Work Text:
This is stupid.
All of this is stupid.
A perfectly good Friday night — one you could have spent doing literally anything else, and here you are, trying to summon a demon.
Well, you suppose, not really trying. You don’t believe in demons or magic or anything of the sort — but a friend had made a bet with you that you wouldn’t do it and well —
You aren’t about to pass up free money.
The hastily drawn chalk circle on the floor — not to mention the salt around it — is going to be a hassle to clean up, and you’d had to search through several birthdays’ worth of scented candles to find enough for the supposed “ritual” that the internet had described as “foolproof,” but if you didn’t do it, not only would you owe your friend money, you’d never hear the end of it.
Striking a match, you light the candles, their clashing scents making the room smell very strong. Fumbling for your phone, you read the words from the lit screen.
“Daemonium exi,” you start, stumbling over the unfamiliar words. You’re pretty sure this is just Latin from Google Translate. “Et facite mandata mea.”
Switching to the camera app, you hit the record button. “This is me summoning a demon,” you say. “Daemonium exi, et facite mandata mea.” You show the camera your summoning circle. “I’ll take my money now,” you tell your phone before ending the video and texting it to your friend.
You hit send just as the chalk circle lights up.
Whatthefuckdiditactuallyworkwhatthefuckwhatthefuck, your mind supplies helpfully.
The circle keeps glowing, and then the candles extinguish and you fumble for the flashlight on your phone. Turning it on, you point it towards the summoning circle —
— to see a man there.
Well, you assume he’s a demon, really, but he looks like a middle-aged man — albeit a very goth (and likely gay) middle-aged man — the bright red hair, dark clothes, snake tattoo, and sunglasses aren’t particularly demonic-looking. If you’d seen him in public, you wouldn’t have assumed there was anything supernatural about him.
Reaching for the wall, your hand shaking, you flick on the light switch.
“Hello,” he says.
(He sounds British, you think. Why is the demon British? To be fair, you don’t really know what you expected — you definitely hadn’t expected it to work — but that doesn’t take the strangeness away from this encounter.)
“WhatthefuckholyshitholyfuckingshitohmyGod — ”
The demon doesn’t speak, just yawns and glances at his watch as though waiting for you to be done as you stumble back from the summoning circle.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he drawls. “Not like I have somewhere to be right now, or anything.”
(The demon talks, you think. The demon talks and he’s surprisingly rude. Maybe you should have expected rude — demon, after all — but the absurdity of the situation is off the charts and there’s a fucking demon in your living room and your friend should really owe you more money than you’d been promised because there’s a fucking demon in your living room.)
You gape at him, dumbfounded. “I — you’re a demon.”
You can’t see his eyes, but you can tell he rolls them behind the dark sunglasses. “What gave it away?” he asks sardonically.
“You don’t… look like a demon,” you say.
The annoyance is radiating off of him in waves. “Yeah, well, can’t just go around looking all demon-y,” he replies. “Not subtle at all. And anyway, I’m retired now.”
“Retired?” you ask tentatively.
He waves his hands around vaguely. “Y’know. Not working anymore? Not that I’m complaining, Hell was far from a good place — ”
“ — Hell?” you ask.
The demon sighs, exasperated. “Yeah, awful place, eternal torture, loads of paperwork, you get the gist,” he says. “Not that Heaven’s much better.”
“But isn’t Heaven supposed to be — ”
“Nope,” he says, popping the P. “Definitely not.”
You’re still processing the fact that this is a demon and demons are real and demons are real and this one doesn’t look like a demon and he’s weirdly not threatening to torture me and also Heaven and Hell are a thing, but the demon doesn’t seem to have the patience for that.
“Just give me a task,” he says. “Preferably an easy one. I don’t want to worry him.”
“Him?”
He sighs, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “My angel,” he says simply. “I’m supposed to pick him up in fifteen minutes, but then you had to go and summon me, so here I am. Task, please.”
(Okay, you think. The demon has an angel. And they’re going to go out together. Yep. Totally normal Friday night.)
“...Right,” you say carefully. “I just, um, didn’t think this would work, so…”
The demon sighs again, more dramatically this time. “I hated the fourteenth century,” he says. “But at least the people who summoned me knew what they were doing then. I can already hear him worrying — ‘oh, Crowley, you have no idea how much that scared me.’”
You can feel his eyes on you below the sunglasses.
“Give me a task,” he — Crowley? — says slowly, enunciating carefully. “Once I do that, I can leave. So, if you don’t mind…”
You flounder, thinking of something interesting to choose (something tells you that if you don’t pick something he approves of, Crowley will only grow more annoyed with you).
“Uh,” you say. “Um.”
He groans. “I’m going to be here forever, aren’t I?” he mutters to himself. Turning back to you, Crowley speaks again. “Just pick something,” he says. “Riches, or a puppy, or something. Humans like puppies.”
You blink. “Uh…”
Crowley groans, and pulls a phone out of his pocket, dialing a number. “Hi, angel,” he says. “M’ probably gonna be late. Yeah, just a minor summoning by a clueless human.” He enunciates the last two words, as though making sure you hear. “No, you really don’t need to — ” he sighs again and puts his phone away.
“That was him?”
Crowley nods. “And now he’s coming here,” he says. “Wants to make sure I’m okay.”
“Do I need to be worried about being smited?” you ask.
“It’s smitten,” he corrects you. “And no, you’ll be fine once he realizes how little you know about how this works.”
There’s a knock, and you glance between Crowley and the door.
“Go on,” he says. “Answer it.”
With a gulp, you approach the door, pulling it open to reveal the nicest-looking person you have ever seen. He looks middle-aged, around the same age as Crowley, and his eyes are soft, loving, ancient.
You’re struck by the fact that this is a goddamned angel — well.
Not goddamned, really. But still a fucking angel.
He’s wearing a light tan jacket with a worn waistcoat under it that looks well-loved. You wonder when he bought it.
“Hello,” he says with a smile. “Terribly sorry to interrupt your evening, but you seem to have summoned my — Crowley.”
“Uh,” you say. “Yeah.”
Inside, Crowley groans — “I told you I had it covered, angel.”
The angel looks inside to see Crowley. “I was worried,” he says. “Last time you were summoned, it was that doomsday cult. Terribly inconvenient, and they were rather more harmful.”
“I told you it was just a clueless human.”
The angel huffs. “You called Hastur a friend when I called,” he says. “I have no way of knowing!”
He turns back to you. “I’m so sorry. I’m being awfully impolite,” he says. “I’m Aziraphale. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
You nod, introducing yourself in return.
“What a lovely name,” he says with a smile, and you instantly feel more at ease. “Do you mind if I come in?”
“Yes,” you reply, stepping back from the door. “Of course, come in.”
You lead Aziraphale to your living room, where Crowley is still waiting in the summoning circle.
“This human won’t listen to me at all, angel,” Crowley complains. “I told them to give me a task, and they’ve just stood there.”
“You can hardly blame them, dear,” Aziraphale replies. “I don’t think they expected this to work.”
“I didn’t,” you supply, glancing between them. “I just wanted some money, and my friend bet me that I’d chicken out.”
Crowley quirks an eyebrow. “You… tried to summon a demon for some cash?”
“I didn’t think it’d work,” you say defensively. “But yeah.”
“You got lucky,” he tells you. “If you had summoned anyone but me, you’d be a lot worse off right now.”
You don’t know what to say in reply to that — thank you?
Aziraphale smiles at you sympathetically. “To let him go, you need to give him a task,” he says gently.
“Preferably an easy one,” Crowley adds.
You nod, thinking for a moment. “Could you… make sure my friend pays me?”
Crowley looks at you, bewildered. “That’s… what you’re choosing?” he asks, incredulous. “You have here a demon who can do anything and you want to make sure your friend pays the money they owe you for a silly bet?”
You raise your hands in surrender. “I didn’t know what to choose,” you said. “And seeing as I did actually summon a demon, I’d like the money I’m owed.”
The demon rolls his eyes, snapping his fingers. “They’ll pay you,” he says, stepping out of the circle. “Right, angel,” he says to Aziraphale. “The Ritz?”
Aziraphale nods. “Of course,” he says. With a snap of his fingers, the chalk and salt on your floor disappear — in fact, your floor looks cleaner than ever. Turning to you again, he smiles. “Lovely to meet you,” he says. “But I wouldn’t recommend trying this again.”
You nod. “Not planning on it.”
Aziraphale and Crowley grab hands, and the next thing you know, they’re gone.
The next day, your friend paid you, just as promised.
Your floor never got dirty again.