Work Text:
The Ritz, London, 1994
“How was Canada?” asked Aziraphale, daintily plucking a berry from his slice of cold charlotte cake and popping it into his mouth. He was delighted that Crowley was back in town, but it would hardly be proper to let on as much. Instead, he made a show of enjoying the bit of raspberry mousse that had got on his finger.
Crowley seemed distracted. It took him a moment to respond. “Mm? What was that, angel?”
“Canada, my dear. How was your time there?”
Crowley gave an exaggerated shudder. “Cold,” he grumbled. “And everyone’s far too nice. I did bring back some of these, though.” He slid a flat box, decorated with a jolly red ribbon, across the table toward Aziraphale. “Bit sweet for my taste, but I think you’ll like ‘em.”
Aziraphale lifted the lid to reveal several neat little rows of maple leaf-shaped confections. He beamed. “Maple sugar candy! I haven’t had this in 85 years.”
“‘S the good stuff, too,” said Crowley, looking pleased with himself. “Or, so I’m told. I’m hardly the authority on these things.”
Aziraphale pulled the box closer to himself, smiling—but not, he fancied, too warmly. “I’m sure it will not disappoint. Now,” he went on, “tell me about your assignment.” He schooled his face into a stern frown as he scooped up the last bite of charlotte on his fork. “I suppose you thoroughly corrupted that nice young musician?”
“Eeeeh,” said Crowley, shifting in his seat and giving his hand a noncommittal waggle, “not as such.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Frankly, I’m not sure he’s all that corruptible. Anyway, I didn’t really have the heart. He just seems so…” He curled his lip. “Wholesome.”
Aziraphale sat back, a smile of benevolent satisfaction spreading across his face. (It was an expression that Crowley sometimes described as “smug,” which was, of course, entirely inaccurate.) “Ah,” he remarked, patting his lips with a napkin and pushing the empty plate away. “Well, I did have him pegged as one of ours.”
“I suppose,” Crowley conceded. “But I wouldn’t say the trip was entirely a waste. I may not have claimed his soul for Hell, but I did inspire him a little.”
“Oh?” said Aziraphale, his interest undeniably piqued. “To do what, dare I ask?”
Crowley grinned. “Helped him write a song.”
“I see. One of these things that says ‘Hail Satan’ when you play it in reverse, I suppose.”
“Oh, please,” Crowley scoffed. “I’d hoped you’d give me a little more credit for originality than that, angel. Sounds more like Ligur’s style.”
“Well? What is it, then? Did you use subliminal messaging? Is it written in one of the old infernal modes?”
Crowley waved him off dismissively. “No, no, no, nothing that unsubtle.” He sprawled in his seat, looking profoundly self-satisfied. “No, I got him to compose a song that is so innocuous, so deceptively banal, that no one could possibly suspect even a whiff of demonic influence. But it’s catchy, angel. Oh, it’s a sticky one. Guaranteed to be a hit in the nursery school demographic.”
“I see. And how is this little ditty meant to aid the forces of evil?”
Crowley’s grin widened. “Children will find its allure utterly irresistible. Don’t look at me like that, Aziraphale, it’s not the little ones who’ll suffer. No, it’s the parents.” He paused to slug back the last of his champagne. “I guarantee you, any kid who hears it once’ll ask to hear it again. And again. And again. Day in and day out. And what sort of parent would be able to resist those sweet little pleading faces? Who could bear the tears of disappointment when Mummy or Daddy doesn’t give in and play their favorite song?”
Aziraphale narrowed his eyes disapprovingly, but leaned a little closer, intrigued despite himself. “And then…?”
“Well, soon enough it will all start to wear on dear old Mum and Dad just a bit. They might get a chuckle out of it the first five or ten times they hear it, but after that it’ll get under their skin. Worm its way into their brains. ‘I swear I’ll chuck the stereo out the window if I have to hear the damn thing one more time,’ they’ll say. Only by then, it’s too late. Without even thinking about it, they’ll find themselves singing it. In the shower, while they’re out shopping, in the office. They won’t be able to escape it.” A bit of the old snakey sibilance crept into his voice. “It’s insidiousss, is what it isss.”
“Sounds positively diabolical.”
“Exactly, angel. It’ll slowly drive them mad, like a piece of sand in their eye that they’re sure they rinsed out, but the scratchy feeling lingers on and on. The constant irritation’ll eventually make them lash out, creating a ripple effect of minor maliciousness that could have repercussions for days or—Heaven, for years, even, as it gets introduced to younger generations.”
“Well. And I suppose everyone at your Head Office was very impressed by your presentation on all this,” Aziraphale said primly.
“Ah, they never appreciate the subtleties of these things,” said Crowley, making a wry face. “I mean, the Boss liked it, of course. I’ll probably get another plaque.”
Aziraphale opened the box of maple sugar candies and idly inspected one of the morsels inside. “And what’s name of this demonic jingle of yours?”
Crowley smiled. “Thought you’d never ask.”
—
Meanwhile, in a dank office in the innermost circle of Hell, the demon Hastur was sorting through mildewed files. Something, he realized, was irritating him, more even than usual. But he was having a hard time pinning it down.
It was a little nagging thing that kept replaying itself again again in the back of his mind, on a loop. Like a chant, or a mantra, or… the refrain of a song. Yes, that was it. His frogself bobbed and bounced ever so slightly to the rhythm of it, and the man-shaped flesh puppet beneath swayed and shuffled hideously along as he worked.
He stopped himself, dismayed. What was he doing? Where had it come from? He racked his brain, trying to remember where he might have picked it up. It must have been at one of the endless presentations he’d attended the day before.
To his horror, he found himself quietly singing the words. “Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring,” he croaked, his voice low and tremulous, “bananaphone.”
Hastur, the Duke of Hell, balled his worm-white hands into fists and clenched them until the grubby, ragged nails bit into his palms and the ichor oozed out between his fingers. A low, inhuman moan of anguish slowly rose up inside him, crescendoing in a scream of rage that curled the peeling, moldy paint on the office walls. In the hallway, minor demons cringed and scuttled away.
“Crowleeeey!” he shrieked.