What Isn't and Came to Be
Chapter 25: Pushmi-pullyu
The first thing Crowley became aware of was a warm weight wrapped lightly around his wrist. All his instincts clamoured for him to lash out at the breach in his personal space and free himself; but he repressed that urge. Waking up was not an experience he usually found himself party to, and it was beyond unpleasant to realise he'd been unconscious. Still, it didn't pay to show your hand, not until you knew what cards lay on the table. With that in mind, he forced his body to stay relaxed, breathing slow, and camouflage his newly awakened state while he gathered his scattered wits.
He was lying on a cushioned surface, with what felt like fabric under and over most of his body. The harsh smell of cleaning products and antiseptic was heavy in the air. His lower abdomen reminded him of its existence in a strident, demanding voice. Which triggered a memory of his favourite masseuse, lunging at him with black eyes and a purloined angel-blade.
The pain and the memory went a long way towards explaining the unscheduled nap he'd found himself waking from. Whilst constriction in and around the injury's general locale argued that the damage had undergone some form of amelioration.
Cautiously, Crowley cracked his gummy eyelids to surreptitiously take stock of his surroundings.
He was in the master bedroom, tucked into the four-poster bed beneath a heavy comforter. The warm weight encircling his right wrist was a hand, one that unsurprisingly belonged to Ma Cherie, who sat upright in a Louis the fifteenth chair pulled close to the bed, dozing.
The view brought back other memories and made him realise that he'd been unconscious for a good long while. The proof was plain in how he found himself, tucked into bed and patched up, stomach stitched and swathed in bandages. Adding to those indicators, the surrounding room had been put to rights. Bloody handprints wiped from the walls, and the sanguine trail across the carpet reduced to a damp, rusty shadow of its former glory.
Still unmoving, he eyed the sleeping girl at his bedside with an unaccustomed swell of something like fondness.
All his long life, he'd never met someone like her. She was a prophet, designed to be the keeper of god's word on earth; not just someone with a pedigreed bloodline, either. In a world filled with kiddie fiddling priests, double-crossing angels and alcoholic womanising righteous men, Ma Cherie was a true believer. One who followed the tenants of her New Testament faith with an endearingly blind stubbornness, that constantly beggared all his expectations.
He was a demon, as diametrically opposed to her belief system and morals as someone could get. Yet she insisted on treating him like a person, worthy of succour and salvation.
In the game as old as time, he was the black king. And she? Well, she'd started out as a white pawn. Just another of the Winchester's cannon-fodder allies destined for a bloody death, to motivate the higher valued pieces. But he'd gone and wiped the Winchesters from the game, and his pet white pawn had progressed her way onto his side of the board.
Her potential for promotion intrigued him. As did the challenge of winning her to his own side. Why not? Hadn't Dean gone from a white knight to a knight of hell upon application of the mark of Cain? And while demon Dean had been a nightmare to deal with, he held out a hope that the fault in his scheme lay with the raw material, rather than the concept as a whole.
With her heritage, Ma Cherie had always held the potential to be promoted to queen. An oppositional game piece who could move like she did and see what she saw ought to have caused him worry; but her moral framework operated to his advantage. She didn't have the stomach to be of threat to anyone, let alone him. She was handicapped by her very nature.
Case in point, if you got the other side's king in check, you were supposed to go in for the kill, not patch him up and sit by his bedside.
All her attempts to save the lost, love thy enemy, and be a Good Samaritan were based on ideals not meant to be actionable in the real world. And sure as hell weren't designed to apply to the likes of him. The Christian philosophies of doing unto others as you'd have done to you, and turning the other cheek, were not winning strategies. They just ensured that the good died young, eaten by those intended for hell.
Crowley himself had learned those hard truths about life early on. Discovered the hard way that those who claimed to want what was best for him never did. Every creature was driven by competition and self-interest to turn on their fellows in pursuit of survival. That was the true nature of things.
His colleagues, his minions, even his own bloody mother, would have used the opportunity of having the king of hell unconscious and vulnerable, to end him.
Yet, Ma Cherie was undeniably different. When given that very opportunity, the foolish, God-touched little girl had tacked his meat-suit back together, tucked him into bed and cleaned up the mess, like the true Good Samaritan she was.
Her altruistic behaviour unsettled his perception of the world in some subtle way. Making him almost wish that her decency could be explained away as a product of stupidity or naïveté; but he'd been dissuaded from that, by how she'd called him out, even as she ministered to his injuries.
No doubt, the succour she provided was another of her attempts to overcome evil by doing good, another attempt at heaping hot coals on his head with acts of loving kindness. As if all he needed was someone to be nice to him, and he'd feel bad, see the error of his ways, and just stop being evil, soulless, and damned. Sometimes he wished it could be that simple. A happy ending for everyone if they just got down on their knees and asked. But everything in him rebelled against such a pipe dream; even as he lapped up the unearned kindness offered, like some half-starved hound.
A frown creased Crowley's brow at hearing his own thoughts.
Why was he being so… sentimental?
Didn't she think her son would end up in hell in the event of his death? Her interest in his well-being could be seen as simple expediency… Yet surely, expediency failed to explain how she was sitting there at his bedside, still holding his hand.
She ought to have been asleep when he got back to the penthouse. She slept more than any human-being he knew. Yet, for whatever reason, she'd waited up for his return. Why? Had she seen something?The thought she might worry for him warmed a part of him which had been relinquished to permafrost long ago; and that heat brought on a pushmi-pullyu kind of discomfort.
He'd come back to the penthouse reeling with delayed shock at his own stupidity and the near miss at the Opium spa. Wanted nothing more than to patch himself up and lick his wounds in peace; perhaps, downing an entire bottle of Glen-Craig afterward, to take the sting out of things.
He hadn't been pleased when she'd burst into the bathroom and pointed out the obvious.
"You're hurt," she'd said, then followed it up with. "Let me help you, please?" It was the 'please' that had done him in. Their little medical sadomasochistic Tete-à-têtes were always so delightfully gratifying and hearing her beg to be of service just touched him right where his bathing suit went.
Ma Cherie certainly had a way about her, knew just how to insinuate herself and slide inside a body's personal space. Inevitably, once she was there, it seemed like too much bother to shoo her off.
Further proof of how she'd embedded herself under his skin, lay in those digits still wrapped around his wrist. He could pry them off, yet he left them be. Allowed his eyelids to fall shut instead and indulged himself in a few moments of quiet lassitude, to ruminate.
It'd been the blood; he told himself. The blood had caused the entire debacle.
He'd shot an entire unit of the stuff into himself at the hospital; locked away in a cramped bathroom stall with his purloined drug of choice, like the backslidden addict he was. Just a little treat, he'd assured himself. Reasoning that to yield to his addiction, just the once, could do no actual harm. Not with the girl and the children stowed safely back in the penthouse.
Then, he'd headed for the Opium Spa, set on some much overdue pampering.
Hindsight now allowed him to admit he might have overdone things a tad; but that had always been the game with the blood. Pushing right to the edge, skating on the brink, filling his veins with the stuff, so he could pretend. So, he could feel.
When he'd arrived in Siam, he'd been flying high. Buoyed by celebratory satisfaction over events at Burjeel Hospital and anticipating everything yet to come. There was always so much enjoyment to be had in the moments a plan started coming together. The perfect setup would lead to a marvellous cascade, all those carefully setup dominos just waiting to fall. Thinking about it, even now, sent little spritzes of dopamine like champagne bubbles fizzling in his veins.
On the blood, everything was so much more immediate and present. Touch, taste, smell, sight and hearing flooding in to make him feel invincible and so dangerously alive. Senses overwhelmed; he'd given himself over to sweet expectation of all the pleasurable experiences the Opium spa had on offer.
He'd been lulled into inattention by the place's highly cultivated ambience.
The unassuming competence and politeness of the staff.
The simple elegance of the rich colour palate, combined with that soft amber lighting. Which somehow managed to whisper of drowsy summer evenings and warm torpid nights, that contained all the time in the world.
The heady aroma of ginseng and ginger tea and the subtler notes of incense would tickle the nostrils and stoke every carnal appetite.
While the muted musical trickle of water in the indoor waterfall and reflecting pool bewitched the ears; capped off by the oddly mesmerising sight of those red and gold koi, swimming slowly in their drowsy circles. It all lent an air of fantasy and possibility to the milieu. The elements working together to create a kind of aesthetic magic upon the senses. Especially after so lately being forced to experience the hectic cacophony of Bangkok's crowded streets.
The Opium spa was an oasis of calm, set right in the midst of one of the busiest cities in the world. Carefully calculated to soothe even the most high-strung of the spa's discerning uber-rich clientele; right from the moment they stepped through the establishment's carved, and gold embossed ebony doors.
He'd been utterly unprepared for the attack. Hadn't so much as considered the possibility one of his own kind might remember his fondness for that particular establishment or suspect he still lived — Not after that unseemly debacle with Lucifer, right in front of half the court. He definitely hadn't thought some black-eyed sycophant would put enough stock in his proclivities to waste time or energy staking out his favoured masseuse.
It had all been. "Oh, Mr Crowley, welcome back to Opium Spa, Siam Bangkok!"
"It has been being such a long time since you come visiting us here, Mr Crowley!"
"Right this way for our most honoured, favourite gentleman."
"Your usual suite is available and, of course, Malai will be with you shortly. Would you perhaps be liking to experience the sauna, or a manicure and pedicure while you wait, or some whiskey from your private reserve?"
Right up until the moment, a demon, wearing his favourite sloe-eyed masseuse, had lunged at him with a purloined angel blade.
If he hadn't had that two-inch-thick wad of patient records in his inner coat pocket, the Angel blade might have ended him. Instead, it'd glanced off target and sliced him open from navel to hip.
Indulging in that blood unit had dulled his usually fine-tuned powers of observation. Hindered his usually snappy reaction time. And made him act like an imbecile.
All it had taken was a snap of his fingers to dispose of the traitor. For one such as himself, that was child's play. The garden variety demon had exploded into a cloud of harmless ash; before he noticed the damage done to himself, his suit and, unfortunately… the traitorous demon's meat-suit. The lovely and talented Malai became so much dust in the wind, along with the demon he'd housed.
Never again would the lad with silky hair and strong hands work his undeniable magic. To turn the stubborn knots of Crowley's muscular tension into warm, relaxed and sated taffy. Never again would Malai offer him a delectable happy ending after his massage, with that devilish little smirk of his.
That was the gall of it. A low-level demon being a traitorous prat was one thing; accidentally offing his favourite masseuse in a knee-jerk reaction was another entirely. Whores of both sexes and proclivities were a dime a dozen, demons more so, but a comely lad with both the strength and skill to give his pent-up flesh a proper seeing to, that had been a rare treasure. It was infuriating to waste such a treasure, especially considering the lad hadn't had the opportunity to do his job and sort the damnable crick in his back beforehand.
Then there was the Opium's management, who took a particularly dim view of messes of the kind Crowley had been forced to leave behind in the opulent spa suite. Dealing with a missing employee, cremated remains and a vast quantity of spilled blood would make management less than sanguine. Especially if authorities were to start poking into certain extra services, the Opium had on offer. Being blacklisted from the Opium spa would mean he'd have to tolerate umpteen dozen substandard massages in umpteen dozen lesser establishments, before he could find another masseuse with the necessary stamina and skill to deal with his rather particular needs.
Discovering the unforeseen consequences of being sliced open, while high on an entire unit of human blood; had been another unpleasant surprise.
It wasn't just emotions that got a trifle out of control when one was three sheets to the wind. Apparently, the ability to control blood flow and ignore basic meat-suit malfunctions also took a hit when under the influence. That little wrinkle hadn't come up during his previous dabble with addiction.
The blood had also made him admit things he shouldn't have. Articulating out loud what the girl's small kindnesses meant to him had been a mistake of the worst sort. The blood made him pathetic and needy; and he couldn't believe he'd gone and clued her in to the sickeningly sentimental origin of his chosen pseudonym.
Not to mention, the nasty twinge of guilt he'd felt over lying to her; and the uncharacteristic fear he'd experienced when he thought she might start ferreting out the truth of everything he'd done.
Of course, she hadn't twigged, not about the bits that mattered; even though she had accused him of causing the drama — Which was beyond rich, considering her precious sprog had been the one to suggest the whole idea of vaccinations to begin with.
But then Ma Cherie had had the gall to bring up her little suicide attempt. And he'd been sure that he knew what she meant by that. She wished he'd marched himself through the rip into that bombed out apocalypse world and buried an angel blade in his gut.
Normally he wouldn't have allowed such a slight to faze him, but emotional knee-jerk reactions had been the order of the day after the blood. And so, the outrage had quite overwhelmed him. How was he supposed to tolerate her blowing hot and cold like that? One moment fretting over his injury, the next accusing him without a single shred of proof for any of her slanderous accusations. He could have been genuinely interested in safeguarding the health and well-being of the children under his care. It wasn't an impossible motivation.
He blamed the Supernatural books and both bloody Winchesters for her attitude problem. They'd painted him in an unflattering light, made him the villain of the piece. Or worse yet, a laughable chump. No one ever gave him proper press or portrayed him as he actually was. He was a closer. The only person able to see the game for what it was and accept that sometimes you had to get your hands dirty and do unsavoury things. The one player of the game with an eye on the prize and the balls to get the job done. For that she had painted him as the bad guy, even as he bled out into her lily-white hands!
It was such a crying shame he'd been insensate while she stitched him up.
Things had been so emotionally charged and torrid between the two of them; and then she'd had the perfect opportunity to get some of her own back and work out a few of her obvious frustrations with their relationship.
Had she considered all the things she might do with him like that, helpless and at her mercy?
Just thinking about it made him all tingly.
The thought of her small hands on him, shiny and slick with his blood.
He wondered if she'd been trembling, her heart going pitter-pat while her breath came in little pants. Falling down on his ravaged skin like the softest of butterfly kisses.
He could imagine the way she would have focused solely on him as she worked. Little face so studious and intent, as she penetrated his flesh over and over, drawing his rent skin back together. For those few minutes, nothing else would have mattered to her except him. He'd have been the very centre of her small universe.
Those thoughts made him shift slightly, catching a stilted breath as the movement flexed his stomach muscles and sent a stab of pain through his gut.
At his side Ma Cherie stirred from her sleep and blinked open anxious green eyes, her hold tightening on his wrist.
…ooo0ooo…
Michele woke to find Crowley staring at her with a look she couldn't read.
"Oh, you're awake." She let go of his wrist where she'd been monitoring his pulse and pushed her hair back out of her face, feeling suddenly awkward. "How are you feeling? Are you in much pain? We have paracetamol if you think it'll help."
Crowley didn't answer. Instead, he tried to push himself up, twisting onto one elbow to leaver himself into a sitting position.
Hastily she caught his shoulder to steady and stop him from straining his stitches and adjusted the pillows behind his back.
"Don't twist like that and no sudden movements or you'll pop your stitches!"
Crowley looked down at her hand, still on his bare shoulder, and raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Look who's gotten all bossy in the bedroom." His voice was raspier than usual, but he still managed to string threads of innuendo into his tone.
She lifted her hand off his shoulder, fingers curling into her palm, and looked away uncomfortably. "I'm not trying to order you around, Crowley. Just asking you to take it slow. I get scared when you—" She cut herself off.
Crowley was staring at her. "I scared you, When I what?"
"Nothing… it doesn't matter. You need to drink something; you lost a lot of blood. Let me get you—" She went to get up and fetch him a glass of water and the paracetamol, but he caught her wrist to stop her.
"Oh contraire, Ma Cherie." He licked his lips and tilted his head boring into her with his eyes."I believe we've established that you're a particularly bad liar. So, let's agree, it isn't nothing, and it does matter."
She bit her own lip and looked away.
He peered at her and tugged her closer. "I wasn't in control. Did I hurt you?" He sounded almost worried.
"No, of course not!" Hearing him like that made it worse, as did the way he swept his thumb back and forth almost nervously where he gripped her arm. "You woke up when I was nearly done stitching your wound, but you weren't really with it—it's just… I don't know. When you're really hurt, sometimes you… sort of revert to sounding like Fergus MacLeod. Hearing it… it just brought back bad memories. Scared me."
Crowley was staring at her, blank faced now, and part of her was aware she'd made a mistake. This Crowley wasn't that Crowley. Perhaps he didn't have the memories of those other possible futures like she did. Maybe if he didn't remember, that was a blessing. Lucifer had hurt them both, a lot… But Crowley had mentioned one of his deaths, hadn't he? He'd accused her of wanting it… and maybe she had.
Maybe she had hoped he'd choose to be a self-sacrificial hero in that apocalypse world, even if that was just a way of hurting Lucifer, in the only way he had left to strike out. But only because that singular death had been the only one, she'd seen where the end had come on his terms; the only one of millions where Lucifer didn't break him first. If you knew someone you loved was going to die, wouldn't you choose for them to die with dignity?
"You kept calling me Lilith and talking about eels," she continued miserably with a small, helpless shrug, not wanting to meet his eyes. Hoping he wouldn't press her for more.
Her throat felt tight and half-choked with nausea. Explaining that his Scottish accent only came out when things were very badly messed up, and he was dying slow and hard, wasn't something she wanted to do. But there was a further layer, the worst part of her unskilled suturing experience, and it haunted her in a way that she couldn't get her mind around.
He'd thanked her for hurting him, with an almost fervent desperation.
Hearing anyone thank you for hurting them was wrong on a deep, fundamental level.
It'd been as though he'd been caught in some full body rictus, all of him rigidly still as she helplessly kept on stitching. While he babbled on in that Scottish burr. The only thing he'd had left; a poor, fucked up attempt to ingratiate himself.
There was something about it, which was too awful for her to express. That someone like Crowley, who was always so fiercely in control of everything, all of the time, could ever become cowed like that, and incapable of fighting back or escaping, while she had to just keep on hurting him.
Crowley hummed in amusement. "Suppose that makes sense, considering what you were doing. Lilith had her little methods of motivating the sales team. Demon with the lowest soul count for the quarter got their meat-suit sliced open from nipples to crotch. Then, she'd fill the poor bugger up with something that took her fancy. Broken glass, scorpions, rats, you name it. Lilith had quite the imagination." He chuckled almost fondly. "Then she'd sew it up inside, neat as you please. The rule was whatever you got had to stay there until the next sales meeting. Only got it myself a couple of times early on in my career, but the electric eels were particularly memorable. Feisty buggers, and a little hard to stomach, you might say."
Lilith had been a sadistic monster, Michele was glad she was dead and could never hurt anyone, especially Crowley, again.
She didn't know how to respond; how could Crowley sit there talking about something like that with a reminiscent smile on his face, as though what Lilith had done was just some amusing work anecdote? She stared at him in a kind of shocked horror, eyes stinging with sympathetic tears, which only seemed to amuse Crowley more.
He let go of her arm and patted her cheek with a small hum. "You have the softest heart of anyone I've ever met, Pet. Do stop fretting so much and go get me a drink. There's a good girl."
-/-/-/-
Authors note: A Pushmi-pullyu is imaginary creature from the Doctor Dolittle stories, it has a head at both ends and is nearly impossible to catch due to the fact that only one head ever sleeps at a time. The term can also mean someone acting in conflicting or contradictory manner.
Thank you for reading, concrit is always welcome, and I'd love to hear from you. If you've read this many chapters and have never commented now is your time to shine by doing so.
