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“Okay so, wait. You’re Mr. Fell’s boyfriend, Mr. Crowley?”
“For somebody’s-yes but not at the moment. At the moment I’m Aziraphale’s whatever, Ms. Crowley.”
Crowley stopped and rubbed between her eyes, making sure they were closed in case she dislodged her glasses.
“Ohmigosh, Heather, it’s not that complicated. Get with the program!” piped a second, very authoritative if pre-adolescent voice.
Crowley sighed and looked for her angel. Aziraphale, the bastard, smiled divinely at her from the queue to pay, his arms filled with baked goodies.
Fine. Fine. This had been her idea. Let him abandon her to the inquisitive pre-teens.
It was Crowley who decided they need to go into the village from time to time and actually meet people. Aziraphale, once the sort to build friendships with leaders and artists and writers, had grown weary of watching the people he cared for grow old and die, leaving him behind. As a consequence, he had spent the 20th and 21st centuries avoiding entanglements with mortal beings while navigating his increased involvement with his favorite immortal one. (He’d never quite said as much out loud, but Crowley was clever and could put together bits taken here and there to complete a full picture. She still ached with a certain degree of guilt over the intense loneliness that had been Aziraphale’s life during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, as the angel’s core of friends were splintered by sodomy laws; Crowley had spitefully slept through those years after their initial misunderstanding about the holy water). Crowley, on the other hand, liked people, and was better at maintaining less emotional acquaintanceships that came and went with the tide of time.
She was also significantly harder to entertain, and sitting around the cottage staring at Aziraphale reading books was only exciting so long, especially when the weather turned and sunning in snake form lost its appeal.
And so it was Crowley who put in the time and effort to bribe her angel out of the house on the morning of the big community bake sale with promises of sweet treats and hot tea in deference to the coming of the first autumn chill. (Of course, he was always going to go once she asked, but he loved to play coy and hard to get, and who was she to deny him his little sins pleasures? She was a demon after all).
Which led to this frustrating moment in time: Crowley, facing off with a group of four very serious looking young Girl Guides about what they should call her.
The clear leader, a blonde named Jean, gave many-freckled Heather a Look then turned apologetically know-it-all eyes on Crowley. “You’d think it was 1950 around here,” she said with the pity of the young and righteous. “I like your scarf.”
“Thank you,” Crowley said, and then scowled at her own automatic politeness. That was entirely Aziraphale’s good influence, and it wouldn’t do. (This was a lie; Crowley liked children and tended to be very straightforward with them as a result, which led to children liking her.) It was a nice scarf – the black skulls and red roses were very much up Crowley’s alley, and she couldn’t believe Aziraphale had been willing to pay actual money for it.
Heather, who was genuinely confused and so sweet she probably had a halo tucked away somewhere, said, “I only mean, I don’t want to hurt your feelings.” Her eyes were very big and very brown. “If I accidentally call you Mr. Crowley when you’re Ms. Crowley, will that hurt your feelings?”
This earned nods from the other two urchins – Curly Hair and Snub Nose. Murmurs of agreement rose.
Ah. Well. That…that was all right then.
“Not particularly,” Crowley admitted. She’d known too many languages with too many pronouns to worry overmuch about what others called her. She knew who she was, and Aziraphale knew, and that was enough. “As long as you’re doing your best." She considered. "That's not true for everybody, though. Best to just listen and follow their lead."
“Oh good,” Heather breathed as Snub Nose said, “You would get like, a pronoun pin or something, so people get it right.”
Crowley smirked. “I could, but it’s more fun to watch people flounder.” Because Crowley was, not so deep down, a demonic ass, and she absolutely did not believe in giving a free pass to bigots uncomfortable with her personal relationship to gender.
Heather gasped, scandalized. Jean nodded wisely. Curly Hair and Snub Nose looked thoughtful.
“Listen, kids, make your lives easier all around and just call me Crowley. That’s what everyone else does.”
The four girls actually leaned in for a private, whispered conference at this. Crowley, of course, could easily overhear it, and felt no particular qualms about eavesdropping. The discussion ran thusly:
Snub Nose: My mum’ll be mad if I go around just callin’ her Crowley.
Jean: But she asked us to, so if we don’t, that’s rude.
Heather: But…but it’s disrespectful to-
Curly: Do what she asked? No it’s not.
Snub Nose: I’m just SAYING that if my MUM hears it she’ll go ‘round the BEND and you’ll never see me again.
Jean: For goodness – just don’t say anything in front of your Mum!
Snub Nose: Just not say anything? What if she says something to me?
Jean, in the Tone of an Eighty Year Old Woman Surrounded By Other People’s Grandchildren: You are all very tiring, but I love you.
They parted.
“Partial agreement, depending on party,” Jean said, and held out her hand.
Crowley eyeballed it. It wasn’t often people felt the need to touch her – mostly, there was something evil in her that made others back off. But, this kid was amusing, so, she shook the offered hand firmly.
“Cool,” Curly said. “So,” and here she pinked up a little, clearly at her own great daring, “Crowley, would you like to buy something?”
Snub Nose giggled behind her hand and whispered, “Whatever Mr. Fell’s left behind.”
Crowley grinned. “Don’t tease him, he’s delicate.” She glanced down the long table to where Aziraphale, angel-themed shopping bag now heavier with local treats, was handing over money and refusing change. Aziraphale sensed the look and turned, suspicious.
Crowley waved cheerfully, essentially designed to make Aziraphale more suspicious. The angel started their way.
“You know,” Crowley started to say, reaching for one of the more smushed and sad-looking brownies on the table, “you could-”
A shock, like electricity, snapped from the cellophane to her fingers, and Crowley snatched them back, surprised. “What the hell-“
“Ms. Crowley!” Heather cried, in unison with a certain chastising and approaching angel’s simpler, “My dear!” One tsking mother went so far as to cover the ears of her very long suffering ten year old.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley asked in as sugary sweet a voice as she could muster, “were you planning to tell me that someone has blessed these da-” Heather covered her mouth; Jean leaned closer, “deee-licious brownies?”
“They what?” Aziraphale asked as Curly asked, “Wait, your husband’s name is Aziraphale Fell?”
“Blessed them,” Crowley said to her Angel and, “Yes, ridiculous isn’t it?” to the grinning child. “Inaccurate as well. Downright insulting.”
Aziraphale gave her one of his I am an Angel of Mercy and This is Why You Still Live looks before waving a hand over the table. “Oh,” he said, eyes widening. He walked further, fingers almost but not quite touching the individually wrapped cakes. When he spoke again, there was a quiver of something distinctly like humor in his voice. “Oh my.”
Crowley growled. It wasn’t that she necessarily wanted to eat any of it, but it was the principle of the thing. Why shouldn’t the local demon be able to eat whatever she wanted in town? Jean appeared to be taking notes.
“My dear girls,” Aziraphale said, coming back, “did, perhaps, the Vicar say a lovely prayer over these confections?”
The girls exchanged a mildly confused look. Before Crowley could (rudely) translate, Snub Nose said, “He prayed, I guess. I wouldn’t call it lovely. He has a cold and there was a lot of snuffling and stuff.”
“We didn’t let him sneeze ON them or anything,” Curly hastened to add. “That’d be gross.”
Crowley glared daggers along the entire table. Aziraphale squeezed her hand in gentle commiseration. “I am sorry, darling. I didn’t think about it when I was picking them up.”
“Of course you didn’t. You were just,” she adjusted her voice for maximum sarcasm, “’Oh these are so suspiciously warm and filled with God’s love! I’ll buy them all!’”
Aziraphale lifted his chin, refusing to be embarrassed. Crowley had always wished for that particular skill, but never had it. “I am supporting a good cause.”
“And you don’t have to share.”
Aziraphale’s eyes did that thing - Crowley would swear in a court of law that Aziraphale knew exactly what he was doing, despite the actual air of innocence that hung around him when he did it – and maybe his chin wobbled a little and he said, “Oh, dear, I didn’t mean to-”
Crowley caved immediately, even as she chastised herself internally for being an absolute sucker. “I know you didn’t, Angel.” She leaned down and kissed his round cheek. Two of the three Girl Guides let out little romantic sighs behind them. Just for that, Crowley pecked him on the lips too, and all four fell victim to pleased giggles at the shining smile Aziraphale sent Crowley. “You can make it up to me and find me something unblessed and hot to drink, preferably,” she licked her lips, “with alcohol.”
The girls tittered. Alcohol? At 11 am? Too outrageous!
Aziraphale winked at her and offered his arm. “Of course, my dear. Perhaps some tea or coffee at the café?” They both knew Crowley had a flask hidden away in one of her miraculous pockets.
Crowley took it, tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow before tilting her head at the girls. “Lovely meeting you, ladies.”
“You too, Crowley,” Jean said seriously and then, with a twinkle in her eye, “Mr. Aziraphale Fell.”
Aziraphale sighed dramatically, and Crowley sent the urchins a little thumb's up as they walked away.