What Isn't And Came To Be
Chapter 17: Demons Bearing Gifts
Crowley shifted the cluster of gift bags to one hand, smoothed his lapels and straightened his tie.
The air inside his Dubai penthouse was rendolent with the warm scents of something newly baked; metalic sounds, and voices came from the direction of the kitchen.
He'd been gone five days, longer than he'd intended; but once he was gone, he'd found so many excuses and reasons to stay away.
Following the scents and sounds Crowley made his way to the kitchen and stopped to take in the scene.
The prophet and her son were wielding cone shaped bags and appeared to be icing cookies, whilest the nephilim sat propped in a cocoon of cushions nearby; waving a metal whisk and a wooden spoon at a selection of upended pots and pans. The source of the metalic percussion.
At least his prophet was now properly attired, Crowley congratulated himself studying the little woman with a critical eye. The dress she wore had distinct 1950's influences and flattered her short waist and hips. Adding an extra by-gone air to the sugar sweet scene of family domestication.
Unfortunately, the picture was somewhat let down by a large bruise fading to unpleasant greens and yellows decorating the prophet's right temple and cheekbone. The bruise she'd given herself during their little scuffle.
She really could have covered it up with the makeup he'd provided, blatantly flaunting such would only unsettle the children.
They'd have to discuss that, later. But for now, he was eager to distribute the gifts he'd brought.
He cleared his throat to draw their attention away from their confectionary creations—
And watched the ambience of happy homemaking shatter like a spun-glass Christmas bauble, rudely dropped to the floor.
The prophet's face lost colour as she laid down the icing bag, there was something more. More than the now to be expected, shock and startlement his sudden reappearances usually sparked in her expression.
There was something guarded and chilly was in the woman's eyes.
Forcing a deprecatating smile he cleared his throat again. "Honey, I'm home." He teased, arching a brow.
But the prophet didn't respond, just stared at him. "…and I've brought gifts." He continued coaxingly holding up the brightly coloured gift bags for emphasis.
Nothing, just a suspicious narrowing of those pretty green eyes as she took hold of her son's hand and sidled back towards the nephilim, and scooped it into her arms. A little hen gathering chicks under its wings —As if she was going to protect her son and the spawn of Satan from him.
It was like that then, was it?
Ignoring the decidedly chilly reception he paced further into the kitchen and let the gift bags fall heavily onto the small bistro table where mother and son tended to take their meals, utterly ignoring the larger table in the formal dining room. There was a plate of cookies on the table which the duo had obviously iced earlier.
Picking one up, he examined it closely with a thoughtful hum.
A flower, the rings of petals and centre picked out in pale pink and yellow respecively.
"Pretty." He complemented mildly and took a bite.
Light and sweet, with a pleasant crunch. Full of butter, sugar and vanilla. The icing had a pleasant tang of summer fruits which balanced the sweetness.
Tasty.
The boy pouted at him from his mother's side.
"Mum said they were for after dinner." He burst out.
The mother shushed him.
"In my experience such rules tend to apply to children, rather than grown ups, McGuffin."
"That's not my name." The boy responded, belligerent, his eyes slanted sideways in that strange way he had.
"True, it's a nickname. A sign… of affection."
"McGuffins are bad writing, 'a functionally meaningless and interchangeable object that drives the plot by being the unwarranted centre of desire and attention,' that's what Red from Trope Talk says."
So the boy wasn't clueless.
"Johnny don't." The mother warned low.
The boy ignored her and continued.
"—Calling someone a McGuffin isn't nice. It's mean, and calling someone mean names is bullying." The boy's green eyes flicked Crowley's way for a moment before sliding away.
The child was just as irritating and argumentative as his mother. Neither seemed to understand that no one cared about their opinions. And yet… this had to be the most words he'd heard the lad string together in his presence. Perhaps, baligerance was progress, in the taming of little hobbits.
"Your mother calls you and your siblings beasties. Is she bullying you too?" He responded mildly, with just the undercurrent of potential sharpness.
The mother gripped the boy's hand tighter, and shook her head at the lad, a tactile order to stop.
"Johnny, perhaps you and Jack could go watch T.V—"
"Now now, Pet." He gave the prophet a quelling smile, "let the lad answer. Is your mother bullying you, when she calls you a Beastie?"
"No, of course not, she's my Mum!"
"So, Mum's can't be bullies?"
"No." The lad frowned like someone tackling complex math. "Tama's Mum… is a bully— sometimes. When she smells yuck, she calls him swear words and hurts him. Yanks him by the arm."
"So, your mother never swears? Never hurts you?"
The boy chewed his lip and screwed up his face, snatching glances up at his mother. Uncertainty and unwillingness to betray his caregiver vying against the strictures Mummy had, no doubt, drummed into his head, about telling the truth.
"No." The boy breathed the admittal, choosing truth. The mother shifted in discomfort, but didn't argue or deny.
"And, have I ever sworn at, or hurt you?" He asked the lad.
The boy buried his face against his mother's ribs and muttered something unintelligible.
"I'm afraid you'll have to speak up."
"Crowley…" the prophet objected again.
But he held up a finger, "Uh uh." He scolded playfully.
The boy's hands clutched his mother's skirts, white knuckled. But he came out from behind her without prompting and lifted his chin. Defiant, just like Mummy.
"No.
Mum swears sometimes, and sometimes she has to hurt me; but only for my own good!"
Crowley raised a brow at the prophet, smirking.
"—everyone makes mistakes, that… doesn't make them a bully—" the boy said, making a moment of proper eye contact for the first time.
"Everyone makes mistakes. And sometimes, we have to hurt others for their own good." He repeated the boys words, meaningfully; shifting his gase back to the mother once more.
From the mouths of babes.
The prophet swallowed and looked away.
"That dress suits you by the way." He said tossing the complement at her, along with a genuine smile.
Ma Cherie pursed her lips, face unreadable.
"Now, Johnathan, do you want to see what I brought you."
"Me?" The boy asked, and wavered for just a moment before gluing himself firmly back to his mother's side.
"Well of course. I brought something for everyone; though I imagine you'll have to help Jack with many of his things." He picked up and held out a few of the gift bags, but the boy stayed glued to Mummy's side.
"You are right, Lad; Hitchcock did coin the term MacGuffin, in exactly the way you described. But—" He waved a hand lazily at the boy. "MacGuffin is actually an Irish name. Comes from the Gaelic, Mag Dhuibhfinn. Ddubh meaning black, and fionn meaning white. I hear, that is how individuals with your— condition, often view the world. Black and white.
Apparently, MacGuffin is also some kind of cipher, having something or other to do with computers..."
The boy cocked his head, and opened his mouth.
"Which brings me back to gifts!" He continued breezily, unwilling to let the boy get another word in, and undercut his current win. "You expressed a wish to be homeschooled, did you not? After investigation, I believe I have a suitable option. Apparently, their clientele includes many prodigies, some royalty, children of politicians, diplomats and a smattering of well known child stars.
They use a combination of computer based learning and high end one on one tutors, all of whom are matched to the individual child's needs and giftings. I'm told, they have an exceptional computers and coding course." He slid the sleek laptop out of the giftbag and winked. "Hence this."
The boys eyes widened and he took an eager step forward only to be halted by his mother's grip on his arm.
"I also had them install a range of age appropriate computer games, I was led to believe something called 'Minecraft' is a practically a requirement for a lad your age. And apparently, students learn to make something called 'mods' or 'mobs,' for it." He waved an airy hand and shrugged.
"Computers are a tad beyond me."
The mother was also staring at the laptop intently, her expression gave away all the naughty, naughty, thoughts she was having about trying to reconnect with her old life.
"But," he smiled, warm and genuine as Santa Clause, "your mother can rest assured, I had my technical people install a myriad of firewalls and child safety software. So no one will be contacting anyone they shouldn't."
The woman's shoulders slumped minutely.
He dropped his head and made a show of rummaging in the gift bags to hide a smirk.
"Speaking of black and white there's a game of the non-computer variety in here somewhere; —since I'm led to believe too much screen time isn't recommended. Ah!" He drew out the small but exquisite chess set he'd seen in Paris and just had to purchase. "I thought I might teach you—"
"Johnny already knows how to play chess." The prophet said, there was a slight frown on her face now and some of her iciness was melting. She was a stubborn little thing; but the children, they were always her weak spot.
"Marellous!"
"I can beat Vic and Jen; and Dad, sometimes… I can only beat Mum when she lets me. Mum and Dad used to play chess loads before they got married." The boy prattled on. "Dad calls it the abstainance game."
The prophet shifted uncomfortably and flushed pink.
"John, I don't think Crowley wants to hear—"
"Nonsense!"
"It's weird, cos to abstain means not doing something. But if you're playing chess, you are doing something." The boy continued shaking his head. "Dad's so weird sometimes. He thinks he's funny. But he usually isn't."
The child's cluelessness and his mother's discomfort were so entertaining.
"Well, maybe, your mother and I can play the abstainance game together…"
The prophet let out a low hissing breath at the backhanded jab, her features sharpening with a bitchy species of annoyance. "Crowley, the abstainance game is the only game I want to play with you."
"Touché, and yet— you know what they say about assumptions."
The woman's jaw tightened and her bottom lip jutted out at him. "I also know what they say about people who expect things to be a certain way, but don't bother to explain their expections; who then pitch fits like an overgrown toddlers."
"I never!"
Perhaps, overexcited by the escalating tensions in the room; the nephlim chose that moment to wack the pissy little prophet with the metal whisk it was holding. Then made a concerted attempt to shove the thing up her nose, knocking her glasses askew.
"Jack, no. We don't hit." She huffed. All the sanctimonious wind drained out of her sails by the indignity; as she struggled to fend off and confiscate the implement. The lights surged as the child made its displeasure at the confiscation of it's toy known with a series of bleats.
It was the second time he'd seen such a thing, and Crowley doubted the surges were coincidence.
Another thing to investigate, later.
He happily embraced the diversion.
"I believe we can find something more suitable in here," he offered stepping closer to hold out the gift bags again.
To his surprise, it was the boy who took the bags from him, and began rummaging in them.
With a pleased sound the boy fished out a giraffe shaped item and held it out the the infant.
"Look Jack, it's Sophie the giraffe, Chris had one of these, he loved it!" He mimed chewing on the toy. "You can chew it and it helps you get teeth!"
Crowley stepped back from mother and children, giving them space. Coincidently putting some distance between himself and the nephilim, in case the giraffe was a failure and it lashed out over its lost kitchen implement.
Thankfully the giraffe proved to be a suitable substitute. It promptly shoved the thing in it's mouth and started trying to gum it to death.
He wandered over to examine the baked goods again as the boy continued to rustle through the bags and make enthusiastic sounds over the items the personal shopper had picked out for him and the infant.
Ma Cherie placed the nephilim back in its cocoon of cushions, wisely avoiding having a drool covered giraffe shoved in her face.
"Didn't you bring anything for Mum?" The boy asked suddenly, looking up from his investigations.
The woman appeared set to tell her son she didn't want anything as he drew the black velvet jewlery case out of his coat pocket.
"Of course I did! Your Mum is missing something, she looked all but naked without it."
He tossed the box to the boy, who opened it, and revealed the thick gold chain with a special clasp and three items attached.
A Celtic style antique gold cross with small Cabochon cut gemstones inlaid. A pretty antique bauble which was proported to have belonged to Mary queen of Scots.
Also looped on the chain was a gold 'lord of the rings' ring, far superior to the cheap and nasty silver copy the prophet had worn as a wedding band.
Beside that, was a golden Aureus, with a non-effective anti-possession sigil, and very real Angel warding stamped on as camouflage. The ancient coin had been rare and expensive, defacing it with the wardings had been something of a crime; but it was with the enchantments where the item's true value lay. Unlike the more common silver coins of the same ilk, which could only be used for tracking; a gold aureus could be used to hear what was going on around it.
For all intents and purposes, the jewlery was different but the same. Appeared to simply be extensively upgraded replacements for what the prophet had always worn. Reparations for things lost; and that was how the boy must have taken the gesture, as he pulled the jewlery from the black velvet box and held it out to his mother by the chain.
There was suspicion in the prophet's eyes and a tiny vulrible wobble to her lower lip as she examined each item in turn. Her frown deepened, as she snatched a confused glance at him from under lowered lids running her thumb over the counterfeit antipossession sigil.
Fingering a matching gold ring inside his coat pocket, Crowley stayed silent and watched when the boy urged his mother to bend down and allow him to loop the chain around her neck and close the clasp with his unskilled juvenile fingers.
The clasp wouldn't be coming undone again, without Crowley's say so.
The little jingle of the gold falling into place and settling just above the hollow of the woman's throat was almost musical.
"Crowley…" Ma Cherie's face was no longer so cold and distant, knocked off balance by his generosity and seeming thoughtfulness.
"Hmm," he held up a hand to stop her words. "One more thing." He said holding out the last gift bag to her.
That bag was heavier than she expected, and he saw puzzlement on her face.
He waited with baited breath, and wasn't disappointed when she squeaked, and he caught a golden flash of glowing symbols reflected in those big green eyes.
"What?!" She spluttered holding the bag away from her, only to pull it close and hug it to her chest, as if she couldn't help herself.
Which he imagined she probably couldn't.
"That, Darling, is your birth right; as Prophet, and keeper of The Word Of The Lord." He said, favouring her with a sharp, self satisfied smile.