What Isn't And Came to Be
Chapter 12: Lessons
Michele woke from a dream of standing on the beach.
She'd been gazing down at the surf rushing past and dragging the sand from under her naked toes.
Turning her face into the crisp Egyptian cotton of her pillowcase, Michele blew out a steadying breath and tried to dispel the unease the dream had kindled.
The setting of the warm summer day, the sound of Phil, the girls and Chris playing together somewhere nearby; as well as the feel of Johnny beside her in the waves, with his small warm hand clutched tight in hers. Those were all good things.
But it hadn't been a good dream.
She had been almost frozen with dread, watching the water suck back out, and out, and out. Like the ocean was dragging in a slow inhale, readying itself to do something awful…
Was that what woke her? An instinctive rejection of the inevitable loss to come, a bone deep knowledge and rejection of how everything she loved was about to be swept away.
Michele rubbed sleep from eyes that felt gritty and weary, and searched the white bedside cabinet blindly for her glasses.
It wasn't exactly an old dream, she told herself, as her heart scudded anxiously in her chest.
Years ago when her girls were young, she'd had similar reoccurring nightmares; that they'd be at a beach and suddenly a freak wave would come, and wash her daughters away out to sea.
It hadn't taken her a consultation with a psychologist to pinpoint the cause. A seeping fear that one day her daughter's birth mother would realise what she had given up, come to her senses, and attempt to gain custody; that something she couldn't fight would sweep her children away, out of her life, like a huge unstoppable wave.
Now the tsunami had come, not in the form of a custody battle, but in the Armani clad form of Crowley, once and future king of Hell.
Now, here she was, clinging to Johnny, the only one she had left.
Thinking of Johnny, she turned to look at her sleeping boy, needing to gather what small comfort she could, before facing another day in her magazine sheik prison.
And found to her horror, that Johnny's bed was empty.
"No," the word was a croak of dismay as she scanned the room.
Jack, a little splash of colour in the otherwise starkly white room, lay in his crib, asleep, but there was no sign of the child she needed so desperately to see.
Ripping herself out from under the sheets, Michele hurriedly checked the closet. Thinking maybe Johnny had had a bad dream, and curled up in there to feel safer.
But the closet was empty, except for the penciled wardings she'd scrawled furtively on every surface.
"Johnny!" Her son's name ripped out of her throat, laden with all the terror and fury of the past three days.
If Crowley had hurt him, she was going to… her hand fumbled under Kelly's stretched out maternity top, into her bra and gripped the handle of the small warded vegetable knife. (Crowley had left her with it, after mockingly informing her how every little hobbit needed their Sting….) This hobbit was going to bury 'Sting' in his eye, that's what.
Then, she'd find a way to hurt him, she promised herself venomously, yanking open the bedroom door.
The first thing she saw was Crowley, standing in the doorway of his office.
He looked utterly unruffled and amused.
"Where is he?" She demanded in a low hiss, knife grasped tight in her fist.
The bastard had the temerity to smirk at her. "Lost something have we, Pet?"
"If you've touched a hair on his head—" she threatened. Mind fizzing with a mad, protective fury as she moved toward the black clad monarch.
She saw the demon's eyes clock down to the knife in her hand, one eyebrow and the corner of his mouth raised, in a kind of amused surprise.
Then, his gaze traveled past her, to something down the hallway.
The demon gave a nonchalant, careless wave of his hand…
And suddenly, her back collided with a wall behind her; at the same moment her knife hand twisted sharply and slammed, hard, into the wall above her head.
The little knife tumbled from her impact numb fingers and landed on the carpet by her bare feet with a tiny, unimpressive thud.
Then, there came the sound of small running feet from the opposite direction to where Crowley stood, and something small, warm and hers, collided with her side.
"Mum!"
She couldn't move, turn her head, or look down, but the contact was like being made whole again.
"Johnny," she breathed, wilting with relief as her son's small fingers wormed their way into her free palm and his face buried against her ribs.
"I woke up and you were gone, I thought…" she swallowed convulsively not daring to give voice to the yammering terror that had slid through her veins only moments before.
Crowley's eyes dropped to Johnny by her side.
"She thought, that the evil soul stealing demon had spirited you away to some fate worse than death," he mocked cocking his head.
His dark eyes met hers again, with a smarmy smirk. "Isn't that right, Pet? You were ready to take on the King of Hell himself with a vegetable paring knife, just like you promised.
Mum really would fight Heaven and Hell for you MacGuffin. Not that she'd survive." For a moment the demon's face became introspective. "My mother, she wasn't even willing to face off against a couple of pisspoor villagers and their mutts." He muttered, almost to himself, before shrugging and waving a hand as though shooing off a pesky fly.
"Of course, Lad—." His voice took on that lilt some adults used while lecturing children, eyes zeroed down on Johnny.
"My Mother, she survived three centuries. Where as your Mum, she's died once already this week. Hasn't she boy?
Do us all a favor, Lad, don't go scaring her half to death."
Michele felt the force holding her drop away and wrapped her arms round her son, her heart galloping with adrenalin.
"What exactly did you think you were going to do, hmmm?" Crowley's voice had lost all it's genial amusement now, and taken on a dark and stormy note of threat.
She didn't answer the demon, instead focused on getting her son away from what ever was coming next.
"Johnny," she murmered low and non-threatening, "can you go check on Jack and keep an eye on him until he wakes up, please." Johnny clutched her hand tighter and burrowed into her side, but she pried him off and pushed him towards the bedroom.
"It's okay, noones mad at you. Me and Mr Crowley, we just need to talk," she soothed. But her eyes never left Crowley's face as she spoke, and his never left her.
After the bedroom door clicked shut she lowered her gase submissively. Dread pooling in her gut as she stood trembling and weak kneed, waiting.
"I asked you a question." Crowley's tone was as sharp and impenetrable as obsidian, and just as dark.
"I didn't really plan it out." She admitted quietly, hugging herself.
The demon grunted disparagingly. Insanely the contempt in that little sound set her teeth on edge and fanned the dying embers of her ragged anger.
"But I figured—," she continued, lifting her chin to glare back at him; caught up suddenly by a wild urge to hit out and wipe that stupid smug smirk off his stolen face.
"If I stabbed you in the eye, that'd probably immobilise you like a devils trap bullet. Then, I'd have time.
To fill up that rediculas oversized spa bath, and concecrate the water. Drag you in there and hold you under. Make you hurt, for hurting him."
Crowley made a low sound in the back of his throat and licked his lips. Hands in pockets he took a slow predatory step closer.
And ohhh, firetruck! Was she completely insane? Why the hell had she said that, out loud, to the pissed off demon. Was she trying to get her neck snapped?!
"You're flirting again, Love." He tutted and snapped his fingers sharply.
She flinched expecting some kind of pain.
Instead, the knife was in his hand, and he was right there, up close, and towering over her.
"You talk a good game, don't get me wrong, luv. The thought of it is tantalising. But, no one likes a tease, and you don't have the balls for cold blooded torture." He tapped her on the nose with the handle of the knife. Making her flinch.
"You, Ma Cherie, are no hunter. Maybe, if I were hurting the lad, you'd be able to get it up and try to poke at me with your Sting," he trailed the flat of the blade over her cheek. "But after that..." He slid the knife slowly down her neck, across her shoulder and down her arm.
"Once you had me at your, tender mercy…yes well." He spoke the last four words like they were expensive liquor he was rolling over his tongue. Breath hot on her exposed skin and smelling of hints of gunpowder and matches.
Shaking, she shut her eyes tight, waiting for him to start hurting her; to slice into her flesh with the knife. To show her how it was done.
To her shock, she felt his hand press the knife handle into her palm and wrap her fingers around it. Jerk it up.
She opened her eyes, and saw the knife in her hand resting on his cheek, under his left eye, right over the faint scar Lucifer had given him. The wound that she had tended, and Chris had dubbed him Scarface Claw for.
Abruptly, he let her hand go, releasing his grip on the knife, and held his arms out wide. Taunting and daring her to follow through, to ram the blade into his eye.
There they stood, for what seemed like forever, before she forced her hand open with a whimper and allowed the knife to drop from her nerveless fingers.
Crowley caught it before it hit the floor.
He looked at her with something like pity on his face.
"None of us can deny what we are, and you Darling. You're a real bleeding heart. You see the world as black and white. Heros or villians; and that world view isn't working for you anymore.
I'm not a good guy pet, but I'm the goodest guy you've got." He let out a breath and wiped at the tears trailing down her cheeks with his thumb.
Somehow that was worse than the mockery or the threats of violence. A million memories of futures that hadn't even happened clamoured in the back of her head and all she wanted was to curl into his arms and sob her heart out. But this Crowley, wasn't that Crowley.
"You took everything from me, my home, my friends, my family, even my cat!
I hate you." She told him, and herself. Mustering all the venom she could.
Crowley's lips twitched. "No, you don't. You just wish you did."
"Please." She breathed brokenly. "Take my soul instead of his, you don't need him."
He shook his head, "I can't do that."
"Can't or won't."
"I said can't, if deals were transferable every Tom, Dick, Jack and Sally would be playing swapsies."
"At least tell me how long he's got."
"Can't do that either."
"Why the hell not! If it's a confidentiality thing; I'm his mother. He's a child, Crowley! A minor! He's not even legally competant to sign up for a library card without my permission. How the hell is it right that one of you bastards can screw him out of his soul."
"I didn't screw—"
"Oh no, a deals a deal, he got what he paid for, so it's all good; Right?
You're right, I thought we were friends." She admitted bitterly.
"And yeah, jokes on me, huh?! 'That's what you get for working with a demon.' Just tell me how long I have, before I bury my son, you scheming, lying, traitorous prick. You owe me that!" She slammed her fists against his chest, repeatedly as she cried, trying to push him away, trying to escape; even though she was trapped in his pretty white cage and couldn't escape.
"I don't owe you anything." Crowley spat, finally matching his fury to hers, giving up on the farce of understanding. "You're the traitor! You did this, you! You schemed and lied." He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "You locked me in that devils trap and let that, assassin, stab you.
You, did, that."
"Just tell me, damn you!" She broke into racking sobs. "Please Crowley," she hitched, hands knotting into his coat. "You've taken everything. Please, can't you just give me that."
The demon let go of her arms and pushed her off. Turned his back.
"There are two different kinds of contracts." He said robotically, like he was presenting a lecture. "The first and most popular gives a time limit, anything from one to ten years, these can be extended under certain select circumstances, with the right authority. The other type, are open ended…"
"Open ended?" She parroted, her head spinning. "What do you mean, open ended?!"
"An open ended contract has no set deadline, the soul is collected upon the death of the client." He continued the rote lecture.
"Obviously, under normal circumstances this form of deal is considered unfavourable by both parties. The client might have a nasty accident on the way home from the crossroads; or conversely a skilled practitioner may contract a raging case of immortality. Tying the forementioned soul up indefinitely. Deals like this involve a high level of unmitigated risk and few, if any, souls are considered worthy of that risk. For that reason, such deals can only be authorised by the King of the Crossroads or the King of All Hell."
Crowley turned back to face her, expression impassive as he fussily straightened his tie and the lapels of his jacket.
"Now, if we have quite finished this riveting lesson on contract law, I have a funeral to attend.
Quite literally your funeral." The demon snapped his fingers and was gone.
Michele leaned back against the wall behind her, gaping at the empty air where Crowley had stood, feeling utterly drained.
What exactly had he just told her?
-/-/-/-/-
Authors note: Thanks for reading and please leave a comment.
I would love to hear what you all think so far.
Some of you might know that I cross post my fics on AO3 as well under Hobbitual_Psychick and that the AO3 versions have art in
I was joking yesterday with a friend that the paring knife is becoming the third major character ... the things even got a name now, and I've invented a tag for it on tumblr #A paring knife named Sting
😂 Insanity I tell you.