Chapter Two

One week passed into two, then three, and eventually, a full month had flown by. Murron no longer questioned Crowley's decision to stay with her; he never pressed her for hers. Between them, a strange, almost domestic, co-habitation had sprung up: Crowley, when he was present, would have a cup of Murron's favorite tea waiting for her on the kitchen table every morning, never once taking credit for it. Murron, for her part, never openly thanked him or brought attention to it. She accepted it as a matter-of-fact and the two curious housemates went through their respective days without once mentioning the small favors they both bestowed on the other.

After Crowley had finished the original bottle of Glencraig, Murron had bought him a new one, leaving it casually on the reading table beside the easy chair he'd come to favor, complete with glass. Every evening, the contents of the bottle would steadily go down; she smiled to see it, but again, never said anything about it.

The only raincloud on this otherwise peaceful atmosphere were Murron's continuing chemotherapy treatments. They left her exhausted and wanting only her bed. She'd return home from them, her spirits dragging along with her "survival" totebag, not even able to cast the quiet demon in her living room a hello. The first handful of times this happened, Crowley left her alone. For awhile, this was preferrable. It wasn't until the evening she came home looking worse than ever that Crowley followed her upstairs.

He watched her fumble into her comfortable nightclothes from the doorway, as silent as a ghost. She seemed completely oblivious to his presence, for she never once turned or said a word, only tumbled into bed with a grateful sigh and was asleep within minutes. Crowley hovered at the threshold for a moment, as if considering his next move, then walked over to the bedside.

It wouldn't be the first time he'd tweaked a contract for one of his clients. Normally, it would always be in his favor, as he liked it. However, something about seeing her struggle through what he perceived as a pointless battle left him wanting. It was within his power to make her well again, with or without her consent. That wasn't always needed; a shift here, a rewording there, and he could have her waking up feeling as though she'd been given a new body. It never once occurred to him to wait for her to wake up, to offer her opinion on the matter. Why should it? He had the power and if there was one thing Crowley loved exercising, it was that.

He placed the tips of two fingers at the center of her forehead, focusing on the part of her soul contract that would allow her recovery. She winced in her sleep as the change swept over her. Soon, this pain subsided and her face took on a healthy glow, her eyes ceasing their restless movement beneath their lids. Her breathing became steady and even, the sleep of those untouched by disease. Crowley smiled down at her, pleased with his handiwork. He looked forward to her surprise in the morning. He'd deny everything, of course, as he always did whenever he graced her with his favors.

Admittedly, he didn't see the point in having to spend a year with a sick person. Yeah, he'd known she was dying long before she said anything, and had anticipated the usual rigmarole about being healed, yadda yadda yadda. Her true request had thrown him for a dozen loops, especially when it didn't include her health. Well, he wasn't in the market to be a nursemaid. If he was going to sacrifice a year of his life, he would do so on his terms. He'd rather a whole companion than one who collapsed three or four times out of every week. He didn't view his decision to heal her as altruistic at all: he was serving his own needs, as usual.

It was these words that accompanied him back downstairs, satisfied to spend the remainder of the night channel-surfing and polishing off the rest of his scotch.

Murron woke the next morning and immediately felt something was...off.

She sat up in bed abruptly, eyes scanning the room for - she couldn't be sure what. She just felt, somewhere inside, that something had changed since the night before. She scratched at her right forearm absently, still looking about her. The faint sound of the TV drifted up from the living room; Crowley was still home. That same feeling of 'different' prodded her to get out of bed and go see the Crossroads King.

Murron hurried down the stairs, hastily yanking her robe on in the process. When she reached the bottom landing, Crowley looked up at her from his spot in the easy chair. She stared at him intensely, certain he'd done something. They locked eyes for a long moment, Murron debating whether or not to voice her suspicions. Crowley seemed unaffected, his usual small, self-satisfied smile curling his lips. His brows lifted as if to encourage her to speak. Murron's eyelids twitched and she continued down the stairs, choosing to hold her tongue at this time.

She felt his eyes on her as she moved into the kitchen. She paced the linoleum floor nervously, rapping one fisted hand against her open palm in a staccato duet with her racing thoughts. She paused in the center of the kitchen, her eyes falling on the rose teacup that always waited for her, waiting for her now on the table. Her nerves softened, losing their tension, as she stared down at that simple piece of china, the scent of it filling the room, telling her it was her favorite, as it always had been. If Crowley had done something for her, something to her health, then she would accept it with the same quiet grace she did her morning tea. Demons weren't exactly known for their generousity; calling him out on it would be ungrateful. She hadn't insisted on her health being thrown into the deal, but she wasn't going to argue against it either.

The click of Crowley's Italian leather shoes on the kitchen floor drew Murron's attention from the teacup. She slowly raised her eyes to his, unsure of the tears that burned in them. His smile had lost its self-satisfied curve, replaced instead with the softest, kindest one she'd seen on him yet. Even his eyes had lost their sharpness, turning from stark green to a soothing warm emerald. Unsteadily at first, Murron returned the smile, the same comfortable silence that had become so commonplace stretching between them.

Explaining to her doctors that she didn't want anymore chemo had been a trial Murron hadn't been expecting. Crowley remained in his now favorite chair, absently swirling the amber liquid around in its glass as she marched up and down the living room carpet, cellphone glued to her ear.

"I swear I'm not feeling suicidal," Murron insisted into the phone. "I just don't need it anymore. I can't explain it any better than that." A pause as she listened to the other end. Her expression shifted from exasperated to annoyed to intensely frustrated in the span of seconds. Crowley chuckled under his breath. "No, I promise, again, I am not trying to kill myself. I still only have a year. Yes, I'll still come in for routine checkups. It won't do any good, though! Okay. Okay. Fine. Yes. Thank you, doctor. Thank you." Murron snapped her phone shut with a heavy sigh and ran her fingers through her tangle of copper hair.

"Well done, Murron, well done," Crowley cooed. Murron's smile was wry.

"It's not like I could tell them what really happened, is it?" she pointed out, her smile turning kinder as she looked down at the demon. Crowley tipped his glass in response. She bit her bottom lip thoughtfully. "I don't know what to do with my health now. I've been mentally preparing for a long year of misery, tempered only by...well. You, I suppose."

Crowley eyed her sidelong, a twinkle brightening the green of his irises. "I would suggest you enjoy it. However you see fit."

Murron didn't respond straightaway, choosing instead to nibble on those words in her mind. The true reasoning behind the demon deal rose to the forefront of her memory; briefly, she debated revealing it to him. But no. It still struck even her as too foolish, maybe even a little arrogant. Pushing it from her, she brushed her hair back again with a resignated air. "What will you do?"

"Me? I do have to return to my house for a few things. I don't know how long I'll be gone."

"Well, you know where to find me."

"I do indeed," Crowley purred in reply, casting her the slyest wink. Before she'd thought it over, Murron had reached out and given his shoulder a playful push. He chuckled at her, seeming to not mind the familiar contact. This relaxed Murron further and she gave her own small laugh.

"If I can be slightly selfish here," she began, her voice low and bordering on shy, "do you think you could keep the visit home...short?"

"Are you suggesting you'd miss me?" Crowley pressed teasingly. She averted her face, ducking it against her shoulder. "I'll do my best to make it quick," he assured her after he'd enjoyed her embarrassment. "Demon dealings can be tricky things to time, however, so." He rose from the chair, one hand snaking into his trouser pocket with a limpid grace she couldn't help but notice. He drew close to her shoulder, a breath's distance between them as he finished his sentence, "Don't wait up, darling."

In the next instant, Murron realized she was alone. She'd never really been around when he'd disappeared; it was almost too abrupt to react to in time. Instead, she blinked, took a deep breath, and moved about the living room collecting the various things Crowley left around. The glass was still somewhat warm and carried that same scent of sulfur she'd actually gotten used to over the past month. She held the glass in her hand, letting the heat from his palm transfer into hers. She felt silly, but couldn't bring herself to put the glass in the sink.

She sank into what was now his chair, fingers still wrapped around the glass, leaned back and closed her eyes, letting the lingering warmth there surround her.

Murron was jolted violently awake by a crash upstairs. She'd fallen asleep in Crowley's chair without realizing it, her hand still clutching his scotch glass. She looked up towards the ceiling; whatever had fallen had done so in her bedroom. Pushing herself from the chair hastily, Murron ran up the stairs two at a time and swung into her bedroom.

Crowley was gripping the edge of her bed, smoke rising from his shoulders; the stench of burning wood filled the room. His face was blackened in some spots and his forehead had been cut. Blood trickled down his cheek, gathering in the corner of his mouth so much that he had to spit it out a few times. He lifted his head towards Murron, who stood in the doorway with her hands clamped over her mouth. His lips twitched as though he would speak, a brutal, rasping cough coming out instead. Murron rushed to his side, sliding cross the carpet on her knees till she reached him. She supported him as best she could, still unable to ask the questions that burned in her mind. Crowley, still coughing, released the bed's edge and fell against her.

"Bastards - burned my house - !" he managed between harsh coughs. Murron processed this as she struggled to push him onto the bed. He hadn't said anything about being in trouble with anyone, not that he would have. Still, he'd come back to her instead of going somewhere else when in danger. She ignored the warm swelling in her heart, fearing it would cloud her judgment, and succeeded in getting Crowley on the bed. He didn't protest as she pulled his suit jacket off, smoke still wafting from the finely-made fabric. When she had him in his shirtsleeves, she looked down into his still-bloodied face.

"What can I do?" she asked quickly. Crowley waved a hand towards her, as if to put her from him. "Crowley, don't be a stubborn prick about this: what can I do?"

"Winchesters!" Crowley bit out. Murron's brow furrowed. "I have to - I have to go somewhere."

"Like hell you are!" Murron's voice was firm. "You're going to take a goddamn minute and recover!"

"Bloody hell, woman, I'm the king of the Crossroads - I'm a demon, what makes you think -"

"You're also seriously fucked up right now, in case the blood in your mouth wasn't your first clue!" Murron snapped, batting away his flailing attempts to move her aside and get up. "You might be a demon, but your meat-suit needs a minute to recover. There's no shame in it; take a moment, get your bearings back. In the meantime, let me clean you up and then you can do whatever the hell you want. I won't stop you."

This seemed to soothe Crowley's ruffled feathers; he stopped trying to sit up and flopped back against the bed gratefully. Murron gave him another long look, pressed her hand to his arm reassuringly, and got up to fetch the first aid kit from her bathroom. Crowley was still on his back, chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths as he forced his body to heal. She set to cleaning off his face, mopping up the sooty black along with the blood. He let her do what she needed to, all the while keeping his gaze averted from her face. Murron didn't bother talking as she continued her work.

The cut on his forehead was deep, but she could already see it beginning to patch itself. Whatever had attacked him had done so in an ambush; Crowley was far too clever and wily to be taken in any other way. She'd have to let him handle this on his own. It wasn't as though she could help; he would have refused her assistance, anyway.

After she'd finished, she asked in a low voice, "Who was it?"

"Demons," Crowley replied gruffly.

"Demons?" Murron echoed, puzzled. "Why would your own kind do this to you?"

"Demons are bastards, darling, remember? More than that, they're on the wrong side of the fence."

"Now you're just confusing me."

"Good. Our contract doesn't say a damn thing about my telling you anything."

"Don't be a bitch about this, Crowley. If demons are chasing you for whatever reason, I can do something."

Crowley laughed cruelly. "What? Haven't even been a witch for a full year; probably can't even do a simple summoning spell."

"Got you, didn't I?"

"Semantics."

"Have it your way -"

"I always do."

"- but I can protect the house at least. I know that much," Murron finished, ignoring his snide remark. Crowley turned his head to look at her.

"Sigils?" he prompted. She nodded. "They'd keep me out, too, you know."

"Now look who has no idea what they're talking about," Murron muttered, snapping the kit shut impatiently and rising. "I can make new sigils. It's not that hard. I can craft sigils that only allow you in, no one else."

Crowley let her see the admiration in his eyes as he sat up, body now fully recovered. "If you can do that, do it. In the meantime, I have to go bother some old friends of mine." In the next eyeblink, he was gone and Murron was alone.

She cast a hasty look around the room, pressed her lips together in a determined line, then hastened back downstairs.

She had work to do.