Pity this Busy Monster / Inception+SPN (3/3)
Title: Pity this Busy Monster
Artist: preferthemoss
Pairing: Crowley/Cas, with background Arthur/Eames, Ariadne/Yusuf, and Dean/Lisa.
Word count: 6,915 (23,844 overall).
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Inception+SPN
Prompt: Today's horoscope: somebody close to you will tell your secret.
Summary: Fergus Crowley is head of Crossroads Publishing, an influential business in New York; Castiel Milton is head of Running with Sigils, a significantly lesser-known charity for children. Normally they would never meet, but it turns out that Castiel is sitting in the future building of Crowley's dream bookstore.
Crowley wants the building. Castiel wants... something else.
Notes: 1. Written for crowley_bigbang.
2. Title taken from e.e. cumming's pity this busy monster,manunkind.
3. Thanks to chaosraven for the always-fantastic beta job. You are the light in my inbox. :D
4. Thanks to preferthemoss for the stunning art!
The invitation to attend Running with Sigils’ opening sticks with Crowley all weekend, and there are so many reasons for him to stay away that he loses track. He doesn’t like children, doesn’t like art, doesn’t like Eames, doesn’t have time, doesn’t want to raise suspicions among his minions, and Crowley’s sure he could come up with more if he cared to put forth the effort.
And anyway, Crowley is falling behind on his work, and knows that he’s spending a bit too much time thinking about Castiel rather than concentrating on his future business expansion. Carving out an hour from his day would be unquestionably boneheaded, so Crowley stays at his desk all afternoon and doesn’t really move until five o’clock, when he’s sure the Girl Scout troop must be gone already. He taps his fingers against the desk, restless and impatient. He’s just finished going through chapter seven of the werewolf tripe, but resigns himself to the next part for lack of anything more exciting to do.
At six, Crowley notices the building is very quiet. Arthur, he’s sure, is gone by now, gallivanting off to spend time with That Annoying British Guy. Yusuf and Ariadne have left as well, though Crowley only knows because he can see them from his window, walking hand-in-hand down the sidewalk like a pair of teenagers.
When the phone rings, the sun has long passed below the horizon of skyscrapers that can be seen from Crossroads’ upper floors. Crowley is grateful for the interruption; he’s just reached the part where the werewolf and his girlfriend get down and dirty, and it’s so horrific that Crowley’s eyes nearly bleed. As good as the first chapters are, it’s clear he’s going to have to clean up the “romantic” bits (if one can refer to bestiality as romantic) before unleashing this thing onto the unsuspecting population. On the other hand, even as is, it's still better than anything else on the market.
“Crossroads Publishing,” he answers, half-distracted as he deletes some of the more wayward sentences. He pushed her back onto the bed of soft, sweet-smelling leaves, peering down with animal lust in his sharp, golden eyes. Jesus Christ.
“Hello, Crowley,” says a familiar voice, slightly uncertain by the sounds of it. “I hope my calling isn’t bothering your work.”
Crowley’s fingers freeze over the keyboard. He doesn’t get many calls after-hours, but he especially doesn’t get any from Castiel.
“No,” he replies, perhaps a tad too quick for his pride to handle. He pauses before finally asking, “Looked us up in the phonebook, did you?”
“The web was faster. Gabriel claims that I can also find you using the search term ‘king of hell’ or ‘spawn of Satan’.” It sounds like he’s smiling when he says, “However, Google did not bring up Crossroads when I tried any combination of those phrases. I believe Gabriel is prone to exaggeration.”
“He’ll be prone,” Crowley swears. “In a coffin, if I have my way.”
Castiel laughs. “I suppose I’ve completely turned you off the idea of seeing him tonight. We just finished cleaning up the studio and now I’m craving pie. I thought you might join me.”
Crowley’s shutting down his computer before he can even consider that this might be a bad idea. He does stop for a moment, watching as the screen goes black, and thinks that he’s done some shady, sneaky, underhanded stuff in his day, but to... socialize with a man he's planning to destroy leaves a remarkably bad taste. Then again, Castiel won’t ever know Crowley’s behind the Green Room’s inevitable good fortune, so what’s the harm?
“If you’re busy,” Castiel starts, uncertain again, only to have Crowley interrupt.
“I’ll be down in a tick. Sixty seconds, you can time me,” he says and he hangs up, throws on his coat, and shuts off the lights. He doesn’t even bother taking his briefcase. This must be what going mad feels like, he thinks, echoing a line from a space soap Ariadne favors as he bypasses the elevators and takes the stairs instead.
He steps out the front door, where Castiel is standing beneath a street lamp, hair haloed from the light. Crowley’s scarf sits snug around his neck. Cas smiles when he sees him, and that’s... well, extraordinary. No one smiles when Crowley’s around. Not even his own bloody parents.
“Should I ask how today went, first day opening and all that?” Crowley asks. He’s struck with the realization that if he and Castiel were dating, then this would be the part where they would kiss hello after not seeing each other all day. But they aren’t, so they don’t, and Crowley crushes the notion with such force that he’s nearly exhausted with it.
“Wonderfully,” Castiel answers as they start down the sidewalk. “The girls created some exceptional books.”
“And did you use twigs for the binding?” Crowley asks, quietly pleased when Castiel turns to smile at him, clearly remembering the conversation they’d shared once they’d escaped the gallery show. Had that only been two weeks ago? That means he and Castiel have known each other for nearly a month. It feels like so much longer than that, but Crowley won’t complain. After all, it’s not often anyone willingly spends time with him outside of work. Even Arthur, who puts up with all of Crowley’s bullshit, needs time with people unrelated to the business.
“Just regular glue and thread this time,” he answers as they reach the bakery. Crowley holds the door open. “My apologies if that’s too passé.”
It seems they’ve come just in time: Gabriel’s begun putting away ingredients and covering certain dishes to keep them from growing stale. He pauses long enough to singsong, “You two are a regular joke. ‘An angel and the devil walk into a bar. One of them ducks.'”
“I’m willing to pretend I didn’t hear that under the condition you give us food,” Crowley says before catching sight of Gabriel’s newest decoration: the bust of an old gravestone angel, worn dark from weather and age. He doesn’t even want to know where it came from, though he can’t help but envision Gabriel skulking around a cemetery and stealing the thing while no one’s looking. “Christ, Gabriel, you need to stop decorating while blindfolded. At least pick a theme.”
“Lack of theme is the theme,” comes the cheerful reply. “Anyway, Cas complimented it last time he came in. ‘Atmospheric’, he called it.”
Castiel smiles with the slightest amusement when Crowley turns to him and demands, “Et tu, Castiel? I hope you realize the last thing this joker needs is encouragement.”
“Excuse me,” Gabriel sniffs, “but this ‘joker’ is standing right here, and I alone control whether you receive sustenance from this hallowed bakery. You should be kissing my feet.”
“For God’s sake, just give us some pie!”
“No,” comes Gabriel’s lofty reply. “I don’t think I will. Not unless Castiel asks.”
Castiel rolls his eyes heavenward, but they crinkle at the corners when he says, “Gabriel, may I order some honey-crumble pie? Three slices, if you can.”
“I can indeed, but only if you tell me who the third slice is for.”
“Dean,” is the casual answer as Castiel withdraws his wallet. Gabriel pauses, the silver server hovering over the pie, while Crowley’s lips thin into a fierce line. He wants to demand who the hell Dean is, but how is it his business? What does it matter that Castiel is buying dessert for some other guy? Gabriel’s gaze flickers from Castiel to Crowley, who has pointedly diverted his concentration to the tacky collection of nutcrackers lining a nearby shelf.
“So this Dean,” Gabriel says, strangely careful, “Who is he? Have I met him?”
“I don’t believe so. He works across town,” Castiel answers while laying a twenty dollar bill on the counter, utterly oblivious to Crowley’s silence.
“And is he cute?” Gabriel presses, packing the three pieces of pie. Crowley’s teeth grind while he wills Gabriel to shut up. “Details, Cas!”
Castiel blinks. “I suppose so. However, I believe his wife would take issue if you... ‘made a move’, as they say.”
“Wife,” Gabriel repeats. “To be honest, you don’t seem the home wrecker type, Cas.”
Castiel isn’t the sort to lose his temper easily, but even Crowley knows that Gabriel has taken it a step too far. Castiel’s eyes widen with offense and his voice is sharp when he snaps, “Dean and Lisa are my neighbors! They were good to me when I first moved here, and I buy them dessert on nights that they invite me over for dinner.”
Crowley’s fists unclench. He hadn’t realized he rolled them up in the first place. He lets out a breath, stares at a particularly ugly nutcracker, and doesn’t say a single word.
“Oh, right,” Gabriel agrees, glib as ever. Crowley glances over, only to have Gabriel catch his eye and wink while Castiel’s busy collecting the bags. Crowley realizes that Gabriel hadn’t pressed the issue to be an ass; he had done it for Crowley’s sake, getting Castiel to open up about the true nature of his relationship with Dean Whoever. “Just go on and take these, Cas. Consider it my apology for asking.”
“Certainly not,” Castiel retorts, pushing the money towards Gabriel. “If anything, I owe Crowley for drinks. The least I can do is pay for this.”
“Drinks,” Gabriel gleefully parrots. “I can’t believe you got this evil bastard to agree to a date! Finally, no more of your moping.”
Castiel falls utterly silent, and Crowley, for once, doesn’t have much to say on the matter. There’s something about Castiel’s expression that suggests he’s horrified by what Gabriel’s implied, only Crowley can’t imagine why. Drinks are platonic, and just because Arthur and Ariadne and Sam and Ellen and Kali and Gabriel think they’re together doesn’t mean they actually are.
Gabriel’s obnoxious eyebrows rise higher and higher while he tends the change, but no one breaks the silence.
“Right,” he says. “Come back soon?”
“Please just give me my money,” Castiel miserably requests, holding out his hand. Gabriel does so without comment, and Castiel grabs the bags and change and hightails it out of there like his ugly tan coat is on fire. Crowley, feeling strangely out of his depth, exchanges a bewildered look with Gabriel and quickly follows.
“Here,” Castiel says, shoving a bag into Crowley’s chest once they’re both on the sidewalk again. “Have a nice night.”
“Wait a second,” Crowley insists, hurrying to catch up with Castiel. All of this is wrong, and he refuses to deal with this the same way he dealt with Arthur, with things unsaid and glares that spoke volumes. “Let me walk you home.”
“That’s not necessary. I don’t live far.”
“So much the better, then.”
“I would rather you didn’t.”
“Well, I would rather I did.”
Castiel spins towards Crowley, agitated, and snaps, “Just because-just because I like you doesn’t mean I’m going to sleep with you, so if that’s what you’re after than you should turn around and leave right this instant.”
“The night we went to Kali’s,” Crowley counters, “you weren’t locking up by coincidence. You waited for me to pass by.”
Castiel’s jaw clenched. He might as well have verbally agreed.
“And the gallery show. You dressed... better. You went to a bar despite your usual avoidance of alcohol. Tonight you invited me to come with you because I never showed up this afternoon, on your first opening day.”
“Please, this is humiliating-”
“Don’t,” Crowley quietly orders. “Don’t be humiliated. It’s been a long time since anyone’s gone to that sort of effort for me. In fact, I don’t think they ever have.” Castiel doesn’t look convinced, and Crowley finds himself saying, “The argument Arthur and I had-it was about you. He said I was being foolish not to think you were... interested. But I was so sure otherwise.”
“I don’t suppose many people go after attractive, rich, influential bachelors,” Castiel says, bordering on sarcastic. “What an absurd notion.”
“Rich and influential, yes. Also disliked, with enough business enemies to form a small army. I’m not that great of a human being, frankly.”
Castiel doesn’t have anything to say to that. He just gives Crowley a sort of hopeless, confused look, not quite sure where they stand on anything.
“Let me walk you home,” Crowley reiterates, after a beat of silence. “I’d like to.”
They go in silence. It’s snowing, but not heavily, and the parks are white. There aren’t too many people milling about, even though it’s fairly early. It’s probably too cold for the sane ones.
Castiel’s apartment building is, unsurprisingly, nothing to write home about. It’s not dilapidated, but it’s not a pinnacle of impressive architecture either. They stop at the door, which could use a new coat of paint, and say nothing. Crowley searches for something clever, something that might break this rare discomfort between them, but his wit and vast array of quips abandon him, leaving only an honesty that is so rarely used it might as well not be there to begin with.
“I’m fairly well-versed in most things,” he finally says, “but this isn’t my strong suit.”
“Nor mine,” Castiel admits.
“I figured as much, considering we’ve been on, what, four dates, and no one cared to tell me?”
Castiel rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile threatening to break out. Crowley can tell, thanks to the feeble light from the apartment building, and it’s enough to bolster him on to say, as he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks on his feet, “Four dates, and you haven’t let me kiss you once. A bloody shame.”
Castiel says, somewhat sharply, “I meant what I said before. I won’t sleep with you.”
Spoken like a man who’s had a relationship go south. Cas is treading carefully, but that’s all right-Crowley knows how to wait for a good thing. Business has taught him patience, and Lord knows Chuck and the others test that patience every day.
“And I meant what I said,” Crowley evenly counters. “That doesn’t really matter right now.”
Castiel’s jaw sets, stubborn like Ariadne when Crowley’s asking her to do something demeaning, like make coffee. It would figure that Castiel, despite liking Crowley, would pull the same face, as if kissing him is equally as demeaning. Crowley takes a step back-taking the rejection with aplomb, he thinks-but then Cas quickly reaches out, keeping Crowley in place. He takes the few steps to get them nearly toe-to-toe, standing closer than they ever have. He leans forward, very slowly, giving Crowley plenty of time to say no, thanks-but Crowley doesn’t. His breath betrays him by catching somewhere between his chest and throat, his hands rest gently on Castiel’s sides, and Cas pushes their lips together with a careful, mindful pressure. It’s brief, and they break away long enough for Castiel to give a frail, shaky laugh.
Crowley is speechless. He honestly has no words, but Castiel seems satisfied by that, and drags his hands up Crowley’s arms, over his shoulders, and pulls him back in for another kiss. It’s more confident this time around, though Crowley is still stuck on the fact that they’re doing this at all.
They hurriedly separate at the sound of an opening door, but it’s clearly not fast enough, based on the glare they’re receiving from a square-jawed moron in a worn Pink Floyd t-shirt. He’s holding a trash bag, obviously come to toss the garbage out, so Castiel holds out a bag of his own and says, “I brought some pie.”
Dean the Married Neighbor, Crowley realizes, his senses going on full alert. Crowley doesn’t know much about this guy, but he knows that Dean is obviously important to Castiel. Hell, he’s probably Castiel’s best friend, and that sort of thing trumps glacially slow relationships every time. Crowley ignores the urge to say something sarcastic, choosing instead to keep his mouth shut and let Castiel do the talking. He suspects the best way to stay in Dean’s good graces is through prolonged and dutiful silence.
“So you’re the guy,” Dean says, almost like he’s accusing Crowley of a crime. He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, eyes zeroed in like lasers.
“It would seem so, yes,” Crowley replies. “Look, the bag’s white. Universal color of surrender, I’m told.”
“I can't be bought, even with pie,” Dean states, and then shoots Castiel a small frown, like he’s questioning Castiel’s taste in men (this from a guy who’s wearing a thirty-year-old shirt). They seem to have a conversation consisting entirely of facial expressions, a mix of eyebrow furrows and squints, until Castiel half-smiles, thoroughly pleased by whatever decision they arrived to. “But it’s a good start,” Dean reluctantly adds. “You know if you hurt him, I’ll kill you, right? I’ll feed you to your own dog.”
“How do you know I have a dog?”
“Inside sources.”
“Dean,” Castiel protests, but Dean grabs Crowley by his elbow and pulls him into the building apartment, where he points to a door.
“See that door? That goes to Cas’ apartment.” His finger swishes to a staircase on the opposite side. “See those steps? Those go to the second floor, where I live.”
“Dean,” Castiel says sternly. Dean responds by disappearing long enough to run the trash out, and then quickly rematerializes to drag Crowley along until they reach his second-story apartment.
“Come on, dinner with us,” Dean orders, indicating for him to take a dining chair. “Hands above the table at all times.”
Crowley can honestly not believe this is happening, or that he’s letting it happen, but he nonetheless finds himself sitting with Castiel on his left and a young boy on his right.
“Ben,” the kid announces, introducing himself, like strange men came for meals all the time.
“Crowley,” Crowley replies as Lisa plops a plate of spaghetti in front of him. Her expression is pleasant enough, and Crowley half-expects her to plaster on a smile and apologize for her husband’s brutish behavior-but she doesn’t even admonish Dean for dragging and threatening their guest. She’s siding with Dean, and that makes Crowley uncomfortable.
“Why’s Dad mad at you?”
“I’m dating Castiel,” Crowley promptly answers, and then pauses. It sounds presumptuous when he says it aloud. “I think. To be honest, I lost track of the plot about an hour ago.”
Castiel leans over so that he can see Ben, and says, “We’re dating. Despite what your father may think, he can’t actually control whom I spend my time with.”
Dean snorts over a bottle of beer. Beer. No dumb redneck image is complete without it.
“I don’t know,” Ben doubtfully says, picking up his fork and twirling some noodles on. “Gordon didn’t last a very long time, Uncle Cas.”
“Who’s Gordon?” Crowley asks, not liking the way Castiel manfully retreats from the subject, like it’s a bad memory he’s hoping to avoid.
“No one,” he promises. “Simply an old, short-lived relationship.”
“And is he still alive?” Crowley dryly asks, because he wouldn’t be surprised if Dean offed this Gordon fellow in a fit of over-protective barbarianism.
“Yes,” Castiel answers.
“In Montana,” Lisa helpfully adds.
“Where he’ll stay, if he knows what’s good for him,” Dean swears.
This is when Arthur most often comes in handy. One SOS text to Arthur’s phone would result in a genius Arthur-planned extraction, rescuing Crowley from the horrors of family dinners-complete with laser eyes and thinly veiled threats-but Crowley knows that this dinner is a rite of passage if he hopes to keep Castiel. He needs to suffer through the whole thing for it to count.
“Well,” Crowley finally says, after a beat of silence, “if you plan on running me off, I hope you’ll do me the favor of choosing a state with real cities.”
Castiel gently squeezes Crowley’s hand, just for a second, long enough to give his support, and then their hands are holding forks, busy with the act of eating, complete with Dean laughing like a donkey and Cas glaring at all the teasing made at his expense. Intellectually, Crowley knows it’s not the best time to be clobbered with a realization, especially over a plate of uninteresting noodles and sauce-but it strikes him, nonetheless: the whole bit about having one’s cake and eating it, too? It’s rubbish. Lies. He can have one thing, or the other, like when he has to choose between the few good manuscripts that manage to make their way into his hands.
One thing, or the other.
The building, or Cas.
Worthy business venture, or this.
He takes a breath while Ben tells a riveting baseball story.
Then he takes another breath, and chooses.
---
Of course, since he has a huge problem to sort out, the following morning dumps a boatload of calls and e-mails at his feet. Ariadne spares him her usual feminist pitch when Crowley asks for coffee. There’s no time for a trip to Gabriel’s or even a bit of editing-several of Crossroads’ printing presses have gone down, there’s a release party that’s begun to collapse, and vendors are growing impatient with the continual push-back of Chuck-the-Shmuck’s newest Supernatural installment. Crowley normally thrives under these circumstances, but his mind is so preoccupied with the Green Room donation that he can’t concentrate on the situations at hand. He has a headache by ten, a migraine by eleven, and a sour attitude by lunch.
Lunch, in the end, is a luxury Crowley can’t afford to spare. He doesn’t leave his office until two o'clock, cell phone snugly in his pocket as he wanders into the break room, curious whether Ariadne or Sam have left any edibles in the fridge. He stops when he sees his crew circled around the table, quiet conversation passing between them. Sam spots him hovering in the doorway and kicks a chair out. A moment later, Crowley realizes it’s an invitation to join them.
“I never want to see a phone again,” Ariadne grumps as Crowley collapses onto the seat. “Seriously, when I graduate? Sayonara, suckers. And I’m taking your delivery guy, too.”
“Plenty more where Yusuf came from,” Crowley replies. Sam has brought his trusty sandwich and a snack of celery today, the latter of which is conveniently within arm’s reach. Crowley helps himself to some. “Drivers are a dime a dozen.”
Yusuf glares. “Perfect driving records are certainly not a dime a dozen.”
“You can say that again,” Sam says. “My brother might as well display his tickets in a glass case. He thinks every cop from here to Florida has a personal vendetta against him.”
“That’s because Dean drives like a maniac,” Ariadne counters. “What’s he have, like, four speeding tickets? How fast can you possibly drive in the city? I could crabwalk and still beat the traffic.”
Crowley snorts at the mental image of Ariadne crab walking her way around town, but then sits a bit straighter as he replays her disparaging remark in his mind: Sam has a brother named Dean. Crowley’s natural paranoia chomps at the bit, sounding the red alert-but then common sense swoops in and saves his sanity. Something like eight million people live in New York City, and there’s certainly more than one bloody Dean amongst them.
Sam laughs. “Crab walking might be his only option if he gets another one, but I don’t think he will. Too scared of Lisa’s wrath.”
Lisa.
The coffee Ariadne brewed tastes like ash in his mouth. Crowley quietly moves to the sink and pours it out, watching it swirl down the drain. Part of him reasons that it’s likely there are other Dean and Lisas amongst the masses, but a larger part knows that if he delves further, he'll discover Sam’s mysterious brother likes classic rock and drives an ancient black car and has a kid named Ben. These little tidbits, among others, are what Crowley gleaned from last night’s dinner. Perhaps if he’d been paying attention, he might have also stopped to give Dean’s family photos, which were all over his apartment, a closer look. No doubt Sam was in one of them. Sam, who knows Dean; Dean, who protects Cas; Cas, who has probably met Sam a dozen times, and will inevitably discover who made the Green Room donation, because Sam did the bloody paperwork.
Cas, who will never speak to Crowley again, because he’ll be too busy moving out of the Murphy Building, too busy raging against the man who plotted so carefully to get everything he wanted, damn anyone else. Except Crowley’s damned himself, now, and there’s nothing to be done. Sam may not mention it today or tomorrow, but one day when they’re both over at Dean’s for dinner, Castiel will despair at losing his beloved program and Sam will get a funny look on his face, slowly put the pieces together, and it will all be over.
“Crowley?” Ariadne asks, jerking Crowley back to reality. Their voices, which had become nothing more than a vague hum, are suddenly stark and clear as he turns to look at them. Sam wears a concerned expression. Crowley isn’t surprised. “Are you sick? You went pale.”
“It’s winter,” Crowley argues, wishing suddenly that he hadn’t hired so many people who are capable of cutting through his bullshit. “Everyone’s pale. Even you, sunshine.”
Crowley heads for the door, energized with little more than celery and half a cup of coffee. He has the awful suspicion that he’s not really convinced them-hell, they might even be genuinely worried. Best to leave with a parting shot that’ll curb their care for his well-being. “And I’d better not come back down here to see you all still sitting around. Get some work done before I toss your sorry hides on the street!”
“You’re a jerk, Crowley!” Ariadne yells back-exactly what Crowley wants to hear. He wanders back to his office, shuts the door behind him, and collapses into his chair. He blinks, suddenly very tired, and turns to stare out the window onto the bustling street below. Something about the falling snow calms Crowley’s thoughts enough to allow for some rationalizing, which includes phrases like your own volition, that’s the risk you take, and to quote an awful movie he’d once caught on cable, it’s not personal, it’s business. He’s sure that if he takes those phrases and mashes them all into a single paragraph, he’ll be able to justify the gains versus the losses. Gain: a bookstore. Loss: Castiel. Not that bad of a trade, if he looks at it objectively.
There’s a perfunctory knock on the door before Arthur walks in, not even waiting for Crowley’s permission. He closes it behind him and, for the first time ever, sits down without the usual props: no phone, no notebook, no file stuffed with figures-he’s here as a friend. It’s disconcerting, mostly because Crowley’s not used to having those.
“What happened back there?” Arthur asks, no preamble.
To tell the truth, Crowley’s not completely certain. Regret? Anxiety? Anger at his own blindness? Probably a healthy dose of all three, but Crowley settles on answering, “Nothing ‘happened’. It was merely the realization that I’m the most buggered creature in all creation, compounded by the prospect of living in Montana for the rest of my life.”
Crowley’s sure that he and Gordon What’s-His-Name will get along marvelously.
“Montana?” Arthur echoes, frowning, and then narrows his eyes. “Stop avoiding the question. I’m not leaving until you tell me what the hell is going on.”
It’s no use trying to hide this from Arthur. If anything, Arthur needs to know. He might have some insight on how to repair the disaster that’s unfolding in Crowley’s mind, and even if he doesn’t... Well. Crowley isn’t exactly opposed to sharing this burden with someone else, if only for the therapeutic benefits.
“Sam’s been working here quite a while,” Crowley starts. “In all that time, have you ever met his brother?”
“Not personally, no.” Arthur pauses. “Why, have you?”
“Just last night. We ate spaghetti with sauce from a jar while his charming young son dazzled us with stories about his baseball team, and never once did I imagine that the Dean Sam bitches about is the same Dean who serves as Cas’ neighbor.”
A response to such a revelation might prompt a panicked reaction from others, but Arthur makes the connection and simply shakes his head. His sympathy, if any, is well veiled.
“You’re afraid of losing him,” Arthur finally surmises. “That’s what all this is about.”
“Don’t be sentimental.”
“Don’t avoid the issue.”
“What else am I supposed to do? How would you suggest I go about fixing everything? The Green Room probably has our money already. I need to talk to Sam, see how far it’s gone. Maybe we can dip into another account, give something to Sigils to balance the scales.”
Arthur looks as close to pained as Crowley’s ever seen him. He closes his eyes and presses the bridge of his nose, clearly subject to a migraine of his own.
“Slow down before you hurt yourself. They don’t have the money,” he announces testily, sufficiently catching Crowley by surprise. “They never did.”
Crowley feels a rush of disbelief. How is this possible? He had e-mailed Sam, made certain the funds had been accepted, and Sam assured him that everything was under control. There’s no way ten thousand of Crossroads’ hard-earned dollars hadn’t gone somewhere.
“Explain,” Crowley demands, impatient with his own confusion. He’s made such a habit of knowing everyone else’s business that he’s somehow overlooked his own: the fact Arthur had lied to him, the fact Sam might be covering it up, and the fact he’s been too preoccupied with Cas to even notice. “Explain to me exactly what’s going on.”
Arthur looks out the window. It’s gray as it’s ever been, and the weather is unsympathetic to the plight of those enduring it.
“Sam’s worked here long enough to know it was time for the annual donation. I told him you’d chosen the no-kill animal shelter downtown, so he filled out the paperwork, I signed the check, it was a done deal.” Arthur, who isn’t particularly emotive to begin with, speaks without inflection. “The e-mail you sent didn’t reference Green Room specifically, so he didn’t ask questions. As far as the Winchesters are concerned, you’re a grade-A asshole with philanthropic tendencies.”
For a moment, Crowley can’t react. His words are chained up in his throat while his brain picks apart Arthur’s scheme piece by piece, separating the facts into manageable piles, rather like manuscripts when they begin to flood his drawers. He examines these pieces, forcing himself to admit that he’s trained Arthur to be this way. Take the low road if it gets you what you want. Don a clock and dagger and get the job done. He feels a hysterical inclination to congratulate Arthur, whose operation was simple and flawless, enough so that Crowley didn’t suspect foul play until the game had been called.
He meets Arthur’s steadfast stare.
“You realize I ought to fire you for this,” Crowley says. Spoken as fact. It’s a form of communication that Arthur appreciates.
“Yes,” Arthur answers, composed even as he’s faced with the prospect of unemployment. Crowley might as well have said you realize the Earth is round for all the emotion it invokes.
“And I assume there’s a reason you went to all this trouble,” Crowley carefully pushes. “Perhaps that reason wears terrible shirts and annoys the hell out of me?”
“He’s also an awful cook.”
“I'm almost prepared to thank you,” Crowley finally says, resisting the hysterical laugh that threatens to spill out. “For going behind my back, disobeying my instructions, and ensuring that my time was sufficiently wasted.”
Arthur’s lips twitch. “You’re welcome. I’m told that’s what friends are for.”
---
The ease in which Crowley pretends the whole thing never happened is the textbook definition of ‘unsettling’, but it’s no secret that he’s at home with ethically questionable behavior. Like any respectable businessman, Crowley has spent a lifetime reading newspapers: first the stocks, then the business headlines, then the comics, and then the inevitable relationship column. He laughs at the pathetic morons who write in at all, and then at the bad advice given by the columnist. Be honest. Be open. Be blah blah blah.
Not a chance in hell.
Crowley’s far from stupid. He knows one word of this to Cas would be the equivalent of shooting himself in the head. Cas is much too proud to accept having ever been a pawn, and Crowley knows, despite the advice of unqualified newspaper writers, that there’s nothing to be gained from telling Cas the truth. I planned to bankrupt you. I planned to hurt you. You liked me from the beginning, and I used that to my advantage. Human decency tells him this is wrong, but if Crowley plans on keeping Cas then he’s not going to invite disaster if it can just as easily be swept under a rug and forgotten.
The months morph from frozen to slightly-less-frozen. In the meantime, Castiel quietly insinuates himself into Crowley’s life. Evidence of his permanence becomes fairly conclusive when Crowley starts collecting it: Witch’s happy yip when Castiel drives up, the inclusion of herbal tea in Crowley’s kitchen cupboards, the fact he can’t be bothered to work late when he knows Cas is waiting for him at home, the ease in which Castiel occasionally stops in to bring Crowley lunch. The first time this happens, Ariadne preens for being right about “Crowley’s guy guy” while Yusuf grins over a coffee cup and Sam just slings a ridiculously long arm around Cas’ neck and wishes him luck. Crowley feels like he should be offended by that and refers to Sam as “Moose” all day in retaliation. It’s a suitable revenge, judging by Sam’s annoyed looks.
Sometimes Crowley helps Castiel at Sigils on the weekends, other times Castiel reads through the latest manuscript after Crowley’s eyes cry for mercy. Crowley occasionally cooks (a skill Castiel has yet to acquire) for four rather than two, and invites Arthur and Eames over for dinner. Gabriel claims this is what normal people do (because he’s such an expert on normalcy), but Crowley rather enjoys it. Witch does too, thanks to the scraps Castiel spoils him with when he thinks Crowley isn’t looking.
Somehow, between all those things, Crowley is able to turn the werewolf tripe into something resembling literature. Sales are such that he gives everyone a bonus at the end of the month and manfully ignores Moose's Ebenezer Scrooge references. More important is the fact Chuck-the-Schmuck sends his revised manuscript, which Crowley hardly recognizes compared to the first. He sits down to read it, dread and impatience warring in his stomach, and feels that dread fade when he hits chapter three. Chuck has it right this time.
A few months later, once the grammar has passed Arthur’s sharp eye and its usual broad and bare-chested cover has been designed, Crowley sends the last Supernatural book on its merry way. He’s made sure the advertising was well circulated and that every reading list, fan club, book reviewer, influential blog, and upcoming comic con knew about it. The official release date is next week. Meanwhile, Crowley feels high on the excited buzz and remembers to stash an advance copy in his briefcase before closing shop. He locks up the offices. They’re all empty-even Arthur’s.
March is still bitterly cold, so he’s relieved to get home and find Cas has been running the heater long enough that the place isn’t an icebox.
“I’m back after a long day, don’t mind me!” he calls. There’s no response. Not even Witch runs up to greet him, which can only mean he and Cas have succumbed to the freezing nights and bundled up somewhere. He tosses his briefcase onto the couch as he heads towards the bedroom, stripping off his scarf and jacket as he moves. He peeks inside, and there they are. Cas is buried beneath a pile of blankets and Witch is curled up near the foot of the bed. He yips happily when Crowley walks in.
“I’m beginning to suspect you love me just for my dog,” he accuses as he collapses, suit and all, onto the bed. Castiel peers at him from beneath the blankets and smiles.
“He keeps my feet warm since there was no one else around to do it.”
“Nag, nag, nag. If you nag too much you’ll miss out on the present I brought you.”
“A space heater?”
Crowley pauses to consider this. “Well, I suppose we could use it for kindl-”
Castiel sits up, delighted. He knows there’s only one book that Crowley repeatedly threatens to burn.
“Give it to me,” he demands, reaching for the hand Crowley has purposely kept out of view.
“What’s it worth to you?”
“I believe the question is what it’s worth to you,” Cas corrects. “There’s a plate of leftover chicken tikka in the fridge. If you want dinner, I suggest you hand over that book.”
“I have been a terrible influence on you,” Crowley sighs, surrendering the copy of Chuck’s-oh, sorry, Carver Edlund’s-last Supernatural book to Cas, who eagerly scans the summary before flipping the book over to investigate the cover. He laughs at the long hair and bulging muscles.
“You should read the dedication,” Crowley advises him as he peels off his jacket and tie. He listens to the rough, scratching sound of pages turning, until Cas finds the right one.
“‘To all my fans (which apparently I have), thank you for supporting me. Thanks also to my publisher, who I hate, but who also made me work for this. Most especially thanks to...’” Castiel trails off. “‘To Cas,’” he manages to finish, “‘Who made me see that some things just happen naturally.’” He glances over at Crowley, stunned.
“Did you know he was going to do this?”
“Yes,” Crowley answers, ever blunt. “He wanted it to be a surprise.”
Castiel doesn’t respond. Crowley quickly changes into his pajamas, freezing a bit, and then climbs into bed. He’s exhausted and knows Cas must be too, since Sigils hosted a class of second-graders today. He watches Cas set the book on his nightstand. Witch, unhappy with all the noise and moving around, jumps down and wanders away to sleep in the den.
“What, you’re not going to read the whole thing in one sitting?” Crowley teases, meeting Castiel’s gaze over the blankets. He thinks that other men-better men, like Sam, maybe, or Dean bloody Winchester-would tell Castiel the truth about everything that’s happened. Better yet, they would never have conspired against him in the first place. The thing is, though, that Crowley isn’t good. He's ruthless and shady and conniving when it comes to getting what he wants.
But for all his poor qualities, there must be something about him that’s worthy, or else Castiel wouldn’t share his bed. Arthur wouldn’t stick around. Gabriel wouldn’t stay open a few minutes later when he knows Crowley wants pie. Ariadne wouldn’t put up with his constant requests for coffee. Sam would move to a real law firm. Yusuf and Eames and Dean and all these people who tolerate him because, for some reason, they like him even when he doesn’t understand why.
“I’ll read it,” Castiel promises, “but there’s something I’d prefer to do first,” and he reaches over Crowley to turn off the lamp, settling onto his lap in the process. His frozen fingers and toes warm themselves on Crowley's skin, inspiring a round of squirming and laughter that melts into a happy moan when Cas slides his hands below the waistband of Crowley's pajamas.
The romantic, sexy side of their relationship is still moving at a glacial pace. But they've at least progressed to necking and Cas stays the night more often than not, now that he's no longer afraid that Crowley is going to steal his virtue at any given moment.
Crowley offers his own gambit, stroking his warmer hands up Cas' back as encouragement, and cants his hips a little to see if he can incite a little bit of friction. Castiel appears remarkably agreeable to this plan and rocks against Crowley's thigh. Thank god the lights are off, Crowley thinks, licking gently into Castiel's mouth. His sense of restraint is shaky enough when all they do is share the sofa.
"I think this plan needs a little bit more nakedness," Crowley suggests. Cas' shorts are already halfway off and if nothing more exciting than that happens, Crowley knows he'll still be satisfied.
Cas' hand finds Crowley's and he laces their fingers together. "You think all of our plans need more nakedness," he says, mimicking Crowley's own droll tones perfectly.
He swallows down half a dozen cheesy or cavalier retorts, drowning them with Cas' touch and the inevitable distraction of his exposed hipbones.
"You just want me for my superior heat radiating abilities," Crowley teases.
"I just want you," Castiel agrees, impossibly sincere.
Crowley closes his eyes even in the dark, and finds Castiel’s mouth to kiss him, and is thankful.
FIN.
Artist: preferthemoss
Pairing: Crowley/Cas, with background Arthur/Eames, Ariadne/Yusuf, and Dean/Lisa.
Word count: 6,915 (23,844 overall).
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Inception+SPN
Prompt: Today's horoscope: somebody close to you will tell your secret.
Summary: Fergus Crowley is head of Crossroads Publishing, an influential business in New York; Castiel Milton is head of Running with Sigils, a significantly lesser-known charity for children. Normally they would never meet, but it turns out that Castiel is sitting in the future building of Crowley's dream bookstore.
Crowley wants the building. Castiel wants... something else.
Notes: 1. Written for crowley_bigbang.
2. Title taken from e.e. cumming's pity this busy monster,manunkind.
3. Thanks to chaosraven for the always-fantastic beta job. You are the light in my inbox. :D
4. Thanks to preferthemoss for the stunning art!
The invitation to attend Running with Sigils’ opening sticks with Crowley all weekend, and there are so many reasons for him to stay away that he loses track. He doesn’t like children, doesn’t like art, doesn’t like Eames, doesn’t have time, doesn’t want to raise suspicions among his minions, and Crowley’s sure he could come up with more if he cared to put forth the effort.
And anyway, Crowley is falling behind on his work, and knows that he’s spending a bit too much time thinking about Castiel rather than concentrating on his future business expansion. Carving out an hour from his day would be unquestionably boneheaded, so Crowley stays at his desk all afternoon and doesn’t really move until five o’clock, when he’s sure the Girl Scout troop must be gone already. He taps his fingers against the desk, restless and impatient. He’s just finished going through chapter seven of the werewolf tripe, but resigns himself to the next part for lack of anything more exciting to do.
At six, Crowley notices the building is very quiet. Arthur, he’s sure, is gone by now, gallivanting off to spend time with That Annoying British Guy. Yusuf and Ariadne have left as well, though Crowley only knows because he can see them from his window, walking hand-in-hand down the sidewalk like a pair of teenagers.
When the phone rings, the sun has long passed below the horizon of skyscrapers that can be seen from Crossroads’ upper floors. Crowley is grateful for the interruption; he’s just reached the part where the werewolf and his girlfriend get down and dirty, and it’s so horrific that Crowley’s eyes nearly bleed. As good as the first chapters are, it’s clear he’s going to have to clean up the “romantic” bits (if one can refer to bestiality as romantic) before unleashing this thing onto the unsuspecting population. On the other hand, even as is, it's still better than anything else on the market.
“Crossroads Publishing,” he answers, half-distracted as he deletes some of the more wayward sentences. He pushed her back onto the bed of soft, sweet-smelling leaves, peering down with animal lust in his sharp, golden eyes. Jesus Christ.
“Hello, Crowley,” says a familiar voice, slightly uncertain by the sounds of it. “I hope my calling isn’t bothering your work.”
Crowley’s fingers freeze over the keyboard. He doesn’t get many calls after-hours, but he especially doesn’t get any from Castiel.
“No,” he replies, perhaps a tad too quick for his pride to handle. He pauses before finally asking, “Looked us up in the phonebook, did you?”
“The web was faster. Gabriel claims that I can also find you using the search term ‘king of hell’ or ‘spawn of Satan’.” It sounds like he’s smiling when he says, “However, Google did not bring up Crossroads when I tried any combination of those phrases. I believe Gabriel is prone to exaggeration.”
“He’ll be prone,” Crowley swears. “In a coffin, if I have my way.”
Castiel laughs. “I suppose I’ve completely turned you off the idea of seeing him tonight. We just finished cleaning up the studio and now I’m craving pie. I thought you might join me.”
Crowley’s shutting down his computer before he can even consider that this might be a bad idea. He does stop for a moment, watching as the screen goes black, and thinks that he’s done some shady, sneaky, underhanded stuff in his day, but to... socialize with a man he's planning to destroy leaves a remarkably bad taste. Then again, Castiel won’t ever know Crowley’s behind the Green Room’s inevitable good fortune, so what’s the harm?
“If you’re busy,” Castiel starts, uncertain again, only to have Crowley interrupt.
“I’ll be down in a tick. Sixty seconds, you can time me,” he says and he hangs up, throws on his coat, and shuts off the lights. He doesn’t even bother taking his briefcase. This must be what going mad feels like, he thinks, echoing a line from a space soap Ariadne favors as he bypasses the elevators and takes the stairs instead.
He steps out the front door, where Castiel is standing beneath a street lamp, hair haloed from the light. Crowley’s scarf sits snug around his neck. Cas smiles when he sees him, and that’s... well, extraordinary. No one smiles when Crowley’s around. Not even his own bloody parents.
“Should I ask how today went, first day opening and all that?” Crowley asks. He’s struck with the realization that if he and Castiel were dating, then this would be the part where they would kiss hello after not seeing each other all day. But they aren’t, so they don’t, and Crowley crushes the notion with such force that he’s nearly exhausted with it.
“Wonderfully,” Castiel answers as they start down the sidewalk. “The girls created some exceptional books.”
“And did you use twigs for the binding?” Crowley asks, quietly pleased when Castiel turns to smile at him, clearly remembering the conversation they’d shared once they’d escaped the gallery show. Had that only been two weeks ago? That means he and Castiel have known each other for nearly a month. It feels like so much longer than that, but Crowley won’t complain. After all, it’s not often anyone willingly spends time with him outside of work. Even Arthur, who puts up with all of Crowley’s bullshit, needs time with people unrelated to the business.
“Just regular glue and thread this time,” he answers as they reach the bakery. Crowley holds the door open. “My apologies if that’s too passé.”
It seems they’ve come just in time: Gabriel’s begun putting away ingredients and covering certain dishes to keep them from growing stale. He pauses long enough to singsong, “You two are a regular joke. ‘An angel and the devil walk into a bar. One of them ducks.'”
“I’m willing to pretend I didn’t hear that under the condition you give us food,” Crowley says before catching sight of Gabriel’s newest decoration: the bust of an old gravestone angel, worn dark from weather and age. He doesn’t even want to know where it came from, though he can’t help but envision Gabriel skulking around a cemetery and stealing the thing while no one’s looking. “Christ, Gabriel, you need to stop decorating while blindfolded. At least pick a theme.”
“Lack of theme is the theme,” comes the cheerful reply. “Anyway, Cas complimented it last time he came in. ‘Atmospheric’, he called it.”
Castiel smiles with the slightest amusement when Crowley turns to him and demands, “Et tu, Castiel? I hope you realize the last thing this joker needs is encouragement.”
“Excuse me,” Gabriel sniffs, “but this ‘joker’ is standing right here, and I alone control whether you receive sustenance from this hallowed bakery. You should be kissing my feet.”
“For God’s sake, just give us some pie!”
“No,” comes Gabriel’s lofty reply. “I don’t think I will. Not unless Castiel asks.”
Castiel rolls his eyes heavenward, but they crinkle at the corners when he says, “Gabriel, may I order some honey-crumble pie? Three slices, if you can.”
“I can indeed, but only if you tell me who the third slice is for.”
“Dean,” is the casual answer as Castiel withdraws his wallet. Gabriel pauses, the silver server hovering over the pie, while Crowley’s lips thin into a fierce line. He wants to demand who the hell Dean is, but how is it his business? What does it matter that Castiel is buying dessert for some other guy? Gabriel’s gaze flickers from Castiel to Crowley, who has pointedly diverted his concentration to the tacky collection of nutcrackers lining a nearby shelf.
“So this Dean,” Gabriel says, strangely careful, “Who is he? Have I met him?”
“I don’t believe so. He works across town,” Castiel answers while laying a twenty dollar bill on the counter, utterly oblivious to Crowley’s silence.
“And is he cute?” Gabriel presses, packing the three pieces of pie. Crowley’s teeth grind while he wills Gabriel to shut up. “Details, Cas!”
Castiel blinks. “I suppose so. However, I believe his wife would take issue if you... ‘made a move’, as they say.”
“Wife,” Gabriel repeats. “To be honest, you don’t seem the home wrecker type, Cas.”
Castiel isn’t the sort to lose his temper easily, but even Crowley knows that Gabriel has taken it a step too far. Castiel’s eyes widen with offense and his voice is sharp when he snaps, “Dean and Lisa are my neighbors! They were good to me when I first moved here, and I buy them dessert on nights that they invite me over for dinner.”
Crowley’s fists unclench. He hadn’t realized he rolled them up in the first place. He lets out a breath, stares at a particularly ugly nutcracker, and doesn’t say a single word.
“Oh, right,” Gabriel agrees, glib as ever. Crowley glances over, only to have Gabriel catch his eye and wink while Castiel’s busy collecting the bags. Crowley realizes that Gabriel hadn’t pressed the issue to be an ass; he had done it for Crowley’s sake, getting Castiel to open up about the true nature of his relationship with Dean Whoever. “Just go on and take these, Cas. Consider it my apology for asking.”
“Certainly not,” Castiel retorts, pushing the money towards Gabriel. “If anything, I owe Crowley for drinks. The least I can do is pay for this.”
“Drinks,” Gabriel gleefully parrots. “I can’t believe you got this evil bastard to agree to a date! Finally, no more of your moping.”
Castiel falls utterly silent, and Crowley, for once, doesn’t have much to say on the matter. There’s something about Castiel’s expression that suggests he’s horrified by what Gabriel’s implied, only Crowley can’t imagine why. Drinks are platonic, and just because Arthur and Ariadne and Sam and Ellen and Kali and Gabriel think they’re together doesn’t mean they actually are.
Gabriel’s obnoxious eyebrows rise higher and higher while he tends the change, but no one breaks the silence.
“Right,” he says. “Come back soon?”
“Please just give me my money,” Castiel miserably requests, holding out his hand. Gabriel does so without comment, and Castiel grabs the bags and change and hightails it out of there like his ugly tan coat is on fire. Crowley, feeling strangely out of his depth, exchanges a bewildered look with Gabriel and quickly follows.
“Here,” Castiel says, shoving a bag into Crowley’s chest once they’re both on the sidewalk again. “Have a nice night.”
“Wait a second,” Crowley insists, hurrying to catch up with Castiel. All of this is wrong, and he refuses to deal with this the same way he dealt with Arthur, with things unsaid and glares that spoke volumes. “Let me walk you home.”
“That’s not necessary. I don’t live far.”
“So much the better, then.”
“I would rather you didn’t.”
“Well, I would rather I did.”
Castiel spins towards Crowley, agitated, and snaps, “Just because-just because I like you doesn’t mean I’m going to sleep with you, so if that’s what you’re after than you should turn around and leave right this instant.”
“The night we went to Kali’s,” Crowley counters, “you weren’t locking up by coincidence. You waited for me to pass by.”
Castiel’s jaw clenched. He might as well have verbally agreed.
“And the gallery show. You dressed... better. You went to a bar despite your usual avoidance of alcohol. Tonight you invited me to come with you because I never showed up this afternoon, on your first opening day.”
“Please, this is humiliating-”
“Don’t,” Crowley quietly orders. “Don’t be humiliated. It’s been a long time since anyone’s gone to that sort of effort for me. In fact, I don’t think they ever have.” Castiel doesn’t look convinced, and Crowley finds himself saying, “The argument Arthur and I had-it was about you. He said I was being foolish not to think you were... interested. But I was so sure otherwise.”
“I don’t suppose many people go after attractive, rich, influential bachelors,” Castiel says, bordering on sarcastic. “What an absurd notion.”
“Rich and influential, yes. Also disliked, with enough business enemies to form a small army. I’m not that great of a human being, frankly.”
Castiel doesn’t have anything to say to that. He just gives Crowley a sort of hopeless, confused look, not quite sure where they stand on anything.
“Let me walk you home,” Crowley reiterates, after a beat of silence. “I’d like to.”
They go in silence. It’s snowing, but not heavily, and the parks are white. There aren’t too many people milling about, even though it’s fairly early. It’s probably too cold for the sane ones.
Castiel’s apartment building is, unsurprisingly, nothing to write home about. It’s not dilapidated, but it’s not a pinnacle of impressive architecture either. They stop at the door, which could use a new coat of paint, and say nothing. Crowley searches for something clever, something that might break this rare discomfort between them, but his wit and vast array of quips abandon him, leaving only an honesty that is so rarely used it might as well not be there to begin with.
“I’m fairly well-versed in most things,” he finally says, “but this isn’t my strong suit.”
“Nor mine,” Castiel admits.
“I figured as much, considering we’ve been on, what, four dates, and no one cared to tell me?”
Castiel rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile threatening to break out. Crowley can tell, thanks to the feeble light from the apartment building, and it’s enough to bolster him on to say, as he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks on his feet, “Four dates, and you haven’t let me kiss you once. A bloody shame.”
Castiel says, somewhat sharply, “I meant what I said before. I won’t sleep with you.”
Spoken like a man who’s had a relationship go south. Cas is treading carefully, but that’s all right-Crowley knows how to wait for a good thing. Business has taught him patience, and Lord knows Chuck and the others test that patience every day.
“And I meant what I said,” Crowley evenly counters. “That doesn’t really matter right now.”
Castiel’s jaw sets, stubborn like Ariadne when Crowley’s asking her to do something demeaning, like make coffee. It would figure that Castiel, despite liking Crowley, would pull the same face, as if kissing him is equally as demeaning. Crowley takes a step back-taking the rejection with aplomb, he thinks-but then Cas quickly reaches out, keeping Crowley in place. He takes the few steps to get them nearly toe-to-toe, standing closer than they ever have. He leans forward, very slowly, giving Crowley plenty of time to say no, thanks-but Crowley doesn’t. His breath betrays him by catching somewhere between his chest and throat, his hands rest gently on Castiel’s sides, and Cas pushes their lips together with a careful, mindful pressure. It’s brief, and they break away long enough for Castiel to give a frail, shaky laugh.
Crowley is speechless. He honestly has no words, but Castiel seems satisfied by that, and drags his hands up Crowley’s arms, over his shoulders, and pulls him back in for another kiss. It’s more confident this time around, though Crowley is still stuck on the fact that they’re doing this at all.
They hurriedly separate at the sound of an opening door, but it’s clearly not fast enough, based on the glare they’re receiving from a square-jawed moron in a worn Pink Floyd t-shirt. He’s holding a trash bag, obviously come to toss the garbage out, so Castiel holds out a bag of his own and says, “I brought some pie.”
Dean the Married Neighbor, Crowley realizes, his senses going on full alert. Crowley doesn’t know much about this guy, but he knows that Dean is obviously important to Castiel. Hell, he’s probably Castiel’s best friend, and that sort of thing trumps glacially slow relationships every time. Crowley ignores the urge to say something sarcastic, choosing instead to keep his mouth shut and let Castiel do the talking. He suspects the best way to stay in Dean’s good graces is through prolonged and dutiful silence.
“So you’re the guy,” Dean says, almost like he’s accusing Crowley of a crime. He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, eyes zeroed in like lasers.
“It would seem so, yes,” Crowley replies. “Look, the bag’s white. Universal color of surrender, I’m told.”
“I can't be bought, even with pie,” Dean states, and then shoots Castiel a small frown, like he’s questioning Castiel’s taste in men (this from a guy who’s wearing a thirty-year-old shirt). They seem to have a conversation consisting entirely of facial expressions, a mix of eyebrow furrows and squints, until Castiel half-smiles, thoroughly pleased by whatever decision they arrived to. “But it’s a good start,” Dean reluctantly adds. “You know if you hurt him, I’ll kill you, right? I’ll feed you to your own dog.”
“How do you know I have a dog?”
“Inside sources.”
“Dean,” Castiel protests, but Dean grabs Crowley by his elbow and pulls him into the building apartment, where he points to a door.
“See that door? That goes to Cas’ apartment.” His finger swishes to a staircase on the opposite side. “See those steps? Those go to the second floor, where I live.”
“Dean,” Castiel says sternly. Dean responds by disappearing long enough to run the trash out, and then quickly rematerializes to drag Crowley along until they reach his second-story apartment.
“Come on, dinner with us,” Dean orders, indicating for him to take a dining chair. “Hands above the table at all times.”
Crowley can honestly not believe this is happening, or that he’s letting it happen, but he nonetheless finds himself sitting with Castiel on his left and a young boy on his right.
“Ben,” the kid announces, introducing himself, like strange men came for meals all the time.
“Crowley,” Crowley replies as Lisa plops a plate of spaghetti in front of him. Her expression is pleasant enough, and Crowley half-expects her to plaster on a smile and apologize for her husband’s brutish behavior-but she doesn’t even admonish Dean for dragging and threatening their guest. She’s siding with Dean, and that makes Crowley uncomfortable.
“Why’s Dad mad at you?”
“I’m dating Castiel,” Crowley promptly answers, and then pauses. It sounds presumptuous when he says it aloud. “I think. To be honest, I lost track of the plot about an hour ago.”
Castiel leans over so that he can see Ben, and says, “We’re dating. Despite what your father may think, he can’t actually control whom I spend my time with.”
Dean snorts over a bottle of beer. Beer. No dumb redneck image is complete without it.
“I don’t know,” Ben doubtfully says, picking up his fork and twirling some noodles on. “Gordon didn’t last a very long time, Uncle Cas.”
“Who’s Gordon?” Crowley asks, not liking the way Castiel manfully retreats from the subject, like it’s a bad memory he’s hoping to avoid.
“No one,” he promises. “Simply an old, short-lived relationship.”
“And is he still alive?” Crowley dryly asks, because he wouldn’t be surprised if Dean offed this Gordon fellow in a fit of over-protective barbarianism.
“Yes,” Castiel answers.
“In Montana,” Lisa helpfully adds.
“Where he’ll stay, if he knows what’s good for him,” Dean swears.
This is when Arthur most often comes in handy. One SOS text to Arthur’s phone would result in a genius Arthur-planned extraction, rescuing Crowley from the horrors of family dinners-complete with laser eyes and thinly veiled threats-but Crowley knows that this dinner is a rite of passage if he hopes to keep Castiel. He needs to suffer through the whole thing for it to count.
“Well,” Crowley finally says, after a beat of silence, “if you plan on running me off, I hope you’ll do me the favor of choosing a state with real cities.”
Castiel gently squeezes Crowley’s hand, just for a second, long enough to give his support, and then their hands are holding forks, busy with the act of eating, complete with Dean laughing like a donkey and Cas glaring at all the teasing made at his expense. Intellectually, Crowley knows it’s not the best time to be clobbered with a realization, especially over a plate of uninteresting noodles and sauce-but it strikes him, nonetheless: the whole bit about having one’s cake and eating it, too? It’s rubbish. Lies. He can have one thing, or the other, like when he has to choose between the few good manuscripts that manage to make their way into his hands.
One thing, or the other.
The building, or Cas.
Worthy business venture, or this.
He takes a breath while Ben tells a riveting baseball story.
Then he takes another breath, and chooses.
---
Of course, since he has a huge problem to sort out, the following morning dumps a boatload of calls and e-mails at his feet. Ariadne spares him her usual feminist pitch when Crowley asks for coffee. There’s no time for a trip to Gabriel’s or even a bit of editing-several of Crossroads’ printing presses have gone down, there’s a release party that’s begun to collapse, and vendors are growing impatient with the continual push-back of Chuck-the-Shmuck’s newest Supernatural installment. Crowley normally thrives under these circumstances, but his mind is so preoccupied with the Green Room donation that he can’t concentrate on the situations at hand. He has a headache by ten, a migraine by eleven, and a sour attitude by lunch.
Lunch, in the end, is a luxury Crowley can’t afford to spare. He doesn’t leave his office until two o'clock, cell phone snugly in his pocket as he wanders into the break room, curious whether Ariadne or Sam have left any edibles in the fridge. He stops when he sees his crew circled around the table, quiet conversation passing between them. Sam spots him hovering in the doorway and kicks a chair out. A moment later, Crowley realizes it’s an invitation to join them.
“I never want to see a phone again,” Ariadne grumps as Crowley collapses onto the seat. “Seriously, when I graduate? Sayonara, suckers. And I’m taking your delivery guy, too.”
“Plenty more where Yusuf came from,” Crowley replies. Sam has brought his trusty sandwich and a snack of celery today, the latter of which is conveniently within arm’s reach. Crowley helps himself to some. “Drivers are a dime a dozen.”
Yusuf glares. “Perfect driving records are certainly not a dime a dozen.”
“You can say that again,” Sam says. “My brother might as well display his tickets in a glass case. He thinks every cop from here to Florida has a personal vendetta against him.”
“That’s because Dean drives like a maniac,” Ariadne counters. “What’s he have, like, four speeding tickets? How fast can you possibly drive in the city? I could crabwalk and still beat the traffic.”
Crowley snorts at the mental image of Ariadne crab walking her way around town, but then sits a bit straighter as he replays her disparaging remark in his mind: Sam has a brother named Dean. Crowley’s natural paranoia chomps at the bit, sounding the red alert-but then common sense swoops in and saves his sanity. Something like eight million people live in New York City, and there’s certainly more than one bloody Dean amongst them.
Sam laughs. “Crab walking might be his only option if he gets another one, but I don’t think he will. Too scared of Lisa’s wrath.”
Lisa.
The coffee Ariadne brewed tastes like ash in his mouth. Crowley quietly moves to the sink and pours it out, watching it swirl down the drain. Part of him reasons that it’s likely there are other Dean and Lisas amongst the masses, but a larger part knows that if he delves further, he'll discover Sam’s mysterious brother likes classic rock and drives an ancient black car and has a kid named Ben. These little tidbits, among others, are what Crowley gleaned from last night’s dinner. Perhaps if he’d been paying attention, he might have also stopped to give Dean’s family photos, which were all over his apartment, a closer look. No doubt Sam was in one of them. Sam, who knows Dean; Dean, who protects Cas; Cas, who has probably met Sam a dozen times, and will inevitably discover who made the Green Room donation, because Sam did the bloody paperwork.
Cas, who will never speak to Crowley again, because he’ll be too busy moving out of the Murphy Building, too busy raging against the man who plotted so carefully to get everything he wanted, damn anyone else. Except Crowley’s damned himself, now, and there’s nothing to be done. Sam may not mention it today or tomorrow, but one day when they’re both over at Dean’s for dinner, Castiel will despair at losing his beloved program and Sam will get a funny look on his face, slowly put the pieces together, and it will all be over.
“Crowley?” Ariadne asks, jerking Crowley back to reality. Their voices, which had become nothing more than a vague hum, are suddenly stark and clear as he turns to look at them. Sam wears a concerned expression. Crowley isn’t surprised. “Are you sick? You went pale.”
“It’s winter,” Crowley argues, wishing suddenly that he hadn’t hired so many people who are capable of cutting through his bullshit. “Everyone’s pale. Even you, sunshine.”
Crowley heads for the door, energized with little more than celery and half a cup of coffee. He has the awful suspicion that he’s not really convinced them-hell, they might even be genuinely worried. Best to leave with a parting shot that’ll curb their care for his well-being. “And I’d better not come back down here to see you all still sitting around. Get some work done before I toss your sorry hides on the street!”
“You’re a jerk, Crowley!” Ariadne yells back-exactly what Crowley wants to hear. He wanders back to his office, shuts the door behind him, and collapses into his chair. He blinks, suddenly very tired, and turns to stare out the window onto the bustling street below. Something about the falling snow calms Crowley’s thoughts enough to allow for some rationalizing, which includes phrases like your own volition, that’s the risk you take, and to quote an awful movie he’d once caught on cable, it’s not personal, it’s business. He’s sure that if he takes those phrases and mashes them all into a single paragraph, he’ll be able to justify the gains versus the losses. Gain: a bookstore. Loss: Castiel. Not that bad of a trade, if he looks at it objectively.
There’s a perfunctory knock on the door before Arthur walks in, not even waiting for Crowley’s permission. He closes it behind him and, for the first time ever, sits down without the usual props: no phone, no notebook, no file stuffed with figures-he’s here as a friend. It’s disconcerting, mostly because Crowley’s not used to having those.
“What happened back there?” Arthur asks, no preamble.
To tell the truth, Crowley’s not completely certain. Regret? Anxiety? Anger at his own blindness? Probably a healthy dose of all three, but Crowley settles on answering, “Nothing ‘happened’. It was merely the realization that I’m the most buggered creature in all creation, compounded by the prospect of living in Montana for the rest of my life.”
Crowley’s sure that he and Gordon What’s-His-Name will get along marvelously.
“Montana?” Arthur echoes, frowning, and then narrows his eyes. “Stop avoiding the question. I’m not leaving until you tell me what the hell is going on.”
It’s no use trying to hide this from Arthur. If anything, Arthur needs to know. He might have some insight on how to repair the disaster that’s unfolding in Crowley’s mind, and even if he doesn’t... Well. Crowley isn’t exactly opposed to sharing this burden with someone else, if only for the therapeutic benefits.
“Sam’s been working here quite a while,” Crowley starts. “In all that time, have you ever met his brother?”
“Not personally, no.” Arthur pauses. “Why, have you?”
“Just last night. We ate spaghetti with sauce from a jar while his charming young son dazzled us with stories about his baseball team, and never once did I imagine that the Dean Sam bitches about is the same Dean who serves as Cas’ neighbor.”
A response to such a revelation might prompt a panicked reaction from others, but Arthur makes the connection and simply shakes his head. His sympathy, if any, is well veiled.
“You’re afraid of losing him,” Arthur finally surmises. “That’s what all this is about.”
“Don’t be sentimental.”
“Don’t avoid the issue.”
“What else am I supposed to do? How would you suggest I go about fixing everything? The Green Room probably has our money already. I need to talk to Sam, see how far it’s gone. Maybe we can dip into another account, give something to Sigils to balance the scales.”
Arthur looks as close to pained as Crowley’s ever seen him. He closes his eyes and presses the bridge of his nose, clearly subject to a migraine of his own.
“Slow down before you hurt yourself. They don’t have the money,” he announces testily, sufficiently catching Crowley by surprise. “They never did.”
Crowley feels a rush of disbelief. How is this possible? He had e-mailed Sam, made certain the funds had been accepted, and Sam assured him that everything was under control. There’s no way ten thousand of Crossroads’ hard-earned dollars hadn’t gone somewhere.
“Explain,” Crowley demands, impatient with his own confusion. He’s made such a habit of knowing everyone else’s business that he’s somehow overlooked his own: the fact Arthur had lied to him, the fact Sam might be covering it up, and the fact he’s been too preoccupied with Cas to even notice. “Explain to me exactly what’s going on.”
Arthur looks out the window. It’s gray as it’s ever been, and the weather is unsympathetic to the plight of those enduring it.
“Sam’s worked here long enough to know it was time for the annual donation. I told him you’d chosen the no-kill animal shelter downtown, so he filled out the paperwork, I signed the check, it was a done deal.” Arthur, who isn’t particularly emotive to begin with, speaks without inflection. “The e-mail you sent didn’t reference Green Room specifically, so he didn’t ask questions. As far as the Winchesters are concerned, you’re a grade-A asshole with philanthropic tendencies.”
For a moment, Crowley can’t react. His words are chained up in his throat while his brain picks apart Arthur’s scheme piece by piece, separating the facts into manageable piles, rather like manuscripts when they begin to flood his drawers. He examines these pieces, forcing himself to admit that he’s trained Arthur to be this way. Take the low road if it gets you what you want. Don a clock and dagger and get the job done. He feels a hysterical inclination to congratulate Arthur, whose operation was simple and flawless, enough so that Crowley didn’t suspect foul play until the game had been called.
He meets Arthur’s steadfast stare.
“You realize I ought to fire you for this,” Crowley says. Spoken as fact. It’s a form of communication that Arthur appreciates.
“Yes,” Arthur answers, composed even as he’s faced with the prospect of unemployment. Crowley might as well have said you realize the Earth is round for all the emotion it invokes.
“And I assume there’s a reason you went to all this trouble,” Crowley carefully pushes. “Perhaps that reason wears terrible shirts and annoys the hell out of me?”
“He’s also an awful cook.”
“I'm almost prepared to thank you,” Crowley finally says, resisting the hysterical laugh that threatens to spill out. “For going behind my back, disobeying my instructions, and ensuring that my time was sufficiently wasted.”
Arthur’s lips twitch. “You’re welcome. I’m told that’s what friends are for.”
---
The ease in which Crowley pretends the whole thing never happened is the textbook definition of ‘unsettling’, but it’s no secret that he’s at home with ethically questionable behavior. Like any respectable businessman, Crowley has spent a lifetime reading newspapers: first the stocks, then the business headlines, then the comics, and then the inevitable relationship column. He laughs at the pathetic morons who write in at all, and then at the bad advice given by the columnist. Be honest. Be open. Be blah blah blah.
Not a chance in hell.
Crowley’s far from stupid. He knows one word of this to Cas would be the equivalent of shooting himself in the head. Cas is much too proud to accept having ever been a pawn, and Crowley knows, despite the advice of unqualified newspaper writers, that there’s nothing to be gained from telling Cas the truth. I planned to bankrupt you. I planned to hurt you. You liked me from the beginning, and I used that to my advantage. Human decency tells him this is wrong, but if Crowley plans on keeping Cas then he’s not going to invite disaster if it can just as easily be swept under a rug and forgotten.
The months morph from frozen to slightly-less-frozen. In the meantime, Castiel quietly insinuates himself into Crowley’s life. Evidence of his permanence becomes fairly conclusive when Crowley starts collecting it: Witch’s happy yip when Castiel drives up, the inclusion of herbal tea in Crowley’s kitchen cupboards, the fact he can’t be bothered to work late when he knows Cas is waiting for him at home, the ease in which Castiel occasionally stops in to bring Crowley lunch. The first time this happens, Ariadne preens for being right about “Crowley’s guy guy” while Yusuf grins over a coffee cup and Sam just slings a ridiculously long arm around Cas’ neck and wishes him luck. Crowley feels like he should be offended by that and refers to Sam as “Moose” all day in retaliation. It’s a suitable revenge, judging by Sam’s annoyed looks.
Sometimes Crowley helps Castiel at Sigils on the weekends, other times Castiel reads through the latest manuscript after Crowley’s eyes cry for mercy. Crowley occasionally cooks (a skill Castiel has yet to acquire) for four rather than two, and invites Arthur and Eames over for dinner. Gabriel claims this is what normal people do (because he’s such an expert on normalcy), but Crowley rather enjoys it. Witch does too, thanks to the scraps Castiel spoils him with when he thinks Crowley isn’t looking.
Somehow, between all those things, Crowley is able to turn the werewolf tripe into something resembling literature. Sales are such that he gives everyone a bonus at the end of the month and manfully ignores Moose's Ebenezer Scrooge references. More important is the fact Chuck-the-Schmuck sends his revised manuscript, which Crowley hardly recognizes compared to the first. He sits down to read it, dread and impatience warring in his stomach, and feels that dread fade when he hits chapter three. Chuck has it right this time.
A few months later, once the grammar has passed Arthur’s sharp eye and its usual broad and bare-chested cover has been designed, Crowley sends the last Supernatural book on its merry way. He’s made sure the advertising was well circulated and that every reading list, fan club, book reviewer, influential blog, and upcoming comic con knew about it. The official release date is next week. Meanwhile, Crowley feels high on the excited buzz and remembers to stash an advance copy in his briefcase before closing shop. He locks up the offices. They’re all empty-even Arthur’s.
March is still bitterly cold, so he’s relieved to get home and find Cas has been running the heater long enough that the place isn’t an icebox.
“I’m back after a long day, don’t mind me!” he calls. There’s no response. Not even Witch runs up to greet him, which can only mean he and Cas have succumbed to the freezing nights and bundled up somewhere. He tosses his briefcase onto the couch as he heads towards the bedroom, stripping off his scarf and jacket as he moves. He peeks inside, and there they are. Cas is buried beneath a pile of blankets and Witch is curled up near the foot of the bed. He yips happily when Crowley walks in.
“I’m beginning to suspect you love me just for my dog,” he accuses as he collapses, suit and all, onto the bed. Castiel peers at him from beneath the blankets and smiles.
“He keeps my feet warm since there was no one else around to do it.”
“Nag, nag, nag. If you nag too much you’ll miss out on the present I brought you.”
“A space heater?”
Crowley pauses to consider this. “Well, I suppose we could use it for kindl-”
Castiel sits up, delighted. He knows there’s only one book that Crowley repeatedly threatens to burn.
“Give it to me,” he demands, reaching for the hand Crowley has purposely kept out of view.
“What’s it worth to you?”
“I believe the question is what it’s worth to you,” Cas corrects. “There’s a plate of leftover chicken tikka in the fridge. If you want dinner, I suggest you hand over that book.”
“I have been a terrible influence on you,” Crowley sighs, surrendering the copy of Chuck’s-oh, sorry, Carver Edlund’s-last Supernatural book to Cas, who eagerly scans the summary before flipping the book over to investigate the cover. He laughs at the long hair and bulging muscles.
“You should read the dedication,” Crowley advises him as he peels off his jacket and tie. He listens to the rough, scratching sound of pages turning, until Cas finds the right one.
“‘To all my fans (which apparently I have), thank you for supporting me. Thanks also to my publisher, who I hate, but who also made me work for this. Most especially thanks to...’” Castiel trails off. “‘To Cas,’” he manages to finish, “‘Who made me see that some things just happen naturally.’” He glances over at Crowley, stunned.
“Did you know he was going to do this?”
“Yes,” Crowley answers, ever blunt. “He wanted it to be a surprise.”
Castiel doesn’t respond. Crowley quickly changes into his pajamas, freezing a bit, and then climbs into bed. He’s exhausted and knows Cas must be too, since Sigils hosted a class of second-graders today. He watches Cas set the book on his nightstand. Witch, unhappy with all the noise and moving around, jumps down and wanders away to sleep in the den.
“What, you’re not going to read the whole thing in one sitting?” Crowley teases, meeting Castiel’s gaze over the blankets. He thinks that other men-better men, like Sam, maybe, or Dean bloody Winchester-would tell Castiel the truth about everything that’s happened. Better yet, they would never have conspired against him in the first place. The thing is, though, that Crowley isn’t good. He's ruthless and shady and conniving when it comes to getting what he wants.
But for all his poor qualities, there must be something about him that’s worthy, or else Castiel wouldn’t share his bed. Arthur wouldn’t stick around. Gabriel wouldn’t stay open a few minutes later when he knows Crowley wants pie. Ariadne wouldn’t put up with his constant requests for coffee. Sam would move to a real law firm. Yusuf and Eames and Dean and all these people who tolerate him because, for some reason, they like him even when he doesn’t understand why.
“I’ll read it,” Castiel promises, “but there’s something I’d prefer to do first,” and he reaches over Crowley to turn off the lamp, settling onto his lap in the process. His frozen fingers and toes warm themselves on Crowley's skin, inspiring a round of squirming and laughter that melts into a happy moan when Cas slides his hands below the waistband of Crowley's pajamas.
The romantic, sexy side of their relationship is still moving at a glacial pace. But they've at least progressed to necking and Cas stays the night more often than not, now that he's no longer afraid that Crowley is going to steal his virtue at any given moment.
Crowley offers his own gambit, stroking his warmer hands up Cas' back as encouragement, and cants his hips a little to see if he can incite a little bit of friction. Castiel appears remarkably agreeable to this plan and rocks against Crowley's thigh. Thank god the lights are off, Crowley thinks, licking gently into Castiel's mouth. His sense of restraint is shaky enough when all they do is share the sofa.
"I think this plan needs a little bit more nakedness," Crowley suggests. Cas' shorts are already halfway off and if nothing more exciting than that happens, Crowley knows he'll still be satisfied.
Cas' hand finds Crowley's and he laces their fingers together. "You think all of our plans need more nakedness," he says, mimicking Crowley's own droll tones perfectly.
He swallows down half a dozen cheesy or cavalier retorts, drowning them with Cas' touch and the inevitable distraction of his exposed hipbones.
"You just want me for my superior heat radiating abilities," Crowley teases.
"I just want you," Castiel agrees, impossibly sincere.
Crowley closes his eyes even in the dark, and finds Castiel’s mouth to kiss him, and is thankful.
FIN.