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The thing about Crowley’s children was that they never shut up.
Aziraphale fixed a bland smile on his face and stood before them like a man readying himself for the firing squad. The eldest of Crowley’s brood flicked his eyes over his form. He had barged into the bookshop with a firm handshake and loudly said, “Hello, I’m Blasphemy and the rightful King of England.” Born in 1030 to Edward the Confessor, Blasphemy had become so taken with his royal heritage that he conquered Aziraphale’s couch with his inelegant sprawl and annexed his coffee table by placing his feet across it.
The twins Gossip and Rumor were beside him and so far had only deigned to speak with each other. “Oh my Satan, can you believe what he’s wearing?” Gossip giggled into Rumor’s ear.
“I heard he’s even still wearing the same underwear he got back in 1880,” she whispered back.
The youngest, Crowley’s baby, was slouched in a chair and may or may not have discorporated. Infamy had shuffled in behind her siblings, still wearing last night’s mascara, her mouth drooping in a way that Crowley’s often had when he forgot to sober up before the hangover hit.
There were rumors in Heaven [“That was me!” Rumor proudly announced. “Who ever said that a rumor couldn’t be true?”] about demons consorting with humans to produce infernal offspring. Aziraphale had no idea that the rumors were actually true, much less than Crowley had participated in such... such salacious dealings. And right under Aziraphale’s nose! His thoughts kept circling. How long did demons gestate? Was Crowley ever pregnant when he visited Aziraphale? Had Crowley enjoyed his couplings with humans, or was it something perfunctory and business-like? Who had fathered the youngest three? That Infamy, with her thick, black hair, dark eyes, and noticeable overbite looked somewhat familiar. Had Aziraphale met her father?
“Please, have a seat,” Blasphemy said, gesturing to the recently miracled chair as if this was his bookshop. Aziraphale bristled, but sat down. Blasphemy steepled his fingers and looked the angel up and down. “We’ve come here today because, well... we’re concerned. About your relationship with our mother.”
“Everyone in Hell is talking about it!” Gossip said. Rumor nodded.
“They’re saying that you’ve...” Rumor shot him a sly smile. “Co-mingled. That’s why Mum is resistant to holy water. He’s got a bit of you in him now.”
“What?” Aziraphale demanded, not understanding.
Infamy stretched. So, she wasn’t dead after all. “That you guys fucked.”
"Watch your mouth," Blasphemy said to his sister. "Jesus fucking Christ."
Aziraphale blushed hotly. “It isn’t... I mean... I--” What could he say? That he and Crowley had kept their hands to themselves, much to Aziraphale’s disappointment? And then what? They’ll want to know how Crowley had managed to survive the holy water if not for... Aziraphale’s essence and if Crowley hadn’t told them himself, he probably didn’t want Aziraphale to. Gossip, especially, looked as though she would end up blabbing the whole thing to everyone in Hell.
“Don’t look so frightened!” Rumor chastised. “We’re not here to kill you or anything.”
“Well, not unless you decide to make things... difficult,” Blasphemy amended, with a slow, creeping smile.
“We just want to make sure that you’ll do right by our Mum. We love him and want him to be happy, and if that means being with you then we’ll accept that. Provided that you step up of course.”
Gossip clapped her hands together. “I love weddings!”
“What?” Aziraphale asked again.
Blasphemy clapped him on the shoulder. “I heard that shotguns were traditional for this sort of thing. Should I get it now or--”
The sound of screeching tires filled their ears. The siblings glanced at one another. “It’s Mum! Scatter!” Infamy screamed and the four of them disappeared in a puff of fire and brimstone.
Crowley threw open the door as Aziraphale stamped out the small fire left behind by Gossip before it completely devoured his rug. “Where are they?” Crowley demanded. “I am going to ground them for at least a century!”
Aziraphale waved his hand. “Oh, rubbish. They’re perfectly delightful. You’ve done wonderfully raising them, you should be proud.”
Crowley looked down and tried to repress the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “They’re alright, I guess. Thank Go-Sa-Someone that they took after me.”
“We had a long talk.”
“Oh?” A blush was starting to wind its way up Crowley’s neck. “What did you guys talk about?”
Aziraphale shrugged absently. “They were kind enough to invite us to our own wedding.”
“... What?”