What Isn't And Came To Be
Chapter 14: Letting the Cat Out of the Bag
Crowley returned to his penthouse apartment, in Dubai, to the accompaniment of affronted feline growls and hisses. The benighted cat wasn't at all keen on him, or demonic transportation, and it wasn't shy about expressing it's opinion.
Aggravated by the palaver, he gave the cage a shake and was rewarded by scrabbling paws and a pleasingly solid thump; then finally, a bit of respectful silence.
"Glad we understand each other." He muttered dropping the carry bag of feline accessories to the floor.
Accessories kindly donated by Veterinarian, Anita.
The vet had been thoroughly mortified to learn the pet owner she'd left those snippy phone messages to, had in fact died in a house fire days before.
The pet, he explained, voice dripping with honey, had only remained unclaimed because the cat's microchip led back to the deceased. He'd made sure to rub her nose in the faux pas thoroughly. Not one to allow opportunity to go to waste. He'd also 'assured her' he wouldn't mention any of her stunning lack of sensitivity around town. Cleverly reminded, that word of similar indiscretions had gotten around other small communities, and well, it wasn't exactly good advertising, was it? Such mistakes could really harm a business's reputation and bottom line.
Delightful how the veterinarian tripped over herself to be helpful after that.
Pet carrier in hand, Crowley descended the marble stairs leading down to the living area below, following the sound of voices.
He found mother, son and spawn of Satan in the living room.
Setting the cage down soundlessly, he paused to take in the scene.
The Christopher Guy coffee table had been pushed aside, and the two children lay face down on the alpaca skin rug. His pet prophet was seated there cross legged in front of them, attention riveted on the children, the wisp of a winsome smile on her lips.
The entire scene was Rockwellesque in its composition.
"Like this see, Jack. You pull one arm back and twist your hips. Like this." The older boy cajoled the infant, unaware of observation. Performed the action to flip his body over and face the ceiling as he continued. "I taught Chris and now I'm going to teach you."
The nephil gurgled in response, lifting it's wobbly neck and head an inch off the floor, then, flailed one arm, before slumping back onto the rug. The lights fluctuated and the child let out a querulous bleat.
"Okay, okay that's enough." The prophet chided softly, laying a quelling hand on her son's shoulder. "Tummy time is supposed to be about developing neck and shoulder muscles, right now.
Rolling over is something we can't reasonably expect for months yet. Just lifting his head is amazing, considering he's not even a week old."
She scooped the infant off the rug, into her arms, and ruffled the older boys hair.
"You're such a great encouragement. And you, are one clever boy, Jack!" she enthused, gazing down at the baby like it was one of her own brood. "Johnny was a whole month old, before he could do what you just did," she added, face animated with affection.
Crowley shifted his weight, feeling the unwanted outsider in such a homey scene.
He cleared his throat.
"He is the child of Satan." (As expected the prophet jumped and squeaked in startlement.) "Let's just assume reasonable, isn't reasonable, shall we?" He suggested drolly, with a smirk.
"Crowley," the prophet breathed, hand fisted into the fabric over the hollow of her throat where her silver cross and wedding rings had once hung. "You scared me!"
"You scare far too easy."
She didn't answer him immediately. All her previous ease and good humour had fled her now, replaced by a brittle wariness. She rose to her feet, infant in arms, shifting herself (none too subtly) to stand between him and her son.
"As you pointed out this morning, I'm no hunter." She said finally.
They eyed each other across the intervening space, silence thick, and he wondered if she was at all embarrassed about the scene she'd caused that morning.
He was considering the idea of making a jab about her behaviour, just for fun, when she spoke again.
"Did you really go to our funeral?" She asked, her voice hesitant.
"Such as it was." He shrugged dismissively. "Not the largest turn out I've ever seen."
The statement was both true and a misdirection. (He'd attended state funerals where the streets were thronged by thousands of mourners, after all.) The church had actually been full. But, whether that was down to humanity's insatiable thirst for gossip and drama, or genuine sentiment he couldn't hazard.
He was playing the long con here, if she thought she was missed or valued there in her previous life, it would only make letting go of it all, that much harder.
Seeing the minute slump of her shoulders and the way her teeth sunk into her lower lip, made it hellishly difficult to camouflage his satisfaction with a veneer of cordial disinterest. But he managed.
She was so like Dean. All that chronic lack of self worth led her to accept his version without argument.
"Your father bemoaned the state of crime in the nation, and voiced his opinions, at length." He continued. "From his remarks about some of your less than prudent qualities, I suspect he thinks you brought your demise upon yourself, somehow. Which… I suppose you did." Of all the speakers at the funeral this was the eulogy he chose to underline.
There was always one. Attending, not to mourn, but to score last points.
The man had reminded him more than a little of mother. With the way he managed to squeeze his daughter's death for personal attention.
"Chin up, Pet. Don't take it to heart. I know, you did what you did with the best of intentions. I know, the sacrifice you made for all those people. But none of them are equipped to understand."
The prophet looked like a kicked kitten despite his reassurance. Of course she did. This one had just as many Daddy issues as Squirrel in the early years.
Undermining her familial attachments while chipping away at her fragile self-worth was easy. As was reframing events so he was the only one capable of understanding.
It was like shooting fish in a barrel.
"Oh, one of your writer friends, the redhead. The one that writes trashy romances. She flew all the way from America to attend your funeral. You and your family really seemed to have made a huge impact on her. She even credited you with getting her inside a church." He offered.
"She did?" Ma Cherie looked both surprised and touched by the revelation.
"Celine seemed very supportive towards Phillip," he added, voice shaded just this side of innuendo, "your step daughters and your youngest seem to have taken quite the shine to her."
The prophets brows puckered at that. A tiny flash of hurt playing across her features at the thought of being so easy to replace. He watched her throat bob, and could almost track her internal struggle to quash the flags of jealousy and injured pride; like the good little Christian girl she was.
"So, they're doing okay?" She asked finally in an anxious tone.
"Mmm, yes for the most part, considering the awful shock you put them through. I believe your hubby and remaining children intend to take an extended vacation after the funeral. Travel the country, with Mz. Naville and see the sights. Now he's unburdened," his eyes tracked down to the boy as if by accident, "such activities are far more manageable."
Oh ho! That one really hit home. He bit down on his lower lip to bottle his amusement and maintain the fake compassionate expression. Watching flickers of resentment and defensiveness chase over her freckled little face, free arm curling around the boy as if to protect him from criticism.
"It was generally agreed, while your deaths were shocking and tragic. It was almost a small blessing that you died together... Your special bond with the boy and motherly dedication were much remarked upon." He added sombrely.
"Mum?" The boy piped up in a small voice. "What does he mean, died together?"
The prophet looked down at her son, face a picture of discomfort. Mouth agape, like an imbecilic goldfish.
"Your Mum is special, Lad. Because of that bad people tried to kill her." He supplied, ever helpful. "Sadly, the only way to stop them from trying, and succeeding again. Was to let everyone believe they'd succeeded the first time round. As far as everyone you know is concerned, you and your Mum are dead and buried.
If it helps, think of your current circumstances akin to witness protection. A new start on life."
The boy peaked out at him from behind his mother, green eyes narrowed as he contemplated the news.
"If everyone thinks we're dead…" the boy asked, "does that mean I don't have to go back to school?"
What ever reaction or questions he'd expected from the boy, those weren't them.
The mother huffed a breath of almost amusement. "Johnny isn't a huge fan of interaction with other human beings." She explained. "He's been campaigning to be home schooled ever since he learned it was a thing."
"Just as well I'm not human then, isn't it? If nothing else, it's my pleasure to facilitate your desires, lad." He winked at the boy, causing him to draw scattily back behind his mother again. "Speaking, of desires…" he said, turning to lift the pet carrier off the floor from behind him. "I brought you something."
A look of suspicion lined the woman's girl next door face when she caught sight of the pet carrier.
"Crowley, I don't…" She began.
The cat chose that moment to let out a deep throated yowl of complaint.
"Slinky?" The boy shrilled, seeming ready to dash forward and snatch the cage out of his grasp, despite everything Crowley had come to expect of the lad.
With an almost presentient radar, the mother caught his arm, stopping him in his tracks, pointed to the sofa behind them.
The boy struggled for a moment making noises like a trapped animal or a new turned demon, Crowley raised an eyebrow at the meltdown. The boy seemed cripplingly shy, perhaps traumatised. But until this point he'd seemed normal. This was the first indicator of something not right with the boy.
"John stop. Stop!…I need you to look after Jack. Can you do that for me?" The prophet's cajoling seemed to snap the boy out of it, finally.
He plonked himself down on the sofa, and received the nephilim from his mother with no further argument. The move looked to be becoming well practiced.
It made Crowley think of Dean. He pushed the thought away.
"After the fire, Slinky ended up at a local veterinary hospital, unclaimed. They were about to transfer it to the animal shelter, for rehoming, when I arrived." He held out the cage once more. "I do want you both to be happy here and I'd truly prefer it if you didn't hate me.
If you don't want her, I suppose I could …" he teased, drawing the cage back.
"No!" The woman dashed forward and took the pet carrier from him, holding it up to peer inside.
"There's a bag of pet accessories at the top of the stairs, let me know if you require anything else."
Ungrateful animal delivered to equally ungrateful owner.
He was turning, to go back to his office and other matters. When the prophet lunged forward again, wrapping her arms around him.
For a fraction of a second, his knee jerk assumption was that he was under attack.
Then he realised.
Just a hug.
She did that.
She'd done that, in so many of those other defunct futures. She was a demonstrative little thing.
Haltingly he lowered his arms and arranged them in the correct configuration to awkwardly receive and reciprocate the embrace. Memories that weren't rose, as he dropped his chin to rest against her hair and take a low breath in.
"Thank you, Crowley." Her voice was choked with gratitude, face buried against his coat.
It was… nice. It felt… good.
A tendril of warmth spread through his chest.
Then, with a jolt almost like guilt, he realised what he was doing.
This wasn't some one sided manipulation. It was something disgustingly sentimental. Something someone such as himself shouldn't be part of.
The King of Hell didn't indulge in hugs!
Clearing his throat he let his arms fall away and stepped back.
"Yes well… things to do." He muttered turning away abruptly, and waved a dismissive hand. "Carry on."
The prophet's little smile guttered and wavered out of existence. Her face unreadable, she turned back to the pet carrier with her shoulders tight and high. She opened the cage's door and started to fuss over the (much friendlier to her) singed moggy.
Crowley left the little family to it and returned to his office, reminding himself that he still needed to get a decent picture of how things stood in hell; after Lucifer's brief resurgence, and his own public and rather humiliating tumble from leadership, things were up in the air.
It was a ticklish task. Feeling out previous informants and trying to ascertain where their loyalties lay.
Sooner or later he was going to have to stick his neck out and either meet up with one of his black eyed brethren, or return to hell.
Neither option was overly attractive, he hadn't lied to the Winchester's when he'd told them he'd grown to heartily detest his fellow demons.
….
Twenty four hours and much frustration later, there was a hesitant knock on his office door.
"Come." He called, mind mostly occupied by an email from one of his informants. Trying to puzzle out how much news there in was true, how much lies and posturing. Demons! Nothing was ever simple with them.
From the corner of his eye he watched the door open, and the girl step inside.
She just stood there by the door radiating nervous energy, like a choir boy invited to a priest convention.
"Did you need something?" He inquired finally, eyes still on the correspondence.
"No, I…" she shuffled her feet on the carpet.
"Well, out with it then. What do you want this time?" He looked up annoyed, to find her just standing there holding a mug in front of her like a shield.
"I just thought… uh. I brought you a cup of tea…" She stammered, face flushed. "You've been in here all day, working on… and I just thought… maybe you could do with a break?"
He allowed himself a sigh.
"It was stupid, I can tell I was wrong now. I'm sorry, I'll go."
She darted forward and set the mug on the corner of the marble and glass desk before trying to dash off.
But he caught her by the wrist, halting her attempt to flee.
"Stay. Sit." He ordered sharply, shutting the door and dragging up a chair with a wave of his hand.
She sat, feet dangling, hands folded primly in her lap, a pose that made her look childlike and small. Something about it made him uneasy, but he couldn't pinpoint the reason.
On closer examination the woman looked tired and worn. Gigantic dark smudges stood out below her eyes, obvious even behind the lenses of her tinted glasses. Her dark hair looked like it hadn't been brushed properly in days. To top it off she was still wearing the god awful hand-me-down clothing she'd acquired in North Cove, from the dead Mz. Kline's closet.
It all irritated him, immeasurably.
He had standards, surely she knew that. He didn't like one of his prized possessions, one of his new household, looking like a rummage sale cast off.
Both children were tidy and stylishly attired in the new clothing he had picked out and provided. But, of course, the damn girl ignored every designer item he'd provided for her, clinging instead to this new and unflattering bag lady aesthetic.
"And how are the children?" He inquired tipping his own chair back and reaching for the mug of tea.
"They're good, asleep already."
He glanced at the window and saw it was dark out, as dark as Dubai ever got, with it's garishly lit skyline of fantastical buildings. So it must have been more than twenty four hours since he'd returned with the cat.
"Johnny seems far more settled with Slinky round." She continued, hand creeping out of her lap to fish in the empty space above the hollow of her throat, seeking the false reassurance of her cross and wedding rings.
The cross and rings were gone.
He'd taken them, to string around the neck of a shifter corpse with her face.
Crowley had last seen the jewellery around the husbands neck, at her funeral.
Finding empty air and feeling his eyes, she swallowed and dropped her hand into her lap again.
"Jack is holding his head up quite a bit. He's an easy baby, and I think he's already starting to smile." A fragile smile of her own made a brief appearance.
"And yourself?" He asked.
She swallowed and looked away, hands white knuckled in her lap.
"I don't know what you want me to say, Crowley. I appreciate you bringing Slinky. Thank you." She hesitated. Eyes dropping to her hands in her lap as she stopped herself from saying something else. Probably another request to go home, or to release the boy's soul.
When he didn't respond, simply lifted the mug to his lips and watched her intently, she began talking again.
"I'm sorry I lost it the other morning… when I couldn't find Johnny… it scared me, that can't be a surprise to you." she broke off abruptly, either not wanting to give him ideas, or wanting to avoid topics she thought unsafe.
"Sorry I interrupted you, I'm not used to people who don't need to eat.
I know you're busy, I'll leave you t—" her words cut off as she climbed to her feet and tried to flee.
He pushed her back into the chair firmly with a flick of his wrist.
"—Or not." She muttered, a flash of those green eyes glared at him in contempt and resentment, completely at odds with her previous subservience, until she lowered her gaze and stared fixedly at her hands. As if her own flesh was so much more fascinating than the demon in front of her, as if she was simply waiting him out.
Was she praying?
Were Kelly Kline's castoffs her version of sack cloth and ashes, an attempt to win herself back into the good graces of a god that didn't give a damn? Was she sitting there silently begging to be delivered from him, after everything he'd done for her.
The thought filled him with a sharp, sulphuric resentment.
Mine, goddamn it!
He ruled here, and he was done being ignored.
That thought had him on his feet and round the desk, grabbing her arm and wrenching her out of her seat.
He transported them both to the master bedroom in the blink of an eye.
She stumbled away from him, unbalanced by the motion.
"Take your clothes off!"
Her eyes grew to twice their size, shock and terror writ large.
No ignoring him now. He was dead zero, centre of her universe, as she backed away from him until she fetched up against the bedroom wall. A call back to the first time he'd lain eyes on her.
But this time he was willing to bet there'd be no golden light blooming in her eyes, and no incognito creator coming to her rescue.
The two of them were very much alone, and he was going to enjoy every damn minute.
"I said. Take, off, your, clothes," he hissed lowly, stalking closer.
"No!" She shook her head, denying him again. And he saw red.