Chapter Text
These But The Trappings
1 The Dark Council Meeting.
Flames, bleakest orange, in wall sconces cast their pitiful glow beneath the blackness. It is shadows that burn and shift here.
Satan’s aura is a red so powerful the whole room glows with it. His bruise-grey skin is untouched by its colour, but everything else - everyone in the room - is stifled with it. They sit in their customary places at the long, long stone table, slate-dark.
“The flood has past its pinnacle. Humanity is purged. No more dead souls are incoming.” Beezlbub’s slow voice drips authority. They direct every word to Lucifer himself. “It is as we suspected- the gates of heaven are barred to the drowned. The flood has made us rich. Every administrator in hell is buried in fresh souls for processing, and will be for a long time.”
Satan nods pensively, bejewelled arm braced on the table. He wears a long robe, fur-lined and black enough to suck light, jewelled and opulent. It is sashed around his muscular bulk with a jewelled belt. Obsidian, rutile quartz, polished metals. Rings glint on every finger. His boots are riding boots, made of thick and heavy hide. He is wreathed in countless neck chains and pendants of silvery metals, of precious stones, of bone. His hair is long, ink-black and wild.
He is leaning forward in a room of demons who each sit respectfully straight. Crawley is draped over his chair - limbs cast over it the way only this serpent can, neck deeply askew - apparently comfortably - but even he is straight-backed. He clings to the news that the waters are no longer rising on Earth.
That there will be no more death. He has borne witness in quiet despair since the waters first began to rise. Held vigil. No one in heaven will grieve for the incredible death toll - save for a single angel. As far as Crawley is concerned, Aziraphale is the only angel.
“Rich for now, but lean times are to come.” Lucifer bemoans. “The blessed” he spits like a fire log “aboard their craft had better get to the task of repopulating Earth with more corruptible souls.” He taps his claws on the table, slowly, almost languorously. “See to it that each soul we have is processed correctly. Put the fear in your administrators. No mistakes, nothing slips through the cracks.”
Beezlbub bows their head with solemnity “Of course My Dark Lord. It will be done.”
“Crawley.” Lucifer swings a booted leg up onto the table, crosses the other over it, leans back. Crawley meets the eyes of Lucifer, serpentine yellow to glinting obsidian.
“Your Infernal Majesty.”
“With the waters receding, the next stage is upon us it seems.” His eyes do not so much pierce as swallow whole and choke back up all that they are directed upon. Now that gaze is directed upon Crawley. “It will fall to Temptation to close the gap between glut and dearth.” Beside him, Hastur and Ligur straighten importantly in their chairs, but it is Crawley who must answer for them all.
Crawley rises from his sprawl to stand. His shoulders are pulled back towards his spine - militarily - in his black caftan that he wears like a second skin. Bones jut, his spine is an arch to push out his chest. Posture is like a second skin too; he wears his body as a costume of confidence that does not - cannot - be more than skin-shallow. It’s betrayed, if one were looking for a tell, in the side-ward dip of his chin. His head cannot truly be held high. He is a great illusion.
“We have water-tight plans for fulfilling this obligation.” He begins “I am pleased to divulge to the Dark Council that our intelligence informs us of places on Earth unaffected by the flood.” He pauses, ready with his prepared answers about where such intelligence would come from. The true answer is Aziraphale. The prepared answer involves eavesdropping, the ingenious of humanity, and Serpentine wiles.
Nobody asks, so Crawley continues. “We will divide our attention between plugging the soul-gap by spreading sin and temptation in these places, and monitoring heaven’s little boat for its eventual alighting to solid ground. It will be essential to know where and when the business of, uh…” The serpent allows himself a raised eyebrow “repopulation …will commence.”
Lucifer nods his agreement, prepares to speak.
“And what about your activities on Earth during all the time of this flood?” Dagon tilts her head up to sneer at Crawley “What have you been doing with all your free time up there?” Crawley opens his mouth to flourish his prepared answer, but Dagon is not done. “Because.” She leans forward now, twisting her face smugly, and then turning to address Lucifer “There’ve been stories. Corroborated reports.” She nods at Hastur.
Looking down at him, sat to his left, Crawley is discomfited to find that Hastur is grinning widely. Wider than Crawley has ever known. As if all of his dreams have come true. It’s fucking Christmas. (Before Christmas even exists.) Crawley maintains his posture, though now tension fizzes around his skull.
“Reports of a creature rescuing children.” The word children in Hastur’s mouth is a curse, a terrible thing. Hastur meets the eyes of Satan “Plucking them out of the water before they drown.” Lucifer’s elegant brow furrows as he listens. “An angel with black wings.” Finally, Hastur looks up to Crawley. “They call him their Black Wing’ed Saviour.”
Shit.
Where he stands, Crawley places a hand on the back of his seat, readjusts his hips. Confidence, Crawley, cool and casual. Be Wry, Crawley, Serpent of Eden. Don’t deny. Get the upper hand. Two steps ahead, Crawley.
“And just how corrupted can sproglet souls possibly be?” he begins. He raises an eyebrow “Really Hastur, those souls were not bound for hell. And what’s more, every child, plus time, equals a fully-fledged sinner for Hell.”
“Delivering humans from their fate? Preventing death? This is never the work of hell.” Beezlbub says. Their tone is icy with the unexpected news.
Hastur smirks “An’ it’s not just children is it, Crawley?” Crawley can only hold his nonchalant exterior whilst the cold realisation slips through his insides that he has gone too far this time. “Stories of others - full-grown humans. Whole rafts of souls kept alive. Rafts held together with so-called ‘miracles’.”
“As to that, I have no knowledge.” Crawley replies curtly “I do not appreciate the implication, Hastur.
“You heard Beezlbub. The Gates of heaven are shut. Those miraculous survivors all belong to hell.” Hastur presses.
Beezlbub is looking at him with a very dangerous glint.
Crawley is losing the room. Hastur, Ligur, Dagon and now Beezlbub, the Prinxe of Hell themself, who likes Crawley, insofar as a demon can profess to like anything.
He tries to remember the excuses he rattled off in his head as he clutched a small body, all hair and bones and irritating squeals, shushing urgently as heavy water made every wing stroke a drudge. Shoving another shivering brat or wailing baby - Babies! God is in the business of drowning babies! - into the arms of the already rescued, on highest peaks and makeshift barges - no more than rope and green-wood and infernal influence, huddled with God’s forsaken refugees - in far-flung craggy shelters and even secreted aboard the Ark itself, a couple of desperate, desperate times.
He couldn’t save them all. The weight of each child in his arms, cold flesh, the wind through wet hair now the only movement left to them…The feeling beyond tears. He’d shed none, until the last time. This will stay with him. He seals it in his mind, away from his current thoughts under the heading “Suffering on Earth”. That busy place in his memories is filling up fast.
Crawley stands tall. “That’sss bessidess the point. Angels were directed to leave them to their fatesss. I was contradicting the will of God and in sso doing, sssecuring a bank of corrupted, ready to easse the coming paucity of fresh soulssss.”
Ligur rolls his head to scowl up at Crawley thoughtfully. His Chemeleon glistens like his eyes. Crawley always saw him as the smarter of the pair - perhaps he, at least, is buying his story.
“Ssorry, whatsss that, Sssnake?” Hastur mocks. Laughs - it's a sound like a choking mammal, like metal clashing. He even looks around to try and raise more laughter.
In many ways, the social norms of hell mimic a prison. Strength and aggression define the pecking order. Surviving by your wits is much harder, depending, as it does, on a fulcrum of favour by the higher-ups. Hastur’s mocking cannot go unanswered, and with the allegiance of higher ups currently in the balance, Crawley’s answer must be physical. His serpentine fangs elongate as he grasps Hastur’s filthy lapels, shoves him, hard, down into his seat. Hastur is still laughing, transforming it to a bouncing hiss for good measure.
“I appreciate that creative solutions are not your forte, Hasstur”-
“Enough!” Lucifer’s fist clashes thunder through the table. His black eyes are surrounded with crackling red light, now blazing. He rises, spreads his hands, tapping grinning claws on the surface of the table.
“Your duty is not to do whatever heaven does not.” Lucifer’s voice is dangerously quiet. A seething growl. “Those souls were already mine.”
The room is still. Everyone watches Satan, everyone waits to see the outcome of the volley. It’s Crawley’s move. He gnashes his teeth at Hastur, releasing his lapels with a final shove, then he turns to face the Dark Lord. He returns to his militant posture, hands clasped behind his back, but his head is now dipped slightly. He takes a deep breath, finally meets Lucifer’s eyes - There is a strange glint to them. Crawley is afraid. No one else can know this.
“Crawley, your plans for after the flood are approved. You will not disappoint me.”
Crawley blinks. “Yesss My Dark”- Another slam of fist to table
Lucifer narrows his eyes. “Private audience. My Halls.” Crawley flinches. “Now.” He surveys the room. “Dismissed.”
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