HEATHCLIFF STUDIOS - MORNING
The Heathcliff Studios commissary was an an art deco dinosaur of a cafeteria, but was still considered comfortable enough for visiting contestants to meet the stars of "Inferno." Yellow, cheery, decorated in a vaguely Spanish style. Louis Prima's "Just A Gigolo" played over the P.A. The tables closest to the entrance were always reserved for the hosts and contestants. Like was his habit before they started filming an episode, Balthazar was having breakfast with the newbies - a pair of sisters from Nevada who'd won the Facebook contest. They were getting properly schmoozed and all their merch and photos were getting dedicated and signed.
Like many mornings, Balthazar was hung over almost to the point of absurdity - wiping out the Host of Heaven will do not-good things to an angel's self-esteem and can often lead to the drinking of one's feelings. Still, he ignored the bruises and the fog and managed to put on his act, lest the fans be disappointed. Having an army of innocent worshipers begging to sell him their souls seemed to lessen the blow of just about everything in his life these days. This was his average morning, and in spite of everything, he loved it.
Naturally, this was not how Crowley spent his mornings. Usually he was booked solid, micro managing, meeting with producers, advertisers, people from the network and press - all the stuff Balthazar was always too blitzed or back-chatty to help with. But this morning, all of that went out the window because of very special circumstances that required an immediate summit meeting of the two show hosts. Scruffy, rumpled, and - god forbid - casually dressed, Crowley was on his way to the commissary in an awful state. For the first time ever, he wore some of the show's branded merchandise: a leather racer jacket with a high collar, suspiciously zipped all the way up. Sunglasses to hide his red eyes. No one recognized him until he walked through the commissary doors and one of the contestants squealed. Crowley never came to the contestant breakfasts!
Balthazar turned and looked back over his shoulder, absolutely flabbergasted. Crowley tried to smile for the rabble, but they'd known each other long enough that Balthazar could tell he had murder on his mind.
"Don't mean to interrupt," Crowley said, so politely.
"Trouble with the censors?" Balthazar asked.
"Wardrobe and makeup," Crowley said. He turned to the contestants with a small smile, as sweet as spun sugar. "Mind if I steal him for a bit?"
It was a little disappointing, but the ladies quickly conceded in the face of charm and damnation. Crowley motioned with his head to the bathroom.
BALTHAZAR'S EYEBROWS
Am I screwed?
CROWLEY'S EYEBROWS
Beyond screwed-.
BALTHAZAR'S EYEBROWS
Bollocks.
CROWLEY'S EYEBROWS
-So far from screwed, that the light from screwed will take a thousand years to reach your planet!
Meanwhile, the constants just watched as the two silently stared at each other. What the effity eff?
Crowley finally headed for the restroom, Balthazar made his excuses and followed. Once inside the surprisingly cozy lounge, Crowley looked around, confused. "Why is there a sofa in here?"
"We're in the ladies' room," Balthazar said dryly. "What's all the doom and gloom about? Wake up on the wrong side of the biker this morning? And PS, you need to shave before the show. I told you, beards are my thing."
Crowley locked the door, pocketed his shades and turned, his entire face the definition of annoyance as he unzipped his jacket and moved the collar aside on his tacky Inferno t-shirt, revealing the issue. Balthazar had left bite marks and bruises all over Crowley's neck and shoulder. On seeing them, Balthazar doubled up, laughing breathlessly, wheezing in pain from how hilarious he thought the whole thing was was. All that drama for a few hickeys?
"It's not funny, Taz," Crowley said, the wrath of Hell and boyfriends in his voice.
Balthazar braced himself on the sink counter, trying to rein it in. "No, no, you're right. It's the tragedy of the season!"
Crowley whisper-shouted, "Would you be quiet?! I could do you for sexual harassment."
Balthazar was a little annoyed by that. "Oh, you can do me any way you like, pussycat," he said with super-snark in his tone, "but as far as the love bites go? You started it."
"You got me drunk."
"You made the drinks!" Balthazar shouted.
It was loud enough that Crowley had to go and cover Balthazar's mouth with his hand. He looked halfway to terrified. "You wanna yell?" Crowley whispered. "Bubble it."
Balthazar scoffed like a surly teenager and shoved Crowley off - in addition to being 100% done with "will they or won't they" secret romances, he was so thrashed that morning, asking him to use his powers was akin to suggesting he pick up trash by the side of the road. He snapped his fingers.
"There," Balthazar said, "we're currently inaudible. No one can hear me say what a colossal brat you were last night."
"I was on the wagon," Crowley said, still furious. "I was wounded and bleeding out, and you pushed me into that whiskey."
That shut Balthazar down a bit. Yeah, he did kinda scoot Crowley off the wagon.
"I only wanted to have a drink with you," Balthazar said, a bit sadly, very guilty. "We used to all the time, it was the best part of my day. Besides, you only quit drinking 'cause that Jenna what's-her-face told you it was empty calories."
"I don't care what the rationale is," Crowley said. Although he clearly did. As quick as it went by, the idea still registered: Balthazar just wanted to be with him. But he pushed the thought away. "You still took advantage, you desperate little budgie."
"Oh, please!" Balthazar shoved his hands down into his pockets, bristling. "I was blue about helping you kill off what's left of my family. Vulnerable. And you seduced me."
"You begged me to sit on your lap," Crowley said. "On what planet is that-."
"Crossroads," Balthazar said simply.
Crowley frowned. What the hell did that mean? But then it came back to him. And he didn't just recall the existence of the game, he began to slowly remember the sequence of events that followed. His eyes floated away to a conveniently less embarrassing object, so Balthazar cleared his throat to get Crowley's attention and moved his collar aside to draw attention the bruises on his own neck.
The moment was getting too awkward and surreal for Crowley. "You didn't heal them," he stated quietly.
Balthazar shrugged. "They give me color," he said. He crossed to sofa and sat down, getting to the point where he was finally feeling his share of the embarrassment. "I know what this is about, you don't have to hide it from me, Mignon. I can't imagine what you've been through."
Crowley squinted at Balthazar like he had a wandering birthmark. "What?"
"The time you spent in Hell," Balthazar said, "the way they break souls. I know why you're afraid to be with me."
Crowley rolled his eyes, a hand up to keep the reality at bay. "We're not having this conversation."
"Just sit with me," Balthazar said softly. "Please?"
"I'm gonna get in my Wayback Machine," Crowley said, voice full of warning, "and we're gonna go back in time, to before you started embarrassing of yourself."
Whoa. Enough was happening that, despite his attempts to be delicate, Balthazar wasn't having the attitude. "Sit."
Crowley scoffed. Was Balthazar really gonna order him around? Eye-roll, snicker-face. "Yes, ma'am."
But weirdly enough, Crowley didn't just sit down, he sat on Balthazar's lap, straddling him casually, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And it did seem natural to both of them, to the point where it took a minute for either of them to notice.
"How... did you do that?" Crowley asked, like he'd blacked out at a magic show and just woke up on someone's lap.
Balthazar shrugged, equally clueless. (If he'd known it was that easy, he would've been doing it for three years.) But after a moment of consideration, it truth hit him. Brow furrowed, looking at Crowley like he was a very interesting ant doing something inventive with a jelly bean.
"...You like it when I tell you what to do," Balthazar said.
"Did you hit your head on a boom mic again?" Crowley asked, chuckling at the absurdity.
"It's not my fault they dip them that low," Balthazar said, a little self-conscious.
Still laughing, Crowley started to get up, but Balthazar gripped him at the hips and pulled him back down.
"And don't you dare change the subject," Balthazar said, amazed at the revelation. "You like it when I boss you around. You respond to it."
"I'm gonna let this slide," Crowley said, "because you've got that angel's fetish. But you're off your nut."
"The minute you became the Devil, you ran out and found someone to be God," Balthazar said, just marveling at him. Three years of weirdness was beginning to make sense. "Of course you did. All you get for subjects are a pack of rabid dogs, and no matter how good you are to them, they can't wait to tear you apart. Because you're not an archangel, or an ancient abomination. You're a cigarette girl and everyone knows it. You've got the weight of the world on you, Sword of Damocles over you. The buck always stops here."
That struck a chord with Crowley. Not that good to be the king, as it turns out.
"There's no one to help you," Balthazar said, "no one to hold you. To pet you when you're good, or make it better when it all goes wrong. That's why you made a deal with the enemy. You needed a big, strong-. Back up, what 'angel's fetish'?"
Crowley's smirk returned. He had the mic back. "The chase," he said, his tone becoming just a bit intimate. "Angels have to toe the line, ask for permission. Be good little boys and girls. But God didn't make you perfect, did he? All that strength and you're never allowed to be weak. You're castrated and it don't feel good-."
"Watch it," Balthazar said. Total nerve strike. He worked his fingers into the belt loops of Crowley slacks and gave them a tug. You know, a regular, platonic trouser-tug. Like you do.
"You want to take what isn't yours," Crowley went on, his tone becoming hypnotic. "No one pulling your strings," he gently pried Balthazar's hands off his hips, "picking your brain. There's so much longing you're not allowed to feel. You're a beast on a leash, terrified that someone's gonna give it a yank if you're not good. But I've got news for you..."
Crowley leaned in, quiet, his breath hot on Balthazar's skin. His hands against the sofa on either side of Balthazar. No way out. Balthazar was looking a bit woozy already, frustrated, but helpless in the face of a good villain monologue.
"There's no one on the other end," Crowley said. "Everyone who'd ever made you feel small. Powerless. Broke you down? You defeated them. They never stood a chance. And they're scattered to the winds now. So you can have it." He whispered in Balthazar's ear, "Everything you ever wanted. All you have to do... is take it."
A beat. That's all it took for Crowley to hop off Balthazar's lap and get back on his feet, crossing the room.
"Too bad you don't have a fetish," Crowley said, giving Balthazar an evil look over his shoulder.
Balthazar sat stunned, as angry as he was aroused. He couldn't even speak for a moment. Meanwhile, Crowley hopped up on the sink counter, staring down Balthazar, biting his lip with mighty satisfaction.
Finally, Balthazar pulled himself together enough to answer. "And what if I don't take it?" he asked.
Crowley shrugged. "Nothing changes. Nothing could. You go on being your castrated self, and I find another beast who likes the chase. I hear Butcher asked-."
Crowley didn't even see Balthazar get up and already, he had Crowley pinned back against the mirror by his shoulders. A hairline fissure broke out over the mirror. Balthazar was in Crowley's face now, more steamed than we'd ever seen him.
"Not. Butcher," Balthazar said sternly.
Crowley stared at Balthazar, still as a photo, save the rise of his chest with the quiet, heavy breathing that came. All that sexy angel stuff hit his system like vodka and Redbull.
"Alright, I like it a little," Crowley admitted. He finally cracked a smile. A tiny one, the tip of his tongue snaking out to touch his upper lip. "But you can't tell me that didn't feel good." They were both breathing heavy now, dizzy with lust. "Now you get to be in charge."
"Finally," Balthazar said hungrily.
"No more gods," Crowley said, "no more masters. No one telling you-. Oi." He looked down at one of Balthazar's hands.
"What?" Balthazar realized what Crowley was trying to tell him and obediently let him go. He slipped his arms around Crowley's waist instead, and Crowley responded by putting his arms around Balthazar's neck, pulling him in by wrapping his legs around him.
"No one telling you what to do," Crowley said.
The irony was thankfully completely lost on both of them.
"How many times have you wanted to just... make me behave?" Crowley asked, baiting him. "As many times as I'd walked away from you? Waiting. Needing you to follow."
And now Balthazar realized the stupidly simple truth. At last. "But you couldn't tell me," he said, "because I could've broken your heart... It's all my fault. For never telling you when we were sober. I love you."
Crowley stared at Balthazar for moment, looking terrified. Too much honesty! All he managed to say was a quick, "No." He lunged, fought to get away from the screaming sincerity of the moment. Not about to let it go on for another three years, Balthazar leaned back and lifted Crowley up off the counter, robbing any traction he had for an escape. After a moment, the knee-jerk flight response died down easily. Crowley closed his eyes, actually looking relieved. Like he'd stepped off a ledge, only to be pulled back.
A long moment passed. His feet touched the ground, hands migrated down to Balthazar's shoulders. Crowley was finally in a position to say exactly what had been on his mind.
"I love you."
He still couldn't look Balthazar in the eye. There was so much pain in Crowley's voice, but it was all, metaphorically speaking, heading in the direction of the exit. The only things keeping Crowley upright now were the arms that held him.
And just like that, what had started as a fight and mutated into a randy tease-fest, somehow transformed into honesty and catharsis. Not that it wasn't far more overwhelming.
"I tried not to," Crowley said quietly. It was true, he had tried not to love Balthazar. And failed spectacularly, but points for effort. He laughed a hollow laugh. "What the hell do we do now?"
"Well," Balthazar said, "the door is locked..." He laid a sweet, gentle kiss on Crowley's cheek, another nearer his ear. "And no one can hear us. We could play hooky for a bit."
Crowley smiled, but turned his head away with resignation. "You left a couple of contestants waiting," he said.
"To hell with them," Balthazar said, and planted another kiss on Crowley's neck.
"That's the plan," Crowley said, "but I have a meeting with Harvey about the tie-in chocolates, so-."
"Stay with me," Balthazar said, his voice small and pitiful. "Please?"
Crowley made an involuntary pleasure noise, but continued to lean away, actually managed enough self-control to push Balthazar off, and headed for the door. "We can't both let things slide," he said.
Balthazar caught up with him. Hands safely behind his back like a gentleman, he whispered softly in Crowley ear, "Daddy said stay."
Crowley stopped in his tracks. His expression vanished behind a reflexive pokerface. His eyes wandered thoughtfully. "I wonder if that sofa is a pull-out..."