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“Crowley?”
“Hmm?”
“We should probably get a crib.”
The demon blinked in surprise, that statement effectively taking his mind away from the human child safely cradled in his arms.
It had been three months since Isabelle, Izzie, as Crowley kept insisting, had been left on the demon’s doorstep. The ease of the adoption process had been nothing short of a miracle but that was to be expected.
Crowley had initially wanted to avoid the whole business. Isabelle was theirs after all. Official government men in black suits coming around asking questions could be put to rest with the same ease as the angel dealt with suspicious men in black suits poking around his shop. But, Aziraphale insisted humans had rules about this sort of thing. So, Crowley rolled his eyes and signed all the necessary papers when handed to him.
The girl had taken on her father, Mr. Anthony J. Crowley’s last name, with her middle name Agnus, supposedly coming from her other father, Mr. Azira Fell’s, mother. The actual explanation of her middle name coming from a long dead witch who had written a book which contained both nice and accurate prophecies dating from the 1600s up until the remaking of the world, would had been too long and complicated to explain to the perfectly polite, but rather indifferent people at the adoption agency.
In no time at all it was all signed and approved, and Isabelle A. Crowley had found her new home in a top flat in London with a demon and angel as her legal guardians.
From the moment the ink was dry, Aziraphale had spent every waking moment, which was to say, every moment as angels do not need to sleep, reading a researching all the odds and ends required in raising a human child. Crowley, meanwhile, decided to play it by ear; which was to say giving his ear to Aziraphale whenever he found himself stuck.
One of the first things the angel had read was the baby’s need for physical contact. He could hardly go a single article without the mention of what psychological horrors could be wrought on a child without it. He had explained as much to Crowley, which had led to the obvious solution; they just wouldn’t put her down.
Neither he nor Crowley needed to sleep, even if the demon did enjoy the process. Physical strain wasn’t a factor, and both of them could say there was something rather comforting in having a tiny warm bundle tucked against them at all times. The only thing hindering them from holding her 24/7 was the need to use both their hands, and they each had the other to cover them on that score. It seemed all rather taken care of, which was why Crowley felt the need to voice the obvious question.
“What for?”
“Well, I’ve been reading—”
Crowley didn’t bother hiding the roll of his eyes before looking back down at Isabelle.
“He does that too much,” he told her. “Please don’t do that when you’re older.”
“I’m being serious, Crowley,” the angel said before looking down at Isabelle himself. “And please do read too much. It’s good for you.”
Isabelle made no real commitment one way or another, landing on making a general happy sound at her fathers’ voices.
“The point is,” Aziraphale said, getting back on track. “I think it’s important we start putting up some boundaries. She’s going to be crawling soon, and walking, and well, everything else. We need to give her some space, and apparently cribs are a way to help ease the transition.”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You were the one who said holding her was the only way she wouldn’t be traumatized.”
“I might have over reacted,” admitted the angel, his face going flush with embarrassment.
Crowley didn’t say anything for a moment, glancing between the angel and Isabelle and back again. The look on the former’s face taking on a slight pout.
“Fine,” he said with a sigh. “Crib. Good. Fine. First thing tomorrow.”
And first thing the next morning they did. Aziraphale strolled into the flat, crib in hand, looking overall rather pleased with himself.
Crowley left him to do his thing, finding at least an hour’s occupation in watching Isabelle attempt to roll over onto her stomach. He didn’t know where the notion kids were only entertaining after they started to talk, the faces Isabelle was pulling told a long and hilarious story all on their own. Inevitably, she had to give up and Crowley decided to indulge in watching Aziraphale attempt to put the crib together.
Some part of him, deep down, knew he could just miracle the crib together or at least lend the angel a hand, but Aziraphale’s own faces were just too good to pass up. Besides, the angel was determined to figure it out on his own.
“She’s still human,” he insisted. “The very least we can do is keep the miracles to a minimum and try to work things out the way humans do. Set a good example, as it were.”
Crowley was tempted to point out that Isabelle was certainly not going to remember any of this by the time they put her down for an afternoon nap and, given he was a demon, he gave into the temptation. Aziraphale then promptly kicked him out of the room, but it turned out to be all for naught. After four hours of tinkering, he came to the conclusion angels were not built for handy work and ended up miracling the cradle together anyway.
Finally, night time fell and it was time to test if the angel’s efforts had paid off.
It all went off rather smoothly. Aziraphale wrapped Isabelle tightly in a blanket just as the articles instructed and soon enough her eyes were closed as she drifted off to sleep. They each left the room, the angel smiling in self-satisfied pride. Crowley, however, could not quite join him.
While it was rather nice to have both arms back to himself again, there was a definite oddness to it. He was reminded of when he first started regularly taking human form. There was a learning curve to the coordination and function of his various limbs. In a way, he was back to square one, having to adjust to having two functioning hands as opposed to just the one. And to be honest, he wasn’t sure if he completely liked it. However, he didn’t dare voice these thoughts aloud, not even to Aziraphale. He did have a reputation to uphold after all.
Eventually he decided to get some sleep of his own to keep his mind off things. Or rather, he tried. His mind kept drifting in and out of consciousness, his entire body on edge as his ears strained to hear Isabelle from the other room. This would all be much easier if he was just holding her.
Before he could give the matter anymore thought, he slipped out of bed and walked towards Isabelle’s room. He went to open the door, but hesitated when he saw a shadow coming from just underneath the door. Carefully as to not make a sound, he pushed the door open. On the other side stood Aziraphale, holding Isabelle gently in his arms.
Crowley had to smirk as he leaned casually against the door frame.
“Interrupting something?”
The angel gave a slight jump before his features took on a guilty look.
“She was crying,” he lamely defended.
A lie, but Crowley decided not to point it out and only held his hands up in surrender. “No judgement angel.”
Aziraphale nodded and gave one of those unsure smiles he always gave when he remembered Crowley was a demon and therefor his word needed to be taken with a grain of salt.
“Shouldn’t you put her back to bed,” suggested Crowley.
“Oh, not yet, I think,” Aziraphale said a little absent mindedly. “I only just got her to sleep. Maybe I should just stay here for a while.”
It was getting harder and harder for Crowley not to laugh. “Not bad thinking.”
Aziraphale didn’t say anything for a moment. The fretting look on his face only getting worse as he gazed down at the child in his arms. “Oh I do hope I’m not doing the wrong thing.”
It was said quietly, more to himself than anyone, but Crowley heard it all the same. The urge to laugh faded as an odd, reassuring warmth came to his chest. The kind that comes when you realize there’s someone else in the boat with you with the other paddle.
“Oh, you’re an angel,” Crowley said. “I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.”
Aziraphale smiled, properly this time, as the memory of their first meeting came back to him. It would all be alright.
Years later, the angel and demon would put an advert in the paper reading; For sale: Baby’s Crib, Never Used.
And Hemingway’s ghost rose from the grave, only to roll back over pretending not to be put out.