Title: The Consequences of Bloody Manchester, or Why Summoning Demons is a BAD Idea.
Rating: PG-13, for liberal use of the word fuck
Pairings: nothing romantic, but if you want to get really specific...Crowley/Mrs. Black. Yes, that Mrs. Black, the same one from the ugly painting in OotP. Brain bleach will be supplied if needed.
Warnings: Crackfic. Total and utter crackfic, inspired by a work of GO fanart that was so lovely (and somehow this came out of it. Can't really explain it). Oh, yes, HP/GO crossover as well. A hint of one more fandom pops up in part two, nothing spoilery, but it'll make a lot more sense once the sequel is out there.
Summary: 'Any wizard bright enough to survive for five minutes was also bright enough to realise that if there was any power in demonology, then it lay with the demons. Using it for your own purposes would be like trying to beat mice to death with a rattlesnake.'-Terry Pratchett, Eric. A certain not very demonic demon is asked to do the bidding of Mrs. Black.
It was safe to say that Anthony J. Crowley was an expert in decadence. The room he suddenly found himself in was a masterwork of decadence, although it was a little gaudy for his taste. There was fabric wallpaper in shades of silver and black, matching silver sconces on the wall holding candles lit with electric blue flames, and loads of dark wood furniture upholstered in an array of shades of green and brown. The centerpiece of the room was a massive bed, a four-poster with tapestry curtains and a silver satin bedcover. Lounging on top of the bed was a fairly attractive woman. She had strong, dark features with deep black eyes that made Crowley want to squirm just a little bit. She was wearing something that looked like a sheer mesh bathrobe (revealing things that, while they were very well put together, he felt should be kept hidden. Preferably at the bottom of the ocean where he couldn’t see it), and held a slender stick in one hand and a sharp metallic knife in the other.
Crowley gulped, and took a glance down at his feet. “Oh bloody Manchester,” he muttered, seeing the chalked sigils on the parquet floor. It was one of those wizards who had summoned him here. Bloody stupid magic users who had no clue where their powers really came from. Even Lucifer was still trying to figure out why God had decided to make the wizards. Aziraphale would say it was ineffable. Crowley said it was a total pain in the arse when some of the more unstable ones attempted to call up the absolute most vile demons and instead dragged him away from whatever tempting he was currently engaged in. It rather felt like being dragged through a spiny hedge backwards and blindfolded.
“I’m sorry, I think I must have made a wrong turn heading towards Knightsbridge,” Crowley said charmingly, motioning in a futile manner as to where he thought that little restaurant he was supposed to be meeting Aziraphale was at. The woman smiled a dangerous smile and leaned towards him.
“Oh, I think you’re exactly where I want you to be. I believe that according to typical lore, you’re bound to within that circle, demon, until I release you.”
Being Crowley, he tested the boundaries of the chalked markings. Unfortunately, the harpy was right. He was stuck within the lines until he was done with whatever she wanted. “This never happens to the angel,” he muttered to himself. He looked up at her again, watching her eyes dart back and forth between the dagger and the wand. “So, Miss…whatever your name is, why don’t you just let me go on my way, and I’ll send someone a little more agreeable along, hmm?” Hastur owed him, didn’t he? Maybe he could call in that debt from the Duke of Hell...
“The name is Olympias. Olympias Black. And no, you don’t need to send for anyone else. You’re quite a bit more attractive than these books,” she waved at a stack of very large, very dusty, and very old books on the nightstand that Aziraphale would have traded a few bottles of expensive Burgundy for, “say that incubi normally are.”
Shit. It had been many, many years since the last time Crowley had been called in place of an incubus (it happened more often than one thought it would—oftentimes incubi were preoccupied with attaining the perfect nightmarish look to prevent depraved housewives in need of a good shag from calling them up at whim—for creatures who fell because of their lust for women, they spent an awful lot of time now trying to avoid them). “Look, Olympias, I don’t know what those books are telling you, but I usually don’t operate like that. Hey!” The woman had sent a beam of red light at his feet, causing him to jump back and simultaneously slam into the invisible barriers caused by the chalk markings.
“It’s really quite simple, demon. I wish to engage in carnal relations with you. My dear...husband,” she gritted the word out between clenched teeth, “is what is commonly referred to as more than slightly bent, or any other sort of vernacular term for being flamingly homosexual.”
“Arranged marriage?” Well, if he was stuck, he might as well try to found out as many details as possible to make her life miserable at a later date. He could definitely have fun with that.
“The only way for a respectable pureblood to be married,” Olympias nodded. “Unfortunately, that means other areas of our marriage are sorely lacking. Which is where you come in.”
“Look, Olympias,” Crowley pleaded, one hand working rapidly behind his back to try and find some sort of catch in the circle, “I’m really not the one you want to be dealing with for this. There are lots of other demons down there who are far more adept at the sort of things you’re looking for.” He preferred to do his tempting in a far less hands on method. A few tweaks here, a wrench in the works there, and he could leave all of London in a seething mass of anger for hours. Tempting one on one took far too much time, and made him lose precious time he could be sleeping.
Olympias flicked her wand idly. “Accio glasses.” Crowley swore and made a grab for them as they flew into her hands. He tried to manifest a new pair but the bindings on the circle prevented him. “Shit,” he muttered.
She crawled forward on the bed, eventually flopping onto her stomach and propping her head in a hand. “You really are quite handsome, you know. I should think it would be quite a pleasure to bed you.”
“While I’m flattered,” Crowley sighed, “I really must be going.” Aziraphale was probably worried now. Crowley was never one to turn down the chance to get rip roaring drunk, so not seeing him turn up at the restaurant would be a sign of alarm. He got the feeling though that the angel, with all of his heavenly powers, would have quite a few problems even attempting to convince Mrs. Black over to the side of light. The woman was probably rotten all the way through. He’d definitely have to have someone look up her name down in the offices. Her humanity was doubtful at this point.
“You’re not going anywhere. My circle makes sure of that.” Olympias arched a perfectly arched and sculpted eyebrow. “You know, I’ve never ever had to force someone into sleeping with me. I have no intention of starting now. And while you’re trapped in my spell you really have no choice but to obey me.”
Fucking Manchester. The bitch was right. There was absolutely no way out of the circle. Evil as she was, Mrs. Black was a talented witch, and had locked him up good. So he had two options. The first was to try and escape, and most likely end up inconveniently discorporated for a few years. Not the best of methods as he rather liked his current body and didn’t want to part with his flat. The second was to suck it up and sleep with the old hag...and get revenge on her somehow. It would be pretty easy for a demon to make sure this mere witch would pay dearly. Crowley wasn’t the biggest fan of the truly dirty deeds, but Mrs. Black deserved whatever she would end up with. And hey, if he was going to get laid, he might as well have some fun.
Crowley pushed his sleeves back. “All right. What do you want me to do?”
* * *
When Aziraphale found Crowley two days later, the demon was in his shower, scrubbing his skin with what looked like a pot scrubber. “What on earth are you doing?” Aziraphale asked, turning his back and ignoring the reflection of the shower curtain in the mirror.
“Attempting to get the stench of that foul woman off my skin,” Crowley called back.
“Stupid witch thought I was an incubus.”
“That’s putting it mildly. Anyways, I was pretty much trapped, so I had to dust off some of the old skills and put them to use.” Even though he couldn’t see Aziraphale, he knew for sure that the angel’s face was beet red from blushing. For someone who had existed before Britannia was even a thought in someone’s brain, he was the quintessential British gentleman. “Pass me that towel, will you please?” A few seconds passed, and Aziraphale’s well manicured hand slipped inside the shower, a fluffy white towel clutched inside it.
“Thanks.” Crowley began to dry himself off, relishing in the feeling of soft cotton against his skin. He felt nearly clean. “However, I’ve got a bit of a plan for this woman.”
“Crowley, please don’t do anything I’m going to have to thwart in a day or so.” The angel’s eyes rolled towards the ceiling as Crowley stepped out and manifested himself a clean suit.
“Trust me, this woman is so corrupt Peter himself offering her the keys of heaven on a platter couldn’t sway her over to your side.” They moved out into the sitting room of the flat, a bottle of exquisite Bordeaux already open and airing on the coffee table. “I just put a little bit of a directive on her. Something so minor I don’t have to do any work or look at or think about that old witch ever again, but something that will make her life absolutely miserable.”
Aziraphale sipped at his wine. “So what are you going to do to her?”
“I’m just going to give her what she doesn’t want. The specifics of that is up to her. It’s great irony, isn’t it? She herself is going to make her life a misery.”
“Should I keep an eye out? You know, just in case there is a chance she can be
“Nah. I don’t want to even think about this woman ever again.” Crowley tossed his drink back, intent in obliterating all thoughts of Olympias Black from his memory.
* * *
Nine months later…
A man and a woman, both tall, black haired, and elegantly dressed, stood looking down at the cradle. “Well it’s obvious he’s not mine,” the man said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Yes. I think the yellow eyes might give it away, Cepheus,” the woman said, leaning in close to look at the slightly fussy baby. He was a strangely attractive child, not resembling a wrinkly potato or Winston Churchill as so many babies do. He had a head full of silky black hair and pale skin. Instead of having blue eyes, though, this little baby sported a pair of bright yellow eyes (obviously inherited from somewhere Olympias Black wasn’t going to admit to her husband).
Cepheus Black chewed thoughtfully on his index finger. “There’s got to be a way to tweak with things. As long as we can fool the masses and raise him to be a proper Black, everything should be fine.”
Olympias nodded. She raised her wand and passed it over baby’s yellow eyes. With a few muttered words the eyes transformed into a clear grey, the exact same shade as Cepheus’s. “There we go. Now no one will ever know the truth about little Sirius.”
* * *
Fifteen months after that…
“Fucking Manchester, not you again!!”
Part Two, in which Crowley gets a warning about past 'indiscretions' coming back to bite him in the arse…
Crowley's eyes were glued to the pound coin, firmly affixed to the sidewalk. Yes, it wasn't the best way to commit demonic activities, but it kept him outside in the warm sun and fed him some wonderful pastries, the likes of which he hadn't had since about 150 years ago somewhere in Campania.
The woman who was at the table next to the little coin (Who was reading a bible of all things-the perfect target, although he hadn't set out with anyone specific in mind) reached out a foot and idly prodded at the coin. Her smooth brow wrinkled when the toe of her boot couldn't budge the pound. A few prods later her frustration levels had increased and Crowley felt the pleasure of a job well done.
Then she looked directly at him. And then she smiled. "You old snake," she called out.
"Oh shit." Now he recognized her. It was kind of hard, really, to forget one of the first (1) human faces he'd ever seen.
She grinned even wider. "Come on over here; I won't be mad. I promise, I won't kick you in the head this time," she said in her indescribable accent.(2)
Crowley shrugged. This was going to be interesting, he decided, and moved over to her table. "So, Ev—"
"It's Chava, at least for right now." She winked at him. "Felt like a bit of a change. It's good to mix things up once in a while. Do you want some coffee?" she waved at the small pot sitting on the table.
"Sure." He helped himself to a steaming cup (the cup having been an innocent napkin just a few moments beforehand) and sipped at it. "What's with the Bible?"
"Sometimes I just like to re-read it and see what all of the writers got wrong. Like this bit, here," Chava flipped the book around to show Crowley, thin pages flapping in the wind. "This bit with the rib never happened; I don't know whose bright idea that one was. The first story, in the first chapter, that's more like it."
"I definitely remember the part with the apple tree though," Crowley shot back, a dark eyebrow arching high over his sunglasses. "Although that always did seem like a bit of a set-up to me," he mumbled into his coffee.
"Ditto that. I should thank you for that though. I've always wanted to but I never got a chance." She pulled her long dark hair back into a sleek ponytail and sat back in her chair, turning her face up towards the sun for a brief minute.
"Why?" Crowley waved his hand, bringing over a waiter carrying some more pastries. When the slightly bewildered waiter walked away (he was just about to head home for the day, and yet found himself bringing out one last plate of food), he continued. "After all, I was the one who got you kicked out of paradise. Why thank me?"
"Innocence is overrated. I like knowing things; it's gotten me through six thousand good years," she said, still staring up at the skies. "And sometimes I suspect that's what He had planned all along, but who really knows what He's thinking."
"It's a bloody ineffable plan," Crowley concurred, "and He's the only one who has any clue what's going on."
"I suppose I know more than most," Chava mused, "being the first woman and all that. I've got a special in up there, you know? But there's many things that he keeps from even me. Ineffable."
"You sound like—" Crowley cut himself off, not wanting to give too much away to someone who was close to upstairs.
"Sound like who?" she asked, a lilt in her voice that implied she knew far more than he thought she did.
From somewhere Chava picked up another book and began flipping through it. "Ahh, here we are. This is another story that I can't figure out where it came from; this idea that Adam had a couple of other wives before me. One word gets mistranslated from screech owl into woman, and millennia later we get all sorts of tales."
"Wonderfully sexually deviant stories, some of them actually true," he said, feeling a little something in him niggling to stick up for the old firm.
"If that's your sort of thing."
"Um, demon here."
"Oh yeah, I forget that sometimes." She winked at him again. It was most unnerving.
"Look, Chava, why are you here? Every other time we've had a meet up it hasn't been for one-something trivial or two-painless. I still have a headache from when you booted me in the forehead," Crowley sighed, feeling a bit off and just wanting to get to the bottom of matters.
"Okay, I am sorry for that; I just can't help myself sometimes. But yes, there is a reason for my being here."
"Good, now we're getting somewhere. Elaborate, please."
"Just a bit of a warning. But I don't think it's about anything bad." Chava's brow wrinkled, fine lines appearing in the olive skin, looking very old and very young all at the same time.
"You don't think it's anything bad?" he repeated, a bit aghast. "For all your abilities you can't tell if this warning is something good or bad?" It was true, in the past Chava had been able to pull some remarkable things out of thin air (mostly to aid Aziraphale, but he had definitely seen the benefits), but maybe after six thousand years of work her brain was starting to go a bit.(3)
"Here's what I can gather. Something that you did in the past is going to come back to haunt you big time. But this might not be a bad thing. Keep your slitty little serpent eyes open for something extremely weird." She sipped at her coffee again, then reached out a deft hand to snag one of Crowley's pastries.
"That's awfully vague," Crowley said, watching with satisfaction at the fight breaking out across the street when a lock of a girl's long curly hair got snagged on a passerby's purse, causing a great deal of yelling and dropped bags.
"It's all I can give you right now, so take it as you may. Just be prepared." Chava looked around the patrons outside the café, smiling softly at the movement of everyday life. "That boy that Aziraphale took in-William, right?"
"Nothing at all. I just think he's good for the two of you."
"He grows on you after a while," Crowley shrugged. "Special kid, I guess." More special than he was willing to divulge to Chava.(4)
"So I gathered. I look forward to meeting him in the future," she said, putting her books into the satchel hanging off the back of her chair. "Well, I must get going now. There's a lot to see out there on this Earth, you know? Time waits for no woman."
"Good talking to you, Chava," he nodded. "Thanks for the heads up." He did appreciate the notice, even though he had no clue as to what was going to happen. He supposed they would just take it as it came, and not worry about it until then.
"Arrivederci, Crowley." Chava stood up, shouldered her bag, and began to walk off into the crowd. "Oh, Crowley?" she said, turning around.
"You know those old stories about Lilith, and why she got kicked out of the garden?"
She grinned widely at him, sunlight making her dark brown eyes spark. "I was always on top."
Crowley just laughed, long and loud.
1. Actually, it was the first.
2. The best way to describe her accent was old Aramaic, but no one these days would believe that.
3. Her brain wasn't starting to go. It was clearer than it had ever been—the situation she was trying to get a hold on was just extremely fuzzy. Neither heaven nor hell had quite experienced anything like it before.
4. But that is another story that will be told at a later point.
Part Three, in which the indiscretions come knocking...
It took a lot to surprise one Anthony J. Crowley. He'd been around the block more than a few times (in fact, he'd probably be able to circle the earth ten times in the amount of time he'd really been around) so he'd seen pretty much everything there was to see. He'd lived through the Inquisition, for Manchester's sake, a time which had plumbed the depths of both human creativity and depravity.
So it was certainly a novel experience for him to say that he was surprised by the presence of the three people who were currently inside his nice, state of the art, flat.
There was a girl, young woman really, sitting with her boots propped up on the arm of his white couch. Her long, dark hair was covered by a baseball cap proclaiming the logo of some American sports team, and she was flipping through one of the fancy art books he kept on his coffee table (not that he actually read these books, they just looked nice there). A tall young man with black hair that was really due for a haircut was idling around his houseplants, stroking a leaf here and there. Occasionally he would look out the windows, as if he were waiting for something – or someone – to show up.
The second man, shorter than the other one but still no slouch in the height department, was looking through his music collection. He was another dark haired bloke, slightly better groomed than the other man but still disheveled enough to make him wonder just what the crowd had gone through. Crowley's immediate impulse was to set the man's hands on fire for getting his grubby paws all over his brand new sound system.
The second man turned towards him, meeting Crowley's eyes, and the two froze in place. Crowley felt a distinct sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
'Bugger,' he thought, taking in the man's slender frame, grey eyes that from the right direction could possibly gleam yellow, and surprisingly sharp and familiar cheekbones. 'Shit,' Crowley thought again as the other two turned as well, the woman's boots finally sliding off the couch and onto the floor where they belonged.
The young man smiled, a sarcastic and slightly evil sort of smile. This smile could almost be described as snake-like, which would be appropriate for more reasons than one. "Hi, Dad," he said, the smirk growing wider.
"Fucking Manchester," Crowley finally hissed as he slammed the door to his flat shut.
* * *
A/n: Part three is short, I know, and doesn't really answer too many questions. However, really, it's just a prologue to the upcoming sequel. The sequel itself ended up taking on a slightly more serious tone, something that surprised the hell out of me, but it's still just as cracked and brings in a couple more fandoms to make things really confusing (but as those other shows helped to inspire finishing the sequel, I felt I should honor them by tossing them into the mix). The sequel, called Unintended can be summed up as:
"They were supposed to die. All they wanted was to be at peace finally after their short, but eventful lives. For Regulus Black and Samantha Mulder, things didn't quite work out as they had intended. A Harry Potter/The X-Files crossover, set in a universe defined by Good Omens, Life on Mars, and Ashes to Ashes."
Thanks for reading!