Work Text:
Hmm, a demon lover. Now that’s interesting. Crowley picked up the extravagant black fountain pen encased in an intricate sterling silver vine design, unscrewed the cap, and scribbled the name that Olivette provided. He gave the folded paper to his minion, then left the hamster to run on her wheel. The throne that he worked hard to obtain was calling to him.
Crowley was tired. He didn’t require sleep nor sustenance, but he was tired nonetheless. If he had a soul, it would be weary. But that was part of the problem, wasn’t it? That damned Moose had started to cleanse him and return his soul. Suppose there really was a soul buried deep, small as a seed and encrusted in miles of tar? Could it be cleaned off, picked out, and expanded to fill his entire being? Poppycock. He wasn’t sure he could truly forgive Sam for putting him in this predicament. For drilling a small hole and exposing where his soul should be.
Staring into nothingness, his mind wandered to a period of time where he was chained in a warded dungeon, unaware that his hand snaked into his jacket pocket. A finger smoothed across the corner of a paper wrapper that had come loose. His fist wrapped fully around the small cylindrical object, then loosened and let it fall into the silk lined depths. A finger dipped down and ran its pad across the smooth surface of one end; his pinkie sat plumb on the flat edge of the other end.
Realizing what he was doing, he pulled the object out of his pocket. Pigmented wax, shorter than when it was fresh and new, part of the tight wrapping torn away.
My dear. He could feel the jealousy radiating from it. It is only for appearance’s sake. The King of Hell can only be seen using- Crowley didn’t continue that thought. It was impossible to pick words that would not insinuate one was better than the other. You will always be my favorite, my darling.
The hamster wheel groaned in protest of its use, snapping Crowley back to his surroundings. He placed his beloved Black Crayon in his breast pocket, patting it twice to affirm his love. Striding to the desk atop which lay the offending fountain pen, he opened the drawer and placed it in the back. He would use it when needed, to keep up appearances, but the least he could do at the moment for his beloved Crayon was to remove it from sight.
One more loving pat on his breast pocket. Always my favorite.