sirenspull | video.

[ the video reveals an older man, thin nearly to the point of being skeletal, dressed sharply in a black suit and with his black hair slicked back. he's sitting neatly on a bench somewhere under a street-light, surrounded by the darkness. he seems comfortable enough with it, though-- it suits him.

there's a silver-headed cane propped against the bench beside him, a drink in a paper cup next to his thigh, and he's balling up the foil from what looks to have been some kind of chili-dog. there's no telling how his device is propped up, because it simply seems to be hovering in the air.

he finally glances up at it, black eyes strange and somehow terrifying despite his relatively harmless appearance and mild expression. long fingers curl around the cup and he takes a sip through the straw before seeming to settle on what he wants to say, his words deliberate and tone even, hinting at no particular emotion beyond perhaps the faintest trace of annoyance. ]

Well. So much for the star that I was rather occupied with. How is it I wind up on this dismal little planet so often.

[ he licks his thumb, setting aside the foil. ]

I suppose I could blame it on a certain significant other--[ chuck, he's looking at you. 8| ]--being rather himself. Or the Winchesters, perhaps, given their remarkable lack of self-preservation as a family. Or the little winged children bickering so much.

[ a pause, gaze lifting again, intense and disturbing. ]

Well. Shall we all coexist peacefully, then, or will I need to turn someone over my knee?

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[Crowley could focus on a lot of things, like the fact that Death and God are apparently fucking, or the Winchesters being to blame for this, or the angels being called children. But instead, Crowley focuses on something else extraordinarily important. His tone is lazy, dismissive, and utterly nonchalant, but there is something in the way the demon sits that indicates that he means absolutely no disrespect. This is Death -- Death, the Horseman, and while Crowley had a very heavy hand in binding him the second time, he certainly doesn't want the Horseman for an enemy.

Still, he has an image to uphold. And that image includes being as insufferably blase as possible.]

How insulting. You forgot me.

[ he smiles thinly, thumb rubbing absently over the face of his ring. ]

Oh, don't concern yourself on that point, Crowley. I haven't forgotten you at all.

[ the dark eyes find crowley's, holding his gaze. ] Do watch your tone, yes? I could be persuaded to forget your hand in that little chaining fiasco.

[Facing down Dick Roman without so much as an eyelash flutter was nauseating. Facing down Death while looking calm and composed was downright terrifying. Still, Crowley keeps his gaze locked on Death's, his fingers folding together in his lap.]

Come now, that wasn't all me. I was cleaning up my messes. Someone needed to be put into timeout.

[And he sinks slightly into his chair, eyes narrowing slightly.].

As it were, it won't happen again. Binding anyone is pointless here and besides, that's Lucifer's style, not mine. Let's call it water under the bridge and have tea, shall we?

[ his smile goes thinner, knife-like, expression otherwise still cool and even. ]

If you hadn't made the mess in the first place, it wouldn't have required clean-up. But then, as underhanded and devious as you are, your Hell is still preferable to Lucifer's mess.

[ he pulls a pocket-watch out of his jacket, flicking it open to peer down at the time (as if he ever actually needs to-- death is always exactly on time, no matter how early or late others might think him). ]

Yes, let's. You're a demon of apparent good taste, so I suppose I might trust your judgment on a cafe. Shall we say lunch instead?

I doubt you would care to understand my level of perspective on the matter.

[After all, for all of his self-importance, Crowley knows his place when it came to Death. It was why he was halfway across the astral plane when the Winchesters summoned him. He would have nothing to do with the ire of the Horseman.]

There is a lovely place in Sector 3 that Castiel and I frequent. It's suited to your tastes.

[And Crowley sends the coordinates.]

What time do you expect me to be there?

Oh, I understand. I'm rather removed from it, of course, but I realize the size of the task you'd both undertaken.

[ that doesn't mean he approves, of course.

he tilts his head slightly, a knuckle running thoughtfully over his jaw. ]

Arrive when you like. I'll be there.

[He arrives promptly twenty minutes later, after a cursory sweep of the house for Castiel. He wasn't there, as was custom whenever Crowley needed him, but no matter. Cas could go sulk angrily about the truth and Crowley could handle this properly.

He appears outside of the cafe, stepping inside to glance around for Death. If he is there, he will make his way over. If he is not, he will select his favorite table by the window to wait.]

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