integrity | [IC CONTACT FOR ADSTRINGENDUM.]

[No active post and you need to get ahold of Crowley? Come here!]

Because it's personal and private.

[Crowley raises his bottle to his lips before he adds to himself, under his breath:]

And I'm a terrible cockroach.

Probably.

[Celestial being angel hearing etc. She toys with her wine bottle with one hand, bottle squeezed between her knees.]

I've known some good cockroaches in my time. They're bad people who throw great parties.

[She looks at him sharply, as if seeing him all of a sudden.]

Stop moping, Crowley. It's unattractive!

[Which is so important wow.]

I am not a --

[But the sharp retort is cut off by her continued... well, drunkeness, as Crowley has to stare at her for a few moments, because he honestly didn't expect that out of her mouth anytime soon.

It's enough for him to stop sulking and for his lips to twitch into a faint smirk, returning his attention to his own bottle of liquor.]

I just want it known that I'm never going to allow you to forget you just said that.

[And he gently inclines his bottle toward her before taking a drink.]

Cheers, my favorite psychopath.

I'm not a psychopath!

[R U D E.]

Not anymore.

[... She takes a hilariously sullen drink of wine.]

At least I'm your favorite.

I have met thousands of psychopaths in my line of work, my dear, and you are forever my favorite one.

[It's said honestly (though Crowley does hold something of a soft spot for Castiel, the little crazy bastard), albeit with a slight laugh as he swishes around his scotch in the bottle, entertained.]

I doubt very much I'll meet anyone else with your particular set of skills and expertise in my future.

Most likely not.

[Now her sulking is giving way to a bit of a smile as a thought careens through her mind.]

I am good. Memories taste like manna.

[She smiles but there's a fleeting moment of confusion because, what the fuck is manna and why does she remember what it tastes like?]

[Crowley looks over at her, a little surprised himself before he laughs abruptly. It's a sharp sound, but genuinely amused, and Crowley even lets himself lean up against a bit of debris on the roof to look up at the stars properly.]

You are good.

[He repeats it as he allows the bottle of scotch to rest against his leg, letting the statement dwell on his tongue a bit before continuing.]

My memories taste a bit less excellent than that, given their overly extended cook time.

[Hell jokes are the best jokes.]

[She leans back on one hand and her head lolls towards him carelessly.]

You're no older than the rest of us, Hades.

[It's meant as a tease, like calling someone by their full first name when only their grandmother does that.]

Crowley.

[It's a gentle correction, but a firm one, and he resumes his attention toward the sky.]

It rolls off the tongue much more easily.

Whatever you say.

[She lets her head roll back so she can watch the sky too, and shifts her weight to her other arm so she can lift the wine bottle. The shift in position has her leaning towards him, their shoulders touching.

Then, under her breath-]

Princess.

[Crowley leans his shoulder a little more into hers, allowing for the invitation for her to lean against him if she needs it -- but then she has to go and open her fucking mouth and the demon is sorely tempted to get up and let her fall over.

That, however, would be a waste of good liquor.

Crowley, if anything, has a good sense of humor regarding himself, though, and he lets the jib slide before continuing.]

Want to hear something hilarious that you won't find funny in a week?

[She looks over, eyebrows raised and a smile tugging at her lips. It's pretty hilarious that he thinks she'll just magically stop liking everything in a week- in a week, he keeps saying, or next week. Whatever. Weirdo.

She just smiles.]

What.

[He has no idea why he's telling her this except for the fact that he thinks it's pretty hysterical.]

When I first took control of Hell, after the turmoil and mayhem had cleared out and the demons were used to me, they thought they were being clever and called me Lucky the Leprechaun behind my back when they thought I couldn't hear them.

[The joke was on them, as Crowley doesn't really take offense to people laughing at him, because he knows how truly marvelous he is, but he looks back on it pretty fondly.]

[Ah, yes, when he took control of the Underworld. Naomi remembers, she supposes, when she tries hard enough. His little story gets him a proper laugh that she won't echo in a week when she remembers everything, but honestly- it really is funny. He's so serious and perpetually irritated that imagining him as Lucky the Leprechaun is hilarious.

She leans into him and laughs and then straightens up, looking somewhat intent.]

That's it. Your memories taste like marshmallows- burnt on the outside.

[Crowley returns the laugh with half a grin, because getting a laugh out of Naomi is twice as difficult as it is getting one out of Castiel, and he feels pretty accomplished despite the fact that she's obviously not herself -- but the grin is soon wiped away with indignance and he scoffs, rolling his eyes back to the sky.]

I'm many things, but a marshmallow isn't one of them.

That, my friend, is what we call irony.

[And that actually sounds like her, through the veil of Animus and alcohol, and there's a strong glitter of Naomi in those amused eyes.]

[He looks over at her, arching his eyebrows in challenge, almost daring her to continue -- but Crowley doesn't push his limits.

In that respect, anyway.

Instead, the demon gently brushes his hand against her face before tapping his fingers against her cheek, the beginnings of a smirk forming.]

You're drunk.

[It's said decidedly, and Crowley lets his hand drop.]

A bit too drunk to be rattling off about ironic marshmallows to Kings of Hell.

And I brought you alcohol.

[She doesn't even deny the drunk thing. Instead, she reaches up and grabs his face almost gently- not roughly, exactly, but not exactly a kid-gloves touch, all hand against his chin and long fingers wrapping his jaw. It's how a great and terrible creature like an angel does a gentle caress when they don't know you very well.]

Try catching up.

[Crowley gently catches her wrist in a hand -- not enough to yank her hand away from his face, but enough to indicate that she's not doing this properly, and he eyes her for a few moments.

She's a dangerous creature, but Crowley knows her extraordinarily well, and he knows that Naomi is unlikely to hurt him unless he does something to provoke her. Such things usually involve screaming at one another and a large amount of bloodshed and neither are necessary in this universe.

So, instead -- he goes with what he knows works.]

Patience, my darling.

[It's said finally, as he undoes her fingers from his face, gently catching her hand in his own to press his lips against the back of her hand with an obscene amount of care.]

One of us has to be able to get off the roof.

Why?

[She watches his kiss with an intense fascination, locked-in and oddly charmed by him, by this god she's never paid more than cursory, polite attention to before. Leaving the roof sounds stupid, when they could easily stay here until the sun comes up and they sober up. Her fingers curl around his own.]

We could sober up here.

I'd love to, but I need to feed the dogs.

[He says it as if it's literally the most pressing thing in the world. Mostly because he knows that when Naomi remembers this week, she will groan, because to Crowley, it is.]

Let them hunt.

[She's ostensibly talking about him drinking, but leans in when she says it, because this is clearly a conversation that has to happen from two inches away.]

[Crowley almost groans at the less-than-subtle attempt to inch closer because angels, they're all the same and absolutely no sense of poetry or significance in their actions.

Far be it for Naomi to make the first move.

So the demon leans forward, nearly brushing his lips against hers before he trails them across her cheek instead, pressing them gently against her ear to murmur:]

I'm not risking eternal damnation when you wake up, love.

As I said, someone need to be able to get off the roof.

[And monitor Naomi's apparent inability to make good life choices.]

[At least when Naomi gets in close, it's because she has a goal in mind. It isn't just violating personal space to talk about the weather.

Also, drunk.

But some of that poetry creeps back into her actions when she turns a fraction of an inch but doesn't take the opportunity to kiss back, speaking low against his ear instead.]

I don't need a babysitter, Crowley. I'm a grown up.

[He grins a little at her reciprocation, gently running his fingers down her arm, bringing his hand back up to toy with her hair briefly.]

Of course you don't, why would you?

[In a quiet breath of laughter, stilling his hand at her elbow.]

I can do this all night, darling.