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English
Series:
Part 10 of The Prophet and The King
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Published:
2022-04-05
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1,661
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1/1
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24
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Pink Is For Little Girls (or The Problem With Colour Theory)

Summary:

Tempers flare over a misunderstanding and discussions on Lucifer and colour theory commence. In the end we are all probably in agreement that Gabriel is to blame for some of it.
A bit of fluff sparked by a tumblr post.

Notes:

So I was scrolling through tumblr minding my own business and I ran across an Lake Natron article on the lesser flamingos of Lake Natron and they cemented themselves firmly in my head under the category of bad ass survivors, and that got me thinking… and then I remembered a piece of fan canon … and well this little gem was born.

This story is set at a later date within "What Is And Came To Be" from the prophet and the king series. But you can read it as a stand alone as a bit of silly fun.

Enjoy!

Work Text:

“Seriously Crowley! It was bad enough with the white, but what the heck made you think dressing me in pink was any better?!” 

Crowley looked up to find the latest Prophet pouting at him from behind the pink satin Atelier Versace he’d picked up for her to wear to the opera that evening.

Rocking his head to one side by way of irritated inquiry, he just stared at her. The dress wasn’t even that revealing, and it was designed to flatter her somewhat lacklustre assets. What possible issue could she have now?

“Pink is for little girls!”

He smirked and eyed all five feet of her up and down. “Then, I’d say it is entirely appropriate.”

The pint sized prophet glared at him, her little freckled nose scrunched comically above those pretty, green pussycat eyes. “I’m not a ruddy child Crowley! I’m not a toddler with a princess fetish, who wants to be dressed up in glitter and candy floss. I’m a forty year old woman with a university degree and four kids. I am not a doll for you to dress up for your amusement! Pink is for little girls, for females who aren’t in double digits yet. Even with the weird de-aging thing you did on me, when you brought me back. That is not me!” Ma Cherie glared at him looking militant. 

“What I’m hearing is that you’re having a tantrum over the colour of your dress, Pet.”

“Tantrum,” she scoffed. “Just admit it, this—” she shook the dress at him, “is another way to demean me and point out how pathetic you think I am! You’re the one being petty and childish, not me.”

“That dress is an Atelier Versace.” He snarled back in irritation. “Most fully grown adult women, actresses men jack off to, would be thankful of the privilege to wear it. Would go down on their knees in gratitude; knowing how much that bloody dress cost.”

“You don’t know ‘most fully grown adult women!’ Admit it Crowley, the only women you know are vapid narcissists and gold diggers, who’d exchange oral sex for practically anything with a big price tag.”  

That was at least partially true, most women he had day to day contact with were demonic or pre-demonic whores. Creatures that wore said and did things, or people, entirely for the optics and how others perceived them, or their value in dollars, power and influence. 

He could have taken any number of fuckable pieces of eye candy to the opera dressed up in Versace, and they’d have been… grateful — but only to be seen there, moving in the social circle of the elite and privileged.  
He admitted that to himself resentfully as the two of them faced off.

He’d wanted to take the Prophet with him to this performance of La Boheme because he thought she might actually enjoy the experience, for the experience itself; rather than for the prestige of being able to attend. He’d thought that she might appreciate the emotion and music. Perhaps he’d even dared hope she might enjoy entertainment more geared to a thinking adult— specifically with him. Instead of the usual Disney Pixar animations she was forced to watch with the children. Because he wanted an actual companion for once. Being King of Hell, there had been nothing lonelier than facing the fact; that no matter how hard he tried to be more, he would only ever be a rung on the ladder, or a fancy prop to any demonic partner de jour.

Her vitriol stung, because he’d chosen the pale pink colour and princess-like cut of the dress, specifically because he hadn’t wanted her to look like his whore. Not because he didn’t respect her, or wanted to mock and demean her; but because he saw her as something finer and better than that.

But, he’d rather cut out his tongue than explain himself or expose that kind of vulnerability, now or ever.

“Different cultures and time periods often have different perceptions of colour.” He said instead. “Pink only became thought of as a weak or exclusively feminine colour in the late 1940’s. In the 1920’s the stereotype of blue is for boys and pink is for girls was actually reversed, Pet. Being as, pink was thought of as just a shade of red, which was more often associated with blood and violence. In comparison to pastel blue, pink was thought to be the stronger and thus more masculine colour.”

The prophet frowned at him; mistrustful and tensed for some renewed sign of mockery.

“Did you know that there is only one living terrestrial creature that thrives in Hell.”

“Let me guess, cockroaches.”

“No, flamingos.”

“Flamingos?” She repeated in surprise. 

He nodded. “Bloody things are near on indestructible, even on earth. They’re where the original myth of the Phoenix came from.”

“But I thought Phoenix’s—“

“The creature that the Winchesters shot and used to kill Eve, the mother of monsters, was named after the myth.”

“Lawn ornaments don’t burst into flame and resurrect themselves from their ashes.”

“Some of those bloody lawn ornaments, the ones that went on to infest hell, came from Tanzania. Lake Natron, it’s a volcanic alkaline salt lake with water so hot and caustic that it kills, scalds and mummifies anything stupid enough to go near it. Yet those stilt legged abominations spend all day with their faces buried in it, sieving out some equally indestructible microbe that stains the water blood red.”

“cyanobacteria.”

“What?”

“They’re probably cyanobacteria, or haloarchaea, they like salt too, but Cyanobacteria or blue-green algae, they aren’t actual algae because they lack a nucleus. They’re bacteria that can photosynthesise and live in extreme environments like volcanic vents. The red colour is probably—“ the prophet kept prattling on in some kind of scientific tidal wave of information that showed no sign of abating; until he cleared his throat to derail her. 

“My point was. That my perspective on the colour pink is affected by far more than yours. Mine has been shaped by exposure to decades and realms, that your more recent perspective cannot fathom. To many in hell, pink symbolises strength and resilience.” 

The prophet scoffed. “Yeah, sure, people actually put flamingos on their front lawns to scare people away, because they are just sooo intimidating.”

“Lucifer thought they were.”

“Pardon?”

“Lucifer’s wings, they’re pink. Lilith told me he chose the colour because of how badass he thought flamingos were, being as they were the only living, earthly creatures to thrive in hell.”

The woman stared at him wide eyed, then started giggling.

He smirked back and tipped his head. “Come to think of it, I’d lay bets on Gabriel being the one behind the gender colour reversal in the 1940’s.”

The prophet bit her lip, still giggling and clutching the dress.  “I bet you’re right,” she said, with a little answering smirk of her own, “that sounds exactly like something Gabriel would have done. Do you… think Lucifer would have ever found out? Imagine all the younger demons sniggering about him having pretty pink, little girl, fairy Princess wings behind his back. It would’ve been priceless.” 

Never, in all those broken up visions of possible futures, had he seen such a thing.  Though, if he’d had the same interpretive colour bias the prophet did, he would have joyfully started whispering it himself, behind the bastard’s back; out of pure spite.  
But Lucifer was gone, locked in that bombed out apocalypse version of the universe, through that now healed rift; and Crowley vehemently hoped they’d never see the archangel again. 

“Perhaps Gabriel was also behind the plastic lawn ornament craze.” He mused, and was utterly tickled by the thought. “As Lilith tells it, Gabriel was the one that released the bloody flamingos into hell in the first place.”

“So you really weren’t mocking me?” The prophet asked, her face suddenly incredibly earnest and hopeful.

“You have my honest assurance.” He responded gravely.

“Ummm well, ahhh… I’m sorry then.” She stopped and tilted her head. “And your insistence on dressing me in white?  It’s not because of the joke, about wedding dresses being white because that’s the most popular colour for kitchen appliances?”

It was his turn to be startled.
He raised a brow at the implications.
“Darling, I dress you in white for the same reason I dress in black. Colour is one of the most readily recognised declarations of affiliation there are. Black and white, opposing sides, like chess. You are a prophet of the lord, one of the good guys. While I—”

“—You’re the King of Hell.” She finished for him, her expression pensive.  

“Exactly.” 

She muttered something under her breath which sounded like ‘colour theory’ and ‘children’s hospital.’ He didn’t understand the reference and doubted he was supposed to. 

Then, she shook her head.
“I’m sorry Crowley, I misconstrued and overreacted,” she said  succinctly. “I just hate being treated like a kid, and being written off as a joke.  
I… ummm… I’ll go get dressed.”

He smiled at her then. “Good girl,” he congratulated her condescendingly; partially teasing, and caught her rolling her eyes at him with a rueful half smile. 
“La Boheme is considered to be one of the finest operas, it would have been such a pity to miss it, over a dress.”

Watching the Prophet’s retreat, Crowley found himself once again stymied by the disconnect between their two world views.  

Lilith had worn the meat-suit of an actual child fairly constantly, and she had been the most terrifying and intimidating demon Crowley had ever faced. 

Fact was, the prophet’s somewhat childlike face and form would catch him unawares at times; and it would plunge him straight back into the sick, gut wrenching terror from the ‘games’ Lilith had played with him when he’d been strapped to the rack. If there was one honest thing he could say, it was that he didn’t find anything about a childlike appearance benign or easily disregarded

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