Chapter Text
Hastur had been prowling London for hours, growing ever more frustrated as he looked for souls to tempt. Once upon a time, you couldn’t take two steps in London proper without being overrun with mortals ready to sell their soul for even the slightest hint of success. You couldn’t swing a bloody cat without smacking it into the face of a potential saint more than willing to hock their soul for something suitably shiny (or vengeance upon inattentive cat swingers). Though the Dukes would never say it amongst the rabble, and could barely bring themselves to acknowledge it in the relative safety of their weekly meetings, life beyond Crowley was far more difficult than they’d ever anticipated. For all their belief that the uppity prick was doing absolutely nothing for the cause, without his niggling little irritations in the world, getting people to sign over their souls was taking a lot more effort for a lot less success. Bastard. Even when fucking up royally, the little shit seemed unable to actually, truly fail.
Wandering the streets of London, the change was clear. Deliberately knocking into passersby drew a hurried, earnest apology before each mortal’s attention flickered back to their phone, with barely a hint of irritation to draw upon. Crowley’s efforts, though generally more cringe worthy than deserving of praise, had actually, inexplicably, made it easier for the rest of them to gather souls. Who’d have thought gluing coins to the sidewalk or moving a bit of road would have such an impact? The toad upon his head croaked forlornly in an odd sort of solidarity. It really didn’t help.
Humans were odd creatures, contradictory as Heaven and just as prone to ridiculousness. How the Heaven had Crowley managed to figure out their weaknesses, let alone exploit them so effortlessly? And why the Heaven weren’t any of the other demons coming close to figuring it out for themselves? Though his plans seemed laughably simple, no one had managed anything close to Crowley's successes. Eighteen different demons tried downing phone networks and barely got them offline for a minute. Only two had managed it during peak usage. Three tried to change road developments, and somehow made them more efficient and user-friendly. One had somehow created an angelic rune that prevented traffic jams and kept motorists calm! Eight had glued their fingers to the pavement trying to place coins, and had to be rescued by mortals. One enthusiastic lower level grunt tried to improve upon Crowley's selfie plan, and ended up accidentally starting a successful, global body positive movement. How was it possible that the greatest failure of a demon was the only one capable of tempting modern humans?
As though thinking of the idiot brought him out of Tadfield, there was a flash of vibrant red hair, and the unmistakable serpentine form of Anthony J. Crowley parted the sea of mortals effortlessly, and without even a twitch of smugness at his ability to lord it over them. His uppity, ridiculous voice rang out clearly through the crowd, an odd blend of fondness and amusement that was utterly out of place coming from a demon. ‘Don’t wander too far, Miss Hiss.’
The only response was a laugh, young and female and utterly, utterly human. Hastur paused, hiding himself from view before the mortal child ran past, a riotous halo of hair shifting as snakelike as the demon she was playfully escaping. Like the demon, she favoured dark jeans and shirts, and ink black sunglasses shielded her eyes from view. There was the slightest hint of wrongness to her, from too much time spent with a demon, no doubt. Crowley followed her quickly enough to keep her in sight despite the crowd, pausing and glancing warily around as though he could sense some intangible potential threat before her excited shout of 'Dad' distracted him. Hastur grinned as Crowley hurried off. It wasn’t a pleasant grin, at least, not if you were the reason for its existence. But Hastur rather thought it a wonderful sort of smile, his favourite of all the malicious, dairy curdling smiles in his repertoire. Satan be praised for showing him the way!
They couldn’t touch Crowley. God alone knew how to kill the demonic freak, and They certainly weren’t telling. But that didn’t mean Hell couldn’t take the pound of flesh owed in other, nastier ways. A shiver of excitement crawled along his spine and neck (nearly dislodging the toad), and Hastur began cheerfully following his quarry.
His nose wrinkled like he'd smelt something particularly sweet to see the girl hold Crowley's hand as they crossed the street- not even jay-walking. He fought the urge to vomit as the pair wandered through a bookstore, talking about which books the bloody angel might like to be gifted, and gathering together their own collections of stories. Not a single treatise on serial killers or forensics among them! It was a bloody outrage!
Every so often, Crowley would pause, looking around warily before the girl's voice distracted him. And sure, he could easily keep his distance, avoid Crowley's instinctive unease and let it be a surprise. But this? This was better. All these perfect opportunities for the other demon to sense the threat and respond, and he was so out of practice, so easily distracted by a fucking mortal, that he was oblivious.
Crowley's guilt would be agony. Hastur couldn't wait.
Finally, finally the pair wandered into Saint James' Park, finding a quiet, shady corner before Crowley waved his hand theatrically and conjured them a picnic basket and blanket. The mortal cheered and applauded. It was a disgustingly adorable scene, nauseating in the extreme. Hastur scowled, watching Crowley settle the girl onto the blanket before carefully sitting beside her, dragging the basket beside him before drawing out and opening container after container of food. Judging from the excited sounds from the mortal, he'd packed nothing but her favourite foods. They were talking, just about to start eating, and Crowley looked happier than Hastur had known demons capable of.
A click of Hastur's fingers, and Crowley watched the mortal girl vanish in a burst of hellfire, his panic finer than any Hastur had encountered before.