What Isn't And Came To Be

Chapter 20: Little ball of fluff

Crowley sat easily on the white leather sofa, T.V remote grasped loosely in his right hand and his eyes trained unseeingly on an American news broadcast.

His thumb worked back and forth over the engraved gold band on his left ring-finger, while he eavesdropped on the extensive bedtime routine the prophet had with the children.

She was still reading 'The Little Prince.' The somewhat hallucinatory story had the crashed pilot and the aforementioned little Prince in danger of dying of thirst in the middle of the Sahara desert, and off searching for a well.

He found himself thinking once again, that the book's allegorical nature and thinly veiled philosophising were an unusual choice on the part of the personal shopper as he listened to her read. But, well, he couldn't argue that the book seemed well received by it's recipients, and he could appreciate someone with job competence.

The story was once again hitting him strangely with the contents of a syringe on board; so he was glad when the woman ended her reading with the usual, 'da, dah, dahhh.' The three note half-sung crescendo, which she used to indicate that the story would be continued next evening. The prophet was too young to have seen the serialised dramas shown before the main feature in theatres during the 1930's and 40's, yet that was what her little ending flourish always brought to mind. Those had been simpler times for him, when everything had been about the next deal. Perhaps the blood was making him sentimental and nostalgic tonight.

Next would come the usual nightly prayers, something he mostly ignored. With their list of things to be thankful for from the day gone; then a list of names to commend to an absentee god's care and protection. That list always held the prophet's other three children, (the lads brother and half sisters) her husband (and the boy's father), both sets of grandparents, a scatter of friends and Johnny's teachers. Then, the dead Mz. Kline, the Winchesters and Castiel (for Jack he supposed,) and finally… His name.

But tonight his name was omitted from the list.

Despite himself, and the useless nature of such nightly missives, he felt slighted by the omission. Knew it was proof of lingering ill feeling on Ma Cherie's part over the previous drama.

She only had herself to blame for trying to threaten him with Satan's spawn and creating a Mexican standoff to begin with. It had been so incredibly foolish of her.

The silly girl had to have known she wasn't nearly shrewd or intractable enough to come out on top in a test of wills like that. Framing a threat as a helpful piece of information for the benefit of all involved, was an old trick out of his own play book; but her face had been working against her. Stopped her from selling that pitch, because she cared far too much.

At the time, knocking the little scamp down a few pegs with that field trip had been grand fun. And the idea of combining punishment, experimentation and getting a few syringes of blood, had seemed like an act of pure unadulterated genius.

But now, remembering the look on her face when she'd handed him that second blood syringe and he'd told her. "Now the lad." He knew he'd made a right royal balls-up.

Perhaps, it had been bound to happen; with his mind swimming in need and heady anticipation, after abstaining from shooting up for far too long. Her stroppy defiance, followed so rapidly by the heady rush of her forced capitulation... It'd fired up his need for instant gratification. With his addiction driving, he'd reasoned that two syringes could become three, while continuing to demonstrate who was boss.

"Now the lad." And he'd seen her malleable subservience crystallise to form something hard and unyielding, straightening her spine, and narrowing her eyes and mouth into defiant lines. Only then, had he cognised how foolishly he'd undermined everything.

He'd remembered too late, how the nephilim had vaporised a bloody Prince of Hell, prenatal. That, until he could convince the prophet to perform a grace extraction, Lucifer's son was a volatile unknown variable.

Maybe it had taken him a little too long to realise how badly he'd overplayed his hand. To remember he wasn't dealing with a mother like his own, or even someone like Dean Winchester; who was habituated to personal expediency and justification when it came to family.

But when he'd taken in the way her chin rose and her little fists balled up… Then, he'd seen his misstep.

No matter how easily she'd appeared to fold in that field outside her childhood home, her main driving force would always be protecting her son. She'd read the Supernatural books, knew he'd drained adults dry to feed his addiction in the past. He supposed, knowing of those long ago indiscretions caused her to see him as a clear and present danger to the lad.

But if she hadn't wound him up, he wouldn't have lost his head or forgotten her prime directive and the reason they were sparring. The nephilim's questionable status as an attack dog had totally slipped his mind while caught up in his own cleverness and upping the anti.

Failing to feed his addiction promptly had led him to demand the boy's blood, it had been a mistake… but he'd known instantly that he'd screwed up. Problem had been, then, how to back down without admitting any weakness.

"Don't be melodramatic luv, I'm simply asking you to prick his finger with a sterile needle, not vivisect him with a rusty razor."

The trick was always to backpedal slightly and reframe things, warm the water slowly, until the frog boiled to death.

"Of course, there are plenty down there in the festering underbelly of Dubai, individuals all too willing to do all sorts of things to a child in exchange for a little walking around money. Sacrifices must be made in the name of science, mustn't they Darling?"

He'd smiled down at her and caught her wince, and known he'd dodged a bullet. That she would capitulate, to avoid something far worse, never realising he'd actually backed down.

He'd seen those calculations whirring in her little mind. Known she'd rather stick a needle into her son herself and limit the lad's trauma, (and the potential carnage,) than have no control over the situation and its inevitable escalation.

If looks could kill he'd have been doubly dead as she walked towards her son with that needle in her hand and the nephilim's eyes trained upon her.

She'd knelt on the floor by the sofa and discarded the syringe, let it drop through her fingers to the carpeted floor with a insignificantly small, hollow thud.

"John-boo? I need to prick your finger… with this." She said holding out the needle on her palm like an offering.

The boy had screwed up his face in response. "I don't like needles," he muttered poutily and looked away, back to the laptop screen. But held out his hand for her, like a good obedient son.

"I know hon. Neither do I—" she soothed.

"—But sometimes, we gotta do what we gotta do." The boy had responded, as if repeating some kind of motto. "I know Mum. Like dentists and vaccinations, 'cause they're for our own good—"

Then the boy had looked down at the nephilim, and said something that made Crowley positively giddy.

"You're going to have to get jabs too Jack. Babies get lots of jabs, like a zillion of them, to stop them from getting all these diseases. I went to the doctors when Chris had to have his. But, it's not all bad, when you're older, you'll get a lollipop when they jab you. Most of the doctors gave me a lollipop too, when Chris had his. For being a helpful big brother. I like the green ones, 'cause there are never any blue ones. The lollipops from the doctors always come in fruit flavours, Mum says it's because fruit is natural and healthy, though lollipops aren't really healthy 'cause they're just sugar and colour. But blue's not a natural food colour— except for if it comes from mushrooms… but mushrooms are way gross, cause they're basically rot… Dentists are way meaner than doctors, Jack. They never give you lollipops, just stickers with teeth on, which is kinda creepy… and sometimes new toothbrushes, which always have pictures of bees on. I think that's just weird, 'cause bees don't even have teeth. I looked it up. Mum says, it's because the place is called Bee Healthy and it's a pun, but I still think that it's dumb, 'cause bees don't have teeth and don't need dentists. But Mum says it's rude to tell the dental nurse that, because she didn't pick the name. She just works— Ouch!" The boy had been distracted, blathering on to the nephilim when his mother pricked his finger.

The nephilim's face had formed a pout in response to the older boy's moment of pain, and looked like it might cry for a moment; but the mother was pleasingly untouched by any catastrophic backlash. Just as he'd expected.

It seemed he would have to book a doctor's appointment for the nephilim very soon. He doubted the spawn of Satan could actually catch Typhoid fever or any other such thing, but an excuse to stick any kind of needle into the creature, and build up a bit of pain tolerance. That could only be good practice for later.

He'd snapped his fingers and provided a green lollipop by way of thanks, and to cap off proceedings.

No harm no foul, as far as he was concerned. A successful little experiment.

But the omission of his name from prayer-time showed someone wasn't quite as sanguine, which meant he should probably do something about mending bridges.

Down the hall the bedroom door opened and closed, then the Prophet's footsteps drew closer as she puttered about tidying, then set the clothes washer running. Next Ma Cherie would head for the kitchen and tidy there, before setting the dishwasher running. She was a creature of tidy little routines you could set your watch by.

Her step faltered when she caught sight of him sat there on the sofa, but she resumed her course resolutely, eyes trained straight ahead. Tread a fraction faster. Ignoring him so hard it was like a polar vortex sweeping by.

Rude and childish.

She was on her return journey, to scamper back to her little bolt hole; a few feet away when he stretched out his legs and propped them on the coffee table, effectively cutting off her retreat, and stopping her in her tracks.

"Come watch telly with me, Pet." He invited patting the sofa cushion next to him, smiling at her with perfect harmless benevolence.

Stymied by the blockade, she shuffled her sock clad feet on the carpet and bit her lip. "I'm really kind of tired, Crowley. I'd rather get some sleep, if that's o—"

"That wasn't a suggestion," he answered, perhaps a trifle shortly. And patted the sofa cushion at his side once more.

She responded with reluctance, perching herself on the furthest removed section of the sofa from where he sat. Side-eyeing him in nervous snatches.

With a put upon sigh he crooked his finger and slid her closer, 'til they sat side by side with just a handbreadth between them.
"Better!"

She sat there rigid as a board, hands knotted together over the knees of her cotton knit pyjamas. It reminded him of that day at the duckpond, when she'd tossed pepper in his face; believing it was goofer dust and capable of doing something to him.

"Now then, what shall we watch. Casablanca, Gone With The Wind or something more modern?" He smiled down upon her expectantly, head tilted in polite inquiry.

She blinked a few times and swallowed. "I don't…" turned her head and looked at him for the first time. "Why are you doing this?"

"I thought you might enjoy viewing something not made by Disney or Pixar," he responded with a careless shrug.

"You don't need to keep pretending, I get it now," her bottom lip trembled as she stared straight ahead at the television. "You're not him."

"Not who?"

Whatever he expected, it wasn't her reply.

"You're not him, you're not my Crowley."

The way her voice buckled on that two letter word hit him like an uppercut.

'You're not my Crowley?' What the Hell was that supposed to mean?
He wanted to shake her and demand an explanation. He wanted to get up and flee. Instead, he blindly selected a movie and sat staring at the screen.

You're not my Crowley.
With four words she had simultaneously claimed and rejected him. And how was he supposed to respond to that?

Of course he, the King of bloody Hell, didn't belong to some third rate god botherer. To say otherwise would be utter was the one that did the owning. He held the leash and called the shots.

The problem was the way her voice had broken, like she'd finally accepted something that was breaking her stupid, soft little heart. As if she was mourning.

Because… he thought he knew what she meant. And couldn't… just couldn't countenance such an idea.

She was correct damn it! He wasn't that pathetic worm Lucifer had kept shackled and dressed in rags. He wasn't that motley clad court Jester, paraded around like a dancing bear, to be sniggered at by demons who had once cowered and pissed themselves when he simply looked at them.

He wasn't Doggie.

He wasn't that Crowley. Not any of those versions of Crowley, spawned in any of those defunct, choked off, futures. And he didn't want to be! They were all pathetic losers.

So why in the blue blazes would she want to claim that Crowley? And why… did a tiny, vanishingly small part of him envy those sorry broken down sods?

He wasn't sure how long he sat there frozen, staring sightlessly at the moving pictures on the television screen. Mind awash with messy, conflicted feelings , when something nudged against his shoulder.

Startled, muscles locked in something like trepidation he looked sideways and realised that at some point the prophet had fallen asleep next to him. Slowly slid sideways in her slumber until her head was resting lightly against his shoulder.

Thinking about those memories of the indignities Lucifer would never inflict upon him; followed so closely by the sensation of something small and child sized breaching his carefully maintained bubble of personal space, without warning, had sent something like terror thrilling through his veins. Triggered a flashback memory of Lilith and her little games.

'Mr Crowley, you moved! That was very very naughty. What did I say would have to happen if you moved, Mr Crowley?'

'You… would…' He sobbed in exhausted agony, trying to dredge up some semblance of control. 'You… you said… you'd have to start over from the, the beginning…?'

Lilith's white, corpse-cloudy eyes staring down into his, filled with that brimming gleeful sadism.

Her hands gloved in dripping red. His blood dribbling down her elbows to stain her party frock.

'Yes, Mr Crowley. Naughty, naughty, Mr Crowley. Now say Sorry, and Thank you.'

'I'm sorry Lilith…' he whined penitently. 'So sorry… for, for making you start over. I was bad… so very, very bad to… to move. P-please forgive me—'

…she was tapping her foot impatiently. Wanting something else. Then he remembered.

'T-thank you for m-making my insides p-pretty. You are so k-kind and generous, f-for w-wasting your p-precious time on me.'

Shuddering, he pushed the memories back into their dim corner of his subconscious and took a breath.
Looked down at the little prophet's sleeping face and forced himself to relax. She was as far removed from a creature like Lilith as anything could be. Ma Cherie was no threat, she couldn't hurt him if she tried. The only threat here was him.
Was there any more vulnerable state for a human to be in than asleep? The thought made him unreasonably irritated.
What kind of idiot fell asleep, sitting there, right next to a bleeding demon.

All he had to do was bend down and sink his teeth into the pale stretch of her soft little throat, or wrap his hand around her skull and squeeze… Snap his damn fingers and her neck!

Part of him clamoured to do just that. To snuff out her life and make her pay for allowing herself to become so weak and helpless. To punish her for being a creature so utterly hapless, that it let itself be mastered by its own flesh, instead of doing the mastering.

Reaching out, he brushed a finger over the stupid freckle on the tip of her stupid little snub nose, and gazed at the ashy circles that arched under the sweep of her lashes. Felt the foreign blood in his veins lap like waves against the jagged rocks of his demonic nature, softening their contours. She hadn't lied to him about being tired, but he'd forced her to suffer his whims and presence anyway.

Poor little wet ball of fluff, all tuckered out. She was so utterly out of her depth. So terribly incapable of keeping herself safe. Soft, gentle little things like her, only survived this world because something bigger and badder looked out for them.

She might say she knew he wasn't that Crowley, might even want to believe it for a moment. But her subconscious couldn't tell the difference, could it? He might not be the same creature as the one in all those choked off realities, but she certainly was.

How many nights did she remember, of sleeping curled up against his side? Could he actually blame her for being what she was, for being human?

An urge to wrap an arm around her shoulders and draw her more securely against him, to simply close his eyes and rest his chin against her hair and just… let himself… drift, tugged at him.
With the blood on board he might even sleep. They were safe here, no one would hurt them.

'You're not my Crowley.' The memory of the prophet's words jabbed him out of his reverie.

What the hell had he been considering? Napping there on the sofa, clutching the woman to his chest like she was some kind of bleeding cuddly toy?

Disgusted, he edged her head off his shoulder and back against the sofa, climbing stiffly to his feet. Looked down and winced at the odd angle her neck insisted on leaning.

With a disparaging huff and a roll of his eyes he stooped and lifted her into his arms. Snapped them both into the master bedroom. Swept the bedding back with a gesture and laid her out on the bed. Tucked the blankets over her firmly and smoothed them down.
She didn't even stir when he slipped the glasses off her face and laid them on the bedside cabinet. She was so unaware… so very fragile…

Ghostly and gossamer sheer, the last paragraphs from the story he'd eves-dropped on circled back through his memory like a taunt.

'"I am glad," he said, "that you agree with my fox."

"As the little prince dropped off to sleep, I took him in my arms and set out walking once more. I felt deeply moved, and stirred. It seemed to me that I was carrying a very fragile treasure. It seemed to me, even, that there was nothing more fragile on all Earth. In the moonlight I looked at his pale forehead, his closed eyes, his locks of hair that trembled in the wind, and I said to myself: "What I see here is nothing but a shell. What is most important is invisible . . ."

As his lips opened slightly with the suspicion of a half-smile, I said to myself, again: "What moves me so deeply, about this little prince who is sleeping here, is his loyalty to a flower- the image of a rose that shines through his whole being like the flame of a lamp, even when he is asleep . . ." And I felt him to be more fragile still. I felt the need of protecting him, as if he himself were a flame that might be extinguished by a little puff of wind . . .

And, as I walked on so, I found the well, at daybreak.'

Crowley looked down at the small sleeping form curled under the blanket, perturbed. He tried to shrug off the ineffable emotion that niggled, while absentmindedly dusting the wrinkles from his shirt front.

Yes, well…
She was going to wake up with quite the start, finding herself here, in the Master bedroom. She'd avoided this room like the plague ever since he first brought her in here.

('I know my place, and it sure as hell isn't in here.
Last place, on earth, I want to be, is here, in your bedroom.')

Yes, he reassured himself, waking up here would teach her a lesson for falling asleep, and making herself so bleeding vulnerable. It would show her he was in charge. It was nothing more than another act of psychological warfare in their continued struggle. He'd put her in her place.

With a smirk, he pulled out a pen and wrote her a little note, propping it up against a glass of water where she'd see it when she woke.

-/-/-/-/

Authors Notes:

A bit of kind of sort of fluff in this chapter, who'd of thunk it. Of course I had to balance it out with a bit of Lilith gore, poor Crowley, but hey, an authors gotta do what an authors gotta do.

Thanks to Iowa Kat for reviewing last chapter. I'm glad reading fanfiction can help you out in real life, knowing where the worlds tallest building is. Another mention of The Little Prince in this chapter. Believe it or not I hadn't read the story either until just recently, only reason I did (kind of-I listened to the audio book,)was because a character on Fear The Walking Dead kept going on about loving the book so much. Its kind of a weird children's story but it just seems to hit the notes I'm going for here.