Chapter Text
Ten years post the Armageddon that wasn't as well as two years of marital bliss had seemingly caused an awfully dire case of baby fever in Aziraphale. It was painfully obvious, to anyone but poor Aziraphale. Cooing over babies in their tiny strollers on the streets of Soho, making goo-goo eyes at babies in adorable high-chairs in restaurants. He had it bad, and yes he had considered him and his husband possibly… acquiring a child.
Oh dear, that wording sounds positively barbaric! Yes indeed, Azirapahle would love a baby but the available methods of doing that were not ideal to him nor Crowley. The human way sounded positively awful, and the required act to even achieve that goal was not something Azirapahle was giddy about. Adoption was of course an option, and they had worked to raise a fully human child before. Though that was by accident, as Warlock was considered to be the antichrist at the time.
Raising a purely human child worried Aziraphale, and Crowley’s reassurances that it would be just fine did not change his mind. Raising a human child would require both of them to, well hide a bit of themselves if the child were to live out a normal human life.
Both husbands had thought, and talked about the child subject to death. Aziraphale was sorrowly resolute, considering the available options not feasible. So he continued to coo over babies in public, and read a healthy amount of (admintaley out of date) parenting books.
Crowley would not give up so easily. To answer the question, did he have baby fever as well? Oh yes, bloody absolutely most likely worse than his husband. He’d wanted to raise a little one since the arc incident, godfathering for Warlock had made it even worse. As Aziraphale had sadly abandoned the idea, Crowley continued to scheme. Scheme about the possible other options.
Possible magic options. They were an occult and ethereal being weren’t they? Miraculizing a kid was a thought, and since head offices had left them alone for a decade, it wouldn’t set off any miracle alarms downstairs. Though that had the drawback of the child only sharing one father’s genetics, with nothing else mixed in. To Crowley, the thought of essentially cloning himself, in baby form no less, was not appealing.
Anathema was the one he would need to consult, she had grown to be a good friend to his husband, and he’d admit a friend to himself as well. Ever since she had decided to free herself from Agnes's prophecies, she’d dabbled in all kinds of witchy things.
Making a kid via witch magic? Weird, but why not. Any other options Crowley could think of had either already been anxiously denied by Aziraphale or impractical.
So off to the home of Anathema and Newt Device he would go.