Author's Note: Earlie Modernne Englishe tooke quite a longe Bitte of refearche, educaitede gueffef an brayne Power. Forgiveth me for Any errorse, Aye am butte A lowlie FanneFictione writer.
FOR A FAVOR RETURNED
Chapter 2: "Last Night"
Crowley woke up with a great start, eyes wildly scanning the room around him. His body was pumping adrenaline a mile a minute, readying the demon for the fight of his life. He narrowed his eyes, forcing calm on his frayed nerves, taking in the dark room before him. It seemed quiet enough, the furniture were all fine, the paintings gracing his wall were all there, his verdant plants still... verdant. Nothing really was out of the ordinary, and he felt his tense muscles beginning to relax if a bit warily.
Must have been just the dream, he thought, rather nervous.
He glanced at his watch, and realized with surprise that he'd only been dozing a couple of hours - not a day as he'd thought. Crowley ran a hand through his hair which immediately arranged themselves a bit more neatly. He slumped back into bed, and stared hard into the white ceiling; what was wrong with him, he thought? He hasn't had any decent sleep the last few weeks since...
The demon closed his eyes and swallowed nervously.
Since he doused Ligur with enough holy water to sanctify the whole flat and all contents within it.
Hell may be ignoring him now, but he knew things were brewing. Things were coming up. And that made Crowley very worried.
Demons liked holding grudges, they liked it a whole lot. They can hold onto the smallest grudge for hundreds of years, letting it grow and fester into the greatest seeds of vengeance.
Killing - no - horribly killing Ligur through divine means, was no small act to hold a small grudge about.
Crowley sighed inwardly, forcing calm, and opened his eyes, almost half expecting Hastur's leering visage to be peering down at him. He got up, and massaged his temples. He willed the forming headache away, but did not escape the looming sense of danger around him. The demon forced himself to his feet and morosely padded to his kitchen. He slunk into his barely used barstools, where a rather surprised bottle of Bourgeolais was waiting at the counter. He poured himself a glass and emptied it in a second.
It wasn't just the overwhelming sense of forboding that was getting to him. It was the dreams. He kept dreaming the same thing again and again. Every night, it begins and ends the same way; and it never ends well. Not especially for Aziraphale.
Crowley clenched his jaw involutarily and poured himself another glass.
They knew, he surmised. Of course they knew what the angel meant to him. They knew just what Crowley would do for him, and what the demon could do to himself if he lost Aziraphale.
And that, was the best possible way of exacting vengeance on him.
Crowley knocked back the wine quickly, almost violently, hoping to rid himself of these thoughts. Hell wouldn't dare, now would they?
But Hastur. He makes demons harboring grudges for centuries on end, look like very well-adjusted and balanced individuals - and a Duke of Hell, no less. The old boy hated losing anything to anyone. Not even Ligur, whom wasn't really well-trusted or liked, but was a great convenience. Having someone to boss around for the rest of eternity was a great boon in a place where everyone was really just fodder for anyone else with just a step up the proverbial ladder. Hastur, Crowley knew for sure, certainly didn't appreciate losing one of the fewest conveniences Hell afforded him.
He poured himself another glass.
Crowley stared at the red liquid, turning thoughts in his mind. The dreams were horrible, and if he hasn't just gotten so used to sleeping, he'd have stopped trying to get any shut-eye altogether. The dreams all began when that letter came in from the post some days ago - all brown and withered and ancient. He almost knew immediately who it was from.
Daemon, Great Changge is to Come.
Thine Angel sharle be thruste in direst neede
To-night, when you dreame ande the Telie-Phone ringse thrice
the Voice of one scorned yow will hear
He is com to collecte vengeance
take advantaige of thy Loue, he will
Call upon God, bye chalke an Circle
the onlie way to save Azerafel
who is Becomme manne onne a islandes bye Siflie
Ane a deade manne Will be hys Allye and Yours.
For a favore Returneth
taketh Heede of mine Wordes.
Crowley turned the words over and over in his head, the letter sat in his jacket's breast pocket, taunting him from the coat rack. He buried his face in his hands, forcing down the knot in his throat. He's read the letter so many times, he knew it by heart. The demon looked sidelong at the nearest ansaphone sitting at the steel counter which has never seen anything but Aziraphale's cooking, almost daring it to ring. He stared at it, taunting the machine to ring three times. The torment was killing him, this 'knowing-but-not-knowing'. The witch could have meant anything; it could happen tonight, tomorrow, next week, next year, or next sodding century.
And Crowley was not particularly keen on waiting on edge for the rest of his immortal existence.
Nor was he exactly looking forward to the events actually happening.
What did he do to deserve this?! Exasperated, he threw the wine glass in hand at the nearest wall angrily. The poor bottle of wine followed it shortly.
The sound of the crash was loud and abrupt in the stillness of Crowley's flat. But what followed, pierced through what little stillness his terrified heart yet had.
The phone rang.
Now, Crowley has seen this movie with Aziraphale once about a dead girl who crawled out of televisions from her watery grave, announcing her victims'deaths through the phone. It was a major sensation, and they both laughed at it, or well he did, proud of the success of his latest pet project while Aziraphale pretended not to be affected at all by avoiding his phone at the book shop at all costs. Crowley thought it was hilarious; that an immortal being would be so afraid to pick up a damn telephone for fear of - as the humans would put it - A Fate Worse Than Death.
This irony did not escape Anthony J. Crowley as he ever-cautiously approached.
If he was going to be completely honest with himself; Crowley would admit to the fact that he was more than terrified; he was quite literally, horrified beyond words. He eyed the black plastic as if it was a waiting bucket of holy water -and a child holding a supersoaker was standing right next to it. He took a step forward warily. Now, certainly, this couldn't be happening, Crowley kept telling himself. It can't be real.
But he knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was.
The phone rang again.
Crowley's legs propelled him forward to the gleaming black device. He swallowed hard, mentally preparing himself for the absolute worst. Agnes was never wrong, he knew. No one can doubt that, not especially after her 'participation' in the almost-apocalypse. He can only wonder though why she would bother to warn him - he almost ran over her only descendant just a few months ago.
The demon's slender fingers reached the cold reciever, nearly trembling from awful anticipation.
Keep it together Crowley, he told himself; keep it together if you want to hope seeing this through.
The phone rang a third time, and Crowley picked up with the expression of a man being read his final judgement and sentence. Throat dry, he croaked; "Hallo?"
There was silence, and Crowley's human stomach twisted in fear. The seconds slowly stretched into the longest moment of the demon's life.
"Hallo?" he repeated, quietly, eyes wide. His breath was coming out short and hitched; the demons lean body drawn taut with the utmost certainty that this was the beginning of the end.
"Hallo? Hardy's? I'd like to order a Vesuvius, 16inch."
Crowley, confused, stared at the reciever for a moment. "What?" he said sharply to the blurry man's voice on the other line.
"A Vesuvius, man. Additional toppings; extra black olives and that sun-blushed tomato sounds good too."
"Sun blushed tomato?" Crowley said incredulously, trying to wrap his mind around the man's rambling - the terrible anxiety from seconds ago forgotten for the moment. Wasn't Hastur supposed to be on the line?
"Yes." said the man a tad irritably, "Are you new or something? 'Cause I'd like my pizza to get here tonight. Know what I mean?"
Crowley could only listen in disbelief, as the man continued to talk, relief flooding in. This was Agnes' three rings?! He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, and a nervous chuckle escaped his lips.
"-- and a couple of Coronas and a diet Coke. Got that?"
Crowley's lips were still curved in a vicious smile when he finally spoke. "Listen, pal. You've got the wrong number." He slammed down the plastic handset with some satisfaction, knowing devilishly that tomorrow Hardy's will have conveniently changed its name and takeaway number. Something so far from its original restaurant name and concept, something that sounds cool and a bit absurd. Maybe something like 752degrees, Crowley thought absently; best temperature to burn things.
The phone began ringing once again, and Crowley's hand, still on the reciever automatically picked it up.
"I can't have the wrong number, PAL. Now let me talk to your sodding manager."
Crowley only smiled in what could only be aptly called demonic amusement and dropped the reciever back into its cradle, deciding that the man would wake up tomorrow with a really bad case of numeric dyslexia.
The phone rang once again, and Crowley picked up, beginning to admire the man's persistence. "I said -" he began.
"Hello Crowley."
The smile on the demon's face vanished in a heartbeat, mouth suddenly very dry. He did not reply. He knew, it didn't matter whether he did or not. It was Hastur. The knot in his stomach resurfaced.
In full force.
"I'm coming to collect payment for what you took from me."
Crowley breathed, and said as sarcastically as he can, "What, for Ligur? He needed the bath anyway."
The deep and hollow voice at the other end ignored Crowley. "You take something from me. I take something from you. Sounds fair enough. Considering we're demons, I'd say I'm actually being a saint."
"Now you listen to me you sodding git -"
"Aziraphale is so beautiful, isn't he? That why you like him so much? His human body ain't much to look at if you ask me. Oh but his real form," Hastur sounded like he was licking his lips, "His angelic body, is certainly exquisite."
Crowley's throat clamped shut at the mention of the Principality.
"Lost your tongue, Crawly? Thinking how prettily he'll struggle when I take him? How wonderful those innocent little eyes would twitter in fear under me? Doing to him all those nasty naughty things you wish to but wouldn't because you love him?"
"Hastur, you fu-"
"Now Crawly, you listen to me. I can't see why the Boss wouldn't do anything about this 'affliction' of yours. But I will. Like I said, fair's fair;
I'll be seeing your angel shortly."
And just like that, the line went dead. Crowley listened to the dial tone not really hearing the ominous monotone. The reciever dropped from his hands; but Crowley was already out the kitchen before it even hit the counter.
He was running. Sprinting up to his bedroom, only stopping by the walk-in closet. Hands trembling, he yanked open one of his drawers, destroying the lock in the process and began rummaging frantically. When finally, he found what he was desperately looking for, Crowley hurried back into the room and his enormous bed moved almost violently back into the far wall on its own accord with a small gesture of his hand. The floor beneath revealed a chalk circle, identical to the one in Aziraphale's bookshop, save for one added passage scrawled in hastily by the demon's own handwriting.
Crowley stared at it, still in disbelief at what he was about to do. He knew he was shaking, and forcibly steeled himself. Carefully, almost reverentially, he stepped into the circle and brought up the small parchment clutched in hand. He swallowed, unrolled it and began reading aloud.
These were The Words, and Crowley - or any demon in Hell for that matter - wouldn't know until much later that night that a demon could actually survive a direct call into Heaven as long as his heart was true and intentions pure.