What Isn't and Came To Be
Chapter 22: An Apple A Day
"It's not…" Michele's heart beat like a jackhammer, each breath too loud in her own ears.
Crowley was always too close whenever they were in the same room. He seemed to take pleasure in looming over her with his constant sexual innuendoes and attempts to concoct some kind of intimate relationship between the two of them. All of it was nothing but sharp-edged mockery, but it made her feel off balance and vulnerable.
It was also starting to make her angry.
The constant jagged ache of missing Phil was like a severed limb. Crowley needling at her, devaluing her marriage and acting like he had every right to step in and fill Phil's position; it made her want to strike out and defend both the man she loved and herself.
Their life together, their marriage, it wasn't something easily tossed aside or replaced, the promises she'd made in that church 12 years ago weren't meant to be the punchline for Crowley's crass jokes.
Michele glared up at the demon king, fighting to contain the emotions boiling in her, like an overheated pressure cooker. Knowing she had to be careful.
Two days ago she'd seen how quickly things could spin out of control, seen how dangerous making any perceived challenge might become. The world was full of people Crowley could use as 'object lessons' if she made him mad.
"And if I just can't make myself be what you want me to be? What then?" she asked finally, throat tight with a mix of anxiety and fury. "I'm not exactly good at faking it."
Questions and asking for clarification, those seemed to be acceptable. Perhaps Crowley thought they signaled willingness to capitulate or a kind of submission on her part; but she'd asked for a job description intentionally. Her poor attempt at reframing things in a more professional, distanced context. A hope that one day Crowley might release her and Johnny, or she could find a way to buy back her son's soul and quit.
But of course, Crowley had bulldozed over her attempt and gone straight back to his loaded insinuations of 'til death do we part. The threats he'd made towards her father loomed large, compounding other fears; now he'd all but confirmed that his own death wouldn't cancel Johnny's deal.
Crowley looked down at her with a smirk on his face, head tilted. Loomed so close she could see her own face and the white kitchen cabinets reflected in his eyes.
He gave an amused huff and reached out to tussle her hair, as though she were just some amusing little kid. Added insult to injury by bopping her on the nose.
"Darling, married all these years, I'm sure you can fake it just fine."
It was like he wanted her to snap. The man was an insulting, condescending prick! A nasty little boy who liked poking at injured animals with sticks until they couldn't take it anymore and snapped back!
Bullies invariably singled out the weak and vulnerable for their games, but bullies were also the first to run crying when those injured animals did bite.
That thought made her anger turn cold. Ice crept into her veins to transform the fire in her gut to something sharp and glittering, and forge a scimitar curve on her lips.
It woke the cutting, vigilante part of her psyche, that had gotten her into so much trouble with her father as a kid.
"Oh Crowley, you poor dear, Fergus' wife wasn't faking it because he had a small penis," she spoke the words like someone simply commenting on the weather, even as another, more sensible part of her shrieked a klaxon of alarm.
"Getting a woman to orgasm has far more to do with empathy and willingness to listen to your partner. To giving them what they desire, rather than what you want, or think they should enjoy.
The good thing about being married to a security technician is he listens. Can troubleshoot, is excellent with both his tools and his hands, and he doesn't leave the job until it's done."
Crowley scoffed.
"What do you know about anything. You've only been had by one man, and he thinks you're rotting in a box in the ground."
Despite his dismissive tone there was something in the way the corners of his mouth twitched, that made Michele think her words had drawn a little blood.
"Because you faked my death. Which only goes to prove, you're better at faking everything, than Phil or I ever will be."
"You need to bloody well learn if you're going to survive!" Crowley's tone was sharp now, but far less antagonistic than she anticipated.
The words triggered déjà vu… a flashback of sorts.
A hundred shuffled images. Memories that hadn't happened.
Crowley speaking similar words, over and over. How many times had he admonished her like that, surveying the results of one of Lucifer's 'object lessons?'
Hard on the heels of that reminder, other not-memories of what Lucifer had done to her using Sam's hands and body, pounded at the doors in her mind, clamoring to flood in and overwhelm her. Demanding she felt and remembered that myriad of intimate horrors.
It was all she could do, to tell herself those not-memories weren't real, that they had never happened.
—There'd only ever been one man, like Crowley said.
Still, a low sound of panic escaped and she staggered back a step, weak kneed like she'd taken a physical blow. Her hand fumbled blindly to grip the cross strung around her neck, seeking comfort from her faith. Attempting to ground herself in what was, rather than what might have been.
But now, it felt as though reaching for that comfort was tainted. Chuck was the one who'd filled her head with those not-memories. The one who'd left her alone, floundering, out of her depth, trying to navigate them.
Chuck had made her carry all that in her head and live with the confusion and trauma of a hundred lifetimes. Chuck was the one who had forced her to shoulder that burden and left her alone with it.
But was she alone?
She'd thought that Crowley had seen those futures too, that they'd shared something in the moments before she'd died.
How Michele wished she could ask. But Crowley didn't exactly welcome discussion on those events. He took her choice and attempted sacrifice, to save the people she loved most, as a kind of personal affront.
Besides, sharing anything with Crowley was a lot like being alone, it just made things harder and more confusing.
Trying to believe in a God who cared about her personally, and that events had a necessary function in some larger scheme, took a daily, and increasing, act of will to hold on to.
She needed to believe!
If she couldn't believe in a purpose for all her losses, or in a God who gave a damn. What was there left to hold onto?
Those thoughts made her gulp, swallowing back the bitter taste of bile that had risen in her throat.
Dropping her eyes in subservience Michele sidestepped, trying to gain some much-needed space from the demon king and pull herself together.
Perhaps he'd read something in her expression, he didn't follow or continue to crowd her.
Instead, he cleared his throat and seemed very interested in the kitchen cabinetry.
"Yes well— We have an appointment after lunch, have the children ready." His tone was businesslike, and she was profoundly grateful for that.
"A-an appointment? M-may—" Michele cleared her throat roughly and tried again.
"May I ask where?"
"Pediatrician. Our lad reminded me yesterday, I have been somewhat remiss with certain aspects of my guardianship duties. It would hardly do to have the son of Satan cark it from a raging dose of the plague, now would it."
Crowley referring to Johnny as, 'our lad,' brought back a few ragged flags of defensive irritation.
An urge to argue rose in her throat, but she choked it down again reminding herself that pushing Crowley didn't just have consequences for her.
It was surprising that Crowley had paid attention to Johnny's words about vaccinations. Often he gave off the vibe that her son was barely worthy of his notice and treated most 'human things' the same way, health and medicine included.
The plague, by which she supposed he meant the Black Death, wasn't exactly on the pediatric vaccination schedule, and Jack wasn't hanging out with rats in their penthouse apartment catching Yersinia pestis bacterium anyway.
—Still, it was a reminder that Crowley had his own lifetime of memories. The Supernatural books said he'd been born in Scotland in the 1600's. He'd lived and died before germ theory, vaccinations and antibiotics, survived for over 300 years; seen far more history than she could imagine, and had adapted to it all.
As much as she hated to admit it, if she were to keep Johnny alive and out of Hell, she'd have little alternative but to try and learn to survive and teach those same lessons to Johnny and Jack.
"In that case, Johnny and I better have our breakfast and get started on today's lessons. May I please be excused, Your Highness?"
Crowley nodded, but instead of sweeping off to pursue what ever demonly business he'd usually attend at that time of day; he simply stood there and watched her finish preparing breakfast and excuse herself with it, a slight frown knotted between his brows.
.ooo0ooo.
Crowley eyed the prophet's son with a deepening irritation.
The boy was an annoyance, his excessive sensitivity and hysterics over something as commonplace as a crowded city street had been… exasperating.
Strangers had gathered and gawked.
Instead of sweeping to the limousine, followed meekly by his perfect little family unit. Or drawing envious eyes with his understated show of wealth; Crowley had felt like he'd stumbled into a sanitarium for shell-shocked soldiers, with all that shrieking, shaking and curling into a ball.
Thank goodness the little bugger hadn't lost control of his bowels, or pissed himself.
He betted the cosseted little creature had never seen or suffered from anything untoward it's entire life, wrapped as it was in it's mother's cotton wool adoration.
In his day, children had earned their keep, and known how to behave.
If they didn't, the very least they'd have received was a sound thrashing.
Little blighters were supposed to be seen and not heard, to do what they were told when they were told to do it.
Being forced into the center of such negative public attention, by a mere child had made him want to shake the brat and give it something real to cry about.
But, the mother (or perhaps the Nephilim) had potential to make a bigger, messier scene if he had—
And they'd already drawn far too many eyes; considering three of the four of them were probably on both heaven and hell's current most wanted lists.
Mother had never cosseted him the way the prophet did her son.
Instead of yanking the boy roughly after her by an arm, or threatening and scolding. Ma Cherie had crouched there in the middle of the sunbaked sidewalk and coaxed the child back to his feet, with the calm and patience of a saint. Talked the boy down from what ever ledge of panic he'd climbed upon, with a gentle touch and soft, perceptive humor. Watching it had filled him with a species of resentment.
His own mother would've backhanded him for so much as creasing her dress, let alone sniveling all over it, the way the boy had done.
He would have paid for every out of place hair, wasted moment and look of pity or scorn levelled their way.
But Ma Cherie was not Mother, and as such she had seemed immune to the irritants of the baking midday heat, looks of disdain, and even Crowley's own rising irritation.
So focused she'd been on the boy's welfare, she'd barely noticed the limousine he'd hired; even after they were safely absconded within, cutting out prying eyes and city bustle. Neither had the woman paid any particular mind to the route he'd arranged, (which passed many of Dubai's notable tourist attractions.)
Honestly, he might as well have not bothered, and called a bloody Uber for all the attention his largess received.
Mother would have noticed. Though he was sure she would've also found something to criticize, or pitched a fit because the driver hadn't opened the door.
Women were impossible to please, no matter what the Prophet claimed about her discount electrician's prowess.
Now here they were, in the air-conditioned hospital. Out of the June heat, waiting for the doctor.
The offending eight-year-old was there, tucked into his mother's side like a limpet, mute and watchful, but composed.
It seemed, now they were inside the hospital, the mental spasm which caused all the drama had vanished, like a willow-the-wisp on a boggy path.
Apparently, hospitals, a place where people were routinely poked and prodded with needles, and other less fathomable contraptions. A place where humans willingly had bits carved out of them, or came to die —Hundreds of souls, any given year, who's dead bodies were then macabrely eviscerated and stuffed into refrigerators; —such a place was somehow less frightening than a run of the mill street.
The Nephilim sat in the Prophet's lap gazing around with rapt fascination, as she kneaded her son's shoulders absentmindedly and explained the purpose of hospitals and the mechanics of the human immune system, in long-winded and boring fashion. Waxed lyrical on the purpose of their visit, for what seemed like the hundredth time.
Watching the prophet's small hands knead at her son's shoulders begrudgingly, Crowley became aware of the tightness in his own shoulders and neck. Mused upon how, to get the same kind of attention out of his own mother, he'd needed a poisoned cup of tea, a witch catcher clamped round the woman's neck, and a direct order; and here the boy was, taking all that solicitude practically for granted. The lad was spoiled!
Gaze still tracking the prophet's ministrations, he shifted, and twisted his neck back and forth, trying to ease the gathering ache in his own shoulders and back. The blood was a double-edged blade. Experiencing more bodily sensation and feeling the gentler emotions was annoyingly coupled to enduring the inconveniences and niggles of the body one inhabited.
Speaking of spoiling, it was far too long since he'd visited a masseuse, (or indulged in a happy ending for that matter.) Playing at being a family man was damnibly time consuming, he'd been neglecting his own needs, and that wouldn't do at all.
Crowley tapped his foot and shifted in his chair trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard waiting room chair, his thoughts circling back to the intriguing concept of drawing up a job description for the prophet, and the duties and penalties he might include.
..ooo0ooo..
"—Jack Katz." A tall, bearded, middle eastern man in a white doctor's coat called out, warping the name with his heavy accent.
Michele wouldn't have understood that the name was connected to her Jack, if it wasn't for Crowley. Who rose to his feet, and nudged her knee roughly on his way passed, towards the man.
Jack Katz… Katz was a surname Crowley had used before. He'd called himself Thomas Katz, hadn't he?
Crowley exchanged a few, rapid, consonant heavy sentences with the doctor and they shook hands, before proceeding down a hallway.
Michele followed behind with Jack in her arms and leading Johnny by the hand, mostly ignored.
Once they were all in an examination room, the doctor finally turned his attention to her and Jack. Said something to her that she didn't understand.
"I'm sorry, I don't—" she began.
But Crowley broke in before she could finish, addressing the doctor in that same foreign language again, she guessed it was some form of Arabic.
The doctor eyed her for a moment in response and nodded, and Crowley smirked.
"Crowley, what—?"
"I would examine your sons before the inoculation." The doctor said, his pronunciation thick and labored.
"Sons?" She echoed in confusion, "as in plural?"
The doctor clearly didn't understand her question, but Crowley bobbed his head emphatically in response.
Johnny tensed against her side.
Why hadn't Crowley told her, that Johnny was supposed to be part of the pediatric visit? Didn't he understand, simply leaving the apartment and being exposed to so many strange people, things and noises, after weeks of isolation; was incredibly overwhelming for him.
Expecting Johnny to endure a stranger touching him, now, without any prior warning, it could well trigger another, worse panic attack—
Being exposed to that would be exactly the wrong kind of starter experience with a doctor for Jack.
"Johnny's not really up for—" she started to explain.
Crowley's face hardened.
"Darling, do we have to take another little trip?"
The threat was obvious.
"No, no, of course not."
Bending down she gave Johnny a one-armed hug and spoke low in his ear.
"John-boo, Jack's never been to the doctor before and doesn't know how it works like you do, do you think— you can show him how to be brave and good for the pediatrician."
Behind them Crowley made a low sound of derision. She spared a moment to shoot him an irritated glare over Johnny's shoulder, before refocusing on her son again.
Johnny looked uncertain, then glanced down at Jack in her arms, gave him a brave little smile, and offered her a firm nod.
"We don't speak… Arabic, and I don't think the doctor is 100% with English, so we are all going to have to be patient with each other, okay?" She continued. "I know this is all pretty strange, but it's just like going to the hospital back home when your doctor is off sick. This doctor is just doing his job and trying to help people, and we have to do ours… so we can all help Jack stay healthy, okay?"
Johnny took a wavering breath then gave her another brave little nod.
Her heart flipflopped in her chest with a mix of anxious pride and guilt to see it. Johnny always tried so hard to do what she asked, had so much trust and blind faith in her and it was beyond unfair to weigh him down further with any responsibility for Jack's development. But she couldn't raise the son of Satan himself to be a decent, balanced human being without help. Whether she liked it or not; she needed Johnny to be as much Jack's big brother as he was Chris's.
"Crowley—" she looked up, pushing her guilts aside to make eye contact with the demon again, "is going to translate, because he's very clever and is a whiz with languages."
Crowley responded to that with a raised eyebrow and a suspicious look for the compliment, but nodded his agreement.
"Crowley," she gave him a pleading smile, "could you please explain to the doctor that Johnny has autism spectrum disorder and that he struggles with strangers and being touched by them. I'd also very much appreciate if he could explain everything he wants to us, very clearly, and patiently."
It transpired, through Crowley's translation and the doctor's broken English, that the pediatrician actually specialized in autistic children and that Crowley had gotten hold of Johnny's medical records before the appointment and sent them to the doctor— an entire two-inch-thick file folder of them.
In a second folder she was shown a forged birth certificate for Jack, along with a more scanty medical record detailing his falsified life. It listed her, under the married name of Katz, as Jack's mother and Thomas Katz (Crowley) as his father.
Seeing that falsified document brought to mind all of Crowley's allusions earlier that day.
Part of her understood, that of course, Crowley needed a forged birth certificate for Jack. Medical stuff required parental permission.
But why hadn't Crowley just given Jack the last name Chadwick, to match hers and Johnny's, if he was so set on her playing the part of Jack's mother.
Failing that, Crowley could have named himself as Jack's father and listed his mother, correctly, as Kelly Kline.
But he'd chosen to have them both named as Jack's parents and changed her surname to match his fake one.
It was unsettling, upsetting!
It also made her wonder if Crowley had gotten his document forger to create fake divorce papers, and a marriage certificate between them— Which was … No! Just no!
Raising Jack was one thing, but erasing her marriage to Phil and pretending she was his fricking wife, even if it was just for show— that was a bridge too far.
Crowley must have noticed her building anger and surmised its cause.
He smirked at her and held up his left hand, unsubtly running his thumb over a new gold band on his ring finger. A Lord of The Rings ring, which matched the one strung around her own neck.
It was all she could do not to respond in the way he obviously wanted. To swallow back her outrage and focus on what was best for Johnny and Jack instead.
Later, when there was no innocent clueless doctor in the room and the children were safely home and asleep, she'd calmly place the jewelry Crowley had tricked her into wearing back in his hand, and tell him firmly that his stupid games were unbecoming of a King.
After Johnny's physical, the doctor and Crowley had some kind of discussion, which again, she frustratingly couldn't follow.
Eventually, Crowley magnanimously informed her that Johnny should have had several vaccinations before traveling from New Zealand to Dubai, (as if that was her fault) and said the doctor wished to remediate the situation before moving on to Jack's exam and vaccinations.
She instead suggested, through Crowley, that they perform Jack's physical first, then vaccinate both children one after the other; hoping it would give Johnny a little space to come to terms with the unexpected extra vaccinations, and allow Jack to see the doctor as friendly and non-threatening first.
She might not have understood Arabic, but his body language and tone while translating her request broadcast loudly enough that he found her request excessive, and he was only indulging her to keep the peace.
Seriously!? Why did he have to play at point scoring and act like such a misogynist, when all she was trying to do was the freaking job he brought her there for.
It wasn't until after Johnny had been very well behaved and brave for his shots, when she was holding Jack for his; that she looked across at Crowley holding two green lollipops and made note of his tense measuring smile, and the way his eyes were laser focused on Jack.
Her brain had very little time to compute, far more of her attention focused on making silly animal noises to make Jack giggle and distract him from the prick of the needle; when all hell broke lose.
An eye watering flash, a whoosh and a meaty thump.
That, was the doctor crashing into the opposite wall, her lagging brain reported.
Too late, she remembered the popcorn pot, and Crowley's 'experiments' with needles two days previous.
Realized in complete horror, that Crowley's interest in Johnny and Jack's vaccination status had had very little to do with either boy's health.
