THE PENTHOUSE - EVENING

Coming out of their elevator en route to their livingroom, Crowley and Balthazar looked over the templates for the new circulars - flyers to be passed around Crowley's security detail of Sam, Dean, Castiel, and Bobby. With this new wrinkle and the advantage they came out of the gate with, Crowley was in a very cozy mood.

"Latest episode in the can," he said, "our boys are printing off the new burn book as we speak, and the Fun Police are on their way. This might be the last break we get for a while." He used a hand to vault himself onto the piano, seeing as there was no longer a sofa to fling himself down on dramatically. "Peel Daddy a grape." He laid back, arms stretched. Time to hyper-relax like a real American.

Balthazar sat at the piano like you're supposed to and began playing his new song about how great Balthazar is that sounded remarkably like 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' as played by a beginner. "I thought I was 'Daddy,' We had a whole vibe about that."

There was something subtly interested in the look Crowley gave him, but he played it off. "So suburban. Haven't you heard that a family can have two daddies? You can be the Spider-Killing Daddy and I'll be the Filing Season Daddy."

"You hate paperwork and I hate spiders."

"No one ever said marriage would be easy." Crowley rolled over onto his stomach so he could play with the piano keys.

Balthazar kept a casual eye on his horrible attempt at a ten-span. Best change the subject. "I noticed you never considered nuking the Winchesters," he said, a little smugly.

"And I noticed you never considered nuking Castiel," Crowley said, just as smug.

Balthazar smiled to himself, busted. So maybe there was more to both of them than ruthless self-interest. He wasn't about to admit it out loud. "And I noticed... you called them 'our boys'."

Crowley froze. Had he accidentally got cutesy about the Winchesters? No, not without realizing it. "Did what now?"

"The minions," Balthazar said, "you called them 'ours'. You never do that."

Crowley smiled a private, somewhat bashful smile to himself, eyes down, tapping out a simple melody. 'At Last' or some reasonable facsimile. "Well, it's about time you started pulling your weight, can't keep doing everything by myself."

"Three and a half years," Balthazar went on, gently and sweetly so as not to scare the rabbit away. "Of will-they, wont-they. Practically had to nail your feet to the floor just to get out a declaration of love, and now you're talking marriage and minions." He snickered at himself. "I don't know what to do, Mignon, I never thought I'd get this far. I'm like a Jehova's Witness that finally got let in the door."

Crowley was almost too far gone to play it cool now, grinning that rare grin of real happiness and contentment. It almost made him look like a different person. "You could start by peeling me that grape."

Balthazar got up wearing a playful smile, taking Crowley's hand from the keys. "How about I peel you like a grape?"

Crowley pretended to gasp. "That sounds like some sort of filthy innuendo! I'm a taxpayer, I should be able to sprawl out suggestively on a piano without some hoodlum making a grape of me."

Rather than doing anything particularly scandalous, Balthazar wrapped Crowley up in a big hug, a tender kiss. "So... your place or mine? I do recall a laminated list of rules banning me from setting cheek on your bed."

Crowley still wasn't big into eye-contact in real moments, and it was about to get painfully more sincere so his eyes were full-on closed now. "Our bed," he said.

Balthazar was more than a little pleased. He may not have been able to process talk of marriage and minions, but he knew a baby step when he saw one. "Holy hell. What did I do to prove I'm worthy of your impossible thread count? Change my cologne?"

Crowley took a moment to get out an answer, snuggling in a little closer. "...I trust you." He said it so different than anything else.

Even when he admitted he loved Balthazar, there was defeat and fear in his voice, all the baggage that came with the King of Hell having such a weakness. But this wasn't like that at all. It was calm, happy, content, sincere. And at first, Balthazar felt a swell of pride. After all the times he'd failed, after the messes he'd made, being able to win the trust of a person like Crowley felt like someone had pinned a medal on him.

But when he realized this whole mind-reading business and years of lying meant he maybe didn't deserve to be trusted he felt this heart sink. Could it be the dreaded G-word? No, Balthazar didn't feel guilt - was there anyone on earth who could judge him? Glass houses, etc., he wasn't that bad. And Crowley was the functional Devil, it's not like he was tricking Shirley Temple. He always used his powers to help Crowley, never to hurt him. See? He had reasons and receipts for all his failings. So... why did he feel just a bit sick? And tiny and undeserving?

Lucky for him, there was a minion banging on the door. Shipley. "Yo, boss, we're supposed to outline the seasonal-."

Crowley sat straight up and bellowed at the door. "I will wear your pelvis like a hat!"

A little Christmas bulb went on in Balthazar's head. "Baby, why don't you let me handle this?" he said, in a sort of indulgent tone, as if this was about helping Crowley and not himself. "You need rest, and I'd like a little practice, you know, helping out."

Crowley looked away from him, sitting on the edge of the piano. Bothered. Flustered. Balthazar came around to his side, his hands on Crowley's shoulders.

"What's wrong?" he whispered. "Why can't you ever just tell me what's wrong?"

Crowley wouldn't look him in the eye. "Nothing's wrong, I'm not-." He covered his eyes with one hand like a migraine was descending on him.

Balthazar cradled Crowley's head against his chest. And he felt that itch. The urge to read Crowley's mind. He always felt it when Crowley seemed hurt and wouldn't - or perhaps, couldn't - say why. See, receipts! This wasn't about his being weak of moral character, oh no. His favorite person was in pain and he just wanted to make it better. What was so bad about that?

"No one's ever called me that," Crowley finally said.

"Called you what, Mignon, what did I do?"

"It doesn't matter."

Balthazar was so frustrated, as patient as you'd expect a celebrity with superpowers to be. He went for it again, just a little peek. Eyes closed, holding Crowley tight, he read his mind. Just a glimpse inside and he was back, but with Crowley's serious need for recuperation, it was enough to hit him like a normal person after a bottle of vodka. He sank into Balthazar, dizzy, exhausted. Balthazar looked properly guilty now, and ran his fingers through Crowley's hair, petting him like you'd pet a sad old dog at the vet.

'Baby'. No one had ever called him 'baby'.