THE PENTHOUSE - MORNING
While breakfast was going on in Sioux Falls, something altogether less wholesome was happening at Heathcliff Studios. The place was home to a myriad of secret horror chambers, but the scariest place on the lot by far was a room known simply as 'The Pit'. It looked like the inside of a golden genie bottle, rich enough to give Zsa Zsa Gábor the hiccups. There was a circular pit at the center of the room, where a large, round water bed was mounted on a trampoline frame, sunken into the floor, covered in blue and purple silk sheets and gold brocade, tasseled pillows.
In case you hadn't guessed, this gilded nightmare was Balthazar's bedroom, a testament to what one angel can do with an expense account and a underdeveloped sense of decency. On the floor near the head of the bed/pit, there was a large brass breakfast tray with an open bottle Dom Pérignon Rosé, two crystal flutes, and an antique, French rotary phone. The phone began ringing incessantly. Rising from the depths of silk and weirdness with a dignity that defied scientific understanding was Crowley.
A far cry from the lonely, miserable king of our timeline, this particular Crowley was giddy as a rootbeer float. Glowing with satisfaction and peppered with scratches and bite marks, he answered the phone in a sing-song voice, "North pole, Santy Claus speaking. Would you like a doll or a firetruck?"
A loud voice barked the name "Spode!" from the other end loud enough to momentarily deafen Crowley. But in a moment, he wore a fond, knowing smile.
"Hello, Walter," Crowley said, in the flirtatious tone he always had when he didn't feel like taking someone seriously.
The caller, Walter Harvey II, was an elderly man, but with the vigor that follows a salesman throughout his life. He was CEO of Harvey Inc., a long-time sponsor of Inferno, who was determined to find a way to tie Hell sports to chocolate candies.
"Why aren't you answering your phone?" Walter said, calming down considerably.
"Joke's on you," Crowley said, "this isn't even my phone."
"I know," Walter said. "Ask me how I know." But before Crowley could say anything, he answered himself, "Because I've been calling your phone all morning! What's so important that you can't pick up?"
"My battery ran out," Crowley said sweetly, lying in such a shamelessly bald-faced way, it didn't come off as anything nicer than a brush-off. "Why, did you miss me?"
"Normally, I'd be more than happy to entertain your cutesy crap," Walter said. "But I'm on new medication, so focus, please. My girl forwarded a message - some of your other sponsors are about to drop you, and they're trying to get the rest of us to follow them.
Suddenly, Crowley was all business. "Names," he growled.
"Bosco Electric, Allante and those 'Chicken in a Hat' freaks," Walter said. "They've been contacted by the League of Mothers about dropping the show and they're considering it. But I think they just wanna throw their weight around."
"Allante?" Crowley said, getting pissed. Those ungrateful bastards! After all the cars I've sold for them? I drive an Allante!"
"Three permits do not equal a license," Walter said in a remarkably indulgent tone.
Crowley pursed his lips a moment, trying to let his embarrassment go. "I mean I own and Allante. And anyway, the League of Mothers is just one woman, what the hell are they afraid of?"
"I don't know, but it's apparently big enough to risk the bad press you would, no offense, inevitably rain down on them. Something about base immorality on the program." Suddenly, Walter heard someone scream faintly over the phone. "What the hell was that?"
"Something... bit me," Crowley said, as coolly as he could. "What immorality?"
"Seriously?!" Walter hissed. "It's American Gladiators hosted by Satan, and you don't know what immorality?!"
"What sudden immorality?" Crowley clarified, doing his best to not to get pulled away from the phone by something moving under the sheets.
"Look, I know you're not shtupping that frenchman," Walter said, "but when you're practically humping each other on-screen every wednesday night, some people get confused."
As if on cue, Balthazar emerged from under the sheets and lovingly licked a bite mark on the back of Crowley's neck. Crowley closed his eyes, gasping quietly, trying not to let himself be overcome.
"Those people were already confused," Crowley said quietly, fighting to sound calm. "Are you really gonna drop us over a bored housewife cashing in on moralistic panic?"
"Did I say I was with them?" Walter said defensively. "This is a summit meeting, somebody had to call you."
"...Thank you." Crowley took a breath, calming down.
Balthazar started nipping at Crowley's earlobe impatiently. The phone call was apparently taking too long. Crowley put his hand over Balthazar's face and gently pushed him off.
"We'll go the other direction," Crowley said listlessly. "Take out an ad in Variety tonight, tell everyone what they're trying to do and point out how illegal it is. Embrace the angle."
"So you're not denying it?" Walter asked.
"Why should we?" Crowley said. "Everyone thinks we're merry as springtime, wasting time denying it will only cost us. Who do they think they're dealing with, bullying me like I'm some sort of corporate stooge? I'm the King of Hell!"
"You're not really the king of Hell," Walter said wearily.
Crowley scoffed. "Oh, grow up, yes I am. But I'm more than just the TV Devil. I'm a superstar with a private tank. I've been the fastest selling halloween costume for the last two years, I host a day of hell-themed specials on The History Channel every Christmas, anything I say into a camera ends up trending on twitter. I'm bloody Crowley!"
A beat passed.
"Roderick?" Walter asked calmly.
"Yes?"
"You're shtupping that frenchman, aren't you?"
Crowley smirked. "I haven't a clue what you're talking about," he said.
"Put him on the phone," Walter whispered.
Chipper as all get out, Balthazar took the phone and put it to his ear. "Bonjour, ça va, est'ce que je pourrais vous aider, I'm not really French, but I love their fries."
Walter sighed heavily. "I'm very happy for you both, no need to elaborate, moving on. Have you had the prototypes?"
Balthazar gave Crowley a panicked look. "The prototypes? Yes, they were... very... yummy, we'll go with those."
"Which ones?" Walter asked, getting snippy. "The blueberry, the red cherry or the black cherry?"
Balthazar frowned. "I thought we were testing chocolate-" he said.
Before Balthazar could finish or Walter could have a fit, Crowley stole the phone back and said, "Actually, we were thinking boysenberry was better. I'm in a very purple mood."
"Not seeing the connection show-wise," Walter said. "And if it has anything to do with what you're looking at right now, again, there's no need to elaborate."
"Angels and Demons," Crowley said. "The place where the motifs meet. Blue and red."
"You don't think it's gonna look like a stunt?" Walter asked. "Given your little campaign."
"The only people who'll notice will be the people looking for a stunt," Crowley said zestfully. "And only half of them are spoiling for a fight. Let them tear their hair out - for once, the Devil takes the high ground."
"You're not changing the format of the show, are you?" Walter asked, sound concerned.
"I like the show the way it is," Crowley said. "I'll be red, he'll be blue, and we'll let the audience figure out purple. There, now, all better? Or do you need pepto?"
"Try the prototypes," Walter said.
"We're trying them right now," Crowley lied.
"I don't wanna know!" Walter shouted. "Jeez,... it's like walking in on your parents. If I get a mental image, you can forget about the ice show!"
Crowley and Balthazar were grinning all over. Listening to Walter flip out was almost as fun as watching it in person.
Balthazar took the phone back. "À bientôt, darling," he said, and hung up. He snuggled into Crowley and planted a few amorous kisses on his jaw. "That was a lot of quick thinking," he said. "I get so hot and bothered when you king people."
"We're going to have to find those chocolates," Crowley said, smiling and enjoying the attention. "Angels and devils biologically harmonizing is one thing, but there's no way Walter will stand having his prototypes ignored."
Balthazar kissed his way down Crowley's shoulder, then paused and frowned. "You really think we shouldn't change the format of the show?"
"We already added that revolving thing," Crowley said. "The show's golden, there's no point in changing it."
Balthazar took break, something obviously on his mind. "You're character is the king of Hell," he said. "But there's no king of Heaven. Why can't I be king of Heaven?"
Crowley rolled his eyes. "We've been through this," he said, "you're not God."
"Hey," Balthazar said, just a bit whiny, "I thought I was the boss of you."
"In private, maybe," Crowley said, in a particular kind of tone. "But on the show? In public? I'm the boss, and you know it."
Balthazar smirked. He knew Crowley was baiting him.
"That wasn't a very nice thing to say," Balthazar said.
Crowley grinned the happiest grin in Grintown, the tip of his tongue flicking out for a moment. "That's right," he said, his absolute delight coming out in his voice, "I'm a rebel and I'll never, ever be any good. Whaddya gonna do about it?"
Balthazar pretended to consider it. "Well," he said, "it's either give you up to the home for wayward devils, or... a little discipline may be in order."
Crowley became as giddy as a puppy. He wrapped his arms around Balthazar, resting his face against his chest and looking up at him sweetly. "How much is a little?"
Balthazar kissed the top of Crowley's head, then disengaged the hug, turning Crowley so that his body was facing the mattress. He kissed the back of Crowley's neck, down his spine. Crowley tried to look back over his shoulder at what Balthazar was doing, buzzing with anticipation. He pulled a throw pillow over to prop himself up a bit under his chin.
"The new storyline," Balthazar said. "I become the King of Heaven. And you're going to write it."
"Why can't you write it?" Crowley asked, gripping the pillow merrily.
"Because you're a better writer than I am," Balthazar said, subtle drawing the sheet away, off of them both. "And I want it to seem like it's your idea, sort of smooth things over with the bullpen."
"But I would never write that," Crowley said sweetly, his back arching of it's own accord. "It's not a logical progression. That angel as a king? No one would buy it."
That was it. Make-believe Balthazar could only be pretend-pushed so far. He raised his hand up and landed a loud slap down on Crowley's backside. Crowley gasped a little, gripping his pillow, a ghost of a laugh threatening to break out and ruin the game.
"Now that I think about it," Crowley went on, "your character does get more souls than mine. We never did anything with that. Maybe he'd get more powerful?"
Balthazar, who had been the very picture of evil glee, hand drawn back for another smack, paused. Crowley was touching on a sensitive bit of trivia, what with Balthazar's real-world lateral power increase (including and especially the mind-reading). If he thought too long about it, he might get suspicious.
"Or I could just get fed up with being teased," Balthazar said, squeezing Crowley's slap-mark. "I think it might ring truer."
Crowley sucked in a hissing breath. "You really think he'd grow a pair?" he said, about as brazenly as he could manage. "Up till now, our little angel's been pretty happy under king's thumb. Three years of that, he's gotta be a little submissive."
Balthazar smiled. He was relieved that Crowley had let the plot thread go, but more than that, manipulative Crowley never ceased to entertain. It was long past time for Balthazar to return the favor. He gave Crowley another, fiercer slap, and this time, he put enough up-swing into it that Crowley had to catch himself in the bed frame.
Crowley buried his forehead in the pillow, breathing deep. He moaned breathlessly, "Permission to break character..."
Balthazar settled down on top of him, the heat and pressure making Crowley squirm. He was sore already. Balthazar smooched his cheek, happy as a clam. Docile and not remotely convincing as a hard case. It took all of their combined powers of allure not to giggle like idiots.
"Granted," Balthazar said.
"This is the very best moment of my life," Crowley said. "Ever. It's not even a contest... I love you so much."
Balthazar couldn't keep his cool any longer. He began to kiss every square inch of Crowley's face, neck and shoulder - sweet, worshipful kisses, with the words, "love you" occasionally muttered in between.
"Time in," Crowley said in his peppy voice.
"No," Balthazar murmured between kisses, "I'm still in smoochies. And my hand hurts."
"That doesn't sound like something a king would say," Crowley said, practically singing his words. He maneuvered Balthazar so that he could whisper in his ear, "my king."
Balthazar shuddered and gripped the mattress. He felt so tingly. "Oh... Oh, that's just the thing, isn't it? Say it again."
Crowley kissed the corner of Balthazar's mouth and held his gaze. Head tilted down, bedroom eyes at full-blast, his voice soft and fully of yearning. All of Crowley's Mata Hari powers turned up to eleven. "My Lord."
Balthazar growled involuntarily - he seemed to have briefly lost control of his central nervous system. He kissed Crowley's ear, mumbling, "If I can't hold a microphone tonight, it'll be all your fault."
"And if I can sit down during commercial break, it'll be all your fault. Now come on, put your shoulder into it, or I'll write you a sassy robot sidekick."