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Crowley's watch made the expensive noise it made when he had something Coming Up at work. It was different to the expensive noises it made telling the time or alerting him to the fact that it was cocktail hour in various parts of the globe. This was ominous. And odd, because it was just a normal Friday and he had a busy schedule of nothing more than watching the recorded highlights of Temptation Island. What else would he be doing on a Friday the Thirteenth when Aziraphale was out of town, doing a quick temptation for him in Aberystwyth?
Friday the Thirteenth, his mind repeated.
Oh, shit, his mind replied.
Office party. Mandatory fun.
* * *
"What I don't get is," Crowley said, swaying gently, "what I don't get is, why's a vegan need so many teeth? And why're they so, so pointy?"
He'd decided that showing up sober was out of the question. The booze at main office parties was appalling, and he'd rather destroy his material body's liver with something decent beforehand. He continued swaying, partly because he was about to fall over, and partly because he was losing his hold on human form and was about to drop down into a huge, inebriated coil and start to try hypnotizing everything around him with sinuous movements. He blearily looked at the party bunting, made out of poorly printed sheets of A4. Enjoy the generosity of Hell. One plate per guest; Work hard, party harder. But seriously: work harder and Smile! It's not getting any better.
Why," Dagon said, casting a glance upwards as if hoping for removal from the conversation via sudden redemption, "would you think I'm a vegan? I'm clearly a carnivore, Crowley. You have heard of sharks, haven't you? Humans love sharks. They're always worshipping me by having special TV shows."
"And films! I thought I recognized you in Jaws! I really loved that film," Crowley said, forestalling Dagon's seventh attempt to get away. His eyes filled with tears at the sheer emotion of the memory of the cinematic experience. "You were great in it. Did you eat the actual actors or just the stunt guys?"
"I wasn't in any movie," Dagon said, looking around and trying to stealthily step into the middle of a different conversation. "I'm far too busy and some of us don't waste time on stupid Earthly frivolities." Crowley flung a thick loop of his suddenly long and scaled body around the Lord of the Files' legs to stop the escape attempt.
"Whoops," he said as his glass crashed down. No hands. Right. "C'mon, you can tell me, it's just such a sweet film. So emotionally real, you know?"
"Fine," Dagon said. "I only ate Richard Dreyfuss. And a couple of extras. And the dog. They brought in a union actor after that."
"Hollywood is so unfair," Crowley hissed, and changed back, trying to resurrect his broken glass.
"Oh, for Hell's sake just get a new one, this is embarrassing," Dagon said, as Crowley drunkenly watched the ghost of his drink ascend towards the ceiling, and hurried off to circulate.
Next victim, Crowley thought, looking around as he nursed the next glass. People – and he used the term loosely – were still standing around awkwardly, sucking down the office booze and being on their more paranoid behavior. Nobody ever forgave and forgot the morning after in Hell. It took a lot of encouragement – alcohol, torture, catered party food – before people started to lose their inhibitions. But when they did – no, he thought. Don't dwell on the past. It was imperative that by the time everyone else had loosened up Crowley had already been thrown out. Otherwise there might be – his pickled brain recoiled from the thought – embarrassing daguerreotypes. Those things could follow a fellow around forever. Literally.
Hastur and Ligur were lurking over by the table with the delicate little cucumber sandwiches cut into neat, crustless triangles and pink iced French fancies. Not a single platter had been touched. Crowley threw back his alleged wine and grabbed another glass from a smaller demon. He supposed some idiotic junior demon had mistakenly ordered from a Heavenly caterer and was even now being rendered into snacks more to the taste of the partygoers.
"Guys," he hissed, slithering over. "Guys, guys, guys! Great party, huh?"
"No," Hastur said.
"Go away," Ligur suggested.
"How many," Crowley said, with a toothy grin, "how many angels does it take to screw in a light-bulb?"
They looked at him.
"Is he telling me a joke?" Hastur said, soft and menacing.
"He's telling you a joke," Ligur said with mock sadness. His chameleon licked its own eyeballs suggestively. He blinked in cunning triumph. "The answer's not, An infinite amount, because the randy buggers can occupy the same space, is it?"
"I was actually going for a different sense of the verb, but sure, that works. I think," Crowley hiccoughed.
"You told a joke," Hastur said plaintively, looking at Ligur. "I don't know you any more."
Ligur and the chameleon rolled their eyes, the chameleon somewhat more extravagantly, as Ligur pulled out a hip flask and poured a generous top up into Hastur's wine. It roiled in an unnatural way and tried to avoid being consumed as Hastur slurped it down and grinned in a slightly less menacing way than usual. This, Crowley decided, would not do. If the party was getting to the stage when Dukes of Hell unbent enough to make stupid jokes with their subordinates it was definitely time to get flung out on his ear.
"What I want to know," he said, "and stop me if this is too personal, but frogssex is basically just sort of parping eggs into a lake and then the guy frog sort of goes, Oh my, hundreds of gelatinous spheres! and gets himself off all over them, right?"
Hastur choked on his drink as his frog hid its face behind its front feet. Ah, Crowley thought, that's better. Both Hastur and Ligur were now staring at him, wide-eyed and currently speechless, though he suspected that wasn't going to last.
"So, what I want to know is – and really, if it is too personal, you know me, guys, soul of discretion, won't say another word, especially not to Lord Beelzebub – but what I really want to know is – " he smiled widely at Ligur. "What do you get out of it?"
It was good to know, he thought some minutes later, that he could run so quickly even when completely plastered. He peered out from under the table where he'd hidden, hanging from the cross-bars, and saw only a forest of legs. None of them appeared to belong to Hastur or Ligur so he cautiously reappeared, resuming human form to pop up between Dagon and Beelzebub.
"Oh, shit," Dagon said, making an occult conjuration. "I'm not having that movie conversation again. See you later, B."
"Bye!" Crowley said, finding himself suddenly alone with an archdemon. "Hi, B!"
"No."
"Hi, Beelzebub!"
"No."
"Well, someone's not in the party spirit. Good evening, Lord Beelzebub!"
"Better," Beelzebub said, turning away. "Now, get lozzt."
"Wait! I have a vital question!"
Beelzebub turned back, heaving a totally unnecessary sigh. "What?" The flies overhead momentarily formed a question mark.
"Cool," Crowley said, forgetting what he had wanted to say and grabbing on to a princely shoulder for balance. "Yes. Right - how many angels does it take to screw in a light-bulb?"
His hand was brushed away impatiently.
"Go away, Crowley. You've been annoying more important people than you all evening; you're an embarrazzment."
This was it, he thought. The moment where he either got to go home or ended up wearing silly hats and singing the company song for a subjective century with everyone else. He bent over so their eyes were on a level.
"Aww, c'mon, B. There's no need to be so short with me."
"OUT!"
He fled. He evaded other guests, the swarm of outraged flies, the guards trying to keep other circles' staff out, and the guards trying to keep the party guests in.
"I have persssonal permissssion from Lord Beelzebub to leave!" he yelled, and half sprinted, half slithered towards the exit. He poured himself onto the escalator and went up slumped on the steps, not quite sure which way his head was facing or what form he was in. With a squeal of machinery he was ejected onto the mortal plane to stagger away into the night.
All in all it hadn't been as bad as some parties he'd had to attend.