Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. The character Belial belongs to me, though.

A/N: The... er... demons mentioned in this have their positions due to a combination of reading Paradise Lost and Angel Sanctuary, though I don't think my final list has any historical basis at all. My very first Good Omens ficcie. Hope it's okay.

Something Wicked This Way Comes
#1: Everyone, Spell S-H-I-T
By: Aries Draco

The first thing Crowley noticed when he got back to his apartment was the profusion of greenery blanketing his lounge floor. The second was the wave of tangible relief emitted by the plants upon his return. And the third nearly sent him out of the door again.

"Shit." Well, it was only a matter of time. He should have known that Hell would get to him eventually, what with the botched Armageddon and all. Still, after all that relative silence, he had hoped that the day would never come.

"Good evening, Crowley," greeted the demon cheerfully. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not going to start torturing in a thousand exquisite ways. Have a seat."

Said demon was comfortable sprawled on the sofa, dressed sedately in a pale blue turtleneck, white pants and a white coat over everything. With gorgeous golden hair and an utterly divine pair of blue eyes, he looked like a fucking angel. Except for the fact that his shadow seemed preoccupied with harassing Crowley's plants.

Wasn't the official greeting 'All hail Satan'? "Er, good evening?" ventured Crowley. He had never seen this demon before. However, the vibes he was getting hinted at a high level demon. Maybe even a Duke. But that made no sense because all high-ranking demons drew attention to themselves, out of vanity or simply because of their actions.

"Have a seat, Crowley," repeated the demon, smiling benignly, though there was a dark undertone of command that promised pain if he was not immediately obeyed. Being a (relatively) smart demon, Crowley sat down. As far away from the intruder as it was physically possible.

This demon was just... wrong. Not in the sense of right and wrong but wrong like... like a forty-year old dressing up like a teenager. A corset might hide the shape and makeup might hide the face but people would always know. No matter how perfect the disguise, there was just a feeling of wrongness.

And of course, things never went well when a supposed enemy was smiling at you like an indulgent parent at a misbehaving child.

"As you may know, my dear, there are many downstairs who are screaming for your blood," the demon pointed out almost conversationally. "And your entrails. And I'm sure someone called dibs on your eyeballs."

Crowley was not surprised. "And I suppose you were sent to bring me down," he continued for the other demon. To his surprise, the mockery of an angel shook his head, laughing.

Laughter. Like everything else about the demon, it seemed perfect but felt wrong. Crowley shivered. Was there anyone he knew about that matched this description?

"You have no idea who I am, do you?" smiled the demon. "Alright. Could you do me a favour and remind me, who are the seven Princes of Hell under the Lord of Darkness?"

Seven Princes. Right. "Beelzebub, Azazel, Moloch, Mammon," listed Crowley. Four off the top of his head, the most notorious of the seven. "Then there's Astaroth and Barbelo and..." He stopped short. "And..." Come to think of it, had there really been seven? He had never studied the ranks of Hell, knowing just enough to keep him out of trouble, but the Princes... Yes, seven Princes, the left and right hands of Satan himself, each with his or her own quirk. But the seventh... Oh Go—Oh Sa—Oh FUCK!

"And me," finished the demon, a flicker of malevolence grotesquely deforming the angelic features for the mere fraction of a second. It was enough. If there was a colour paler than white, Crowley would have sported it. "Belial."

Belial. Though Crowley did not know him, he knew a lot about him. For one, back in heaven, Belial was second only to Lucifer in terms of popularity. Everything he said made sense somehow and everyone had thought he would become the Voice of God. Instead, on the day of the Great Battle, the bastard strolled out of Heaven and went to Hell. Voluntarily. Said it saved him the trouble of going through a pointless battle.

Briefly, Crowley wondered if it would be a wiser idea to turn himself over to Hastur. At least he knew how the Duke of Hell operated. Belial was batshit insane, to put it mildly. What the fuck did Belial want with him?!

As if reading his mind, which was entirely probable, the demon spoke. "As I was saying before, you're in some serious trouble. I'm here to make a deal with you." Belial paused expectantly, as if waiting for Crowley to ask,

"What sort of deal?" Warily, he regarded his superior, who was smiling. Again. Always. And Crowley wondered if Belial had been smiling when he waltzed out of heaven. Probably.

"I need a helper for awhile, Crowley, and in return for your services, I will personally ensure your safety in Hell," stated the Prince of Hell amiably. "I've got the contract right here." He pulled a piece of parchment out of thin air. "Have a gander."

Crowley wasn't, by any standard, stupid. He read through the contract, twice, carefully, then pulled out the microscope that happened to be under the coffee table to check for fine print. The contract was perfect. If he accepted, he could waltz in and out of hell without a care for the people out for his blood, because even Princes balked at confronting Belial. There was only one catch.

"What sort of services do you require, Lord?" inquired Crowley politely while wondering if he had gone mad. Here he was, negotiating a deal with a psychopath. In his opinion, that was more dangerous than dealing with the Devil. At least with the Devil, all you had to lose was your soul.

"Oh, you know. Seeing as you've been on earth since the very beginning, I'm sure you'll have contacts, agents and such. And transport. They're convenient to use. You see, I'm looking for something."

"So, you want me to help you to find something."

"Some things," corrected Belial. "Once you've signed the contract, I can give you your first task."

A certain eternity of, well, Hell, or an uncertain safety in the hands of a psychopath? Fuck it. Hell was going to catch up with him in the end so he might as well put off the suffering. Crowley picked up the black quill that Belial so helpfully provided. There was no ink; it needed none. Crowley signed in blood.

"Perfect," cooed Belial. He took the piece of parchment and rolled it up. It promptly vanished, presumably into Hell's records. "Now, Crowley, listen carefully. Tomorrow, we will visit a certain angel who is stationed on earth. You must bring me there. It's a Principality, if I'm not mistaken."

Crowley blinked.

"And that's all for tonight. See you in the morning."

Crowley watched as the Prince got up. The sedate outfit melted into a mesh shirt, a leather miniskirt, fishnets and stilettos. Golden hair faded to a darker ash as Belial proceeded into Crowley's bedroom. The door slammed shut. A moment later, the Prince peeked out.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asked brightly.

Crowley shook his head mutely. What the fuck could he say?

"Oh, good."

The door slammed shut again. Absently, Crowley got out his plant mister and watered the plants, stroking them absently. If he had been thinking about it, he would have been pretty irritated by their obvious relief at regaining their familiar, if sadistic, master. But he wasn't thinking about that. He was too busy thinking of how to get rid of the bodies because he didn't want to be too busy thinking about what Belial wanted with Aziraphale.

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