Chapter Text
Alice stares at her parents as they sit around the dinner table, one chair empty on her right where Percy should be sitting.
She never imagined she’d think this, but she actually feels Percy’s absence at the table, despite normally reveling in one on one time with her dads. She digs her fork into her chicken with little gusto, avoiding her parents' stares as they hope she leads the conversation, per usual.
Dad is the first one to speak since they sat down, unable to handle the sound of silverware scraping against plates for a moment longer.
“How’s your ballet coming along, Alice?” he asks, and then shoves too much rice into his mouth. He’s purposefully out of commission to speak for a good handful of seconds.
Alice looks up from her plate, desperately trying to avoid Papa’s face. It had taken both of her parents' reserves to restore Percy back to full health, and Papa’s battery, per se, was already half-charged due to growing their celestial baby. He’s completely wiped, hand against his chin as he holds himself up at the table and forces food into his upset stomach.
“Miss Caroline has put me in the back because she says I struggle to hold my relevés.” She rolls her eyes, and takes a drink of milk. “And I’m apparently not recital ready, so I told her that this isn’t the London Coliseum, and she should go teach there if she wants to be picky.”
Crowley almost spits out his rice.
“Oh dear,” is all Papa manages to muster, his voice hoarse.
“I did say sorry, if that counts for anything.” She looks to Papa now that he’s spoken, but his eyes are somewhere far away, fixed on the magnets and pictures that decorate the fridge.
Dad clears his throat, having swallowed the last of the rice. “It does, it does. Take it from me, I’m a demon.”
“Chief of the morality police,” Papa adds, face twisting as he rubs a soothing hand over his sensitive tummy.
How can he be so close but so far away? Alice thinks, and puts another piece of lemon oregano chicken in her mouth. She chews thoughtfully, twisting in her chair to face Papa a bit more. Oh, she just wants to hug him, or tug on his earlobe to make him swat her away but still show a reserved smile. Or, squish up next to him and throw baby names at his belly and see which ones, if any, get the baby to react now that she can feel movements too.
The latter has been her favorite game lately, and she has just a tiny inkling he feels the same, as long as the baby isn’t reacting to names like Uriel or Dagon, which he does not find amusing at all.
Dad had joined her in the bathroom while she was washing her hands before dinner, and told her that Papa was feeling very drained from not only the joint miracle, but the entire day. He didn’t need to tell Alice anything else, as a drained, pregnant Papa meant no touching unless he initiated first, no whining, and listening to his orders on the first go.
Of course, the last two were a given with Papa in any state, but Alice was allowed to be ten-years-old most of the time.
“We don’t have to read tonight, Papa.” She quickly changes the subject after Papa stifles a yawn into his hand. “I was thinking Gogglebox with Daddy and then I’ll just go to sleep. Maybe we can do double chapters tomorrow?”
“Gogglebox is back on?” Crowley raises his brows, setting his knife and fork down with dramatic over-excitement. “You mean the fair lady is bestowing her presence on the sofa tonight?”
Alice ignores his theatrics and tries to hide the fact that her dad was very close to making her smile. “I am still cross with you, by the way… but not with you anymore, Papa. You get a pass. How is my baby?”
Aziraphale’s lips twitch upwards, just for a brief moment. He ignores her question, enjoying the power he has over the fiery ten-year-old. He had just four months left to use the baby as leverage.
So he pushes her plate closer to her. “Make sure you finish those carrots, down to the last one.”
She gets to it with fervor, which Aziraphale tuts at.
“Hang on a minute — how did I end up with the short end of the stick? You’re still cross with just me and that Scottish bugger is gonna be on our telly?” Crowley feigns annoyance, switching up on her in a way that makes Alice giggle, mouth full of carrot. “The world wounds me.”
Alice sticks her tongue out at him, but makes sure not to blow one of her famous raspberries. Papa hates when she does them; he’s told her often that they’re unsanitary and unbecoming, but she could get away with just her tongue out. She’s lucky Papa doesn’t see this, the angel is standing and twisting in a languid stretch. He waves a hand at his middle, and gives her free reign.
“You just aren’t on board with you two resembling one another,” Papa chides at Daddy, watching as Alice carefully unbuttons his straining, beloved waistcoat. “But it’s uncanny.”
“Nuh-uh.” Daddy stabs at his chicken. “M’still not buying it. It’s just an excuse for you to have a celebrity crush. He’s all gangly. And floppy. He’s probably a total knob.”
“Language,” Papa gently admonishes, giving Daddy’s shoulder a light thwack. “I seem to recall I gave you no strife when you insisted we watch the first season of Prodigal Son twice over within a week,” Aziraphale counters, taking a steady breath as Alice pokes and prods at his belly through his dress shirt. He could do without this, but Alice deserves it after the day she’s had. He is thankful it’s so endearing, and that at least one of his two kids was so interested in their unborn sibling and his overall well-being.
“You do look like that guy, Papa.” She stares up at him with her big, stormy-blue eyes. “Your noses!”
“Martin Freeman has the very same nose,” he says as he takes one of her hands, and presses it where he feels a foot. She beams at him.
“Where’s her head, then?”
“Last time Daddy checked, just about here,” Papa points to a spot just below his right ribs. Alice cups the area with both of her hands, and leans her face close to it. She begins to whisper to the baby.
“Secrets don’t make friends,” Daddy says.
“It’s girl talk, Daddy,” Alice shrugs at Crowley, as if he couldn’t possibly understand. Little did she know, Crowley could. That was a conversation for another day. “She just gets me.”
They’re all grateful for the change of pace.
“How do you even know what Martin Freeman looks like?” Daddy suddenly asks, as he stands and stretches, moving to clear their plates.
“Percy and I managed to get through The Hobbit together in just a day,” he says with a sad smile. “His reward was us watching the film immediately after. We stayed up very late, you see. Martin Freeman is Percy’s Bilbo Baggins.”
Papa’s shoulders noticeably slump, his hands wringing fretfully over his tummy before going to press at a particularly smarting strain in his lower back.
“I remember that, angel,” Crowley says from his spot in front of the sink, his hands sudsy from washing a pan. “He watched it a good ten times that next week.”
“Alright, my dear. Wrap up whatever conversation you two are having, please. I’d rather like to lie down for an hour upstairs.”
“Anything we can do for you?” Crowley turns his head, chin on his own shoulder.
“Just a bit of shut eye will do me well, I believe.” Papa takes Alice’s wrists gently from his belly, and kisses each one. “Do help Daddy clean up the scrummy dinner he prepared for us, hm?”
“I will, Papa.” Alice stands quickly, eager hands grabbing his half-eaten plate. “I’m sorry again for yelling at you this morning. I love you both so much.”
“Tensions were understandably high, my dear.” Papa runs a gentle hand over her cheek, pushing a bit of her hair behind her ear. He folds his waistcoat over his arm, plucking absentmindedly at a loose thread on one of the seams. “Thank you kindly for being so considerate of our feelings tonight, despite us not giving you much of a chance to explain yourself this morning.”
“Yeah, what he said,” Crowley pinches her cheek, and takes Aziraphale’s plate from her hand. “Let’s put on some tunes and let your Papa have some alone time.”
And so they do.
—
Percy had frozen in place when he heard the first set of footsteps traverse the staircase since he went up there himself just after four o’clock. The look on his parent’s faces when the reality of what he’d done had set in was enough to haunt him. An uncomfortable sort of guilt had been churning in his belly all afternoon, replacing the vicious sickness he’d brought upon himself.
It had been eating away at him since the sun dipped behind the clouds; the weight of being an appallingly terrible son. He can’t imagine how his parents could face him after pulling such a stunt. The image of his papa sat on the floor, pulling in harsh breaths through his teeth with his head tucked between his knees — fighting off a vicious bout of vertigo — was enough to make Percy feel ill.
Almost worse was the look on his dad’s face as the reality of what he’d chosen to do to himself truly set in. His Dad rarely ever let his disappointment show. He was the more relaxed parent, the one who let Papa be expressive and tut his way through the house after one of them acted up. He was the one who backed Papa when the angel thought of a disciplinary action, nodding his head behind one of the kids and supporting his husband, unless the angel was being particularly unreasonable.
Which was often enough where Crowley was undoubtedly an ally for his children.
But not today. Not today when Papa had yelled at Percy in the sitting room once they healed him, hot tears streaming down both of their cheeks as the angel bellowed and interrogated their son without giving him a chance to answer between questions. His words continued to echo in his ears like a snare drum, asking him how he could possibly be so stupid and hurt himself like that, how he knew he never imagined he would do something so obtuse, if he considered for a second that he put the entire family in danger of celestial illness… the list went on. This was, until Dad put a grounding hand on Papa’s shoulder forcing him to take a deep breath through his nose.
The silent finger-point towards the staircase felt like damnation.
Percy hadn’t seen his family since. It had only been a couple hours, mind you — but those three hours felt like going through the day of his illness five-times over.
He cringes from his spot on his bed, the expression on his papa’s face ending a chill down his spine.He considers putting his headphones on and playing a mindless game, but ultimately decides that the guilt he’s feeling is something he deserves.
In a selfish act of stupidity, he hadn’t just hurt himself — he’d hurt his family, placing particular strain on his unborn sister and Papa.
“You didn’t just put yourself in grave danger, but you did the rest of us too! Imagine you had gone unconscious and your sister wasn’t privy to your actions?” His father had shuddered, visibly moving through his body as he cupped his mouth and sobbed into it.
At the edge of his bed, Percy’s still frozen as his papa’s telltale footsteps tread towards his doorway, pause for a discernible moment, and then carry on towards the master bedroom.
Percy lets out a sigh that he can’t tell is relief or devastation. Probably both.
—
Aziraphale’s lying on his side, still wearing his day clothes as he tucks a pillow between his legs, adjusting his position for the fifth time in the last forty five minutes. He thinks he might have to use the facilities, but can’t tell yet if it’s urgent enough to lift himself from their bed. He doesn’t remember being so uncomfortable in the second trimester with his first pregnancy, the idea of the third trimester unnerving him already.
The sound of Crowley and Alice singing downstairs registers just barely in his ears, the two singing Taylor Swift songs from Alice’s spotify playlist called “Blondie” which just last month turned into a nickname Crowley tried on Aziraphale for a whole weekend before the angel threatened to deny Crowley amorous congress.
Aziraphale appreciates Crowley taking over and minding Alice, who didn’t deserve to experience any of the utter chaos she had today. He doesn’t want his children to carry any particular burdens. The world was precious, but it was also tough.
He checks his corporation again, grateful for no sign of the illness he now knows how to look for anywhere in his body; delving deeper, he lets out a sigh of relief that their baby is perfectly content in his belly. Still, his fear lingers, and he keeps a tentative hand on the swell of his tummy to keep an eye on them. Aziraphale thinks that maybe he needs to look one more time, as the baby is facing opposite him, so he turns on his back and then onto his other side to get the baby to shift a bit and ultimately take one more look.
Just in case.
When he does this, he feels a rolled up wad of something against his hip and lower back. He reaches behind him and tugs at it, and knows exactly what it is before his eyes meet the striped knitted fabric.
“Oh, my dear,” he whimpers, and brings the baby blanket to his nose, holding in a sob. It wasn’t fair to his baby for him to lose it again that day. He already felt horrid for how his emotions had affected all three of his children in such a short period of time.
He’d never screamed at either of his children before this. Sure, he’d shouted at them to stay out of danger when necessary, or yelled his fair share of I’ve had quite enough of this! just to be heard over the volume of his arguing children… but he had never directed such ire at either of them.
It was panic. Visceral and raw; something intrinsic that had clouded his judgement, making him respond in ways he never has before. And he knew he had to try to get Percy to understand that, so he would forgive him.
Aziraphale can’t bring himself to let go of the blanket as he eases himself out of bed and toes on his slippers. He considers changing into his dressing gown — perhaps splashing a bit of water onto his face before heading to Percy’s bedroom — but decides he shouldn’t delay this a moment longer.
His son had done something that day that threatened not his corporation, but his being. It was something Aziraphale hadn’t considered worrying about since he became a father. He wonders if he and Crowley had given the children information about their abilities too early.
Before he can think on this any longer, he forces himself out of their bedroom and finds himself at Percy’s door. Taylor Swift is no longer playing, but he can hear the Channel 4 weather reporter talk about the weekend of rain that’s incoming.
He’s glad Crowley’s getting his Celebrity Gogglebox time with Alice. He deserves it.
Aziraphale feels like the child who’s coming to apologize to the parent. It’s all a bit ridiculous, he thinks; standing at his teenage son’s door, scared to knock — one hand hovering over the door while the other grips a baby blanket. He must be a sight.
He hears footsteps. Before he can knock, the door slowly opens. Percy’s facing him now, his own stormy blue eyes staring just slightly up at him, the boy growing like one of the weeds that Crowley plucks with reckless abandon in their back garden.
They say each other’s names at the same time, followed by apologies.
“What are you sorry for?” Percy looks flabbergasted. “You didn’t do anything.”
Aziraphale grips the blanket in his hand a bit tighter. “I — er, may I come in?”
“‘Course you can.” Percy steps aside, trying to hide the fact that he’s trembling.
Aziraphale notices, of course, and he just wants to reach out to the boy and hold him so tightly he has no choice but to be still.
“Cleaned my room a bit,” Percy says, eyes sweeping the clear carpet. The pair of them were constantly on their son about him not leaving his things all over the floor. “Didn’t want you to trip. Should’ve listened to dad sooner.”
“It looks splendid,” Aziraphale breathes, taking an extra moment to appreciate his son’s handiwork to make sure he knows he appreciates it. “I rather think your items look better on the shelves than scattered all about.” He laughs lightly. “And I hope we have a bit more time before we have to baby-proof the house for me. Be that as it may, I can just about see my feet, you know.”
This gets a small smile on Percy’s face, and Aziraphale is relieved to see it. Aziraphale lowers himself in Percy’s gaming chair, and his eyebrows raise when it starts spinning him almost 360 degrees. He uses his feet to scuttle himself back and face his son, who’s sitting on his bed.
“You know, we went thousands of years before needing these ridiculous things.” He folds the blanket over his lap, eyes fixed on it. “Whatever happened to a chair that stays in place, as it’s meant to?”
“You’re rambling, Papa.” Percy pulls his knees to his chest, and hugs his legs. “I feel so terrible.”
Aziraphale scoots up in alarm. “I don’t sense any lingering illness but I — I checked when you opened the door and nothing seemed to-”
“No, no. Not like that. I don’t even deserve to be talking to you.”
Aziraphale frowns. “Nobody can decide something like that but me. And I would never dream of thinking that.”
“You should be yelling at me again. Why aren’t you yelling?”
“I’m afraid I’m not following, Plum.”
Percy’s feet are back on the ground, and he grabs his pillow to hold it to his chest. “Everything I did to you today. You took care of me while I lied to you, and put you all in danger because I’m selfish. I never thought about that part though, Papa. I promise I didn’t.” Despite his best efforts, the boy starts to cry. “Do you promise you are okay?”
Aziraphale wants to stand up and comfort him, but he decides to give his son a chance to ask for it. He’s not sure what Percy wants — he wouldn’t want himself if he got screamed at the way he screamed at him earlier.
He was trembling before Aziraphale even entered the room, after all. The angel’s corporal heart feels as though it’s about to capsize and sink.
“I promise, promise, promise,” Aziraphale assures, his hands stroking at the baby blanket on his lap now, the closest he can get to comforting his own baby sitting across from him. “I just… I’ve wracked my brain as to why you’d hurt yourself like that. Every thought I come across just doesn’t feel right. It’s unfathomable, but your Father said we must be committed to understanding you, and I agree.”
“Do I have to?” he asks, dread tinging his tone. “Can’t you just punish me for a while? Anything you guys want, I won’t fight it.”
“You know I don’t want to do that, dear boy,” Aziraphale sighs, and looks around at his son’s room, walls decorated with random drawings he’s done over the years of unnamed creatures and cosmic weaponry. “I rather get the feeling you don’t deserve it anyhow, but I can’t know that for certain unless you’re honest with me first. But it’s been a very long day for all of us, and if you need more time before you tell me the thoughts behind your actions, I’d be most understanding in granting that to you.”
Percy thinks he doesn’t deserve him. But he knows Papa deserves an answer.
“Do you have to tell dad?” he asks, wiping his runny nose with his wrist.
“If it’s to do with your wellbeing, I can’t promise I won’t.” Papa rubs his chin idly. “But it won’t leave your father or myself. We also have a few weeks left until your sister can hear outside of the womb, so we’re all sorted from that end.”
Percy laughs again, and then sniffs. “I don’t want you to think you’ve been a bad father to me, cos you haven’t.”
Aziraphale stiffens. “I — I pledge to do my best to not take it to heart, even if it is indeed criticism pointed at me.”
“S’really not, but it sounds like it is…”
Percy’s still beating around the bush, and Aziraphale knows they aren’t getting anywhere. “Would it help if I sat next to you?”
“Only if you want to.” Percy shrugs. “You don’t have to.”
Aziraphale wordlessly gets up, and he carefully places the blanket on the gaming chair, as if it was a priceless artifact. He turns and goes to sit with his son. “I always want to be with you, you know that, right?”
Percy breaks.
Aziraphale has helped through his fair share of moments over the years when either of his children crumple into tears, so incredibly distressed that they cannot speak and just expect him to understand exactly what they’re thinking but cannot physically say.
No matter how many times he had experienced it, it never got easier in trying to decipher what each falling tear meant.
But this time? This time was different. This time, he finally had enough clues to solve the mystery.
Aziraphale grabs a stray t-shirt hung over the boy’s headboard and wipes Percy’s eyes with it. “Many apologies if I am wrong, but I dare say you just wanted me today, didn’t you?”
Percy’s red, swollen eyes are downcast. He gives a small, but clear nod.
Aziraphale takes a shaky breath, and continues. “Have I — have I made you feel as if you cannot come to me and ask for my affection? Or that even if you did, I wouldn’t give it?”
Percy shakes his head, and looks up at his father now, who looks devastated once again. He was sick of being the reason why Papa looked like that, and it hadn’t even been a whole day. “Not at all. Just didn’t want to ask,” he admits, humiliation laced throughout every word. “Was too embarrassed. Too old for all that.”
Aziraphale wipes under Percy’s nose now with the shirt, and Percy grimaces at the way the t-shirt material rubs against the slightly raw skin. He puts the shirt down, and folds his hands in his lap.
“I– I want to believe you, dear boy, but how can you say it has nothing to do with me and my approachability, when you made yourself that unwell in order to get closer to me?”
Percy twists his body to face Aziraphale a bit better. “Papa, I screwed up so bad. I was just supposed to be just sick enough to stay home from school and hang out with you.just you and me, all day. That’s all.”
The words come out so quickly that Percy doesn’t realize he’s admitted that so openly, so easily, until the words register with his own ears. The small smile that forms on Papa’s face is worth it, though.
At least a bit.
“You wanted to hang out with me? Just me?”
The teen decides to shrug as nonchalantly as he can muster. “Feels weird when you say it that way. You don’t talk like that.”
“You fancied me as your companion for the day, hm?”
Percy rests his head on the angel’s shoulder. “Sure, you can say that.”
“But with — as your dear old dad called it earlier — tender love and care?”
“Papaaaa!” Percy turns to press his forehead into the bone of his father’s shoulder. “If you stop now, you can still punish me. It’s up for grabs.”
Aziraphale kisses his son’s curls, and urges him to lift his head by pressing two fingers under his chin. “In all seriousness, what an absolute mess you made today. But I am allowed to be sorry for my role in this as well. I treasure any chance you let me dote on you, but it’s been a long while since you have, Percy. I was just respecting your space as a growing boy. I’ve never been good with teenagers, and your dad seems to handle it with such grace. I just assumed you felt more connected with him as you got older.”
Percy takes his Papa’s hand, lacing his fingers through his. “Sometimes I do need that. I just messed up and pushed you away too hard. You were just respecting my boundaries.”
“That I was,” Aziraphale says with some pride. It makes Percy feel good that he made his papa feel good. “So I haven’t completely mucked things up?”
“If anyone did, Papa, I did. I’ll never let myself live this down. This is one of those stories that becomes a family anecdote passed down the generations because it’s so bloody insane and will never happen again.”
Aziraphale laughs, and lets his son’s cuss go for now. “It certainly was bloody insane.”
“Papa!”
“What? It was. I caught your self-inflicted sick in my hands. You aren’t allowed to deny me your affection ever again. I don’t care how old you are, celestial or corporal.”
He rolls his eyes, but it’s a gentle expression all the same. “Can you forgive me someday? I don’t expect you to today. I don’t want you to, anyway. I couldn’t yet, if it were me.”
Aziraphale stands, taking both of his son’s hands now. “You should know by now that I am very good at forgiveness. Of course I forgive you, my plum,” he says, and urges Percy onto his feet. “More than anything, I am just relieved that besides the bruised ego, you are well again. But if you ever pull a stunt like that again… I can’t guarantee I’ll be as merciful.”
Percy can’t argue that, and he lets Papa begin to lead him to the door. “Will you tell Dad?”
“I will eventually.” Aziraphale folds his hands behind his back, and they stand by the still closed door. “I do believe your father and I need to have a discussion about our children's celestial powers and make some adjustments going forward. You and your sisters’ safety take precedence over all else.”
Again, Percy has no qualms. He might in a month or two, but for now, Papa deserves nothing but nods and painless agreements. The angel reaches for the door, taking Percy’s silence as another affirmative response.
“Wait!”
His papa pauses, a curious expression painted on his tired face. “Yes, my dear?”
“I’m going to help you more, okay? Without you having to ask me first. And if Alice oversteps, can you help me?”
Papa puts his hand to his heart, and for the first time in a day, his smile reaches his eyes. He opens the door now, and puts an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “If that’s what you need from me, within reason I certainly can. Towards the end you may get stuck on chair duty, though. I’d rather not risk injuring our dear Alice if she tries to get me up.”
“She would, too,” Percy laughs as he motions Papa to head down first. “Tear her own elbow socket if it meant succeeding.”
“Are you talking about me?” Alice pops up from her spot on the sofa with Dad. “You said she.”
“Oi!” Dad nudges her arm. “You’re not the only she in this house anymore. Better get used to it.”
Papa comes around the sofa, and begins a playful, predatory stride towards where she’s sitting. He says every word slowly and methodically. “We were just talking about how much you love me!” He finishes by making his fingers into pretend claws and attacking her with tickles, kissing her cheeks in attempts to hear those gorgeous peals of laughter.
Percy, who’s been watching at the bottom of the staircase, is suddenly accosted from behind, his serpentine father having somehow slithered behind him, grabbing him by the waist. “You thought you were safe?”
“Dad!” He tries not to laugh, but his father’s carrying him over his shoulder now, depositing him on the couch next to a hysterical Alice. Papa turns from her and begins to get Percy now, while Dad gives Alice a few seconds to catch her breath before it’s his turn.
Laughter, so much laughter, and the ending theme to Celebrity Gogglebox serve as the soundtrack to a day that is certain to go down in the Crowley-Fell ancestral books.