I swear I have a life that doesn't involve consenting agents of evil.

Chapter One: The Thirteenth of February

The first thought that ran through Crowley's head as he looked up (and up) at the tall and glowering demon before him, arms crossed and eyes a-flicker, was that he must be able to get out of whatever it was that he'd done without realizing somehow. (Actually, it was Oh sssshit!, but that wasn't nearly as specific.)

"Hi, Hastur, can I he—" he began, and was subsequently slammed into the wall behind him. Tiny outcroppings of stone dug into his back, and he blessed the prevalence of "natural" architecture in Hell. There was certainly something to be said for sheetrock when it came to the list of Favorite Materials to Be Violently Pushed Against.

"You're coming with me tomorrow," Hastur snarled, fangs bared. He gave the shoulder he'd pinned the junior demon another grind into the rock and balled his other fist tighter into Crowley's collar, dragging him up close to his face, which while not a comparatively horrible sight, he was much more comfortable with when it was as far away as possible. Behind him, Ligur crossed his arms and nodded smugly. When did Ligur show up? Was this some kind of privileged-demon-nobility hazing? Was he going to keep his earlobes? "You're meeting me at the entrance gates after the last bell. And you'd best show up if you know what's go—healthy for you, right? Or I'll come find you, and you don't want me to have to do that."

Numbly, Crowley nodded. He would have been mad to do anything but, even though he was sure he was signing himself up for some kind of deep and enduring pain. Why him? Why now? The Duke hadn't even so much deigned to trip him in Pandemonium's hallways after the debacle that had been Armageddidn't (as some of the younger demons waggishly referred to it). Of course, he'd been in the dungeons for much of that time as far as Crowley understood. Time off for go—suitably compliant behavior, apparently, which itself was a sort of miracle considering who they were talking about. Oh Satan, had he been saving it all for this moment? Over a decade of bottled-up revenge plots, paranoia and rage? He couldn't accept. It was suicide.

"Of course. Yeah. Sure. Um, no offense meant, of course, Hastur, but could you possibly watch the suit? It's one of my nicer ones, and I was really hoping to get through the day without some kind of, uh, fabricide—"

Hastur released him, looking disgusted, and scrubbed his hand unsubtly on the leg of his trousers. "You'd just better be there, is all. You and me have unfinished business, Crowley. Tomorrow that changes."

Oh ssssssshit. "Yes, Duke Hastur. Of course. Not a problem. Nooooope. Happy to serve. Nothing like taking care of business, eh? Haha."

He hoped the Duke would leave then (and take his friend with him; Ligur was eyeing him with an air that suggested he was thinking how charming Crowley's innards would look as a bolo tie), but instead Hastur stuffed his hands in his pockets and glared at the ground before flicking his eyes up from Crowley's shoes to his hairline. Shoulders hunched, he almost looked defensive. Shouldn't Crowley be the one cowering?

"Wear something nice."

What?

As the mismatched duo turned and loped away, muttering between themselves in urgent tones, Crowley shuddered and, out of a need to do something that wasn't shaking, glanced at his watch. He'd added the date to it as well as the twenty-one capitols, and at a thought it swam to the forefront of the clock face.

13 February. That meant something—he slapped his brain around in hopes that it would spell things out for him. 13 February. Right. It wasn't a holiday, ugh, no… but that would make tomorrow 14 February.

14 February.

St. Valentine's Day.

Oh… sssssssssssssshit.

You know the drill. Review, constructive criticism, interested in reading more or not.