Chapter 1: Paradigm Shift
Summary:
Crowley makes a (minor) mistake.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Yes, really, I’m quite sure. I haven’t seen him. Perhaps he just left early? It is getting rather late, I’m about to head home myself. Ah. Yes. Well, I– ah. Yes. Mm. Quite right, and I’ll be sure to send the finished copy to you later. Yes. Of course. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow! Have a good night.”
Aziraphale Fell heaved a sigh, stuffing his friend-bemoaned flip phone into his pocket. Really, he was still too much of a pushover, even if staying another half-hour meant the end of this week’s find. If he had to spend any more than forty-five minutes reading about, of all ridiculous things, the newest romance between some toxic Dom and an unsuspecting Sub full of shoddy love confessions, he was going to truly regret ever working for Prophetic Publishing.
But no matter, he was almost done anyway. Sending a quick message to Anathema, he sighed again, though this time feeling considerably lighter. Just a few more minutes and he was free to head to his office, gather his things, and take the tube back home to return to his newest read.
He would probably be more comfortable if he worked in his office, but he would get the most work done in the lounge. Besides, no one else was here, and he’d have the whole space to himself. No smelly tuna melts spinning in the microwave courtesy of Dagon, none of Mr. P. Sandalphon’s horribly timed comments about the last Pet he had tamed or rude comments about the Littles he had seen on his way to work, and no lurking Anthony Crowleys.
No, thanks heavens. Aziraphale opened his old trusty laptop to finish editing the last section of his newest revision to editorial policy. He’d get nothing done if Crowley was here.
There was nothing wrong with Crowley, not at all. He was just quiet. And severe. And, frankly, a little intimidating. He was infamous around the building for his— er— rather passionate impatience with grammatical errors and untimely work. Writers often thanked their lucky stars he wasn’t in any sort of leadership position— at least until last week when Mr. Stern felt it imperative that Crowley, ‘Take the reins, champ!’ and become a fully-fledged contract manager.
Crowley had been sneering and huffing and scowling ever since, stalking the break room with barely concealed rage. Really, the poor dear clearly needed some sort of niche hobby or massage appointment or something.
Goodness, already half past five? He really needed to hurry.
Aziraphale situated himself at the dingy little table in the corner of the break room and set himself to work.
Of course Crowley wasn’t a monster, not at all. He was actually quite witty and generally kind and didn’t seem to have any sort of mean streak. He just seemed perpetually annoyed and gifted with the unselfconscious willingness to share his grievances with his coworkers, much to the— albeit quiet and self-contained— amusement of Aziraphale. There was one time where over a call Crowley used the word “consecutive” no less than eighty times in reference to the rather unfortunate spelling mistake (‘consequative’ instead of ‘consecutive,’ if you can believe it) made by Mr. Sandalphon. Aziraphale could barely contain his giggles, and had made knowing eye contact with Crowley at some point in their shared joke.
Outside of that, however, Crowley remained ever-distant, never eating with anyone during lunch or sticking around for company events.
It was true that Aziraphale’s Caregiver nature made him rather prone to care overly much, even for people he didn’t know, but Crowley seemed particularly lonely and isolated. He was probably just a single Dom or Master with truly horrendous methods of stress relief. And there were certainly things Aziraphale could see that would cause stress! The dear almost always stayed after hours to get his work done for one, and likely didn’t sleep well if the sheer magnitude of coffee he inhaled was any indication.
Which was why it was just a little strange he seemed missing from the building already. Hopefully taking an afternoon to himself.
Well. Best hurry on the policy so he could go home too.
Aziraphale did take longer on the writing than he would have liked, but at the very least it was done. He stretched in the creaky fold-out chair, cracked his neck, and gleefully made his way back to his office.
Likely the first time this week he was this excited to see his lackluster office. He’d pack away his laptop in his sling bag, maybe even eat the chocolate he had stashed away before leaving this truly suffocating building. A reward for the ridiculous amount of to-be-published books Gabriel seemed so keen to drop on him.
Aziraphale was aware of how simple and monotonous his life was. It was just work work work punctuated by occasional meetings with his dear friends in antiquities like the eclectic Madame Tracey or inquisitive Anathema Device and her Sub Newton. There weren’t any surprises that served to vary his days, but that was quite alright with him.
At least, he was left alone by surprises until he pushed open the door to his office.
He was occupied with nothing but the thought of returning to his book back at home.
And he was completely unaware of the whereabouts of Mr. Anthony Crowley.
For sitting splay-legged on the firm carpeted floor, three of his left fingers in his mouth, hazel (hazel??) eyes wide and devoid of their usual sharpness was Anthony J. Crowley, his snarky, reluctant, and until now absentee project manager.
It was ridiculous.
Blasted absurd, even. He’d never let this happen before.
“No, no no no no no no NO.” Crowley growled under his breath, digging through every orifice, crook, and sulci possible in his apartment. How was it that on the final day he needed to hang on— the only day he needed to worry about before the stinkin’ weekend— he couldn't find his bloody meds?
A lump in his inside out jeans turned out to be tangled headphones. Digging through his hung up jacket pockets revealed nothing but a few pound coins and an American penny. Even searching through his medicine cabinet, rife with products that were sure to conceal a loose pill or two turned up nothing. Zip. Zero. Nada.
“Arghk, c’mon! I don’t have time for this!” A quick check to his nice watch revealed that, no, he really didn’t have time for this, and Crowley found himself throwing his hands up in very physical defeat. “Alright! You win, Past Me! Lesson learned, alwayssss ask for extra! How does it feel to be bloody right? Hrhm?” No one answered, and Crowley huffed before aggressively righting his likely ruined hair.
“Annn’ yeah, yeah, also get what you need on time. Fine. Fair’s fair. But. You know what?” He jabbed a finger at a plant before packing up his computer and charger and grabbing the cup he had prepared just before his day turned upside down. “We’re not gonna call in sick today! Yeah! That’s right, we’re-we’re-we’re gonna weather this fuckin’ thing like no one's business…Yeah.”
He could feel the fire burning out of him as he spoke, about as strong as some boy scout’s shitty first badge attempt. He sighed as he shouldered on his jacket, grabbed his bag, and stuffed his phone in his pocket.
“Yeah, we’re gonna be fine. We’re not gonna drop. Not gonna cry or piss myself or-or-orrrr, I dunno, start sucking on my tie or anything like that. ‘S just a day.”
And for a few hours, it was. The tube went fine (besides the stupid gum he stepped in), the walk to his office went fine (when you forget that he missed the elevator), and even going to the breakroom for some extra pick-me-up coffee went fine (though there was a moment where he couldn’t find a mug that didn’t have some gross stain on it, and he could feel some previously squished part of his brain beg him to smack the counter in frustration but no, he wouldn’t, because he was perfectly mature.)
It was 11ish, so close to lunch when he first felt it really nagging at him.
Withdrawal from his suppressants was a bitch, but it was what followed that really worried him. Yeah, yeah, he could take the shaking and the sweats and the queasy nauseousness, but it was when he was trying to edit a new author's rights contract and the words were like little tadpoles, their meaning elusive and quick to flit away, that he realized he might’ve flown too close to the sun by coming to work.
“…first serial rights IE publication of condensations, excerpts, digests, serializationss…condensation… –s? and periodicals? What?” He leaned forward, squinting at the word and imploring them to make sense. “What? Fuckinnnn’ buffalo buffalo buffalo.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, paused, and cringed when he felt his thumb linger at his mouth, hurrying to sit on his whole hand. “No. No no. It’s fine, you’re fine. Let’s get– yeah– let’s get some more coffee. Yeah. Take a walk.”
He ignored his shakiness when he stood, and made his way to the break room as quickly as he could, not wanting to catch anyone’s attention. Just walking around and near other people made him feel weird, like his body was too long, too big for the rest of him. But it wasn’t. He was a perfectly capable adult, he was, and he was perfectly able to do his job.
Committing himself to the familiar process of using the old office coffee maker made him feel a bit better. Grab the same mug he used earlier, fill the machine thingy with water, add the filter, add the gross coffee grounds, push the button, hurriedly cover his ears at the weird buzzing sound (before remembering that it wasn’t that loud and he was an adult anyways, loud noises were no problem), and watch as it dripped down so he could have a reason to ignore his coworkers. He could’ve stood there forever, really, just staring at the methodical dripping.
“There he is!”
A sudden PE teacher-esque voice boomed at the doorway of the break room, startling Crowley enough to fumble for his phone. “Shi– ah! Hey, uh. Hiya there, Gabes.” He’s not a ‘Gabes,’ look at him. He looks like a ‘mister’ or a ‘sir.’
“Felt like I barely saw you today! Heh, kinda like a vampire. All that black.” Gabriel Stern laughed, endlessly amused by himself, and rummaged through the fridge for one of his horrid protein shakes and wet salads while Crowley panickedly tried to calm himself down.
“Hah, yeahhh. Y’know how it is. The sun’s jus’ uh, real bad for us vampires.”
Gabriel stood up from his stoop at the fridge, toting (unsurprisingly) a salad and an industrial looking thermos. He looked every inch the quintessential adult, suit well pressed, hair combed back and slick, not jittery at all— perfectly self assured. “Ha! No wonder you’re so pale then, huh, Tony?” He gave a huge teasing grin and stared expectantly.
Usually Crowley would correct him with a barely concealed curled upper lip, ‘s Crowley, but just thinking of doing that suddenly felt… gross. Wrong. He ran a hand through his hair and compulsively smoothed down his suit jacket before giving a nervous laugh. “Yeah, thas’... think you just nailed it. That’s exactly it.”
In all his Dom glory, Gabriel chuckled and gave Crowley’s shoulder a firm pat that made him jump. “You’re funny, Tony! Actually. Look. I’ve been thinking,” Crowley clutched at the bottom hem of his jacket, running his fingers along the curve as he nodded along. “There hasn’t been enough collaboration–” He pronounced every syllable clearly with a sort of fake-pity expression.
“And I think you should give a meeting sometime soon, champ, just to see to it that we’re keeping the writing team family together, yeah?” Crowley nodded again. Wow, who knew there were so many cool patterns to be found in the tile floors? “Just say something about sticking together and working as one.” That little smudge was totally a cat. “Honestly, as CM, you should be taking the initiative with these kinds of things.” No, no. Look at the curve, maybe it was a dragon. “So I’ll be expecting an email sometime today with a potential date and time and place. Sound good?” Yeah, a big fire breathing dragon that guarded a castle. Probably had gnarly breath, big scary teeth. “Tony?”
“Uh-huh?” Maybe the dragon had big black scales and bright gold eyes and—
“I’ll get that email sometime today, right champ?”
“Er– yeah. Will, uh, can do.”
“Alright!” Gabriel gave another bright grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “I made you project manager for a reason, you know. I’m hoping you can get everyone on board to the ‘one team’ mindset. You can do that, right?”
“Mrgk, uh-huh. Can-do-will-do.”
“That’s the spirit!” He clapped his shoulder again before briskly leaving the room, leaving Crowley back alone with the drip drip dripping of the coffee pot and a curling sense of shame and smallness. He waited for the coffee to finish (this time while facing the door and listlessly tapping through his phone) and reached to grab the pot like he always did before stopping when he felt the heat it emanated.
It’s not gonna burn you, idiot, just grab it. His fingers hovered at the dark handle. Just grab it!! Don’t be useless! You’ve done this millions of times, c’mon! He pulled away and just stared at the perspiring pot before deciding to leave it where it was. Getting burned would hurt bad. Someone else would probably appreciate some free coffee, too, like that penny he found on the ground last weekend. All the way from America, and how cool was that?
Fuck. I’m dropping. Crowley felt himself tear up without any preamble at the realization. Shades up, rub at his burning eyes, shades down. Like nothing ever happened. He made the walk back to his office quickly, not trusting himself to keep from bursting into tears at just a sad look from some well meaning editor or intern, and threw himself in his seat. He’d have to do something fast. Fake a disease to get home, maybe. He could have the cold, or-or he could just make something up. What sounds real? Errrrrsomething-something-itis. Pharyngo-laryngitis? That’s real, right?
No, no. It’s fine. Deep breath in– deep breath out. You can do this. You can be adult enough for just a few more hours.
Crowley let out a sigh, pushed back his hair, and started drafting his email to Gabe. “Gabriel, I think a meeting next Tuesday at 2 is terrific– wait, no, no, that’s too weird. Who says ‘terrific?’ Hah. Maybe Aziraphale.” Oh christ. Figures you’re thinking about him when you’re just a stern talk away from completely dropping at work. Crowley tried his best to focus on the words he was supposed to be typing out, but his stupid brain kept wiggling off to think about the very soft and very kind editor on his team.
And he’s a Caregiver. Gabriel and Sandalphon were talking about a few months ago. He was in the breakroom— getting coffee, big shocker, that— and Sandalphon was being weird about his classification. Something like, ‘Realllly think about, Gabriel. Makes a lot of sense, now, doesn’t it? All his hedging.’ And Crowley had to slink back to his office with a pink face when his infernally blasted imagination couldn’t stop toying with the image of a comfy shoulder and even comfier voice.
He had taken an extra pill the next day. Thankfully his pre-dreams, moments waiting in lines for coffee, and even just washing hands became less and less occupied with the idea of Mr. ‘my-lexicon-is-older-than-a-grandfather’s!’ as his CG. They had faded within a week or so, and Crowley was more or less able to return to his brain’s regularly scheduled program of making fun of Gabriel or internally snickering at some writer’s horrible typos or just wondering about whether or not monkeys actually ate bananas.
On the weekends when things were quieter and easier to maintain, though, his idle thoughts sometimes wandered back towards him about as often as one thinks about a certain childhood memory. Just every so often. He’d picture a snatch of an amused expression, or ponder the texture of his cardigans, or— if his mind was feeling particularly shameless— bury his face in a pillow and imagine a gently rising and falling chest.
The feeling of something warm and wet enveloping his left fingers had him jolting in his seat. He tugged out the fingers that had somehow made their way into his mouth with a long, drawn out whine. He banged his head on his desk a few times as he clumsily wiped his fingers on his pants, starting to rock back and forth in his seat.
“You’re fine, this is fine, you’re ok ‘n ‘s jus’ a little longer…” His leg bounced and tensed, wanting to curl beneath him on his rolly chair, but he firmly curbed the instinct.
Focus. The email. The final client for the week. You just have to do some reading and writing, that’s it.
He tried to get back to it, he really did, but every time he stared at the draft he had started or the contract he had to look over, he felt himself tear up and had to bang his head a few more times to try to focus. Remember the article, ‘Dropping a Drop’ or whatever, what did it say? THINK. Something about moving around, staying distracted. Okay, up. Up up up, let’s go. Just walk around the room or something.
Crowley pushed himself up, which turned out to be the worst idea imaginable.
When did his office get so big?
He swiped furiously at his eyes, cradling both his arms, and shuffled miserably around the room. His sleek computer bursting with notifications, the crumpled paper-filled waste bin, the intimidating filing cabinet with handles that looked like tight-lipped disappointment and labels like narrowed eyes— it was all so, so adult, so overwhelming.
“Jus’ breathe, jus’ breathe…” His breaths were shivery and quick, his hands running over and over again through his hair. He was just getting into a good, swift back-and-forth pace— better than sad shuffling that only encouraged his rapidly deteriorating motor control— when a too-sharp turn on his toes had his legs tangle like a newborn foal’s and send him crashing to the floor.
His arms shot out to protect his face, and, while firm, the carpeted floor likely helped to curb any serious injury, but the flashing pain and vertigo tipped him from Hanging On to, Really Not Hanging On At All, and there was nothing he could do to stop the sob that bubbled out of him. He made a truly pathetic whimpering sound, all the little frustrating things from today building up and up until he really couldn’t contain it anymore. Tears streamed down his face, and he covered his mouth to try and be quiet, he didn’t want to be too loud.
Curling up on the floor seemed like the next best step. It wasn’t very comfy down here, but what could you do? He missed his bed and the super big pillow he slept with. They would’ve helped him feel better. Just like—
He sniffed and pushed himself up. ‘Ziraphale would help him. He’s super comfy looking like his bed. And he’s always really nice. He could go find him now. He was dropping really fast, he’d be a baby any minute now, and he wasn’t very good at moving when he was super small so he’d have to go now.
Plan made, Crowley got up from the floor, sniffling and wiping his face the whole while, and peeked outside. There weren’t a bunch of people out there, probably ‘cause it was getting later and no one but Crowley and the nice janitor lady ever stayed that late. He went over to the other room offices, peeking at each little sign until he could find ‘Ziraphale’s. It was kind of like a spy mission, all his sneaking, and he giggled quietly to himself until he found the one that said ‘Aziraphale Z. Fell’ and went inside.
It looked like his, ‘cept it was a bit smaller. This time, Crowley either didn’t notice or care about the fingers he was now nursing on as he looked around the room, and finally plopped on the floor at the relief of a mission well done.
Notes:
I’ll be posting the next chapter (pre-written) within the next few days. Depending if I don’t get impatient and just post it tomorrow.
Like I said, I will (hopefully) be releasing the other wayyyyy longer and wayyyyy more intense age play fic sometime soon. Where “soon” means between three and five months. So. Just a little while.
I might post something between now and then (to tide me over like the glut I am) but we’ll see.
Thanks to some fic authors I just adore, and highly highly HIGHLY recommend checking out:
tinyghostie (such a sweet plot!)
KhajiitHasCakes (seriously an incredible world builder and very very engaging writer
And whoever the hell is writing the “Agere Omens” series. Taste the Christmas.
Chapter 2: Synergy
Summary:
Aziraphale makes a discovery.
Notes:
Holy cow, I was just absolutely honored by the reception this got! I’ve been very excited to keep sharing more!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Oh f-ff-ff–!”
Aziraphale immediately clutched his laptop bag to his chest, heart leaping into his throat, completely spooked by the presence of just Someone He Didn’t Expect in his office.
“Goodness, you-you-you really rather startled me, there.” He gave a nervous chuckle, lowering his bag and righting himself in a bid to calm down. “Well. My. That certainly woke me up.” Another nervous laugh. “What are you doing here? Gabriel was asking about you, you know. Called me about this month's publication schedule and mentioned he couldn’t find you and–er– well. Here you are.”
Crowley was sitting on the floor, staring up at Aziraphale with a dreadfully nervous expression and wide hazel eyes that immediately caused Aziraphale to pull an honest-to-god double take. Crowley was never without his sunglasses, in cool defiance of the weather, time of day, or location. Aziraphale never deigned to ask, as he didn’t want to seem obtrusive or poke a sore spot or, while a lesser reason, get yelled at. Now Crowley’s bright eyes of smokied greens, browns, and yellows stared right at him without their usual barrier, wide and wet and frightened.
After the shock of finally seeing those really quite lovely eyes, Aziraphale noticed how a few of Crowley’s fingers had made their way into his mouth and were being gently nursed on. His heart, after being stopped by the scare, promptly re-started by his eyes, was now stopped again and resting somewhere at the pit of his stomach as he stared slack-jawed.
“Ah, oh– ah– goodness— Crowley? Are you alright?” Aziraphale starred in deep concern and surprise, eyebrows furrowed and mouth open.
Crowley shrunk under the sharp attention, his perfectly pressed suit likely creasing as he tried to pull his legs to his chest, his free arm clumsily wrapping around his torso. He looked like a cornered small animal, entirely at odds with his usual surly, bitter, uncaring persona. He gave a soft whine from around his fingers, the sound tugging harshly at Aziraphale’s still floundering heart. Really, what was going on? Crowley was acting like a– a—
Well. There was no other way of finding out, wasn’t there?
“Ah, Crowley–” Aziraphale cleared his throat, the furrow in his eyebrows twitching from concern to understanding. “My dear, I–I, well– Are you, that is, are you a Little? Have you dropped?”
Crowley just stared at Aziraphale’s face as he spoke, taking in the creases in his forehead. He gnawed harder on his fingers at Aziraphale’s question, fidgeted with his skinny tie, and let out another whimper as his eyes filled with tears and quietly spilled over.
“Oh no, no darling, it’s alright–” Aziraphale put aside his laptop case and kneeled on the floor in front of the Little, hands fluttering in anxious indecision. Crowley let out a sob at the motion, a small, choked sound that Aziraphale could have never imagined coming from him. It was practically torn from his throat, completely different from Crowley's more usual monotonal grunts and aggrieved huffs. It was absolutely unprecedented.
Actually, this whole thing was unprecedented. Crowley worked almost every day of the week, stayed late for most, and never took a vacation day. Littles were sanctioned by law to have at least two days each work week to drop, and yet here was Crowley— a Little if Aziraphale had ever seen one— taking even less than a baseline. It was a wonder he hadn’t dropped at work yet.
“Dearheart, is there someone I can call?” Aziraphale wrung his hands together, unwilling to touch Crowley without any sort of okay. “Do you have a Caregiver? A friend?” Crowley just whimpered again, either unable to process what he was saying or unwilling to answer.
“Why don’t I try to go find someone who can– ah– help–…” Aziraphale stood up from the Little and turned towards the door, prepared to find someone, do something when Crowley choked on a cry. He let out a stuttering breath like an accordion before bursting out in sob, pulling his long fingers out of his mouth to curl it around his head and just wail into his knees.
“No no no no! My dear, darling, it’s okay!” Aziraphale immediately dropped back down to the ground, every instinct to hold, to soothe, to comfort clambering within him. “Oh, no, no, it’s okay, you’re alright–“ He reached out towards the sobbing, shaking Crowley with both arms, an action that took a fierce hold of him. When Crowley didn’t notice, still curled in his little ball, Aziraphale could wait no longer and simply gathered the boy in both arms to pull him to his chest.
At the touch, Crowley tensed even harder before uncoiling all his limbs at once to grasp at Aziraphale’s cardigan and bury his face into his shoulder, crying his beloved face off.
Aziraphale hushed him softly and tightened his grip. “Oh, love, oh dear, it’s alright. You’re alright. Sh-sh–shhhh, that’s it darling, deep breaths.” He tried to breathe slowly and deliberately, hoping Crowley would copy him as he squeezed him tight, one hand delicately cupping the back of his neck.
So up close he could see the subtle curls and details of his small snake tattoo, marvel at the softness of even the coarser hair at the base of his neck, feel how utterly skinny the dear was.
Aziraphale’s caretaking skills were long since out of practice. He had a Little back in his later years of college, but they ended up breaking things off when Samael got a job in America and wanted to start anew. Ever since, Aziraphale had no one to care for, no one to watch or comfort or hold. Most of his friends weren’t on the Caregiver-Little spectrum either, and as such didn’t afford him many opportunities to babysit.
Sitting here with Crowley and calming him after a must have been an intense Drop felt right. Viscerally right. A rightness he hadn’t felt in ages. Bone deep satisfaction and calm as he rubbed his palm up and down the scrawny, suit-clad length of his torso, felt the small, warm puffs of breath against his neck. He breathed deeply, and realized his calm wasn’t just manufactured for the little one, it was something he simply felt. Simply pure and utter calm.
At least until he realized that he was holding a Little he had no idea how to help. A Little who may very well be without a Caregiver, and was unable to give any information. A Little who seemed to drop too young to make any good decisions for himself. A Little who he had no supplies for at all. A Little who, if his assumptions were correct, didn’t want anyone knowing his classification, for whatever reason that may be, and the calm evaporated.
Crowley’s cries began to taper off a good few minutes later, quieted even further by the gentle, slow circles Aziraphale rubbed into his back. “There we are. Are we feeling better, darling?” Aziraphale jostled Crowley just a bit, hoping to get some eye contact. Though Crowley didn’t move from his spot against his shoulder, he did turn his dewy eyes towards Aziraphale, just staring at the lines in his face. As he stared, his fingers slowly crept back up towards his mouth, much to Aziraphale’s concern. “No, no! Let’s ah– let’s try something else.”
He leaned forward to grab the laptop bag he had dropped somewhere between first discovering Crowley and hurrying to comfort him and, one-handed, began digging around for anything that could possibly keep the boy entertained. “Here, darling. Try this instead.” He pulled out his laminated ID badge— complete with an overexposed, truly horrible picture of himself— and gave to the Little, who immediately began teething at its floppy plastic corners and flipping the clip back and forth with a little click click click click.
Well. Better than his fingers.
But what to do now? It would be wholly irresponsible to drop the poor dear off wherever he lived. No, he had a responsibility to stay with him until he crawled out of his drop, wherever that may be. He had no idea where Crowley lived, and it might be a gross invasion of privacy were he to go through his things to find out. It might be entirely better to simply take him to his own flat and care for him until tomorrow morning. It would lead to a horribly awkward conversation the next morning, of course, but at least Crowley would be safe and taken care of.
Plan decided, Aziraphale twisted to pull his phone out of his pocket and open Anathema’s contact.
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I know you might be busy with Newton, but do you think you could send me one of those bolts home?
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sure but is everything alright? I know u usually take the train
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My coworker is a Little and he dropped. I don’t think he wants to be around anyone like this, so I may take him home. I haven’t any idea where he lives.
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wow. christ. Is he ok??? how young?
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He’s rather small. He’s chewing on my pass at the moment.
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Or at least he was chewing on the pass. Crying fit done and over with, Crowley seemed entirely tuckered out and was now just playing with the buttons on Aziraphale’s cardigan as he fought to keep his head up. It was entirely too precious for words.
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okok sending it now
plate is
BD5I SME
BD5I SMR*****
u should get an iphone so I don’t have to keep typing out the whole plate number
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The day my perfectly adequate mobile fails me will be the day I consider getting an iphone.
How far is it?
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seven so u better get ur stuff together————————————————————————
Thank you!
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get an iphone!!
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Aziraphale quickly put his phone away and looked down to check on Crowley. He had completely given up on staying awake and now laid his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, eyes droopy and breath relatively even. His ginger lashes were clumped together with tears, his mouth gently teething at the badge, and his shirt collar slightly rumpled. Aziraphale melted and was overcome with the desire to press a gentle kiss to his temple.
No, no. Best not. Not your Little, and certainly not without his say so.
He sighed and slowly tried to dislodge Crowley from his sweater, who whimpered at the loss of contact and tried burrowing closer.
“Darling—” Aziraphale ran a hand through his soft hair, trying to wake him from his drowse. “Crowley, we have to go. We’re going to go to my home which I assure you is much more comfortable than the floor.” He tried again, moving to pull Crowley to stand with him, but Crowley refused. He just whined and gripped even harder, pressing his forehead into the fabric of his top.
Aziraphale sighed and reconfigured. “Alright, alright. Let’s try this—” With a small hup , he wrapped an arm around Crowley’s torso, another around his knees and beneath his bum, and lifted, trying to support him on his hip. Crowley seemed to accept the motion readily, winding his long legs around Aziraphale’s waist and gripping tight like a young koala. Aziraphale bounced him once to get him in a more comfortable spot— my, was he light— and stooped quickly to grab his bag. “Whew! Alright my boy, I should say we’re ready to go, hmm?” Crowley made a sort of humming sound before lying his head down, back to chewing on his ID badge.
While he was worried about running into any nosey coworkers, the building seemed largely empty at this time of day. Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief at the realization and hurried along to Crowley’s office. If Crowley were to spend the night at his house, he would likely appreciate some of his things the next morning. He might even have a comfort item stashed away somewhere. The moment he walked in, however, Crowley whined in displeasure and buried his face to keep from looking.
“Oh no, dear, we’re just having a look. Just in case we need to grab anything important before we go.” Crowley didn’t seem convinced, but didn’t complain outside of a tighter grip and hidden face. It seemed, though, that the trip was unnecessary, as the room was almost completely bare bar the absolute essentials. A sleek computer left open on the desk that Aziraphale closed and slipped into a leather bag resting on the floor, a slim stack of papers he placed inside as well, and a crumpled gum wrapper he threw away in the small wire rubbish bin on the floor were all he found. A quick, cursory glance through his desk cabinets didn’t betray an ounce of softness either, full of sticky notes and uncapped pens.
“You’re alright, dear, see? All done.” Aziraphale gave Crowley a squeeze as they left, both his own and Crowley’s bag slung over his free shoulder. When they left the main offices area, however, Aziraphale tensed again at the doors to the outside. Would Crowley fuss if he was around other strangers? He wasn’t sure, but it was a necessary evil if he was going to get him safely home and with the least amount of stress.
“Darling, we’re going to go outside around some other people. Are you alright with that? I’m sure it won’t be anyone who knows you.” He gave the hiding boy a bounce. “It’s just for a moment.” Crowley peeked out from his shoulder, staring at Aziraphale for just a moment before quickly burying his face back in his hiding spot. Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, shy, are we? That’s alright.”
His phone buzzed and he strained to take it out while also balancing the clinging length of Crowley and the two heavy bags. Flicking it open— one handed, he really was learning— revealed a text from Anathema.
————————————————————————
he’s here, go now
————————————————————————
Well. No better time than the present.
“Alright.” He gave Crowley, who had lifted his head back up to keep gnawing on the badge, another bounce. “It’s just for a minute, hm? While we find where he parked.” He took a fortifying breath, compulsively checked his watch, and awkwardly hit the crash bar with his hip to the outside.
Notes:
Thank you very much for reading!! I wanted to give a thanks to KhajiitHasCakes for leaving me just the sweetest comment. You’re the kind of writer I aspire to be!
I also wanted to take another moment to recommend another writer, MusicalProstituteMyDear! (who I absolutely did not cheer upon seeing that they had given this work kudos, no, not at all.)
I spent an embarrassingly long amount of time trying to do images for the text messages (which didn’t work out) and then the font I wanted (which also didn’t work out) before just throwing in the towel and calling it. Apologies if the formatting turned out too wonky or cattywampus or whatever, but at this point eh. C’est la vie. I had a burger to eat.
Thank you for reading! I’m a big fan of comments, kudos, and what-have-you, so don’t be shy! See you in a few days w the next! Deuces!
Chapter 3: Actionable Items
Summary:
A new duo make a quick escape
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The moment he opened the door, Aziraphale was attacked by a tumult of sensation he knew Crowley wouldn't take kindly to. Crisp February air hit his face, cars zoomed loudly past, and likey worst of all for the poor dear, there was a seemingly endless number of people milling about.
As he expected, Crowley let out a soft cry and buried his face even further into Aziraphale’s coat. Aziraphale quickly scanned the street for the car and huffed angrily when he discovered it at the very end of the street. “It’s just a block, my dear. Then we’ll be nice and toasty in the car.” He tried to duck down to see if he could get Crowley’s attention, but he was unhearing, likely too distracted by the noise and smells and people.
As they walked to the car, Aziraphale got a few worried and sympathetic glances from strangers. The slick suit Crowley had on likely gave off a very particular impression: a Little with an unfortunately timed drop getting picked up by his Caregiver. The looks gave him a strange dizzy feeling. He never liked being the center of attention, especially in public, but he felt almost content being seen with Crowley. Like it was right to be with him in front of others.
Of course, any feeling close to the idea of positive was banished far far from his mind by poor Crowley’s reaction to just the sounds of other people nearby. Throughout the whole walk, he whined and sniffled and clutched at his lapels, refusing to look up. Aziraphale made soft cooing sounds and kept rubbing the small of his back.
They were just at the car when a rather large tram, stinking of gas and burnt tire and other horrible vehicle-smells, passed by with a high pitched squeal. Crowley’s breath hitched and he tensed completely, making a small, drawn out groaning sound that morphed into a sob. Aziraphale panicked and hurriedly stooped for the door handle, shushing Crowley as well as he could over the sounds of the tram, and tried his best to carefully get into the car without letting go of him. “Oh, oh darling! Shhh, shh shh, you’re alright, you’re alright, just a moment–” His words all jumbled together as he slowly bent down to drop the bags on the car floor. Big Crowley would likely not appreciate hearing he had a small meltdown right in front of their office building, the poor thing.
“Oh, goodness, really, I apologize sir, car for Aziraphale?” Bags secured, he finally addressed the driver, who just looked rather exhausted and slightly concerned.
“Yeah, over to Soho?”
“Exactly, thank you.” He eased himself into the car, gently placed Crowley on the smaller middle seat so he could be close, and started to try and untangle his wiry arms from around his neck. “Come along, darling, that’s it. Safety first, we have to buckle.” Crowley very reluctantly let go and sniffled, breathing in little hitches as Aziraphale buckled him in. “There we are,” Aziraphale soothed, adjusting their bags so they weren’t all cattywampus on the ground.
He was about to pull out his mobile to let Anathema know they had caught the ride in time when Crowley whined and clutched onto his arm, nuzzling his face into his shoulder. “Oh. Alright, dear?” Aziraphale lifted an arm so Crowley could better rest against him. “Tired, are we?” He huffed fondly when Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut, still maintaining a tight grip on his now-chewed up pass.
It wasn’t very long until Crowley’s breaths had evened out entirely and he became firmly asleep, his face almost unfamiliar in its entirely slackened, sweet state. Aziraphale melted— for what felt like the dozenth time in less than an hour— and couldn't help himself from gently sweeping some loose hairs from his face.
The ride itself wasn’t too long, thankfully, just a smooth 15 minute ride back to his flat in Soho, but it felt like ages to Aziraphale. He furiously deliberated all the things he would have to do at home. Likely hurry by the convenience store to pick up a cup and a toothbrush and— goodness— maybe some socket protectors? No, no, he’ll only be with you for a night, there’s no need to take home the whole Little asile. Though he’d likely appreciate a stuffie, something sweet to cuddle. He looked at the dear for a moment, tsking at the tip of his thumb resting at his mouth, and added a paci to the mental list as well.
When they finally arrived at his block, Aziraphale quickly thanked the driver, grabbed their bags, and carefully, though not too gracefully, hauled the limpet Crowley back on his hip. “There we are. Thank you, sir, have a nice day.”
He sighed in relief at the sight of his street corner; the charming, old restaurants, the bar, the small sex toy place, and the convenience store, which he immediately walked towards the moment he had gained his bearings. Aziraphale was a creature of habit, and always felt most comfortable in the places most familiar to him. After the past half hour or so fraught with stress and panic and surprises, even the sight of the loose cobble and banged-up rubbish bin served to comfort him. As he walked across the street, bag and Crowley-laden, he couldn’t help but notice Crowley’s lack of anxious fidgeting. The boy paid little mind to the cold wind pushing the amber streaks that had escaped his bun into his face, choosing instead to quietly lay his head on his shoulder and gnaw gently at the badge.
Thank goodness. Much better than crying the whole time we pick up some goodies, the poor thing.
There were no carts to deposit Crowley in as he shopped, so he had to make this rather quick lest he want to lose his arm from the stain of carrying the boy. Just one attempt of trying to nab a basket while balancing two work bags and a clinging Little made him realize he might need a hand, and he bashfully made his way to the front. How seasoned Caregivers and parents were able to manage bouncing Littles and children alike with diaper bags and what-have-you he had no idea.
“Pardon me madame, but do you think you could hold these at the front with you?” Aziraphale shrugged his bag-weighted shoulder at the older woman behind the counter with the severe ponytail. She softened when she saw the remora-d Cowley and cooed, absentmindedly reaching out to grab the bags.
“Of course.” She clucked her tongue in endearment when Crowley made a small noise of unease and turned his head away. “Aw. Long day?”
“Ah, yes, rather.” Aziraphale paused to roll his now freed shoulder and adjust Crowley, who whined again and timidly buried his face. “Just picking up some supplies.”
“Well, you’ll find all of our Little care things in the far back next to the fridges. If you have any questions let me know.”
“Yes, thank you.” Aziraphale patted Crowley’s back with a free hand as they meandered towards the fridges. Crowley shivered at the slight chill and clutched Aziraphale’s sweater with a grumble that made him sound more like his adult self.
“Oh my, that is rather chilly. Brrrr.” Aziraphale chuckled and absentmindedly rubbed his back, finally able to freely grab a lion-covered sippy cup, cushy bag of pullups (just in case), its accompanying powders and creams, and a pacifier with a blue clip. Crowley was quiet the whole time, completely relaxed and simply resting against him as they shopped. It was only when they were passing the small section of toys and stuffed animals themed for the impending Valentines Day— featuring lopsided bears holding hearts and poorly manufactured mini rabbits— that Aziraphale paused his quick expedition. He angled himself so Crowley could see the shelf and gently jostled him, hoping to get his attention.
It was true that Crowley wasn’t his Little. Even more true that he clearly didn’t want anyone to find out his classification, either. But there was a part of Aziraphale just nagging to indulge the Little side Crowley didn’t seem to be taking care of— not if he was dropping at work. He could always just donate the stuffed animal to an organization if Crowley didn’t want it anymore.
“Would you like a soft toy, darling? Hm? Not the best selection, I know, but you could always get another one later.” Crowley just stared at the animals, eyes not betraying any sort of excitement or joy until he just cuddled into Aziraphale’s side further, even turning to look away from the bright pinks and reds and whites of aggressive Valentine's cheer.
Poor thing was exhausted.
“Here, how about I pick for you. Let’s, ah–...let’s pick…” Suddenly Aziraphale found himself— ridiculously— deeply contemplating the significance of a stuffed animal. If Crowley really wasn’t nourishing his Little side, he likely didn’t own one at all. Goodness, he wouldn’t want to pick something Crowley would hate or pretend to like for his sake. Though— no, Crowley wasn’t the kind to pretend for someone else. He seemed very vocal in meetings. Unapologetically so, even.
Aziraphale decided to try lifting each stuffed animal for Crowley’s approval, who largely just stared at each one before Aziraphale awkwardly put it back. It was only when he gingerly lifted a toddler-sized light pink unicorn with long floppy legs and a plush tail that Crowley reacted. “How about this, then?” The boy lifted his eyes— now back to their tired half-mast haze— and hesitantly reached out.
“There we are.” He gently started to tuck the unicorn under Crowley’s limp arm, smiling softly at his tired reach. “Why don’t you hold him for me? He seems rather lonely.” Crowley clumsily accepted the plush toy and held it loosely, laying his head back down on Aziraphale’s shoulder with a tired sigh.
“Almost done, dear.” Aziraphale hurried to finish the rest of his shopping, paid, collected their bags and a kind, “good luck!” from the woman at the counter, and made the quick walk home.
If Aziraphale had been relieved to see his street corner, then he was absolutely elated to see the facade of his flat building. He placed his bags on the ground to unlock the door, smiled gratefully at the warmth of the landing, and gave the close-to-dozing Crowley a little bounce.
“I need you awake for just a little longer, my dear. Then we can get some shut eye.” He hurried to the elevator as fast as he could without startling Crowley, who sweetly tugged the unicorn a little closer to rub his cheek against its mane at the tinny, “going up.” When they finally made it to his flat, Crowley was just a moment away from being completely dead to the world, mouth agape and eyes fluttering shut. Aziraphale quickly let them both into his flat, placed their bags happily aside, and gently transferred Crowley to his plush leather couch. The boy kept his tight clutch on the unicorn, the pink providing an almost absurd point of contrast to his very sober, very adult dark suit. Aziraphale sighed at the sweet display and decided to give Crowley a small nap before waking him up for dinner.
He turned to go to the kitchen before a thought— a sudden compulsion, more like— tugged him back to lay one of his afghans over the boy, who nuzzled deeper into one of the cottony cushions at the extra warmth.
My. What a day. Aziraphale scrubbed a tired hand over his face as he went to the kitchenette to figure out dinner, though not before stealing a final peek of the image of a slumbering Crowley on his couch. It was very, very strange to have someone else in his flat. It wasn’t that he was unprepared for a guest so much as he hadn’t had reason for one in ages— never mind a Little. It made him feel impossibly jittery to be in the just the room over, as he couldn’t keep a direct eye on the boy to reassure himself that he was safe and well.
After some vacant-eyed staring at the contents of his fridge, Aziraphale decided on a simple butter chicken dish that, in full, took him no more than a half hour. Boiling water for rice and frying chicken was regularly interspersed with panicked, quick peeks around the door frame to check on Crowley, who would somehow manage to move into a different position each time he looked.
Once he situated the steaming, mildly spiced chicken and water-filled sippy cup nearby, Aziraphale gingerly sat at the edge of the couch and prepared himself to wake up Crowley. He opted for a gentle squeeze of his closely tucked shoulder, and chuckled when Crowley only moved to whine and bury his face deeper in the pillow.
“Darling–” Aziraphale sing-songed, “I have some dinner. Let’s get some food in you before we pop off to dreamland, hm? I’d be a terrible host otherwise.”
Crowley made a soft complaining sound in reply, prompting Aziraphale to simply start shifting the boy to sit up. He immediately protested this, his angular face twisting in an impending fuss that Aziraphale hastily tried to curb.
“Oh, I know, I know. Shh, shh. We’re so tired , but food is rather important too. Come on now, there we go.” When Crowley was finally all sat up, looking every bit the exhausted child, hair curling into a bramblebrush frizz and eyes all squinty at even just the soft light from the kitchen, Aziraphale couldn’t help but coo. He grabbed a mismatched bowl and held it towards the boy with a smile that softened his voice. “Here we are, my dear.” Crowley just hugged the unicorn tighter to himself and stared at him with teary, hazy eyes. “Do you want some help?” When he didn’t get a response, Aziraphale grabbed a spoon, scooped some chicken and rice, gave it a gentle blow— it wouldn’t do to burn the poor dear’s lips—, and fed the boy himself.
It was clear that Crowley was unused to the motion. He was slow to open his mouth for the first few spoonfuls before gradually— and sweetly— he began to open up right after swallowing for more. They had made it about two thirds of the bowl before Crowley started groggily smacking his lips. “Here–” Aziraphale held the sippy cup towards Crowley, who completely ignored it to instead slowly fall face first onto Aziraphale’s thigh, now curled in an awkward parody of a yogi’s ‘child’s pose.’
“I– ha, are we sleepy?” Aziraphale felt his face curl into a deep grin and gave Crowley’s back a soft pat. The dear was just so precious . “Let’s drink some water first.” A little more shifting of a now totally compliant Little had Crowley’s neck pillowed on Aziraphale’s thigh and looking up with droopy eyes. He guided the plastic nipple to Crowley’s mouth and watched, almost in awe, as he started taking long, gentle sips, his eyelids fluttering from the comfort of the motion.
“My, you’re–” Aziraphale paused in immensely delayed shock to take in Crowley’s sweetly closed eyes, his curled posture, his clutched stuffie, his rosy freckled cheeks, the soft and repetitive thck sound of the cup— everything, really. “You’re really just a baby, aren’t you?”
Crowley didn’t deign a response, instead drinking until his eyes closed shut and his lips couldn’t stay wrapped around the cup any longer. Aziraphale quietly and slowly pulled the drink away and set it aside. “How did you manage this, my dear?” He asked near-inaudibly to no one but himself.
Really, a Little with no safety net in place in case of a Drop and clearly not taking enough time to be small. He needed to— to do something. What that something could be Aziraphale had no idea, but he would certainly have a discussion with Crowley whenever he woke tomorrow morning. Thankfully Aziraphale had no plans for Saturday, so the poor boy could take however long he needed to sleep.
The question now was whether or not he should change and nappy him. The last thing he wanted to do was take away Crowley’s autonomy. Perhaps he could simply lay him down on every towel he owned, that way he wouldn’t have to take off his pants and cleanup wouldn’t be too difficult if he had an accident.
He glanced to look at the slumbering boy in question, smoothing a hand down his expensive-feeling suit.
He’d certainly have to change him into something more comfortable. He certainly wouldn’t appreciate sleeping in a suit. Plus, scrubbing wee out of nice wool slacks wasn’t likely to be a picnic for anyone.
He sat for a moment in the dark with nothing but the sleep-heavy weight of Crowley and his own swirling thoughts for just a few minutes more before slowly sliding Crowley’s head off of his knee and onto a quickly snatched throw pillow. A messy scavenge through his drawers revealed that his most comfortable articles were a pair of loose tartan pajama pants and his old Loughborough sweatshirt. That’ll do for now, I suppose. He took another few minutes to prepare the bed, layering towel after towel under the duvet with the softest one on top, and left the clothes on his bed before going to retrieve his charge.
While lifting Crowley was no hardship, taking extra care not to wake the boy was. Though even with every uncoordinated jostle— and a last minute strain to grab his new unicorn friend— Crowley seemed utterly unwakeable. He laid him on the bed and began the process of shucking him of his workwear, taking care not to linger or dilly-dally, threading long, uncooperative legs through the soft cotton of the pants and wrangling toothpick-thin arms into the warm embrace of his college sweatshirt with the utmost gentleness.
When Aziraphale finally deemed him ready to sleep, he placed a pillow under his head, tucked his unicorn into his arms, and finally nudged the shiny pacifier between his lips (a pacifier that, admittedly, Aziraphale had taken a few minutes to disinfect in some hot water beforehand. What? It was certainly better to be safe than sorry.)
Right as he was leaving, a finger poised to flick the lights out, Aziraphale took one last look at the Little. He was so small, there alone on Aziraphale’s bed. A small, thin lump sweetly suckling on a dummy and cuddling a brand new toy.
It was, admittedly, just a bit much for Aziraphale’s weak heart.
Not taking another moment to stare, he shut out the lights and went to go eat his own food on the couch. He ate dinner, stared at the lion sippy cup for just a moment, cleaned the kitchen and dishes, and put himself to sleep on the couch.
He really needed to get himself a pet. Maybe a cat. Or a dog. Granted, there was something appealing about the idea of a sweet yet occasionally feisty kitten, for whatever strange reason.
Yes, very strange.
Notes:
Annnnnd back again! Thank you for reading!!
As usual, I wanted to take a quick moment to recommend some authors I really enjoy!! Pizelle, who wrote the very sweet and very creative “A Short Story” (imagining little Crowley in a little devil t shirt is just. Mwah. Adorable). mcschnuggles, who also wrote a very sweet series of both regressing Aziraphale AND Crowley (featuring Stabby, your favorite pair of scissors). And GiggleSnortBangDead, who has a very very well explored world w a regressing Aziraphale in, “A Hard World for Little Things.” I adore these writers.
There might be a lull in my updating frequency since I’m starting finals, but this is my zen so I’ll definitely keep up w it.
Again, thanks for reading!!
Chapter 4: Up to Speed
Summary:
Crowley wakes up.
Notes:
Welcome back!!! Boy, have I missed this! Holy shit everyone’s comments are so nice. Thank you for kudos-ing and commenting!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It was the intensely uncomfortable sensation of his wet, cold pants rasping against his skin that finally woke Crowley up.
“Mrrrh?” He tiredly pushed himself up against the temptingly warm comforter and groaned when the motion really made his situation clear: he had wet himself.
Wetting himself in his sleep wasn’t a rare occurrence. He had the brain of a goldfish, so forgetting to restock his suppressants before he ran out happened often enough that accepting a shitty Saturday morning with pissing himself in his sleep, crying, then cleaning his sorry self up was just part and parcel. Normally, though, he was just fine whenever that happened. Upset, sure. Disgusted, absolutely. But hopeless? Of course not! He always dealt with it just fine.
Sitting up to groggily blink at his surroundings, though, revealed that, no , he was not in fact fine, and he would probably never be fine again.
Because surrrre, while the whole room looked very cozy with its huge bookshelves and overstuffed reading chair, and the bed quietly taunting ooo don’t I feel so nice and toasty?, the fact that it was simply not his room had him freeze up and stiffen. He took just a second to process, his heart staggering along to keep up with his quickening breath, and launched himself up, panickedly tearing the layers of soaked towels off of the bed.
“Holy shit holy shit holy shit–” How he had managed to land himself in a stranger’s bed he had no idea, but as his mind raced through the theories, it was not looking good.
Theory A: He had dropped and some poor sod had taken pity and took him to their place. As much as he’d hate to admit that, he had hazy memories of struggling to keep himself together at work. It was the most likely and the most dreaded all at once. Only question here was who would take him home. Dagon? Not likely. Gabriel? Even more nope. Sandalphon? God, he hoped not. Maybe Beez would. Beez didn’t care about much, they wouldn’t tell.
Or Aziraphale.
His heart jumped at the idea before he quickly tamped it down. Aziraphale was too nice for his own good, it was entirely possible. Completely mortifying, but possible.
Theory B: Somehow, for some reason, maybe he was fine after work, went for a drink, and ended up in someone’s bed for entirely different reasons. Sexy ones. Granted, Crowley didn’t really like sex. It pushed him too close to the more vulnerable headspace he worked so hard to ignore, and it was pretty messy. He was a fan of neat and clean if his flat was any indication.
Theory C: He had been kidnapped, and now was the time to find the nearest window and jump. Unlikely, as he wasn’t tied up or restrained in any way. Plus what would a kidnapper possibly have to gain with him? His money? Devilishly good looks? Pff.
But why would they cover their bed in layer after layer of towels? Crowley huffed and started trying to fold them in a way the stain wouldn’t be too noticeable as he bundled them together. Pulling on one of them, however, revealed a deep blue pacifier. One sized for Littles. Crowley felt every hair on his body stand up straight. He lifted the plastic thing, a vicious sneer on his face, and carefully touched the nipple to feel the telltale slickness of saliva. He immediately recoiled at the slick rubber and dropped it on the bed like it had burned him.
He looked to the bed incredulously, just to remind himself that this was all real when he saw a flash of pink that stood out from the tans and whites of the bed set and towels. Peeling back the comforter with two carefully poised fingers revealed a stuffed unicorn that had been pushed to the edge of the bed in his scramble.
Wherever he was, whoever’s house this was, they knew. They knew he was a Little. They dressed him in new clothes. Gave him a pacifier. Even a damn unicorn.
The realization made him whimper, and quickly clamped a hand over his mouth. NO. Nope, he wasn’t going to drop again, no siree. He was better than that. He had spent far too long working to keep his classification a secret, from the pills to the faked documentation to his olympic-style dodging from classification-related conversations, for it to be all fucked over now. He needed his wits about him. He let out a long, shuddering breath before growling and turning sharply to start a frantic pace. He was perfectly fine! He was going to grab all these towels, find his shit, write a note, and absolutely book it to the dry cleaners.
But just looking at the now crumpled towels made him feel completely overwhelmed. Trying-to-balance-a-plate-while-rewriting-the-Magna-Carta-in-french overwhelmed. He’d have to pick all the towels up and make sure the piss didn’t touch him, then open the door all quiet to make sure whoever it was didn’t hear him, then he’d have to stumble around until he found his stuff, change back into his suit, then call an Uber, then go to the cleaners, then find his credit card and put in his number and then hope they didn’t see his accident then go all the way home and sit in his flat and message Andrew for more pills— Andrew had seen him close to dropping before, it was fine— then go across town to find him then go home and take them then stare into his empty fridge and eat crackers for dinner then feel bad until Monday.
It was— it was just too much. Crowley stood there, just staring at the pile of stained fluffy towels with his now-burning eyes, the withdrawal sickness suddenly ramping up to mix kindly with the overwhelming idea of cleaning. It was all too much.
The sound of a busy kitchen, metal banging together and someone pottering about, reached his ears and had him tense. There was no way he was going to escape without being seen. He could face the music, talk to them even this close to dropping. Or… He looked around the room for any sign of escape, like a hatch under the persian rug or a strangely positioned book that could open a secret passageway when he saw the window to the outside. He was definitely in an apartment building close to the city center, dense with shops and people. A few stories up too, yeah, but he could shimmy from balcony to balcony if he was desperate. Ha. Like his earlier days sneaking out, except those didn’t involve Bond-style acrobatics. Or an obvious piss stain. Or broad daylight. Christ, what time was it??
A soft knock on the door startled him enough to have him pressed against the side table, arms firmly wrapped around himself.
“Crowley? Are you up?” A soft male voice, lilting and prim, that no doubt belonged to none other than Aziraphale Fell. Because of course, the only person’s bed you could’ve possibly pissed on was the one who you actually liked.
“‘M, ergjk, I’m–...” Crowley stammered, hugging himself tighter.
“Are you alright, dear?...” Aziraphale seemed to pause and shifted from one position to the other outside the room. “Can I come in?”
“No. I mean. Grk– no, no thanks. ‘M ok.” If he played his cards right, acted cool and normal enough (whatever that meant), maybe Aziraphale wouldn’t find out he pissed the bed.
“Alright, then.” His voice was very soft, very gentle. “I’m making some breakfast for the two of us. Do you have any allergies?”
Oh christ, now the CG was making him food. He needed to leave. Now.
“No, no, tha’s ok. You don’t have to do that.” Though the idea of good, fresh food was very enticing. “Look, uhm, Aziraphale—” He cleared his throat, untangled his arms from around his torso, and straightened up. The motion helped push down some of the fuzziness at the edges of his thoughts. “Listen, don’t do anything unnecessary on my behalf. I’m jus’ gonna head home. Perfectly capable, me.”
“I’m sure you’re capable, my dear. There’s just nothing wrong with needing a little– erhm– some help occasionally. Everyone does.” He paused, clearly waiting for a reply and cleared his throat when Crowley only remained quiet. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Do you need anything?”
Crowley looked to the soaked towels, his soaked pants, and the pacifier lying innocuously on the bed. “...No.” He paused. “Wait. My suit?”
“Ah, yes, well, I hope you don’t mind but I, ah, took the liberty of ironing it. I have it just out here. Would you like me to,” there was some more shuffling, his voice getting a little quieter, “Would you like me to give it to you now?”
“Ng yeah. Yeah. Yes, please.” He shuffled to the door, his thighs protesting at the rub of the soaked pants, and cracked open the door to stick just his arm out. He didn’t want to see the CG at all until he was ready. And. Y’know. Not covered in piss.
“If you’d like, you could borrow some of my clothes. I’m not quite sure they would fit you,” he gave a soft chuckle, “But you’d certainly be more comfortable.”
Crowley’s face flushed red at the idea of wearing even more of Aziraphale’s clothes. He wasn’t entirely complaining about the shirt he had on now— it was soft and worn and large— but it was Aziraphale’s. Not his.
“Ahmmmm, jus’ my suit works fine. Thanks.” His kept his arm stuck out the door, like a twit, until it dipped with the weight of his perfectly ironed suit. He tugged it in and hung it on the doorknob after hastily closing the door. “Erm, thanks again. Appreciate it.”
“Really, it’s no trouble at all.” Aziraphale said, voice filled with firm but gentle conviction. “Let me know if you might need anything else.”
“Actually, c’n I shower– argh– Is it alright if I use your shower?”
“Oh! Of course! Just down the hall. I should have a fresh towel in there–” Crowley’s face burned, “And more than enough shampoo. Really, anything you might need, don’t be afraid to ask.”
“Right. Yeah, mrgh, thanks.”
Aziraphale’s voice grew impossibly softer. “Of course,” and Crowley just stared at the door as he listened to him shuffle away after a beat.
This whole thing was just so blasted awkward. He dragged an aggressive hand over his face, trying to rub away all of the shame and prickling humiliation.
No more blubbering, tosser. C’mon.
With a huff, Crowley grabbed his suit from the door handle and carefully, hesitantly, opened the front door, as if by some insane reason a bucket of water would drop from the top onto his head. Every motion rubbed his sodden pants against his raw thighs, and he sneered at the feeling as he looked around the room.
The whole place was very cozy. Absurdly cozy. There was a couch laden with mismatched throw pillows and blankets best suited to a forgotten flea market stall. Cozied on top of a thick persian rug was a wooden coffee table covered in a few cups of abandoned tea. No Aziraphale in sight, thank fuck, but the welcomed realization was quickly dwarfed as Crowley felt himself goggle at the sheer number of books.
It was definitely obsessed, and would border on the uncomfortable if it didn’t look so well-loved and cared for. Huge, hulking bookshelves that really lived up to the name— books shoved in every possible empty space. It was almost impressive, if not a little concerning. Some tomes near the bottom, the more clearly untouched ones, had developed some truly intimidating dust dragons that Crowley felt his hands itch to swipe away.
A sound from the kitchen reminded him what his goal was, and he quickly hurried down the hall to the bathroom. Like Aziraphale said, there was a fluffy towel folded beside the sink and a slew of products crowded underneath in a little organizer. What took him off guard, though, was the bag of pullups shamelessly resting on the other side of the sink.
They were very no-nonsense, with no patterns of any kind and clearly intended for everyday use for Littles. Crowley felt his face heat up, and hugged himself tight. Maybe he did have another Little that was hiding somewhere or out and about and he was encroaching on their space. He was definitely encroaching on Aziraphale’s space.
He grabbed just the essentials and carefully stripped down, his face twisted in disgust as he placed the urine-soaked pants in the corner of the shower. He washed down perfunctorily and re-dressed in his suit, though the fuzzy feeling that had been permeating his thoughts since he woke up demanded he find some other more suitable wear, like some soft pajamas with cool designs on them like stars or snakes. But adults didn’t wear anything like that because they were adults, and that would be ridiculous.
He straightened his stupid suit collar and stepped outside, the ruined pants carefully balled up in his hands. Aziraphale was still nowhere to be seen, which made him sigh in relief. This way, he could just grab all the bedding and ruined clothes and take it to the dry cleaners without him noticing.
But as he walked back into the room, the bed was completely stripped. The comforter, the sheets, the shams, even all the stinkin’ towels— gone.
He saw. He knows he pissed himself in his sleep. Really knows he was a Little now. Ha! As if anything could tell him otherwise. He clutched the balled-up pants tight, the absurd compulsion to hug it to his chest like a stuffed toy— like the unicorn, so soft and fluffy— poking at his subconscious like an eyelash. He knows he had an accident. He KNOWS—
“Crowley? Are you alright?” Aziraphale’s voice cut through his racing thoughts like a hot knife through butter, and Crowley spun around to see him hovering at the doorway, concern written throughout his features.
“Mmn– I– I–...” His voice shook.
“Oh, here. Let me get that for you.” He gave a small smile and reached for the tartan pants in Crowley’s hands, who, without thinking, jerked them away.
“No!”
“I– no?” Aziraphale asked, taking a step back with his hands poised in the air. His eyes were wide like he was dealing with a wild animal. “Alright, dear. Do you want to put them in the wash for me, then? It’s just right this way.”
Crowley felt conflicted, feelings from up and down and diagonally across the spectrum of Bad making him tear up without any control. He couldn’t stop shaking his head, couldn’t look Aziraphale in the eye.
“No…”
“Ok, alright. Alright then. Alright. How–...how about this,” Aziraphale floundered, sounding horribly out of depth. “How about you just put them in the hamper for me, right over there– yes, exactly, right by the closet, love– and we’ll go have some breakfast? I’ve made some truly delicious scones, and I’ve been saving some spicy apple butter for a special occasion for a while now. How does that sound, hm?”
Crowley hovered by the basket, swaying back and forth with indecision and confusion. He sniffed. ‘Ziraphale was being nice, too nice. Mom would... He had an accident.
“I–... ‘m sorry…”
“Oh. Oh, no, dear, no, there’s nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all.” All of Aziraphale hedging and twitching vanished, and he tangled his hands together in a calm, decisive steeple.
“Mrm, I, your bed– ”
“Is just a bed. And I put some towels down for a reason. Really, it’s no harm at all.”
“...Towels. You knew.”
“Yes. You dropped at work, my dear.” His voice was so, so gentle, and Crowley could feel the tears escape silently. “Crowley–” He jerked, dropping the pants in the bin before covering his face to hide. ‘Ziraphale knew and he dropped at work and he had an accident and Aziraphale knew…
“Oh, darling. Do you— do you want a hug?”
Crowley couldn’t look, couldn’t move, so he just shook his head, still firmly planted in the meat of his palms. His suit was too tight, too rough, and his arms were too big. He was dropping again.
“Alright, dear.” Aziraphale hushed. “Alright. Are you feeling small right now? I need to know. It’s perfectly alright if you are.”
He twitched his head in some half shaking-half refusing motion.
The room was silent for a few moments save the sounds of people outside. “Here’s what we’ll do,” said Aziraphale, voice soft and entreating. “I’m going to go into the kitchen and finish breakfast. You can come join me whenever you’re ready. There’s no rush— as much time as you might need, you use. Alright?”
Crowley, after a beat of standing silently and hiding behind his hands, nodded when he realized Aziraphale wasn’t going to leave until he acknowledged it.
When he looked up, face blotchy and cheeks sticky, Aziraphale had left for the kitchen. He took a shuddering breath in and sat on the bare bed, just staring at the floor until his thoughts slowly stitched themselves together to something cohesive and he didn’t feel like throwing himself in Aziraphale’s arms for a cuddle.
He went back to the bathroom, splashed his face, and stared at his reflection sternly. We’re not gonna do anything else. We’re not dropping again on this poor man, and we are not going to mess up anything else. Just apologize for everything, thank him, and leave. That’s it.
We’re not even gonna talk to him at work. Just get him a gift basket. Maybe something with fancy soaps.
Walking into the kitchen had him assaulted by the warm, sweet smell of freshly baked pastry and cinnamon. There was a small table covered in different drinks, from orange juice to tea to milk, with preserves of every kind and two perfectly organized spots amidst the breakfast chaos.
“There you are.” Aziraphale looked up with a grin from fiddling with an old coffee maker. Like old old, the kind of old one finds in the back corner of your grandmother’s kitchen. “I don’t often partake in coffee, so you’ll have to make do. I’m not really quite sure this old girl can handle much anymore.” He gestured hopelessly to the likely broken machine with a self-depreciating grin.
Crowley took a deep, steeling breath to shove down all the fuzziness and garner every ounce of Bigness he could. “That’s fine.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and very deliberately didn’t sit at the table.
At his very level, very calm response, Aziraphale glanced up from the museum-worthy machine with surprise that he then obviously tried to hide. “Ah– alright, then.” He wiped his hands on his half apron and gave the kitchen a final look, as if trying to find anything else he could possibly do before finally sitting at the table. Crowley remained standing.
“Please, why don’t you take a seat?”
“‘M alright. Appreciate it, though, really. Actually,” He cleared his throat and put a hand on the back of his intended chair. “Really appreciate everything. All of it. Sorry about ehhh– also all of it. Dealing w’me.”
“Oh no,” Aziraphale fluffed up like an angry pigeon. “As I’ve said, nothing to apologize for. And I assure you that you are nothing that requires ‘dealing’ with.”
More than a little off put by the righteous indignation, Crowley patted down his breast pocket for his sunglasses and tried to play off the motion by running his hand through his hair when he didn’t find them. “Nnnngh, alright, but uh– ‘fore I leave, could you tell me what er. What happened? Yesterday?”
“Oh! Oh, yes, of course, well,” Aziraphale busied himself with rearranging the food and drinks configuration on the table as he spoke. “It was late, around six when I found you in my office. You were rather upset, and I called the two of us a ride to my flat. I– well, I hope you don’t mind, but I took you to the convenience store right down the street to pick up some supplies.”
“Supplies?...” He paused. “D’you have a Little?”
“Do I– I, pardon?”
“A Little. Do you have one.”
“I– no. No, I don’t. No partner either. It’s just me.”
“...Ah.”
“Yes, rather.”
They both paused for a moment, the intense need to maintain Bigness the only thing keeping Crowley from squirming in place at the embarrassment.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, making him jump a little in surprise. “You can choose whether or not to tell me, of course, but I really do need to know. Do you have a Caregiver?”
Crowley just shook his head, face bending from discomfort to frustration to bitterness. “No. And I don’t need one.”
“Can I ask—”
“No, I’m not on any waiting list for an assigned CG, no I’m not in any groups, no I don’t go to any centers, no I’m not registered. And,” he paused for emphasis, lips curling. “An’ especially no ‘m not going to be.” He didn’t look at Aziraphale as he spoke, eyes boring so hard into the tile floor he was surprised there wasn’t a melting hole.
“...Okay. Alright.” Aziraphale was quiet, and a quick glance at his expression revealed nothing like anger or surprise. Just concern. “Have you dropped at work before?”
“Eregk–” Crowley choked and pushed a hand through his hair, trying to push out the aching need to be hugged with it. “Once. Twice now, ‘spose. Don’t need any help though.”
“There’s nothing wrong with needing help. Especially if you’re dropping in the middle of the day.”
“Look, ‘Ziraph– Aziraphale, I’ve done fine this far. Don’ need anything.”
“My dear, you’re a baby. It would be wholly irresponsible for me to pretend as if I haven’t seen anything.”
“Can’t you?”
“Of course not!” He stood from the table, hands fussing again. “Crowley, really, please. Let me help you.”
“No. Fuck no.”
“Crowley.” He huffed, rubbing a hand across his creased forehead. Crowley finally gave into the compulsion and writhed in his spot, nervous at Aziraphale’s upset. “Alright. Alright, then. I have a proposal. What if you simply come to me whenever you feel like you might drop? Nothing more, nothing less.”
“I don’t wanna– ergk– don’t want to, I dunno, throw off your work. Or whatever.”
“Honestly dear, that’s the least of my worries. Gabriel can–...can faff off for all I care.”
Crowley couldn’t help the snicker that escaped him at Aziraphale’s expression and word choice. Who knew the buttoned-up CG could curse? “I– hah – look. ‘S been some ten-ish years since I was classified. I was–” He cringes at the memory. “Didn’t have anyone then, so I definitely don’t need anyone now. ‘S fine.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, my dear.” Aziraphale’s eyes were soft and imploring, and Crowley had to quickly look away. Much too dangerous, those eyes. “I’m sorry you didn’t have anyone.”
“No, no, listen,” He huffs and rubs at his tired, itchy eyes. “Said it wrong. I had all sorts of friends, really. Jus’ no Caregiver. That’s all.”
“I’m not suggesting I become your Caregiver. I am simply proposing that, were you to feel close to a drop at work, you could come to me, and I would take care of you.”
Crowley froze. No one’s ever said anything close to that before.
“That’s all it is,” continued Aziraphale, when Crowley hadn’t responded. “Would that be alright?”
“I–” Crowley huffed and tapped his foot and thought.
Aziraphale was the first person ever to offer something like this. Even before he knew about the OTR-A’s* and was dropping more often. Back in Uni— before a friend recommended him Andrew— he was dropping irregularly and one of his flatmates, a Caregiver named Luke, would make sure he was ok. Check in on him. Of course, Crowley got pissed every time he found out that Luke was bothering him while he was in headspace. Even if it was just to help him. He didn’t need anyone encouraging that side of him at all. And anyways, Luke had said that he was too rude and prickish when he wasn’t in headspace. Which. Well. Fair, he definitely was a prick. Stung regardless.
When he moved dorms so he wouldn’t have to interact with Luke, his new flatmates were the balls. Ugh. Worse. Hastur and Ligur. The constant sex wasn’t even that bad compared to the name-calling and jeering.
But now someone was actually offering to…be there. And if he was being honest, at this point in his life Crowley was too tired to say no. He was tired of always being annoyed and achy and, well, tired. Tired of averting his eyes from anything even remotely childish. Tired of telling Bee he was fine. And Bee, of all people, had told him that he had some shit he needed to work out. That they wouldn’t force him to do anything, but that not thinking about things and ignoring them wasn’t good for him. And if Bee was saying it, then it was serious.
And here was a Caregiver, wanting to help him out. Make life easier. And someone who wasn’t a prick or idiot— nah, someone smart and kind.
This wouldn’t happen again, that was for sure, so he might as well.
He didn't even have to do anything if he didn’t want to. Definitely didn’t have to drop, and Aziraphale didn’t seem the type to try and make him. He just had to spend some time around him, that was probably more than enough to satiate his…wants.
Yeah. Might as well.
“Fine. Okay. Yeah. Sure.”
“Alright then.” Aziraphale didn’t seem to be able to keep from smiling. “I suppose it’s a deal.”
“Euchk, don’t phrase it like that–” Crowley sneered, dramatically rolling his head. “Sounds more like some sort offff– business proposal than a concession to deal with me.”
“My dear boy, like I said, it’s not dealing with you.” Aziraphale shook his head at the teakettle. “And this is certainly no concession.”
“Fine, yeah, whatever you say. At least don’t call it a deal.”
“Fine, then. This– ah– arrangement, as it were.”
“Yeah, see? Much better.”
“Whatever you say, dear.” He hummed to himself as he started to fastidiously prepare a scone. “Hm. Why don’t you take a seat?”
“Urgh. Fine. Fine. Only cause you’re so damn insistent.”
Surprisingly— and thankfully— Aziraphale seemed undeterred by Crowley’s foul mood and just grinned wide and satisfied as he started preparing a scone for Crowley too.
“You’re much too smug for this early in the morning,” scowled Crowley as he poured himself some orange juice.
“I’d argue otherwise, my dear.”
“Yeah? An’ why’s that?” Admittedly, it felt good to tease and be rude after far too much gibbering and crying. Almost like he got his edge back.
“It’s practically noon.”
“Urgh.” Or at least he had his edge for a second, before Aziraphale yanked it away with his semantics. Crowley rolled his eyes, more like an aggrieved teenager than anything else. “Bugger off.”
Aziraphale just wiggled his shoulders with a fond grin and tucked in. “The ‘Arrangement’ it is.”
A few hours later after eating two scones (one for his genuine hunger and a second at Aziraphale’s behest), taking an advil Aziraphale handed him for his headache, collecting his things, and Ubering home, he opened his bag.
Nestled inside were a fluffy pink unicorn, a blue pacifier in a plastic case, and a box of fancy chocolates. His face burned at the discovery of each one.
The chocolates in the kitchen, the pacifier tossed in the back of his closet, and the unicorn—
Well, no one would know if he gave it a quick squeeze before he went off to meet Andrew, would they?
And no one but himself, not even the unicorn, would know if he imagined Aziraphale’s warm arms as he did so.
No one at all.
Notes:
* OTR-A’s— or, “Oxytoxin receptor antagonist.” Closest real life thing to a suppressant in this world. I’m not one to presume the biology of Littles and Caregivers and Pets and Doms and what have you (though now that I think about it, it’s an interesting idea). My thought is that a lot of the hormones that encourage people like Crowley— Littles— to search for Caregiving are the same familial ones we have, like oxytocin. No oxytocin, no biological encouragement to drop.
So this marks the beginning of me updating this story as I write it. That’ll likely mean updates that take about as long as this one. (Though granted, I finish exams tomorrow. Speaking of! I finish exams tomorrow! It’s a good feeling.)
I’d like to, as always, shout out some authors I admire and adore: NonePizza (DoinUrMommy), whom I love not just for their incredible username, but also for their very well written and sweet relationship between Crowley and Aziraphale in “Falling Apart. And, secondly, Astieria_Wandering’s “Every Demon Deserves a Childhood,” where I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sweeter Crowley.
I gobble comments like a starved salamander. I slurp kudos like a geriatric grizzly bear eating a pudding cup. I appreciate them all very very much.
Thank you so much for reading, and I’ll see you for the next chapter!
Chapter 5: Touch Base
Summary:
Cafe day.
Notes:
I am just. SO thankful for y’all’s patience. One hundred percent assure y’all this story isn’t abandoned! Enjoy reading and thanks for being here!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Crowley wasn’t admitting anything. Nope. Nothing at all.
See, ever since The Incident with Aziraphale— an experience he henceforth tried desperately to put out of mind— his Friday had been… different.
The first week after his drop, everything had by and large gone back to normal. Waking up at ass-o-clock, getting to work on time, doing well at his job, actively ignoring Aziraphale, taking his suppressants— but then comes along Friday.
Wasn’t there a saying that people had? TGFI— no— TGIF? Thank god it’s Friday? Yeah, not the case anymore. At least he used to have a love -hate relationship with Fridays. They meant the end of the week, which was nice, but that also meant his brain and body didn’t pay attention to his work nearly as much as sloughing Mondays and Tuesdays, too busy preparing for his weekend pseudo-drops. Weekends were spent at home and off the suppressants to decrease the possibility of dropping at work, full of curling up with The Golden Girls, some hot takeout, and floating through the unpleasant buzz of littlespace like a nap in the middle of a sick day. Fridays meant he had to hang on for just a bit longer before he could stop worrying about accidentally revealing his classification. It was his favorite day of the week.
Emphasis on was, because just a week later, his Friday turned into a veritable hell.
Regardless of the extra suppressant he had taken to mitigate the melting feeling at the front of his brain, the whole day he could feel littlespace creeping up on him like a particularly insistent rain cloud. He had trouble leaving the stupid unicorn at home, his thumb strayed when poking around his digital filing system, and when he saw Aziraphale hovering near the break room, he damn near approached him for an instinctual hug. Not good. Not good at all.
He tried distracting himself with the kind of brain-dead work he usually did whenever Fridays rolled around: clicking through emails and sending finished contracts to the publishing team with little enthusiasm. Everything was going swimmingly (re: nothing was going to absolute shite) when a hesitant knock at his office door startled him. Who the hell would come and bother him now? He had garnered, well, purposefully curated, he’d argue, a reputation for being particularly bitchy on Fridays, so no one except thick-headed Mr. Gabe— Gabes, he’s not a mister— would be dull enough to annoy him. Except for whoever was at the door, apparently.
With a long groan, Crowley pushed himself up and opened the door, prepared to snap at whatever intern or happy-go-lucky coworker felt brave enough to harass him on this shit a day before stopping at the door frame entirely, mouth agape.
“Ah, pardon me, my dear, would you mind if I came in for a moment?” Asked Aziraphale, cautious and gentle, if a little nervous. Just staring at the man’s slightly wrinkled countenance had all the instincts bubbling under the surface begging to overflow in the form of tears and demands for cuddles.
“Rrgh, ahh, sure. Yeah?” Crowley took one too many steps back, distancing himself from Aziraphale to an almost absurd degree.
Aziraphale sighed. “I just wanted to–” He flinched as Crowley unceremoniously and accidentally slammed the door shut with an unnecessary amount of force. “–to make sure you were alright. A little– a small checkup, really.”
Crowley’s face screwed up in a picasso sneer of simultaneous apology, disgust, and disbelief. “Don’t need one. I’m uh. I’m doing alright. Thanks.”
“Oh. Well. I’m glad to hear that. I was a little worried, you see, because ah… well, we haven’t really had a chance to talk this week.”
Crowley cringed. “Achmk, yeah, I know. Busy stuff, work.”
“Yes.” Aziraphale deflated like an old bouncy castle. “Yes, it certainly is. And are you alright today? Ahm.” He paused, looking up at the paneled ceiling. “Headspace-wise, I mean.”
“Oh yeah. Terrific. Yup. Yes.”
“Are… are you sure?”
“Surer than a… erhm. Very sure.”
“Alright.” Aziraphale looked a little dubious behind all the concern. “Alright, I believe you.”
“Great. Yeah.”
The two paused for a beat, Crowley fidgeting with the hem of his blazer and looking seconds away from booking it to the nearest escape route away from Aziraphale, who was busy twisting his fingers together over and over.
“I– I apologize for pushing, my dear, I was just rather concerned this week. And I know this is hardly the venue for this kind of conversation, I just… didn’t know how to talk to you otherwise.”
“No, no.” Crowley groaned, all his previously tense limbs suddenly loosening in embarrassment and resignation. “Nah, was– I was ignoring you. Sorry. Jus’ didn’t really know what to do with… you. How about–” He jumped his sudden idea quickly, hoping to move past sounding and acting like an absolute arsehole. “How about I take you out for lunch? Least I can do. For all of it.”
“Oh, really?” Aziraphale looked cautiously optimistic. “There’s a lovely cafe just around the corner!”
At Aziraphale’s suggestion, Crowley relaxed in even more relief. The Caregiver’s excitement was leagues better than his disappointment or sadness. “Great. Sounds great. I’ll pick you up from your corner in an hour, yeah?”
“Yes! Yes, that works perfectly.” Aziraphale practically shone with excitement, making Crowley look away with a scowl.
“‘S just lunch,” he huffed.
“Oh, pish,” Aziraphale scolded with a good natured grin. “It’s lunch with a friend. I haven’t had one in– oh, ages, really.”
Crowley paused, looking up to see a sort of melancholy sadness on Aziraphale’s face. It made him hurry to try and say something else, pull the Caregiver out of whatever mental funk he had suddenly stumbled into. “Yeah, it’ll be good. Cafe day. I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Absolutely.” His eyes crinkled in fondness that had Crowley squirm enough to make him sit down. “Good luck managing the team, dear.”
“You too. Er. I mean. Yeah.” He pinkened at Aziraphale’s chuckle as he left the office. “See ya. Ciao.”
After the office door clicked shut, Crowley pulled his legs up to his chin in an uncomfortable squat on the rolling chair and ran an internal systems check. Like literally every other time this week, just seeing Aziraphale made him feel small, and he firmly tucked his hands underneath his chin.
Maybe he shouldn’t have invited him out to lunch. Maybe he’d go out just to end up dropping in front of everyone. He couldn’t have that happen.
But it honestly made him feel pretty bad— Aziraphale was more than just a drop-inducer. He was kind and considerate and intelligent, and frankly way better than half the knobs they worked with. But here he was, actively avoiding the man over his own childish insecurities. Christ. He was a fucking tosser.
Either way, they were getting lunch. It’d be fine. It’d work out. He’d taken his meds, he wasn’t going to drop.
He could even tell Aziraphale about his hesitation over seeing him around the office if he really wanted to. He’d understand. He’d even understand his decision to leave and go remote. Be all bloody kind about it, too. Probably do that little eyebrow-thing and tilt his head. Then his voice would go all soft and he’d reach a gentle, warm hand forward and maybe thumb away the tears rolling down his cheek, and why was he always crying, he’s such a baby—
Crowley sniffed and firmly rubbed his burning eyes from under his sunglasses. Not again.
Christ. Maybe lunch was a good idea.
Perhaps it was because they had never stood so close together. There had never really been any reason to before, after all. Or that he had just never taken the time to really look at him. It could even be because he had wrongly assumed that most Littles were on the shorter side. Whatever the case, Aziraphale found himself stunned by Crowley’s height as they walked together to Cafe Maya.
And, equally as striking, his scowl.
The man looked positively sour as they walked through the office building doors to join the midday crowd rush, so much so that Aziraphale faltered in his somewhat awkward attempts at asking about his day.
“I– I’m sorry my dear, but are you alright?”
“Wot? Ah, yeah. Yeah, jus’ fine. Why.” Crowley’s face flickered from surprise to confusion before returning to the annoyed grimace in just a few seconds.
“Well, you just look rather, ah…” He paused, not wanting to insult the boy. “...Discontented. Is everything alright?”
“Ergh, yeah, jus’ don’t enjoy all the people when I’m. Erk.” He grimaced even harder, if possible. “Y’know. Tired.”
“Ah, I don’t blame you at all. It’s been a long day, too, I’m sure, but if there’s anything I know that can help, it’s a good lunch!” He grinned, hoping to cheer Crowley up just a little, but to his own ears he sounded rather pontifical. Maybe even condescending. He quickly looked over to Crowley, hoping he wasn’t offended or upset, but he seemed too preoccupied with sneering at the minor construction project making a ruckus.
“Gah, yeah,” He scoffed, pushing some strands of hair out of his face. There was one frizzy curl that wouldn’t budge that Aziraphale’s hands itched to tuck behind his ear. “After that riveting meeting with Sandy yesterday, my blood sugar’s still shot.”
Aziraphale choked on a laugh. “Er, yes, well, Mr. Sandalphon could, ah…” His lips flapped, looking for the least offensive words possible. “I suppose he could stand to benefit from public-speaking classes.”
Strangely enough, Crowley made a sort of shocked gasping-gulping sound, completely distracted from his public project distaste, before stuttering into a raucous laugh. “ He would!!! That tosser’s got the conversational skills of a. Gah. Offff a– a seagull, that’s it. All screeching and squawking.” Aziraphale felt his spine loosen in the face of Crowley’s laughter, and then loosen even further when he felt himself helplessly giggling in return.
“Oh, wouldn’t want to be too rude, you see, but once when Gabriel was discussing time management with me, he responded with ‘I concur’ after every single word, I swear.”
“HA! Pffffff, no creativity at all.”
“Goodness, no. Really, Sandalphon is about as creative as– ah. Hmm. Hah, pardon me, that is rather impolite.”
“No no no no!” In a sudden movement, Crowley whipped around from Aziraphale’s left side to his right to better see him. “Go onnn,” he crooned, looking like he was about to be handed a large and professionally wrapped gift.
“Oh, it was nothing. Nothing at all.” Aziraphale flushed a little in embarrassment and wrung his hands.
“Come onnnnn– d’you really think they’ll fire you on-spot the moment you say something dickish?”
Dickish. Aziraphlale flushed even further at his language, stammering a little, between the verbal crosshairs of reflexively chiding Crowley and bursting out in rather boisterous laughter. He settled for a tittering chuckle. “I– I suppose not.”
“So. Go on, then.” Crowley grinned, wide and expectant.
“Oh, alright, you demon.” Aziraphale was pleased to see Crowley’s grin grow even wider. “He’s– ah– really about as creative as a gorilla left alone with a few water colors.”
Crowley proceeded to almost cartoonishly double over in brass laughter which turned into absolutely heart-melting giggles. It was— he was just so precious. The giggles were just so vibrant, so sweet, and it was even more endearing when Crowley blushed and proceeded to cover his mouth to try and stifle them.
“Grhk, haha, sorry, sorry–”
“No, no, it’s quite alright, my boy.” Aziraphale couldn’t help himself. He could feel his smile deepen, his eyes crinkling in affection, and his hand genially pat Crowley’s gently shaking shoulder.
Immediately, Crowley swayed towards him, pressing into the touch and almost leaning into his side. The sweet weight of his tall figure practically reclining against him had Aziraphale tense, his arm begging to curl protectively around Crowley’s shoulders or stomach. But just as quick as the moment had been allowed to settle in Aziraphale’s mind, Crowley violently jerked upright and away.
“Mrm, sorry, sorry ‘Zira…”
Aziraphale immediately frowned in concern. “Nothing to apologize for, my boy.” Though he had pulled his arm away, it hovered awkwardly in the air. In just a few seconds, Crowley seemed off-kilter, teetering on the edge of big and small, and it made Aziraphale ache to comfort him through his sudden mood dive. Though perhaps he was only doing more harm than good, as the sweet honorific made Crowley squeeze his eyes tightly shut and grimace.
“Lessjus’ go.”
Without sparing a single look to Aziraphale, Crowley hurried towards Cafe Maya, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Left adrift in concern and confusion, Aziraphale helplessly followed after.
He hadn’t really run into Crowley at all in the past week since the incident. Whenever he had, though, Aziraphale couldn’t help but keep the memory of how fragile his headspace was the next morning, how his mind dipped into smallness before Crowley yanked himself out, repeated over and over. Goodness, he hoped Crowley was alright, though his curtness was indication enough that he was more on edge than he hoped. Torn from his inner ramblings, Aziraphale gave a small smile when, despite his mood, Crowley still stopped to hold the glass door open for him.
The cafe was a welcome blast of warm, pastry-scented air and gentle chatter with rather homely decor. Walls of alternating deep blue and criss-crossed wood, paintings from local artists, and a mismatched assortment of rather odd light fixtures all cultivated an eclectic yet cozy ambiance.
Crowley very carefully squeezed between Aziraphale and a nearby chair to stride to the very back of the cafe. Aziraphale sent a quick mental thank you to whomever designed the place for making it generally well-lit, and therefore easy to keep up with Crowley’s quickly moving figure.
Before Aziraphale could so much as sneeze, Crowley pulled out a chair for him, waiting for him to take a seat in the most secluded corner of the building.
“Well,” Aziraphale grinned, charmed and delighted. “Thank you, my dear. I didn’t realize you were such a gentleman!”
Crowley spluttered, but didn’t move from his expectant position behind the chair. “Jus’sit.”
Aziraphale did, but didn’t wait for Crowley to push him in place and scooted up to the dark mahogany table himself. “A good friend of mine recommended this place to me. It’s rather new, apparently just opened up a month or so ago!” He chuckled. “And their cortado is outstanding.”
After taking off his thin almost-scarf, Crowley seemed to almost entirely tune Aziraphale— and the whole rest of the cafe— out. He devoted nearly an entire minute to removing his coat and draping it over his chair with an unnecessary amount of concentration. He shucked it off without a single care, but meticulously placed it on the chair, ensuring the hard edges of the back perfectly aligned with the creases of the blazer. He then went on to brush and pick off any signs of hairs or near-invisible dust from the back, his eyes with a faraway look to them.
Aziraphale let it go on for just a beat longer before feeling as if he needed to intervene. “Ahh–…Crowley?”
Crowley’s head jerked up, a proverbial deer in the headlights.
“Are you alright?” When Crowley’s face pinched even more— a feat Aziraphale wouldn’t have thought possible— he hurriedly continued, “Why don’t you take a seat, my dear?”
With a small huff and a final needless sweep to his coat, Crowley flopped down to join him. “Ngh. Y’like restaurants, then?”
“Oh– ah– yes,” Aziraphale wiggled in glee at both the opportunity to talk about food and that Crowley seemed to be moving on from whatever strange coat ritual he had just gotten so thoroughly distracted by. “I wouldn’t go so far to call myself an epicure per say, but I certainly know what I enjoy.”
“And what do you? Er. Enjoy?”
“Well, there was this lovely Indian place I ordered from a few nights ago, truly sinful dal makhani.” His eyes fluttered at the memory. “And just this morning I went by one of my favorite patisseries for some brioche, but they had some pastel de nata in stock, and I simply had to get some.”
Crowley shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Pastel de?…”
“Oh, pastel de nata!” Aziraphale beamed and shimmied his shoulders. “It’s this novel little egg custard from Portugal, absolutely delicious. It’s actually rather fascinating how they came about! One of my favorite kinds of pastries, the ones that come from necessity rather than the usual pursuit for decadence. I’ve even gotten a book on Portuguese cuisine that extensively details the– ah–” He suddenly faltered when he realized that he was rambling and gave a self-effacing chuckle. “Well. To answer your question, yes I, hah, enjoy food.”
It was, strangely enough, Aizraphale’s sudden silence that finally changed the quality of Crowley’s wrinkled moue. It rather quickly morphed from what seemed to be his usual lemon-pucker to a more confused and troubled frown as Crowley leaned forward. “...And?”
“And what?” Aziraphale fluttered a little, still embarrassed at his over enthusiasm.
“Ngh, and, I dunno, what you were saying about Portuguese food?”
Aziraphale paused to stare at the man sitting across from him. Crowley seemed, of all things, genuinely interested in what he had to say. In spite of his firmly stern expression, his head was tilted forward and limbs all leaning towards him. All signs of an active audience.
“Well,” Aziraphale gathered himself, a little unused to such rapt attention. “The book detailed how, throughout the 18th century, eggs were in rather large abundance in Portugal and were used for everything. Cleaning, fining, trading–”
“Eating too, I’d hope.”
Aziraphale chuckled. “Yes, of course. One of their more fascinating uses, though, was in starching clothing in monasteries with egg whites. Which, of course, meant they had to figure out what to do with dozens of egg yolks.”
“What’d they have against the yolks?”
“Oh, nothing, I imagine. They likely just didn’t want yellow veils.”
“What’d they have against yellow? I think anything’s better than the plain pearl-clutching white they have for everything.” Crowley sneered as if he was personally offended.
“It’s symbolic, you know,” Aziraphale retorted, barely holding back a snicker. “One of the virtues. And it’s not like you’re the authority on colors! I’ve barely seen you wear anything other than black!”
“Black’s very stylish.” He gave a mock offended huff. “And seasonal.”
“Oh, yes. Because nothing represents the beginning of spring more aptly than ‘dim gray.’”
Crowley choked on his own spit and braced himself on the table’s edge to curb another explosive laughing fit. Aziraphale smugly grinned and unwrapped his own scarf as he waited for Crowley to collect himself.
“The point is, my dear, that the nuns used egg whites to starch their clothes.”
“‘Cause they hated anything new.”
“I– Hm. Yes, I suppose you could say they were… starchly against modernizing their apparel.”
Crowley froze. “Was that a pun. Did you just make a pun?”
“Ah, more of a– a yolk, I’d say.” Aziraphale was full-on beaming now.
“That’s horrible. You’re horrible. Why’d I invite you out.” Crowley sank down in his seat, rubbing his eyes under his sunglasses while Aziraphale laughed with delight.
“Speaking of, why don’t we get our drinks?”
“Y’said you liked the hot chocolate? I can grab you one.”
“Oh, ah–...” Rather suddenly, Aziraphale was caught off-guard with some slightly unwelcome and entirely unnecessary feelings. Not five minutes ago was he witnessing Crowley struggle to maintain his more adult mindset, and it had him feeling a little conflicted. On one hand, Crowley seemed to be in a more stable state of mind, and was obviously more than capable of going to order— of all things— coffee.
But, on the other hand, there was a part of Aziraphale, one he hadn’t tried to fulfill or entertain in years, that insisted he join Crowley— however simple the task. Though staring at his face and trying to gauge his headspace and disposition revealed nothing (which, granted, wasn’t new at all), he couldn’t help but worry he was still a little too… fragile to be by himself.
“Would you mind too terribly if I simply came with you?” Aziraphale hurriedly continued, “It’s just that. Well. The cafe changes their pastry rotation every so often, and I really must see what the selection is today.”
Crowley half-shrugged a shoulder and started making his way to the glass case. “Sure. Maybe they have one of your pastor de egg-thingies.”
“Pastel de nata, you barbarian.” Aziraphale couldn’t help the softening of his tone at both the relief of not being questioned for his accompaniment on such a simple thing and, frankly, how charming Crowley was.
Granted, he was more than happy to pursue the pastries and was busy near-salivating at a slice of french silk pie when a thought struck him and left him rather ashamed. “Oh! My dear, did you eat before we came?”
“Mrh? What? No?” Crowley looked over from the chalkboard menu with a quirked eyebrow.
“Oh! Planned to eat here, did you? I believe they have some paninis. Yes, there’s a mozzarella and sun-dried tomato, traditional pastrami, err, how about a greek yogurt chicken?”
“Ah, nah. I’m good. Jus’ need a coffee.”
“Hm.” Aziraphale was ready to try and convince Crowley of the merits of actually eating something substantial when he was entirely distracted by the decorative cake pops. “Oh! How cute!”
Lined in a row were a series of cake pops ranging from classic chocolate and coconut to more fanciful ones decorated as cupcakes, or with little crudely drawn faces. There was even a white unicorn one that couldn’t help but remind Aziraphale of the unicorn he had purchased for Crowley not so long ago at all. The whole week he couldn’t keep himself from wondering what Crowley did with the stuffed toy, or with the pacifier. A small part of him, in spite of vicious corralling, hoped with a fervor that maybe the Little kept them— however unlikely it seemed.
“Mhrm. Americano. Thanks.”
“And can I get anything else for you? Our Pet bowl blends are half off.”
“Nah, we’re good. Aziraphale?”
“Oh yes!” Aziraphale beamed and straightened up. “Yes, we’ll take a mozzarella panini, warmed, if possible, and a slice of the praline cheesecake. Oh! And for the panini, could you cut it in half?”
“Of course, sir. Anything else?”
“That should be everything, dear!” Aziraphale grinned as went to fumble with his wallet before frowning at the clearly prepared thwick of Crowley’s credit card. “No, no, I’ll be paying for this, my boy.”
Crowley’s ears immediately went a little pink. “Nrgh, nah, let me. My treat.”
Aziraphale frowned a little deeper. “Come now, I dragged you all the way out here. The least I can do is take care of the meal.”
“Please, t’was, like, a five minute walk.”
“Then consider this a– a gift.”
“Gift?” Crowley snorted. “Jus’ let me pay, Aziraphale. And anyways,” He continued nonchalantly, “ I have to pay you back for the– the—”
Aziraphale could see the exact moment where the words— the memories, really— jumbled up. They bunched up in Crowley’s throat, tangling together in a knot. His face went a little pale and he froze as he choked on his saliva.
“Erghk. The. Uh. The.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale prepared to put a hand on his back, only to stop himself. “You can pay. Go ahead. With– with that entirely unnecessary card,” he desperately tried to joke.
Mercifully, Crowley seemed to thaw a little at the weak attempt of a slight, his lip quirking. “...’S classy.”
“Whatever you say, my dear.” Quietly, concernedly, Aziraphale tucked his wallet away, still attempting a soft grin in the face of Crowley’s clear discomfort.
The poor barista looked confused and concerned after witnessing the whole exchange, and Aziraphale silently slipped two pence into their sweet, “Afraid of change? Leave it here!” tip jar. As Crowley finished his payments, the cheesecake was passed to Aziraphale on a small gold-rimmed plate.
“Goodness, this looks absolutely delightful.” It really did, caramel dripping down the sides of a truly luscious looking filling with candied pralines as a perfect garnish. Mm. “My compliments to the mastermind behind it!”
The worker gave an indulgent chuckle. “I’ll let them know, sir.”
As they returned to their little table, Crowley still seemed overwhelmed with thoughts of— well, Aziraphale could hazard a guess. Any moment they weren’t actively talking, and even sometimes when they were, his eyes had a faraway look to them, likely stuck experiencing some unfounded feelings. When he had woken up the next morning from his drop last week, he had been extremely mortified and upset, the poor thing. There was no reason to be ashamed over his classification and what it had him do; it was all entirely natural, but Crowley didn’t seem to think so. Aziraphale had been itching to say as much since he had first stepped into his office earlier that day, but it likely wouldn’t have gone over well then and certainly wouldn’t go over well now.
“Would you like a bite?” It likely wasn’t the best distactor from Crowley’s clearly swirling thoughts, but at least it wasn’t didn’t involve classification-related sore spots or his own silly fascination with food culture. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better cheesecake before!”
Crowley gave a small grin as he took an absurdly small sip of his coffee. “Nah, ‘m good, thanks.”
“Not a fan of sweets?”
“Ehrm. No, not really.” Another even smaller sip of coffee.
“What do you like to eat, then?”
“I dunno. Food, sometimes.”
Aziraphale snorted. “Subsist on sunlight, do you?”
“Oh, yeah. Entirely photosynthetic, me.” He frowned down at his coffee like it had spat in his face before looking up to jerk his head at Aziraphale’s cheesecake. “I’m gonna grab some napkins, want one?”
“Oh– that’s rather kind of you! If you don’t mind, please.”
Crowley scowled at the compliment with a huff. “‘S nothing.” And he swaggered off to the napkins-straw-blocker-things-creamer table. Really, it was very sweet for Crowley to retrieve a napkin for him, regardless of the fact that he didn’t entirely need one.
He tucked into his cheesecake, moaning to himself at the incredible flavor when he looked up to see Crowley grab almost an entire handful of the crinkly sugar packets. He observed, confused and more than a little fascinated, as Crowley proceed to then rip each one open and dump it into his coffee.
That was…rather telling. Perhaps Crowley wasn’t as unaffected by his classification as he let on. Aziraphale watched in awe as the unsuspecting coffee was treated to a veritable pile of sugar, an aggressive stir, a quick taste test, even further sugaring, and a final huff and nod. Aziraphale hurriedly looked back down to his cheesecake when he saw Crowley approach.
Without a word, Crowley placed the napkins for Aziraphale.
“Thank you, my dear.”
Crowley grunted something that, were a master interpreter nearby, would likely be classified as something along the lines of, of course, and took an indulgent swig of his coffee.
Hesitantly, Aziraphale probed. “Do you think you’d like a cocoa?”
“...Why?”
“Oh, er, well, they’re much sweeter, aren’t they?” He dithered a little, worried he might offend Crowley, but was ultimately trumped by his strange desire for his comfort. “I know that I certainly prefer them over coffee, myself.”
Crowley gave an amused scoff. “Cocoa can’t get me through Gabe’s nonsense.” And took another sip as if to prove his point to himself.
“Ah, yes, he’s not… the easiest… to deal with.”
A snort. “Thas’ putting it lightly.”
“Oh, yes, alright.” Aziraphale deflated. “He’s awful. I’m really not quite sure how you deal with him.” He hadn’t meant to go quite so far with his insults of his boss, but Crowley seemed rather receptive to it. And, if he was being honest, it was nice to be honest with someone for a change.
“‘S easy! Well. Pah. Mostly. Jus’ nod and agree until he talks himself into circles. Or maybe I should pay someone to walk by with a mirror.”
Aziraphale couldn’t help the scandalized giggle that escaped him. “Heaven forbid he discovers your clever plans.”
Crowley gave a pleased, sly grin and tilted his head away, but Aziraphale had a feeling— a hope, really— that he was looking at him instead of a wall. “About time someone notices my genius.”
“Well, I can’t speak for our, ah, lovely coworkers, but do you not have a chance to exact wiles outside?”
“Outside of work?”
“Yes, exactly.” Aziraphale casually threaded his fingers together, taking a clear break from his cheesecake to focus completely on what could be new information about Crowley’s life.
“Er. Erhm. Nah, no, not really. Don’t really get up to much. You? Saving, I dunno, puppies and kittens in your spare time?”
“Oh, no,” Aziraphale shook his head with an amused grin. “I’m nothing so…angelic, I suppose.”
“Complete opposite, should have known. All that white you wear, ‘s pretty tough and serious for an– er– gourmand like yourself. Big potential of a ruined shirt. Go motorcycling on the weekend, then? Shark viewing?”
“Goodness, if only I was half as interesting as you make me out to be!” He tittered, though he stopped as he noticed Crowley’s lip twitching into a frown. “No, no, I’m more of a homebody. Reading, mostly. Often with a cocoa and my music. Not to disparage those, ah, shark-seeing-motorcyclists of the world, of course. I just prefer coziness.”
“Nothing bad with knowing what you like. I actually. Mmrm.” Crowley paused to take another sip of his coffee. “Actually garden at home. I garden.”
“Oh!” Aziraphale dropped his spoon back on the plate. How sweet! “What do you grow?” He couldn’t keep the earnestness from voice, and felt only a little guilty as Crowley directed his now-bashful attention to the table.
“Ahm. My burning hate of work.” Crowley traced a finger through a ring of water on the table almost sullenly. He seemed allergic to sharing things about himself.
Aziraphale huffed a laugh. “Now, I’m sure you grow something just a little more specific than that.”
“Fine, yes. Snake plants. Spider plants. Jade. Few philodendrons. I would do harder stuff but. Ergh. Work.”
“Oh, I understand, but that is still incredible . I had a plant back in University, a sad little desk one. Poor thing didn’t make it long.” Crowley barked a laugh and raised his coffee as if saluting the work of gardening. “You know,” Aziraphale hesitantly continued, “If you really struggle to hm, weather Mr. Stern, I don’t mind running interference every so often.”
Crowley’s coffee cup paused on its way to his mouth.
“I could distract him with a few questions? Perhaps carry out your dastardly plans, invest in a mirror?”
It was strange to feel this way. Aziraphale had always been rather altruistic, the student willing to pass out papers and friend eager to lend a listening ear. With Samael, the feeling had deepened into something entirely instinctual and adamant, he simply had to make sure everything in his boy’s life was well. That his career was prospering, that he got enough to eat after work, that he was happy and had enough toys to play with and a blanket to keep him warm when he was small—
Those feelings had lingered, ebbed, and faded with their separation, and he hadn’t felt them so starkly in ages. Well. Not until discovering Crowley on his office floor, at least.
Despite not knowing the man for very long— or even that well— Aziraphale still ached to make his life a little easier. Knowing what he did now, the lack of breaks, no official registration, even no Caregiver only exacerbated his need more. Though he had framed his suggestion like a joke, he was entirely serious.
“Ha. Thanks for the offer, nice to know I can sway you to evil.” Crowley paused and dried his finger on a thin napkin. “But ‘m actually moving to remote, thank fuck, so I won’t have to deal with seeing him much longer.”
“I– remote? Working at home?” Aziraphale felt his heart stutter in his chest. “Why?”
“Jus’– erhm. Reasons. Ahm. Don’t like the commute, you know how the tube is.” Crowley took a sip that was much too calculated.
“You’re not–” His chest hurt as his head worked quickly, jumping from assumption to assumption like a particularly caffeinated frog. “You’re not leaving because of what happened, are you?”
Crowley took a breath to speak, his face passive, clearly prepared to disagree when a woman came by with a steaming plate.
“Here you are, mozzarella panini. Enjoy.” And hurried away.
The panini looked perfect, golden crusted outside and gooey inside, with fat dimpled basil leaves poking past the stringy cheese. The smell was marvelous, but Aziraphale had never felt so unenthusiastic about a meal in his life.
Completely on autopilot, he grabbed the smaller half of the sandwich and balanced it on the edge of his cheesecake plate before gently nudging the plate toward Crowley. Crowley, for his part, looked confused and a little like he had eaten something that disagreed with him.
“...Don’t you want your sandwich?”
“Oh, well, I have my piece already. That’s yours, my dear.” He likely should have kept himself from saying the endearment, but it was habit.
Crowley sat, expression inscrutable from behind his sunglasses, and stared at the panini. Then ducked his head down a little, his glasses slipping to the bridge of his nose.
“I’m leaving cause I– er– I don’t think I should– we should see each other ‘round the office anymore.”
Aziraphale almost startled at the suddenness of his honesty. “Wh–…why–why’s that?”
At the question, Crowley’s lips twisted even further and he shoved his glasses up. He squirmed in his seat, one leg jumping up to try to join him in almost a pseudo-squat position before he firmly planted it on the ground again with a small growl.
“‘S just– every time I see you, my brain wants to melt.” He growls again, the ferocity of his irritation shocking Aziraphale even further. “Can’t work, can’t think, can’t, I dunno. Just can’t have that.”
“I’m. I’m so sorry, Crowley, I– I didn’t realize I was distracting you so much– is there anything I could do? The last thing I want is to drive you out of your work because of me.” Even to his own ears, he sounded horribly grating.
“Nononono! ‘S not you! ‘S me! You’re fine, you’re fine , I jus’ can’t help it that my head is as stupid as it is. Starts liquefying at the first sign of–… just starts liquefying. Can’t do anything about it.”
Aziraphale huffs a concerned breath. “And now? Are you… do you feel tip-top?”
“–am I feeling ‘tiptop–’ pffft. Ish. I feel ish.”
“Well, that’s, that’s, “ish” is certainly better than a liquid brain, isn’t it?” His voice was a little weak, and the sound of his conviction even weaker, but Aziraphale was willing to grasp for straws. There was absolutely no reason Crowley should be chased from his place of work because of his biology. No reason at all .
“I guess, but. I dunno. Might be because I.” He gave a long sigh and roughly dragged a hand over his face. “Took another OTR-A this morning.”
“Ah.” What on earth was someone supposed to say after that? “…Eat your panini, my dear. While it’s still warm.”
Crowley gave a minute shake of his head. “Nah, it’s–” another sip of his coffee and furrowed brows. “Fine.” He huffed again, as though eating a warm panini was the most laborious task of his life. “...Thanks.”
“Of course.” The acceptance of his food almost immediately soothed Aziraphale, and he started on his own slice as well.
They ate in silence, Crowley busy on his sandwich and Aziraphale busy not bothering him. Crowley would speak when he wanted to, and say what felt he must. When he did speak up, panini gone and hands twisting a napkin, his voice was quiet. “I can’t keep doing things like this. I’ll keep dropping, an’ I can’t do that.”
Very carefully, voice soft and at odds with the cafe’s bustling environment that both detracted from the seriousness of their talk and provided a welcome blanket of noise, Aziraphale went on. “What can I do?”
With another growl, Crowley firmly smoothed a hand down his denim-clad thigh. “Nothing. Stop talking to me at work, maybe. Who knows.”
“Do you think–” He paused to take a fortifying bite of cheesecake. “That either of us did something to keep you from dropping today?” He paused again and leaned forward, trying to keep his tone and expression as casual as possible. He was very likely failing miserably. “Have you dropped today at all, my dear?”
“WHAT. No!” A few heads turned at the sudden outburst, Crowley’s face turning a shade of red to rival their paninis’ sun-dried tomatoes. “No, I have not,” he hissed.
“Then something went well today.” Aziraphale chose not to be offended or upset by Crowley’s very obvious outrage at his questions. If anything, it was rather sad. A touch endearing, but largely sad. “What do you think it was?”
Suddenly, Crowley flopped back, much more petulant than Aziraphale had ever seen him. “Dunno. Doesn’t matter. I’m going remote. I’ve already readied my pajama bottoms and work tops. Ready to not move all day. I’m committed.”
“Well then. Just because I’m curious, why do you think you haven’t dropped today?”
“Cause of the fucking angels above, Aziraphale. I don’t know.”
Aziraphale had never been on the receiving end of Crowley’s short temper, and he wasn’t sure he enjoyed it. He immediately clammed up, eyes trained on his now droopy, uneven cheesecake. He could sympathize.
It was only a beat before Crowley deflated. “...Maybe it’s cause of you. Talking. Us talking here, in public. Pressure not to liquefy I guess.”
As Crowley started speaking, albeit haltingly and with a great amount of strain, Aziraphale hesitantly looked up. Crowley seemed determined to look anywhere but him, but his words alone were extraordinarily reassuring, especially in conjunction with his soft, anxious tone. He let Crowley’s words sit on the table between them, taking a moment for the two of them to digest along with their paninis.
“Now, I don’t mean to pressure you at all, my boy, but we could always try this again.”
“Try what.”
Aziraphale stammered at the sudden, clashing vitriol, though it didn’t seem entirely aimed at him. Or intended for him at all, really. “Eating lunch together. Getting used to each other. That way you don’t have to up and move with your entire career and I, er–” Oh, he really hadn’t meant to share this, but if Crowley was being honest then he might as well be too. “I won’t be so lonely at breaks.” He felt himself shrink at the admission.
There was the truth, Crowley had presented an opportunity that Aziraphale had never considered while working at Prophetic Publishing. A friend.
Horrible, stretching silence again. Really, Crowley didn’t have to even consider the idea for Aziraphale’s sake if it bothered him so much. The last thing he wanted was to inconvenience or hinder him. The absolute last thing— though the intense deliberation on Crowley’s face over his suggestion made his insides feel as if they were being properly throttled.
“I don’t have any work friends to bitch over Gabes with.”
“I–” Aziraphale’s brain, mouth, and fingers all stumbled for a moment. “I– ah, neither, neither do I, incidentally.”
In one decisive, single motion, Crowley finished his coffee and leaned back in his seat. The severe groove between his eyebrows looked the most relaxed it had been all day, and Aziraphale felt himself relax with it. All the joints and muscles in his legs and back that tended to get all knotted up— much like his one ill-fated weekend attempt at macrame— all loosened at the grin Crowley gave him.
“Well then,” he needlessly adjusted his coat before looking away, still unable to keep eye contact for more than a few moments. “Tomorrow same time?”
The loose informality in which Crowley agreed to lunch, however forced, was very appreciated by Aziraphale. Crowley gave a non-committal scoff at Aziraphale’s beam.
“‘S just lunch, Aziraphale.” Crowley repeated, this time a little more exasperated.
“Yes, yes, I suppose it is.” He was utterly unable to stop smiling. “I’m just– I’m just rather egg -cited for what they’ll have on selection tomorrow, that’s all.”
“No, no no, please stop.” Crowley shifted forward to bury his face in his hands.
“I mean, really, everything I’ve eaten here today has been egg-xemplary!”
“Oh god, please, christ, you’re embarrassing yourself—”
“I can’t help that I crack myself up, my boy.”
“Nooo, oh god, let those angels come and take me—”
“I think you mean demons, what considering your workplace wiles and all.”
Crowley sniffed. “Yeah, s’pose so. You won’t thwart my Gabriel-mirror plan, will you?”
“My dear,” Aziraphale smiled beatifically, “All I suggest is that we reflect on some other ideas as well.”
Crowley groaned loud enough to disturb a nearby couple, and Aziraphale had never felt so delighted.
Notes:
Wowza. Originally it was COVID, then grad (well. all the partying that comes with grad), but then starting my first full time job just completely took over my brain. Especially since it’s writing related, and boy oh boy it’s hard to write for fun after writing for money. All this to say— with life being busy, I’m glad I have y’all to share my hobby with!
And speaking of, holy shit holy shit holy shit thank you to everyone who commented. I am not lying when I say that I reread them often, and whether a few really nice hearts or a whole paragraph, they. Are. Treasured.
Special thanks to SongsLordBug (for making me blush in joy), SolidSpades (for making me laugh, damn good humor there), and some of my really favorite authors Pizelle and Prodigal and the author of the Agere Omens series for your support. Y’all fucking ROCK.
Write a part you enjoyed, a fic you wanna recommend, even just some random letters. I’ll love it all.
(Note to an acquaintance: curious, did TGIF go where you expected it to?)
Again thanks for reading, thanks for your patience, thanks for spending some time here. It’s all appreciated.
Coming soon to a next chapter near you: relaxing a little?…
Chapter 6: Downsizing
Summary:
Crowley finally relaxes a Little.
Notes:
NOT ABANDONED still not abandoned! Though my update schedule may definitely make it seem like it PFF. Like I said last time, thank you thank you thank you for your patience.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wrhump. Bag dropped to the floor.
Ffffshtp. Blazer torn off and tossed to the side. Then, after a pause, quickly recovered and hung.
Schck. “Bloody– blasted– stupid things–” Schhhhhck. Shoes clumsily toed off.
Being secure in his own damn flat, finally far enough away from the cold, prying eyes (and warm, imploring ones) of the office, meant Crowley could finally relax.
“Fuck. So. So stupid. Shouldn’t’ve told him I’d stop remote for him. Shouldn’t’ve done that. Stupid stupid stupid.”
It was a downright miracle that he made it home in time, right as he felt all the fuzziness he had worked so hard to tamp down while getting ready and eating lunch and walking back from lunch and talking to Aziraphale and fuck, anything Aziraphale-related took over. As he stood in the doorway of his flat, overwhelmed by the day, he could finally give in. At least a little. Even if it just meant lonely Golden Girls couch surfing.
He flopped onto the couch with a sigh, turning on a random episode before flipping out his phone. Hm. Scroll through Twitter. Scroll through gmail. Star that one. Read. Delete that. Star. Read. Read. Read. Ugh. Read.
“—orry, honey. I have a date.”
“You call that a date? Thyroid Freddie? His eyes bug right out of his head.”
“Freddie is a fine man. When he was younger, he could've been an astronaut, except for, well, you know, that eye thing.”
“I've been working for this Meals on Wheels program, and I need a driver. Please?”
“Oh, all right, Ma. I'll cancel Banjo Eyes.”
He should probably think about food himself. What time is it? 7 already? Jesus.
He very slowly slid off the couch and trudged his way to the kitchen. Whether he felt small or not, eating was an absolute chore. He fed himself with the same detached interest of a long-suffering cafeteria lady. It was a very perfunctory, utilitarian affair with lots of random sauces. Usually followed by a conceded protein bar.
When, as expected with Friday nights like this, he burned the tortilla he was trying to cook (just warm on the stupid pan!) he submitted to getting a Vive bar. But then his fingers just weren’t getting the mechanics of opening the thing. Golden Girls played softly in the background as he growled around the plastic of the granola wrapper.
“Sht– shtupid– fuckin’– c’mon–”
Finally, he ripped it, getting sawdust protein crumbs everywhere. Immediately, stupidly, he could feel tears prick his eyes.
“Oh god, it’s fine.” He sighed deeply, pressing a hand to his eyes to press any gross feelings away.
The food at least made him feel a little better, and he sagged back onto the couch as he nibbed. He wished he had bought himself a blanket or non-decorative pillow to relax with. The thought was not original.
God, why the hell did he spend literal hours with Aziraphale? He was definitely more on-edge than usual. And he agreed to another lunch? What the hell was wrong with him? More time with Aziraphale just meant a greater likelihood of losing his iron-clad grip on his headspace. Ruled it with a tire-iron, he did.
Granted, it was probably more accurate to say he more or less kept beating it into a corner. He’s dealt with his classification for over 10 years, and yes, sure, there were drawbacks to his…methods. He wasn’t an idiot.
Mostly.
Mmm.
Actually scratch that— he wasn’t the kind to willfully ignore something, rather. Logically, he knew that his OTRA’s weren't the most conducive long-term option.
He twisted his legs together at the sudden memory.
Andrew wasn’t the most outgoing or pleasant person, but he was at least empathetic. Told him the possible side-effects, even at risk of losing his business. Nausea, dizziness, reduced appetite, increased stress and anxiety, etcetera etcetera. All around badness. But his Little side made him weak. Vulnerable. And being that vulnerable meant that anyone could take advantage of him. Make fun of him. And…
No. Don't think about her. Neither of them.
But you know what? Maybe he wasn’t an idiot! Maybe he actually had this whole thing down! If he took his meds over the weekends too, then he would just be at real risk of dropping anytime. At work, on the tube, at the bank— anywhere. But since he didn’t, he was perfectly safe. That one drop was just a product of not sleeping well, that was it. And the other one was from just a bad day and dealing with Gabriel. Fucking protein-shake tosser. And this one— chirst, this one— was from running out of his meds. Point was he actually was smart here, contrary to whatever Beez believed.
“Why are you taking this food?”
“Well, I’m hungry and I’m on the list. Who do you think you are?”
“Sergeant Zbornak, Food Police. Just hand over that turkey loaf. You’re obviously not handicapped.”
“You don’t understand. It’s just too hard out there. I haven’t been out of this apartment in 22 years.”
“Oh… I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Enjoy your dinner.”
Crowley made a huffing laugh noise. “At least I go outside. Sometimes.” He shifted on the couch, the harsh line of his pants pressing uncomfortably against his skin. Shift. No. C’mon. There– nope.
From the time he got through the door to when he was finally collapsed on the couch and in a comfortable enough Iron Maiden tee (one with skulls on it, something that definitely wasn’t in the Little aisle), it took about 30 minutes for the fuzziness to really start to stuff up every thought with its cottony feel. Today, though, it was pretty much the moment he finally wiggled into a comfortable enough spot that his head fuzzed up like a malfunctioning TV screen. Zzzzzzhrt. All higher functioning gone for at least the rest of the day.
His slightly performative sprawl— a leftover move manufactured for work and the rare hangout— began to tighten into a little spiral against the armrest of the couch.
“How pathetic a person could live their life totally alone in their apartment, devoid of companionship or love. I wish I could do something.”
“Start a club.”
He really liked the Golden Girls. They were pretty nice to each other, but could still be sassy and funny. Didn’t have to sacrifice one for the other. All at the same time. They were cool like that.
But something felt a little off and uncomfortable. Akin to tasting metallic blood in your mouth before you threw up, he could feel something big roiling to happen if he didn’t do something quick. He could feel the room get increasingly bigger and bigger and his body looser and looser. He needed something to counter his too-floaty head. Something to ground him— ugh, even if he sounds like one of those “Don’t Bellite the Little” books. Just something before he started crying and let himself drift too far off into his headspace.
That was the one thing he had come to appreciate about his condition. Any spare moment to himself where his brain could have floated to more existential, painful thoughts was a moment his classification ended up stealing in its quest to make him drool and cry. He remembered how boring afternoons after school in his early teens were spent just staring at walls. Letting his brain drift to more existentialist thoughts. Asking questions like, “Does anything I do actually matter?” or, “ What I have actually managed to accomplish with my life?” and the dreaded, “Do I really look good in those jeans?” Littlespace— as much as he hated to acknowledge its existence— kept him from thinking like that. Asking those kinds of questions. No time to question your success, skills, and place in the universe when you’re too busy chewing on your fingers and giving your pillows names.
Or his unicorn. It had a little heart on his side, so maybe he should name him something like Heart. Hart?
He let out a sharp, tight breath and squeezed every muscle to strain against the sense memory of soft, pink fur. No, he didn’t need it. No no nope.
…But it was Friday. He had had a long day. Plus he had spent a lot of it with Aziraphale, so it only made sense he felt smaller than usual. And if he was feeling smaller than usual then of course he wanted his Uni.
‘Uni.’ Jesus. He was such a child. Couldn’t even last 20 minutes without a stuffed animal.
With a whimper, he roughly swiped at his eyes.
“You’re not the one who made him decide to live his life behind closed doors. You’re just the one who made it stick.”
“Don’t worry, Dorothy. Maybe Jimmy’ll come around.”
“Oh, I wish I could believe you, but, Rose, I have been there. After a while you feel you’re just in this gigantic black hole.”
“We had a gigantic black hole back in St. Olaf, right in front of the courthouse. Oh, it was a lovely hole. Everybody in town would stand around and look in it.”
“And they say Hollywood is the entertainment capital of the world.”
He squeezed himself a little tighter. Fuck it. He wanted his Uni. No one was here to make fun of him or laugh at him. Plus if he was being littler now, then he wouldn’t want to be little later. He was just being smart. He was really smart. Aziraphale would agree.
In a quick movement, he pushed himself off the couch and stumbled to his bedroom. Deep in his closet and underneath some long coats that brushed the floor was a pile of shirts he had purposefully yanked from his dresser to cover the unicorn. The moment he saw pastel pink fur, his heart gave a guilty flutter. He squeezed his unicorn tight in his arms.
Uni was like a love sponge; the moment he squeezed his plush body, his hand running through the pink fur, he felt the love he had pressed into his fur spilling out again. But he had buried him under his shirts and forced him to stay in his dark, scary closet.
“I–... sorry,” he whispered as quietly as he could.
Still holding tightly onto him, Crowley flopped back onto the couch, almost reverently stroking through that pink fur. It was too cold in his TV room. He squeezed Uni closer, trying to make sure he was okay and warm after all that time in the dark. If Aziraphale was here, he would probably hold Crowley really tight, just like he was for Uni. Making sure he was okay and felt okay and didn’t feel lonely or sad or like he had been tossed to the floor of a closet.
Plus maybe Aziraphale would also cook something for him. Like real food. Or take him out for chips or ice cream if he asked nicely enough. Even ask him to read him a story. Crowley liked stories, but he got too bored when he was big. And it was usually too hard to read him when he was little. Like now.
“Dorothy, you should know that when I got back to my place, I did some thinking– actually, I did some shaking and then I did some thinking– and I realized I was alone again. After meeting you, I don’t want to be alone anymore. You’re my friend, and if there’s nice people like you out here, maybe the world’s not such a bad place.”
“Thank you.”
“I know this isn’t gonna be easy, but I want help. Help and new clothes. So, I’ll go to a counselor if you’ll drive me.
“Drive you? Are you kidding? I’ll listen to eight-tracks with you.”
Crowley squeezed both his eyes and his unicorn. He was cold and sad and he wanted Aziraphale or someone to come and fix things, but all he could really do was just watch Sophia and Dorothy and Rose and Blanche talk to the weird guy who apparently stayed in his apartment because of the “turmoil of the 60s” and just ride it out. He had to wait until work to see ‘Zira again. That was basically years, but Uni would help him wait.
He lightly nibbled on his plush, spiraled horn. Uni was strong like that, he would help him wait. He just had to hang on for a few days. Then he would see Aziraphale again.
Notes:
Y’ALL I got into my dream school!! YES!!! Frankly I’m a little nervous about college, so if y’all have tips or sage advice or ramen flavor suggestions let me know pfff.
God KhajiitHasCakes I appreciate you so much. Any fears I have about chapters j instantly disappear w your comments. Everyone, go read their things. Those works are both dangerously adorable.
And AbCdefgh_balloon all the love. So much love, you are so sweet and I am j. SO flattered you like my work.
Strawberry_laces!! I hope college apps have gone well for you!!!
WILDASH! Thank you for returning and commenting as always!!!
I know this was a smaller chapter, but don’t worry— things are gonna pick up next chapter. (Which, w my more chill section of my gap year starting, will hopefully not take as long to write PFFF). So next chapter! Crowley cautiously caves?
Thank you for comments, kudos, and/or just being here. Stay safe out there, and thanks for reading! ♥️
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