Chapter Text
Crowley hated Satanists.
It hadn’t always been that way. Sure, he’d never exactly liked them much. Found them rather embarrassing to be honest, what with their chanting and candle rituals and whatnot. They were completely oblivious to their own worthlessness which Crowley found both irritating and sad in an unsatisfying way. But he had no real reason for hating them. That is, until about a month ago.
Most books on Satanism are about as accurate as the bible. Sure, it was reasonable to assume that someone out there had started with some semblance of the truth, but then a bunch of old white men had gotten together and decided to… embellish. Or, in the case of Satanism, lie outright. Quickly learning that angry people against God would believe just about anything, authors of works such as “The Dark Tome,” “The Unholy Bible,” and “The Laws of Our Lord, Lucifer” scribbled anything they could think of, drawing sigils and scribbling spells and gushing about the might of the one and only Satan. The funniest part of all of this was that none of these men had to be tempted into their actions. Man created fear and resentment for the simple promise of riches.
There was, however, one book, (named quite simply “Book”), that was entirely accurate. It contained, to the best of the author’s knowledge, the true story of Lucifer, both before and after his fall, the Underlord’s beliefs on the world, some spells, varying in usefulness, and, most importantly to our tale, explicit instructions on how to summon a demon.
Book had been in possession of an order of Satanic nuns, hidden away in their small library, and had been nicked by four eleven-year-olds.
Adam had thought it a brilliant idea to go snooping through the old chapel, wanting nothing more at that moment than to inconvenience the endlessly talkative nuns. However, once they’d gotten far enough away from the scene of the crime and Pepper had a chance to actually read some of Book, their plans for the night got much more interesting.
One of the small cottages on the edge of town had recently been moved out of and left, temporarily, abandoned. And what better place, thought The Them, to summon a demon. The front door was locked but the back window had been cracked to allow some fresh air through the house. With some clever maneuvering, (and a stick), they managed to wiggle the window open far enough for Wensleydale to squeeze through. He landed in the dining room of the cottage with a small thump , then quickly brought himself to his feet and straightened his glasses.
“Smooth work, Wensley. Now go and unlock the door, would you?” Wensley nodded to Adam, then made his way to the front door. The other three stumbled back to the porch in time to hear the soft thunk of the deadbolt being turned.
It took a little while for them to find a good place to set up. After some good searching and testing out of different areas in the cottage, Brian’s voice came from somewhere near the kitchen.
“Oi, I think I found something!” The Them collected around a door across from the kitchen that looked to be a pantry.
“Whatcha lookin’ in the pantry for?”
“Well I was looking for some food, but I didn’t find any. Look,” and Brian pried the door open the rest of the way with a grunt and a creak to show a dark room. There was a small string hanging from the ceiling, and when Pepper pulled it, the small dark room was revealed to be a small dark staircase.
“Wicked.”
Arms still clutching Book, Pepper lead the way down into the cellar.
The summoning spell was surprisingly easy. Brian pulled a can of spray paint from his bag and Wensleydale went back up into the kitchen for some salt. Pepper pulled a smushed candle from her pocket and Adam checked to make sure his lighter was still working. As they gathered around the spray-painted sigil, (Brian had done a surprisingly neat job, having rolled up the rug and put it aside so he would have a smooth working surface), Pepper scanned the page one last time to make sure everything was in order.
“Oh, wait!” The boys looked up. “We need one last thing. It says a ‘token’ but I don’t think it means a coin.” Everyone leaned over to look at the book.
“I think it depends on who we want to summon.” Wensleydale straightened his glasses and squinted in the low light. “You know, something the demon would like.”
The Them looked at each other, then glanced around the cellar for something that could work. Again, Brian was the first to spot something. “Hey!” He hopped up and jogged to a dark corner of the room, hidden from the soft moonlight that was peaking through the tiny cellar window. There, in an old wooden box, was a dusty bottle of red wine. Brian picked it up with a wide grin. “What about this? We could summon Dionysus.”
“Dionysus is a God, not a demon,” corrected Pepper, and Wensleydale nodded in agreement, but Adam shrugged.
“Still, could be interesting.” He yanked his Swiss Army knife from his pocket and separated the corkscrew from the other blades. “Finally get to use this one.”
So, with some chanting here, a little spilled wine there, and a flourish of salt on flame, a demon was summoned.
…
Crowley had been minding his own business, gluing coins to the pavement around London, when he had been yanked rather unceremoniously, (or I suppose, technically, very ceremoniously), to the cellar of a cottage on the edge of Tadfield by a few snot-nosed hooligans. They didn’t know what they had done. The summoning spell summoned the demon only in their purest form, which was to say, not a physical one. He blended seamlessly into the cellar shadows. Summoning, (or at least effective summoning), had gone out of practice centuries ago, and even then, Crowley personally had never had the pleasure of being called upon. Consequently, it took him a few minutes to get his bearings. Looking around, he saw children, paint, a single candle, and… Dammit. Merlot.
The children, bored with the apparent lack of outcome, had spent the rest of the night throwing the remaining salt at the remaining flame and chatting. Crowley, left with nothing better to do, listened.
Which brings us back to our original point: Crowley hated Satanists.
He hated them for making the whole thing look enticing, he hated them for writing a book that allowed demons to be treated like dogs on a chain, and he hated them for leaving the bloody Book where some (moderately) innocent kids could get to it.
Sometime around midnight, the Them replaced the cellar rug, covering the sigil, and went home, leaving Crowley trapped and alone.
…
There wasn’t much for a demon to do in an empty cottage in Tadfield. After some exploration, Crowley concluded that he was tied to the house. He could leave the cellar but he couldn’t go outside into the yard. He also concluded that any of his miscreant doings in said house were going completely unnoticed. He thought he could frighten the neighbors by playing with the lights, but the only neighboring house was blocked by trees and a wall of ivy. During the day, there were either no visitors or too many visitors to notice anything strange. The only one ever in the house alone was the realtor, a sweet older lady named Madame Tracy who was either completely oblivious to or completely unbothered by weird drafts, closing doors, and bodiless footsteps. After only two months, Crowley was ready to pull his metaphysical hair out.
And then came the angel.
He wasn’t a real angel, of course. A real angel would have stepped into the cottage, immediately sensed the presence of a demon, and gone straight to taking advantage of his unfortunate situation. The stout man in tartan was not, technically, ethereal, but something about his soft cheeks and light blond curls gave him the air of being everything heaven was supposed to be.
And Crowley wanted nothing more than to haunt him.
Fortunately for Crowley, the angel, (a one Mr. Fell, according to his introduction), liked the cottage very much, saying it felt like there was something nice in it. Crowley bristled at this. He’d be sure to change that.
After a lengthy and thorough inspection of the cottage, including a lot of muttering that often sounded something like “bookshelf here,” Mr. Fell was convinced and offered to buy the place at full price on the spot. Madame Tracy, taken aback but delighted nonetheless, pulled out the paperwork for the man to sign.
He was to move in the next day.
…
Mr. A.Z. Fell, full name Aziraphale Zira Fell, (yes, really), was a deceitfully interesting man with a deceitfully interesting life. Anyone who met him on the street would be convinced that he was nothing more than a literary enthusiast who spent his days reading books and drinking tea. Afterall, he often dressed much like an overly cheerful librarian from the 40s, what with his tartan bow tie and cream colored sweater vests or waistcoats, paired with tan trousers and a very old yet still somehow pristine coat. He was, in fact, very fond of both books and tea.
When he was eighteen, Aziraphale had joined the army for one reason and one reason only: free education. He had grown up dirt poor and was horrified at the prospect of saddling his dear parents with any kind of financial burden. Military, he reasoned, was the simplest solution.
Aziraphale had been an excellent soldier but a terrible subordinate, much to the chagrin of his superiors. Eventually, after many late-night meetings in the base bar and more teamwork than high-ranking military officers have shown perhaps since WWII, Aziraphale was honorably discharged a year early and sent off to study literature. He then graduated with his master’s in just five and a half years and was immediately recruited by a man by the name of Mr. Pratchett, who fancied himself a sort of literary Indiana Jones.
For sixteen years, Aziraphale traveled the world with Mr. Pratchett, finding and collecting some of the rarest books in existence: first editions of almost every classic known to man, works written before the invention of the printing press, extremely rare misprints of bibles, books of prophecy signed by the prophet themselves, and stories that most people didn’t know, or didn’t believe, existed. They would find and repair, trade and sell, becoming household names in the most prestigious of circles. Of course, they kept the best pieces for themselves, amassing a collection to be envied by all the world.
When Mr. Pratchett had passed away, tragically young in Aziraphale’s opinion, the entirety of his earthly possessions and riches had been left to Aziraphale. This included many things that he didn’t need, including a boat, gems to rival the crown jewels, and a rather awful painting of Elvis on dusty red velvet. Everything but the book collection and the money had been either sold or donated, (except for the velvet Elvis which was thrown in the bin without a second thought.) Aziraphale, having grown up with nothing, now had enough money to live off of for many lifetimes to come. After making sure his aging parents were set up quite nicely, he pondered what to do with himself now that he was rich and out an adventurer.
His first thought was to open a bookshop, a fantasy he had often had while in grad school. It was a tempting option, but with some more thought, Aziraphale knew he could never sell any of the books his old friend had entrusted to him. So, after much deliberation, he decided to move out to the country with his books and maybe even write one of his own.
Oh yeah, and one more thing.
He had a cat.
A beautiful black cat with shining yellow eyes. His name was Anthony and Aziraphale loved him very, very dearly.
The only part of this that Crowley knew was the last bit with the cat. Well, that and the fact that this man was obsessed with old books. Seriously, Crowley didn’t think anyone could fit that many books into such a small cottage. It was ridiculous. It took the man, along with an old grumpy friend with an unplaceable accent, two whole days just to get all of the boxes into the house. (He may not have kept any of Pratchett’s things but he had plenty of his own.) The angel must have been in better shape than he looked, Crowley realized, because he was lifting crates of books without breaking a sweat.
Crowley watched carefully, telling himself that he needed to gather information in order to properly spook Aziraphale. The truth was, the blond man interested the demon in a way he didn’t know what to do with.
Did… did he just bring in a sword?
As he watched from his perch on top of the fridge, Crowley figured that at the very least, his days of boredom were over.
This was going to be very interesting.