HEATHCLIFF STUDIOS - AFTERNOON
A black, 1935 Lincoln Limousine idled at the entrance to the studio. The VIP car. Crowley and Balthazar were leaning out of their respective back windows, signing a few autographs for a small crowd, not yet aware of the picket line that was forming at the studio entrance. The Five Points Trinity Church, doing what they do best.
By this time on a weekday, Crowley usually would've gotten an enormous amount done - not that he had much choice in the matter. Hell needed kinging, minions needed to be properly threatened, storylines needed breaking, banter needed writing and re-writing, and there always needed to be someone watching the set like a hawk to make sure the safety standards weren't fudged by the set dressers. All things that needed doing, and all things that Balthazar was, to put it as kindly as possible, no damn help with at all. But playing hooky? He was infinitely talented at that.
After an entire morning of sumptuously unproductive activities followed by a long, private lunch, Crowley was feeling a little like wet spaghetti. For the first time since those pre-Apocolypse good old days, he was completely happy, satisfied, and stress-free. Balthazar, on the other hand, was death on toast. When they both settled back into the car, he looked exhausted. Pained. And just a bit resentful of how rested and content Crowley seemed.
"You know I was lying when I said it would hurt me more than it did you?" Balthazar asked, throwing his pen on the floor and rubbing his aching autograph hand. "Really, how is it possible you're in better shape than I am?"
"I'm a demon," Crowley said, smirking to himself, "we have a higher threshold for pain than angels."
"Oh, there's no way that's true!" Balthazar said, getting a little louder than he should've.
"Really? Do this."
Crowley flexed his hand at Balthazar. The very thought of trying it made Balthazar wince.
"I... declare a moratorium on violent lovemaking," he said.
"By what authority?" Crowley asked, grinning, just enjoying the hell out of this.
"Please, let's just be sweet to each other until my tendons grow back?" Balthazar whined.
Crowley leaned in to give Balthazar neck-kisses. "Are you trying to rob my advantage?" he whispered. "I don't do sweet, Taz, not for free."
Balthazar pulled him closer and kissed his cheek by his ear. "I love you."
Crowley squirmed a little at that, suddenly needing to hide his face away in Balthazar's shoulder. There's nothing more effective for making hell kings blush than a sincere declaration of affection. Still, he was all smiles. Even if he didn't completely believe that Balthazar really loved him, hearing him say it was still amazing. And he didn't try to make a break for it this time; that's real progress. "Stop it."
"Make me."
"Or you could both stop it," said a quiet, bored voice from the front seat. At some point, the limo's dividing window had been rolled halfway down. The driver was a cheap, Skeet Ulrich lookin' guy in his mid-twenties.
"Noole!" Crowley screamed at him. "I will put your head through that bloody window if you don't roll it up right god damn now!"
Noole freaked right out at the sound of Crowley's screaming. He didn't know they could hear him. "I meant - there's a thing! Like a protest thing? Up ahead, it's those church dicks."
Crowley and Balthazar traded looks: church dicks? They rolled their windows back down and leaned out. They saw the protesters up ahead, chanting, holding signs with bible verses and slurs. Balthazar and Noole looked a bit worried but Crowley was elated. He sat back down and pulled his phone out.
"We have to let them in," Crowley said, with all the glee of a teenage boy who'd been handed a giant firework.
"Those Five Points morons?" Balthazar asked. "Didn't their leader confess to shooting at you?"
"He just said that to get on TV," Crowley said as he dialed security. "If they want attention, we'll give to them." Someone answered the phone. "Legion, let the protesters into the studio. No, we're not gonna kill 'em, they're gonna be my our dog pound... Like Arsenio? ...Hall! I'm old, but I'm not that old."
Balthazar took the phone from Crowley. "Search them," he told Legion. "Nothing that could even remotely be mistaken for a weapon, you understand?" He hung up, still grumpy. "I don't like this. Those people just... they get under my skin."
"Maybe they're right about God," Crowley said. "He was an intolerant, wrathy fellow back in the day."
"I don't care what they say about dear old Dad, he's got it coming. I just don't like the way that Cooper talks about you. He wants you dead."
"He wants to be the one that kills me, it's not the same thing. Noole! Roll your window up or I'll feed you to the church dicks!"
"Alright, dude," Noole said, "but I'm the only one in this car that knows how to drive. You should be n-."
He was cut off when Balthazar bolted forward and knocked his head into the steering wheel, beeping the horn and bloodying his nose. He yanked Noole's head back and held an angel blade to his throat.
"I'm a little sensitive about my driving," Balthazar said. "So how about... you roll the window up and pray I forget which one of you freaks is which?"
Noole nodded, having a little anxiety attack.
Balthazar sat back down, the dividing window went up. Crowley was already on Balthazar, kissing, grinding, tearing at his clothes - there was something about angels doing violence. The sort of thing he should've talked to a therapist about.
"I love you," Crowley said in a growly voice.
"Was that so hard?" Balthazar asked, joining in.