THE PENTHOUSE - EVENING

Just off the living room, past the place where the sofa used to be, was a room with a warded door. Inside, it looking like something Hemingway would've decorated in a fit of anger - black lacquer-finished antique furniture from old British colonies, guns and hunting trophies mounted on the walls, and curios from all over the world. It was cluttered and had an air of the exotic, but on closer inspection, there was something inhuman about everything in the room. One could see the taxidermied remains of something monstrous, or a brass bowl of shrunken heads that look a little too real.

A giant four-poster bed took up the center of the room. There was an Egyptian-looking frieze around the room, painted with Enochian warding magic. A small, antique television sat opposite a leather recliner. Potted ferns and sheer curtains were stirred by the woven ceiling fan. The whole scene had an almost anachronistic feel as Smith's cover of "Baby It's You" played softly from a hidden hi-fi.

There were french doors behind the bed that looked out on the penthouse roof. They swung open and Balthazar stepped into the room. Looking decidedly less Kirk-like than usual, he wore a loose t-shirt and jeans, his feet were bare ad his hair was damp. Seeming worn and empty, he went to the door on the other side of the room.

"Are you still in there?" Balthazar hollered. "It's been hours - how many layers of skin were you planning on exfoliating?"

"I only need one," Crowley's voice called back from the other side of the door. "Why are you in my room?"

"My party's winding down," Balthazar grumbled. "You never want to say late at an orgy." He went back and dropped down in the recliner, exhausted.

Crowley came in, also looking leisurely and de-Sataned. Gray fleece warm-up suit and black socks - very disappointing. He looked pale and drained. But he was thoroughly exfoliated.

"You're in my chair, Taz," Crowley said, heading over to the rattan bar cart. He started cutting a lime.

"Where else is there for me to sit?" Balthazar asked. "I won't sit on the floor, my ass will get cold. And we already went over the rule about-." He gestured behind him.

"Bed's off limits," Crowley said. "Why are you really in here?"

"Well, we were going to watch Arsenic and Old Lace," Balthazar said.

"They still tearing it up in the living room?" Crowley asked, juicing the lime into highball glasses.

"Mm-hm, and I don't have a TV in my room. Because I'm not celibate." He had a broad grin waiting for the dirty look Crowley would undoubtedly shoot him. But he didn't even turn. "How's your shoulder?" Balthazar asked, a bit concerned.

"How'd it go with the Devil's Fire?" Crowley asked. He poured the rum and cola, brought over a couple of drinks and held one out. "All the angels in Nutville taken care of?"

Balthazar took his glass. "We nailed it," he said listlessly. "That's not all of them, but... we're go for phase two." He looked like he might say something else, but then took a long pull from his drink.

"Is that why you're in my room?" Crowley asked, taking a seat on the arm of the recliner.

Balthazar shook his head, but not at Crowley. "If you knew what they're really like up there," he said, trailing off. "It's frightening, it really is. We were supposed to be a family - or that's the propaganda."

Crowley shrugged. "At least when they destroy you in hell," he said, "they don't expect you for Christmas after."

"It's not the torture," Balthazar said. "Or the programming. It's the bald-faced lying. They say they love each other, that it's all for something. But if you knew what they had planned for me... That's not what home is."

"What's the line," Crowley said, "home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."

Balthazar smirked at him. Crowley smirked back. So much smirk.

"How's your shoulder?" Balthazar asked again.

"Better," Crowley said. "Lost a few pints of blood, but the wound's closed."

"You don't look better," Balthazar said. "Let me see."

Crowley scoffed. "If I was going to lie," he said, "why would it be about this?"

"Because you did the same thing the last time you were shot," Balthazar said. "Let me see your back."

Crowley stood up. "Get out of my chair."

Balthazar considered it for a moment. "Eh, I like it here," he said. "Why don't you just sit on my lap?"

Crowley looked at Balthazar like he was amusingly psychotic. "What's with you lately?" he asked, grinning. "Is it pon farr or something? Maybe you should sit on the floor." He sipped his drink, with a pleasantly surprised expression.

"Oh, come on," Balthazar said, and seemed to be preparing himself. "I promise to shut up if you do, mon petit Mignon. After the day I've had, I need a night in and a squeeze."

"You've got an orgy locked in your room," Crowley said, snickering into his Cuba Libre. "Go squeeze them."

"Just a cuddle," Balthazar said in the cajoling tone one uses with domestic animals. "What are you afraid of?"

"Hepatitis," Crowley said, chuckling under his breath. "Why don't you try triple-dog daring me?"

Balthazar sighed. "What kind of world order are we starting," he said, "when the Devil can't sit on God's lap?"

"You're not God," Crowley said, dead serious.

Balthazar grinned. "I'm sort of God," he said.

Crowley shook his head slowly. "No..."

"Deal with it," Balthazar said, and slapped his knee. "I'm God. Now come sit on daddy's lap."

"Alright, Zsa-Zsa." Crowley went to the drink cart, nabbed a glass jar of peanut M&m's and tossed it to Balthazar, who caught it in his free hand. "I don't trust you," Crowley said, but smiled all the same.

"You know," Balthazar said, "I think it was my blind conviction that you couldn't be less mature that makes this so depressing." He tossed the jar over his shoulder. Or he tried to, only to find it was stuck to his hand. He tried shaking it off, to no avil, then tried to put his drink on the floor and couldn't let go of it either. He let out a disgusted huff. "Oh, you... rotten little bastard."

"I'm on the mend," Crowley said, tickled by his own joke. "I don't need you pawing me."

Balthazar tried to look shocked and indignant at the accusation. Crowley gave him a look.

CROWLEY'S EYEBROWS
(Really?)

BALTHAZAR'S EYEBROWS
(Yes? Oh, who am I kidding? I'm a pervert, but you still owe me a lap-dance.)

CROWLEY'S EYEBROWS
(This counts as your birthday present.)

Crowley left his drink on the cart, went to the recliner and lowered himself onto Balthazar's lap, face pinched with pain from putting weight on his arms. He drew a sharp breath in through his teeth.

Balthazar shook the M&m's in protest. "Can't see," he said seriously - or as seriously as you can with a jar of candy stuck your hand.

Crowley unzipped the his jacket and hiked it so his collar dropped in back and Balthazar could see his gunshot wound. The dressing on the wound was gone, but the small grouping of staples remained. The affected area was scabby and the surrounding flesh was horribly bruised.

"Dear God," Balthazar whispered breathlessly.

"What?"

"Your tattoos are gorgeous," Balthazar said.

Crowley made a move to get up, but Balthazar put his jar-arm around him.

"Too late," Balthazar said happily.

"It was a mistake not getting you fixed," Crowley said, trying his damnedest not to grin. "So how bad is it back there?"

"Your fine," Balthazar said dismissively. "Just lost a few pints of blood. The wound's closed."

Crowley gave Balthazar a glare before violently ripping the jar out of his hand. And you could hear it rip. Balthazar looked for a moment like he might scream, but nothing came out of his mouth but a faint gasp. Crowley zipped his jacket back up, looking very pleased with himself. He turned and resituated himself so that Balthazar could see past him, snapped his fingers at the TV and turned it on, while simultaneously turning off the hi-fi. He opened the jar and offered some candy to Balthazar, who looked conflicted, his hand still somewhat raw.

"Want to smack," Balthazar said. "Also want candy... What to do?" He gestured with his glass at the cart and it rolled over until it was close enough for him to put his drink down. It didn't give him any trouble this time.

Balthazar took the jar, set it down and - now that he had both hands free - put his arms around Crowley's shoulders and gave him a good squeeze.

"Careful!" Crowley hissed, eyes wide.

"Whoops," Balthazar said, and slipped his arms around Crowley's waist.

Crowley had to catch his breath - this was the wrong time for a bear hug. "You know, the Lambada is forbidden?" he snarked. "Are you having a post-fratricidal crisis, or are we in a celebratory frolic? Because this all feels a bit new for my tastes."

"What were we doing four years ago?" Balthazar asked, nestling into Crowley gently.

Crowley thought about it and smiled sadly. "Hiding. We were still at war."

"And who did we have on our respective sides then?"

He didn't have to answer that. Four years ago, they were both alone, hunted by their own kind, facing down a fate worse than death. And that was somehow long over. This was one of those rare moments, when neither of them could manage or justify insincerity. Gratitude and relief were written on their faces, and not arguably or subtly. All this had meant more than anything they saw in each other. It was dawn for both of them. No more fighting. No backs against the wall. The war was over. It wasn't happiness, but it was a high note, years - or perhaps centuries - in the making. Pure and powerful. One could all but hear ethereal music swelling from the empyrean.

Actually, it was coming from the TV, and it was a commercial for "Phantom" at a theater in Branson. But it was still wicked appropriate.

Crowley leaned back, rested his head against Balthazar's. Commercial ended. Moment over. Now they were just watching TV.

"So... Karloff's in this?" Balthazar asked, picking the candy jar up again.

"Raymond Massey," Crowley said, grabbing a handful of M&m's. "Karloff was in the play. They didn't do a good job translating all the meta references."

"Sorry," Balthazar said, "I'm completely lost." He shoveled a handful of candy into his mouth.

"Well, the play was a critique on plays," Crowley explained. He pointed an M&m at Carry Grant. "See that dapper bastard? He's familiar with all the tropes of a horror story, but has no idea he's in one." He ate a few candies and shook his head. "Listen to him, he's headed for disaster and he's not even paying attention. Just complaining about some fictional character doing the exact same thing."

"Makes my head hurt," Balthazar said, grimacing. "This doesn't end grisly for the love birds, does it?"

"Not telling," Crowley said, grinning.

Balthazar shuddered. "I hate that," he said. "It's just a story, you know? Why hurt us?"

"To make. The audience. Give a damn," Crowley said measuredly. "To get them invested."

"Well, if you already care, it's torture," Balthazar said. "Why can't they just make a romance genre without the conflict? Where the couple gets together and then just love each other?"

"They do," Crowley said. "It's called 'pornography'."