THE PENTHOUSE - MORNING
The top floor of the high rise at Heathcliff Studios was a penthouse apartment. Elegantly appointed, it almost looked like a Spanish castle. The main area had a giant, sliding glass wall that cut off the living room from the antechamber, though the wall was currently open. In the living room, there was an antique bar, a coffee table that looked like a pewter coffin, and very large flat screen television. An old vintage Wurlitzer jukebox played Dusty Springfield's "I Only Want to Be with You". Instead of a couch or chairs, there was a grand piano with a wide bench.
It was a good thing the piano bench was wide, as there were currently three people testing the capacity. Two petite brunette women - twins dressed as security guards - were on either side of a man, necking and groping the daylights out of him. The ladies' name tags read "Moeko" and "Keiko".
The meat in their proverbial sandwich was the Balthazar of this dimension, for all intents and purposes, exactly as we knew him. He looked amused with the twins, but restless, and kept eyeing a tray that sat atop the piano. It had an unopened bottle of whisky and two black lowball glasses on it.
Out in the hallway, one of the elevators opened, and Crowley and King stepped out. Crowley had been using King as a crutch, but shoved him away as they got near the door.
"Get to Legion," Crowley panted, actually sounding thrilled. "It's all hands, today, I can feel it."
"You don't want me to take that bullet out of you?" King asked, looking slightly relieved.
"You shidiots did enough letting Urkel into the lot," Crowley said, "I don't wanna see any of you again until you've found him."
King looked properly threatened, and being apparently obsequious, he nodded and went back to the elevator. Crowley straightened up the best he could, a shock going through him as he did, and went on to the apartment. When he came in, he saw the scene as we'd left it, Balthazar and the security guards. He took a moment to roll his eyes.
"There's an intruder on the lot," Crowley said. "We need everyone on security! Move!"
The ladies broke apart from Balthazar and were suddenly all business. They both did a little fist pump and shouted "Ganbarimashou!" in unison before running out of the apartment to kick something's ass.
Balthazar got up with them and headed for the door, but Crowley caught his elbow to stop him, though it clearly pained him to move.
"I need a favor," Crowley said.
As Balthazar turned back, he saw the ugly, weeping wound on Crowley's back. "Mignon," was all he could say.
"What happened to the sofa?" Crowley asked cluelessly, his voice hoarse now from yelling.
"I'm writing a musical," Balthazar said, and he helped Crowley over to sit at one end of the piano bench.
Balthazar opened the coffin table and got out a Flash Gordon lunchbox full of first aid. He sat beside Crowley and started cutting the fabric away from the wound.
"Why the hell isn't King here?" Balthazar said, sounding a little desperate. "You know I'm no good at this."
"Just get the bullet out," Crowley said. He turned so that Balthazar was behind him and braced himself on the piano. "The boys let me down again. I'm running out of stupid, worthless things to compare them to."
"I liked 'bowl of mice,'" Balthazar said. "Have a whiskey?"
"I told you, I'm on the wagon," Crowley said.
"Present circumstances," Balthazar reminded.
He examined the wound. The bullet was in there deep, tweezers weren't gonna get this done. Balthazar got a hold of Crowley's shoulder with one hand, the other he held before the wound, slowly rubbing his finger tips together - it looked like he was miming twisting and pulling an invisible thread from the wound. Staring, trying to concentrate, his re-seated himself on the bench to the he was facing Crowley's back, a leg on either side of him.
Balthazar smiled. "I just feel like we're playing bobsleds," he said, delighted.
"Stop straddling me," Crowley said dryly, "this isn't a casting couch."
"If you tell the twins that, I'm in trouble," Balthazar said.
Crowley looked a little grossed out. "You weren't de-flowering the night watchmaids on the bench I'm sitting on right now, were you?"
"Of course not," Balthazar said. "Some little attention whore had to get himself shot and interrupted us." He eyed the whisky again. "You know, we were such a laugh at first, you and I. Now look at us. I think the last time we played a game, you kneed me in the pills."
"We weren't playing a game," Crowley said. "It was Cinema St. Louis and you tackled me in the aisle. Again."
"Well, we all tackled you," Balthazar said, "that's how you play 'Get down, Mr. President.'"
"I wasn't playing," Crowley said.
"I know," Balthazar said fondly. "That's why you're always Mr. President."
Crowley glared at him over his shoulder.
"Don't give me that look," Balthazar said, "I didn't make up the rules. So, should we tell the press? The last time that little nerd shot you, our viewing numbers went through the roof."
"Last time they wouldn't have had to search the backlot for a suspect," Crowley said, shifting uncomfortably. "It's just a bit easier to avoid police scrutiny when they're not around to watch you torturing people in common areas-. Ow."
Another shock went through Crowley and Balthazar winced. Oops.
"Besides," Crowley went on, determined to get to his point, "I don't think I can take anymore pity right now. Like that pandering bollocks you thought up for the premiere?"
"Are you kidding me?" Balthazar said. "They loved that."
"For now," Crowley said. "Ever since I gave you input on my character, he's turned into a weenis. You're taking the menace out of the show. I think it's a mistake."
"This again," Balthazar sighed. "There's no real menace in the show, Mignon."
"Who's fault is that?"
"Lord, just admit what this is really about," Balthazar said wearily. "You can't separate yourself from the fictional Crowley."
Crowley gawked. Who can't what? "That's... rubbish," he said.
"I'm right and you know it," Balthazar said. "The same thing happened to that little tit who played Harry Potter, and it landed him in therapy. You're always sticking up for Fake-Crowley. Anytime someone criticizes him, you take it personally. You don't like him being vulnerable and you can't stand to see him lose. But you have to. You have to let him fail occasionally, that's what endears the audience. When you want to make a deal with a human, don't you make yourself as appealing as possible?"
"I'm already damn near intolerably appealing as it is," Crowley said. "I might misdirect people when necessary, but if I don't at least project an aura of ruthless self-interest, people will know they're being had. I've played this character a hundred times, I know what I'm doing. He's the villain, they're supposed to hate him. Fear him."
"He's a fictional character," Balthazar said, so tired of this.
"So's Pinhead," Crowley said.
Crowley couldn't see Balthazar roll his eyes. "I'm sure they have plenty of nightmares about you, too," Balthazar said half-heartedly.
"Don't patronize me."
"Humans want to throw their souls at your feet," Balthazar said, "they just don't know it yet. That's why we have to show them your character has other dimensions."
"Says you," Crowley said in the snottiest voice he could muster. "Fake-Crowley is my character and he's never failed me. He's fearsome and heartless, and you're turning him into a sympathetic-. Ow!"
"What?"
"You're twisting it," Crowley said, in a sad little guilt-trip voice.
"It's doing less damage this way," Balthazar said, "don't be such a baby."
"Am not," Crowley said, "you're twisting it."
Balthazar had to fight to concentrate. "Well, whining isn't going to help, is it?" he asked.
"When you have a lush with double-vision and butterfingers trying to dig a magic bullet out of your back, then you can lecture me on stiff upper-lips," Crowley said.
"It's almost out," Balthazar assured him, "but you need to stop clenching. Just take a deep breath and relax all your muscles."
Crowley smirked. "Now you're just doing that on purpose," he said.
Balthazar was smirking, too. "Maybe," he said. "But listen, if you feel a flash-back coming on, warn me." Finally having dug out the bullet, he held it up over Crowley's shoulder to show him. "There. Congratulations, it's a boy."
Crowley looked back at the bullet with a mixture of disdain and boredom. "I shall call him Tiberius," he said, and flicked the bullet across the room. "Now, about this 'other dimensions' crap - it feels like an overshare. TMI. I thought the rule was, 'always leave them wanting more?'"
Balthazar loaded a surgical stapler. "They can't very well want more if you've only given them Diet Squat in the first place," he said. He started stapling Crowley's gunshot wound closed. "You have to wet their appetites. Let me know if I'm doing this too tight. Sometimes my mind wonders and I get artistic with the seems. I could have a career in this - what do you think?"
"Kudos on changing the subject," Crowley said, only mildly irritated by the stapler. "Very subtle. I thought we were talking shop?"
"We were," Balthazar said. "You said a thing, I said a thing. Yours was wrong. Point: Balthazar. I'm beginning to enjoy stapling you. Is that perverted?"
"Will you shut up about the bloody stapler?" Crowley said, stifling a laugh. "What's the point in having a demon character and an angel character if they meet in the middle? The audience isn't that stupid."
"Oh, they're fairly stupid," Balthazar drawled.
"Fine," Crowley said, "but logically-."
"Logic has nothing to do with it," Balthazar said. He'd finished stapling and went on to cleaning and dressing the wound, using more tape than was necessary - he was all thumbs at this part. "People stopped wanting goodie-goodies and soulless bastards in the sixties. Honestly, antiheroes are the biggest thing now. So we give them an angel who's not so good, and a demon who's not so bad. There, all done."
"Good," Crowley said, all maxed out. "I think I need go to lay down... for a year."
He started to get up, but Balthazar stopped him. "You have to stay elevated," Balthazar said.
"Since when?" Crowley asked.
"Since they started shooting at you with magic bullets," Balthazar said sternly.
Crowley shrugged slightly. "Touché."
"Here, lean on me," Balthazar said.
Crowley shot Balthazar a look over his shoulder and the two of them proceeded to carry on brief eyebrow conversation:
CROWLEY'S EYEBROWS
(You're kidding, right?)
BALTHAZAR'S EYEBROWS
(Would I kid you at a time like this?)
CROWLEY'S EYEBROWS
(Whatever. We spend way too much time together.)
BALTHAZAR'S EYEBROWS
(Yeah, but we're getting pretty good at this.)
With a great deal of pain and effort on his part, Crowley sat back carefully. Balthazar had one arm around Crowley's good shoulder and the other around his waist, letting him rest while trying to keep the weight off his wound.
Crowley let his head fall back on Balthazar's shoulder, trying to breathe. "If you tweet this, I'll kill you," he said. "Moral ambiguity is getting old. Besides, even if you're right, they're not gonna buy it coming from me." He smiled a happy, nostalgic little smile. "What I did in the first season, that was brilliant. When I said I skin neighborhood cats to make seat covers for my car. And bragged that the unpaid children who make our t-shirts are all Americans. All those pissy little post-its we got from the network."
"I know," Balthazar said, "everyone wanted your head and you barely got any souls of your own all season. But remember when we did that Q&A during the first finale? That goth kid said he thought the show would be better if I wasn't in it."
"Spotty little pillock," Crowley grumbled.
"He wasn't talking about me," Balthazar said, "he was talking about my character."
"He was talking out of his ass," Crowley said. "People like him don't understand anything about literary symmetry, internal conflict, thematic unity. They think they can dictate to an artist."
"Mm-hm," Balthazar hummed, using up the world's supply of sass, "and you bit his head off. Remember the standing ovation you got? And how your soul count spiked?"
"Because I was being scary," Crowley said.
"Because you were standing up for someone else," Balthazar corrected.
Crowley looked ticked for a moment. "Rub it in," he growled.
"I will," Balthazar said merrily. "You were adorable, and now you're adored. See how that works? It was so elegant, someone on the wiki thinks we planned it. They love you."
"They think I'm in the way," Crowley said bitterly.
Where the hell did that come from?
"Of what?" Balthazar asked. "There wouldn't even be a show if it wasn't for you. You're the brains, you're the straight man - so to speak."
"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about," Crowley said, in the bitchiest, most accusatory voice that ever was. "I see the two of you - the longing stares, the way you're all over each other when we shoot the promos. 'Dollthazar.' You're glory-hogs, both of you."
Balthazar choked on a laugh. "Dollthazar?" he asked incredulously. "Did you Google yourself again?" He gave Crowley a smack on the hip. "I told you, Google is poison. And anyway, I thought Dolly and I were called 'Bally,' that's so much punchier."
"Ha!"
"I'm allowed on the internet," Balthazar said. "I'm not the one who can't handle criticism from the vocal minority. But if people didn't love the format, they wouldn't tune in. It's one thing to add characters and let them evolve, but chucking out any of the main ingredients would be incredibly stupid. Like you said, we're not taking dictation."
Crowley stared resignedly at the ceiling and sighed. "The fans want me out of the way," he said. "They think if I wasn't there, you and Dolly would be a thing." The thought obviously made his skin crawl. "You know what they call me on Tumblr?"
"'The Interrupting Cow,'" Balthazar answered.
But as soon as he'd said it, Crowley looked back at him with an absolutely mortified expression, one that suggested this was the first he'd heard of that particular moniker. Balthazar grimaced when he realized what he'd done.
"They call me The Interrupting Cow?!" Crowley screamed, positively enraged.
"Only the die-hard shippers," Balthazar said, petting Crowley's arm. "They're entitled little beasts, you can't listen to them."
Crowley turned away. His anger faded and he gave a weary, dejected snort.
"Poor Mignon," Balthazar cooed, in his most condoling voice. "And here I'd assumed this was Crossroads 101. No one knows what they want. Not until someone shakes it in front of them."
"Is that the logic behind your wardrobe?" Crowley asked listlessly.
"Do you recall," Balthazar said, "before Dolly and Mog signed on - that poll we had on the website? We asked the fans, 'what would you most like to see on the show,' and what won by a landslide?"
Crowley made his impassive face. "I don't remember," he said.
"I didn't think you would," Balthazar said, giving Crowley a bit of a squeeze, "so I've created a simple mnemonic device to jog your memory. It goes, 'Crowley and Balthazar, sitting in a tree...'"
"Settle down," Crowley said, trying not to grin.
"And that wasn't even an option on the poll," Balthazar went on. "It was a write-in. A shut-out victory for Crowlthazar. They thought they saw something between us and it intrigued them - and that's all there is to this whole Bally mess. Besides, we need you interrupting the banter, it keeps the show on track. It protects my virtue and maintains a level of unresolved sexual tension. You can never cut the U.S.T. - just look what happened on the X-Files."
They both made a face at that: too soon.
"And you're not shagging that troll?" Crowley asked.
"I swear on our Webby," Balthazar said, looking just a bit shifty as he did. "Look, you wanna find out how much the public really loves you?"
Crowley looked at him like he was effing crazy. "No."
Balthazar kept going, ignoring Crowley. "In the next episode," he said, "I'll go on and on about how nippy the arena gets in the winter, shake like a chihuahua through the whole show."
"You already do that," Crowley said.
"But next time I do it," Balthazar said gleefully, "put your coat on me like I'm Marilyn in Bus Stop."
Crowley couldn't help a chuckle. "That's insipid," he said. "And contrived."
"I know," Balthazar whispered in his ear. "They'll love it."
"You can't think they're gonna fall for something that ham-fisted," Crowley said.
"Like a ton of rabid, sexually-frustrated bricks," Balthazar said. "ET news will be playing that clip so much, you'll regret it inside an hour. Trust me, we'll sell it and the audience will go bonkers. It'll be the moment that launched a thousand ships. Your soul count will sky-rocket. Just remember to wear a short-sleeved shirt."
"Admit it," Crowley said, "you're just doing this to get my new coat."
"You've got me," Balthazar said. "Now, do you want a drink or not?"
Crowley thought about it. "One couldn't hurt," he said.
"There's my little wino," Balthazar said brightly. He opened the whiskey and poured a couple of glasses, handed one to Crowley.
"Think there's Mog and Crowley fans?" Crowley asked, a bit hopefully. "Some wank like that?"
"Not yet," Balthazar said. "Apparently, you thus far only have eyes for me."
"How old-fashion of me," Crowley said. "When did that start, anyway? I don't recall us ever shaking that in front of anyone."
From the attitude in his expression, Balthazar clearly didn't believe him. "You don't remember what we did for the half-time show?" Balthazar asked.
"We did a sword-fight," Crowley said, not getting it.
"We tangoed," Balthazar corrected him.
"With swords," Crowley said. "It was a metaphor. The battle between Good and Evil. Too subtle for the masses?"
"I don't think 'subtle' is the word, Mignon," Balthazar said. "You licked my neck."
"Is that all?" Crowley asked. "Imaginative little sods, aren't they?"
"Bless them, they are."
Balthazar held his drink up and Crowley clinked glasses with him. Salud.