Rating M; this chapter is for ADULTS 18+ for references to sexual situations, violence, language, and references to non-con. If you are under 18 years of age, please do not read any further.

Author's Notes: Chapter title comes from the song of the same name, No Light, No Light by Florence + The Machine.

This is the longest chapter to date with over 17,000 words. I experimented a little bit with the structure of the chapter. Lots of things happen here, so if you get confused, give me a yell.


Chapter 9: No Light

It had been five weeks since he'd last been home (he did wonder when he'd started referring to it as home), and it had been five weeks too long. To Crowley, it felt like a whole lifetime had passed between then and now. Searching for the First Blade with Sam and Dean proved to be an exhausting task. While he couldn't fault the Brothers Winchester for not explicitly trusting him, he'd saved their asses more times than he could count, and figured that should mean something. It should have earned him at least a modicum of respect. Not to mention he'd saved Sam from that dick angel Gadreel and hadn't received as much as a thank you. And this was all after the brothers had tried to turn him human by injecting him with Sam's blood, leading to an addiction that kind of took over every single facet of his life, and then imprisoned him for months on end while Abaddon tried to claim his throne.

But who was holding grudges?

For five long weeks, he'd put up with Dean's incessant cheek and disrespect until he felt like punching him in the face. The demon had been on a downward spiral, fighting to regain control of his life from the clutches of addiction, and still got more accomplished in regards to the First Blade than the brothers would have on their own.

Needless to say, Crowley was only too happy to make a hasty exit after cleaning up Sam and Dean's mess and saving them, yet again, from that nutter Cuthbert Sinclair or Albert Magnus...or whatever he was calling himself. The entire search had been getting more convoluted by the day, adding to it the debilitating addiction to human blood. He was rendered useless, a slave to the high he experienced after sinking that needle deliciously into his vein, waiting for the blood to mingle with his own. He lived for the high, unable to deal with the lows that settle upon him between hits. He'd been using for awhile. When he disappeared for days or weeks at a time, he was out getting his fix, afterward sleeping it off in a hotel room. This time, he managed to find comfort in the arms of another demon, Lola. She was no Naomi, though. And in some ways, that was a good thing. Lola had seemed malleable and willing to do whatever he asked of her. She supplied him with blood and mindless sex and anything else he wanted. He couldn't get Naomi out of his mind, however. Sometimes when he was high, he saw her standing by his bed, her arms crossed with an unamused expression on her face. He'd laugh. Typical Naomi raining on his parade. He'd reach over to pull her into his bed, but she always vanished before he could touch her. He realized that he missed her. The demon was so far gone, he began to wonder if he'd ever see Naomi again.

Then he found out that Lola was reporting his every move to Abaddon. All the things he could lose swirled messily about his mind: his kingdom, the allegiance of the loyalists (many of whom were already defecting to Abaddon), Zoë... Naomi. He didn't know if she was his to lose, but he counted her, just to be safe. Dragging himself out of the stupor of addiction, he killed Lola and did the only thing he knew to do in order to beat it: he called a Winchester.

After his life temporarily derailed, he was at their mercy. The intervention wasn't exactly what he'd envisioned. Once again, they'd locked him up and treated him like the enemy, even though for this particular mission, he was on the same side as Moose and Squirrel. He was embarrassed to think how low he'd sunk that he had to enlist the help of the Winchesters. He'd been a junkie with a thirst for human blood; how he craved to feel it surging through the veins of his vessel! He hadn't been acting like a King of Hell, and tt had cost him hundreds of followers and put him behind on his campaign for the throne. It had also brought Abaddon dangerously close to finding the First Blade. No matter, for he was confident that in the end the throne would be his. He didn't have time for doubt. If there was anything he learned from his addiction, it was 1) kill the Winchesters before they get you hooked on blood trying to turn you human and end up doing only a half-ass job, and 2) Casablanca was secretly a good movie. However, he would staunchly deny number two to the death if anyone asked.

It was the middle of the night when he arrived in Naomi's bedroom. If he were being honest, and being a demon, honest moments were few and far in between, he might've admitted that he'd been pestered by a persistent little niggling feeling that reminded him he had a home with non-demonic individuals awaiting his return. Two individuals, to be precise. And as the five weeks dragged along, this little feeling slowly graduated to a more encompassing feeling that became harder to ignore. At random, he found his intractable thoughts regularly drifting to Naomi and Zoë, even in the midst of his addiction-fueled binges. Interestingly enough, he hadn't heard a word from either of them. Zoë either must've been on her best behavior or had been smote by her mother, as Naomi hadn't sent him anymore infuriating texts causing him to have to run interference between the two. Truth be told, he was almost disappointed not to have had a reason to return home in the interim. Maybe it was for the best that he hadn't visited. Naomi may have caught on to his blood use and made more of an effort to keep him away from Zoë. He wasn't about to let that happen.

Looking around the darkened room, he had underestimated how good it would feel being back here. He soundlessly approached Naomi's bed and saw she was asleep. As he raked his eyes over her still form that was nearly hidden in the blackness of the room, his eyes caught a glimpse of red fabric highlighted by a rogue strip of pale light that managed to peek though the crack in the curtains. Immediately, he identified it as the same red nightie that had inspired so many salacious thoughts. Lola had nothing on this angel, not the intelligence nor the wit. Crowley began wondering what he'd seen in her.

With a grin to rival a Cheshire cat's, he undressed and slipped into bed beside her. He'd been looking forward to the arguments they were bound to have, the doors that would be slammed in his face, and the threats they'd make to one another. Not that he wasn't content being the King of Hell and of all that it entailed, but he'd kind of grown used to having this irritating angel nearby to keep him on his toes. But right now, he just wanted to rest, knowing she was close by. Demons didn't require sleep, but after a month of relentless searching for that damned blade, fighting addiction, and dodging death with two of the most obnoxious people alive, he needed the relaxation. His movements woke Naomi for he saw her eyes flutter open drowsily, confusion settling in her face.

"Daddy's home," he rumbled into her ear using his silkiest tone.

Though unable to see her clearly, he could hear the surprise in her voice, which was thick with sleep and sarcasm. "It's been a while. I thought you'd forgotten where we lived."

He smiled at her innocuous teasing. Instantly, he felt back in his element. "I thought I had to leave on business to get some peace and relaxation, but it turns out that even you are preferable to Sam and Dean Winchester. Imagine that." He leaned in and left a kiss on her bare shoulder.

She chuckled faintly, "I could've told you that. If you were looking for a companion, you'd be better off with Abaddon."

"I wouldn't go that far," he snorted.

He could feel her smile. The room went deathly quiet and he thought she'd fallen back to sleep; however, he felt the bed shift as she rose from her spot to kiss his mouth. It took him by surprise. He parted his lips and his tongue met hers at the entrance.

Her hands fell lightly on his shoulders, and when she lay back down, she pulled him with her. Taken aback by her gentle insistence, he finished their kiss and searched her face, but it was obscured by shadows. Something was different about her. Her body might've been in his arms, but her mind was a million miles away. He knew her too well; she was hiding something.

"Naomi?"

"Not now, dear," she breathed, allowing her body to communicate what words could not. Her vessel was a book that he'd poured over time and time again, committing each line and scene to memory, each nuance having by now been thoroughly analyzed. When she failed to follow the narrative, which is what was currently transpiring, Crowley knew right away something was off.

Naomi's kisses became more ravenous, and Crowley could sense her desperation in the way she clung to him. She held steadfastly to his body like an anchor in a storm. Suitably alarmed, he tried to pull away.

"Darling," he started.

"No."

"Stop."

"Please," she begged. Naomi never begged.

With a snap of his fingers, the lamp on the nightstand next to the bed suddenly glowed, casting the room in a soft light. Naomi fell back to her pillow, turning her head away from him. His eyes traveled down her body, and the lecher in him ached to reach out and rub the hardened nipples that protruded through the gauzy red material of her nightie. Her heaving breasts pleaded to have his mouth on them. For a moment, he nearly forgot why he'd stopped her, then he noticed the purple outline of a bruise jutting out from the cradle of her eye. Cupping her chin in his hand, he turned her head so they were facing one another. One blue eye was nestled in a sea of amethyst.

Quaking with anger, he demanded, "Who did this? Did a demon do this?"

"No. Don't worry; I've already dealt with it."

"Dealt with it?" he narrowed his eyes. "That bruise is atrocious! Do you even have vision in that eye?"

"You should see the other guy," she quipped weakly.

"Who was it?" he barked. He wanted answers and his frustration mounted as she evaded him. When she didn't say anything, he growled impatiently and snapped a glass of Craig into existence. As he lifted it to his mouth, Naomi deftly intercepted it and downed the amber-colored liquid in one gulp. When she was done, she handed the empty glass back to him.

"Do you mind?" he asked grouchily, sitting back against a stack of pillows. Crowley had just wanted a damned drink; he felt he deserved it after everything he'd been through during the past five weeks, and now having to deal with Naomi and whatever mess she'd gotten herself into. The glass was instantly refilled with a snap of his fingers, and when she reached for it again, he quickly moved to hold it out of her range. He slapped her hand away, but when he caught sight of the bruise surrounding her eye, he relented and presented her with a drink of her own. Slowly, he drew the Scotch into his mouth, savoring the bitter taste as it made its way down his throat, all the while watching Naomi tip her glass up and consume its contents with a single swallow.

Hoping that the alcohol would loosen her tongue, he once again broached the subject of her injury.

"Are you going to tell me who did this?" Waves of his innate possessiveness raged through his vessel. Someone touching that which he considered to be his thrust him into a foul mood. As if he didn't already have enough on his mind.

Quietly, she sat her glass on the nightstand and then surprised the demon by straddling his lap. Leaning forward, she captured his mouth in another kiss; he could taste his liquor on her. She had also managed to steal his drink for the second time. A muffled noise of discontent arose in the back of his throat, but was blocked from release by Naomi's tongue, which had invaded his mouth. His hands pushed the thin straps of the nightie down her shoulders, and she shuddered.

She broke the kiss to take another drink of liquor and said blandly, "You have your secrets and I have mine."

"That's not an answer. If you won't tell me, I'll find out myself," he growled. He had been looking forward to coming home expressly for two reasons: to enjoy a glass of Craig, and to engage in welcome home sex while exchanging heated barbs with the Satan of Heaven herself. Those were the only two thoughts that had gotten him through the day. And now he was going to have to hunt a bitch down and beat the shit out of him for hitting someone he was pretty sure he hated. This was getting complicated and wasn't in the least restful.

She looked at him, an air of sadness seeming to abruptly overtake her, and said, "I doubt that."

He grabbed her by her shoulders roughly, causing her to gasp. He peered angrily into her widened eyes. "Oh, I will. And when I find out who did this, he will pay."

His fingers delicately traced the outline of the bruise, then, with a brush of his hand over the tender skin, healed it. She relaxed somewhat and responded with a faint smile. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him and he was filled with panic.

"How's Zoë? Is she all right?"

"She's fine." Naomi didn't quite meet his eyes, which concerned him. She was definitely holding tightly to whatever secret she was guarding. He was tempted to use her own memory drill on her.

"Are you sure?" he asked, reluctant to believe anything she said. "What happened while I was away, Naomi? Dammit, I want answers!"

Naomi replied by lifting her nightie over her head and dropping it on the floor. Pressing herself against the demon, she quieted him with a kiss. "Stop talking," she whispered against his lips. "If you want to help me, do this for me."

And he did because for the first time ever, he felt a trifle of guilt penetrate him, just enough to give her whatever she wanted.


Four Weeks Prior

Naomi was still reeling from her meeting with Malachi and his army of angels in the morning after. She met with them and talked about her plans for their return to Heaven and for Metratron. She felt like she was on a campaign trail. They'd initially been a suspicious lot, but at least they did seem receptive to what she had to say, especially since she wasn't trying to slaughter them. By the end of the meeting, their suspicions were only slightly less so, but she figured that any kind of progress was, indeed, progress and immediately began thinking of the next steps she needed to take. From them, she learned even more about Bartholomew's monstrous brutality that included orders to kill the Penitents. It made her sick. While she received a lot of her information from angel radio and from Crowley's demons who picked up tidbits here and there, she discovered there were lots of things she hadn't known. She was quite stunned when the full scope of Bartholomew's cruelty was unveiled by witnesses to his violent acts. He was bloodthirsty and dangerous and absolutely unrepentant about it, making any potential meeting between him and her especially dire since she couldn't defend herself without her grace.

Though she was running on a couple of hours sleep, as usual, she felt energized by her sliver of success. After all those weeks planning and waiting, she was finally putting her plans into action. She was doing something to help her brothers and sisters. This was the first step to reclaiming Heaven for themselves. It would, by no means, be an easy journey. She still needed to figure out if there was a way to reverse Metatron's spell, and to do that, she would need the angel tablet. She'd yet to decide how to go about searching for the tablet since the information contained on it was highly sensitive and could potentially lead to disaster; the present state of the angels was a fine case in point. Falling into the wrong hands could mean a death sentence for them all, so she would have to be extremely selective about whose help she solicited. Acquisition of the angel tablet would have to be a discreet operation.

It would take time before she completely won over Malachi's angels, but she was fairly certain in the end they would be on the same side. Bartholomew's faction, however, had her concerned. They were angels whom she'd mentored and supervised in Heaven, but now they felt like strangers to her. She had never been one that was quick to kill, being a methodical being, and it alarmed her that they were so easily given to slaughtering their own brothers and sisters. They had to have been following orders from Bartholomew, as she refused to believe that they would kill of their own volition. As she learned more and more about the civil war involving the angels, the more she'd regretted ever having a hand in Bartholomew being her second-in-command. What a gross error in judgment! Based on the intelligence she'd received from the angels in Malachi's camp, and after being thoroughly apprised of his actions, she was nearly convinced that Bartholomew was too dangerous to live. The others had to be protected from his savagery. But she needed to meet with him first before deciding on the appropriate action to take.

She'd gone through a half a pot of coffee and had worked through most the morning, having accomplished a great deal, before deciding to wake her daughter. Usually, Naomi was insistent upon Zoë waking up at an early hour, however she soon discovered that it was much easier to work when the child was sleeping. There were no interruptions and Naomi could give her full attention to her work. After their last major spat the week before, Naomi stayed true to her promise that she would set aside time every day for the girl, which seemed to please Zoë. Even if it hadn't pleased her, Crowley's threat of "do not make me come back" still hung heavy in the air, and Zoë didn't want to find out what would happen if Crowley was forced to return. Naomi really didn't want to find out, either, and she was used to his threats! She and her daughter reached an agreement which seemed to satisfy both parties: Naomi would spend more time with Zoë and in return, Zoë would be more understanding and try not to bother her when she was working because her work was extremely important.

It didn't mean the child liked it, but both Naomi and Crowley had put the fear of God into her and made it blatantly obvious that any misbehavior on her part would not be tolerated. Though she still threw an occasional tantrum, they were few and far in between; and when she did interrupt her mother, it was generally for a cuddle or a quick kiss, and then she was promptly on her way. Even though it meant being interrupted, Naomi relished those little moments.

Upon entering Zoë's bedroom, she was aghast at the scene before her. Clothes, books, and other miscellaneous things were strewn everywhere. Walking through the room was like walking through a maze. She shook her head. How many times had she told her daughter to clean her room? Six, seven times? She might as well have been talking to the wall for all the good it did her. The last time Zoë had "cleaned" her room, everything on the floor had ended up under the bed. When there was no room under her bed, then everything got thrown into the closet. Carefully stepping around the items that littered the girl's bedroom floor, she made it to the bed without sustaining any injuries, like the memorable Lego incident of last week. Naomi swore the indentation from the small red Lego piece could still be seen on the bottom of her foot. It had possibly been more painful than having her grace cut out of her.

After making it safely across the room, she sat on the edge of the bed and softly stroked Zoë's hair. "Darling, it's time to wake up."

The child grunted and pulled her blanket over head. "Thirty more minutes. ... No, an hour."

Naomi laughed and lay down beside her, her arms finding their way around her daughter. "It's already nine-thirty!"

"I'm a growing girl; I need my sleep," she mumbled grouchily through the blanket, but secretly happy to have her mother to herself for these brief few minutes.

"I'll make you chocolate chip waffles."

At this, Zoë poked her head out, her wild hair flying every which way. "I thought you got mad at Mr. Crowley for letting me eat those?"

"Well, it won't hurt to have them once in a while." She kissed her daughter's forehead, starting to get up, but Zoë arms came out from beneath the blanket and fastened around her mother.

"No, not yet." She snuggled into her mother's warm body, and Naomi was content to lay there savoring the feel of her cuddly girl.

Eventually, the two of them made their way downstairs to fill themselves with chocolate chip waffles. Moments like those had more than once made Naomi wonder if she shouldn't just pack her things and disappear somewhere with Zoë and let the angels and demons battle things out amongst themselves. She was devoted to her role as a warrior of Heaven; she was the guardian of souls, and she had sworn to protect them, as well as her home. Lately, she'd found herself thinking about leaving it all behind for a life with Zoë, a life that would be safe and free from persecution. A life where she wouldn't have to hide her own flesh and blood. She could surrender her grace permanently, bind Zoë's powers for good, and they could lead a peaceful life, like the Penitents had tried to do. However, the thought of missing Heaven caused her such grief. She was already so homesick for it. Ever increasingly, she felt she was having to choose between her daughter and Heaven.

Such thoughts always brought her unimaginable shame. She should be only too willing to play a part in this fight for Heaven. Shouldn't she be the one to reunite the war-torn angels? Perhaps humanity was a dangerous thing, because the things she experienced since handing over her grace had seduced her into thinking of surrendering her wings for mortality; she was falling for an existence that wasn't strictly regimented by rules or following orders. She was treading a path that had led other angels astray. Namely, Castiel.

Zoë made the first waffle, cutting a piece off the corner for a taste test. Naomi let her daughter feed it to her and was rewarded by a toothy smile.

"Mmmm, delicious, sweetheart." Zoë beamed proudly at the compliment.

Free will. Is that what she was practicing here with her child, her darling child conceived outside the strict order of rules she was supposed to follow? Whose existence went against the natural order of angelic beings? Naomi had chosen to keep her and to raise her; was that not an act of free will in and of itself?

As she helped her daughter make breakfast, they were interrupted by Nadia's appearance in the kitchen, which annoyed Naomi. Seeing the look on the angel's face, Nadia smirked, "That douche Bartholomew decided to send you a message, after all." She handed it over to Naomi who instantly forgot her annoyance and wasted no time in reading it.

Dearest Naomi,

What a pleasant surprise to find out that we were all horribly mistaken about your demise. This relieves me considerably as I have always thought of you as the most valuable member of the garrison. As my mentor, I benefited exceptionally under your tutelage and learned a great deal about doing what has to be done in the best interests of the angels and Heaven.

I am extremely apologetic that I had to miss your last meeting, but something unavoidable came up. I'm writing in hopes that we can meet soon to catch up and reminisce about old times. I'd also like to discuss some issues important to both you and me. I have been very busy trying to track Metatron and ensuring the angels are safe from unwanted outside influences who mean to do them harm. It is difficult to know who to trust these days; it's even more difficult to find that you have enemies amongst your own brothers and sisters.

I wish to talk to you as soon as your schedule allows. Please let me know what day and time works for you.

Regards,

Bartholomew

"He feels threatened. He's found out about my meeting with Malachi and his angels and wants to interrogate me," she snorted, reading over the letter a second time. Though, she wasn't quite sure what exactly he meant by "reminisce about old times." She was suspicious and hoped he was referring to their work together.

"Not that I really care to get involved in angel business, but I've been hearing all kinds of things about this Bartholomew guy. The word on the street is that even demons are impressed by his methods. He's picking off angels as easily as Abaddon kills demons. He's already killed off the Penitents."

"I know," answered Naomi, her eyes sweeping over the letter thoughtfully. "Malachi told me. It's very unfortunate."

"Kind of brilliant, actually. Annihilate the competition until you're the only one left," Nadia remarked in admiration. "Who would've thought angels could be so...demon-like? Where did he learn such a fine strategy?"

"Me."

The demon had to forcibly close her mouth, which had been gaping open in disbelief. She let out a low whistle. "Damn. Crowley sure knows how to pick 'em."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Naomi demanded.

"Nothing. nothing. I mean, we knew you were kind of badass after you shoved that drill into Jonas's head, but this give us a whole new perspective on things."

"Killing innocents is not 'badass.' There was a time I thought Bartholomew might make a good second-in-command, but I realize now that I made a mistake. A terrible mistake." She shook her head and put the letter away.

"What are you going to do?" Nadia asked, her curiosity piqued.

"If I know Bartholomew, he's paranoid. Paranoid that I will usurp his position, even though it is rightfully mine; paranoid that I will kill him to get it back, because I am a tangible threat. As long as I'm alive, I'm certainly capable of doing so. He's also paranoid that I'm working with Malachi and will guide him as I have guided Bartholomew.

"I think it would be best to meet with him right away, but on my own terms, of course. I don't trust him for one minute. He wouldn't think twice about killing me to get me out of the way."

"Crowley won't like that. He left us explicit instructions-"

"Crowley doesn't need to know," Naomi interjected testily, irked the demon had evidently ordered his minions to babysit her.

She had to act quickly, quickly enough to soothe Bartholomew's conjectures. If she waited too long, she would look suspicious and he may retaliate, thinking that she was already in too deep with Malachi. Without her grace, she had to take every extra precaution. She couldn't let her loathing of her former protégé get in the way of her negotiations. She would be firm, but accommodating. After all, tempers were already flared, and Bartholomew had shown he had a knack for unconscionable violence. It was true, she had taught him a few brutal tactical measures, but they were only to be used as a last resort, to save their home, Heaven. Revisiting her previous decisions regarding Samandriel and Castiel, she solidly reiterated to her conscience that she wouldn't have done anything differently. In fact, she was rather bitter that she let her emotions get the better of her and cloud her judgment; it was the reason the angel tablet was lost and for the expulsion from Heaven. She should've killed Metatron when her sword was pointed at his throat. She should've taken the angel tablet by whatever means possible, Dean Winchester and Castiel be damned.

Sighing, she had no time for regrets. Everything she did, she did for Heaven and for the angels. Bartholomew wasn't defending a home; he was protecting his power. He had to be stopped. She wouldn't make the same mistakes again. Emotion would not tug at her heartstrings. Sentimentality would not blind her from the task at hand. Bartholomew could either accept that she was the one giving orders, or be executed.

Hastily, she responded to Bartholomew's message, keeping it short and to the point with a hopeful tone. With no other option, she invited him to her house. There was no way she would agree to meet him anywhere else. She also urged him to come alone, saying there were classified matters to discuss in an attempt to appeal to his arrogance to get him to go along with it. Seeing how she was rendered defenseless without her grace, she would need the home field advantage.

After scrawling her name at the bottom of the paper, she stuffed it into an envelope, ordering Nadia to take it straight to whatever poor angel was forced to do Bartholomew's bidding. Naomi was certain it wouldn't take long for him to respond. In the meantime, she would wait.

And think of what to do with Zoë when Bartholomew came to call.


Present

Crowley collapsed on top of her, his damp skin clinging to hers. He was loathe to move off her, so he stayed put, her breasts pillowing his head. Their labored, asynchronous breathing slowed and eventually became one. She buried a hand in his hair, holding his head tenderly against her as he remained embedded in her. In all his and Lola's couplings, he couldn't recall them ever engaging in an act as intimate as this one. To his knowledge, and he confessed that there were lots of things he couldn't remember over the last several weeks due to blackouts, they never spent moments simply enjoying being next to one another. With Lola, fucking had one purpose and one purpose only: to gratify himself and attempt to assuage the lust that accompanied the high from his blood consumption. Once he got his fill, it was over. However, tonight it had been purely about comfort, and he'd sought out Naomi. He was still struggling with the fallout from the addiction: the pain, the embarrassment, the constant battle of trying not to think about blood, trying not to imagine the pleasure that came from injecting it into a vein and basking in the subsequent high that would overtake him. Once he retrieved the First Blade, there had been nothing stopping him from returning home. He didn't trust himself to be anywhere else; sobriety was still relatively new.

As he felt Naomi bring her hand up to gently scratch his head, he was glad he'd killed Lola. The bitch couldn't even begin to compete with Naomi. Naomi wouldn't have sold him out. She may have tried to smite him, threaten to kill him, punch him...but she'd never play dirty and sell him out. Of course, she'd been woman enough to stand up to him when she was displeased about something, a thought which filled him with admiration. She also wouldn't have used him as a means self-advancement, as Lola did. He didn't know why he even got involved with that cheap whore in the first place. Each time he shot up, he wanted to ride the high for as long as he could, and Lola was conveniently nearby and willing to boost the intensity of the experience. Not that the sex hadn't been enjoyable; she had been really quite satisfactory.

But she was no Naomi.

Calling Lola a bureaucrat in the midst of a powerful orgasm just wouldn't have had the same effect as it did on Naomi. Her anger intoxicated him and pushed him over the edge; no other lover could do fury like Naomi did, not even Lilith. She was his intellectual equal; Lola was a blasted idiot, pretty to look at, but severely lacking in conversational skills and militaristic strategy. Thinking of that twit's betrayal made him furious all over again.

His thoughts made him restless and Naomi brought her hand to his back to stroke it soothingly, quieting his movements. He might've made a contented noise right then, like a kitten with too much milk in its tummy, but he'd never own up to it. Naomi noticed, though.

"...are you purring?" she asked, not sure what to think of the little noise Crowley was emitting.

"No. ... Move your hand a little to the left," he demanded.

She arched her eyebrow and moved her hand slightly to the left, scratching his shoulder blade.

"Down...just a bit...a little more...slightly to the right...right there! Oh, yes..." his deep voice rumbled.

"I should make you get off me," she uttered while continuing to take care of his itch.

"Mmmm, but then you'd lose your warmth."

One of her legs was wrapped around his; she brought her heel up to rub against his calf. "That's what blankets are for."

He lifted himself up and found her mouth. Drawing it in for a kiss, he pulled her into his embrace. "Blankets don't do this, pet."

"Pet?" she laughed.

"Mmmmm," he answered with an affirmative hum. He pressed another kiss to her chin.

She caressed the side of his face and looked into his eyes. "I'm not your pet."

"You could be." He ran his finger along the length of her clavicle. "Holy mother of sin, Naomi, I'd give you anything and everything if you agreed to come live with me. You could wash your hands of those pricks you worry yourself over. I'd make you Queen of Hell, darling. You have the temper for it, you know. There's a violence in you just begging to be unleashed."

"I would never agree to rule Hell. It's bad enough that I'm working with demons. It's all so unclean." She wrinkled her nose. Despite her humanity, she still carried the arrogance of angels.

"Hypocrite. Collaborating with demons is unclean, but fornicating with them isn't?" He burst out laughing at her hypocrisy which earned him a frown. "You stubborn, infuriating woman. You've fucked a demon on and off for several thousand years and, might I add, gave birth to a child with no daddy in sight, and you're worried about getting sullied from working with demons?" Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss to each knuckle. "You'd definitely do well in Hell. Anything you asked for would be yours."

"I don't need anything from you," she snapped and wrenched her hand from his grasp. "And I don't want anything from you."

He rolled off her to lay on the empty side of the bed, rubbing his face with his hand in annoyance. "Really? I suppose that's why you practically shoved your tongue down my throat earlier."

"I did not, as you so eloquently say, 'shove my tongue' down your throat," she objected prissily. He didn't have to see her to know she was blushing.

"I hadn't been in bed more than a minute when you accosted me and used me to satisfy your own depraved urges." Merrily, he awaited her response, knowing he was getting a rise out of her. Her breathing had become more audible, and he could feel her frustration with him mounting. She was so predictable.

"You are the one who entered my bedroom-my bed-uninvited!" exclaimed Naomi, her perturbation only too obvious.

"Judging by what transpired, I don't think you minded all that much," he grinned.

All the sudden, a pillow hit him in the face. Naomi moved to get up, but Crowley grabbed her hips and dragged her back into bed. "Let me go, you pig!"

"On one condition: you tell me what went on while I was away. I want to know how you got that bruise. I want names, Naomi." He looked at her in all seriousness as she fixed him with a hard glare.

"I told you I took care of it," she hissed.

"I'm sure you did, but I'm an equal opportunist and I want my chance. What happened?"

"Nothing!" she insisted, her glare getting more lethal by the second.

He sighed, releasing her. She rolled onto her stomach and reached for the blanket to pull around her, but Crowley had other plans. Swinging a leg over her body, he sandwiched her between his knees, supporting himself on his arms which were placed on either side of her arms. Dipping his head, he took advantage of her naked back, forming a wet path along her skin with open-mouth kisses. He could feel the goose pimples erupt beneath his lips. Traveling further up, he nestled his face into her neck.

"It's not working," she mumbled crossly into her pillow. He knew it was a lie.

"Damn. Here I thought we could resolve our differences with epic hate sex." He nipped and nibbled on her neck. It brought a cocky grin to his face when he felt her move ever so subtly to give him more access. She never could resist him in bed. Dirty angel.

"Didn't we just do that?"

"No. That was welcome home sex," he informed her as he showered kisses over her shoulders.

"And did you feel...properly welcomed home?" She craned her neck so she could see his face.

"Very much so...until you started being a twatwaffle."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously and her mouth disappeared into a thin, taut line of displeasure, causing him to chuckle.

"Oh, did the uptight bureaucrat get her knickers in a knot again?" he teased.

"You're so vulgar," she growled, incensed at his use of the 'B-word.' Raising her hand to hit him, he intercepted it, turning it to graze the inside of her wrist with his lips. "I hope Abaddon finds you and forces you to watch as she razes your kingdom and steals your throne. I'm sure she has a nice rack in the pit with your name on it. If she's lacking in ideas of what to do with you, I can give her a few suggestions. I've had several thousand years to think it over."

This was promising. He was feeling intoxicated again and he hadn't even indulged in a hit.

"If she does that, love, I'll be sure to watch when she makes you bow at her feet, you and all your little feathered friends. You won't have any time for pride when you're busy being her bitch, having your feathers plucked out one by one. I'm not sure the climate of Hell will agree with you. It can get rather hot, and you run just a few degrees below frigid."

"Maybe I wouldn't be so frigid if I were adequately satisfied. I keep waiting to be wowed by the extra three inches you supposedly sold your soul for."

"Funny, I don't remember Lilith complaining."

She swiftly twisted her head, her flashing eyes meeting his amused ones. Snarling, she became even more livid due to the fact that Crowley used his weight to keep her immobile. He recognized her jealousy; it had always been latent, laying just out of sight, but he was an expert in knowing how to coax it to the surface. Angels were supposed to be above all those petty human emotions; not this one.

Inflamed and properly antagonized, Crowley let her loose. He lay back, grinning, intent on enjoying the ride.


Three weeks ago

Turned out the intervention Moose and Not Moose had in mind was simply another stint inside the bunker. As the poisonous fire tore through the veins of his vessel, he was handcuffed to a chair in a darkened room. Even through the cloudiness that muffled his thinking and comprehension, he was still perceptive enough to be utterly pissed off at this unfortunate turn of events. Wasn't it bad enough the Winchesters made him into a junkie in the first place? Had he not suffered enough with Abaddon trying to claim his territory? On top of that, many of his once-loyal follows were deserting him. He would get even with them. Everyone who betrayed him would pay dearly, just like that whore Lola.

He decided he wasn't going to put up with such maltreatment; he was the fucking King of Hell! He'd protest! Those Winchesters would be nowhere without him! They'd most likely be dead without him around to save their asses. They wouldn't be alive if it weren't for him! The whole situation was infuriating. They left him in solitary confinement to battle his demons, the demons they gave him. He craved another hit and his body ached in withdrawal. Every muscle seized and contracted painfully. It felt like hundreds of little spiders with their prickly, needle-like legs were ceaselessly creeping under his skin. He wanted to rip it open and pull them all out. If only he could have another hit of blood.

He fidgeted, shaking his leg until he was sure it would fall off. His hands trembled, and alternating waves of hot and cold racked his body. When Sam and Dean checked on him the next time, Crowley launched his complaints, seething about his mistreatment. After reminding them of his value in finding the First Blade, they gave in, moving him to a more comfortable spot in the bunker, but not without bitching and moaning about it.

It wasn't up to the usual standards of his accommodations; the alcohol was cheap and there wasn't anyone to order around and do his bidding, but the porn was promising, and soon he made himself at home. He remained handcuffed, but at least there was reading material. The Scotch took the edge off his withdrawals symptoms, allowing him to focus on things other than the spiders traveling beneath his blanket of flesh. He thumbed through the pages of one of Dean's magazines, leering delightfully at the Asian beauties that stared back at him from each page.

Dean sat on the couch across from him, opening his third beer of the night. "Try not to get any of the pages sticky. Those are vintage."

"Duly noted," Crowley stated dryly, taking a sip of the inferior Scotch.

"So..." Sam started, not really sure what to say.

"What's wrong, Moose? Cat got your tongue?"

"Of course not. It's just...what do I say to a blood-addicted king of Hell that is currently reading my brother's porn?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something," he snarked.

There were a few minutes of silence as Sam combed his mind, grasping for something to talk about with the brother he was presently estranged from. "So, about the First Blade-"

"Man, I don't want to talk about the blade! That's all we've talked about since waking up this morning. Let's talk about something else for a change," Dean blasted irritably, taking a swig from the bottle he clutched in his hand.

"Ok, then you choose the topic, since mine aren't to your liking," Sam glowered and flipped distractedly through the book on the coffee table.

"Fine. I will." Both Sam and Crowley waited for Dean to come up with something. He was thinking hard, they could tell.

Crowley rolled his eyes, "Oh, for the love of-"

"Shut your cake-hole, Crowley," Dean warned. "All right, fine. You wanna talk about something... So, Crowley, where do you run off to when you're not with us, jerking us around and being a total douche?"

"Do I have to answer truthfully? I mean, is this a game of Truth or Dare or can I just make something up?" He sat down the magazine he'd been so engrossed in and clasped his hands in his lap.

Sam glanced up from his book. Why? Is where you go so embarrassing that you have to lie to us about it?"

Crowley started to protest when Dean interjected. "Hey, we're just talking, man." He got up to fetch another beer.

"No, I simply don't feel like I owe you two an explanation of what I do after hours," he replied sharply.

"Douchebag," countered Dean, who narrowed his eyes at the demon. "Should've known better than to expect any kind of answer from you. If you want to be a conversation-killer, be my guest. We were just trying to talk like nice, normal people."

He didn't know if it was the blood still in his system which was now mixing with the cheap alcohol, or if after all these weeks, he thought he might have a normal conversation (even if it was with these troublesome lads) that extended beyond sex positions and lingerie, but he sighed deeply and grumbled, "All right, I met somebody...so to speak." Peeking up, he saw Dean's eyebrows disappear into his hair.

"You met somebody?" asked Sam, apparently shocked by his confession.

Dean was equally as shocked. "What? Like a chick?"

"I don't think she would appreciate being referred to as a 'chick,'" he said before taking a sip of his drink.

"Wow, you really took that 'I deserved to be loved' thing to heart, didn't you? Well, who is it? Inquiring minds want to know!" Dean pressed, earning himself a glare from Crowley. "You're not talking about that Lola chick, are you?"

"Absolutely not!" he scowled. "I'd rather forget that unfortunate lapse of judgment, if you please."

"She wasn't that bad. She was kind of hot...for a demon."

"So, who is she?" Sam was interested, too, in knowing who'd been brave enough, or stupid enough, to take Crowley as a lover.

"Not that it's any of your business..." Both Moose and Not Moose were sitting on the edge of their seats, leaning in closely lest they miss something. They looked at him in eager anticipation until he gave in. "Fine. It's Naomi."

Dean spat out his beer, coughing uncontrollably. "You're screwing Naomi?"

"Watch your mouth!"

"Of all the hot chicks in the world, you chose Naomi?" Dean shook his head, unable to fathom the King of Hell with the menace of Heaven. "We're talking about the same Naomi, right?"

"There's only one. Thank God for that," Crowley admitted, exhaling his relief.

"Wow. I mean, you and Naomi..." Chewing on this bit of new information, Dean took an extra large sip of his beer.

"We've been an item on and off for several thousand years. I would have voted to be more on than off, but then she has a mind of her own and I don't have the patience for long-distance relationships."

Sam shook his head and snorted, "The part of you that's not a douche is oddly endearing."

"Oh, shut up!" barked Crowley.

"I'm surprised you haven't killed each other yet," observed Sam. It was a reasonable observation as the only interactions he and Dean had witnessed between the angel and demon had been filled with death threats and near smitings.

"Wait, she's alive?" Dean finally noticed. "I thought Metatron shanked her ass her a while back."

"Believe me, she's very much alive," Crowley grinned.

"Crowley, did you have anything to do with that?" Dean asked suspiciously. When the demon didn't immediately answer, Dean pushed him, a warning tone to his voice. "Crowley?"

"Not that it's any concern of yours-"

But Dean interrupted, slamming his beer bottle on the table. "Man, didn't you learn anything from Pet Sematary? 'Things that are dead should stay dead.' Remember that kid-what was his name?-Gage? Came back as a nasty son of a bitch after his dad buried him in that voodoo cemetery. Took out the neighbor and his own mom." Shuddering violently, Dean gulped the rest of his drink.

Rolling his eyes, Crowley responded, "Well, if that's the case with Naomi, which I doubt, I can't honestly say that I see much change in her."

"That's true, Dean. She was pretty lethal even before she died," agreed Sam.

Dean shot an expression of contempt at his brother. "If she starts acting all weird and going after people with scalpels, we're taking her out."

"Wait a bloody minute!" the demon began to protest. "How else is she suppose to torture others? If I knew you were going to be all judgy, I'd have never told you about her!"

"Hey, we're just looking out for you. We don't want to have to save your ass again when you drunk dial us and we find you with Lola the dead demon on the floor of your hotel room."

"Something tells me that Naomi won't be too pleased to find out about Lola," Sam snickered, looking at Dean, who joined in.

"That's why neither of you will tell her," Crowley growled through his teeth. "Lola was a junkie's mistake. Nothing more."

"Sounds like true love," Dean let loose with a drunkard's laugh and Crowley wanted to punch him. "Maybe we can go ring shopping tomorrow. You can buy Naomi a ring and propose to her." He laughed even harder, slapping his knee and knocking back another one.

Crowley looked on unamused, but Dean's needling was infectious and Sam followed suit. "Yeah, and you can get an engraving on the inside that says, 'One ring to rule them all and in the darkness bind them.'"

Dean suddenly stopped laughing, and appeared to be quite perplexed.

Sighing, Sam attempted to explain, sarcasm shining through his words, "It was in this really great book... Oh, never mind. ... So, Crowley, when you and Naomi get married, will the ceremony be in Mordor?"

The first thing Crowley planned to do once he was released from his restraints was give those Winchester boys a swift kick in the ass. He had to confess, though, this conversation made him miss Naomi, and he never missed anybody. Already he'd been gone longer than he'd planned. He wanted to find the blade and get the hell away from the Winchesters. Closing his eyes, he imagined what she'd be doing right this moment: probably working, a half-filled coffee cup sitting on her desk, her shoes kicked off under her desk, and telling Zoë for the third time to go brush her teeth and get ready for bed. When he arrived home, he wanted to crawl into bed next to her and stay until she forced him out.

Holy mother of sin, he was becoming alarmingly domesticated. What happened to a life filled with torture and sin? He seemed to have traded a part of it for babysitting an eleven-year old and shacking up with her mother. Groaning, he felt well on his way to sainthood. He had to stop this or else risk sullying his reputation.

Quickly, he made a mental note to bring an orchid home with him. Naomi had expressed an interest in gardening a few days before he'd left and asked him to bring her home an orchid. He'd have to find a way to smuggle the orchid home without anyone seeing him.

He was still the King of Hell, after all.


Present

They'd been laying in silence for the past half-hour, the anger that had fueled their earlier passion having abated. After climbing off him, she curled up at the edge of the mattress, just out of Crowley's reach. He became increasingly peeved as Naomi refused to divulge the details of her distress. Obviously, something had happened while he was away, something significant, for he had never seen her so defeated. The sex hadn't ever been about the connection, but she'd been completely dissociated that last round. He thought he'd seen her fire returning during their banter, but at one point, she'd looked down at him and her face was filled with so much pain. He'd seen similar expressions on those he'd tortured on the racks in Hell. Biting down on her bottom lip and clamping her eyes shut, her actions became mechanical. Her touch was cold. How he wished he could peer into that mind of hers; he wanted to know what she was fighting. She cried out when she came, but it wasn't the lust-filled tones he'd become accustomed to hearing. It was the howling of a wounded animal. It was obvious she was exorcizing a few demons of her own.

What was he supposed to do? He could scream at her, threaten her, but she would still stubbornly hold to her secrets. Now she wouldn't even face him.

Not knowing what else to do, and irritated that his plans for relaxation and mindless sex were shot to hell by her non-compliance, he rose from the bed and collected his clothes. He half-hoped she'd reach out to him, tell him to stay, but she remained silent. It angered him. With everything he'd been through, she could've been a bit more enthusiastic about his presence! Stomping out of the room, he slammed the door behind him.

He would bet money that her troubles were entirely angel-related. She probably got the bruise fighting with one of them. It wouldn't be a surprise. Maybe she finally realized what assholes they really were.

Not that he cared.


Four Weeks Prior

She had put Zoë to bed an hour earlier than usual, explaining to the child she had a very important meeting and not to interrupt her. It was an uphill battle getting the girl to go to bed, an incident that had elicited a few threats and exasperated sighs from the tired and overworked mama. Naomi kept looking at the clock, fervently praying her offspring would relent and go peacefully to sleep. Thinking she could breathe easily once Zoë was in her room was a mistake, for the girl then wanted a glass of water. Then she needed to use the bathroom. Then it was too hot in her room. Then she wanted a story.

Naomi began to wonder if there was any cough medicine just laying around that she could shove down her daughter's throat.

Finally, Zoë had to be escorted to her room by her mother, but she didn't go without a fight. It was only after Naomi had dragged her to her bed, yelling at her the whole way, did the little girl acquiesce through her tears and get under the blanket. When she leaned in to kiss Zoë goodnight, the child turned away and threw a pillow over her head.

"We will talk about this later," Naomi stated in a low, eerily calm voice before turning off the light and shutting the door. Zoë knew no good things could come from that tone. She was in big trouble.

Naomi hurried to the bathroom to freshen up before her meeting. She smoothed her hair and straightened the jacket of her new suit, deciding she liked what she saw in the mirror. Feeling that she needed a new image, she replaced her usual grey suit with a dark blue number: shorter, more fitted pants that reached to just above her ankle with a matching blazer. Underneath the jacket, she wore a white tie-collar blouse with a bow that sat at the bottom of her neck. She'd even put on the earrings Crowley had gifted her a few months back when he took her to Vegas. She had been going for a "chic, but intimidating" look and when she gazed at her reflection, she couldn't help but feel she'd succeeded.

There was just enough time to ensure that her daughter's room was protected by sigils when Bartholomew arrived. He was ten minutes early, much to her chagrin. It was his subtle way of letting her know who was in control. Or so he thought. Naomi received him cheerfully, all the same.

"Naomi, it's been a while," he greeted her, a smile unfolding across his face.

"Bartholomew," she responded curtly. "I'm glad you could make it this time."

"I hope you're not still angry over my absence from the last meeting." He took a step closer. He was a little too close for comfort and she had no room to back up as her legs were already against her desk. "I must say, you're looking well, Naomi. Love the suit." His eyes drifted greedily over her body, and he didn't even try to hide it.

"Let's get down to business, shall we?"

"I already know what you want. You want me to stop fighting with Malachi and you want to be leader of our modest army, am I correct?"

Of course he would know why she had summoned him here for a meeting. Bartholomew wouldn't have shown up without an angel or two checking her out, digging up any information on her. And then there was that message she had Jophiel deliver to him that wasn't short of death threats.

"Our numbers are dwindling, Bartholomew. What were you thinking, killing off the Penitents? They weren't hurting anyone. I am disappointed in you."

"Oh, I am so sorry to hear that, Naomi. I never meant to disappoint. Especially since you spent so much time training me, staying after work to make sure I understood the policies and procedures to the letter. Remember those times?" He was unleashing all his charms.

She felt her face flush, but refused to be led away from the purpose of the meeting. "I was fooled by you; I thought you would use your role as guardian of Heaven of protect your brothers and sisters, not kill them, but you don't care about the angels or Heaven, do you? You only care about yourself," she spat heatedly.

That provoked a strong reaction from him. "I have been gathering intelligence on Metatron since the fall. I have many of my angels looking for him, sending back detailed information on his last known whereabouts. I get reports every 24 hours on him. Is that the mark of someone that only cares about himself?" he asked testily.

"Yes. You need to protect your power. He thinks that I'm dead, so naturally he's going to come after you next."

"And we'll be ready. We're going back to Heaven, one way or another."

"We won't if we keep killing each other. There will be no one left to go back!" she exclaimed.

"You'll have to talk to Malachi about that. We don't attack unless provoked," he returned coolly.

"Is that so?" She crossed her arms. "Explain to me what the Penitents did that warranted their execution. They never did anything to you."

"If they don't stand with me, then they're standing against me. I don't have time to deal with splinter groups. This isn't a popularity contest, Naomi. This is a battle for life or death and I'm not going to stand by and see the last of us killed by that thug, Malachi, or let some fringe group weaken us. Wasn't that the first lesson you taught me: kill or be killed? You said so yourself that a little brutality is needed sometimes to establish order."

"Not against your own kind! Not when there are so few of us! When I said that, I didn't have this kind of situation in mind!" she exclaimed, horrified that he would try to justify such harsh measures.

"Don't act all innocent. I've seen you shove drills into angels' heads to extract information. You began killing humans at will to try and lure Castiel out of hiding. Life means nothing to you when there's something you want. You taught me well, Naomi," he grinned wickedly. "But I don't want to talk about this anymore. I'm going to remain in charge, however I'm willing to share my power with you. It can be just like the old days." Taking a couple of steps closer, he was standing almost nose to nose with her. He reached out to stroke her cheek softly and she flinched. "You're one of the best angels, Naomi. You're utilitarian in nature, smart, and a natural strategist. We could find Metatron in half the time it would take us if we continue at it alone."

"I will not work with a murderer," she hissed, the anger rising in her.

He dropped his hand and chuckled. "Interesting since I've been hearing stories about you having two demons in your employ. Isn't that a bit like the pot calling the kettle black?"

"Demons don't masquerade as anything but what they are. As angels, we are supposed to protect and defend, but somewhere along the way, you and your angels confused yourselves with demons."

His eyes glittered dangerously and opened his mouth to say something, however, a crash from downstairs interrupted him.

Naomi could feel her heart thudding against the wall of her chest. Her first thought was that Zoë had gotten out of bed. She pushed past Bartholomew and headed for the door. "Don't move; I'll be right back," she warned as she all but bolted from the office.

From her bedroom, Zoë heard the crash from the living room below and the clicking of her mother's heels on the stairs, most likely going to check it out. Quietly, the child tiptoed to the door, opening it wide enough to look around. Not seeing or hearing anything, she stole into the hall and sneaked to the door of her mother's office, which was open just a crack. Ever since the last meeting her mother had, she'd been curious as to what went on during these occasions. Mr. Crowley was always talking about how awesome her mother was, but she'd never gotten to see firsthand what she was like. She always had to go to bed before the meetings, and it wasn't fair! She wanted to see her mother in action just once.

Through the crack in the door, she saw a tall, blonde man in a suit like her mother wore. She leaned into the door a bit harder than she meant to, and it creaked open, catching the man's attention. When one curious face met another, Zoë gasped, not knowing whether she should run or approach him. Thankfully, he smiled and beckoned her to come inside. She did so, but not without some trepidation.

"Are you an angel?" she asked uncertainly.

"What do you know about angels?" he laughed.

"My mother's one."

A strange expression appeared on his face as he stared at her intently, which made her a little uncomfortable. He focused on her face a little too long, as though he recognized her. However, she had never seen him before in her life.

"Naomi is your mother?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes."

"What's your name?" he inquired as he led her over to the couch. He sat down and she followed suit.

"Zoë," she almost whispered, unable to look away from him. "What's yours?"

"Bartholomew."

"Have you known my mother for a long time?"

"Yes, you could say that. She's remarkable, your mother. We were just having a business meeting and we were interrupted." He didn't stop smiling, and Zoë felt somewhat reassured. She even gave him a small, shy smile back.

"She always has business meetings after I go to bed. I just wanted to see what went on, that's all," she explained, her eyes pleading for a little understanding from this stranger.

"I can understand that," he chuckled.

Suddenly, she perked up. "Do you have a blade? Mama and Mr. Crowley have blades, but they won't let me see them. They told me I was too young for things like that. Mama always tells me I'm too young, though."

"Mr. Crowley?" he asked. He listened to her attentively, taking in every word. The interest he showed in her made her want to keep talking. It had been a while since she received any undivided attention like this.

"Yup! He's the King of-well, I'm not supposed to say the H-word. But it's the place where bad people go when they die. He can't really go there right now, because some ginger's really, really angry and is trying to take it from him. Do you know him?"

"I'm well acquainted with the name. So, he's been staying here?"

"Yeah! It's been really fun. He acts like he doesn't like me, but I think he does."

"Does he like your mother, too?"

"I guess so," she shrugged. "They fight all the time; they should just go on a date already and get it over with."

"I see," he said, nodding his head. "Would you like to see my sword, Zoë?"

Excitedly, she responded with a nod and couldn't help but jump up when he placed the blade in her hand. She swung it in the air, as though she was fighting with an invisible assailant.

"I wish I had one of my own!" she remarked in wonderment.

"Pity that your mother won't let you have one."

"She treats me like I'm five. She definitely puts the mother in smother."

Bartholomew laughed again. "You know, sometimes parents do things that aren't right. Just because they're your parents doesn't mean that what they do or say is right."

"What do you mean?" Zoë asked curiously, returning to her seat on the couch beside the angel.

"It's obvious to me that if your mother is an angel, then you're an angel, too, correct?"

"I don't know. She told me that we'd talk more about it when I'm older."

"Ah. What does your father have to say about it?"

Hesitating, she looked away. She hated being asked about her father. "I don't know what he thinks. She won't tell me who he is."

"That must make you feel terrible! I'm sure it hasn't been easy for you."

"It hasn't. One time, I knocked a girl's teeth out because she wouldn't stop making fun of me for not having a dad. But then I got in trouble with my mother."

"But you were only defending yourself!"

"That's what I said!" Zoë slowly warmed to the angel. She liked him. He was easy to talk to and he agreed with her! There weren't many people who sided with her against her mother; even Crowley took up for her mother! This man saw her side of the story and, best of all, he didn't treat her like a child.

"This is what I meant when I said that parents aren't always correct when dealing with their children. Your mother treats you like a small child and keeps things from you. Do you think that's the way a mother should treat her child?"

"No! I wouldn't treat my child like that!"

"Of course not." He leaned in closer and whispered, "Would you like my help in finding your father?"

Zoë's mouth was as open as her eyes were wide. She'd told herself that she didn't care who her father was, but now that someone was offering to find him for her...she felt differently. Maybe her father wouldn't treat her like a baby. Maybe he wasn't the type to work all the time; maybe he would take her places and pay attention to her.

Maybe he would be everything her mother wasn't.

"You would do that? Do you-do you know who he is?"

"Let's just say that I have a few ideas. I'll check into it and let you know what I find out."

Her face split into a huge grin. "Mama's not going to be happy."

"We don't have to tell her. What she doesn't know won't hurt her. It'll be our little secret, all right?"

"Ok. I promise not to say anything to Mama."

"Good girl," he smiled. Though Zoë had become more comfortable with him, the way his gaze was transfixed on her made her nervous.

So engrossed were they in their conversation that neither one heard Naomi return to the room.

When she approached the doorway, she froze. The sight of her daughter with Bartholomew sent a shock of fear through her. She forgot to breathe and tried to retain her steely composure though she was intensely angry and afraid. Instinctively, Naomi ran to her daughter and pulled her against her and away from Bartholomew. Crouching down until she was eye-level with the child, she searched Zoë's face; the child became disgruntled.

"Mama, what are you doing?" She tried to push her mother away to no avail. Naomi held steadfastly to her, not letting go.

Placing her hands on either side of Zoe's face, she told her sternly, "Go to your room and stay there. Do not leave your room for any reason. I will be there shortly. Go!"

Zoë finally freed herself from her mother's grip and sighed, "I have to go to bed now, Mr. Bartholomew. It's was nice meeting you." Throwing her mother a mean look, she turned and exited the office. Naomi watched her go to her room and shut the door behind her before closing her own door and turning to Bartholomew.

"Stay away from my daughter," she demanded darkly.

"I seem to have hit a sore spot. She was simply curious, that's all. Of course, her curiosity has made me curious." Standing, he put his hands casually in his pocket.

Naomi swallowed the lump in her throat. The security she'd worked so hard to procure for her little daughter was crashing down around her. It took tremendous control to keep her body from shaking. "Don't you dare hurt her or I'll kill you. I swear I will kill you, Bartholomew."

Laughing at her, he spoke, nonplussed, "I don't think you're in a position to make demands on me, Naomi. I just can't believe it! A child! And here I thought Abaddon was playing one of her tricks when she came around asking for your whereabouts because she wanted your child. I lost three angels to that plague of a demon. And now I find out she was telling the truth all along..."

Naomi felt as though she'd just been doused with ice water. "When was this?"

"Oh, a couple of weeks ago. She was quite persistent in her search. Why would that be, Naomi?"

"I can assure you I have no clue."

"It couldn't be because of who her father is, could it?"

She glared at him, remaining tight-lipped.

Seeing that she wasn't going to say anything else on the subject, he continued, "Don't worry; Zoë is safe. For now. But it all depends on you."

"She better stay that way."

"I can insure her safety," he said. He moved his hand to rest on Naomi's hip. She glanced quickly down at the hand then back up.

"You better remove your hand before you find yourself without one," she sniped.

Not only did he not remove it, he pulled her to the couch. "First, you're going to forget any notion of taking over the faction. I'm in charge, and I'm going to stay in charge. It doesn't mean that I don't find you an important asset, however. I know all about your meetings with Malachi. You will prove invaluable to me. Second, I want things to go back as they were between us, Naomi."

"Get your hand off me," she seethed. "You are an angel, Bartholomew. You were sworn to serve and obey. The power has corrupted you!"

"Let me get this straight. When it benefited you, our little arrangement was acceptable, but now when I want it, I'm corrupt. Your logic amazes me, my dear," he laughed.

Tears gathered in her eyes; she desperately tried to appeal to him. "Malachi will never agree to join you as long as you remain in charge. Don't you want to go home? Because I do! Think of the lost souls who are lingering in the veil. Think of the prayers gone unanswered. We need to find a way back to Heaven, and quickly. To do that, we need to unite."

"And we will unite. Or they will die. That's where you come in, dear. It'll be your responsibility to win over Malachi and his thugs. You're doing such a good job already. Keep doing what you're doing."

"It won't work," she let out a sob, tears streaming down her face. "Bartholomew, think about what you're doing."

"I've thought about it. My mind is made up. You will do this, Naomi, or put your daughter's safety at risk. You don't want every angel or demon out there looking for her, do you? Such a beautiful, bright child. I wouldn't want anything to happen to her," he simpered.

Naomi smacked him as hard as she could, knocking him backward on to the couch. He withdrew a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and held it to the cut on his lip. "Don't be mad. As long as you do what I tell you to do, everyone stays safe."

"You're a bastard, Bartholomew. I hope someone kills you soon."

"You were always a passionate one, Naomi." Folding the handkerchief neatly, he returned it to his pocket. "Must be why you allowed yourself to be a demon's whore. I know about Crowley. Zoë told me. Well, she told me enough; I just connected the dots."

The color drained from Naomi's face.

"That's right. If pushed, I will reveal your secrets; I will unravel you, and when I'm done with you, you'll have absolutely nothing. As I understand it, Abaddon has a price on Crowley's head. I won't hesitate to deliver him on a silver platter to her if you don't do exactly as instructed. I never thought you'd sink so low as to be Crowley's whore," he sneered, standing up.

Letting loose a caustic laugh, she spat, " It's not nearly as low as what you're doing. You are ruining our chances to return home and you're threatening an innocent child; as if that's not bad enough, you're also a murderer."

He gave her his biggest, phoniest smile. "Well, it has been a most pleasant evening, dear. We'll be seeing each other soon. You can count on it. We'll talk more later about my plans for Malachi and his angels. I'll send for you." He kissed her cheek, making her nauseous. "You should put a babysitter on retainer. I have a feeling I'm going to be wanting to see a lot of you. By the way, how old is Zoë?"

"Eleven," she stated curtly, her tone flat and defeated.

A slow grin spread across his face. "You don't say. How very interesting."

And then he was gone.

Stifling a sob, Naomi ran across the hall and burst into Zoë's room. She was still awake, staring at the ceiling.

"Is Mr. Bartholomew gone?"

"Yes, dearest." She approached the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress. She drunk in the sight of her precious daughter who was so very dear to her.

"I like him."

Those words made her flinch.

"Sweetheart, I may have to go away on business from time to time."

"Is that why you were meeting with him tonight?" the girl asked.

Naomi bit her lip and nodded. "I don't know how long I'll be gone during these...trips. But while I'm gone, know that I'd rather be here with you."

"Yeah, right."

"Zoë, please..." she pleaded.

"I knew it would only be a matter of time before something else took you away from me."

"I'm sorry, Zoë. I really am." She tried in vain to choke back her tears. She failed her daughter. She had failed to keep her safe; she had failed to keep her happy.

"I guess it doesn't matter. It's nice to know I come first. I guess your job was always and will always be more important."

"It's not. It never was, sweetheart," she said softly.

"Whatever." The girl rolled over onto her side, facing the wall.

"Zoë, look at me."

When her daughter didn't move, Naomi forced her to face her, causing the girl to emit a little disgruntled noise. Holding her chin firmly in her hand, Naomi spoke directly to her, unwavering in her gaze. "Whatever happens...know that I love you more than anything in this world and beyond." She would give up Heaven for her, but it was too late. She was entangled in Bartholomew's mess.

Zoë studied her mother closely, but remained impassive. Naomi placed a tender kiss on her forehead and went to her own room. Crawling into bed, she wept into her pillow into the early morning hours.


Present

To say he was in a foul mood was an understatement. After pouring himself a drink and killing a couple of demons in an attempt to compensate for the shitty night he was having, he banished everyone from the basement and sat brooding at his desk. Upon hearing the door to the basement open with the groaning of its hinges, he was ready to kill whomever it was the second they crossed into his line of vision. He was surprised, however, to raise his eyes and be met with the sight of Naomi standing at his door in her white satin robe, her hair over one shoulder.

"What do you want? I'm busy," he pouted.

"I need to talk to you," she implored, her voice barely above a whisper. She approached his desk.

"Oh, but I don't think there's anything to talk about." He got up and went to sit in the more comfortable armchair.

"Crowley, please... You said you'd do anything for me. Did you mean it?"

He responded with cheek, "There are conditions, love. You know that. You don't get anything for free."

"I know," she exhaled in resignation. Sitting on the floor at his feet, she tipped her head up to regard him beseechingly. With a deep breath, she continued, "I need your help."

"Well, go on," he said, now highly amused. Naomi wasn't one to grovel, and he was enjoying himself watching her do so. She'd finally been knocked off her pedestal. Seeing her haughtiness drowned by this disgusting display of humility was overwhelmingly satisfactory.

"Crowley, I need my grace. I will give you anything," she took another deep breath, "do anything."

"Nice try, sweetheart," he chuckled, but stopped when he saw the earnestness and the fear etched into her face. "Why do you need your grace?"

"I can't tell you. Please trust me on this."

"Dammit, Naomi!" he bellowed, slamming his glass on the end table. "This is getting ridiculous! Just tell me what is going on!"

"I can't. Listen to me! It's important that I get it back, that is all I can tell you. Crowley, I have never begged before, but it is imperative that I have it restored to me. I am offering you...anything."

He appeared to mull it over; she never broke eye contact with him. The hopefulness that settled across her features made him uncomfortable. However, he was a demon. He couldn't give something for nothing. Naomi would be breaking her contract.

And it would have to cost her.

"Anything?" Rubbing his beard, a slow grin materialized. "Are you sure about this? After all, it would be a binding agreement; I won't let you out of it."

"I'm sure," she replied without any vacillation.

"In exchange for your grace, you agree to live in Hell. With me. Forever."

The first thing out of her mouth was predictably, "What about Zoë?"

"She will be taken care of, of course."

"Will I get to see her?" She swallowed loudly.

"I'm surprised at you, Naomi," he feigned offense. "Of all the things that I am, heartless is not one of them. Figuratively, that is."

The prospect of Naomi being his forever was positively titillating.

"I agree to these terms, that is, if I get to keep my daughter."

He snorted, "Just try to keep her away." She smiled faintly at that. He pulled her into his lap and whispered into her ear, "I keep it in my jacket pocket."

He nodded in encouragement and she slipped her hand into his jacket, feeling around for the vial. Furrowing her eyebrows together, she moved from one pocket to another, then proceeded to check both pockets for a second time. Crowley became concerned when she failed to find it. He could've sworn he had put it in his left pocket.

"That's strange; I always carry it with me. Couldn't take the chance you'd get your hands on it." Naomi removed her hand and he checked the pockets himself.

"Well, it's not there," she snapped impatiently and growled dangerously. "I need my grace, Crowley. Where is it?"

"Easy, easy! We'll find it, love. Don't think I'd so readily let you go. Go back to bed and I'll search for it."

"I'm not going anywhere until I find it!" She jumped out of his lap and began tearing apart his office, much to his consternation.

"Be careful! I have some priceless artifacts in here and if you break them-"

Naomi whipped around and was suddenly in his face, her teeth bared like a dog ready to attack. She was so close that she sprayed his face with spit as she yelled angrily through bared teeth. "If I break them, what? You better hope that I don't break you!"

"Threats won't get you anywhere!" The words barreled out of his mouth, hurling in a ball of fury toward her. He didn't think she had any right making demands on him when he had endured so much while she stayed home working from a damn desk. And he was actually doing her a favor by returning her grace to her instead of holding her to the terms of their original contract!

He told her as much which only served to further fan the flames of her rage. She responded by dragging him up by the lapels of his jacket and shaking him. "You better find it soon because if you don't, I will kill you. Do you understand me? Don't mess with me, Crowley. I will end you right here!" She threw him to the floor in disgust and he watched her take off up the stairs.

Picking himself off the floor, he straightened his tie and readjusted his jacket. "What a bitch."

"I heard that!" came the response from upstairs.

"Good!"


One Day Prior

Naomi had to leave Zoë with Nadia and Jonas whenever she was summoned by Bartholomew to Buddy Boyle Ministries. She was loathe to do so, but she was left with very little choice. She wondered where the hell Crowley was as he'd been gone five weeks and she hadn't heard a word from him. It concerned her and all kinds of thoughts ran through her mind. Had Abaddon caught up with him? Were Sam and Dean holding him for some reason? Crowley kept his comings and goings a secret, so she really had no idea what could be keeping him. All she knew was that she wanted him, needed him to come home.

Bartholomew had been steady about requesting her presence. When he showed up to escort her to his headquarters, all she could think about was how she wished she could ram her blade through him and watch the light leave his eyes. But so many things were riding on her cooperation. Zoë's safety and the future of the angels were all dependent upon her keeping her mouth shut and going along with Bartholomew. Crowley's safety had also been threatened; Bartholomew had warned her he'd alert Abaddon to his whereabouts if she didn't do exactly what he wanted her to do. And Crowley had her grace, something Bartholomew had discovered right away after their first meeting.

On her first visit to Buddy Boyle Ministries, he'd showed her the programs they were using to track Metatron and the map they'd used to plot the locations of his sightings. Bartholomew had held a meeting to reacquaint her with the rest of the angels she once led, and allowed her to sit in on his meetings. Rarely did he ask her advice or opinion, but she was intent on giving them anyway. He'd give her an indulgent chuckle and change the subject, which never failed to make her burn with contempt and bitterness. It didn't take long to figure out why she was really there, and it wasn't to exercise her skills or to give her insightful input.

It was to warm Bartholomew's bed.

She was repulsed. She tried to think of every possible way to get around it, to avoid getting involved once again with her one-time protégé (another grave mistake on her part). He wanted to show her who was running things now, and to punish her for getting involved with Crowley again. A part of Naomi thought that perhaps deep down, buried beneath his lust for power and domination, he genuinely cared for her in a twisted sort of way. Perhaps the memory of their affair had made him nostalgic. It was thoughts like these that kept her from getting violently, physically ill during their encounters. The old adage "lie back and think of England" was never more true, and so during these times, she thought about other things. Mainly Crowley. She imagined what she'd say to him when he finally came home; she imagined his hands on her instead of Bartholomew's. She hated to admit it, but she missed the bastard.

Zoë had become once again disobedient, and the threat of punishment did nothing to persuade her into good behavior. Though Naomi had been spending more time with her, due to Batholomew putting the kibosh on any plans she may have had for the angels and rendering any work useless, the girl had resumed her feisty, stubborn, out of control nature. Her daughter fought her at every turn and there wasn't enough Craig in the house to aid Naomi's escape from reality at the end of these rough days.

Bartholomew was also very interested in Zoë. One day, Naomi noticed that when he came to pick her up for one of their "meetings," he and her daughter were appearing to be in the midst of a very serious conversation. She didn't like it.

"Zoë," she called as she slipped on her heels.

Rolling her eyes, Zoë walked into the living room where her mother was preparing to leave. "What?"

Naomi affectionately put her hands on either side of her child's face. "Pick a movie and we'll watch one when I come home, ok?"

"Who says I want to watch a movie with you?" Zoë snapped. Then, getting a little braver, she intoned coolly, "You won't even tell me who my father is."

Naomi pushed the girl into her office and shut the door. Sitting the child down in a chair, she stood over her authoritatively. "Zoë, I never told you who your father was because...because I was afraid he'd try to use you. I was afraid he'd try to turn you against me, use you for his own horrible agenda. I love you so much and I've devoted my life to keeping you safe. The identity of your father could put you at risk, a risk that I am not willing to take."

"That doesn't make it right. I deserve to know who my father is so I can make the decision for myself."

Naomi narrowed her eyes, studying her daughter critically. This didn't sound like Zoë at all, and the person she'd normally blame for putting these kinds of ideas into her head hadn't been seen in five weeks.

Bartholomew.

Naomi pondered on the thought and paled. It was the only thing that made sense. Every time Bartholomew had come to collect her, she'd always found him talking with her daughter while she prepared to leave, and Zoë had been virtually unmanageable afterward.

Weakly, she said, "We'll talk about this later."

"Of course. It's always later."

"Zoë, please not now," Naomi breathed, a little shaky.

"Not now. Later. I don't even know why you had me if you never want to talk to me or tell me anything. Everyone else is more important than me."

Naomi snapped and grabbed the girl roughly by her shoulders and shook her. "That is not true! You are the most important thing in the world to me. I would do anything for you. Anything!" She had to choke down the lump of emotion in her throat. She turned away before Zoë could see the tears that sheathed her mother's eyes.

Without another word, Naomi left.

Not long after their arrival at headquarters were Bartholomew and Naomi pulled into a meeting concerning the latest Metatron sighting with another angel named Rachel. Tucking the thought of her daughter out of the way and into a corner of her mind was difficult for her, but she had to in order to get down to business.

"What are we doing to track him?" Naomi asked.

Rachel spoke up, "We have approximately twenty angels who are responsible for following up on leads typically provided to us by humans. They question the humans and investigate the claim. So far, no angel has come into close contact with him. The trouble is that if Metatron doesn't stay in the same place for a long period of time, we can't get an angel on him fast enough."

"What about activating a tracking device in a piece of equipment he uses? Does he use a cell phone? Laptop? Anything that can be tracked?"

Bartholomew chuckled, "Naomi, dear, I have it covered. You needn't worry yourself over the details."

"I can handle the details, Bartholomew," she tossed back. "Don't forget that I was your boss long before the pyramids were built. I know what I'm doing."

"And I appreciate your extensive experience and expertise, but I've got it covered."

"Well, I say you don't have it covered. There are opportunities for improvement in this plan of yours."

"A tracking device? Really, Naomi? It's all so basic. Is that what Crowley taught you? Sounds like a plan concocted by a filthy demon to me. Is that all you learned from being Crowley's whore?"

Rachel arched her eyebrow at the exchange.

Naomi sniped, a pleased smile playing on her face, "Of course not, I'm saving the best for last. And you better believe that he taught me all the best tricks."

Red splotches appeared on his skin and he shot up from his chair. "That's enough. Rachel, that will be all today. And you!" He pointed rancorously at Naomi. "I'll call for you in a minute." With that, he stormed out of the room.

Naomi sighed. The other female angel

"I know you're not here in any official capacity," started Rachel in a low voice, fearing she would be overheard by someone, "but your idea of a tracking device was good. I can use that. I can't believe I hadn't thought of it before. I'll have out intelligence agents look into whether he is using any kind of devices like the ones you mentioned."

Naomi answered with a smile, but it was sad, and Rachel could see that. The light had gone out in her blue eyes.

"I'm young and very inexperienced. The only reason I'm heading the intelligence unit is because Bartholomew killed the last guy. I'm trying to avoid the same fate. Will you help me? Without Bartholomew knowing, of course. If he found out..."

"Of course, Rachel," Naomi answered. "We will get Metatron one way or another. He won't escape punishment for what he's done to us."

Rachel nodded. "Thank you, Naomi. I'll-I'll be in touch. I promise to be secretive." Gathering her things, she all but flew out of the meeting room before anyone became suspicious of her conference with the other angel.

Naomi didn't have to wait long to be summoned to Bartholomew's office. The encounter was no different than the other times. Thankfully, it was over as soon as the other ones. There was no fun, as there was with Crowley. She thought back to the last few times she and Crowley had slept together. They'd talked and laughed through their banter. Even the anger he stirred in her was preferable to the nausea Bartholomew stirred in her.

Wow, she thought, she must be really desperate if all the sudden Crowley seems like the better option.

Though Crowley and she had a history of not getting along, he didn't treat her condescendingly as Bartholomew did. If anything, Crowley treated her as an equal. There were times he didn't like her very much, there were times he absolutely hated her, but he always considered what she said.

Relieved when Bartholomew had finished, she turned away from him while he recovered. She was lost deep in her thoughts of Crowley and the war between the angels when her phone started ringing. Curiously, she searched through her jacket pocket and found it, wondering who it could be. She soon found out when the name of the caller splashed across the screen.

Zoë.

"Zoë?" she answered. "Sweetheart, is there anything wrong?" She felt Bartholomew press himself against her back and lay a hand on her hip. His mouth ghosted across her neck.

"No, Mama. I just...I just wanted to know which movie you wanted to watch..."

Naomi's heart felt like it would burst. "Any movie you want. We'll put on our pajamas and make popcorn and eat ice cream and watch whatever movie you want."

Zoë let out a sob and Naomi wished she could reach through the phone and comfort her. "I'm sorry, Mama. I just feel so confused. I miss Mr. Crowley so much."

"I know. So do I," she said with a longing in her voice that didn't go unnoticed by the other angel in the bed.

"I don't know why, but I feel so mad all the time. And I don't know what to think anymore," she cried pitifully, making Naomi's heart ache for her little one.

"Oh, Zoë, we'll have a talk when I get home, all right?"

"You won't be mad at me?" she sniffed.

"Of course not, my darling. If you can be honest with me and tell me exactly what's on your mind, we'll work out whatever is bothering you. I promise. I'll make it all better."

That only made Zoë cry harder. "Can't you come home right now?" she petitioned her mother.

"I wish I could." Her chest constricted and her eyes stung. "I'll be home later and I'll be yours all night."

"All right, Mama. … I-I love you so much."

"I love you, too, Zoë. Goodbye for now."

She couldn't hang up on her daughter; instead, she waited for the click from the child's end that terminated the call before placing her phone on the nightstand.

"And how is Zoë?" Bartholomew inquired, kissing her neck, which irritated her.

"I don't want you near my daughter ever again. I don't want you asking about my daughter. I don't want you thinking about my daughter."

"I don't know what you mean. Zoë and I get on so well. I've taken quite a liking to her. What on earth could I have possibly done to be banished from talking to the child?"

"She's upset, and she wasn't upset until you started showing up. Stay away from her or, so help me Bartholomew, I will put an end to your miserable existence because the only thing that matters to me right now is my daughter."

"That's rich of you, giving me orders when you have no grace and you're sleeping with a demon."

Raising her chin up defiantly, she shot back, "That bothers you, doesn't it? That I would choose a lowly demon over you. It's saying something, Bartholomew, when the King of Hell has more integrity than you, an angel of Heaven. If I had to choose sides right now, I would choose his because he's ten times the man you will ever be."

Furiously, he grabbed her and struck her hard. It took her by surprise, but she quickly recovered and the two angels struggled until she'd managed successfully to roll on top of him. Holding him down, she unleashed all her anger on him as she proceeded to hit him repeatedly, letting loose the fury of a mother. The final blow left him bleeding and unconscious on the bed. There was a reason she had been the angel in charge in Heaven. There was a reason other angels were loathe to cross her. She had proven herself a warrior, and had been rewarded for her battlefield prowess with guardianship of the souls in Heaven.

For a brief second, she contemplated ending him. She almost did it, but there would be consequences beyond what she was prepared to deal with at the moment, especially without her grace. Grudgingly, Naomi allowed him live. This time.


Present

Lola.

He cursed the name.

Who else could've taken Naomi's grace? She'd had ample opportunity. No telling what she got up to when he was blacked out or high out of his mind. And if she'd had it, there was a very good chance that the little vial of grace was now in the possession of Abaddon.

He groaned. Since this angel had reappeared in his life, he noticed that it had gotten exponentially problematic.

It would be a lot simpler if he just left. It was a straightfoward, easy solution. Nothing was keeping him here. He could get a piece of ass anywhere. Lola had proved that.

He snarled at the thought of her.

He didn't owe Naomi a damn thing. She should be grateful he brought her back from the angelic afterlife. As King of Hell, he didn't cavort with those monsters of Heaven. He hated them as much as they hated him! He was a bloody demon! He didn't owe anyone anything, and he could come and go as he pleased!

Reenergized and determined, he bounced up the stairs two at a time, to go find Naomi. He'd give her a piece of his mind! And then he'd tell her he was leaving! He had better things to do and places to be.

Finding Naomi in the kitchen, he marched right up to where she was sitting, gnawing on the snack in her hand.

She looked up at him and drew in a breath. "As angry as I am with you right now, and despite the inclination to kill you... I've missed you."

This scene wasn't going as planned. She was supposed to fight with him, perhaps pull a butcher knife out on him. She wasn't supposed to sit there in the silk robe that outlined every delectable contour of her body nibbling on a cookie. The little speech he practiced on his way from the basement to the kitchen about how he was leaving and didn't need an angel up his ass was slowly dying in his throat.

Damn her.

"Zoë needs you, Crowley." Then she added cryptically, "I may not always be here to protect her."

"What do you mean? Is this about what transpired while I was away?" He examined her critically for any hints as to what happened, but as before, they weren't forthcoming. She appeared as stoic as ever. He didn't like the sudden mysterious turn the conversation took. Naomi wasn't normally so vague, and this talk of her not always being there concerned him.

And pissed him off.

"What the hell is going on? Stop with all the ambiguous talk, darling, because it's really getting on my nerves."

She considered him for a moment, then told him reticently, "Abaddon is looking for Zoë. I can't tell you more than that."

"How do you know this? Who told you this?"

"I told you, I can't say anymore than that, but I know this person to be telling the truth."

"Why is she so interested in Zoë?" he mused.

"I imagine it's because of what she is."

"Well, what is she?" he asked, his frustration climbing.

A ghost of a smile played upon her lips. "I'll tell you in due time. Promise me you'll protect her, Crowley. I want a deal."

To say that Crowley was incensed was not quite capturing the full scope of his rage. Abaddon would pay. Dean Winchester would drive the First Blade right through her, putting an end to her once and for all. He would do it himself, if he could. For the first time, he wished Cain had given him the mark instead of Dean because never felt more like ending that bitch than right now.

"It will be a cold day in Hell before I let Abaddon get her angry, ginger hands on Zoë!" he fumed.

"I want a deal, a contract," Naomi insisted. "I need it, for my own peace of mind. I need to know that if something happens to me, you'll protect her." She broke down in tears. "I went through so much to have her and she's been my joy all these years. Don't let anyone hurt her."

He looked into her eyes, which glazed over with tears. She was frightened, which was not like the angel he knew at all, and the anger that had been boiling inside him erupted. Grabbing her, he kissed her fiercely, sealing their deal.

Of all the things he'd planned to do, making a contract with Naomi wasn't one of them. His list of things-to-do was growing: find Naomi's grace, kill Abaddon, reclaim his throne, kill everyone who betrayed him, find the person who hit Naomi, beat the shit out of that person, make a contract with an angel to keep her brat safe, make sure said angel doesn't die, kick Dean and Sam Winchester's asses just because...

And find an orchid for Naomi, as she'd been wanting one.

They broke apart and a breathless Naomi immediately went to the refrigerator to gather ingredients for breakfast. She cleared her throat and licked her lips, changing the subject. "So, where've you been? Five weeks was a long time to be gone. Did you get into any trouble?"

Walking over to her, he helped her with her apron. "Uh, no, darling, no. It was all kind of dull, really. Dull and boring. Nothing much happened..."