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Crowley woke up gingerly and wondered what the hell had happened to him, then realised that Hell had indeed happened to him. He was tied to a chair in his dingy lodgings, and the street bustle outside was strangely muffled and distant. The likely reason for both of these things stood in front of him, grinning obscenely.
"Hastur! Nice to see you. What brings you to Paris?"
"You do." The leer got worse. "I'm here to remind you of your priorities."
"Not just for the mass executions, then." He let Hastur's words sink in. "Was there something wrong with my last report?"
"There's something wrong with all of your reports, Crawly. There's something wrong with you. You're up to something."
Crowley rolled his eyes. "Of course I'm up to something. I'm supposed to be up to something. Just got a commendation for it, in fact."
"Something other than serving our dark master."
"Like you don't have a little fun here and there. All work and no play and all that." He wriggled in the chair. "Though this is a little too much play for me."
Crowley discreetly tested his bindings and found them resilient to both mundane and miraculous efforts. Hastur was actively maintaining them, and he couldn't out-miracle a Duke of Hell. He forced down a surge of fear and concentrated on looking cool and unfazed. Luckily Hastur was alone; he wasn't going to be Bad Cop, Worse Copped by both members of the despicable duo.
Hastur grinned again. "I think it's just enough play for me." He gestured and a brazier appeared by his side. He pulled a brand from it, studied it for a moment, and thrust it back in. Crowley gulped. He could feel the heat of it even at a distance, and could tell it wasn't ordinary fire. It could probably do more than damage his corporation, and that would be unpleasant enough.
"Bit harsh for a sloppy report."
"Your reports are a joke and so are you. Slithering around meddling with pathetic human endeavours and never actually bothering to kill anything. You're lazy and you're a coward and your mind's not on the job. And you're not as good a liar as you think you are."
"Glad I've made an impression. Don't you have more important things to do?"
"Not at the moment. And as you say, all work and no play..."
Crowley frowned. "So you're here for fun? Lord Beelzebub didn't send you?"
"Oh no, this is personal. You might fool them but you don't fool me."
So this wasn't an official reprimand – Hastur was here on his own initiative. Crowley tried to hide his relief. That meant there was a chance he could get out of it. Hastur was easier to handle than Ligur, who was impervious to mere words and mostly communicated using his fists. Hastur was a bully with usable weak points and a tendency to gloat. Crowley dug around for something he could use.
"Well, can't fault you for being proactive I suppose. You've got quite some timing though. Might not make you popular Downstairs."
Hastur looked confused. "Why would they care what I do to you?"
"You might not be busy right now but I am. This revolution. The one I've just been commended for. You know how long I've been working on it? The current lot are busily committing as much murder as they can fit into a day, and half the people they're murdering have been marked for us for years. There's revolutionaries and counter-revolutionaries and zealots and wars and at least two promising cults and if it's played right the church'll never recover here. Lovely big chaotic bloody melange and it's all to play for. Not a great time to take me off the field, eh?"
He gestured towards the brazier and looked Hastur in the eye.
"If you use that stuff on this body, you'll probably kill it. And if that happens I will be making very clear in my write-up that you, Duke Hastur, discorporated the principal field agent at a crucial stage of a major project. For fun." He hammered the words home and dug out his best malicious grin. "I do hope I'm around when Lord Beelzebub calls you in for a chat after that."
There was one agonising second where he thought it hadn't worked, and today was going to briefly resemble the fourteenth century. But then Hastur blinked. He vanished the brazier and glared. "I'm watching you, Crawly. The next time you slip up, I will be making up for this. And then some." He sneered and disappeared. Crowley felt the resistance to his unbinding miracle disappear with him, and set himself free.
When he was sure Hastur was no longer in the area, Crowley took a deep breath, then dug around under his bed for a bottle of wine and downed most of it in one go. It didn't help. Hastur may have fallen for the story this time, but there were influential people Downstairs who now doubted his allegiance to Hell. That couldn't possibly end well.
He'd need to come up with a plan of some sort for dealing with it. One problem: he couldn't see any possible options. Protection against the wrath of Hell? The very definition of hopeless. He finished the bottle, which still didn't help, and considered the merits of starting another.
Just then, he finally became aware of a familiar angelic presence elsewhere in the city, giving off a likewise familiar and rather theatrical woe-is-me air. Aziraphale had got himself into trouble again. He groaned. "Now? Really?"
He thought about ignoring it. No human could ever truly be a threat to either of them, after all, and he had other things on his mind right now. But he couldn't. The angel came first, always had, always would. He sighed, fixed his hair and clothes, and headed for the Bastille.