The somewhat- less -than -dulcet strains of "Heat of the Moment" filtered through Bobby's cluttered kitchen in the form of an off key hum, interspersed with the occasional mumbled lyric.
"What your heart meant..." Bobby finished preparing the French press, pouring in just enough hot water to top off the perfect morning pick- me- up. He fished out two vessels for his little exercise and scrubbed a few of the previous evening's dishes while the Colombian dark roast bubbled and brewed.
"Find yourself in...oh hell, something two..." When the escaping steam let him know the next stage of his plan was ready for action, he began pouring the coffee into one container, then the other. He had only just finished topping up the red ceramic mug when a whoosh, crash, and bellow let him know that his anticipated visitor had arrived.
"Where is it?!" Crowley roared. He stomped into the kitchen, face flushed, accusing finger shaking violently in Bobby's direction. "You tell me right now, Bobby Singer, or so help me me, I'll-"
"Oh, you'll what, you old blowhard?" Bobby brought the coffee to his lips, unphased.
The crimson drained from Crowley's face, to be replaced with a sheen of ashy white. "That's not...tell me you didn't..."
"Oh, I can assure you it is." Bobby assumed his best shit -eating grin and raised the hollowed out skull in a mock toast. "Imported straight from the bowels of Castle Drummond in Aberdeen. I find it really brings out the flavor."
"You. put. me. down. right. NOW." The rage was rolling off Crowley in waves. Bobby would have been a little worried for the health of his heart...if he had one, that is.
"I suppose I could be persuaded to part with my favorite conversation piece," Bobby mused, "providing, of course, I was compensated for my trouble. Say with a certain laptop someone waltzed off with a few weeks back...?"
"A laptop?!" Crowley demanded. "You chopped off my head for a bloody laptop?!"
"Well, as it happens, much like your head, it's the only one I've got, and it's proved mighty useful to have around. So, hand over the laptop, I'll hand back the skull...and any other bony bits I might have laying about the place."
With an exasperated scream, Crowley was gone, to return in a moment with a battered black computer, which he deposited rather too forcefully on the kitchen table. "There. Now give me...me!"
"Oh, relax." Bobby shoved the other mug of coffee into Crowley's hand. "It's from a Halloween store, for Christ's sake. Yours is in a sack in the back of my closet."
Crowley regarded him for a long moment, clearly torn between warring impulses. "Sometimes, Bobby Singer, you are an utter ass." The grin playing at the corners of his lips was subtle, but unmistakable.
"Yeah, well..." Bobby replaced the skull on the counter and gave Crowley a loud smack on the lips. "I kinda thought that was what you loved about me. Now, you wanna see what I rigged up for your hands?"
Crowley rolled his eyes and took a sip of coffee. "I can hardly wait."