Hellfire | Good Omens

Hellfire

Crowley knows many things; an incommensurable number of things, if he allows himself to go into detail. And it is not only the type of knowledge that one acquires from having lived for over six millennia. Certainly, experience is a vital part in the process of wising up and Crowley, who had witnessed the truth of Heaven, humanity, and Hell, had plenty to spare. But it was not that type of wisdom that was guiding him at that moment, or at least not completely. No, Crowley knew very well that there are certain things that someone gets to understand only after being a demon for as long as him.

"All in a day's work", he would call it. Unspoken yet basic knowledge: how to fill out the paperwork as to not receive any angry calls; when was a good time to drop by Hell and when it wasn't; how to avoid reprimands from higher authorities; and why now it was absolutely forbidden to lick the walls. But most importantly, Crowley knew very well that he could trust no one. Of course, being a demon comes with some occupational hazards; it was almost the description of the job that Heaven and Church would persecute you to destroy you. But sadly it wasn't as simple as that.

No, in Hell walls have ears. Worse yet, demons have ears! Even behind closed doors, there was always someone spying expectantly through the doorknob; waiting for you to make a false step to stab you in the back. Or the leg. Or between the eyes; it doesn't really matter where exactly. Crowley wasn't even able to imagine what kind of punishment would Hell prepare for him if they ever get the news that he has been fraternizing with AND helping the enemy for centuries, but he was more than sure it would be something absolutely horrible: a pain too intense to put into words, a torture impossible to bear. Heck, from his point of view, Hell could go so far as to destroy his soul and erase any trace of his existence if they so desired.

That is why it is no surprise for him to hear his doorbell ringing, shortly accompanied by the voices of Hastur and Ligur mockingly chanting his name. No, Anthony J. Crowley is no fool; he foresaw this development. He has known that this moment would come from the very first moment that his agreement with Aziraphale became a reality, and even though it has taken him around two centuries to come up with a means of protecting himself from Hell's fury, and another hundred years for his angel to finally agree to give him the insurance he required; he was ready when the time to use it arrived.

His hands embrace the thermos as a castaway man clings to the only wood plank available in an effort to endure the onslaught of the sea. He knows that with that weapon his chances of getting out of that storm, although not necessarily extremely high, are much greater than without it. Thus, he swallows his nervousness and gets into action hurriedly, hoping for the best.

Crowley is methodical, witty and a fast thinker. It doesn't take him long to get back into the Bentley, with Ligur gone forever, and Hastur trapped for hopefully long enough to find a home between the stars with his angel, too far away to ever be found, or at least for someone to bother looking for them when a war (THE war) is approaching. His plan has gone perfectly, and now that no one is chasing him he has enough time to persuade Aziraphale to go to Alpha Centauri with him or, in the worst case, drag him there before things get (more) out of control on Earth.

, as his angel would say. But something is wrong and a part deep inside Crowley can sense it; even if he doesn't dare to think about that. His hands move faster than his thoughts and soon his phone is returning the call to Aziraphale. No one answers, which is extraordinarily strange for the angel, but it sounds like the other side of the line is busy, and Crowley tries to relax.

"It's okay," he thinks, throwing the device away; "it means that he is still at the bookshop," he reasons. But he can't stop himself from pushing the Bentley faster and faster through the busy streets of London.

He sees the smoke before anything else. A grey line rising from the ground and turning everything around it darker and dustier. Crowley can see it as clearly as... whatever thing is clear, even with his sunglasses on. It is like a bad omen hanging from the sky, a signal sent by God herself to warn him not to go ahead. But the Almighty should know by this time that the demon isn't good at listening to her anyway. Crowley presses the accelerator hard and squeezes the steering wheel, dodging vehicles and pedestrians alike on his way.