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"Shit, shit, shit, shit shit," Crowley beat his hand against the steering wheel of his Bently. Why now? Why him? He didn't care to look at the basket in the back seat. He hadn't bothered to tie it down. He knew it'd be rather fine back there no matter what happened. This was not what he'd expected when he came to do the nightly check-in with Hastur and Ligur. Fucking armageddon already? Oh yeah, times were changing alright— right into the shitter as far as Crowley was concerned. "Why me?" he asked through gritted teeth.
"Because you've earned it, Crowley," the thick voice interrupted his radio. "What you did to the M25 was a stroke of demonic genius, darling," he more genuinely complimented. The demon could see him now, daintily jingling ice in a rocks glass between his fingers, barely covered by that black bathrobe he always wore.
Satan, in reality, was rummaging through his quarters, trying his best to sound even and like he'd planned everything. He dug through his desk and settled on a random fountain pen before writing on some random parchment, floating pens around him, finding more papers, and writing. He didn't know what he was writing. He let the prophetic voices carry the pens as he let out everything they had to say. This is what they've been waiting for. He figured the voices could counsel him, they might as well be able to be organized just enough to be legible by people who need them.
He didn't know what being on Earth for so long would do to him, and he wanted to cover his bases just in case. He needed the voices more than he liked to admit, and he needed them out if he would be focusing on averting the apocalypse and raising a son.
"The M25? Yeah well, yeah I'm glad it went down so well," Crowley knew that Satan played favorites bad, and this was the price of being favorite, he supposed. Of course he wouldn't let just anyone drop off his kid. The bastard would choose someone he at least liked. He would pick someone who knew the humans well enough and lived among them.
Crowley had his suspicions that Satan had been doing more above-ground exploring than he told his demons. Crowley couldn't be the only source of his skin creams and music. If anyone else had seen his collection, they would easily guess the same. Although he had been one of the few to ever be in Satan's quarters anyway, and he knew it. He figured, weirdly, Satan had to trust him. Otherwise, he wouldn't be singled out so much.
And Satan did. He trusted Crowley more than he trusted anyone. He knew Crowley dreaded the end of the world as much, if not more, than he did. And if anyone could help him fuck up The Great Plan, it would be Crowley.
The demon gripped the steering wheel, glancing in the rearview mirror at the basket sliding around sloppily. He decided he was done with small talk and formalities. "It's just... armageddon," Crowley cringed, "are you sure?" He figured if Satan trusted him, him of all demons, there must be something to this. Most demons thought him a layabout, someone too comfortable on Earth, someone who did chump change for demon work. He wobbled his head as he silently considered that Satan, of all demons, understood his work best. He worked hard to keep up with the times and seemed the only one to give him a 'wahoo' over something like bringing down the phone lines. Crowley was someone he trusted, maybe even the only person he knew of that Satan would consider a friend, as weird as that was. Though the demon figured if Satan was stalking the Earth secretly in his free time, he likely had other friends.
Satan beat his fist against his forehead, losing the formality he hated so much anyway, "Crowley..." he almost begged. "You know I'm not one to ask you or anyone to blindly trust me," he told him. "But you have to trust I'll do what I can."
The demon rolled his eyes, "yeah?" he challenged, "does doing what you can include taking a bloody nap until the apocolypse? That's trust?"
Satan considered. Everything hinged on Crowley's trust. He was supposed to be looking after his son for the following years. So he needed to open up if the demon was going to trust him, "I tell them what I have to," he said honestly.
Crowley blinked and gave his radio a confused look. "So you're not...?"
"No." Satan considered telling him, and he let the voices come, washing possibilities over him to better weigh his options.
"Stop listening to the damn voices for a second and talk to me!" Crowley demanded. He knew the man too well. The demon knew precisely what he was doing when he got too quiet. He didn't want a prophecy. He wanted Satan's, his friend's, answer, not theirs.
"I'm trying to protect you," Satan warned. "If I fuck this up, everything will go away."
"I don't want protection," that wasn't exactly true, "I want you to just tell me what's going on!"
But Satan could read him just as well. So he closed his eyes and went with his gut. "I'm going to Earth," Satan admitted. "You'll see me, but you won't know me."
"What?" Crowley squawked. "You're coming to Earth, and you're not even going to tell me who you are? What kind of dickhead does that?"
The low and almost dangerous chuckle came from his radio, "a dickhead that doesn't want you to kill my son."
Crowley shrugged, supposing that wasn't outrageous. "Will we... you know, hang out?" he didn't really like how small it sounded like a high schooler asking if he could go on a second date.
"I can't tell you that, dear," he smiled. Yes. Of course they would. Crowley didn't know it, but he'd met him on Earth before. He had a way of making suspicion slide off of him when he needed it to.
"Well... well, alright then," Crowley decided. "So if something... else were to put a wrinkle in this whole... plan...?" he waved a vague hand.
Satan smiled, an ally. They could do this. "You'll figure it out," he told him.
Crowley's eyebrows raised. He hadn't said it expressly, but Satan had just given him loose permission to do all the meddling he needed to. He relaxed a little.
The demon wondered what Satan planned to be doing on Earth. Would he pop around as teachers and friends, and family members? It's not like he would assume as the boy's father. The boy already had one picked out, and he couldn't see King of Hell posing as an American diplomat, either. He couldn't see the leader of the rebellion making pancakes in the morning as a single dad, tucking the Antichrist in at night. Besides, it was too on the nose.
Except that was almost precisely his plan. Hide in plain sight, he always said. "Look, honey," Satan told him, "you've got places to be and so do I."
"Right," Crowley nodded slowly, "where the heaven am I going now?"
Satan whistled, letting the instructions flow into his friend. Once they were passed, he said nothing more as he let him go. Sure, his instructions were one thing, but misdirection was another.
The pens finished all at once, falling to the floor. Papers whipped around him and lined themselves up, twirling together in whatever order felt right, and miraculously, they were bound. The book thumped onto the table as it fell, and finally, for the first time in thousands of years, the voices were quiet. Black leather covered the pages, and silver letters appeared across the front: "Prophetic Statements for the End of the World." He'd get rid of it on the way. It had been a long time coming. The legends had long proceeded it. Crowley had once mentioned that the Nazis had even asked his friend to get it for them. Crazy humans doing crazy things. That was why he didn't want to bind it sooner, why he'd put off releasing his prophecies for so long. But now he supposed he had to or might never get to.
He threw the book carelessly into his bag and moved on without another thought. Standing in front of the mirror once more, he smoothed his hands over his face, a little sad to be shedding it for so long. It wasn't particularly special to him, but it had been his for the last 6,000 years. Not that his human form didn't get plenty of use over the years, too, it was just different. He turned to pull at one of his wings, gently unfolding it and looking the thin flesh over. He liked how they looked and all, but he was a big enough man without them and always felt so much less cumbersome without them. Satan let down his wing and sighed at the mirror. He supposed it wasn't much of a sacrifice in the grand scheme of things.
Satan raised his two large hands and clapped twice.
The first thing anyone would notice (besides the loss of his massive wings) about Satan's human form— Lucky, he was called among the humans these days— was the loss of a foot of height. Lucky was 6'4, and broad. Any being of his nature could choose whatever they wanted their human form to look like. Most people did choose the same features, but he had meant to not be recognized. His once angular features were now square and pronounced. His grey skin is now full of life and a cool-toned tan. He sighed, touching the shoulder-length dark hair. It'd grow back, he figured, after so long. And he supposed he'd better look a little more put together for something like human family life. Grabbing a knife he had somewhere, he sawed through the length, wincing as he did. The locks fell around his feet as he shaped his hair into a short, slicked-back style. He sighed and leaned forward to look at his eyes. He'd had them tattooed black against his grey irises some years ago. That was probably too on the nose. He covered them with his hands and extruded the pigment from under the flesh. He blinked a few times, feeling like he'd gotten an eyelash in them as he blinked and rubbed.
Finally, he looked back, figuring that was enough change. His tattoed neck and hands were not about to be disturbed, no matter how regular he might want to look. They looked good and had been expensive. Not to mention, his friends would definitely notice that. They'd definitely question it, as they knew him well enough to know that he'd never part with the art on his skin. He sighed, finding clothes he thought suitable. Nothing special, nothing particularly usual looking. He could part with his human hair and eye tattoos but not with what clothing he liked. He figured a black and white flannel, jeans, and a shirt he'd bought at a small Sleaford Mods show would be good enough. He laced up his (much smaller) 1040s the way he liked and shrugged on the leather jacket he was known for. It was how you picked out Lucky Young in a crowd. Black with a red left sleeve, studs and spikes he'd put in by hand, and patches from the many concerts he'd been to over the years. He cracked his neck as he grabbed his duffle bag filled with his collection of Lucky clothes, the book, and a few CDs he'd need and didn't want to buy again, and took the back way out of hell, not caring to look back.
Rising out of the soil, he approached the storage unit he kept his car in. Clapping his hands, the door uncovered the small space and his black 1970 Aston Martin V8, still sporting the pink fuzzy dice from the mirror that Crowley had gotten for him as a joke years ago. Satan— Lucky smiled. He wasn't nearly as attached to his car as Crowley was to his Bently, but it was an earthly possession that was a constant in his life. Lucky might rip or spill a beer on his band shirts or scratch a CD, but his V8 was a constant. Sure, his car was a little beaten up, dinged, scratched, and even keyed, but so was almost everything he cared about, so he didn't mind. They were all like memories to him. And he certainly wasn't going to fix the broken "oh shit!" handle on the passenger's side. That was a memory he liked too much.
He threw his bag in the back and tore toward Hogback Wood, trying to remember where that nunnery was. Unfortunately, his radio had a bad habit of playing any song describing his feelings. Maybe it wasn't that unfortunate. It did make him look relatively cool, he supposed. One way or another, now it played Mr. Bruce's I am Disaster.
He was surprised when his phone rang. Lucky didn't look. He just picked it up. "Yeah?" he answered simply.
"Is this um... Luthor Young?" a man asked.
"You got 'im," he smiled. He had a feeling he was going to enjoy this. This time was different than any other time he'd snuck up to Earth. There was no rush. He had time. There was no pretending to go to the bathroom so he could check on hell. There was nothing to go back for any more.
"My name is Daniel Burham, um... Claire Burham is my sister," the man on the phone told him.
He pretended to only think of her now and hadn't seen her half an hour ago. "Ah! Clarie, how is she?"
"She's in labor. She told me to call this number."
The devil's heart beat, tired, withered sinew fusing and healing as he thought of his son. Obviously, the baby coming now was not his. It was the replacement he'd given her. But he'd do whatever it took to ensure his baby would be coming to him. Not some American ambassador. "That's wonderful!" He said, "Where are you? Can I come to see the baby?" He grinned. Once he was there, he would sabotage the switch. He had a plan to use his glowing stare on the nuns and then—
"Y-you left your lights on," Daniel told someone. Then, after a moment, he said, "That's clever," he marveled, "Is it infrared?"
Lucky was about to ask what was going on when he heard it.
"Has it started yet?"
Crowley.
Satan found a smile on his face.
"Um... they made me go out," he said.
"Any idea how long we've got?"
Daniel stammered, "I think were getting on with it, Doctor."
"What room is she in?" Crowley asked.
"We're in room 3," Daniel told him, a little confused.
The demon barely let him finish, "Room 3, got it."
After a beat, the man seemed to remember being on the phone, "Y-yes, we're at St Beyrl's. She's in room 3. You should know that too, I suppose."
"Room 3," Lucky beamed. "Splendid be by shortly," he hung up before hitting his hand on the dashboard. "Crowley, you beautiful genius," he couldn't be sure if this was on purpose. Maybe the mix-up was on purpose, looking innocent and blooming with plausible deniability. Or perhaps it was just an ordinary cock-up. Lucky didn't care. His baby was going straight into where he needed him. That was all that mattered. He didn't even have to trick nuns. All he needed to do was get there.
Lucky rustled through his bag and found the book. Somewhere along the road, he tossed it out the window and deep into Hogback Wood, where his son would come to play years later. It was out of his hands now, and he rushed toward St Beryl.
He burst through the door and caught a random nun running around, "Hi there, dear. I'm here to see a baby."
The woman looked him up and down.
"They're expecting me, I'm the father," he smiled proudly, "I was told they were in room three."
Her eyes flared momentarily, "I-I'll take you there," she said, rushing toward the rooms.
He shrugged and followed, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. For Satanic nuns, the lot was all a bit twitchy but his account, but he really didn't care as she burst into the room. Claire was sleeping peacefully in a bed, she was okay, and Lucky smiled.
"Now, we call these biscuits," another nun already in the room told a man that must've been Daniel. "But you'll be looking at them and going 'oh, cookies'."
The brother furrowed his eyebrows, "I call them biscuits."
Lucky peaked around the nuns having a silent conversation and saw two babies. He was here. His little boy was here. He sighed in relief.
Daniel noticed him, "you must be Luthor," he said, putting out a hand before realizing a biscuit was in it. He put the cookie in his mouth and extended his hand for real.
Satan smiled, shaking it firmly, "they call me Lucky," he grinned.
"Nice to meet you," Daniel said around the cookie.
He nodded, "likewise," he threw out before looking towards the nuns.
"Extra baby removal," the one that had let him in chimed, wheeling a cart with the replacement he'd given Claire. The baby would've essentially been a clone, as Satan couldn't create life. It was a bit of a loophole. The humans could do it in labs, so he should be able to. It had worked, and that was good enough for him.
"Oh!" The other one nodded. "You must be the abassador," she introduced herself as Sister Mary.
Lucky chuckled, "You could say that." He decided to go along with it. It would probably be best if they had no reason to speculate this was not the plan.
"Aren't you ever humble," she swatted a hand in his direction, "biscuit?"
"No thanks, dear. Do you mind if I hold him?" He pointed down at his baby wrapped in a red knit blanket.
"Not at all!" She squealed. She gently picked the cooing child up and handed him over delicately to Satan. Lucky cradled him and found a chair. Offering his finger once again, as the baby gripped it as tightly as his tiny fingers would. Lucky smiled. This was all he needed, heart beating full.
He sat back, content to quietly hold the baby, gently bouncing him anytime he began to cry while the humans debated names. Figuring it best to let them handle it. He thought humans usually did this before the kid popped out, but he figured they'd know more than he would about that.
"There's always... Well, there's always Adam," Sister Mary suggested.
Daniel smiled a little, "Adam," he repeated. He came over to Lucky, "Adam," he said again, looking at him now.
Lucky smiled, "I like it," he handed the baby to his uncle, who seemed to not know what to do with him.
Maybe that's why Claire stirred then. She woke and peered around her. "Oh, Daniel," she sighed.
"Right here," he smiled at her, coming to her side and offering her baby. She cradled him happily. "Did Lucky come by?" She asked.
The devil sat straighter in his chair, "Over here, Claire."
She smiled wide like she hadn't expected him. "Oh, I had the oddest dream about you just a bit ago," she shook her head, pushing the images of a large man with black eyes that told her he was Satan from her mind. "It was silly, really."
He stood, "I'd bet, probably just a coincidence," he nodded.
"Yes," she agreed, "a coincidence." She appraised him before motioning him closer.
"We were discussing names just now," Daniel told her. "Right, Lucky?"
The tall man hummed, touching the infant's cheek gently, "We were thinking that he looks like an Adam."
She smiled, looking down at the baby in her arms, "hello, Adam," she cooed approvingly.
The next few hours in the hospital were a blur for Lucky. He learned Claire was staying with her mother, who'd stopped by somewhere in there. Madame Tracy was a lovely woman who seemed to know a lot about babies. But they mentioned money being hard since "parting the veil had few coustomers these days," whatever that meant.
Lucky shrugged, "Claire, you know, you and Adam could stay with me if you like," he offered. "Got a little place down in Tadfeild, I make enough to support us." He'd offhandedly miracled it up on the way over, the house and the job. So they'd have a home to return to, three bedrooms, a generous kitchen, adorable porch, and in three weeks, he'd be expected back for his job as a mortician and funeral director as if he'd always been there.
"I'm from Tadfeild!" She smiled wide, "oh, Mum, wouldn't it be cute, taking Adam to my hometown?"
Tracy fiddled with her hands, eyeing the large man dressed in denim and leather. "I suppose its alright," she said. "Just as long as you visit." She supposed she couldn't exactly say no, Claire was 35 now, and this was the father. "I'm always ready to babysit!" She laughed, awkwardly huffing to a stop, "you know... with ample warning in case I have... costumers," she fluffed her hair, pretending not to be embarrassed.
Once Claire and Adam were cleared to head home from the hospital, he bid goodbye to Claire's family and guided her to his V8.
It might've been a little too easy to take her home, to come home to a human home as if he'd lived here the whole time, hanging up his coat and hers. Tossing his keys onto a counter like it's where they lived and taking her and their baby into a bedroom— his bedroom. The whole place furnished and lived in-looking. They settled in for the night on black silk sheets over a king bed, little Adam resting peacefully on his chest and Claire at his side. Little butterfly baby heartbeat against his. This was way too easy, but he didn't care. This was nice. His first night as a full-time human. As a father. Satan decided he could definitely get used to this.
It was a little strange to wake up to, though. Claire gently touched his hair as his eyes cracked open. She took their baby in her arms now, still staring at Lucky. Right, the devil realized somewhere in the back of his mind that this was what he was asking for. He knew this was how he'd get to Adam, committing to Claire. She was nice and all, but she wasn't exactly the Uranic man's type. He held in a sigh and instead smiled.
He spent the morning making her tea as she fed Adam, and they discussed this and that. Then, finally, Lucky had a shower, dawned new clothes, kissed Claire and Adam on their cheeks, and told her he was going out for baby supplies.
It was partly true, now walking the streets of London that might've been purposefully close to Crowley's current flat.
The demon smelled his friend before he spotted him. "Lucky," he purred, eyes searching for the source, a thick smell of expensive rye, cheap American cigarettes, charred meat, and cracked pepper cologne.
"I like the haircut," the voice came right in the demon's ear.
Crowley shivered, turning. He tipped his head backward in surprise, "speakin' of, where'd yours go?"
Lucky shrugged, gripping Corwley's shoulders affectionately and giving him his ceremonial kiss on the cheek hello.
The demon all but melted into the touch, he missed Lucky, and it was always good to see him. He'd never known when he was gonna show up. He seemed to be everywhere and nowhere all the time. It would never be too long, but it always felt like coming home to lay his eyes on his friend's— "and what the heaven happened to your eyes?" He asked as he took the sides of his tall friend's face in his hands, finding the black pigment missing.
"Had the ink dissolved." He shrugged, "I had a kid, pretty."
Crowley took a step back to look at his friend. Had he gone mad? "No," he shook his head.
"Yeah."
He moved his hands wildly, "you-you're settling down?" This was a man he'd watch do enough coke to kill an elephant, balance it with enough alcohol to drink Crowley himself under the table, then proceed to execute the most skilled and complex playing Paganini pieces in a concert hall like it was nothing. Just a year ago, he'd watched him play bass in the craziest show he'd ever been to. He'd tossed his shirt into the crowd, and by some miracle, Crowley caught it. He kept it, even if he wouldn't admit that. That night Lucky gave someone 100 pound to piss their pants on stage. He was insane. He was fun. He was absolutely not someone Crowley could ever picture settling down.
Lucky ran a hand over his freshly cut hair, "I guess."
He hooked an arm around one of Lucky's. "C'mon, I'm on my way to see Aziraphale. Talk to me on the way." Crowley wasn't a touchy person by nature. Not even with the angel, especially not him. Touch was dangerous with them, not just for the reason they insisted. Crowley was always afraid if he touched Aziraphale as casually as he touched Lucky, he'd never stop. Although, he supposed he never really stopped touching Lucky, either. He started walking toward the bookshop. "Tell me about the lucky fellow," Crowley said lowly, pretending to be only mildly interested, not caring that he knew Lucky could read him well.
He shook his head in something that almost looked like regret, "a lady, actually."
Crowley leaned back to look at him, "you're serious?"
He nodded a little too gravely. "Knocked her up, gotta do it to see my kid," he sighed honestly.
"You know, I have this friend. Yeah, his name is Satan," Crowley hissed, "he invented condoms for a reason." Someone needed to stop God's insane policy of sex being only to make babies, way, way too many babies.
Lucky nudged his friend with his shoulder, "You know me better than that, ass. I didn't forget, just... I don't know, Crowley, it didn't work."
The demon was silent. He couldn't believe his ears. It hurt. It really fucking hurt. Looking back up at Lucky, he could tell he was hurt too. Looking over Crowley almost mournfully.
The demon cleared his throat, "well, you've only got 11 years left anyway. End of the world's coming."
He shrugged, "could or it couldn't."
Crowley looked back at his friend. Lucky's nature was always confusing to him. He definitely wasn't an angel. He had no problem pointing out how he despised they way God treated the Earth. But, on the other hand, he didn't seem like a demon. Too freely kind, affectionate even. Whatever he was, he could live long enough to be his friend for the better part of two hundred years, and he seemed to have a touch of fortune-telling. Or something. Aziraphale's had many guesses over the years. A prophet, a witch, an occultist, whatever. Crowley had stopped caring, figuring knowing his nature was probably something he didn't want if he hid it so well. But, any way you spin it, he knew this man saw the future. "There's a chance it won't?"
Lucky swallowed and nodded. It was true, even if he didn't have the voices anymore. He knew if they did this right, Earth would be fine. "We'll all have to work together," Lucky told him, stopping in front of the old bookshop.
Crowley nodded grimly, pretending not to pull his old friend closer by his arm, "come on, then." He pushed open the door to the bookshop. "Aziraphale!" The demon called, "look what I found on the street," he pointed, waiting for their friend to appear.
The angel looked up from his spot at the study, seeing only the demon at first. "Crowley," he breathed happily. So they stood, "If you've brought another stray cat in here—" he stopped in his tracks, spotting that complicated leather jacket. "Luthor," he beamed.
Lucky threw his arms wide, "Stardust!" He called happily, using the nickname he'd used for years that they both would never admit was a pet name.
Crowley watched them. Aziraphale still got the kiss hello, but the one the angel received was much different than the firm grip and almost aggressive kiss to the middle of Crowley's cheek. Instead, Lucky's hands always set loosely against the sides of the angel's arms in case they felt like backing away from the affection, friendly lips falling softly on a warm cheekbone close to his ear, lingering ever so gently. Aziraphale's eyes fluttered closed every time, lips a little parted as he enjoyed the closeness. It didn't bother Crowley, mainly because he got a much more direct version of the same thing, but it was always strange to watch. The demon always wondered what the angel would do if he greeted him that way. The bastard would probably discorporate on the spot. He supposed Lucky set a pretense, he went for it when he felt like he knew you well enough, and that was that. Friendly kisses "hello" from now on.
Aziraphale sighed happily— not missing that Lucky still wore the cologne he'd given him to compliment his natural char smell. "You should've called," they told him. "I didn't know you were back... around." He meant on Earth. They always wondered where Lucky went when he disappeared. He didn't think he lived on Earth at all. Just popped by to visit. Well, and play concerts, but that was more Crowley's crowd anyway— except for the few symphonies Lucky had invited him to. Playing violin most of the time and the occasional piano. He was exceptional at it.
"Moving in, actually," Lucky nodded.
The angel gawked, looking to Crowley, who nodded too.
"Our Lucky is settling down, angel," the demon wiggled his long fingers.
Aziaraphale gasped, "Then we should celebrate!"
Lucky smiled, "another time, Stardust. I know you already had plans with Crowley," he put a hand on the demon's shoulder and gave it a hearty wiggle to emphasize. "Just came by to say hi."
Crowley pretended not to smile, always appreciating how Lucky never stepped between them. Lucky knew well what was deeply unspoken between the angel and the demon.
Appreciation flew by on Aziraphale's features too. "Oh, Lucky," he said vaguely.
"You're welcome," he shrugged. "I'll be off then, be seeing you both," he turned for the door.
"T-tomorrow night?" The angel called shyly, fitting their hands together in a nervous way.
The tall man looked over his shoulder, glancing between the hopeful angel and the demon with his hands shoved into tiny tight pockets looking with raised eyebrows. "8:00, then," he smiled. He gave a little wave and headed out the door.