Work Text:
Let me tell you a cosmic joke. Three young men walk into a pub on their shared 19th birthday with a group of friends.
The first young man is the son of an American ambassador. He is currently attending university in England because he has fond memories of growing up there. Not family memories, not really. His father was too busy being self important and his mother was far too busy drinking boxed wine to make too many happy memories with this young man. However, he'd had an absolutely delightful nanny with a wicked sense of humor and a gardener who'd been willing to indulge him who made up for it. So back to England he'd gone as soon as he was legally able.
The second young man moves with the gait of someone who took awhile to grow properly into his body. His looks are charming if a bit too all American for an English lad born and bred. His rugby team would be surprised to find out that he was once a bully who lacked confidence and who raised award winning tropical fish.
The third young man is the Antichrist; Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. But he hasn't really laid claim to any of those titles for going on eight years now, so that's alright then.
The joke is that these three young men thought that they could celebrate their birthday in a peaceful manner. It's a rather funny joke, really.
Somewhere between visiting the third and seventh pub there had been a fire. Just a small one, really. Also, their friend Pepper had relieved a young man who couldn't understand consent of a few of his teeth. And maybe there had been a minor discharge of bodily fluids. Okay, perhaps not minor. And perhaps more than one participant. And some of this may have been in the back of a police car.
But, really, you'd think constables would have a better sense of humor than all of this.
Constable Smyth wasn't in a very humorous mood. Being the youngest member of this particular precinct left him with the undesirable jobs. At one point, in what should have been an otherwise very quiet evening, he had been left to babysit nine drunken hooligans. Three of whom shared a birthday and who had tried to convince him, with varying degrees of seriousness, that they were brothers.
That was the beginning of his evening.
When they had grown bored of that little game the singing had started. He could have done without the singing. There had been an absurd song about ice-cream, several mangled Queen songs, and some great war Era song about a farting contest. Why the teenagers knew that one was anyone's guess. That had been followed up by a rousing debate on the storage of body parts when used as evidence and if human teeth could be legally used for a necklace.
He was fairly certain that he had heard the young lady of the group ask, "Do you think they'll let me keep the teeth if we ask for them?"
He was hoping that he'd heard wrong.
He had almost wept tears of joy when three of the hooligans were bailed out by their respective parents. Almost. That still left him with the other six little monsters. The self appointed leader of which kept reassuring him that their ride out of the pokey would be coming soon.
Ninety minutes in and Constable Smyth was starting to very much doubt that.
Two hours in and these were clearly very naughty children sent to punish him for sins that he'd forgotten that he'd committed in his misspent youth.
"Constable Smith! I want a glass of water and a bedtime story," one of the miscreants singsonged. They knew it was Smyth. He'd told them repeatedly that it was Smyth. He was not acknowledging their insolence.
Two and a half hours in and the singing had started again. None of these children were Henry the 8th (I am, I am), thank you very much. The Constable was starting to believe that this was a taste of what Hell was like. Maybe he needed to be a better person; go to church more.
It was roughly the three hour mark when questionable salvation walked into the station in the form of a homosexual couple in what appeared to be their middling age. Not that Constable Smyth was judging them. Of course not. He liked to think of himself as a forward thinking young man; not prone to judgements. He was just using his observational skills. He knew that they were a couple because they were holding hands and wore matching wedding rings. That's all.
Also because the blond one was blubbering on and on about their poor, misguided sons and how he had clearly failed as a parent.
Again, young Smyth wanted to believe very badly that he wasn't a judgemental sort of person. If he had been, however, he would have been more inclined to guess that the ginger gentleman in the leather pants with the face tattoo might be the actual bad influence. The tiny, pleased smile that he wore as they approached the desk did nothing to dissuade Constable Smyth of this not an opinion.
"Ah, law enforcement human," the ginger began before he was none too gently nudged by the blond. "Excuse me, Constable. We received a call from one of our sons earlier this evening. Seems our boys and some of their friends had a minor misunderstanding with a bar keep. A trifle thing, wouldn't you say? We came here just as soon as we could to take them off of your hands."
Constable Smyth was starting to understand where the boys got their hubris from if these were indeed their parents. A misunderstanding? He hardly thought so.
"Well, there's paperwork, you see. And bails to be paid. I don't think you understand quite what went on ton-"
The Constable was interrupted on two fronts. The slightly shorter man of the pair had burst into fresh tears. From behind him the singing had started up again.
"My bay-ay-ay-aybies!" The more emotional parent, and parent still had a question mark next to it in the constable's mind but it was rapidly fading, wailed. He wrung his soft, pudgy hands nervously. Not that Constable Smyth was judging. No sir, no judgments here. "Oh, they were such good boys growing up! My wonderful little poppets! Where, oh where, did I go wrong?!"
"Ngk." Mr I-Clearly-Think-That-I'm-Above-The-Law had pulled his partner in for a tight hug.
"I'm Henery the Eighth, I yam. Henery the Eighth, I yam, I yam. I got married ta the widah next door. She's been married seven times afore. I'm her eighth man. Henery the Eighth I yam! Second verse like tha first!!!" The exuberant singing seemed to grow louder with every word, as if some miraculous entity was magnifying it.
"Ma'am! I mean, sir, please get yourself together and can you six knock it off for thirty bleeding seconds!" Smyth had had quite enough and was going to cut this circus off now before the clowns all piled out of the car.
"Now excuse me, Constable," the redhead drew himself up to his full height. Even with the sunglasses, and who the Hell wears sunglasses at night, the young officer of the law was given the impression that the older man was glaring at him. Not just any glare. Oh no. This was a glare dredged up from the very pits of Hell; a glare that could set the M-25 aflame. "I'll not have you talking to my family that way. Do I need to speak to your supervisor? How about his supervisor? Hmm? Now be a good lad and send the kiddos on out to play."
The dramatic crying had kicked up yet another notch. Constable Smyth was getting a migraine from the blue eyed man's wailing. "Anthony, my darling! How can you ever forgive me for allowing the boys to get so out of control?! Oh, my little loves! How could this have happened?! Where did I go wroooooooong?!"
"Francis, my angel, you have been the absolute best influence. A right heavenly agent is what you are. No, my sweet; I was quite the rapscallion in my day." Oh, so they were both dramatic. Fun. Constable Smyth didn't know what entity he had angered to deserve this.
"And what a charming rapscallion you were, my dear boy. You tempted me right off of my feet," at least the crying was tapering down to a slight sniffle.
"Park your car in his garage, Mr Crowley!" One of the young adults was cat-calling now.
"Oi, can you not talk about my dads getting freaky?! I've started sobering up and I need to be drunk if you're going to be wahooing gay old man sex..."
"Excuse you, but that is your heteronormative, patriarchal, ageist conditioning speaking. Not that I personally believe that we should tie ourselves to another person in a legal manner," the only woman in the bunch jumped in.
"Could you lot be quiet! For just long enough for me to arrange your release!" The young Constable was ready to pull his already short hair out by the roots. That was before he turned back to the pair in his lobby only to find them engaged in a passionate kiss. "Gentlemen! Please!"
"Oh Anthony, my dear, you really don't blame me?" The blond was fluttering his lashes like the most simpering of damsels.
"Francis, my angel; I could put you up on this counter and ravish you right here and now. I would hang the stars in the sky for you. The only thing that I blame you for is being so desirable. I want to-"
"ENOUGH! I will give you anything you want to not finish that sentence! Please, please; take your sons and their friends and please never darken the doors of my precinct again. Please." Constable Smyth began to rub his temples. "Please."
~~~~~~
Josh Johnson wanted to believe that he was a reasonable sort of guy. He had befriended his former rival once he'd gotten over his childhood foolishness. He had largely kept his mouth shut when his gang of chaps had been bailed out and he'd been left with the five biggest idiots this side of the English Channel. He'd let their scheme play out when the two gayest men that he'd ever personally met showed up claiming to be their dads. He hadn't even pointed out the foolishness of cramming six people into the backseat of a modified Bentley and then giving them all more alcohol while still parked in front of a police station.
So he didn't think it unreasonable to ask what the Hell was actually going on.
"That, my young hungover friend, was the performance of a lifetime," the man in the driver's seat answered. Josh could hear the smirk in his voice. "Now drink up, kids. Best cure for a hangover is some hair of the dog that bit you. We're not going anywhere until you've each had at least three drinks to set you to rights."
"Crowley!" His companion gave a fond tut. The man moved his hands back and forth as if he were dancing in his seat. "They've had a very interesting evening and it's still their birthday for another twenty minutes or so. Two drinks each ought to do the trick and then we can give them our birthday surprise."
Josh noted that they hadn't really answered his question. He wasn't sure that he was going to get an answer. Not when sunglasses was grinning fondly at the blond and the blond was singing something to himself about the west end.
The young man formerly known as Greasy gave his birthday buddy a sharp nudge. Not hard to do, crammed in as they were. "I know that you said that they were your emergency contacts, but how do you know them, Adam?!"
"Oh, they're brilliant. He used to work for my dad and he worked for my dad's rival until they decided that they loved each other more than they loved their jobs," Adam answered proudly before chugging down an entire bottle.
Warlock, and what an interesting name his lush of a mother had gifted him, gave a snort that almost spilled his own drink at that. "Was that before or after he was my nanny and he was my gardener?"
"During," the duo in the front seat answered in unison before smiling fondly at each other. The blond continued, "We're also their godfathers. Yours too, even if you didn't know it before. We have a vested interest in you kids staying safe and healthy. Now, everybody drank up? Yes? Oh good. Crowley, dear, I do believe we can give them their gift now."
The man's smile was bright. Very bright. It seemed to be growing brighter by the moment. Painfully bright. Josh felt overwhelmed by the pressure of it. And the impression of far too many eyes.
He forced himself to look away only to be greeted by a creature out of his most primitive nightmares. Black and red scales glinting under the dull street lamps. Glowing yellow eyes. And the teeth. Oh God, the teeth. Sharp, smiling teeth.
The car wasn't a car anymore. It was a cramped space somewhere between this world and the next; full to the brim with black and white feathers. This is what madness felt like.
"Foolissssssh children," the nightmare monster hissed. "The sssssssix of you belong to us to guide, to guard, to protect and thisssss issss what you get up to. There'll be no more of thisssss."
"Be not afraid. Our blessings shall be upon you as your ethereal godfathers all of your long and fruitful days," the brightness added.
Then it was over, as quickly as it began. The men were just men again.
"That was wicked," Adam whooped, clearly not affected in the same way that he was. "Best birthday gift since I got dog."
"I don't know what you're talking about kids. Must be the alcohol talking. Lift home?" The redheaded man looked over his shoulder to grin at them before hitting the gas.
As they careened through the London night at a blazing Ninety miles per hour Josh had the presence of mind to know that next time he went drinking with his birthday brothers he was taking a cab.