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Aziraphale hummed contentedly and turned another page of his book, the fingers of his free hand splaying idly over his stomach and stroking. Sunlight streamed in through the cottage windows, bathing the room in a warm glow. In the yard, Aziraphale could hear Crowley’s snappish tone as he dug out weeds in the flower beds. It was good for the demon to get out of the house, Aziraphale thought. He’d spent the last week frantically baby-proofing the cottage, much to Aziraphale’s amusement. Everything hard, from the sofa’s feet to the blades of the ceiling fan, had been wrapped. Every cupboard had been locked. Aziraphale hadn’t had the heart to point out that if their little miracle – as he’d taken to referring to the baby in his head – was anything like the parents, locks would be useless. And there would always be danger for a child with wings. You couldn’t baby-proof a floor.
But it made Aziraphale happy to see Crowley fuss over their future child’s safety, and so he said nothing.
Aziraphale himself hadn’t been out of the cottage in weeks, except for a few brief walks. This was also at Crowley’s insistence – “You’re very visibly pregnant, angel, and I don’t want to have to answer people’s awkward questions about it” – but Aziraphale agreed, and he was more than happy to comply. He had never been as much of an out-of-doors person as Crowley anyway.
The door opened, and Crowley stepped in, wiping his brow and miracling the dirt away. He grinned at Aziraphale. “You look comfy.”
“As comfortable as I can be,” Aziraphale answered. He put his book aside and set both hands on his protruding stomach. “Considering the circumstances.” They’d reached the point in the pregnancy where few positions were truly comfortable for Aziraphale to remain in for long, and standing for even brief periods of time made his back ache in a way that his earthly vessel never had before.
Crowley knelt before him, pressing his lips to Aziraphale stomach. He leaned his forehead against it. “Are you being good for your father? Letting him rest like he ought to be?”
Aziraphale inhaled sharply at the flurry of motion the words incited. “Did you-“
“Yeah, I felt it.” Crowley grinned, straightening up and pressing his hands over Aziraphale’s. “You hear your dad, don’t you?” he addressed the child. “And that makes you happy.”
There was another series of flutters, accompanied by a warmth that spread through Aziraphale. “They love you so much,” he murmured, stroking his stomach. He met Crowley’s eyes, reaching out for the demon and pulling him into a soft kiss. “They absolutely adore their father.”
“I’ll bet they do,” Crowley teased back. “Since you’re their father, remember? Don’t want to be confusing them already.”
“Then they adore their dad,” Aziraphale corrected himself. “With their entire heart and soul. Just as I adore you.”
Crowley snorted, but there was undisguised affection in his eyes. “Can I get you anything?” he asked softly. “I can make some food if you’re hungry.”
“Well, now that you mention it, I am feeling a bit puckish.”
Crowley smiled. “Of course you are.” He helped Aziraphale to his feet, supporting him even when Aziraphale insisted that he was fine, that he could walk on his own.
“I’m just pregnant, my dear. My legs still work perfectly well.”
“Of course, angel,” Crowley said. He did not let go of Aziraphale’s elbow until the angel was seated at the kitchen table. Then he opened the fridge. “What are you hungry for, then? We’ve got leftovers from last night…I think there’s some ice cream in the freezer. Or I can make you something else if you want.”
“Do we have any of those apple tarts left?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley had made them a few days ago, and they’d been absolutely scrumptious. His mouth watered just thinking about them.
Crowley glanced at him over the refrigerator door. “Sorry,” he said. “You ate the last of them this morning. I can make you another batch for tonight, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to make do with something else in the meantime.” While they were both perfectly capable of miracling food, thus far the baby had rejected anything created with even a hint of magic. It had led to quite a bit of throwing up, which was an experience neither Aziraphale nor Crowley wanted any part of ever again. “We’ve got some apple jam,” Crowley offered. “Could make you a bit of toast.”
“That sounds perfect.”
Crowley fetched the jam and closed the fridge. As he put a few slices of bread in the toaster, he commented, “You do realize the theme here, right?” He sounded amused.
“Hmm?”
“You’ve been craving apple everything pretty much the whole time you’ve been pregnant.”
“Have I?” Aziraphale blinked and considered. “I have, haven’t I.” He patted his stomach and addressed the little miracle inside. “You do have an odd sense of humour, my darling.”
“Don’t think the baby’s trying to be funny with it, angel,” Crowley pointed out. “They just want to eat. She might be having a laugh, though.” He jerked his chin meaningfully towards the ceiling, then caught the toast as it popped up. “Making a point about just who it was that knocked you up.” He set the plate of toast in front of Aziraphale, who bit into a piece with relish, and then leaned back against the counter with folded arms.
Aziraphale recognized that look in his husband’s eyes. It could lead to brooding if he didn’t head it off, and so he gave Crowley a loving smile. “As if I could forget. As if our little miracle won’t be blessed with the most loving, attentive dad this universe has ever seen.”
“I don’t know about all that,” Crowley mumbled, but he was blushing, and Aziraphale smiled widened.
“I do,” he said simply, and took another bite of toast. Inside him, the baby squirmed, as if in agreement.
Crowley coughed, clearly fighting the sappy grin blooming on his face and losing badly. He sniffed a little, as if that could hide the tears welling in his eyes, and said a touch too loudly, “Anathema called. She wants to know if we wanted to come over next week, have a bit of a get together.”
Aziraphale allowed the clumsy change in subject, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t see why not. Although you might want to suggest they come here instead. I doubt the people of Tadfield are prepared to see me waddling about.”
“You don’t waddle,” Crowley said, nonsensically. “You glide.”
Aziraphale gave him a look. “I waddle,” he said, “because I’ve got a very large child growing inside me, which means I have put on a great deal of weight, and that is cumbersome to move about on two legs.”
“I like it,” Crowley mumbled. His blush returned, his cheeks and the tips of his ears turning as red as his hair. He stared at the floor.
“I know you do.” Aziraphale smiled smugly. He liked it too, or at least the results of it, which were, in addition to a clear sign that the child was growing well, a very amorous demon husband. “There’s nothing wrong with my body, or with the way I walk now. But I won’t pretend it’s anything other than it is.” He was fat. He waddled. And that was perfectly alright with him.
“Still think you glide,” Crowley muttered. “Like a big, sexy…er…” Metaphors never had been, and likely never would be, Crowley’s ‘thing.’ Aziraphale laughed anyway.
He stood up, moving to stand beside Crowley, wrapping his arms around the demon, kissing him sweetly. “I’m gratified that you think so,” he teased. “Come upstairs and show me?”
Later, when Aziraphale was lying mostly-comfortably on his back, stroking Crowley’s hair absently and basking in the afterglow, the demon paused in his task of pressing kisses to every inch of Aziraphale’s stomach, lifting his head to say, “Dandelions.”
“What was that, my dear?”
“Dandelions,” Crowley repeated. “That’s what you’re like.”
Aziraphale gave him an indulgent smile. “I don’t believe I follow.”
“It’s like at the end, right? When they turn all white and massive and fluffy. And they glide about on the wind, bringing new life. That’s you, angel.”
“Are you calling me fluffy, my dear?” Aziraphale said, amused.
“Well you are, a little,” Crowley pointed out, with a nod to Aziraphale curls. He rested his chin against Aziraphale’s stomach, blinking up at him fondly. “Mostly, I’m calling you a flower.”
“I thought dandelions were weeds?”
A hint of embarrassment tinted Crowley’s expression. “Er, they are, I think. Not bad weeds, though. Not always.”
Aziraphale smiled. “So long as you don’t treat me like the weeds in your garden, then.”
“Never,” Crowley promised. He lowered his head again, rubbing his nose gently against Aziraphale’s stomach before returning to his task. Between kisses, he murmured, “Always going to love you. And our little flower. Always.”
Aziraphale believed him.