Marian woke with a jolt of pain. She was lying flat on her stomach on a carpet, and someone had their hands on her back where her spine had been pushed and pulled out of alignment. The hands were demon-hot and radiated the slight unpleasant tingle of demonic energy.
"What's taking so long?" David's voice asked from somewhere on her right.
"It's an art, not a science," Crowley grumbled from right above her. "Ah. Got it."
A single vertebra notched back into place. It felt like someone had punched all the way through her back and out her stomach: Marian was pretty sure her entire body left the ground from the ensuing jolt of pain. Reflexively, she tried to curl into herself, but the remaining damage to her back made it impossible.
Crowley squeezed her shoulder. "Try to stay still, angel."
"Asshole," Erica muttered.
"Oh, I'm sorry, would you like to have a go?" the demon snapped. "I'm reconfiguring bone and nerves, it's going to hurt her! Try it yourself, and you'll end up paralyzing her at best."
But Erica wasn't going to back down that easily. She'd just spent a day being taunted by a coven of witches, and she had a lot of residual anger she hadn't gotten out. "This is what you do. You hurt people. It doesn't even matter to you. You don't even care that you're hurting her!"
Crowley was on his feet before she could blink, his eyes flaring into a murderous red. "That's a bold assumption, Abercrombie. I'm not the bad guy here."
"Crowley," Marian hissed through gritted teeth. She understood that Erica was always going to fight with him, but did they have to fight now? She was still in a lot of pain, and she really didn't want to throw up on a rug that was one inch away from her face. "Erica."
She opened the palm of her hand in invitation for Erica to grab it, hoping to hold her attention and keep it away from the demon. Erica took the bait, grumbling under her breath, and Crowley's hands returned to the protruded vertebrae in her back. Though she couldn't look up at them, she could feel them glaring daggers at each other.
The remaining bones were slotted back into place one by one. She still felt a bit sore and banged up, and she was fairly certain she'd gotten a concussion. Crowley helped her to a seat on a small couch and sat down next to her, keeping his arm around her shoulders. This really pissed off the others, especially Erica, who sat across from them on the edge of her seat and kept fiddling with a knife while they talked.
"Where are we?" Marian asked, looking around the room.
"You remember Tom Jefferson? Helped us with those vampires back in Indiana?" David said. "This is one of his places. Hunters use it all the time if they're working or just passing through. It's real close to the coven we were hunting."
Marian spent a few minutes catching up with her friends, trying to steer the conversation away from herself and Crowley. Erica, however, was determined to steer them right back, thinking she was sticking up for her friend when she couldn't stick up for herself. Not helping matters was her concussion, which was making her sleepy. She kept nodding off while the others were speaking, waking up when her head landed on Crowley's shoulder. Crowley radiated smugness while Erica glared daggers at him.
She realized she had to be the one to suggest they leave. Her friends didn't want her to go but didn't want Crowley to stay, understandably. If Crowley said they had to leave, Erica would be up in arms, berating him for taking her away again: If Marian said it first, it would be harder to (no pun intended) demonize him.
"I think I should head home," she said quietly. "I'm just gonna keep falling asleep on you guys. Freakin' witch hit my head too many times."
Erica looked a little betrayed and a little relieved. She was evidently excited at the prospect of getting farther away from the king of the crossroads. "Are you sure you'll be okay?"
Marian smiled. "I'll be fine. I always am."
She was able to stay awake long enough to change and wipe some of the blood off her face, but she felt like a narcoleptic, about to pass out when she stayed still for longer than a few seconds. But when she laid down to actually sleep, her head started pounding and she felt like the room was tilting sideways: feeling nauseous, she sat back up.
Crowley sat down next to her and motioned for her to turn toward him. "It's worse when you lie down?"
She nodded. He stared into her eyes, which was a little unsettling, then asked her to look in different directions and had her follow a pen light.
"You've been hit on the head a lot, haven't you," he said, pressing his palm to her forehead. She felt the pins-and-needles tingle of his energy, but she felt no different when he removed his hand. He looked into her eyes again and scowled. "Hmm. I thought that would work. I guess there are some things I can't fix."
He adjusted his position so that he was leaning back slightly against a plush throne of pillows and slid his arm around her, pulling her into his side. She was able to rest her head comfortably on his shoulder, remaining upright but still able to relax. As she closed her eyes, Crowley pulled the blanket up to her shoulder.
The demon felt unusually tense next to her, and kept fidgeting, drumming the fingers of his free hand against his leg. Marian imagined that he must have work to get back to—some sort of clean-up regarding the witches, probably, plus all the usual crossroads stuff. Or maybe he was upset that she'd ignored his orders to avoid trouble, fighting the witches without his help. If they hadn't been her friends there, she might have run back outside and asked him what Plan B was, but damnit they were her friends—she wasn't going to leave their fates to chance. Yes, she'd been out of the hunting scene for a while, but killing monsters was like riding a bike—you never lost the feel for it. Right? Confident in her decision, she was prepared to tell Crowley why he shouldn't be mad at her (he's a salesman—you have to sell it, like a pitch. The end result is that you got your witches, all your demons are fine; you're fine, I'm fine; so mission accomplished. Sure, it got a little hairy for a while, but when has a hunt ever gone as planned?).
"You have to go back?" she asked.
"No. I have to make a call, but other than that I can stay here with you." He kissed the top of her head. "I shouldn't have asked you to go."
"You told me to go back if there was a problem."
"Hah. I knew you wouldn't listen to me. You're a bleeding heart-you'd do anything for your little friends." He shrugged. "I could have found someone else—another human that owes me a favor, or one of the werewolves Lillith keeps on payroll."
"Why did you ask me, then?"
"Because other people are idiots." He smiled as she chuckled. "I sent you because I didn't think I would be putting you in danger. If I'd known they'd be camping out where the warding was, I never would have gone to you first. I thought it would be a cakewalk for you, and then I could impress you by rescuing your friends."
Marian's head raised cautiously, the movement slow enough to lessen the effect of the vertigo. "You wanted to impress me?"
"I'm always trying to impress you, angel. You just have very high standards. Or one standard, rather, which is 'don't be a demon.'" He tapped her nose with his finger, like this was just some adorable personality flaw instead of a perfectly reasonable life model.
She looked away from him, staring at her feet hidden under the blanket. Crowley leaned into her, his breath hot on her ear as he added smugly: "But you still like me anyway."
A tingle started in her ear and ran down her neck and spine. When she'd first made her deal with him, she would have written off such feelings as revulsion (and in the beginning that would have been correct), but now…
She shivered, and the tingle dissipated. She leaned away from him and his infernal smugness, stubbornly refusing to agree but unable to contradict him.
She tilted her head as she leaned, and the vertigo returned with a vengeance, as if her inner ear had been removed and thrown in one of those Bingo cages where the balls bounce around.
Crowley pulled her upright again, then sat her up against the back of the bed. Her face had lost a little of its color, and most of her thought process had now turned to 'how do I not puke on myself?' He put a hand on either side of her head, and she tried to push him away, not wanting to throw up on him either. He kept his hands in place, though, his palms lightly covering her ears.
"I got it wrong last time," he said. "I know how to heal you now."
The feeling of demonic energy flowing through her ears and into her head was not pleasant. It was like someone had taken an extra-long Q-tip, covered it in sandpaper, and lit it on fire before shoving it into her ear. But when the feeling passed, so had her nausea and vertigo: He'd mojo'd her inner ear.
"Better?"
She nodded.
He kissed her forehead. "I really do need to make that call." He kissed her again, on the mouth, feeling immensely pleased with himself when she didn't tense up or try to back away. Maybe he had impressed her, after all. Or maybe she'd just been hit really hard on the head.
Marian held her arm out to him, wrist facing up. "You need blood?" She was familiar with the concept of demonic phone calls: While Hell may have invented the long-distance plan, there was no plan long-distance enough to reach its depths, and demons relied on blood for communication.
Crowley pressed his lips to her wrist. He ran his tongue over her skin, tasting her. For a moment she thought he was going to bite her: His teeth grazed her skin, but then he drew back.
He had planned on using one of the witches' corpses to make the call (he'd arranged for his hound Juliet to retrieve them for him), but fresher blood would work better. "It would make things easier. You don't mind?"
She shrugged, and tried to pretend that she hadn't been just a little turned on by his kisses.
Because she hadn't.
"You don't need that much. It's fine."
In moments, Crowley had procured a knife and a bowl. He cut across her wrist in one quick motion, so smoothly that her brain barely had time to register the bite of the knife. When enough blood had trickled into the bowl, he healed the cut and ported down to his office to contact Hell.
Marian stretched out on the bed, still feeling sore from getting tossed around by the witch. She'd just managed to find a show that was at least semi-amusing: It was called "Hunters of the Strange and Supernatural," and it looked about as real as any other Bigfoot-and-ghost-hunting show that had ever been made. Three men with the videography skills of a golden retriever were touring America's most haunted houses, investigating 'cursed objects,' and following leads on 'monster sightings' in rural towns. The episode Marian had found showed the 'hunters' checking out a house that claimed not only to be haunted, but had the mirror made famous by Bloody Mary. Marian happened to have seen the Bloody Mary mirror before, and this was not it, though someone had cleverly painted bloody handprints across the back of it. She doubted the house was haunted at all, but it would be funny to see what these amateurs did in the face of a real ghost if it was.
"That's taken care of," said Crowley, startling her as he appeared back in the room. "I can go back to being Lilith's least-despised demon for another day." He snapped his fingers and his suit was replaced by silk pajamas.
He laid down next to her and slid his hand around the back of her neck, drawing her into a deep kiss. Though she returned the kiss, her body remained tense, and she flinched when he ran his hand down her back to pull her closer.
Crowley drew back, trying to read her mood. "Should I leave you alone, angel?"
She shook her head. "I'm just…Really sore. It's been a while since I've been thrown into a ceiling, and now that the adrenaline's worn off, I feel it. Everywhere."
The demon's face lit up: She still wasn't repulsed by him. Technically, it was his fault she was hurt, but he could fix that. "Sounds like you're in need of a full-body demonic massage," he said, sitting up. He gently pulled her shoulder down, rolling her onto her stomach, and pushed her shirt up to her shoulders.
"I'll be fine, honestly—"
He circled his thumbs between her shoulder blades, releasing a soothing heat into her muscles as he moved. "You've been so helpful to me," he purred. "Now let me take care of you."
Marian couldn't think of argument against that, and his hands did feel good. Their heat radiated past her skin, and she wondered if he was using some kind of demon mojo to warm and relax her bruised muscles. His hands moved down along her spine, then out to the worst knots and bruises on the meatier parts of her back.
"What the devil are we watching?" he asked, noticing the crazy people on the TV.
She laughed. "Ghost hunters."
"They're going to get themselves killed. Well, not there, obviously; that's fake, but still…Oh, look at that!"
Marian picked her head up and looked at the screen. The men had uncovered a real summoning circle for demons. "Oh."
"This could get interesting."
"I doubt they'd show it on air if they actually got killed by a demon," Marian said, a hint of disappointment in her voice. It wasn't that she wanted to see anyone killed, but the show should be a little more exciting than three men spooking each other with their own EMF machines (which were crap EMF readers, by the way—she'd tried out the ones they used on the show, and they were better at picking up a microwave than a ghost).
"You know what this is, boys?" one of the hunters said. "It's a pentagram!"
"Really," Marian scoffed. "And that thing in your hand is a video camera."
Crowley chuckled. "I never pictured you as one of those elitist snob hunters."
"What? I'm not! Look, if you're gonna make a show about something, you should know what you're talking about. You shouldn't be surprised by everything that happens to you."
He finished with her back and she pulled her shirt back down. She was about to sit back up when he grabbed her leg.
"What—"
Crowley dug the heel of his hand into her hamstrings, moving from the base of her ass down to the back of her knee. She bit her hand to stop from screaming at him, but a pitiful whine still managed to escape her throat. She probably should have stretched more often—the backs of her legs were always super tight, which made ironing them out super painful.
"I'm fine—"
"Yes, you said that before. You really should stretch more." He repeated the motion, dragging his hand down the top half of her leg. It was less painful this time, but still unpleasant. He brought his hand up again, but this time he dug in with his thumbs, making little circles all the way down, and releasing that soothing sauna heat into her muscles. It felt…Not bad.
Then her found her I-band.
"Shit."
"Do you really not stretch at all?" Crowley asked, calmly holding her down with one hand as she attempted to twist onto her side so he couldn't reach it.
She stopped struggling when she realized he wasn't going to give up. Each time he ran his hand over the long band of tissue, it was less painful. "I think you just like torturing me."
"It wouldn't hurt so much if you'd taken better care of yourself."
"Have you ever known a hunter to take care of themselves?"
"Absolutely not." He moved on to her calf, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Then: "Bloody hell, they're really going for it."
Marian turned her attention back to the TV. The ghost hunters had found a summoning incantation, the page ominously spattered with blood, and one of them was now stumbling through the Latin phrases as if he were reading a stranger's grocery list aloud, as opposed to calling upon a twisted soul from the bowels of Hell. His pronunciation wasn't great, but it was clear enough that Marian could understand the words, which meant they might actually work. He paused frequently to confer with his buddies about what the words might mean, looking dramatically to the camera when they discovered words like 'death,' 'demon,' and 'blood,' as if there was any other kind of language to be found in a room with a bloody pentagram on the floor. For the most part, though, the men had no idea what the spell actually said.
They found a bowl with some old chicken bones, an owl skull, and some half-burned sage, along with another bloody sheet of paper that claimed to be "Instructions for Summoning a Demonic Spirit." In the spirit of doing anything for television, the men decided to reenact the ritual 'to see what may have occurred here years ago.'
Marian sat up. "No one is this stupid."
Crowley gave her a sidelong glance. "Please. Everyone is this stupid."
He shifted so that he was sitting behind her, and rubbed her shoulders while they watched the show, now fascinated by the level of naïve idiocy before them. On the TV, one of the men cut himself, splashing a few drops of blood over the old bones. His buddy lit the sage on fire, and the third man recited the Latin spell again in full, much smoother the second go around.
The man who'd lit the sage—call him Lighter Man—stood inside the summoning circle as his friend spoke. He seemed to have no idea of the danger he could be in.
"There's no way—" Marian started to say, but cut herself off when the camera cut out.
The picture came back quickly, and it was hard to tell if it had been a problem with the camera itself or with the TV signal. The bowl was no longer on fire, and the Lighter Man looked dazed, like he'd just woken up. He looked straight at the camera, and for just a moment his eyes flickered black.
"Is everyone okay?" one of the men asked. There were more papers on the floor, and Marian guessed that there'd been some sort of commotion when the camera had cut out. "Gosh, that was weird."
"I'm fine," the other replied, dusting off his pants. "Can you see it?"
"No, no demons here," said the first, revealing a critical lack of insight on his part. "You okay, Dave?" he asked Lighter Man. "You look like you seen a ghost."
Lighter Man—Dave—blinked slowly, turning his head from one man to the other. He stretched his arms, then his back, moving unsteadily and stiffly, like the Tin Man from Oz. His mouth moved for a few seconds before he answered.
"Yes. Everything is fine."
His friends looked at him with concern, then glanced uneasily at the cameraman.
Dave cleared his throat and smacked his lips, like he wasn't used to having them. He cocked his head to the side, like he was listening to something the others couldn't hear, then straightened. "I'm alright, boys," he said, sounding more like himself. "Just gave myself a start, that's all. Coulda sworn I saw somethin' come out of the circle, but that's crazy. Hah hah. There's obviously nothing now. Guess this whole setup was a dud."
The other men relaxed visibly as Dave returned to his usual self. "Heh. Yeah. Maybe the bones were too old."
"Or maybe you can't speak Latin worth a damn."
"Or maybe it was just some punk kids messin' around, and they ate some chicken wings and spray-painted some graffiti and copied a bunch of Latin from their homework. Kids love to mess around in haunted houses."
"Yep."
"Sure do." The men nodded their agreement.
All three turned toward the camera. "Thanks for watching, and we'll see you next time!"
"What—" Marian began, but a credit screen popped up.
In memoriam of Robert Hemford and Joe Silnak, beloved hunters of the strange and supernatural.
Crowley burst out laughing. "That son of a bitch! I wondered what he'd gotten up to!"
Marian turned to look at him.
"The demon they released—name of Aggron. He vanished from Hell about a month ago—must have been when they filmed this. Evidently, he killed Dave's buddies—they probably noticed he was acting strange once things settled down, or they found him pulling bodies apart in his basement, it's always something. I wonder if he's still running around in that meat-suit?"
"Were you friends with him?"
"Demons don't do 'friends.' He wasn't an enemy, though—he worked in Intake, so he wasn't competition." He raised his eyebrows. "Intake is fun: you get to decide what punishment each soul gets, and tell them all about it…Anticipation can be worse than the punishment itself. Plus, all the souls are new and have no idea what to expect. They're terrified. The worse a person was in life, the more terrified they are once they get to Hell. Hitler cried like a baby for weeks, and they hadn't even touched him."
Marian didn't particularly feel like hearing about Hell and its politics, but she liked the idea of bad people being punished. She moved so that she was behind Crowley and dug her hands into his shoulders, hoping to return the favor and give him a back massage while he talked.
Crowley moved faster than she would have thought possible. He spun and grabbed her wrists, holding them painfully tight as he threw her onto her back. One knee pressed into her ribs, pushing the air out of her lungs. His eyes burned red, and she could see his true demonic face behind the façade of the human body he wore.
"What do you think you're doing?" he snarled.
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Crowley knew he'd fucked up. He'd felt hands on the back of his neck and acted instinctively, which was the only way a demon could act if it wanted to stay alive. Of course it was only Marian. But his mind had been elsewhere, thinking about—well, demons—demons that either wanted to kill him or wouldn't be disappointed if he died. And so he'd reacted. And now Marian was giving him that kicked-puppy look, and he felt…Well, he felt like an asshole. Up until this moment in his life, being a complete dick had been a matter of pride (as it should be for any demon), but now he felt bad about it.
He released her and sank back on his heels. "I'm sorry, angel; I didn't mean…It's just that usually, when someone comes up behind me…"
Marian rolled onto her side, pulling her knees up to her chest, and rubbed her wrists. She nodded that she understood, but felt like she would either cry or scream if she opened her mouth to respond. It had been so long since she'd seen his true face, she'd almost forgotten he really was just as demonic as every other twisted soul in Hell. And you fell for all his little charms.
Well. You did get kicked out of Heaven; what did you expect?
"Marian?"
"It's fine. I get it." She sounded like someone else, someone smaller and more afraid-someone who didn't run into houses full of witches, or raid vampire nests. "You just…Scared me."
"I know. I'm sorry." He took her wrists, gently this time, and she felt that warm, tingly energy run through her, alleviating any lingering soreness he'd caused. He continued to hold onto her hands, like he was afraid to let go of her. That was the first time she'd touched him voluntarily, and now…
Marian sniffed, the corner of her mouth twitching up and threatening to smile. "I've never heard you apologize to anyone."
"Oh, I'm not that stubborn. I've said I was sorry before; matter of self-preservation. This is just the first time I've meant it. I genuinely didn't mean to scare you. I would love to have your hands on me all the time." He kissed her hand, and she tried very hard not to picture that face, a visage that would make a normal human piss themselves in terror. The face that reminded her, you're with a demon that wants to knock you up with a prophesized nuclear weapon. There is no part of this that you should be okay with.
She felt that some sort of coherent response was expected of her, but all she could muster was a pathetic high-pitched whine, furthering the sad puppy aesthetic. She hazarded a glance up at Crowley, and he looked perfectly normal and human. He looked puzzled; concerned, even; and damn it, she did like him when he acted human. The problem was, there were two sides to him: The real side, the one that had been tortured in Hell for ages, turned into a demon, and now routinely killed and tortured others as a matter of course, and made deals for souls; and the side that was an act, where he looked human and felt human things and was willing to do anything to make Marian happy, because the only thing he wanted more than success was to be loved…
It was a good act, to be fair. Maybe she should just let herself fall for it. She basically had already, hadn't she? But he was still a demon, he was still dangerous. This was the same Crowley that had threatened to destroy everything she loved unless she sold herself to him.
Though, to be honest, it hadn't been that bad.
"Demon," she said quietly.
Crowley tilted his head. He wasn't sure if she was talking to herself or to him. "Demon?" he repeated, hoping she'd elaborate.
"I can't normally see you," she admitted, her voice rising a little. "I can't normally see demons at all. Just…Sometimes, like out of the corner of my eye. I can kind of remember what they look like from—from when I was an angel, but that whole life is…It's watered down, like trying to remember a dream. It's easy to forget that you're really…You. You're not this…" She waved a hand vaguely, searching for the right words. "Cuddly, romantic salesman who gives back rubs when he's not busy torturing people—"
"Sure I am."
"But—" Marian sat up, shaking her head. "But none of that's real, Crowley. It's just an act. It's a sales pitch, because you need me."
"The only one who's acting here is you," Crowley snapped back. "You think you failed as an angel, and you're afraid that if you admit to yourself that you have feelings for me, you'll have failed as a human, too." His expression softened. "But you didn't fail as an angel. The angels failed you—they failed everybody, trying to start another one of their damned apocalypses, all because Daddy never taught them to play nice with his things."
Marian blinked.
"And now you think, 'what does it say about me that I've come to care for a demon—one of the lowliest beings in all of Creation, according to the angels? Because obviously the angels know everything.'"
The ex-angel fidgeted uneasily, but Crowley pressed on:
"Speaking as one of the damned: If you can look at what I am and what I've done and still find empathy and compassion-for something not even God could love—I'd say that makes you stronger, not weaker. That bloke on the cross—Jesus—I think he'd agree. You aren't falling farther from Heaven: Hell, you're too good for Heaven, but then you know how I feel about that lot up there." He sighed. "But I'm just a demon; what do I know?"
Marian blinked again. It seemed to be all she was capable of. She tried opening her mouth to speak, but she had nothing to say. His words swam around in her head, and she had to take them one at a time, like she was deciphering ancient Babylonian. A demon had just told her that she was a good person. He had made what sounded like a good argument.
But he was a demon.
Yes, she had a lot of compassion. It had gotten her kicked out of Heaven. Because she'd chosen compassion over duty, over following their asinine orders. She was a bad soldier.
But maybe being a bad soldier made her a good person.
But Crowley was clever, and he was a salesman—he could sell ice to an Eskimo, wasn't that a saying? Hell, he probably had, at some point in his career. He was good at telling people what they wanted to hear.
But he sounded right.
Crowley's brows knit together. He seemed to have broken his angel: She hadn't moved, had barely breathed, and her face had gone completely blank.
"Angel?"
Nothing.
"Marian."
Her eyes finally focused on him. "Hmm?"
"Are you alright?"
"What? Yes, fine." She rubbed the back of her neck. "Just…Never mind."
Crowley waited for her to elaborate, but she seemed stuck inside her head. He wondered if she was actually considering what he'd said or if she'd just shut down completely. Maybe she was still dealing with her concussion. Either way, there was no point in trying to push her any further right now. "Get some sleep, love. You've had a long day."
She nodded. The concussion must be preventing her from thinking clearly. She'd feel better in the morning. She slid back to the head of the bed and curled up under the covers, waiting for the demon to join her. When he vanished a moment later she started to panic—had she finally managed to offend him? But he returned almost instantly, carrying a massive pile of paperwork. He sat down next to her, setting the pile on the nightstand. Marian relaxed and pressed her back against his legs.
Crowley shut off the TV and the lights with a snap (he could read just fine in the dark) and picked up the first document: "1987 deals, projected vs actual." Fantastic, he thought glumly. He didn't even need to go to Hell to be miserable: Hell had come to him. The reports were important, in the same way that flossing was important: It was necessary for the overall health of things, but nobody wanted to do it, and it certainly wasn't glamorous.
The report was divided by country, and the more lucrative countries were then divided by state, province, or region. America always had the most sales, and was divided by state and, in some cases, cities (New York, LA). Less active areas were often grouped together: For example, Luxembourg was considered part of the French market, and African countries, excluding Egypt and South Africa, were managed in groups based on primary spoken language. Demons would be given assigned territories, and they chose meat-suits that would appeal to their given population. A few regional 'sales managers' would oversee multiple demons, and then Crowley was in charge of all of them.
Alabama State. Primary sales consultant: Ferrous. Projected sales for 1987: 50. Actual sales: 43. Alaska State. Primary sales consultant: Urus. Projected sales for 1987: 45. Actual sales: 21. Arkansas State. Primary Sales Consultant: Jerry. Projected sales: 20. Actual sales: 12.
Things were not looking good thus far. Lillith was going to roast his ass. But things improved farther down the report, with the high-traffic states: Florida was up by 23 souls, LA was up by 50, and New York City was up by a whopping 62 over the projected number of deals. Crowley had done many of them himself.
Numbers were up in Brazil, Australia, and India. Projections for Europe were almost spot-on. Canada was down, but it had never been a big soul-producer anyway.
Marian rolled over, and he realized she was awake. He set the report down, welcoming any distraction from his work.
"Can't sleep?"
She shook her head.
He wondered if not being able to dream was starting to affect her. He'd have to deal with that at some point, but maybe not right now. "You're in luck. I have the cure for insomnia right here: Sales reports."
Marian yawned. "Are you going to hit me on the head with it?"
Crowley chuckled. "No. I'm going to read you a—a bedtime story." That was a thing, right? It sounded like a thing. He skipped through the annual report to the list of individual deals. "Arthur Clark of Boulder, Colorado, sold his soul to cure his daughter of Leukemia. Doris Baker of Gary, Indiana, sold her soul to win a seat in the Senate when the current Senator passed away unexpectedly. Carrie Grant of Providence, Rhode Island, made a deal to carry out a series of increasingly torturous punishments on her ex-husband and her best friend, after she found out they were having an affair. She starts with having them contract a litany of venereal diseases and ends with 'accidental' dismemberment and/or disembowelment, demon's choice. That's fun. Anthony Edwards of Miami, Florida, sold his soul for a twelve-inch dick. Amelia—"
"Wait, what?" Marian raised her head, trying to look at the paper.
"What?"
"People really sell their souls for…Body enhancement? Bigger boobs, bigger dicks?"
"Sure. All the time," Crowley said.
"But that's insane! An eternity in Hell, because you can't afford a boob job? And who actually wants a dick that big? It just seems impractical—you'd just hurt anyone you slept with. Unless you wanted a job in porn—"
"Nobody's perfect." He was starting to feel defensive about his own deal. Although, she was right—twelve was excessive. The bloke thought adding more inches would improve his self-esteem, but as Crowley knew, anything over ten was just overkill.
Marian settled back down. "Did you make a deal? Is that why you're a demon?"
"I would've ended up like this anyway, to be honest. I was a drunk and a terrible father, but it was 17th century Scotland—life wasn't exactly sunshine and roses. My mother was a witch—very good, very clever, and completely heartless. She didn't exactly set me up for success. But yes, I made a crossroads deal. It seemed like a good idea at the time."
She wanted to ask him about it, but he'd seemed rather defensive about her judging people's deals. Instead, she asked: "Were you happy at least, with your deal? Was it worth it?"
He thought for a while. "…I must have been. It's funny-I can remember all sorts of unpleasant things from before: My mother beating me, my mother telling me I was worthless, my wife telling me I was worthless, my wife dying in childbirth, my son telling me I was worthless…But everything good…Fades away when I try to think of it." He gave her a reassuring smile. "The whole human thing isn't important, though. That man died ages ago."
"…Oh." What was she supposed to say to that? "I'm…Sorry to bother you, I know you're trying to work."
"Nonsense. You're saving me from hours of mindless torture." He slid down so that he was lying next to her. "Besides, you sleep better when I'm holding you."
Marian felt her face heat up. He was right: She'd gotten so used to being with him, she'd practically forgotten how to exist without him. She'd even acclimated to the hellish heat that radiated from him.
She pressed her back into him. He spent a moment brushing her hair out of his face, then wrapped his arm tightly around her waist, as if she might run away if he let go.
I touched him voluntarily. Well, tried to, and he snapped, she thought, thinking back on the attempted shoulder rub. He touched her all the time—there was hardly a moment with him without him right there, it seemed—and in the beginning, at least, she had taken every opportunity to gain some distance from him. She had cleaned him up when he'd been stabbed, but that was just first-aid; it wasn't caring. She'd tried very hard to avoid any gesture that might show she cared for him, which meant that he initiated all contact between them, and she tried not to enjoy any of it.
Now, the one time she tried to do something nice, he flipped out. She understood why—if everyone on Hell and Earth was potentially there to kill her, she wouldn't want people grabbing her from behind either. She'd have to be careful going forward, making sure he knew exactly where she was and what she was doing. Maybe there was still a way to show him that she cared just a little. Because he was right—she was only lying to herself, pretending she didn't want to be with him. It was some sort of Stockholm Syndrome taken to the extreme or whatnot; but she was only making herself crazy trying to convince herself it wasn't real.
Moving slowly and deliberately, as if she were about to pet a wild animal, she brushed her hand across the demon's forearm, sliding her fingers from his elbow to his wrist. He tensed at first, his hold on her tightening almost painfully. She let out the smallest whine as she struggled to breathe, and his arm relaxed. She threaded her fingers through his, which seemed to confuse him.
"What's wrong, angel?"
"Nothing's wrong. I just…Wanted to hold your hand."
Several seconds passed while he decided if he'd heard her correctly. "…What?"
"Sorry, is that weird?" she asked, suddenly feeling ridiculous. He was a demon: Spooning was one thing, but hand-holding was probably too sappy and human for him. She went to pull her hand away, but Crowley's fingers locked around hers, stopping her.
"No. This is…Nice." He relaxed his grip, and she kept her hand on his. "Go to sleep, angel. I'll be here when you wake up."
He wasn't, though. Marian sat up and looked around the room: the clock said 7:15 am. She'd slept in: Crowley was usually back from work by 6, or 7 at the latest. He must have run into trouble: she only hoped it was the paperwork kind of trouble and not the other kind. She thought about really sleeping in, passing out again until he came back, but her unease at his absence prevented her. She could try contacting him through the coin, but if he was in a meeting or negotiating a deal, he might not be able to respond to her. If he was in trouble, he might not be able to respond to her, either.
She shook her head. Crowley was the cleverest, most devious demon she knew: If there was trouble, he was more likely to be the cause of it than anything. Still, she fiddled with the coin as she changed and showered, half expecting him to blink into existence at any moment, or at least be in her room when she got out of the shower. But her room remained empty.
Increasingly paranoid that something had gone wrong, but still trying to tell herself otherwise, Marian nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the sound of glass clinking in the kitchen below her. It could be Crowley, but why hadn't he stopped by her room to check in with her first? What if he'd been killed, and another demon had found her? She grabbed her angel blade and crept down the stairs as silently as possible. Rounding the corner through the empty living space, she halted just outside the kitchen doorway, feet carefully avoiding the squeakiest floorboards.
"It's alright, angel; it's me," Crowley called through the door.
Marian stepped around the corner, sheathing her blade. She'd forgotten just how crazy-good demons' hearing could be. "What are you doing down—oh."
He was leaning against the counter, a glass of scotch on one side of him and a first aid kit on the other. His hands were covered in blood, as were a number of kitchen towels he'd thrown in the sink. The remains of his shirt and jacket were draped over the back of a chair: His bare chest and arms were littered with cuts and bruises. The cuts were deep, and had been made with angel blades. She could see his demonic essence shining through some of them. One of his eyes was blackened and swollen almost shut, and his nose was crooked and bloody.
Currently, he was stitching up a gash on his shoulder, but he was struggling with the angle. "Sorry I'm late. Evidently, angels will take offense if you make a deal with the Pope."
"You tried to make a deal with the Pope?!"
"I didn't 'try,' love. I did. I'm not King of the Crossroads for nothing."
"You. Made a deal. With the Pope," she said slowly. It was actually impressive, she thought. "So you were ambushed by angels? How many were there?"
Crowley hauled the first aid kit and his drink over to the table and sat down. "Four."
"How are you not dead?!"
"What can I say? I'm the best." He coughed, spraying blood out of his mouth. "Though, to be honest, they damn near succeeded."
Marian pulled up a chair beside him and grabbed a needle and thread. "Where do I even start?"
"Ah. Well, you can have your pick: Chest, shoulder, back, arm, stomach, or thigh." He turned to show her the cut on his back, just below his neck.
"Which one is the worst?"
"That would be thigh." An angel blade had sliced through his pants, but there was so much blood that Marian couldn't get a good look at the wound. "It goes all the way through."
It goes all the way through. "Okay. Yeah. Let's start with that."
She didn't look at him while he took his pants off. She'd been naked or mostly naked in front of him quite a bit, but he'd always been fully dressed. Hopefully he wouldn't make any sexual remarks, but it was Crowley, after all.
Marian understood why he always wore a suit: Crowley was much less intimidating in his underwear. Granted, he was also covered in blood and looked like he'd been through Hell—well, Heaven, she supposed—but despite the demonic glow seeping through the deepest wounds, he also looked more human.
She folded a towel under his thigh, where the angel blade had driven all the way through his quad muscle into his hamstring. She tried to wipe the blood off his quad so she could see what she was doing, but there was so much of it—why was he bleeding so much? It must have something to do with the angel blade, and how its power worked on demons. She wiped her hands off and threaded the needle, but his skin was so slick with blood that she couldn't stitch him up properly.
"Damn!"
"It's alright, angel; I can do it." Crowley took the needle, but his own hand was bloody, and it was also shaking. "Damn," he said, and coughed up more blood. "This is my favorite meat-suit."
Marian tried to wipe more blood away while she thought. "Could you possess someone else while your, um, meat-suit heals?"
"It won't heal without me in it. I suppose I could possess a live meat-suit for a bit, which would help me heal. And while I'm not in this suit, most of the bleeding should stop, and I'll be able to stitch it up." He coughed again, wheezed, and leaned back in his chair. "Don't know how far I'll get right now, though. We're miles from anywhere. I suppose I could find…A rat, or something, and…On second thought, I think I should stay here."
Crowley picked up the needle again, but his hand was still too shaky. Marian took it from him and started to work on his arm, which was a smaller and more manageable cut.
"But a live vessel would help you?"
"Yes. Right now, I'm losing energy healing both myself and my meat-suit. If I had a live...'vessel,' energy from that body would go toward healing me. But like I said, there aren't any humans around for miles."
Marian tied off her stitches. "…I'm human." She held onto the needle, looking at it instead of Crowley. "You could possess me."
Crowley's one working eye widened. He must have heard her wrong. "What did you say?"
She set the needle down and stared at her hands as she wiped the blood off of them. "You could possess me. If it will help."
"Look at me."
She shook her head.
"Marian."
She looked up at him.
"I don't want to hurt you. Physically or mentally."
"It's okay. People get possessed all the time, and they're fine." She bit her lip.
"You know you don't have to do anything you don't want to do."
She licked her lip and bit down harder. "I want to help you. If you just possess me long enough to heal yourself and stitch up your ves—meat suit, I'll be fine."
Crowley squeezed her hand and smiled, though it was hard to read his facial expression given the condition of his face. "I won't stay a moment longer than I have to. You're going to feel tired after, maybe even sick, since I'll be drawing so much energy away from you."
"Okay."
He opened his mouth to smoke out, but nothing happened; he frowned, concentrating, and tried again. The angels had really done a number on him. Finally, red smoke began to trickle out of him, then pour, then billow, and he moved from his beloved meat-suit into his beloved angel.
He could feel the spark of Grace that flowed through her, stinging like a hornet protecting its hive. Crowley drew on her human energy to heal himself, but the Grace still burned.
Marian. I need you to relax.
Marian was not relaxing. She could still see and feel, but she couldn't control her body. She couldn't move her arms, legs, or neck—she couldn't even control where her eyes looked, or when she blinked. All she could smell was sulfur.
Marian. Relax, love. I've got you. You're safe.
She couldn't even breathe when she wanted to.
I need you to calm down, or your Grace is going to kill me.
Her Grace? Right—it activated when she was in severe danger or pain. And right now, there was a demon possessing her—no self-respecting shred of Grace was going to stand for that.
It's okay, she thought to herself, it's just Crowley. It's just Crowley. Crowley is…Fine. Crowley is good. He's allowed to possess me. Please don't kill him.
The stinging sensation started to fade, and the demon felt his essence beginning to heal. He grabbed a clean cloth and began wiping the blood from his meat-suit, which was already starting to clot and dry without him in it. Then he began stitching himself up, starting with his chest and working his way down. There was still too much blood on his leg (how was that possible? It's not like they'd hit an artery), so he had to apply a tourniquet above the wound in order to get the skin dry enough to work with.
By the time his meat-suit was repaired, he was starting to feel rejuvenated. Since Marian and his meat-suit were both covered in blood, he ported them to the master bathroom and turned on the hot water in the shower before returning to his favorite body.
Just moving from one room to the other was more taxing than he'd anticipated: He should have walked, he thought belatedly, and saved his energy for healing. Back in his own meat-suit, he realized he still wasn't in good condition.
Marian blacked out as the demon smoked out of her and woke up sitting on the bathroom floor, her back against the tub. Crowley was right: She felt tired and achy, like she was coming down with the flu. She shivered and hugged her legs against her chest, blinking as her eyes went in and out of focus.
"Come on; let's get you cleaned up."
"Mmnph," Marian mumbled, rubbing her eyes with her bloody hands.
Crowley grabbed her hands so she couldn't rub more blood into her eyes, and hauled her to her feet. "I know. You can sleep in a minute. Shower first."
She took a step back and her whole body swayed backward: Crowley pulled her upright.
Marian narrowed her eyes. "I don't need a chaperone."
"Sure you do. Come on; clothes off."
"Crowley," she said, not sure if she was warning him or pleading with him.
He sighed. "We just shared a body. I think you'll survive a shower."
Damn. He had a point.
But at least she was wearing clothes when he possessed her.
Then again, it wasn't like he hadn't seen her naked plenty of times before.
She didn't have the brain power left to argue, so she stripped quickly, avoiding looking directly at him, and stepped into the shower. Crowley stepped in behind her and thank God he kept his boxers on, otherwise she might have died of mortification.
Her eyes stung as blood dripped into them (how had she gotten blood around her eyes?). She closed them, and felt her sense of balance disappear. She pitched backward and felt Crowley's hand on her arm, steadying her. By turning her face into the spray, she was able to clear her eyes enough to keep them open.
She should have kept them closed. Crowley looked even more human when he was wet, and as a human he wasn't half bad-looking. His injuries made him look a little rough around the edges, but every hunter she'd met had been covered in scars: Crowley's just happened to be fresh. Marian turned away from him. You are not attracted to him. He is a demon. He is a demon wearing a dead guy.
She was as clean as she was going to get. She stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around herself, then had to sit down on the edge of the tub because she was feeling light-headed. Crowley shut the water off and emerged a moment later, wrapping a towel around his waist, and again she was struck by how human he looked. Her brain was trying to generate scenarios in which she would run her hands all over his bare chest—probably a side-effect from being possessed, she decided. Still, she'd feel better after he'd gotten dressed.
Crowley brought her clothes to her and then disappeared into the bedroom: While Marian dressed, she could hear him rifling around in her closet. She dressed and shuffled into her room, sitting down on her bed.
Crowley was wearing her bathrobe. It was fluffy and white with little pink hearts.
Marian burst out laughing. Once she started, she couldn't stop: Crowley looked cross, and that just made her laugh harder. She'd never seen him less than immaculately dressed, and never in anything but black, and now she understood why. Putting a fluffy robe on a demon was like putting footie pajamas on a crocodile: It was hard to imagine them as a cold-blooded killer.
He sat down next to her. "Yes, alright, get it out of your system. It's your fault for not having a proper wardrobe, you know."
She caught her breath. If she didn't look directly at him, she could stop laughing for a bit. "Erica got me that for Christmas. We were living in an apartment in Michigan, and the heating system was terrible."
"Once I'm properly healed, it's going back in your closet," Crowley grumbled. He really should have kept an extra suit in the house, but he'd always been able to 'snap' on whatever he needed. Conserving his energy now was necessary, but annoying. "I just need to lie down for a bit."
Even though Marian had woken up less than an hour ago, she also felt like lying down after being possessed. Crowley propped himself up on a couple of pillows, and Marian snuggled up to him, resting her head on his shoulder.
"I'd been planning to take you out today," Crowley said, "But I'm afraid our date will have to wait until tomorrow. I hardly had enough energy to zap myself back here, I don't think I could manage Australia right now."
"Australia?!" An old memory popped into her head. "I had to inventory the animals there, a few thousand years before humans arrived. There used to be 1200 species of spider, but now they say there are over 2000…I'm not sure if that's an improvement."
He smiled, putting his arm around her. "It's great for Hell. So many people are arachnophobic, and more variety keeps things interesting."
"They didn't bother me when I was an angel—they were just some of my Father's creatures. But now that I'm human and they can jump on me and bite me…Yeah, not a fan."
"Noted." With his free hand, he opened a drawer in the nightstand and pulled out a book. It had an old, homemade look to it.
Marian didn't recognize it. "Is that for your work?"
"This? No, this is just for fun. It's a compilation of top-secret modern torture techniques taught by world governments: America, China, North Korea, Iran, Russia…The most creative ones tend to come from third-world countries, but their methods are harder to study."
"If it's top secret, why is there a book written about it?"
Crowley laughed. "This was made by demons," he said. "We learn a lot from humans."
Marian wondered if Heaven had the same sort of book as well. Angels might think themselves all high and mighty, but they enjoyed torturing their enemies just as much as demons did.
Crowley kissed the top of her head, and began to read aloud: "Chapter one: America…"
The book was interesting, but the truly gripping bits were the illustrations, hand-drawn by helpful demonic researchers. They ranged from stick figure, you-get-the-idea sketches to fully detailed, anatomically correct artistic renderings. The book was arranged more or less alphabetically, though a few countries had been slapped down randomly, possibly as later additions. Crowley read through America, Baghdad, Brazil, Cambodia, Canada (a very small chapter, mostly talking about how bloody cold it was in Canada), Chile, and China before both he and Marian fell asleep.
The sun was down when Marian woke up. I slept through the whole day? She thought. Then again, it was winter—the sun wasn't in the sky for very long. She sat up, still feeling groggy and achy. Crowley was sleeping. She'd never seen him sleep before—he looked dead. Maybe he was dead.
"Crowley?"
His eyes flew open. Marian didn't try to hide the look of relief on her face.
Crowley stretched and sat up, looking more like his usual self (aside from the fluffy bath robe). His face was almost completely healed, though his eye still looked swollen. "Gods, I needed that." He snapped his fingers and he was wearing his black silk pajamas: a rattling hanger in the closet indicated that Marian's robe had returned to its home. "Much better." He leaned back in bed again and waved a hand to turn on the TV, finding a History Channel documentary about Medieval torture.
"You okay?"
"You just witnessed the extent of my abilities," the demon replied. "Give me another twelve hours or so, I should be back to disemboweling sinners."
Since Marian wasn't doing any better than he was, she snuggled back up to him, deciding that being possessed by a demon was a good excuse for spending 24 hours in bed. After about an hour, she realized Crowley had fallen back asleep. She looked over at the TV: A rather chipper-sounding British historian was reviewing the Judas Cradle. Helpful illustrations appeared on the screen. It looked familiar, like maybe she'd seen one in Heaven. She didn't feel the need to see one again-she grabbed a book off her nightstand, hoping to zone out the historian's cheerful description by reading some manga that Crowley had brought her after their trip to Japan. It was about vampire hunters, and though the lore was all wrong it was still fun to read. She propped her head up on a few extra pillows and pressed her back against the demon, letting his unnatural warmth seep under her skin.
She finished the volume in her hand (#4) and set it back on the side table; #5 was over on the bookshelf, she'd have to get up to reach it. As she moved, though, a hand tightened around her wrist. It startled her: She'd thought Crowley was asleep, or in a sort of sleep-like state while he healed. She turned to look at him, and his eyes were still closed. He looked…Human. Not quite dead anymore, but tired. Vulnerable.
But he still had a demon's grip on her arm. Marian gave an experimental tug, and his fingers tightened.
"Crowley."
When he replied, his voice was low, barely above a whisper. "Stay."
"I'm just going to grab another book. I'm not even leaving the room."
In an almost plaintive tone he said, "Don't leave me."
Maybe he was still half-conscious and hadn't heard her. His fingers were really starting to dig into her; she could feel the little bones in her hand and wrist shifting. "I'm not leaving. I told you—I'm just going to grab a book."
"I can't—I can't let you go, angel," he said, and now she was certain he wasn't really listening. "I need you. Gods, I love you so much."
Marian forgot about her wrist for a moment. Did Crowley really just say…? It was because he was weak right now, and of course she was there, making him feel human. If humanity was like booze to demons, she normally saw him two drinks in, but this was probably more like keg-stand-level Crowley. And now he was just vomiting up emotional nonsense, purging himself back to his natural demonic state. That's all it was.
Still, she couldn't help feeling a bit smitten by his sentiment. She felt her face flush, and she bent down to kiss him. He hummed happily and kissed her back, his free hand coming up to touch her cheek, her hair, her neck: It was like he needed to feel her to make sure that she was real.
Making out with 'drunk' Crowley was hot, but he was still holding onto her wrist like she would blink away if he let up at all, and bones were touching other bones that they should not have been touching. She managed to pull back long enough to say: "Crowley, you're hurting me!"
He opened his eyes and released her. He looked up at her hazily, trying to come out of whatever place he'd been before and understand what was happening now.
"Marian? I'm sorry, angel, I wasn't…I don't dream often, I'm afraid it…Got away from me…" He saw her rubbing her wrist and took her hand gently to examine it. "Nothing's broken, at least." He looked mildly embarrassed. "You're alright? I didn't…Do anything else odd, did I?"
She looked down at her hand, suddenly unable to look him in the eye. "No. I was trying to get up to get a book, and you grabbed me, told me not to leave…I—I think you were afraid I'd leave for good? And…I kissed you, you kissed me. But you wouldn't let go of my hand."
"Ah. Yes. Sorry about that." He rubbed her hand apologetically. "It was not a good dream. Until the end," he said with a smile. "I liked that bit."
Marian turned her head away, biting back a grin, but Crowley still saw it. His own smile widened, and he kissed her hand. "We could continue where we left off, if you like…"
"Why was I going to leave you? In your dream."
His expression soured. "Why do you think? I'm a demon, I'm evil, I only care about myself, everything I say must be a lie, blah blah blah…How long a list would you like?"
She laid her head on his chest, draping her arm across his torso. "Please; everyone knows angels are the liars."
The demon smiled. He ran his hand through her hair and she leaned into his touch; he brought his hand under her chin, gently guiding her head up so that he could kiss her again. He half expected her to push him away, so he got a little thrill when she didn't so much as flinch as he slid his tongue into her mouth. She was actually kissing him back now—not just passively allowing him, but reciprocating, and it was giving Crowley all sorts of un-demonic feelings he wasn't used to dealing with. He felt tingly and…Gooey, like a happy puddle of sunshine. Gods, was that a real thing? It sounded so unbearably human, but then…Yes, she made him feel human. The usual forces that drove him as a demon—greed, pride, lust—didn't seem important right now. What was important was…What was important?
Marian was important. She was the greatest drug in the world, taking all of the pain and hatred that came with being a demon and replacing it with…Well, the gooey, tingly feeling. It was the feeling not only that he loved her, which was its own weird kind of happy pain, but the feeling that he also deserved to be loved, that he could be loved. He wanted—no, he needed—to make her happy, because his own happiness was now directly related to hers.
She eventually pulled back to catch her breath—it was exhausting making out with someone who didn't need to breathe—and Crowley rolled onto his side, hooking his arm around her waist and drawing her closer. He kissed along her jawline and down her neck, nipping and sucking gently enough that he didn't leave a mark. Marian's pulse sped up: He could feel it through her neck, hear her heart pounding in her chest. She smelled like fear and arousal, and he had to fight back the urge to bite her until she bled, pin her arms above her head, and ravage her like an ordinary demon. Self-control was not his forte, but the more time he spent with his ex-angel, the better he got at it, and now he was exercising human-level restraint over his darker instincts. He needed to show her that she didn't need to be afraid of him; that he loved her, and he would never hurt her. And he needed to make her come so hard she couldn't see straight.
One thing at a time.
Marian knew she should be objecting, but with the demon's tongue and teeth on her neck it was becoming increasingly difficult to remember what she was supposed to be objecting to. There was a part of her brain, the sharp part that usually kept her from getting killed by vampires, that was raising all sorts of alarm bells—what the Hell are you doing? You've never done this with him before. Are you just going to let him keep going? He's still manipulating you, he's still a demon; remember the last demon that had you on your back—and it was that deep-seated fear, more than any sort of arousal, that had her trembling at his touch. At the same time, it felt really good. She felt hot and tingly and turned on and afraid, and she didn't know whether to push him away or tell him to keep going.
He threatened to kill everyone you know and forced you to sell yourself to him in exchange for their safety.
But when he's not threatening to kill and torture people, he's actually kind of sweet…
His hand slid under her shirt and kneaded her breast gently, rubbing the pad of his thumb over her nipple. Marian let out the most undignified whimper and grabbed his arm to stop him; his hand retreated to her waist and he released the bit of neck he was sucking on with a tiny 'pop.'
"Too much, darling?" he purred against her throat. He continued to pepper her with little kisses, making his way back up to her lips. He didn't seem at all phased by her rejection, which was…Different. She could remember a time not so long ago when she'd tried to push him off her chest and he'd snapped at her. Had things really changed that much since then? Had he changed?
No, she thought firmly. It's just his damn psychology, and it's working on you. It's really worked. She berated herself silently, wondering if she'd have the mental fortitude not to fall for him if she'd still been an angel. You're so weak, she fumed at herself. You were weak as an angel and you're weak as a human, and you can't even stop yourself from falling for a demon's charms…
Crowley felt her muscles tense, and he could smell saltwater, like she was going to cry. What had brought that on? He'd thought they were having a good time.
"What's wrong, angel?"
"Noth—"
"Let's just nip this one in the bud, shall we? It's obviously something."
She sighed. "I'm just…Angry with myself. For—for not being smarter, for letting you manipulate me to the point where I'm making out with you—"
"Oi! That's a bit harsh. Yes, I've been manipulating you; I manipulate everybody, it's what I do. That doesn't mean I don't genuinely care for you. And to be fair, you've been manipulating me, making me feel all sorts of things a demon shouldn't feel; I could have gone insane. I probably am."
"What?! I—Well, not on purpose!" Marian huffed indignantly.
Crowley chuckled and brushed her hair out of her face. "I know, love. You are what you are, and I am what I am. If you want to hold that against me, I understand."
Marian narrowed her eyes. Hold it against him? "No!" she snapped. "What I want to hold against you is that you threatened to kill my friends and family—a whole town, in fact—and you made me your…Your prisoner, and…And…" She trailed off, furiously trying to think of more things she could hold against him.
"Well, I had to get your attention somehow."
She scowled. "And…You've been really nice to me just…To get me…To like you…" Hmm. It had sounded more damning in her head.
"Mmm. How absolutely horrible."
"Crowley."
"I'm sorry, I fail to see the problem here. How is what I've done (aside from threatening to kill people) any different than what any human does in a relationship? I'm no longer holding you against your will, and I did save your friends' lives."
Marian deflated slightly, looking away from him. "Yes, thank you for that," she said quietly. Then, sternly: "But you were only using them as leverage against me anyway."
Crowley shrugged. "Demon," he said, as if that made everything acceptable. "Look, angel, it's a credit to your intelligence that you don't trust me. You should never trust anyone. But you can trust me. I've always been honest with you."
She started to argue, then realized she didn't have anything to say. As far as she knew, he had been honest. It was a bit of a stretch to believe that a demon would risk everything on a plot to kill the Devil, but Crowley had made an excellent argument in that (a) Lucifer hated demons more than anything and would likely kill them all the first chance he got, and (b) Crowley didn't want to die. And maybe she really did make him feel emotions like a human—it would explain why he was so patient with her, among other things. She'd never been around another demon long enough to know if she had any sort of effect on them, though years ago one had cried while she was interrogating it and started blubbering about killing its three children back when it was alive. At the time, she'd chalked it up to too much Holy water, but…Maybe it had been her?
She sighed. "Fine. You're not horrible. For a demon."
Crowley patted her head. "I suppose that's the highest praise I could ask for from an ex-angel. You didn't even use the word 'repulsive.'"
"Have you seen yourself?" Marian replied, thinking of the times she could see the demon's true face through his human meat-suit. "You look like you came straight out of Hell." Crowley looked hurt, so she added, "I mean, you did come straight out of Hell."
"Is that what you see right now, when you look at me?"
She shook her head. "No. I can't see it all the time. Right now you just look…Human." She ran her hand down the side of his face, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. His chin was scratchy with stubble; did he still have to shave, even though his vessel was dead? He probably just 'willed' his facial hair to whatever length he wanted. "I like this face."
His confident smile returned; he took her hand and kissed it. "I could have another, if you wanted. Tom Cruise? Harrison Ford? Michael J Foxx? Or maybe someone like Mark Sheppard is more your thing?"
"You can't just possess a celebrity like that!"
"Sure I can." He shrugged. "It is frowned upon by the higher-ups, but there's no rule against borrowing one for a joy-ride around Hollywood now and then. They won't remember a thing."
"No! I don't want you to possess someone else!"
"Alright. Offer's on the table if you change your mind."