Chapter Text
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The Fallen gathered in the corridors of hell, pressed entirely too close together and paying rapt attention to their prince, lording over them, their newest prince, looking smug, and a slightly smaller but no less intense amount of attention to the angel tucked off to one side and guarded fiercely by the once-traitor Crowley.
“Creatures of Hell!” Beelzebub called, voice miraculously magnified. “You all know that next month is the Heaven vs Hell company picnic. Now. Last year, we were all robbed of the chance to settle the score with Heaven on the field of battle, but that doesn’t meant that we can’t settle the score on the field of potato sack races, egg and spoon relays, and animal potato races.”
A cheer went up among the Fallen. All of them were looking forward to the chance to stomp their heavenly counterparts at sporting events, which all of them were certain they were assured to do.
Hastur’s hand went up. Beelzebub sighed.
“Yes, Duke Hastur?”
“What’s that angel doing here?”
Beelzebub looked over at Aziraphale, who smiled politely back, and then turned back to Hastur. “He insisted on participating, and our lord approved it. If you want to argue with either of them about the matter, be my guest.”
A murmur went up through the crowd. While some of them knew they had a lot to fear from a sufficiently riled Aziraphale, most felt they could take him if needed- but none fancied the idea of taking on their lord’s temper. The angel would stay without question, then.
“Yeah but why?” Hastur repeated. Okay, some question.
Beelzebub looked to Aziraphale again; he stepped forward, hands folded primly in front of him, and addressed the crowd.
“I suppose that’s a fair question. You see, Crowley and I-” he gestured to Crowley, who was circling behind him, glaring daggers at the assembled in case they got any ideas. “-have been talking about it, and while we are most certainly on our own side in matters of the War- or that is to say, on the side of the earth and humanity- well, it just seems that events like this might be a more peaceful way to settle the score, so we quite approve in the long run. And, of course, there being no War in question in this instance we see no reason to insist on our own side-”
“Get on with it, angel,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes.
“-we flipped a coin,” Aziraphale finished lamely.
“If you are quite satisfied,” Beelzebub said, drawing their attention back. “Dagon?”
“Right.” It was Dagon’s turn to speak. “Now. We have a month to prepare, so we’re going to take that time to do some team-building. We’ve scheduled a retreat to a place called Tadfield Manor that comes highly recommended for this sort of thing- run by a Satanist, even- and we’ll be spending a few days there learning to work as a lean, mean, heaven-crushing team! Can I get a wahoo!”
A rousing ‘wahoo’ went up through the crowd. Dagon shot Crowley a smug look, and returned to rousing the troops, so to speak.