Chapter Text
It was a pleasantly mild Tuesday in September, and Crowley was idling along the A40 at an uncharacteristically modest speed. He would rather be going much faster, but he was trying not to disturb the small pile of packages behind him on the back seat: most of them contained delicate, cream-covered pastries, fine wines, or cheeses so pungent the car would disown him if he spilled any. Aziraphale wanted a picnic, and he was going to get a picnic to remember.
At least, hopefully. The light spots of rain flecking the Bentley’s windscreen didn’t bode well. Still, picnic or no picnic, there would still be wine, and there would still be Aziraphale, now Armageddon was off the table and they were finally, completely on their own side.
Crowley overtook an ancient Fiat, because modest speed was one thing but there were limits, and counted his lucky stars that the traffic was tolerable today. Then a flashing in his rear-view mirror caught his attention and his heart sank. Those were definitely the lights of a police car behind him, and they definitely wanted him to stop and have a chat about something. Wonderful.
Crowley muttered a curse last heard in Mesopotamia and pulled over into the next lay-by. It figured. The one time he hadn’t even been speeding. He muttered to himself and hoped that speeding ticket quotas hadn’t been one of his ideas.
Bless it. Normally he would turn the police car’s engine into something amusingly unmentionable and leave them in his dust, but Aziraphale had been very keen on avoiding miracles until they were sure that Heaven and Hell really were going to leave them alone. Crowley couldn't blame him for the caution. They had only reached their agreements after the trials because neither side knew what they were dealing with; if the secret got out they would both be hauled back in and permanently dealt with faster than you could say ‘gotcha’. Crowley hadn’t heard anything from Hell since the trials but they weren’t likely to have calmed down about it all. Still, these cops were taking the piss and very much deserving of some kind of retribution, and he didn’t need to use miracles to put the fear of Crowley into someone.
The police car pulled up behind him and the hazard lights came on; the driver climbed out and strode purposefully towards the Bentley. Crowley tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel, fleshing out an improvised revenge plan he was rather proud of already, and waited for the officer to reach him. Their gait seemed vaguely familiar, but then humans were all pretty similar in that respect. Normal human skeletons only had so much range, after all.
The officer reached the driver’s side door and knocked gently but firmly on the window. Crowley turned to look at them, smug grin already in place… and then his revenge plan evaporated from his mind, leaving only dregs of highly concentrated terror. That was a very familiar face. One could say, quite literally a painfully familiar face. Certainly he expected it to result in imminent and considerable pain.
The window rolled down of its own accord and several fat blue-tinted flies flew in, settling on Crowley's shoulders like very very tiny henchmen. The officer's teeth were bared in the kind of malicious grin that not even airport security guards could comfortably achieve.
“Do you know how faszt you were going, sir?”
Crowley stared back, speechless and motionless. So that was that, then. Hell had broken its word already, had decided they could safely be eliminated after all. He hadn’t dared to hope that they could actually win against their former sides, but he had thought they would get a little longer.
He had been so cocky, so stupid. They hadn’t even left London. Why hadn’t they left London? Avoiding miracles didn’t count for much if you stayed right where they last found you. Why hadn’t he taken them both to the other side of the planet or something?
Crowley tried to compose himself, plastering on a polite smile. Self-recrimination could wait until the more immediate problem of survival had been taken care of. “Lord Beelzebub,” he gulped. “What a surprise.”
Beelzebub glowered at him through the open window, far too close for comfort. “Get out of the car, Crowley. Or I’ll set fire to it.”
Crowley climbed out of his car meekly, since there didn’t seem to be much choice, and briefly considered bowing before thinking better of it. At this point, genuflection would probably be counterproductive. He glanced over at the police car – which was parked with its rear end sticking out into the road just enough to endanger and infuriate other road users – then back to Beelzebub. “How’s Hell?” he mumbled, a pretence at civil conversation. There had to be a way out of this, if he could only buy himself a little time.
“Hellish,” Beelzebub replied. Ze took off zir hat with one thickly-gloved hand, letting out several more flies, picked something unidentifiable off it and smeared it on the roof of the Bentley. Crowley’s indignation made a valiant effort to override his terror, but his terror had a considerable size advantage. He gave his car a discreet reassuring pat and mentally promised to make it up to her later, provided he survived this. Beelzebub put the hat back on firmly. “Though I’m no longer Lord Beelzebub,” ze said. “Thanks to you.”
Crowley’s jaw dropped. His brain went away for a bit to process that news, then came back and slapped him in the face with the second half of the sentence. Beelzebub, no longer in charge of Hell, because of Crowley. “What?” he protested. “How is it my fault?”
Beelzebub fixed him with an unimpressed look. “You defied Hell, survived your well-deserved execution, dictated terms to both sides, and walked out. In front of ten million witnessez. What did you think would happen?”
Well, when ze put it like that. He’d feel proud if he wasn’t so scared. There wasn’t really a safe way of saying ‘I didn’t care and still don’t, you were trying to execute us for Someone’s sake’, so he kept his mouth shut.
“It’z chaos down there now,” Beelzebub continued bitterly. “Lucifer is off sulking somewhere and the troops are revolting. Half the Dark Council was thrown in the Lake. I barely got out with my wingz intact.”
“And you’ve started a new life in the Metropolitan Police?” Crowley said, trying to sound casual while anything but. Ze hadn’t discorporated him on the spot, which could only mean ze had something worse in mind. Like… oh Hell. Like keeping him occupied while one of zir remaining loyal minions went after Aziraphale.
“Worried about your angel?” ze said, as if reading his mind. “You should be. Unless you cooperate, of course.”
Of course, thought Crowley desperately. Anything you want, anything at all, just leave him alone. Please. “Cooperate on what?”
“A little assignment. You’re a twizty little bastard and I have a job for you. Do it well, and perhaps you and your angelic bed warmer get to live.”
Beelzebub pulled a small bottle from zir pocket, an elegant gold-capped crystal phial which gave off a faint ethereal glow, and Crowley realised why ze was wearing such thick leather gloves. He also realised, too late, that he’d flinched. Beelzebub grinned like a crocodile.
“I know you tricked usz, Crowley,” ze said coldly. “I know this stuff will still kill you. I'm the only one who knows. For now.” Beelzebub leaned in and made eye contact with a stare that could bore through a wall. “Help me get my job back, and maybe I won’t tell Hastur.”