody murder in a way that impresses even Alistair. He promptly asks about their technique, and starts a petition to get the both of them transferred into Torture. He’s thoroughly ignored every single time, and his petition rejected.
[2] There were apples too, but he can’t remember that.
[3] Belial is actually Crowley’s favourite demon. [8] She had more issues than probably Lucifer himself. She hated Hell, hated Lucifer, hated Alistair for reasons unknown, hated responsibility, liked humans - not that Crowley could blame her for that, he liked the buggers too - and hence, kept escaping topside and re-incarnating into a human. She also did it in flashy ways, because she liked giving a big shiny ‘fuck you’ to everyone, and tormenting Alistair. This of course would lead into half of the administration sending out recon topside to find her, and then having half of everyone is Sales hound her new form to get her to make a Deal and get her back. There was a reason she was called the Crownless after all, and it was because she was mostly never there to rule over her section of Hell.
[4] It is actually the 17th Commandment. God put it there after a rather awkward conversation on his part with the former Guardian of the East Gate of Eden, about the Nephiliem, and sex positions. It ended up revealing things to him about Lucifer’s and Michael’s sex life before the Fall, which - despite being All Knowing - he really didn’t want to know.
[5] Summoning a demon, Fallen or human converted, is actually much easier than all Spell or Magic books make it out to be. One simply has to draw the appropriate circle, carve the name of the demon they’re summoning, or their description, in runes at the appropriate areas, and ask the demon to come. The Ominous Latin Chanting (or Ominous Aramaic Chanting as it used to be in the older days) is not required. It was added merely to make summoning demons more difficult because while they may hate being in Hell, the yank from Hell to Topside is more painful than any torture Alistair could come up with, and because demons like to look spooky. Cursing out the demon in any language, actually makes them come faster than the Speed of Light doubled.
[6] Who’d shown up at Crowley’s flat three days after her ‘supposed death’ drunk and grumbling about how she hated Lilith.
[7] He’d shown up unconscious, but alive, on the doorstep of Aziraphale’s bookshop being supported by Adam and Crowley. This was two hours after the Goddess Kali had shown up on the same doorstop, shoved a vial into Adam’s hands. This was fifteen minutes after Anathema had shown up, surprising both Aziraphale and Adam who was visiting, breathless and explaining wildly about a prophecy about a meeting where the Gods tested the Vessels, and an Archangel killing another Archangel.
[8] Except for that one time she was piss drunk and nearly killed him, because she mistook him for Alistair.