Work Text:
Some time before the Second Coming
“So, what’s the game?” Crowley asked flatly.
“It’s my favourite board game, actually.” Brian Cameron never sounded more like an accountant than when confiding that it was Monopoly of all games. “What you got to do is you got to own everything. And you leave everyone else penniless, crushed, and miserable.”
“Sounds like a game only a human could invent,” Crowley quipped…
An hour later
“Oh dear. You already mortgaged all your properties, so that wipes you out, doesn’t it really? Leaves you penniless… crushed… and miserable.” Crowley added an extra hiss to the sibilants, just for fun.
He was not usually one to gloat, not when dealing with humans. This particular specimen, though, and his fire-related threats brought out all the worst demonic qualities in him. So he couldn’t help but smirk at the dismay on the gangster’s face as he stared at the pile of game money in front of Crowley.
“But- but- how? How did you do that? I’m the best player of games of skill and chance in London…” The man looked to be minutes away from a heart attack.
Crowley could’ve taken pity on him. He could’ve explained that the gangster, in his infinite arrogance, had the misfortune to pick one of the few board games that had earned commendations from one of the Princes of Hell. They were all invented by humans, of course, Crowley just took credit for them—and was promptly appointed the Master of Games for Hell’s office parties. He didn’t know why Hell even needed the position, but the endless time he had spent down there tormented by pieces of paper and cardboard finally paid off. And playing against someone who couldn't cheat using miracles, send you to the Pits for a few decades, or feed you to the hellhounds was a breeze.
He was not feeling especially charitable at the moment, though. And he needed to make sure the gangster didn’t get any ideas regarding Crowley, the Bentley, or, Someone forbid, the bookshop in the future. So he smirked his nastiest, most threatening smile (honed to perfection by decades of playing Diplomacy in Hell), lowered his dark glasses just a bit to let the human catch a glimpse of his eyes, full yellow and fierce, and drawled: “You could say it’s the luck of the Devil.”