Title: Muffins, etc.

Disclaimer: I don't own. But I want a muffin now. Crowley-made, of course.

Summary: In which Crowley brings a basketful for Dick Roman, and reflects upon it afterward.

Characters: Crowley

Notes: inspiration, what a funny little jerk. Oh well, this is a slight coda for Slash Fiction, although it might not be. I dunno. At any rate, I loved this idea and playing with Crowley was fun. Rated for a few little words, as well as double-meanings. Hope it humors.

Words: 760

It wasn't about the rejection.

In a way, Crowley had been expecting as much. Big nasty crawled up from solitary and wants to take over the world. Not, of course, that it was anything to the King of Hell; pave it over and put up a car park for all he cared. He'd only been offering his help, was all.

Because the world wasn't that great anymore. And things were looking… up in the fiery pit, figuratively speaking. Which hadn't been light work, mind you. Fine tuning lax polices, training out years of negligence and mindless carnage- it was not an easy task. Because when it came down to it: demons were like dogs. Mangy flea-bitten mongrels that reeked and whined and got into the garbage when you weren't looking. And that saying about old habits? The same was true with demons.

Although the "dying" was more literal, and, oftentimes, messier.

So yeah, things on the rise and new shark in the pond. Crowley just thought he'd take a crack at diplomacy. Extend the olive branch. Put on his best Stepford and welcome the head parasite to the neighborhood.

And he'd been thinking how ironic it was before he even popped into that plush interior. Dick Roman.

But, it wasn't about the rejection. Or even the name calling. Which, while creative, was hardly necessary.

Because Dick Roman, head Loch Ness in charge, was a… well. Yeah.

Still, Crowley had bristled a little at his arrogance. Age really had nothing to do with it.

So they were first off the bus, fine, but a lot of world had been revolved onward while they'd rotted in Purgatory. Centuries, in fact. Crowley remembered using that time well. Plenty of fantastic little modifications slipped into the blueprints of history, lots of micromanaging; he had always been ahead of the collective. For once it would have been nice to have a modicum of respect. Even the slightest appreciation just didn't seem too much to ask.

But, then: Dick Roman.

So maybe Crowley had ulterior motives. But could one really blame the former King of the Crossroads? The Golden Age of deals was over. Even the Apocalypse had come and gone. This big marble in space was fast losing it's shine, and, if he wanted to be honest, a pack of well-behaved dogs just wasn't as thrilling as beasts let loose from their chains to wreak unspeakable horrors. Perhaps a black-goo corporate takeover was just the business venture he needed, a little pick-me-up. Their competitive strategy was quite impressive to say the least, and betting on the currently-winning team was always a matter of preference.

It really was a shame what a few dealings with the feathery crowd could do for a demon's reputation.

But, right, it wasn't about any of those things, rejection orthe maddening superiority complex.

It was about the muffins.

The whole damn basket of do you know how hard it is to find 100% organic grade A baby uvulas in this economy muffins.

Crowley had stayed up all night going positively cross-eyed trying to perfect the recipe. Because he wasn't a baker; Crowley had never even looked twice flour. It wasn't a hobby or even a specialty he'd been leaving off his resume. It was an experiment, a one time thing… at which he had been surprisingly good. He'd even enjoyed it a little, once he got the hang of the differences between dry and liquid measurements, and why it was crucial not to over-beat.

So when Dick kicked him out, it didn't mean as much as when his muffins went flying out the window at the next stoplight. Basket and all.

There was the principle of it all to consider: no matter what wound the big bad oozed out of, principle still ought to count for something.

Leviathans be damned. Humans be damned. Hell be… whatever.

Maybe he needed a new day job. This one just wasn't what the brochure had promised. Too much stress, and no personal incentive; everything was done to further the communal bad with a payoff that just wasn't what it used to be. Also, the neighborhood was getting a little crowded.

But muffins didn't threaten to scrub you off the face of existence.

And the apron wasn't bad either.

So perhaps he could find a quiet little bakery and conveniently disappear when the levy broke. Throw in the towel, pass the torch, let someone else put their name on the door… ha, wasn't that a ridiculous notion.

And, yet…

Crowley, the Baker.

Sounds fluffy.