The impression one is left with when dealing with angels, once you’ve gotten past the smug superiority and the complete disregard for other views, is that in their Humble Opinions, change is something that should happen to other Beings.
After all, They are created in the image of God, with no six degrees of separation caused by genetics and mandatory corporeality, so to edit anything is to admit there is something imperfect in their creation.
And as we’re sure you’ve noticed, they are all to a fault, vain bastards. Change is something beings do when they believe they aren’t already amazing.
To demons, change is like breathing. Where an angel might have the same general appearance, down to the sturdy brown shoes, since 1862 or thereabouts, only updating it with the barest hints of modernity, a demon would have changed their hair and clothes and glasses a dozen times over.
Part of their affinity for change is the chaos of reinventing oneself at one's pleasure. The other is the comfort of slipping into a new skin - when one has stripped away their connection to the host with the sudden rapidity of a weather vane change, the wind yanking the little rooster straight off the roof like the tornado in the Wizard of Oz, there is a cold sort of comfort in knowing you can change whatever you’d like at the drop of a hat. But this time around, it would be the demons own choice.
Lucifer, with his consistent, carefully scheduled visits topside, and his (very few) ironclast rules and regulations was somewhat unique among demonkind. It is perhaps amusing to think of Lucifer as the steady, responsible one in Hell, but by their standards, he is. However, even with that the sudden switch from visiting once-every-fifty-years, to three times in under a decade was noticeable, but hardly remarkable.
The demons, those who cared, just figured it was about time the Boss switched things up, let himself go a little, act more spontaneous and enjoy Earth while it was still around.
The demons, those who didn’t care, (and these were the majority), just wished the Boss would stick around. Hell got all weird when Satan wasn’t there. Emptier, somehow.
Lucifer, who had narrowly avoided the Absolutely Done glare of his head torturer when he came back again without going to Tadfeild, took the opportunity to sneak out the back door.
Everyone deserves to relive their rebellious glory days.
When he reached the Dowling estate, the Butler greeting him by name and with a faint air of approval, Warlock was not waiting for him. The fact that this bothered him confused him, because not having a sticky little human pestering him with questions was not something he normally would be bothered over.
Lucifer did not like being bothered much.
But then Tina smiled at him, and this, at least, he knew, They spent several minutes in a brief and fairly satisfying flirtation before Mr. Dowling, attracted to power like a mayfly, strolled out to meet him.
What they discussed Lucifer would be hard pressed to remember, despite his eidetic memory, but at the end of the conversation there was an exchange and scholarship program set up using one of his many names.
He was already leaving when Warlock ran up beside him, having had no excuse or any true desire to stick around. Apparently, they had taken a detour on their walk today, past a new park with a puppy run. Nanny Ashtoreth had even let him pet them! Provided the owner agreed of course.
Lucifer smiled grimly, acknowledging Nanny Ashtoreth’s foresight and protective instincts.
While he can’t stay this time, he explains, he seems to have acquired a bag of gummy bears, it was tucked into his suit for some reason and surely Warlock wouldn’t main taking them off his hands, they would ruin the lines and this was Armani.
Warlock waved him off from the drive, candy tucked into his pocket and a severe figure in black at his right shoulder.
The drive down to Tadfeild is one that guidebooks like to call ‘idyllic’. Quiet countryside roads and smooth turns all the way, with the occasional sheep.
Unfortunately, Lucifer was having a difficult time enjoying the scenery, as he was about to meet the End of All (Earthly) Things. Who was also his biological son. He wasn’t entirely sure which aspect he was more concerned with.
He was also having what couldn’t possibly be an allergic reaction, due to the weird and increasingly present aura he was driving through.
Places have aura’s as much as people do. They’re just harder to see, as you can’t really lean back and take in all of London without going above, and Above is reserved for the winged and the Divine (and the occasional daring demon). The aura surrounding Tadfeild was strange, in that it was saturated with something he hesitated to call Love. It was heavier than that, but at the same time, infinitely simpler, and more complicated.
Angels, even mostly former angels who refuse to acknowledge their theoretical angelhood, have a sort of sixth sense when it comes to feelings. That’s not to say they’re good at them, they’re just as rubbish at it as demons. But they can hear them, as loudly as you can hear a whisper, in much the same way they can taste a beings identity in the air. It wasn’t something they even thought about - just another thing they could do that humans couldn’t. Like flying, or commanding the firmament and erasing someone from existence and memory.
Adoration - that was it. The kind of love that isn’t really based on anything, only the fact that whatever was loved, existed.
Lucifer couldn’t relate. And was most certainly not jealous of a small british village.
Not at all.
At the very least it confirmed that the child lived here. Lucifer was the cosmos, his broken bones bled stars, vast and unending and unconditional. The ability to love that broadly, that wildly and with a disregard for conventions and capacity was entirely genetic.
It felt a bit like driving through an ion storm.
By the time he gets to the village proper he knows he’ll never make it to the nunnery.
There is, in the universe, a finite number of stars. Lucifer can, given time and space and maybe a desert big enough for him to spread his Grace and Gift, name each of them. Their song, their frequency, the birth and death and complete cycle, each and every one.
There is, in the universe, an infinite amount of space between the stars, once that Lucifer has walked through and spoken too, but cannot name.
No one can.
Driving through Tadfeild the first time felt very much like trying to name that. Every particle in him screamed out for a name, a name, give them a name, but he could not.
Lucifer was drowning in it - and he, who had no need to breathe, could feel his lungs burn in desperation because he never wanted to come up for air.
It would be inaccurate to say he knew the child was here. In fact, it may have been easier to point out all the places they were not, so loud and obvious was the presence.
The next half hour of Lucifer's long and so far unending life would be full of random and startlingly frequent occurrences of Good Luck.
Because while Lucifer had been operating under the assumption that The Universe actively disliked him, or at the very least was indifferent to him, this was not quite true.
In fact, if God and The Universe had been playing dice, and the stakes had been ‘let nice things happen for once’ then The Universe would be up by 30.
However, they were not playing dice. God appreciates the sentiment, but dice just don’t have the same pull as cards.
They were playing poker, and The Universe was up by 40, give or take a few black holes.
So instead of having to slowly track down his son in a small town that still had a surprisingly high number of tow-headed little boys, Lucifer pulled over by the side of the road, and was immediately approached by four grubby children leading a red wagon filled with what looked like old bricks.
Lucifer suspected it was car - it was a rather impressive specimen.
The truth, which you’ve probably figured out, is that Adam was sensitive to the Divine and Infernal and had been drawn to the road before Lucifer had even stopped. He was at that road because Pepper’s Mum had a convenient craving for a picnic lunch.
Also the car really was a beaut.
It’s not everyday a Chevrolet Corvette C1 from 1962 drives through the village with Marlon Brando behind the wheel.
“Hey Mister, are you lost?” the child leading the group was the kind of boy Lucifer remembered seeing in a very specific style of religious painting.
The style, if you’re curious, was - everything in heaven is always ridiculously beautiful, even the children, and if you stare at this painting long enough you will feel inadequate in relation to everyone's beauty, and also you’re going to hell because you don’t follow this particular priests sermons to the exacting letter.
“Not exactly, child.” Lucifer did not get out of the car. Whether this was to protect the children or himself is debatable.
“I’m Adam. Adam Young. How are you not ‘zactly lost?” The boy looked up at him with very blue eyes, filled with a dozen stars and then some, and Lucifer wondered how many drinks he was going to owe Luck after today.
“Well, Mr. Young, I could ask you the same thing. Should you be playing on the side of the road and approaching strangers in cars?” Lucifer glanced over to the boy’s friends, a group of children mostly unremarkable, in all but a single aspect.
They each had a mind accustomed to arguing, or at the very least occasionally disagreeing with an Entity capable of bending reality to its will.
Not yet of course, but as Adam grew, so would they, and the slow build-up would ensure they were perfectly capable of telling The End of All, NO, should they so wish.
He wondered what they could accomplish, should they survive the next few years.
Adam thought, scrunching his forehead, rather adorably, as his six year old brain worked out what was wrong with Lucifer’s statement. “That’s not the same thing,” he finally said.
Lucifer raised an eyebrow, noticing the watchful eyes of four women from over the short hedge and relaxing while waving cheerfully. “Isn’t it though? After all, I don’t know how I’m not exactly lost, and you don’t know why you think you’re allowed to speak to strangers,” he pointed out.
“So you’re sayin’ the things are alike cuz we both don’t know something.” Adam seemed pleased with his rather clever analysis.
“Very good,” Lucifer says, “Now can you point me in the direction of the old hospital?”
The small freckly child, hair fluffing in the wind, piped up from over his shoulder. “It’s down past the quarry. If you follow the main road, Grandpa says you’ll feel a sense of existential dread and general mounting horror that comes ‘round the emotional repression found in nunneries and just follow that.” The child, in denim overalls and rubber boots, delivered this set of instructions with such a strong sense of normalcy that Lucifer found himself nodding along before he quite registered what she said.
He half choked on the giggle that forced its way out of his chest, tears gasping at his eyes. “Thank you child,” he managed to strangle out, “I do believe I needed that.”
He leaned over to the glove compartment and pulled out some full size candy bars, the kind no one ever gave out on Halloween but should. “I assume those are your parents enjoying that lovely picnic over there?” He handed the candy over, looking each child in the eyes as they nodded.
“Go tell them you helped me be ‘not exactly lost’ and that I gave you the candy as a thank you. Don’t eat it till they let you, and enjoy the -” he glanced at the wagon filled with bricks - “enjoy the good weather, and whatever you’re doing with it.”
The children nodded, a hive mind presented with sugar and chocolate and ran back as one.
By the time Adam though to wonder why the voices he sometimes argued with had gone silent, or why the man in the wicked car made him feel old and young and old again, the car was already halfway back to London and the owner was, if not in Hell, then feeling it.
His son - the child - had an aura so bright Lucifer had been in the center before he even realized he’d passed the border. It was - he hadn’t been an angel in years, centuries and eons and he flung himself from the title as far as he could, but this was as close he felt to ascending once more.
The aura was a rainbow of light and he feared the darkness corrupting it would only grow, would only find Adam if he went too close, too often.
He had glared the imps over the boys shoulder into submission, warning them off before his eleventh birthday, but for now that was all he could do.
4 years before Armageddon.
Warlock, being a rather cheerful child despite his generally odd upbringing, started writing as soon as he learned his letters. If the tutor saw anything strange in a seven year old writing letters to a Mr Luce, confirmed to be one of his father's associates, he never mentioned it.
Lucifer had a mailing address in most major cities, a necessity when you have had so many names (all true), and years to collect Things and Houses and occasionally People. Many of the Things he had came from the People he had known, and his collection of books with rather pointed dedications might even rival Aziraphales.
He never expected to get a colorful envelope covered in a child’s handwriting stuck in the London location, all backwards B’s and misspelled words crossed out.
The next time he swings ‘round the Dowling Estate, it’s during some sort of charity lunch, one he would normally avoid at all costs, unless he could watch some drama unfold. There was always dramatics at these things.
Warlock was kicking his feet near the sandwiches, watching the guests wonder by and working on a truly impressive plate of sweets. He glanced up when Lucifer dropped into a chair at his table, blinking in a sort of happy sugar induced haze at the three envelopes that were dropped in front of him.
“What's all this then?” Lucifer crossed his legs, watching the micro-politics of the common english garden party unfold. Someone should get David Attenborough to narrate, it would feel right at home.
“Letters,” said Warlock, with the air of a child who was being allowed to do something they were normally not allowed to do. Considering this was the first even where he wasn’t trotted out like a prized pony and then sent back to the kitchens to sneak cakes from Cook, he was.
“I can see that, small human. But why, do tell, are they addressed to me?” Warlock seemed to deflate, or at the very least he began to pay more attention to Lucifer then he did to the cakes before him.
“Well, Mr. Haspah (my new tutor) told me to practice my letters, and Nanny suggested I write to someone I’m int’rested in knowing better.” He turned big blue eyes to Lucifer. “You didn’t mind, did you?”
If Lucifer is being honest, and he always is, he no longer knew what angle Crowley was playing at. No doubt the demonic Nanny had assumed Lucifer would ignore the letters. But why suggest it in the first place?
“Not at all,” he was sincere in that - it had been a surprise, certainly, but the letters were entertaining in their existence, and the banal, everyday life of a human child was exotic enough to offer a brief respite in the midst of hellish paperwork. “I simply wasn't expecting them.”
Warlock glanced at him over his plate, picking slowly at a lemon square. “It's only that you didn't answer any of them.” He replied mournfully. It was a brilliant manipulation, more effective in the fact that Warlock didn’t even mean it as one.
“Ah.” Lucifer was not used to sincerity and innocence in others requests. “I suppose I didn’t.”
He picked up one of the letters, written on a crimson sheet in deep black marker, decorated with rainbow stickers around the border and a drawing of what was supposed to be a puppy, but may have actually been a bicycle. It was an excellent bicycle, but a rather terrible puppy.
“Have you decided on what outdoor sport to pursue? You mentioned your tutor thought it best to choose one now that the weather is turning up.”
Warlock worried at his bottom lip, deciding whether the chocolate cake or the almond square should be his next culinary conquest, entirely uninterested in sports whatsoever. “Nope,” He said, popping the second syllable out of his mouth as the almond square went in. He kept speaking around the cake, earning a shudder and disgusted glare from Lucifer, both of which made him giggle. “Nothing seems very interesting, or worth getting sweaty over.”
“Mmm I see your point.” They sat in silence for a few moments, Lucifer occasionally commenting on someone’s dress or company or air of stinking ambition, Warlock working through a truly impressive plate.
“Have you thought of Archery?”
Warlock paused, half a lavender chocolate comically to his mouth and eyes wide. He tilted his head, this time more in thought than as a consequence of Lucifer's height.
“Shooting a bow and arrow? Like Robin Hood?”
“Exactly that,” Lucifer leaned over to steal some chocolate mousse, ignoring the tiny hands that shooed him away. “And I happen to know that your Nanny is quite skilled with a bow. You could even ask them to teach you.”
“Really?” Warlock’s eyes, previously glaring at the traitorous chocolate on its way to Lucifer's mouth, now scanned the party for his wayward Nanny.
“Oh, yes. Learned it from a friend named Artie, I believe.” He might not know what Crowley’s angle was, but that didn't mean he’d let them get away with it. “I’m sure they’d love to teach you.”
Warlock squirmed, plate empty and hands curling around it restlessly.
“Oh, go on then, small one. I know you desire to ask them right away.” Warlock grinned at him, a wide and brilliantly trusting thing, one that made his heart ache in a way that was not conducive to devilishness, and hopped off his chair.
“Will you answer the letters next time?”
All of a sudden Lucifer was not entirely sure what to do with his limbs. Children were certainly more trouble than they're worth, emotionally speaking.
“I will make an attempt to do so.”
About four weeks later, two weeks after Mr. Haspah dropped another letter in the post and considered (finally) that having a child write to a mostly unknown stranger was possibly a bad idea, a small letter arrived in the mail for Warlock.
It was two sheets of elegantly pressed parchment, the kind that was sold in exclusive shops in little corners, and covered in a flowing hand that wouldn't be out of place in a calligraphy book.
There was hardly any personal information- something vague about dogs, or maybe horses - but rather a string of reactions and occasionally advice in relation to what Warlock had written.
You got the impression, while reading it, that the writer was as surprised at its existence as you were.
Unless you were Warlock. Warlock had the utmost confidence that his letters would be answered.
2 years before Armageddon.
For the most part, Lucifer allowed his Grace to parade before him, smoothing his way to charm the humans who crossed his path.
Sometimes Lucifer turned it off, and charmed humans the old fashioned way - through being a suave bastard with an impeccable sense of style. This was more of a challenge then you might think, as most people, when not slightly buzzed off divinity, treated angels the same way a saner homo sapien might treat a wild elephant, or a tiger. That is, like a large ‘fuck the fuck off’ sign was flashing with a neon arrow above their heads.
The way most species react to apex predators designed to hunt them specifically, even if they weren’t hunting them right at that second.
It still wasn’t much of a challenge.
But simply put, humans were not meant to meet celestials. Being that Humans and Angels were made from similar stock, the design flaw that led to ‘I do what I want’ (see; the apple, the tower of babble, teenagers, etc.) was apparently never corrected.
When Lucifer met RP Tyler, he had the peculiar experience of realizing that for once, his grace was redundant - because RP Tyler, of the neighborhood watch, belonged to that particular breed of man who believed deep down in their feudalistic heart that society had been better off when the only ones allowed Ideas had been the ones with Money and Land. To him, Lucifer was a stranger in his town, but to the small vassal at the back of his mind, the one who recognized power as sure as he did a witch, sat up with his pitchfork and half dead cow and said ‘This is a Man who owns A Castle and Sits with the King’. Most peasants hadn’t known how to translate raw divinic power either, but it was close.
Being that the last two centuries had been almost wholly devoid of this attitude, it took Lucifer a moment to realize why exactly a man so clearly suspicious of anything he deemed foreign to his four yards of village, would be so helpful to an eldritch being come-calling.
He still absolutely understood Adam’s opinion of the man. Anyone with a little fifth century peasant at the back of their head, waiting for the King to change things, was not to be trusted.
“And his dog ‘sn’t even a prop’r dog either,” Adam was leaning on a wall, munching the licorice twists he had liberated from Lucifer’s glove compartment. At this point, the Them knew that if Luce was in town, there was going to be candy.
“Your Birthday is coming up, isn’t it?” Lucifer never left his car, on any of these visits, choosing to maintain whatever barriers he could. Of course, if one were to ask, it had nothing to do with him not wanting to get emotionally attached to the End of All Things, and more about covering his bases when it came to strangers giving children candy.
At Adams nod, he continued, “Why not ask your Dad for a proper dog?”
The idea, planted in a mind that had no problem building cities on clouds and stories on nothing at all, grew faster than the piles of fallen ash in Hell.
“You may want to wait till your a little older,” Lucifer eyed him with the sudden foreboding familiar to parents everywhere.
It was too late. The idea of a dog, one small enough to fit in his bed but fast enough to run at the heels of his bike and keep up, was quickly taking shape in Adams mind.
Ask Dad for a dog, now there's an idea, Adam thought.
Lucifer, perhaps feeling that he had done enough damage to the Youngs household peace, decided now was a good time as any to start drive off. Adam didn’t notice that, too busy dreaming.
“Do you think he’ll get me a dog, a prop’r dog, one that’s small‘nd fast an’ fun?” Adam, despite his Divine aura being brighter than the damn sun, had no black edges to his Humanity, no wailing reality twisting at his feet. Even the imps, the ones Lucifer had hissed away two years ago, hadn’t made an appearance yet. But he was human, and a child, and for the sake of compelling an answer to earnest questions asked in complete trust that was enough.
“I’m sure,” said Lucifer, having a rather different conversation then Adam now, “That if you ask, your father will eventually give you a dog for your birthday.”
The answer, although oddly phrased to a more practiced air, seemed perfect to Adam. Luce had a way of saying things that made them feel true.
The Them, who had noticed this phenomena, rather thought Adam could do the same thing, but on a child-voiced scale.
They never bothered to investigate the coincidence. After all, there was candy to be eaten and backwoods dragons to tame.
1 year before Armageddon.
Lucifer’s gift to Warlock was a set of books from the rolling Judean hills, old enough that if the current director of the British Museum knew they were in the hands of a ten year old, he would faint, quit his job, and become a sheep herder. Not particularly in that order.
The information and guidance he could subtly cram into letters was now considered negligible for a growing witch.
His gift to Adam was a bag of candy and advice.
“Perhaps if you stop asking, and show your father how responsible you are, he’ll get you a dog?”
Normally Lucifer would encourage the kind of chaos a small child in pursuit of something can cause, but The Universe had taken a liking to Adam and was making sure his requests were reaching both his fathers. Lucifer did not appreciate the small child prayers interrupting his privacy.
The joke was on him, because Adam kept thinking about it, and thoughts are almost-prayers, and The Universe kept sending those to him anyways.
They were also bright and warm and rather like Divine cotton candy, so perhaps The Universe was killing two birds with one stone.
Wednesday. (3 days to armageddon.)
The hellhounds had been Lucifer’s idea.
Not the idea of giving one to a child, that had been some half-stoned priest in the thirteenth century and it had been picked up rather quickly by everyone else, but the general existence of hell-hounds.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Essentially, they were dogs.
Or, dog shaped, vaguely. If one were to meet a hell-hound in a dark alley, while drunk, the reaction would be to immediately shout doggie! and run to pet it.
Of course, drunk humans encountering something fluffy were not the best source of unbiased data.
Actually, any humans encountering something fluffy were never the best sort for gathering data.
The best way to describe hell-hounds was what would happen if you took a shetland pony, crossed it with a hunting dog of your choice, gave it carnivorous instincts and the ability to track nightmares, and swirled in a dash of eldritch horror and the same stuff the silence of space is made of.
Hearing a demon-dog bark is as close to hearing Death sing as anyone has ever come.
The naming of a hell-hound was important - like angels, their name defined them. Unlike angels, the name was chosen first.
This left Lucifer in a little bit of a tangle - someone would certainly notice if Warlock didn’t have a giant hound of ghostly proportions wonder in at his birthday, and then the Forces of Hell would go looking for the real Antichrist. But then again, naming the dog something safe and sending the perfectly ordinary result would be just as suspicious.
The solution was simple. Two puppies were selected from the latest litter, and Lucifer tucked them under his arm, striding off to see which was ‘more worthy of the Prince of Hell’. No one wanted to know why he came back with only one.
He could picture how it would go - Warlock, surrounded by his peers and the parents who occasionally remembered he was more than a conversation piece, and perhaps one or two spies on behalf of celestial affairs. A courier service from London would arrive, carrying a crate that logic would dictate a hell-hound, even a puppy, could never fit in. That’s because Logic has no place in the business of the infernal plane, and so Lucifer told it to toddle right off for this one.
Warlock would open the letter taped to the front first, ignoring the jealous whispers and the confused glances his parents were exchanging.
As I am unable to attend your eleventh birthday, I have sent a gift I have no doubt you will enjoy.
Her name is either Alexa (protector) or Shomeret (guardian) - for now she will answer to both, but choose one and call her that forever.
I hope the rest of your life is a long and happy affair, and full of birthdays.
It was sentimental, sure, but there was also a small chance that Warlocks life would end in fire and flood shortly, so Lucifer allowed himself the indulgence.
Unfortunately, while this was a rather nice and accurate prediction of the events following the couriers arrival, what he had miscalculated was this one thing - that a hell-hound in search of its master could never be slower than the post. Even the most elite courier in all of London, used to deliver legal papers capable of toppling a small country, and clandestine notes between super spies and their rivals/lovers, could not compete.
Crowley and Aziraphale leave before the courier even arrives, and suddenly the circle that Knows grows a little wider.
Something settles over Hell as the Dog is named. It is not satisfaction, or anticipation. Hell is too entwined in Lucifers soul to ever differ so greatly from his own wants. It is the settling of old accounts, a line drawn smooth over a creased page as a new debt begins to form.
Hell shudders, the loops rustling in what could be surprise - the ash, thick as stars and twice as blinding, stops.
Lucifer watches as his kingdom wakes up and stretches, crooning softly at the back of his mind. Maze, who does not remember when Hell first shuddered to existence, walks up beside him. “Welcome to the end times,” he says, as the End begins.
 You try telling Sandalphon his suit was out of date. See how far it gets you. [return to text]
 Perhaps a bad analogy when the bing in question doesn't actually breath, but for the sake of clarity and concise phrases which convey importance in human terms, it stands.[return to text]
 Or tartan, much to his companions annoyance.[return to text]
 And gender.[return to text]
 Even though this time it was Amenadiels fault. Maze hated Amenadiel, despite having never really met him, and for a number of reasons. Foisting the blame on him was both easy and very satisfying in a manner familiar to those of you who have siblings.[return to text]
 Although Lucifer's rebellious days had involved less sneaking and more talking. A lot of talking. Look, if priests got more things about angelology and religion correct, there would be less of them in Hell.[return to text]
 If anyone had asked, Lucifer would have said that the lesser demons had a love of pranks, and this was simply one of his many suits, and of course he had gotten rid of the stupid things they were sticky and bulky and the small child was right there anyways, may as well tempt him with high-fructose corn syrup.
As previously established, no one ever asked.[return to text]
 Actually, most of them couldn’t do that last bit.[return to text]
 Technically the correct term was Coronal Mass Ejection, but quite frankly that sounded like a sex joke, and Lucifer liked the way Ion Storm sounded. He had also liked Leonard Nimoy. Nice guy. Great Actor. Cute ears.
Lucille had definitely gotten that business decision right, even if took a decade for the rest of the world to see it.[return to text]
 That word, when used in this story, means something entirely different than what it should, for reasons that will be clear in a moment.[return to text]
 God, for Her part, was pretending not to know that The Universe was counting cards. The Universe pretended not to know God knew. God still chose poker every time they played. It was a system, and not random at all. Most things aren’t.
And you think your family is dysfunctional.[return to text]
“What if they were,” the voices over his shoulder whispered.
“What if you bugger off while I'm with m’Mum,” he muttered back.[return to text]
 No you aren’t, and Lucifer is tired of that myth. Let it die, please.[return to text]
 None. They were dealing for God and The Universe and had a nice little tip jar going on the side.[return to text]
 It's been said more than three times, at this point it's a theme.[return to text]
 It had been empty when he stopped. It was always empty, as there was an indeterminate amount of time between possible uses, but Lucifer still managed to find what he needed in there.[return to text]
 He was a very specific kind of tutor, one used to working with rich people and their offspring. There was much he wouldn’t question, and he never commented on the peculiar relationship between the Gardener or the Nanny either.[return to text]
Crowley had been assigned to deliver and, presumably, ensure the proper upbringing of the Antichrist. His reaction, still following the fairly broad pattern Lucifer had established for him, was to do the bare minimum, exaggerate it to his managers, and also invite Heaven’s most tolerable angel to have a go.
Had his baby swap plan not worked out, Lucifer thought Warlock would still have made a pretty good antichrist. Or a bad one, if you wanted to end the world.
But Crowley’s angle, if it must be explained, could best be defined with ‘How can I annoy my Boss while still following his instructions.’ It didn’t quite work the way he intended.[return to text]
 Regardless of above or below, it was called Grace. Perhaps ironic.[return to text]
 More accurately, actually.[return to text]
When the shiny black car rolled into the village, their bicycles suddenly became capable of abnormal speeds, that may have actually had more to do with the effect hypothetical sugar had on their adrenaline systems then any of Adam’s innate and slowly growing abilities.[return to text]
 Who else would think a giant beast from the midst of Hell would make a good pet to a prepubescent child? Certainly not someone with all their higher brain functions in play.[return to text]
 Mostly because Death was shy. They had a lovely, deep and resonating sort of voice that made the ocean look shallow.[return to text]
 Lucifer gave his demons a bit too much credit. The only ones who noticed in the end were Crowley and Aziraphale, and that came down to bad luck. Or maybe, considering how it all worked out, good luck.[return to text]
 A snail on sleeping pills would be faster than the post.[return to text]