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The pram – the perambulator as Nanny Ashtoreth insisted on calling it in her deceptively soft Scottish burr – had started out as a Silver Cross Balmoral but had slowly… changed. Hand crafted in Yorkshire, the polished chrome chassis had originally been complemented by a handstitched navy hood and cover – blue for a boy, Thaddeus Dowling had insisted, this comment being his only input on the numerous decisions about decorating and accessories for ‘baby’ that Harriet Dowling had made. The whole thing had originally been a wonder of British engineering and adherence to tradition when the modern prams were so much more enduring and suitable for the cross terrain work that Nanny was currently putting the perambulator to. But it no longer quite looked like a Silver Cross Balmoral. It was now more a wonder of demonic engineering.
Brother Francis paused in his hoeing – well, his casual disturbance of the very toppest top part of the topsoil, a mere tickle of the weeds rather than their very own Armageddon – to shade his eyes and watch the angular woman in black marching the perambulator about the gardens, noting Crowley’s ‘little’ adjustments to the vehicle.
Blue for a boy had become deepest eldritch black over the top of a dark grey chassis, while the spokes on its wheels seemed to have merged into flat shining disks, and perching on the front of the hood was a chrome wing blown back by an imaginary wind, a device Aziraphale was fairly certain he was familiar with from the bonnet of Crowley’s own beloved car.
At least the demon was not attempting his usual Bentley-esque speeds during this afternoon’s turn about the gardens. Crowley was many things, but reckless with the baby he was not! After all, the demon’s side would hardly be pleased if Nanny Ashtoreth managed to launch the poor little mite into the carp pond!
Aziraphale leant on his hoe ineptly, almost losing his balance, and chewed on a stalk of pond reed while he thought about what his side would make of Crowley accidentally ending the Anti-Christ’s reign while he was still in nappies. He presumed they’d be pleased – the war over before it began, hurrah! – but something twisted and turned in his stomach as he thought about telling Gabriel what had happened. In his mind’s eye, Gabriel looked… displeased.
Brother Francis put the disturbing thoughts from his mind and went back to teasing the plants, humming what he vaguely remembered as an authentic pastoral work song, occasionally throwing in the words, ‘cider’, ‘harvest’, and ‘tractor’ to make it even more appropriate.
He suddenly feels the air chill by a few degrees and looked up into the flat black lenses of Nanny’s glasses.
“What do you think you are doing?” Her words are edged in frost.
“Hoeing.” He says innocently and watches the tiniest of creases emerge near her lips as she contains an un-Nanny Ashtoreth like laugh.
“I am trying to get Master Warlock to take his afternoon nap, and I can’t be doing with whatever that noise is that you are making.”
He removes the pond reed from his mouth as he doffs his soft brown felt hat to her. “Sorry Miss, I didn’t realise yer turn about the gardens had brough’ yer so close.” He pushes the West country accent harder than he usually does, noting the slight crease forming between her brows in annoyance. But the baby is crying, flailing his little fists at the world, and he does feel bad about that – Anti-Christ or not.
“Can I do anything?” he says, trying to sound apologetic, but the words get a little mashed up by the buck teeth he is wearing. He pops them into a pocket.
“I think that you have done quite enough, Brother Francis.” Her voice is a whip crack, and her red lips purse themselves once the words are out. “I’ll never get him to settle now.”
Aziraphale offers her an apologetic smile as he gets closer, looking into the pram as Nanny grips the handle tightly with whitening knuckles. Warlock is a ball of red rage now, his face scrunched up and his mouth bellowing his annoyance at the world. This is all new to them both. They’ve only been ‘godparents’ for a couple of weeks, and Aziraphale has to admit that Crowley has taken on the more involved role. He potters about the gardens waiting for the baby to start understanding English, but Nanny Ashtoreth is there for every nappy change, bottle, and air-raid siren-like crying fit. Crowley looks drawn thin, even with her hair immaculately coiffured into smooth curls and her lipstick still impeccably applied.
“Can I try?” The angel asks, simultaneously dreading interacting with the tiny human-like thing while also wanting to help.
“And what do you think that you can do? Hmmm?” The arch question, even with its Scottish lilt, stings.
“I don’t know my dear, I just want to help.” He admits.
Nanny Ashtoreth seems to soften a little, and then she nods, allowing him access to her charge.
The baby feels tiny in his hands, and Aziraphale is awed that something so small will end the world. He draws Warlock close to his chest and shushes him as he’s seen mothers do over the millennia. He remembers watching Eve with her firstborn. Childbirth had been a punishment, or so the angels had been told, but moments after it had happened he had seen Eve falling in love with the small strange creature suckling at her breast. He doesn’t quite have a mother’s touch, but he wraps his wings about the two of them in the ether and concentrates on emanating as much love, safety, warmth and peace as he can.
“Ouch! Angel!” Crowley snaps in his usual accent, shading his eyes even while wearing his sunglasses. “That’s the Anti-Christ! Don’t fry him with angel mojo!”
But the small baby takes a stuttering breath and finally stops crying, turning his head into Aziraphale’s chest and taking a deep breath before closing his eyes.
“Oh,” says Crowley flatly. “So that worked.”
“It wasn’t much.” Aziraphale says earnestly, “You could have done the same.”
“No. I’m a demon… remember? We don’t really have a handle on the ‘good’ stuff.” Crowley doesn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes.
“Here.” Aziraphale offers her the bundle.
“No… no, you best hold onto him for now. It's definitely nap time.” Nanny yawns widely and tries to cover it with a black-gloved hand. “Excuse me.” Her voice has gone back to its Scottish softness again, reminding Aziraphale of heather and shortbread.
“Perhaps… perhaps you could have a rest too. I know master Warlock has had you up at night. And you do normally like your sleep.”
Nanny looks at him with suspicious eyes, even through her glasses. “Are you going to whisper nonsense in his ears while I sleep? You know, stuff like the ‘greater good’ and ‘loving thy neighbour’?”
Aziraphale struggles to cross his heart while holding onto the small bundle but somehow manages it. “I promise that I won’t.”
They find a place under a willow tree. Covered by the hanging parts of the tree and far enough away from the house that they are unlikely to be disturbed. They stand together in the dappling light.
“Go on,” Aziraphale encourages her, “Rest a moment.”
He is impressed by her commitment to her duty but also pleased when she finally sits down, curling her legs up to one side and primly smoothing out her tight skirt as she removes her gloves. Brother Francis, cradling his dreaming charge, leans against the trunk of the tree and allows his floppy hat to fall over his eyes. He doesn’t sleep, of course. Aziraphale has never really seen the need. But he hopes that it will encourage Crowley to rest. Finally – oh it takes such a while – he sees Nanny Ashtoreth allow her body to drop to the ground underneath the dome of the willow, pillowing her head with an arm. Eventually, she even relaxes her shape, first becoming the long-haired male-looking human-like being that the angel had met in the garden, before shivering into a black snake that sleepily curls itself about the mutton-chopped gardener in his smock and the baby held to his chest.
Crowley wakes a good two hours later, hissing in surprise at having slept while on duty, before sniffing out his charge and his guardian. Aziraphale turns his head to face the unlidded eyes of the serpent and gently shushes him.
“Warlock is still asleep.” The angel whispers as Crowley shifts back into Nanny, dusting leaves from his skirt.
“You let me sleep too long, angel!”
“You needed it, my dear.”
Crowley reluctantly agrees but does not say so out loud, in case the angel should get the idea that he could be right more regularly.
Instead, he moves closer, looking over his charge with yellow eyes, glowing behind the dark flats of his sunglasses. “You look comfortable with him.”
“I assure you this is as odd to me as it is to you,” Aziraphale smiles weakly. “Although, I think you have the knack of it more than I do.”
“You calmed him.”
“I had an unfair angelic advantage. You actually know what to do with these things.”
“Well, for a start I don’t tend to think of them as things,” Crowley smirks. “But I can see that you might only get interested in them when they can read the same things as you.”
Aziraphale looked affronted. “I won’t lend him my books. Can you even imagine the state they’d come back in? Humans sweat so very much! There’d be marks-”
He stops as Warlock stretches and yawns, his little arms pushing their way out of the angel’s gentle hold, before returning to the depths of sleep.
“Here,” Crowley says, “Let me take him so you can stretch your own arms-”
“Don’t wake him!” the angel says, genuinely sounding concerned. Crowley nods and instead uses a very small demonic miracle to teleport the baby to the pram, without even disturbing a single baby hair on his mostly bald head.
“Freedom,” Aziraphale says, smiling broadly at Nanny. “I don’t even know what to do with myself now I don’t have a bundle of joy in my arms.”
“Bundle of everlasting despair.” She corrects him and the angel frowns.
“He can’t be that bad… can he?”
Crowley shrugs. “All I know is that my side is very keen on him ending everything. You’re going to have to do a damned good job in leading him ‘astray’, given he’s come from down there…”
“You could… try a little less hard to perfect his education, you know.”
Thin red lips meet that suggestion. “We agreed, angel.”
“I know, but-”
“Thwart me all you want, but my side will have my guts for garters if I don’t at least try,” Crowley says.
“We can’t have that!” Aziraphale says, hoping she hasn’t seen the redness blooming on his cheeks – grease paint and mutton chops aside – at Nanny’s mention of garters. If there is one thing that Brother Francis is sure of, Nanny is an ol’fashioned lady. And she probably wears stockings… he tries to push the thought from his mind, but she is staring at him.
“Are you quite alright, Brother Francis?”
He coughs, “Ugh, yes, fine!”
“You’ve gone even redder than usual.”
“Its nothing. I must just have caught the sun while I was hoeing.”
The previously controlled smile erupts on Crowley’s lips this time, along with a joyful laugh.
“Oh, you know what I mean!”
“Of course, angel. Tell me though… do you go about hoeing very much?”
“I don’t mean that!”
Nanny is laughing again, holding a ladylike hand to cover her mouth as her eyes wrinkle behind her glasses.
“Careful, don’t wake Warlock!” Aziraphale urges.
That snaps her out of it, and she breathes deeply – unnecessarily – and calms herself, sweeping escaping red hairs back into place.
“You know,” She says eventually, “I am glad that we decided to do this.”
“What?” Aziraphale asks dumbly.
“Be godfathers… godparents.” She corrects herself.
Aziraphale nods, smiling, “Well, I am certainly glad that we are doing it together.”
“Hold your horses, angel, we’re only a couple of weeks in. Will you feel the same by the time Warlock has come into his power? That’s a fair few years off, you know?” Nanny says, almost coldly.
“Crowley… I have run into you time and time again over the centuries, but its actually very nice to see you a little more regularly.”
Nanny looks away from the bright intensity of the angel’s earnestness, seeking out the shadowy places to place her gaze.
She’s surprised then when the gardener takes her hand from where it was resting in her lap and holds it more tightly with his own.
“I mean it Crow- Nanny.”
“Either is fine.” She mutters, raising her eyes to his again.
“I mean it.” He says and brushes his lips against her knuckles. It feels like it is just the two of them – three counting Warlock snoozing in his pram – cocooned in the golden light under the willow tree’s canopy. Crowley removes her glasses with her other hand and lets her unusual eyes meet his.
“Beautiful.” He whispers and pulls her a little towards him as he rests against the tree.
“Brother Francis, are you trying to seduce me?” She asks, almost coquettishly, playing with their usual roles and natures.
“If I were, miss, would yer let me?” He asks, deepening his own accent again.
She answers by taking his free hand and guiding it to the black smoothness of her skirt, marred only by what Aziraphale is over-awed to discover is the lines of the clasps of a garter belt and the tops of stockings. The redness returns in a fast flush to his cheeks.
“I might Brother Francis, I might.” She breathes, pulling his hand gently to underneath her skirt and to the nylon smoothness below.
Aziraphale is breathing heavily – again unnecessarily – but takes her cue to trace the lines of the tops of her stockings with his – certainly too soft for a real gardener – fingertips.
“Can I… can I kiss you, Miss Ashtoreth?” The gardener asks.
Nanny giggles a little and breathes out her answer as her face gets closer to his. “Yes.”
There is hesitancy in their kiss, as their pretend roles entangle with their real natures. But very quickly words like ‘demon’ and ‘angel’ mean nothing at all as the two employees of the Dowlings get even closer underneath the willow tree. Nanny’s fingers find their way under Francis’ smock and discover the fine white down of his chest, just as his thicker fingers return to their exploration of the soft silks underneath her severe black skirt. Both are delighted to discover the very physical attributes of their romantic partner just as their occult and ethereal natures dance and merge in a realm just beyond human sight, wings unfurling in metaphysical exultation. Passing human strangers might hear the breathless joy of their physical coupling, somewhere behind the curtain of the willow tree’s branches, but few would have noticed their energies combining, and sounding out like a bronze bell pealing out across the gardens and the English hills beyond.
“Oh my,” Says a flustered Nanny sometime after, her rich red hair escaping from its bobby pins and needing some serious rearrangement to look respectable again.
“Oh my, indeed.” Says the gardener, his hat askew.
“That was… unexpected.” Breathes Crowley.
“It was… but quite nice.” Agrees Aziraphale.
“Quite nice?!” Askes a frowning Crowley, his eyes blazing with hellish yellow fire.
“More than nice,” soothes the angel. “More than… more than anything I had hoped for.”
Crowley is placated, and she deigns to move closer to Aziraphale’s comfortable body, curling up against his and resting her head on his shoulder. “I shall have to get Warlock back to the house soon. Mrs Dowling will wake from her mid-afternoon nap and worr-”
Aziraphale quiets her with a kiss on her forehead. “Not right away, my dear.”
“Yes, not right away, angel.” She agrees, looking towards their charge in his Bentley-esque perambulator before staring intently at Aziraphale’s lips. “Perhaps we have time for another turn… about the garden.”