(SPN/White Collar) Of The Three Faces for xover_exchange
Title: Of the Three Faces
Author: daymarket
Fandoms: White Collar/Supernatural
Characters: El, Mozzie, Neal, Peter; Crowley, Sam, Dean
Pairings: Canon Peter/El
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~6,000
Spoilers: Roughly the first couple episodes of S3 for WC, and set in early S6 for SPN.
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: White Collar and SPN belong to their respective creators
A/N: This fic mutated multiple times before finally settling into its present form, by which time it had wandered a bit of a distance away from the original prompt. I hope you enjoy it anyway! :) All Latin is ruthlessly butchered by Google Translate.
Summary: Elizabeth has been many things, but despite the multiple times that Mozzie and Neal get into trouble, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Every other Thursday is Elizabeth-and-Mozzie night. Peter knows enough to politely excuse himself for the evening; he usually heads off with Neal, but sometimes with the team as well. At any rate, he’s not very welcome in the house (well, she won’t kick him out, but Mozzie will give him paranoid looks) until after ten or so.
She’s not sure where Elizabeth-and-Mozzie night came from, if she’s going to absolutely honest. It just kind of evolved from the occasional drink until it became natural for Mozzie to show up every two weeks, Thursday night, eight o’ clock on the dot, with a bottle of wine and some conspiracy movie. Sometimes they watch it, sometimes they don’t. The movie’s mostly just for show, anyhow, because what they mainly talk about is the giant pink elephant in the room.
(“I think I’m supposed to kill you,” Mozzie says apologetically the second night. “Although I haven’t really done any actual killing for years. Plus, Peter might hunt me down and disembowel me. And that would be sad.”
“That’s not very polite,” El says with a raised eyebrow. “We’ve just poured the wine and we haven’t even settled yet. Can’t it wait?”
“True, it would be a shame to die before getting a last glass of wine,” Mozzie agrees. “So. How long have you been a witch again?”
El thinks about it briefly and then shrugs. “All my life? It just kind of came naturally. Besides, don’t you know it’s impolite to ask a woman her age?”
“Is your relationship with Peter some kind of really, really messed up May-December thing?”
“Please,” El laughs. “How old do you think I am?”
“You’re a witch,” Mozzie says. “So…really old. You do look good for your age, though.”
“Thanks,” El says. “So you’re a hunter?”
“Nice attempt to change the subject. To answer your question, I don’t really hunt, per se. That’s not very elegant. I delegate information behind the scenes.”
“Is Neal a hunter?”
“Neal? Please, no. He’s a pretty damn good con, but hopefully he’ll never have to touch the supernatural. What about Peter?”
“Human through and through,” El smiles. “Not to knock humans, of course. Don’t worry, I didn’t use a love potion.”
“Wasn’t even thinking it,” Mozzie says, holding his hands up in the air.
“I haven’t used magic for anything except small things in years,” El says with a laugh. “Relax. I’m not going to hex you. Still going to kill me?”
“Plan on killing anyone in the near future?”
“Not unless things get really hairy.”
“Eh. I think I can pass for now.”)
Every other Thursday evening is a time for them to be something more than businesswoman and con. Not that’s not a lot to be going on with already, but their tight control over their alter identities can loosen just a little bit, enough that they can sit back and talk about inane things without worrying about the slips. Elizabeth loves Peter dearly, but for all his gifts, there are just some things that Peter shouldn’t know about. She suspects that Mozzie feels the same way about Neal.
She sometimes feels that the real magic is juggling both the ordinary and the supernatural. While El hasn’t given up on magic, strictly speaking, there are times when she finds that it’s so much easier to find out things with it. The trouble is keeping things secret from the people who should, but at the same time, shouldn’t know.
(“Mozzie,” she says one Thursday night, “Peter’s really worried about Neal lately.”
“I’m not surprised,” Mozzie says. “The Suit’s going to worry himself into an early grave at this rate. Mind you, sometimes I feel worried. That kid does dumb things sometimes.”
“Yes, but you’re leading him into the dumb thing in this particular instance,” she says sternly. “I know about the treasure.”
Mozzie tenses. He turns to look at her, and she gazes back at him implacably. She doesn’t like playing judge, but there are times when it simply can’t be avoided. It’s the curse of being able to know far more than she really should. “How did you find that out? It’s protected.”
“Because I’m not stupid, Mozzie! Is that really all you can say?”
“It’s none of your business, El,” Mozzie says, looking upset.
“When it threatens to overturn a partnership that Peter relies on deeply? Yes,” El says, crossing her arms. “Besides, I like Neal. I don’t want to see him in danger, and I definitely don’t want to see him doing stupid things that could put him in danger.”
“He’s not going to be in danger,” Mozzie argues. “He might even be in less danger. It’s not exactly babysitting he’s doing over with the Suits, you know.”
“Peter will go after him,” El says. “It’ll hurt them both, Mozzie. You need to stop this.”
“And if I don’t? Are you going to tell Peter?” Mozzie challenges.
“I’m a witch,” El says. She doesn’t like getting angry, she doesn’t like using her powers wantonly, but now she’s ready to do both. “I don’t need to tell Peter. You need to give up the treasure, Mozzie.”
Mozzie’s eyes narrow. “It’s not that easy, El.”)
Damn right it’s not easy. How far can she push? How many secrets can she uncover using her powers, and just how much should she reveal? Mozzie leaves that night angry, neither of them managing to compromise to any real end. Elizabeth smiles when Peter comes home and tells him about her day, her business, but not about her secrets. Especially the secrets that strictly speaking aren’t hers to give away.
(It’s hard not to, though. Especially as she knows that Peter suspects Neal all on his own, and she can see how even the seeds of distrust affect their relationship. “He’s a good kid, El,” Peter says tiredly, “but he’s still got the con under his skin. One last score. Think leopards can change their spots?”
“What do you think he’s planning?” El asks.
Peter sighs. “I’m afraid he’s going to cut and run. Damn it, El, he’ll be on the run and I don’t want to have to chase him down again. I can’t offer him a second chance if he does. I don’t know if I want to.”
“You do,” she tells him, gentle but ruthless. “You just won’t.”)
She tries not to interfere too much, but it’s hard when you have the power to do so. In a way, does she have the responsibility to do so? She won’t give Mozzie an ultimatum-at least, not yet. Mozzie’s a good man and so is Neal, but pushing them too hard is probably the best way to get them to snap.
But at the same time, she can’t just stand by and do nothing, can she?
(“Volo autem procedere per portals ego conteram tua claustra. Dico animam tuam mihi, et quaerens inveniet.” Your barriers I break, through portals I step. I call your soul to me, to find and seek.
Stay here, Mozzie. Don’t let the siren song lure you and Neal away from us.)
When eight o’ clock rolls around on Thursday night, El finds herself more anxious than usual as she paces the house restlessly. Beside her, Satchmo whines in confusion, aware that something’s wrong but not quite what. El scratches his ears and sends out a wave of calm towards him. She’s always had a way with dogs, and he quiets down.
The clock ticks steadily-eight becomes five minutes, then ten minutes past. She reaches for Mozzie’s soul and examines the bond. He’s distressed about something, although she can’t tell what. He’s definitely still in New York, but the thought is not as reassuring as it should be.
And then as if on cue, his soul vanishes from New York.
El sits bolt upright. The tie stretches sharp and elastic, and for a horrible moment El’s afraid that it’s snapped. She closes her eyes and tries to feel for the tie and to where it leads, pushing the shock out of her mind. It’s not an easy search, and when she finally locates Mozzie, her eyes fly open in surprise. California?
(Her phone rings, and El reaches for it with numb fingers. She looks at the screen-Peter. “Honey?” she says, trying to focus past the ringing in her ears. “Is everything okay?”
“Is Mozzie with you?” Peter asks, tension in his voice.
“No,” she says. “I don’t know where he is. He was supposed to show up, but…” his soul moved across the country in less than a second. “What happened?”
Peter’s not a cursing man, but she can distinctly hear several curse words in the silence. “Neal’s cut his tracker,” he says. “I’m going to be home late.”)
She’s a witch of not-inconsiderable power and experience, but even she’d have a hard time travelling instantaneously, at least in this time and age. She knows exactly two beings that are currently capable of doing that, and the thought of either angel or demon anywhere near Mozzie and Neal chills her to the bone.
(Damn it, Mozzie, why didn’t you listen to me?)
California. She’s never thought herself as a superhero charging to the rescue, but at any rate, she fancies herself more as the irritated mom swooping in to do some righteous spanking. She’s not sure what Mozzie and Neal are up to, but it can’t be anything good if they’re messing with supernatural forces of that level.
She has to travel the slow way, though. That means plane, most likely, but she can’t really hop onto a plane and come back overnight. That leaves her with two choices: lie to Peter, or more precariously, entrust him with the truth.
She’s never had to mention her magic, and Peter isn’t the type to wantonly leap to supernatural conclusions. Elizabeth has never spoken falsely to Peter regarding her magic by virtue of the simple fact that it has never been mentioned, but the choice faces her now: lie, or tell him who she really is.
In retrospect, the choice was a lot easier than it seemed.
(“Peter, you need to know something about me.”
“El, this isn’t really the best time.” Peter looks harried and exhausted, and for a moment El wishes that she had been born normal so that she can give Peter the normality he deserves. But life isn’t fair, and when it comes to the supernatural, there’s no use in covering your ears and pretending it doesn’t exist.
“Peter,” she says. “This is important. Listen.”)
Peter takes it better than she expects. They’re in California, she says, holding the tie to Mozzie firmly in her mind’s eye. The bond is muted over such a distance, but she can feel the faintest traces of alarm rolling through the link. They’ve gotten themselves into some kind of trouble, which really doesn’t surprise her.
(“I can’t leave, El,” Peter says, sounding absolutely miserable. “I need to head up to the hunt for Neal, and they’ll never believe me if I tell them about the whole…”
“I’m a witch,” El tells him gently. “You can say it. Witch. W-I-T-C-H. Neal and Mozzie were teleported by either a demon or an angel. I’d bet on a demon mostly because the angels are an aloof bunch.”
“Okay,” Peter says, looking dazed. “What should I do?”
“Keep the hunt focused in New York,” El tells him. “Propose the theory that Neal has been abducted, Peter, because he probably has.”
Peter closes his eyes. “What if he really did cut and run, El?” he asks, pain clear in his words. “What if he and Mozzie made some kind of deal?” He pauses. “Can you do that? Make deals with demons?”
El sets her jaw. “Yes, you can. But if they did, they’ll be in big trouble from a lot of fronts. And not least of all, me.”)
She books the first plane she can, and throughout the six hour flight, focuses on strengthening her bond with Mozzie. El draws the line at true telepathy, but the bond allows her to feel Mozzie’s general emotions in addition to his location. As she draws nearer, the bond strengthens slowly, enough that more emotions begin to leak through: intent, focus, adrenaline.
Mozzie’s planning a heist.
El takes a deep breath and shoulders her bag as she heads into sunny Cal, not unlike a knight drawing his sword as he heads into war. It takes her just over a hundred dollars and eight hours to locate Mozzie. He’s in a seedy motel in one of the more dilapidated districts of California. El ignores the leers as she walks through the streets-she’s fully aware just how out-of-place she is, and just as aware that if any of them try anything, they’ll have far more than they bargained for. She pushes open the door to the motel and smiles politely at the bored clerk.
(“Hello,” she says, letting the mask slip just a little bit. “I’m looking for somebody. Can you help me?”
The clerk stares at her, and she knows what he’s seeing. “Yeah,” he says, dazed at the apparition. “Sure. Any way I can.”)
El resists the temptation to kick in the door of room 203, because while it’d be dramatically satisfying, she also has a key that she’s charmed from the clerk. Perhaps it’s just as well that she doesn’t go for the dramatic entrance because as she enters, the two occupants of the room jump to their feet and train guns at her almost simultaneously. Neither of them are Mozzie or Neal.
(“The hell?” the shorter one snaps. “How did you get in here?”
“Hmm,” El says. It’s been a while since she’s used that particular persuasion magic, and perhaps the clerk wasn’t quite as convinced as previously thought. Or more likely, she thinks, he’s just been mistaken. “It seems like I’ve gotten the wrong room.”
“Guys,” a familiar voice says, and a very familiar man emerges from the bathroom. “There’s still not a guarantee that-El?”
“Neal,” Elizabeth says grimly as she stares into the eyes of her favorite (well, second-favorite) conman. “You are in deep, deep trouble.”
“You know this woman, Neal?” the shorter one asks, but his gun doesn’t lower.
“Yeah, Dean,” Neal says, looking flustered. “She’s, uh…”
“The wife of your handler,” she says, “and the one who’s going to drag you back to New York. Where’s Mozzie?”
“Is she the demon?” the taller one asks. He backs up to the bed and reaches for something in his satchel, not taking her eyes off her. “I can exorcise her-”
“Hunters?” El says in surprise at the same time Neal says, “No, she’s not.” She frowns and looks from one stranger to another, seeing the signs she hadn’t noticed before. “Mozzie said that you weren’t in the life.”
Neal rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not a hunter,” he says. “Mozzie is, though.” He looks her up and down with a frown. “Wait, are you a hunter too? Really?”
“Close enough,” she says, content to let the misconception slide at least for now. “Fine, then. If you’re not a hunter, what’s going on? Why did you cut ties and leave?” She narrows her eyes. “Are you on the run with the treasure?”
“Treasure?” all three of the men say simultaneously, and it would be funny if she weren’t so irritated. Neal looks at her for a moment and apparently decides that BSing isn’t the way to go, which is a good thing as she has virtually no patience left. “I, ah,” he says. “It’s a long story.”
“Fine,” El says. “I’m not going anywhere. Where’s Mozzie?”
“Using the washing machine downstairs,” Neal says. “He’s paranoid about germs. Maybe we should wait for him?”
“Nope,” El says. “Get started, Neal.”)
It turns out that even witches as experienced as she have new things to learn every day, particularly when it comes to people. The men, she learns, are brothers named Sam and Dean Winchester. They were transported by an angel, although both men decline to give a name. Over the Winchesters’ protests, Neal lays out the situation: they’re here to steal an artifact from a not-very-nice man so that Neal can give it to the angels, who will protect him when the demons come for his soul.
And why exactly do the demons have a claim on Neal’s soul again?
(“I was stupid,” Neal says tiredly. “Stupid and young and scared.” He bites his lip. “When I was twenty-four, I made a deal, El, and it’s almost up. I’ve got less than a week left before I get dragged down to hell.”
He looks scared now. Stupid, young, scared. El wants to hit him and hug him all at once. She settles for the latter. He presses his face against her shoulder and heaves a shaky sigh.
“Fine,” she says once the story’s digested. Mozzie has arrived by now, and he hovers around the doorway, looking like he wants to cut and run for dear life. But he won’t, she knows, because he cares for Neal just as much as she does, just as much as Peter does. Maybe more. “Have you stolen this artifact yet?”
“Nope,” Neal says. He rubs his temples with his palms, looking exhausted. “We’re trying. We were going to do it tonight.” He gives her a half-smile. “Apparently, we’re going after the ashes of Jeroboam. The ashes wither every living thing they touch. It’s an angel weapon, apparently.”
“It was supposed to be used in the Apocalypse,” the bigger one, Sam, says helpfully. “You know, to turn the earth to dust. Since we stopped the Apocalypse, though, I guess it kind of got tucked away in the angel armory until Balthazar sold it.”
“Balthazar’s an ass,” Dean adds helpfully at El’s blank look. “He’s an angel whose job is apparently to make Cas’ life as hard as possible. Goddamn Crowley. We should’ve never given him his bones back.”
“Crowley?” El asks, eyes narrowed. “The king of the crossroads?”
“King of hell now,” Sam says. He looks at her curiously. “What, does that name sound familiar? I wouldn’t be surprised if you tried to hunt him and failed. He’s pretty slippery.”
“Slippery’s the word, all right,” El says darkly. She looks around at the men, feeling more irritated than ever. She doesn’t want to have to do this. She’s mostly mortal, and being anything else after so long is going to hurt. “Damn it, Neal,” she murmurs under her breath.
She can feel him flinch, and the mortal part of her that’s Peter’s wife, a savvy businesswoman, a friend and surrogate mother flinches with him. The rest of her stands cold. “How many more days?” she asks Neal.
Neal swallows, looking pale. “Five days. Maybe less.”
“Cutting it close,” Mozzie grumbles from the doorway. She turns to look at him, but he’s glaring at Neal. “You should’ve told me sooner!”
“I didn’t think that you’d know, Moz,” Neal says softly. “I’d kind of resigned myself to dying.” He looks away.
No, Elizabeth thinks. Not on my watch.)
While the boys plan their heist, El makes her own plans. It’s been a long time since she’s pushed at the barriers of who she is and what she can do. Angels and demons, she thinks with some resigned bemusement. Only Neal could manage to attract such trouble.
With three days left to go, Neal, Moz, Dean and Sam return flushed but triumphant, bearing an urn in tow. El looks at it skeptically until she sees the contents within-dried ashes, nondescript and gray-looking as ashes are wont to be. When Dean dips a leaf inside to demonstrate, though, the leaf withers instantly. The ashes of Jeroboam, El remembers. Best not to mess with them.
(“We should call Cas,” Dean says with a sigh. He tilts his head up and looks at the ceiling. “I always feel so dumb when I do this. Hey, Cas? We found your precious ashes. Mind getting down here to pick them up?”
Silence. Dean frowns. “Dude. You okay up there? Hello?”
More silence. El casts a glance at Neal and Moz and frowns a little inwardly at the looks on their faces. Someone less familiar with them would call it concern, but it isn’t, not quite.
“Maybe he’s busy,” Sam suggests. “Try again later?”
“Something’s wrong,” Dean grumbles, but he does set the urn down. “Damn it. I’ll call him later.”)
Neal’s got that look on his face, she decides, and it’s not just fear from the impending deadline. She corners him with sixty-one hours left, deciding that a talk is long overdue. She may not be mortal for all that much longer, but she’ll give what she can, when she can if she can save Peter and his clever, idiotic charge.
(“Honey,” she says as they stand together in the quiet parking lot. “There’s something you need to tell me.”
He turns to look at her, his mouth twisted slightly to one side. “Well, I’ve been hiding pretty much all this time because I didn’t think anyone would get it. What do you want to know?”
“Why are you using Enochian sigils to conceal us from the angels?” she asks, and the grimace on his face confirms her suspicions. “I thought the point was so you could gain the protection of the angels.”
Neal scoffs. “Do you honestly think that’ll work?” he says flatly. “Even if the angels do keep to their promise, all it would take is for one minute of inattention for demons to strike. It’s safer to bargain directly with the demons.”
“So you’ll make a deal with demons but not with angels?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “Most people would prefer the other way around.”
Neal laughs tiredly. “Well, most people don’t make deals with demons in the first place, El.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Does Peter know?” he says after a moment, and she remembers just how achingly young he is.
She wraps an arm around his shoulders. “He knows enough,” she says gently.
“I should’ve thought you were a hunter,” he mumbles into her sweater. She laughs, and he looks up at her. “I’m sorry, El.”
“Sorry enough to stay?” she asks archly.
Neal looks confused. “I thought that was the whole point.”
She sighs. “If you make it out of this alive, Neal, I want you to promise me to tell Peter about the treasure,” she says, enunciating every word clearly. “I think a part of you wants that, too. Why not make yourself happy?”
“Mozzie’s going to throw a fit,” Neal says. “It’s supposed to be our retirement plan. One last con.”
“Save yourself the trouble, Neal,” she advises. “Go straight. The treasure isn’t yours, and you know it. Give it back to the people it belongs to.”
He swallows hard. “I don’t-”
“Neal.”
“-it’s not fair-”
“Fair?” she says, whapping him around the back of the head. “That treasure wasn’t yours to begin with. Besides. Life isn’t fair. Now do the right thing and-”
“-fine!” he says. “Fine.”
“Good,” she says. She looks at him, curiosity sweeping through her. He made the deal when he was twenty-four, just a few years before his imprisonment, presumably a few years after he met Kate. She wants to know what he wished for, but perhaps there are some things that are too private to be asked. She could find out by looking through the doorways to the past, but that would take too much energy. And she needs all her strength now for what’s about to come. “Neal,” she says finally, and he turns to look at her. “What are you planning to do?”
Neal hesitates. “Steal the urn, drive to a crossroads, and break a new deal tonight.”
“So we still have time?” El asks. “Good. I’m coming along.”)
She takes care of a few last-minute errands. When she gets back to the hotel, it’s to find Sam and Dean sprawled across the bed and drugged out of their minds. Neal and Mozzie jump almost simultaneously as she enters the room. “El,” Neal greets her, and Mozzie gives her a suspicious look. He hasn’t really spoken to her since her arrival, and she wonders if his priorities are really so narrow.
(“We’re, uh, ready to go,” Neal says. He’s got the urn wrapped in a blanket, careful not to let any of the ashes out.
She inspects his wrapping and nods approvingly. “Good,” she says. “I’m coming with you.”
“That might not be the best idea,” Mozzie says, sounding wary. To her surprise, he adds, “If you got your power through a demon, El, I don’t think it’s a good idea if you meet one face to face.”
“Wait, what?” Neal says. “Did you make a deal too, El?”
El sighs. “No, Mozzie,” she says patiently. “Only amateurs need to get power through demons.” She rolls her eyes. “How stereotypical is that?”
Mozzie frowns. “Wait. If you didn’t get power through a demon, then how did you become a witch?”
“You’re a witch?” Neal asks, eyes wide.
“It’s a long story,” she says impatiently. “Can we discuss this later? We’re on a deadline here.”
Neal winces. “Apt choice of words,” he says. “Fine. Let’s go.”)
A crossroads like this is impossible to find in New York, but out here in the more rural areas of California, they soon find one that wouldn’t be out of place in an old Western movie. El stops the car and steps out slowly, feeling the familiar itch spread across her skin that feels welcoming and intrusive all at once. This isn’t who she is anymore, strictly speaking, but it is who she was.
And who she could be.
(Neal’s pale and sweating, looking more nervous than she’s ever seen him before. “Neal,” Mozzie says quietly, coming up to stand by the younger man. “Are you ready?”
“Nope,” Neal says. “But I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be.” He gives Mozzie a weak smile. “Worst comes to worst, it won’t be anything I’m not expecting, anyway.”
“You’re not going to die,” Mozzie says firmly.
Neal sucks in a breath and looks down at the urn in his hands. “El,” he says slowly, not looking up. “If I die-”
“You’re not going to die,” Mozzie interrupts.
“-if I die,” Neal says firmly. “I want Peter to know about the treasure.”
“The hell, Neal?” Mozzie says, sounding upset. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I’m sorry, Moz,” Neal says softly, “but having an axe hanging over your head makes things a lot clearer.” He looks El in the eye. “And tell Peter that I’m really, really sorry for messing this up.”
“Let’s get out of this first,” El says absentmindedly. “We can work that out later.”)
Neal pulls a small box out of his pocket. He bends down and scuffs away some of the dirt, places the box inside the hole, and pushes the dirt back over it. He straightens up and lets out a shaky breath, looking around. El tucks her hands into her pockets and waits.
The demon who appears takes the guise of a young, curvy woman, all seduction and barely concealed edges. Crowley, Neal insists, and it’s a hard fought battle to peel back the layers to the boss. El smiles politely as the demon insults her as a part of the war of words that she and Neal are waging. Neal’s got his conman’s face on, all meaningless smiles and charm, and the two of them circle each other in a delicate, bladed dance of words.
(“Fine,” she snarls finally. Her eyes linger on the urn that Neal holds, covetuous and hateful all at once. “I’ll call him.)
Crowley, when she sees him, is not quite what she expected for the king of the crossroads. A large man with dark hair and shrewd eyes, his voice gravelly and accented. “Well,” he says. Well, she thinks. Is this who commands the crossroads now?
“This better not be a waste of my time,” Crowley says. He looks at Neal, amused and contemptuous all at once. “So what’s this little game you’ve got to play, hmm? I can make your life very interesting if you’ve just called me here for nothing.” A soft growl comes in from the air next to him, and she can see Neal and Mozzie flinch at the sound. Hellhound.
(Mine, she thinks, something dark and territorial rising within her.
Mine, the crossroads sing to her. Yours.)
El steps forward, letting the last few shreds of humanity fall away. It’s not too hard to step edgewise as she once did (modo inter me et sequenti ambulare per aeternitatem) and let time become a cloak to be shrugged off carelessly, becoming inconsequential. “Hello, Crowley,” she says as time freezes around them. “Is this what they’ve made of my place?”
Crowley freezes, and she can see the calculation in his eyes. She waits patiently, calling the hellhound towards her as she does so. Slowly, like a rising sun, she can see the realization dawn in Crowley’s eyes. “Trioditis,” he breathes, and El closes her eyes at the sound of one of her old names. The hellhound relaxes beneath her touch and licks her hand, welcoming her for who she once was.
(She’s always had a way with dogs.)
“You’ve faded,” he snaps. “Your time is past, Triodia. This is the time of the angels and demons now.”
“Just because you’ve appropriated my guise doesn’t mean that I’m gone, Crowley,” she says. Elizabeth the mostly-mortal witch is splintering, breaking up into a thousand pieces to reform in the image of Chthonia, enraged at the audacity of a mere crossroads demon. “I’m still here in every deal that you make, and I will have this one dissolved.”
Crowley looks pale, but he stands his ground. “You have no power here,” he says, his eyes darting from the hellhound under her hand and back. “The Judeo-Christian god rules now, and our story destroyed yours a long time ago.”
“But who are you in the neverending story?” she asks, all smiles and sharp teeth. “You’re not the Morningstar, Crowley, and you’re certainly not god. You’re just a demon playing with something far too big for him.”
“And you’re a faded goddess,” he snaps back. “Hell if I’m going to let you bully me around.” He cocks his head and stares at her. “How long have you been mostly mortal, anyway? Since when did you start getting all soft for a bunch of humans?”
“We adapt,” she says softly. “We hide and we change.”
“Change,” Crowley says sharply. “Things have definitely changed. I’m the king of Hell now.”
“Impressive,” she says. “But how long can you hold it without your hellhounds?”
This has always been the easiest part of her to maintain. Walking the crossroads or balancing the opening between life and death are harder to accomplish in mostly-mortal form, but the dogs are always there, and they always heed to her hand. It began with the black she-dog of no name of so long ago, traversing the centuries until embedded in the current incarnation of a large, deceptively gentle yellow lab. “Careful, Crowley,” she warns as her fingers card through the hellhound’s fur.
“You can’t hold the hellhounds when you’re mortal,” Crowley hisses. “If you want to threaten me, you’ll have to give up your pet humans. Married, are you? With a family? You can’t touch them if you’re immortal.”
“I could hold immortality in my hand again,” she says. “What makes you think I’ll return to mortality so easily?”
“Because you’re in love!” he shouts. “That’s why you’re doing this, aren’t you? Isn’t he your little boytoy?”
“I loved as a mortal,” she says calmly. “But I’m not mortal now, am I?”
“You don’t have the power,” he says quickly. “You’re not who you once were, Trimorphe. You’ve been mortal for far too long.”
She raises her palm slightly, and the hellhound growls at its former master. “You took my story a long time ago, Crowley, and you changed it for your needs,” she says coldly. “But I’m still here, and every deal you make powers me as well.” She smiles. “I’ll always be here.”
Crowley glares at her, rage etched into his face. “This is-this is breaking the rules, Propylaia,” he snarls. “Deals are deals. This young man-” he jabs a finger at the frozen Neal- “made a deal. I kept up my end, and I’m willing to strike another one in exchange for the ashes. But you can’t just vault in here and break it just like that!”
“Life isn’t fair,” she says. “We never thought it was fair when we were displaced by the one you call God. It’s just your unfortunate luck that you took what happened to be mine.”
(The moment stretches, long and sharp and painful. She’s bluffing, so much that she’s surprised that Crowley can’t sense it under the mask. She doesn’t want immortality, she doesn’t want to be a goddess, she doesn’t want to leave. The mortal woman Elizabeth Burke is screaming inside, fighting for a way out.)
“Damn you,” Crowley says, his face twisting into a mask of frustration. “I’ll get you back for this, Haegtesse.” He makes an angry gestures with his hand, and she can feel something release into the air, returning to its rightful owner. “All this for a human soul. You witches must be mad.”
“I am the mother of witches,” she says, keeping her voice as steady as she can. “It holds then, that I am the maddest of them all.”
“Women,” Crowley grumbles. He crosses his arms. “Fine. The human’s soul is his own. Now give me back my sodding hellhound. Or do I have to remodel your house and give you a makeover while I’m at it?”
She runs her fingers through the hellhound’s coarse fur. The texture is unlike that of any mortal dog, and she savors the feel of it running through her hands for one last moment before lifting her hand. “Go,” she says softly. Ad mutuum reddere, cum in corde vos mei.
Crowley grips the hellhound firmly by the scruff of its neck as it returns to him. “This better not become a habit,” he says testily.
“Stay away from me and mine,” she answers as Apotropaia. “And I trust I’ll never have to see you again, Crowley.”
He grumbles indistinctly under his breath and then vanishes, taking the lesser demon with him. She watches the empty space left behind for a moment, humming meditatively under her breath. She’s going to miss this power, she thinks wistfully.
But not as much as she would miss her family.
She lets the power go with a sigh, letting it trickle it back into the fabric of the mythology from whence it came. It was hers once, as much as power can be anybody’s, but to hold it she must become someone that she’s not anymore.
There’s a single precarious moment in which immortal power is stored in a mortal body, and Elizabeth Burke opens her eyes to find time restarting and pain ripping her body apart. She doubles over with a choked gasp, feeling the fragility of mortal life returning to her once more.
People are shouting, and even the dim light of the streetlamp is blinding. From queen of the crossroads, she’s just mostly mortal once more, tied to Peter and Neal and this life she’s made for herself. It’s going to be difficult being mortal again after a taste of that power.
(But it’s worth it.)
-END-
Author: daymarket
Fandoms: White Collar/Supernatural
Characters: El, Mozzie, Neal, Peter; Crowley, Sam, Dean
Pairings: Canon Peter/El
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~6,000
Spoilers: Roughly the first couple episodes of S3 for WC, and set in early S6 for SPN.
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: White Collar and SPN belong to their respective creators
A/N: This fic mutated multiple times before finally settling into its present form, by which time it had wandered a bit of a distance away from the original prompt. I hope you enjoy it anyway! :) All Latin is ruthlessly butchered by Google Translate.
Summary: Elizabeth has been many things, but despite the multiple times that Mozzie and Neal get into trouble, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Every other Thursday is Elizabeth-and-Mozzie night. Peter knows enough to politely excuse himself for the evening; he usually heads off with Neal, but sometimes with the team as well. At any rate, he’s not very welcome in the house (well, she won’t kick him out, but Mozzie will give him paranoid looks) until after ten or so.
She’s not sure where Elizabeth-and-Mozzie night came from, if she’s going to absolutely honest. It just kind of evolved from the occasional drink until it became natural for Mozzie to show up every two weeks, Thursday night, eight o’ clock on the dot, with a bottle of wine and some conspiracy movie. Sometimes they watch it, sometimes they don’t. The movie’s mostly just for show, anyhow, because what they mainly talk about is the giant pink elephant in the room.
(“I think I’m supposed to kill you,” Mozzie says apologetically the second night. “Although I haven’t really done any actual killing for years. Plus, Peter might hunt me down and disembowel me. And that would be sad.”
“That’s not very polite,” El says with a raised eyebrow. “We’ve just poured the wine and we haven’t even settled yet. Can’t it wait?”
“True, it would be a shame to die before getting a last glass of wine,” Mozzie agrees. “So. How long have you been a witch again?”
El thinks about it briefly and then shrugs. “All my life? It just kind of came naturally. Besides, don’t you know it’s impolite to ask a woman her age?”
“Is your relationship with Peter some kind of really, really messed up May-December thing?”
“Please,” El laughs. “How old do you think I am?”
“You’re a witch,” Mozzie says. “So…really old. You do look good for your age, though.”
“Thanks,” El says. “So you’re a hunter?”
“Nice attempt to change the subject. To answer your question, I don’t really hunt, per se. That’s not very elegant. I delegate information behind the scenes.”
“Is Neal a hunter?”
“Neal? Please, no. He’s a pretty damn good con, but hopefully he’ll never have to touch the supernatural. What about Peter?”
“Human through and through,” El smiles. “Not to knock humans, of course. Don’t worry, I didn’t use a love potion.”
“Wasn’t even thinking it,” Mozzie says, holding his hands up in the air.
“I haven’t used magic for anything except small things in years,” El says with a laugh. “Relax. I’m not going to hex you. Still going to kill me?”
“Plan on killing anyone in the near future?”
“Not unless things get really hairy.”
“Eh. I think I can pass for now.”)
Every other Thursday evening is a time for them to be something more than businesswoman and con. Not that’s not a lot to be going on with already, but their tight control over their alter identities can loosen just a little bit, enough that they can sit back and talk about inane things without worrying about the slips. Elizabeth loves Peter dearly, but for all his gifts, there are just some things that Peter shouldn’t know about. She suspects that Mozzie feels the same way about Neal.
She sometimes feels that the real magic is juggling both the ordinary and the supernatural. While El hasn’t given up on magic, strictly speaking, there are times when she finds that it’s so much easier to find out things with it. The trouble is keeping things secret from the people who should, but at the same time, shouldn’t know.
(“Mozzie,” she says one Thursday night, “Peter’s really worried about Neal lately.”
“I’m not surprised,” Mozzie says. “The Suit’s going to worry himself into an early grave at this rate. Mind you, sometimes I feel worried. That kid does dumb things sometimes.”
“Yes, but you’re leading him into the dumb thing in this particular instance,” she says sternly. “I know about the treasure.”
Mozzie tenses. He turns to look at her, and she gazes back at him implacably. She doesn’t like playing judge, but there are times when it simply can’t be avoided. It’s the curse of being able to know far more than she really should. “How did you find that out? It’s protected.”
“Because I’m not stupid, Mozzie! Is that really all you can say?”
“It’s none of your business, El,” Mozzie says, looking upset.
“When it threatens to overturn a partnership that Peter relies on deeply? Yes,” El says, crossing her arms. “Besides, I like Neal. I don’t want to see him in danger, and I definitely don’t want to see him doing stupid things that could put him in danger.”
“He’s not going to be in danger,” Mozzie argues. “He might even be in less danger. It’s not exactly babysitting he’s doing over with the Suits, you know.”
“Peter will go after him,” El says. “It’ll hurt them both, Mozzie. You need to stop this.”
“And if I don’t? Are you going to tell Peter?” Mozzie challenges.
“I’m a witch,” El says. She doesn’t like getting angry, she doesn’t like using her powers wantonly, but now she’s ready to do both. “I don’t need to tell Peter. You need to give up the treasure, Mozzie.”
Mozzie’s eyes narrow. “It’s not that easy, El.”)
Damn right it’s not easy. How far can she push? How many secrets can she uncover using her powers, and just how much should she reveal? Mozzie leaves that night angry, neither of them managing to compromise to any real end. Elizabeth smiles when Peter comes home and tells him about her day, her business, but not about her secrets. Especially the secrets that strictly speaking aren’t hers to give away.
(It’s hard not to, though. Especially as she knows that Peter suspects Neal all on his own, and she can see how even the seeds of distrust affect their relationship. “He’s a good kid, El,” Peter says tiredly, “but he’s still got the con under his skin. One last score. Think leopards can change their spots?”
“What do you think he’s planning?” El asks.
Peter sighs. “I’m afraid he’s going to cut and run. Damn it, El, he’ll be on the run and I don’t want to have to chase him down again. I can’t offer him a second chance if he does. I don’t know if I want to.”
“You do,” she tells him, gentle but ruthless. “You just won’t.”)
She tries not to interfere too much, but it’s hard when you have the power to do so. In a way, does she have the responsibility to do so? She won’t give Mozzie an ultimatum-at least, not yet. Mozzie’s a good man and so is Neal, but pushing them too hard is probably the best way to get them to snap.
But at the same time, she can’t just stand by and do nothing, can she?
(“Volo autem procedere per portals ego conteram tua claustra. Dico animam tuam mihi, et quaerens inveniet.” Your barriers I break, through portals I step. I call your soul to me, to find and seek.
Stay here, Mozzie. Don’t let the siren song lure you and Neal away from us.)
When eight o’ clock rolls around on Thursday night, El finds herself more anxious than usual as she paces the house restlessly. Beside her, Satchmo whines in confusion, aware that something’s wrong but not quite what. El scratches his ears and sends out a wave of calm towards him. She’s always had a way with dogs, and he quiets down.
The clock ticks steadily-eight becomes five minutes, then ten minutes past. She reaches for Mozzie’s soul and examines the bond. He’s distressed about something, although she can’t tell what. He’s definitely still in New York, but the thought is not as reassuring as it should be.
And then as if on cue, his soul vanishes from New York.
El sits bolt upright. The tie stretches sharp and elastic, and for a horrible moment El’s afraid that it’s snapped. She closes her eyes and tries to feel for the tie and to where it leads, pushing the shock out of her mind. It’s not an easy search, and when she finally locates Mozzie, her eyes fly open in surprise. California?
(Her phone rings, and El reaches for it with numb fingers. She looks at the screen-Peter. “Honey?” she says, trying to focus past the ringing in her ears. “Is everything okay?”
“Is Mozzie with you?” Peter asks, tension in his voice.
“No,” she says. “I don’t know where he is. He was supposed to show up, but…” his soul moved across the country in less than a second. “What happened?”
Peter’s not a cursing man, but she can distinctly hear several curse words in the silence. “Neal’s cut his tracker,” he says. “I’m going to be home late.”)
She’s a witch of not-inconsiderable power and experience, but even she’d have a hard time travelling instantaneously, at least in this time and age. She knows exactly two beings that are currently capable of doing that, and the thought of either angel or demon anywhere near Mozzie and Neal chills her to the bone.
(Damn it, Mozzie, why didn’t you listen to me?)
California. She’s never thought herself as a superhero charging to the rescue, but at any rate, she fancies herself more as the irritated mom swooping in to do some righteous spanking. She’s not sure what Mozzie and Neal are up to, but it can’t be anything good if they’re messing with supernatural forces of that level.
She has to travel the slow way, though. That means plane, most likely, but she can’t really hop onto a plane and come back overnight. That leaves her with two choices: lie to Peter, or more precariously, entrust him with the truth.
She’s never had to mention her magic, and Peter isn’t the type to wantonly leap to supernatural conclusions. Elizabeth has never spoken falsely to Peter regarding her magic by virtue of the simple fact that it has never been mentioned, but the choice faces her now: lie, or tell him who she really is.
In retrospect, the choice was a lot easier than it seemed.
(“Peter, you need to know something about me.”
“El, this isn’t really the best time.” Peter looks harried and exhausted, and for a moment El wishes that she had been born normal so that she can give Peter the normality he deserves. But life isn’t fair, and when it comes to the supernatural, there’s no use in covering your ears and pretending it doesn’t exist.
“Peter,” she says. “This is important. Listen.”)
Peter takes it better than she expects. They’re in California, she says, holding the tie to Mozzie firmly in her mind’s eye. The bond is muted over such a distance, but she can feel the faintest traces of alarm rolling through the link. They’ve gotten themselves into some kind of trouble, which really doesn’t surprise her.
(“I can’t leave, El,” Peter says, sounding absolutely miserable. “I need to head up to the hunt for Neal, and they’ll never believe me if I tell them about the whole…”
“I’m a witch,” El tells him gently. “You can say it. Witch. W-I-T-C-H. Neal and Mozzie were teleported by either a demon or an angel. I’d bet on a demon mostly because the angels are an aloof bunch.”
“Okay,” Peter says, looking dazed. “What should I do?”
“Keep the hunt focused in New York,” El tells him. “Propose the theory that Neal has been abducted, Peter, because he probably has.”
Peter closes his eyes. “What if he really did cut and run, El?” he asks, pain clear in his words. “What if he and Mozzie made some kind of deal?” He pauses. “Can you do that? Make deals with demons?”
El sets her jaw. “Yes, you can. But if they did, they’ll be in big trouble from a lot of fronts. And not least of all, me.”)
She books the first plane she can, and throughout the six hour flight, focuses on strengthening her bond with Mozzie. El draws the line at true telepathy, but the bond allows her to feel Mozzie’s general emotions in addition to his location. As she draws nearer, the bond strengthens slowly, enough that more emotions begin to leak through: intent, focus, adrenaline.
Mozzie’s planning a heist.
El takes a deep breath and shoulders her bag as she heads into sunny Cal, not unlike a knight drawing his sword as he heads into war. It takes her just over a hundred dollars and eight hours to locate Mozzie. He’s in a seedy motel in one of the more dilapidated districts of California. El ignores the leers as she walks through the streets-she’s fully aware just how out-of-place she is, and just as aware that if any of them try anything, they’ll have far more than they bargained for. She pushes open the door to the motel and smiles politely at the bored clerk.
(“Hello,” she says, letting the mask slip just a little bit. “I’m looking for somebody. Can you help me?”
The clerk stares at her, and she knows what he’s seeing. “Yeah,” he says, dazed at the apparition. “Sure. Any way I can.”)
El resists the temptation to kick in the door of room 203, because while it’d be dramatically satisfying, she also has a key that she’s charmed from the clerk. Perhaps it’s just as well that she doesn’t go for the dramatic entrance because as she enters, the two occupants of the room jump to their feet and train guns at her almost simultaneously. Neither of them are Mozzie or Neal.
(“The hell?” the shorter one snaps. “How did you get in here?”
“Hmm,” El says. It’s been a while since she’s used that particular persuasion magic, and perhaps the clerk wasn’t quite as convinced as previously thought. Or more likely, she thinks, he’s just been mistaken. “It seems like I’ve gotten the wrong room.”
“Guys,” a familiar voice says, and a very familiar man emerges from the bathroom. “There’s still not a guarantee that-El?”
“Neal,” Elizabeth says grimly as she stares into the eyes of her favorite (well, second-favorite) conman. “You are in deep, deep trouble.”
“You know this woman, Neal?” the shorter one asks, but his gun doesn’t lower.
“Yeah, Dean,” Neal says, looking flustered. “She’s, uh…”
“The wife of your handler,” she says, “and the one who’s going to drag you back to New York. Where’s Mozzie?”
“Is she the demon?” the taller one asks. He backs up to the bed and reaches for something in his satchel, not taking her eyes off her. “I can exorcise her-”
“Hunters?” El says in surprise at the same time Neal says, “No, she’s not.” She frowns and looks from one stranger to another, seeing the signs she hadn’t noticed before. “Mozzie said that you weren’t in the life.”
Neal rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not a hunter,” he says. “Mozzie is, though.” He looks her up and down with a frown. “Wait, are you a hunter too? Really?”
“Close enough,” she says, content to let the misconception slide at least for now. “Fine, then. If you’re not a hunter, what’s going on? Why did you cut ties and leave?” She narrows her eyes. “Are you on the run with the treasure?”
“Treasure?” all three of the men say simultaneously, and it would be funny if she weren’t so irritated. Neal looks at her for a moment and apparently decides that BSing isn’t the way to go, which is a good thing as she has virtually no patience left. “I, ah,” he says. “It’s a long story.”
“Fine,” El says. “I’m not going anywhere. Where’s Mozzie?”
“Using the washing machine downstairs,” Neal says. “He’s paranoid about germs. Maybe we should wait for him?”
“Nope,” El says. “Get started, Neal.”)
It turns out that even witches as experienced as she have new things to learn every day, particularly when it comes to people. The men, she learns, are brothers named Sam and Dean Winchester. They were transported by an angel, although both men decline to give a name. Over the Winchesters’ protests, Neal lays out the situation: they’re here to steal an artifact from a not-very-nice man so that Neal can give it to the angels, who will protect him when the demons come for his soul.
And why exactly do the demons have a claim on Neal’s soul again?
(“I was stupid,” Neal says tiredly. “Stupid and young and scared.” He bites his lip. “When I was twenty-four, I made a deal, El, and it’s almost up. I’ve got less than a week left before I get dragged down to hell.”
He looks scared now. Stupid, young, scared. El wants to hit him and hug him all at once. She settles for the latter. He presses his face against her shoulder and heaves a shaky sigh.
“Fine,” she says once the story’s digested. Mozzie has arrived by now, and he hovers around the doorway, looking like he wants to cut and run for dear life. But he won’t, she knows, because he cares for Neal just as much as she does, just as much as Peter does. Maybe more. “Have you stolen this artifact yet?”
“Nope,” Neal says. He rubs his temples with his palms, looking exhausted. “We’re trying. We were going to do it tonight.” He gives her a half-smile. “Apparently, we’re going after the ashes of Jeroboam. The ashes wither every living thing they touch. It’s an angel weapon, apparently.”
“It was supposed to be used in the Apocalypse,” the bigger one, Sam, says helpfully. “You know, to turn the earth to dust. Since we stopped the Apocalypse, though, I guess it kind of got tucked away in the angel armory until Balthazar sold it.”
“Balthazar’s an ass,” Dean adds helpfully at El’s blank look. “He’s an angel whose job is apparently to make Cas’ life as hard as possible. Goddamn Crowley. We should’ve never given him his bones back.”
“Crowley?” El asks, eyes narrowed. “The king of the crossroads?”
“King of hell now,” Sam says. He looks at her curiously. “What, does that name sound familiar? I wouldn’t be surprised if you tried to hunt him and failed. He’s pretty slippery.”
“Slippery’s the word, all right,” El says darkly. She looks around at the men, feeling more irritated than ever. She doesn’t want to have to do this. She’s mostly mortal, and being anything else after so long is going to hurt. “Damn it, Neal,” she murmurs under her breath.
She can feel him flinch, and the mortal part of her that’s Peter’s wife, a savvy businesswoman, a friend and surrogate mother flinches with him. The rest of her stands cold. “How many more days?” she asks Neal.
Neal swallows, looking pale. “Five days. Maybe less.”
“Cutting it close,” Mozzie grumbles from the doorway. She turns to look at him, but he’s glaring at Neal. “You should’ve told me sooner!”
“I didn’t think that you’d know, Moz,” Neal says softly. “I’d kind of resigned myself to dying.” He looks away.
No, Elizabeth thinks. Not on my watch.)
While the boys plan their heist, El makes her own plans. It’s been a long time since she’s pushed at the barriers of who she is and what she can do. Angels and demons, she thinks with some resigned bemusement. Only Neal could manage to attract such trouble.
With three days left to go, Neal, Moz, Dean and Sam return flushed but triumphant, bearing an urn in tow. El looks at it skeptically until she sees the contents within-dried ashes, nondescript and gray-looking as ashes are wont to be. When Dean dips a leaf inside to demonstrate, though, the leaf withers instantly. The ashes of Jeroboam, El remembers. Best not to mess with them.
(“We should call Cas,” Dean says with a sigh. He tilts his head up and looks at the ceiling. “I always feel so dumb when I do this. Hey, Cas? We found your precious ashes. Mind getting down here to pick them up?”
Silence. Dean frowns. “Dude. You okay up there? Hello?”
More silence. El casts a glance at Neal and Moz and frowns a little inwardly at the looks on their faces. Someone less familiar with them would call it concern, but it isn’t, not quite.
“Maybe he’s busy,” Sam suggests. “Try again later?”
“Something’s wrong,” Dean grumbles, but he does set the urn down. “Damn it. I’ll call him later.”)
Neal’s got that look on his face, she decides, and it’s not just fear from the impending deadline. She corners him with sixty-one hours left, deciding that a talk is long overdue. She may not be mortal for all that much longer, but she’ll give what she can, when she can if she can save Peter and his clever, idiotic charge.
(“Honey,” she says as they stand together in the quiet parking lot. “There’s something you need to tell me.”
He turns to look at her, his mouth twisted slightly to one side. “Well, I’ve been hiding pretty much all this time because I didn’t think anyone would get it. What do you want to know?”
“Why are you using Enochian sigils to conceal us from the angels?” she asks, and the grimace on his face confirms her suspicions. “I thought the point was so you could gain the protection of the angels.”
Neal scoffs. “Do you honestly think that’ll work?” he says flatly. “Even if the angels do keep to their promise, all it would take is for one minute of inattention for demons to strike. It’s safer to bargain directly with the demons.”
“So you’ll make a deal with demons but not with angels?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “Most people would prefer the other way around.”
Neal laughs tiredly. “Well, most people don’t make deals with demons in the first place, El.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Does Peter know?” he says after a moment, and she remembers just how achingly young he is.
She wraps an arm around his shoulders. “He knows enough,” she says gently.
“I should’ve thought you were a hunter,” he mumbles into her sweater. She laughs, and he looks up at her. “I’m sorry, El.”
“Sorry enough to stay?” she asks archly.
Neal looks confused. “I thought that was the whole point.”
She sighs. “If you make it out of this alive, Neal, I want you to promise me to tell Peter about the treasure,” she says, enunciating every word clearly. “I think a part of you wants that, too. Why not make yourself happy?”
“Mozzie’s going to throw a fit,” Neal says. “It’s supposed to be our retirement plan. One last con.”
“Save yourself the trouble, Neal,” she advises. “Go straight. The treasure isn’t yours, and you know it. Give it back to the people it belongs to.”
He swallows hard. “I don’t-”
“Neal.”
“-it’s not fair-”
“Fair?” she says, whapping him around the back of the head. “That treasure wasn’t yours to begin with. Besides. Life isn’t fair. Now do the right thing and-”
“-fine!” he says. “Fine.”
“Good,” she says. She looks at him, curiosity sweeping through her. He made the deal when he was twenty-four, just a few years before his imprisonment, presumably a few years after he met Kate. She wants to know what he wished for, but perhaps there are some things that are too private to be asked. She could find out by looking through the doorways to the past, but that would take too much energy. And she needs all her strength now for what’s about to come. “Neal,” she says finally, and he turns to look at her. “What are you planning to do?”
Neal hesitates. “Steal the urn, drive to a crossroads, and break a new deal tonight.”
“So we still have time?” El asks. “Good. I’m coming along.”)
She takes care of a few last-minute errands. When she gets back to the hotel, it’s to find Sam and Dean sprawled across the bed and drugged out of their minds. Neal and Mozzie jump almost simultaneously as she enters the room. “El,” Neal greets her, and Mozzie gives her a suspicious look. He hasn’t really spoken to her since her arrival, and she wonders if his priorities are really so narrow.
(“We’re, uh, ready to go,” Neal says. He’s got the urn wrapped in a blanket, careful not to let any of the ashes out.
She inspects his wrapping and nods approvingly. “Good,” she says. “I’m coming with you.”
“That might not be the best idea,” Mozzie says, sounding wary. To her surprise, he adds, “If you got your power through a demon, El, I don’t think it’s a good idea if you meet one face to face.”
“Wait, what?” Neal says. “Did you make a deal too, El?”
El sighs. “No, Mozzie,” she says patiently. “Only amateurs need to get power through demons.” She rolls her eyes. “How stereotypical is that?”
Mozzie frowns. “Wait. If you didn’t get power through a demon, then how did you become a witch?”
“You’re a witch?” Neal asks, eyes wide.
“It’s a long story,” she says impatiently. “Can we discuss this later? We’re on a deadline here.”
Neal winces. “Apt choice of words,” he says. “Fine. Let’s go.”)
A crossroads like this is impossible to find in New York, but out here in the more rural areas of California, they soon find one that wouldn’t be out of place in an old Western movie. El stops the car and steps out slowly, feeling the familiar itch spread across her skin that feels welcoming and intrusive all at once. This isn’t who she is anymore, strictly speaking, but it is who she was.
And who she could be.
(Neal’s pale and sweating, looking more nervous than she’s ever seen him before. “Neal,” Mozzie says quietly, coming up to stand by the younger man. “Are you ready?”
“Nope,” Neal says. “But I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be.” He gives Mozzie a weak smile. “Worst comes to worst, it won’t be anything I’m not expecting, anyway.”
“You’re not going to die,” Mozzie says firmly.
Neal sucks in a breath and looks down at the urn in his hands. “El,” he says slowly, not looking up. “If I die-”
“You’re not going to die,” Mozzie interrupts.
“-if I die,” Neal says firmly. “I want Peter to know about the treasure.”
“The hell, Neal?” Mozzie says, sounding upset. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I’m sorry, Moz,” Neal says softly, “but having an axe hanging over your head makes things a lot clearer.” He looks El in the eye. “And tell Peter that I’m really, really sorry for messing this up.”
“Let’s get out of this first,” El says absentmindedly. “We can work that out later.”)
Neal pulls a small box out of his pocket. He bends down and scuffs away some of the dirt, places the box inside the hole, and pushes the dirt back over it. He straightens up and lets out a shaky breath, looking around. El tucks her hands into her pockets and waits.
The demon who appears takes the guise of a young, curvy woman, all seduction and barely concealed edges. Crowley, Neal insists, and it’s a hard fought battle to peel back the layers to the boss. El smiles politely as the demon insults her as a part of the war of words that she and Neal are waging. Neal’s got his conman’s face on, all meaningless smiles and charm, and the two of them circle each other in a delicate, bladed dance of words.
(“Fine,” she snarls finally. Her eyes linger on the urn that Neal holds, covetuous and hateful all at once. “I’ll call him.)
Crowley, when she sees him, is not quite what she expected for the king of the crossroads. A large man with dark hair and shrewd eyes, his voice gravelly and accented. “Well,” he says. Well, she thinks. Is this who commands the crossroads now?
“This better not be a waste of my time,” Crowley says. He looks at Neal, amused and contemptuous all at once. “So what’s this little game you’ve got to play, hmm? I can make your life very interesting if you’ve just called me here for nothing.” A soft growl comes in from the air next to him, and she can see Neal and Mozzie flinch at the sound. Hellhound.
(Mine, she thinks, something dark and territorial rising within her.
Mine, the crossroads sing to her. Yours.)
El steps forward, letting the last few shreds of humanity fall away. It’s not too hard to step edgewise as she once did (modo inter me et sequenti ambulare per aeternitatem) and let time become a cloak to be shrugged off carelessly, becoming inconsequential. “Hello, Crowley,” she says as time freezes around them. “Is this what they’ve made of my place?”
Crowley freezes, and she can see the calculation in his eyes. She waits patiently, calling the hellhound towards her as she does so. Slowly, like a rising sun, she can see the realization dawn in Crowley’s eyes. “Trioditis,” he breathes, and El closes her eyes at the sound of one of her old names. The hellhound relaxes beneath her touch and licks her hand, welcoming her for who she once was.
(She’s always had a way with dogs.)
“You’ve faded,” he snaps. “Your time is past, Triodia. This is the time of the angels and demons now.”
“Just because you’ve appropriated my guise doesn’t mean that I’m gone, Crowley,” she says. Elizabeth the mostly-mortal witch is splintering, breaking up into a thousand pieces to reform in the image of Chthonia, enraged at the audacity of a mere crossroads demon. “I’m still here in every deal that you make, and I will have this one dissolved.”
Crowley looks pale, but he stands his ground. “You have no power here,” he says, his eyes darting from the hellhound under her hand and back. “The Judeo-Christian god rules now, and our story destroyed yours a long time ago.”
“But who are you in the neverending story?” she asks, all smiles and sharp teeth. “You’re not the Morningstar, Crowley, and you’re certainly not god. You’re just a demon playing with something far too big for him.”
“And you’re a faded goddess,” he snaps back. “Hell if I’m going to let you bully me around.” He cocks his head and stares at her. “How long have you been mostly mortal, anyway? Since when did you start getting all soft for a bunch of humans?”
“We adapt,” she says softly. “We hide and we change.”
“Change,” Crowley says sharply. “Things have definitely changed. I’m the king of Hell now.”
“Impressive,” she says. “But how long can you hold it without your hellhounds?”
This has always been the easiest part of her to maintain. Walking the crossroads or balancing the opening between life and death are harder to accomplish in mostly-mortal form, but the dogs are always there, and they always heed to her hand. It began with the black she-dog of no name of so long ago, traversing the centuries until embedded in the current incarnation of a large, deceptively gentle yellow lab. “Careful, Crowley,” she warns as her fingers card through the hellhound’s fur.
“You can’t hold the hellhounds when you’re mortal,” Crowley hisses. “If you want to threaten me, you’ll have to give up your pet humans. Married, are you? With a family? You can’t touch them if you’re immortal.”
“I could hold immortality in my hand again,” she says. “What makes you think I’ll return to mortality so easily?”
“Because you’re in love!” he shouts. “That’s why you’re doing this, aren’t you? Isn’t he your little boytoy?”
“I loved as a mortal,” she says calmly. “But I’m not mortal now, am I?”
“You don’t have the power,” he says quickly. “You’re not who you once were, Trimorphe. You’ve been mortal for far too long.”
She raises her palm slightly, and the hellhound growls at its former master. “You took my story a long time ago, Crowley, and you changed it for your needs,” she says coldly. “But I’m still here, and every deal you make powers me as well.” She smiles. “I’ll always be here.”
Crowley glares at her, rage etched into his face. “This is-this is breaking the rules, Propylaia,” he snarls. “Deals are deals. This young man-” he jabs a finger at the frozen Neal- “made a deal. I kept up my end, and I’m willing to strike another one in exchange for the ashes. But you can’t just vault in here and break it just like that!”
“Life isn’t fair,” she says. “We never thought it was fair when we were displaced by the one you call God. It’s just your unfortunate luck that you took what happened to be mine.”
(The moment stretches, long and sharp and painful. She’s bluffing, so much that she’s surprised that Crowley can’t sense it under the mask. She doesn’t want immortality, she doesn’t want to be a goddess, she doesn’t want to leave. The mortal woman Elizabeth Burke is screaming inside, fighting for a way out.)
“Damn you,” Crowley says, his face twisting into a mask of frustration. “I’ll get you back for this, Haegtesse.” He makes an angry gestures with his hand, and she can feel something release into the air, returning to its rightful owner. “All this for a human soul. You witches must be mad.”
“I am the mother of witches,” she says, keeping her voice as steady as she can. “It holds then, that I am the maddest of them all.”
“Women,” Crowley grumbles. He crosses his arms. “Fine. The human’s soul is his own. Now give me back my sodding hellhound. Or do I have to remodel your house and give you a makeover while I’m at it?”
She runs her fingers through the hellhound’s coarse fur. The texture is unlike that of any mortal dog, and she savors the feel of it running through her hands for one last moment before lifting her hand. “Go,” she says softly. Ad mutuum reddere, cum in corde vos mei.
Crowley grips the hellhound firmly by the scruff of its neck as it returns to him. “This better not become a habit,” he says testily.
“Stay away from me and mine,” she answers as Apotropaia. “And I trust I’ll never have to see you again, Crowley.”
He grumbles indistinctly under his breath and then vanishes, taking the lesser demon with him. She watches the empty space left behind for a moment, humming meditatively under her breath. She’s going to miss this power, she thinks wistfully.
But not as much as she would miss her family.
She lets the power go with a sigh, letting it trickle it back into the fabric of the mythology from whence it came. It was hers once, as much as power can be anybody’s, but to hold it she must become someone that she’s not anymore.
There’s a single precarious moment in which immortal power is stored in a mortal body, and Elizabeth Burke opens her eyes to find time restarting and pain ripping her body apart. She doubles over with a choked gasp, feeling the fragility of mortal life returning to her once more.
People are shouting, and even the dim light of the streetlamp is blinding. From queen of the crossroads, she’s just mostly mortal once more, tied to Peter and Neal and this life she’s made for herself. It’s going to be difficult being mortal again after a taste of that power.
(But it’s worth it.)
-END-