Coil

It's been a good night for Coil- well, okay, "Sheila", rather. The date had gone pretty well, sort of average, actually, by date standards? It had gone fantastic.

Dean Winchester was a freaking mess of chaotic impulses and repression, and she couldn't have picked him out more perfectly if she'd plucked him off the shelf. This online dating thing was pretty hit or miss sometimes, but this time was definitely a hit. Another bit of modern culture she could really get used to. Dean was cheerful enough company, easy on the eyes, and with a little nudging, promised enough potential to keep her buzzed into the next decade or until he blew a head gasket, whichever came first.

So the afternoon had been worthwhile, and it was with great glee that she kicked off her boots and shed her jacket in the comfort of her own little apartment.

Her current apartment wasn't in the worst part of town, but it wasn't the best, either, and she was just fine with that. The more colorful the local company, the better as far as she was concerned, so long as there weren't too many interruptions from local law enforcement and everyone, well, stayed the hell out of her stuff. Coil didn't sleep, but she did have other maintenance needs and pleasures, and it was a place to keep the things she actually did use, because as flexible as appearance could be...

She guessed playing dress-up was part of her. Every doll needed a wardrobe and she actually liked clothes. It was a part of human expression that fascinated her, like an entire language in itself. Proof of that was scattered all around the little place, scarves and jackets and magazines and posters draped, hung, and nailed everywhere to cover the absence of other things that might be noticed, like a near-complete lack of toiletries and the incredibly sparse kitchen. Lair, sweet lair, at least until she moved on, but half the fun of a new place was starting all over again with a different theme.

And with the promise of a new fish on the hook, she could sprawl out, enjoy her current situation, and maybe see what was on cable. It wasn't as good as live, but not bad for a nightcap with maybe a glass of that nice chardonnay she still had around here somewhere. Coil was pretty sure she could find something with lots of obsession and backstabbing with pretty jewelry thrown in. Obsession and backstabbing over pretty jewelry would be even better, even.

But language of clothes or not, she didn't need to see the boots in the hall outside to know that they were not very happy, and with a scowl, she sits up, waiting to see if the boots are going to knock, or just lurk and see what she's up to.

There's music playing upstairs, glasses clinking, people laughing. Her maker is throwing a party, and poor little princess that she is, she wasn't invited.

Coil sits silently on the padded bench in the workroom, hands arranged primly in her lap and ankles crossed demurely. For now, for the moment, like a good girl, she's just a doll, all pretty and painted and patient, wooden limbs arranged in a proper pose for display like the fine piece of work she is. Just a fine piece of work.

But that's okay. She already knows her maker is thinking about her, and all the little touches that still need finishing. He'll laugh, he'll chat, he'll be the good host, but in the back of his mind he'll be distracted by slim wooden fingers, painted lips, how lovely she looks in the dress he found for her and how when they're alone, all her attention is just for him. No one makes him feel like she does, whispers in his ears and gazes at him adoringly, and once she's finally finished, he'll never need anything else again. She can already see it in the way he hurries down the stairs to be with her, the way he stays hours past when he should have slept and well beyond when sunrise and sunset have lost all meaning.

So she can wait. Listen to the sounds of revelry above, and just smile her quiet, secret smile to herself. The crowd upstairs might think they have him for a little while, but he already belongs completely to her.