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Crowley was sulking. He and Aziraphale could be having a cuddle by the telly with truffles from that little shop they liked in Brighton, but no. Instead of a cozy night in, all he had was an increasingly lukewarm mug of coffee and the indignity of being trapped inside what appeared to be a grandmother’s sitting room.
The whole place had the distinct smell of mustiness that suffused a space given enough time and a lack of dusting. Rather like a certain angel’s bookshop, in fact. The wallpaper had a delicate floral print, which might be described as charming by some or tacky by Crowley. A sagging sofa slumped beneath embroidered curtains that reminded him of the women he had met while hunting down a pair of knitting needles for Aziraphale. They had cooed and called him a very nice young man and clearly itched to pinch his cheek. It had been a harrowing experience.
That is to say, besides the dark, pulsating circle of blood runes in which he found himself bound and the three figures trembling beneath their crushed velvet hoods, the room was a kitschy mess of knick-knacks and knitted afghans.
“Congratulations, you summoned a demon and ruined his perfectly good evening! Look, what do you want? Because I've got things to do. Very busy demon things.” He looked down at his coffee, and then further.
“Fuck!” Crowley said, realizing he was only wearing his pyjama bottoms. The hooded humans flinched, apparently intimidated. Still got it.
One human, still clutching a book of demonology, spoke up. “D-Demon, we–we’ve summoned you to grant us the power to destroy our enemies, the debate team—”
It was at this point that Crowley tuned out, as he felt a presence pop into the periphery of his awareness, a hint of ozone and something Crowley uneasily recognized as divine wrath.
The door slammed open and a thousand little Precious Moments figurines shook in their porcelain boots. Aziraphale marched in, haloed by the streetlight pouring onto the doorstep. He looked just a bit put out, as if he'd eaten the last of his favorite biscuits and the shopping wouldn't be done for another three days.
Crowley, having been on the receiving end of this look many times, winced.
"Crowley, you know, it's awfully inconvenient to break up a ritual on one of our Saturday evenings. Perhaps speak to your boss about locking the—" Aziraphale paused, assessing the gaping humans and, Crowley realized with dawning horror, the decor.
"Oh! What darling curtains, wherever did you find them? And that charming—" There it was. "—floral wallpaper. Lovely. Crowley, dear, do you think something like that might work in our cottage?"
"Aziraphale." Crowley gritted out. "A bit stuck here."
"Quite right," he said.
He gestured, and the demonic circle around Crowley sparked white. The glow grew brighter until it exploded outward in a flash of ethereal energy, scorching across the floorboards and up the walls. Curls of burnt wallpaper sizzled in the aftermath.
"My nan is going to kill me!” a hooded human cried.
"I do apologise, but perhaps you should have thought of that before dabbling in the occult arts." Aziraphale sniffed. He plucked the book from her frozen grasp. "And I'll be taking this for your own safety, thank you."
"I hated that wallpaper, anyway." Crowley brushed soot from his bare chest and frowned at his now undrinkable coffee.
Aziraphale clicked his tongue, signalling a discussion for later. He looped his arm through Crowley's and glanced back to the humans.
"I cannot recommend lamb's blood directly on the hardwoods for these sorts of events. I expect it will stain."
"Can't wash out the sin." Crowley grinned horrifically and was terribly pleased with the shock on their faces.
"Ciao!"
Aziraphale gave a little wave, pursing his lips against the impolite laughter shaking his shoulders. It was deeply sickening how much Crowley loved him.
He snapped, and they were home.