Chapter Text
Crowley poured the last of the coffee into the two mugs, only able to fill them halfway this round. Making sure that Halt could see his face, he grabbed the coffee jar and made an exaggerated face of disgust as he poured a couple spoonfuls into one of the cups for his friend.
“Its not going to kill you, you know,” Halt said from the couch.
“It could if I drank it,” Crowley replied. “It’s practically poison.” He picked up the mugs and brought them over, setting them down on the coffee table in front of him and took a seat on his couch next to his friend.
“Well, good thing it’s not for you then.”
The two friends sat in comfortable silence, but as comfortable as it was, Crowley was searching for something to talk about. Halt had only been visiting Castle Araluen for three days, and the next morning he would be going back to Redmont. It was so rare when he got to see his friend and he wanted to make the most of him.
He looked at Halt as he thought, and caught sight of the light but still visible scar that ran across his right cheek, hidden just underneath his beard. Halt had told him that he had gotten it from some bandits, but nothing more than that. Crowley was interested to hear the full story.
“Where did you get that scar from?” Crowley asked, pointing at his face.
Halt swiped his hand away as he replied shortly, “Some bandits cut me. I thought I told you that already.”
“You have,” Crowley conceded. “But you haven’t told me what actually happened. Who did it? Why did they do it? What were you doing in the first place? I want to know the actual story. You’ve told me all your other scar stories in full. Even the stupid ones.”
Halt didn’t reply at first, instead looked down into his mug. Crowley wasn’t sure if he was imagining things or not, but he could have sworn for a split second something unusual flashed in Halt’s eyes. Hurt.
“Was it not a good experience?” Crowley asked carefully. Halt shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t think getting cut by a blade is ever a ‘good experience'."
“I meant was it worse than the others. Did something else happen? Something you don’t want to talk about?” Crowley usually wasn’t this upfront when it came to personal things. Most of the time, when he could sense someone, specifically Halt, didn’t want to talk about something, he would just not say anything more on the matter and move on. But he sensed there was something more to this. And knowing Halt’s tendencies to keep everything bottled up, he thought it would be healthier if just for once, if Halt shared his burdens.
Halt was quiet for a long while, and Crowley began to doubt if he would say anything else at all, but finally, he spoke.
“It wasn’t a bandit. It wasn’t from anyone like that. He wasn’t even a criminal but God knows how many crimes he’s committed." Halt’s voice was quieter than normal as he talked. Whatever the truth was was clearly a heavy one, and one Halt had kept with no one but himself for probably years.
“Who was it?” Crowley asked, equally as quiet.
“My father.”
Crowley gave a barely audible gasp. Every now and then Halt had shared little tidbits about his father, and he didn’t seem like the greatest guy, but this. This was not what he had expected.
“What happened?”
“We were having dinner, and apparently someone earlier in the day had told him that I was calling myself a boy and that everyone else had pretty much accepted it. He hadn't, and I knew he wouldn't, which is why I never told him. But he knew then, and asked me about it during dinner. He started screaming at me, telling me I was delusional and his daughter and I would always be his disappointing daughter and nothing else. I yelled back at him, and we got into a pretty big fight. Then he must have just snapped, and he picked up a knife and cut me with it.”
Crowley was speechless. Speechless and outraged. How anyone could be so cruel to do that to another innocent human being was beyond him. How anyone could be so evil to do that to their own son was something he guessed only the Devil himself could answer.
“That’s not all,” Halt continued and Crowley dreaded what he was about to hear. “Afterwards, everyone went quiet, and my mum was about to do something I think, but he quickly said that he was sorry and that he didn’t mean to do it, and that he would take me somewhere more private to make sure I was alright and apologise properly.”
Crowley clenched his fists at his side in rage and fear for what was coming next. He had a feeling he knew.
“He did take me to a more private area, but when he got there he immediately began beating me. He was yelling worse than before and calling me slurs, and then he just left me there, pretty much knocked out. I ran away that night, and ended up catching a boat here, so in a way I guess it worked out.” His pathetic attempt at a joke fell flat, just as Halt expected.
Crowley was staring at him, a deep sadness for his friend in his blue and hazel eyes.
Halt didn’t tell him about Ferris, didn’t even mention to him that he had another sibling other than Cailtyn, whom he had talked about before. Crowley was the person Halt trusted the most. Multiple times he had put his life into Crowley’s hands and came out alive, just as he knew he would. He knew Crowley wouldn’t tell anyone about what he learned, and if Halt asked him to he would never bring it up again. He would trust Crowley with the knowledge of Ferris, just as he had trusted him with the knowledge of his father, but he just wasn’t ready to share that story yet. Perhaps one day.
Crowley didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what he could say. He didn’t think a simple, ‘I'm sorry’ would have any effect on Halt. Halt knew he was sorry for him, and expressing that through words wouldn’t change anything. But he didn’t want to just sit there in dumb silence. Surely he had to say something.
Halt seemed to sense his dilemma, and answered it for him.
“You don't need to say anything,” he told him quietly. He knew how much Crowley cared for him, even if it took him a while to accept that. And he knew that Crowley was probably wanting nothing more than to punch his father straight in the face.
“Do you know if he’s still alive?” Crowley asked, confirming Halt’s suspicions.
Halt shook his head. “He died shortly after I left, and thank God for that. He was pretty sick at the time but apparently still well enough to be an abusive piece of shit.”
The last few words were spoken between gritted teeth, and Crowley sensed Halt had a long-harboured resentment and rage towards his father, which was boiling up again now that he was talking about it, and he couldn’t blame him. He moved closer to Halt, and took his hand in his own, holding it tightly.
“At least he’s gone now,” Crowley said, words soft. “He can’t hurt you anymore. No one can.”
Halt didn’t say anything, but Crowley felt him lean closer into him. He put his arm around Halt’s shoulder, slowly at first, wondering if Halt was going to shove him away, but he didn't move, and let Crowley hold him.
They stayed like for a few more minutes, before pulling apart and finding something else and more light hearted to talk about. The rest of the night went on with nothing to bring the mood back down, but Crowley would never forget what he learned that night, and he prayed that Halt’s father was rotting in Hell, right where he belonged.