Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey, Uncle Zira!”

Startled by the shout, Aziraphale nearly tore a page of the antique manuscript he’d been examining. He ought to be expecting voices in the bookshop, he supposed, since it was nominally open for business. But patrons tended to pick up on Aziraphale’s preference for library-like silence, and discussed their purchases in whispers.

However, ever since his sister had badgered him into letting her use the bookshop as after-school care for her son, the quiet had been shattered every afternoon at three-fifteen.

Big for his age as well as loud, seven-year-old Gabriel dropped his backpack on the floor with a thunk. The single customer browsing the shelves made a disgruntled noise, and left without buying anything, to Aziraphale’s secret delight. He would never encourage his nephew to scare off customers, but he would never complain about it, either.

“Hello, Gabriel,” said Aziraphale, carefully folding his reading glasses before he looked up. “How was—oh my goodness, not again.”

Gabriel’s normally cherubic face was decorated with a black eye and a split lip. Mud dripped from his hair down the left side of his body, and one sleeve of his expensive sweater was torn from shoulder to elbow.

“You should see the other kid,” said Gabriel cheerfully.

Aziraphale frowned at him. “Go wash up, and I’ll fetch some ice along with your cocoa. Not a spot of mud on the books, mind.”

Listening to the water run in the bathroom, Aziraphale heated milk on the little stove in the back room and sighed. Frances could certainly afford daycare or a nanny, but “Gabriel should spend more time with family,” she’d insisted. Not that she herself bothered to spend time with him. It was easy to see that the boy was spoiled with material wealth, and starved for genuine affection. Aziraphale felt certain that his bellicose behavior was a cry for attention—although that didn’t make it easy to deal with.

Gabriel emerged, mostly clean, and plopped onto the sofa. Aziraphale placed a mug of cocoa in his hand and some ice cubes wrapped in a tea towel on his eye, steeling himself to deliver a lecture. “Gabriel, you simply must refrain from physical violence. You’re getting bigger all the time, and you might really hurt someone.”

“It’s not my fault! They were waiting for me after school.”

“They?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows jumped in alarm. “How many of them?”

“Oh, uh, it’s only one kid.” Looking down to avoid his uncle’s perplexed gaze, Gabriel addressed the hole in his sleeve. “Mom just got me this sweater. She’s gonna be so mad.”

And isn’t that the point of ruining it? Aziraphale thought wearily. Frances would shout about the damage, then buy a new one, and Gabriel would get to feel cared for. But Aziraphale had another idea, one that would both provide the boy with some much-needed attention, and teach him the value of a mended object. “Take it off,” he said kindly, “and let’s see if my book-binding tools are up to the task.”

While Gabriel wrestled out of the sweater, Aziraphale found a large needle and some sturdy thread. Then he sat beside his nephew, patiently guiding his hands until he found the rhythm of the stitches.

“Look, Uncle Zira, look! I’m doing it!”

“So you are,” Aziraphale agreed, patting his back. It didn’t seem wise to get back into the antiques while Gabriel was here, but Aziraphale’s fingers itched to hold a book, so he picked up a copy of The Prophet that had been sitting on the arm of the couch. His lips moved as he followed the familiar words.

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself...

“Hey, what’s that you're reading? Is it pornography?”

Swallowing a laugh, Aziraphale glanced from the page to his nephew. “It is not. Do you know what pornography is?”

“Sure. My friend Sandy told me.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale closed the book. “Perhaps we need to have a little talk.”

The pornography part of the talk turned out to be fairly painless. Sandy had given Gabriel a confusing set of conflicting definitions, which Aziraphale gently sorted out. He made a mental note to find an age-appropriate book for his nephew, then, since he had Gabriel’s attention, he returned to the subject of fighting.

“My dear, if someone has a quarrel with you, try talking to them. Or tell an adult. Just because another person wants to fight doesn’t mean you have to.”

“Of course I do,” said Gabriel, staring at him in disbelief. “Otherwise how would I win?”

“But I won!”

Crowley poured more shampoo into his hands and scratched at the grit on his little sibling’s scalp. “That’s not the point, Beez. Making friends isn’t about winning and losing.”

The six-year-old gave a sulky kick that splashed enough water out of the tub to soak Crowley’s jeans. “Don’t need friends.”

“Everyone needs friends.”

“Well I don’t want to be friends with that . . .” Beez paused. Crowley guessed they were trying to select a bad enough word. “That wanker.”

He couldn’t help laughing as he poured water on Beez’s head to rinse out the soap. “Have you been watching British TV with Mom?”

Beez shrieked and thrashed instead of answering. “You’re gonna drown me!”

“No, then Mom would drown me.” Crowley grabbed a washcloth to scrub their knees. “I’m just gonna make you presentable before she gets home.”

The little hellion had arrived from school caked in mud (and possibly worse, given the number of flies following them), wearing a torn backpack and a triumphant smile. Crowley had hustled Beez into the bath in the hopes of keeping both of them out of a different kind of hot water.

Turning to the closet for a dry towel, Crowley groaned. What even was his life? Almost thirty, living with his mother and still worried about getting in trouble like the child he was tasked with babysitting.

A child who was far too quick and clever for their own good. Towel in hand, Crowley barely managed to block a naked, dripping Beez from making a break for the hall. They produced muffled noises of outrage as he wrapped them up and rubbed them dry.

“Now get dressed, and Mom won’t suspect a thing.”

Beez glared at the mirror, then back at Crowley. A tiny finger pointed accusingly at a tiny head. “She’ll see my hair’s wet.”

“Tell you her felt like taking a bath.”

“I never feel like taking a bath.”

That was, unfortunately, true. “Fine. Then I’ll blow-dry it.”

“NO!”

“I’ll do mine first, okay?” Crowley’s hair was a damp mess from working in the greenhouse, so he had no style left to mourn as he turned on the dryer and aimed its hot air for the silliest effect.

Sure enough, Beez’s scowl turned into a giggle. “You look like a volcano! Do it again!”

By the time Crowley had blown his hair into an effective impersonation of Ms. Frizzle, Beez was clamoring for a turn. But when he finished applying both dryer and comb, they frowned into the mirror again.

“I look weird.”

“That’s because your hair is clean and brushed and dry. It’s an unprecedented miracle.”

Beez stuck out their tongue.

Crowley grinned. “I know! Let’s play dress-up.”

Beez looked at him suspiciously. “No dresses.”

“Of course no dresses.” Crowley grabbed his sibling’s hand and pulled them to his bedroom, where he’d recently uncovered the suit he’d worn to his mother’s wedding when he was only a year or two older than Beez. The groom, Joseph, had been neither Crowley’s father (who’d skipped town when Crowley was a baby) nor Beez’s father (who’d been a one-night stand long after the marriage dissolved), but Crowley remembered him as a reasonably pleasant person to share space with. “I think this’ll fit you, if we roll up the sleeves.”

Beez approached the suit with skeptical curiosity, stepping into the slacks themself and allowing Crowley to thread their arms into the shirt and jacket. As he finished adjusting the vivid red tie, the front door slammed.

“Italian for dinner,” called their mother.

“Meatballs!” yelled Beez, and hurtled downstairs. Crowley followed at a more leisurely pace, only to face his mother’s disapproving stare when he pulled up a chair to the kitchen table.

“Your little sibling is not a doll,” she said, nodding toward Beez as she unpacked the takeout. “What brought this on?”

“I found the suit while I was tidying up,” said Crowley, which wasn’t even a lie. He spun a fork across the table to Beez and grabbed one himself. “Don’t they look great? You and what’s-his-name should get married, so Beez can wear this to the wedding.”

His mother, well-practiced in ignoring Crowley’s attempts to get under her skin, rolled her eyes. “Because that’s such a good reason to get married.”

“You’d know better than me,” Crowley sniped back. "Hey, keep that suit nice!" He reached out with a napkin to catch a glob of tomato sauce before it could land on Beez's sleeve.

“Yes.” Beez nodded thoughtfully. “I’m gonna wear it to school tomorrow.”

“No way, gnat. You’ll wreck it.”

“Will not!”

“You will if you get in another F-I-G-H-T.”

Beez stared at him, frowning. “What’s a . . . fig hit?”

“Crowley, you’ve forgotten again which family members can spell,” said their mother dryly. “Beez, have you been fighting at school?”

“Not at school,” they said quickly. “It’s against the rules.”

“Have you been fighting after school?”

“I take the fifth,” said Beez solemnly.

Crowley cracked up.

“I suppose I don’t need to ask where you learned that particular phrase,” said their mother, with a sharp look at her son. “Crowley, from now on you’ll be picking Beez up from school.”

“Nooooo,” he groaned, in perfect harmony with Beez’s happy shout of “BENTLEY BUS!”

Chapter Text

Crowley did not, as a rule, run. His preferred ambulatory locomotion was a studied saunter. If speed was of absolute essence, then he could summon a stride.

But he hated to let down his little sibling, and it had taken far too long to find parking. (Why hadn’t Mom warned him that the school lot was only for staff? The ferocious and incomprehensible censure he’d received from a grizzled crossing guard in a raincoat would be haunting him for days.) He urged his long legs into a veritable sprint as he approached the school gate.

Arriving at a chaotic pileup of children and parents, he could only hope that Beez hadn’t given up on him and headed for the bus. The tiny human had much better odds of spotting Crowley than the other way around. He stood as tall as possible, scanning the blacktop, until his gaze tripped and caught on a gorgeous man who appeared as disoriented as Crowley.

The man’s coat was the color of butter, and he looked just as delicious. Soft pale curls ringed a face clearly suited to smiling. Well-manicured hands fluttered as if they could help his eyes search the crowd.

Crowley was about to introduce himself, and see if the two of them couldn’t come to a mutually beneficial child-hunting arrangement, when a blur of movement caught his eye.

“Beez!” he exclaimed, but his sibling sped right past him to tackle a boy half again their own size. The boy stumbled and Beez pounced, delivering several solid hits before Crowley hauled them off their opponent. “Hey! Beez! What’s going on?”

“I hate him! He’s awful! I hate him!” Beez sounded furious and also, to Crowley’s keen ear, near tears. He held on tightly as they thrashed in his arms.

“Well I hate you too!” As the boy jumped up and brushed himself off, none other than the butter-man hurried to his side. His voice was as soft as the rest of him. “Gabriel, are you all right?”

“Course I am,” the boy muttered, glaring at Beez. “They don’t hit that hard.”

The man, who Crowley supposed was Gabriel’s father, followed his son’s gaze. His expression was more thoughtful than angry. “This is the child who’s been picking fights with you?”

Beez had stopped flailing, so Crowley set them down and squatted at the same level. “Come on then, what’s all this about?”

They jabbed a finger at Gabriel. “He said I have to be a boy or a girl.”

“It’s what my mom said!”

Crowley grimaced. He couldn’t get mad at a seven-year-old for repeating what he’d been taught, but no way was he letting that go uncorrected, either. He opened his mouth—

And butter-man got there first. "Gabriel, I love your mother, but sometimes she’s wrong about things.”

Oh no, thought Crowley. He’s hot and he’s decent. Help.

Gabriel blinked at his father. “But how—”

“We can talk about it later, my dear.” His tone was still kind, but surprisingly firm. As if Crowley’s spontaneous crush needed more encouragement. “For now, the important thing is to listen and respect what other people tell you about themselves. If this child says they’re not a girl or a boy, then it’s true.”

Gabriel seemed to digest this. “That doesn’t make it okay to hit me.”

“No, it doesn’t,” agreed butter-man, his eyes flicking toward Beez and then, beseechingly, toward Crowley.

And yeah, as the adult currently responsible for the miniature menace, Crowley ought to speak up here. “Beez, it doesn’t matter what another kid says, if it’s ignorant or wrong or whatever, you can’t start throwing punches. You gotta use your words, and if the kid doesn’t listen, you find a grownup, okay?”

Beez gave a surly nod. That was probably the best acknowledgement he’d get, so Crowley returned the nod and stood up.

“They should say sorry,” Gabriel pressed. Crowley noticed that he had no problem using Beez’s preferred pronouns, despite parroting his mother’s narrow-mindedness.

He could also recognize that it might be nice to hear an apology after being knocked around (contrary to Gabriel’s face-saving assertion, Beez hit hard), but he didn’t see the point of insisting that kids apologize when they weren’t actually sorry.

Did Gabriel’s dad expect Crowley to make Beez apologize, though? He caught the man’s eyes again. Gosh, they were blue. Before Crowley could embark on an ineffectual attempt at nonverbal communication, the little group was joined by a woman in a long skirt and round glasses.

“How fortuitous! I was hoping to catch both of you.” She smiled at the children. “Hello, Beez. Hello, Gabriel.”

“Hello, Ms. Device,” they answered in perfect unison, then gave each other dirty looks.

Crowley squinted at her. “You look familiar.”

“Well, I am your child’s teacher.”

Crowley waved off the incorrect assumption, more trouble that it was worth to correct. “No, but I swear we’ve met—”

“You nearly ran me over last week in the drop-off line.”

Oh, right. That morning rushed back into Crowley’s memory: he’d squished a fly at the breakfast table, Beez’s subsequent tantrum had caused them to miss the bus, and their mother had made Crowley drive them to school.

Embarrassing, yes, but on the bright side, the universe was handing him an opportunity to model contrition for his sibling. “’M sorry about that.”

“Apology accepted.” Briskly moving on, the teacher gestured to Beez and Gabriel. “These two have a somewhat antagonistic relationship, as you’ve likely noticed. What you may not know is that they also have a great deal in common. They fight in the library because they want to read the same books—usually the I Survived series, by the way, you might want to get some at home—and they fight during choice time because they want to play War but can’t agree on the rules. I have tried encouraging them to take a break and play with other children, but it’s like trying to keep magnets apart.”

Crowley stared at his sibling in astonishment. “Beez, you actually play with Gabriel?”

“Every day,” confirmed Ms. Device. “Happily, I don’t have to deal with them at recess, but the yard supervisor informs me that they fight over their favorite ball, their favorite jump rope, and their favorite mud puddle. It’s normal at this age for friendships with great potential to experience great friction, but it’s also quite a challenge for everyone involved. If you parents would consider arranging a playdate outside of school, that often helps.”

The assurance with which she spoke had both Crowley and butter-man nodding along. Satisfied, she turned to engage with another family before either of them could speak.

Crowley glanced down at Beez, who was sharpening a stick by rubbing it on the asphalt, then up at Gabriel’s father. “What do you think, wanna have a playdate?”

“I suppose it’s worth a try. Gabriel! No ranged weapons in close quarters, if you please.” He confiscated a straw shooter from the boy. “I doubt his mother has time to supervise it, and I do need to return to the shop for inventory today, but with a bit of planning, I could close up early one afternoon and take him to a park.”

“Yeah, that sounds good.” If Crowley spent a few days getting ahead on orders, then he could take an afternoon off too. He offered his phone. “Pop your number in there, and give yourself a text so you’ll have mine.”

“Oh, I don’t have a mobile.” But the man’s fingers moved nimbly over the screen. “This is my shop number. Do feel free to call, though! I’m always available. That is, if I’m not doing something else.”

Butter-man was upsettingly cute. Also, Crowley needed to stop thinking of him as butter-man. “I’m Crowley, by the way. You?”

“My name is Aziraphale. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He handed the phone back. As Crowley took it, he realized that Gabriel was staring at him.

“Why is your dad wearing nail polish?” the boy demanded of Beez.

“He’s not my dad, he’s my brother,” Beez retorted. “And he wears it because he’s a boss-ass bitch.”

Crowley fought back a wave of mortified laughter and did his best to ignore the expression of mild shock on not only Aziraphale, but all the parents within hearing distance. “I appreciate the sentiment, but, uh, remember how there’s words we don’t say at school? That’s—those are some of those words.”

Meanwhile, Gabriel’s curiosity had moved on. “If he’s your brother, how come he’s so old?”

“Gabriel, we don’t—oh, good heavens, I really must get back to the shop.” Flustered, Aziraphale took the boy’s hand and waved to Crowley. “Have a splendid afternoon! Do drive safely.”

“Yeah, you too,” said Crowley. “Say goodbye to your friend, Beez” (they snarled) “and let’s scram.”

Securely buckled in the car, Beez sang along at the top of their tiny lungs to “We Will Rock You,” and Crowley briefly wondered if he should feel guilty for the violent ethos of his music. He discarded the idea in favor of thinking about Aziraphale.

Apparently the guy was married to a woman, which surprised Crowley, but then he scolded himself for stereotyping. Equally apparent was the unpleasantness of the woman in question. Crowley was no homewrecker, but a five-minute fantasy was a harmless indulgence, right?

He imagined flirting with Aziraphale over the phone, making him laugh with outrageous suggestions as if the playdate for the kids were a date-date for the adults. He envisioned wearing his slinkiest outfit to the park, buying everyone ice cream and then, while the kids ate theirs on the playground (peacefully, because this was all pretend anyway) Crowley would lick his own treat so suggestively that Aziraphale would start to sweat.

Beez and Gabriel would get along so well they’d want weekly playdates, and Aziraphale would be so smitten with Crowley he’d make all kinds of reckless decisions. He’d let Crowley tempt him into phone sex, then he’d invite Crowley into the back room of his shop (what kind of shop? perhaps it would be a flower shop, and he’d want to sell Crowley’s sundews? another fantasy for another day) to have real sex. Sweaty and euphoric, Aziraphale would confess that his wife never made him feel this way—

A ball of crumpled paper hit Crowley’s shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts. He scowled into the rearview mirror. “Hey! I’m instituting Aziraphale’s rule about ranged weapons, right now.”

“You weren’t listening to me!”

“Okay, sorry, what were you saying?”

“I said I’m NOT going to play with Gabriel and YOU CAN’T MAKE ME.”

Chapter Text

A five-minute fantasy wouldn’t harm anyone, Aziraphale thought while closing the blinds in the shop windows.

Of course, nothing could really happen between him and Crowley. Aziraphale had found Beez’s presumed parent physically attractive at first glance, and so charming and genuine with the children—but then Crowley had tried the most ridiculous pickup line on poor Ms. Device, who had revealed that he was quite the reckless driver.

It all made sense once Beez explained that Crowley was their brother, and Aziraphale revised his estimate of Crowley’s age significantly downward. Most likely he was a student at the community college, with his share of juvenile foibles.

Aziraphale would never dream of acting on his lingering attraction to Crowley—heavens! the boy might be no more than twenty. But as he tucked a tartan tin under his arm, locked the shop, and walked down the block to wait for Gabriel at the bus stop, he allowed himself an imaginative indulgence.

In a world without scruples or sense, Aziraphale could flirt with Crowley while they sat on a park bench watching Gabriel and Beez play (harmoniously, since this was a fantasy, after all). Aziraphale would find all sorts of excuses to touch the young man—plucking a fallen leaf from his hair, taking his hand to admire the polish and discuss his own nail care routine. Perhaps he’d even ask about the snake tattoo on Crowley’s cheek and let his finger brush oh-so-lightly over the inked skin. Crowley would shiver, and swallow, and trip on his tongue as he tried to act cool about how Aziraphale’s touch affected him. Maybe he’d never been with an older man, only boys his own age, in as much of a hurry as he was. Aziraphale could be the one to teach him about patience, the lesson a slow seduction over weeks and months—

“Cookies?!” yelled Gabriel as he hurtled through the open bus doors.

“Oh, er, yes.” Aziraphale patted his nephew’s shoulder and tucked his fantasy firmly into the recesses of his mind. “To share at the park,” he added, lifting the tin away from a pair of eager hands.

Aziraphale had asked Crowley if he wouldn’t mind meeting at a park within walking distance of the shop, so Gabriel could take his usual bus from school. (Unfortunately, there was no “reverse school bus” that Aziraphale could take to pick Gabriel up. Last week, when he’d gotten worried enough about Gabriel’s fights to make the trek, it had involved transfers between three city buses.)

Crowley had offered to drive both kids from school to the park, but luckily, while Aziraphale was searching for a gentle way to express his misgivings about Crowley’s driving, the young man backpedaled. “Never mind, sorry, they might strangle each other in the back seat. Maybe later, when they’re best pals.”

Gabriel had not shown any interest in becoming “best pals” with Beez—in fact, he’d made it quite clear that he had no intention of playing with them on this alleged “playdate”—but he liked any excuse to go to the park, so he walked at Aziraphale’s side with an eager bounce.

Crowley was easy to spot when they arrived. His black clothing clung flatteringly to his form, and his dark red hair was done up in a fancy style that Aziraphale admired but couldn’t name. He wore the same sunglasses that had made it so difficult to guess his age, and carried a large satchel.

To Aziraphale’s surprise, Gabriel ran right up to Crowley and demanded, “Where’s Beez?”

“In the car.” Crowley waved his arm toward an antique automobile parked at the curb. “Refusing to get out, like a little shi—bling. I have a plan, though—”

“You mispronounced sibling,” Gabriel interrupted. “Is that your car?”

“Sure is.”

The pride in Crowley’s voice was so obvious that Aziraphale wanted to say something nice about it. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to compliment vehicles. He settled on, “It has a lovely shape, like a box with curves.”

Gabriel added, “It looks super old.”

Before Crowley could get offended, Aziraphale said hastily, “You have a plan?”

“Oh yeah. Nerf guns!” He pulled two bright orange objects from his bag and immediately acquired Gabriel’s undivided attention. “Ranged weapons are okay in the park, right?” Crowley asked, glancing at Aziraphale.

Oh, what a sweet young man. “Certainly, my dear,” Aziraphale reassured him.

The slam of a car door announced Beez’s decision to join the group. They snatched one of the guns from Crowley, and he handed the other to Gabriel, who wanted to know, “What about ammo?”

“First, the rules of engagement.” Crowley squatted down and led the children through a quick but thorough discussion of aim (below the neck), battlefield (away from the streets and the toddler sand pit), and firearm maintenance (how to fix a jam without damaging any fiddly plastic bits).

Then Crowley produced two bandoliers. “Ten bullets each.”

“Only ten?!” Beez protested.

“They’re reusable. And I’d better get all twenty back before we leave the park, or I’ll cut off your fingers to replace the missing ones.”

Gabriel gasped out loud. Beez laughed and shoved him. “Don’t be such a baby, he doesn’t mean it.”

Aziraphale decided to temper Crowley’s threat, empty though it may have been, with a bribe. “How about this—after all twenty, er, bullets are returned, you can have cookies?”

“I don’t like cookies,” asserted Beez, eyeing the tartan tin distrustfully.

Now it was Gabriel’s turn to shove them. “Yes you do. You stole a cookie out of my lunch and came back for another because you liked it so much.”

“Those were special. I don’t like normal cookies.”

“These are the special cookies! Uncle Zira’s cookies!”

Beez took that under consideration, then abruptly shouted “Beat you to the trees!” and zipped away over the grass. Gabriel followed at top speed. Aziraphale gazed after them, feeling fond and fretful and wondering if Crowley had neglected to cover any safety rules.

“You’re his uncle.”

Aziraphale turned to see Crowley’s mouth all but hanging open in surprise.

“Yes, of course. What did you—? Oh! You must have supposed I was his father. No, no, Gabriel’s mother is my eldest sister.”

“Well, I feel a little less bad now about saying that she sounds like a piece of work,” said Crowley, ambling toward a sunny bench. “Want to sit?”

Aziraphale settled himself on the warm metal with the cookie tin in his lap. “She’s not quite as bad as the impression you may have gotten. I spoke with her about what Gabriel said to Beez the other day, and she didn’t even remember when she might have told him such a thing.”

“And that’s somehow better?” scoffed Crowley.

“I’ll admit her parenting leaves a lot to be desired, but I truly don’t believe she intended to indoctrinate him in transphobia. Frances is a progressive thinker. She’s simply so absorbed in her work—especially since Gabriel’s father died a few years ago—that she doesn’t keep up with other things. I suspect Gabriel asked her something like ‘Are all kids either girls or boys?’ and she said ‘Yes dear’ while answering e-mails.” Aziraphale sighed. “When I explained that Gabriel has a nonbinary classmate, she was quite apologetic about giving him the wrong idea.”

Crowley’s head tilted in an unmistakeable eye roll, even behind the sunglasses. “All right, give her a medal.”

Aziraphale realized he was talking to a young man who may well have been hurt by less than supportive adults in his own life. Dropping the subject of his sister, he asked gently, “Do you and Beez get along with your parents?”

“I guess.” Crowley gave a larger neck roll, creating audible vertebral pops. “Mom never gave me shit for wearing whatever I wanted, getting tattoos, changing my name. Same with Beez now, she sticks up for them with doctors and teachers and stuff. My dad fucked off when I was little, though, and Beez’s doesn’t even know they exist. I keep telling Mom to track him down for child support, and she says why bother when she’s got a live-in nanny?” Crowley gestured to himself, and snorted. “But I’ve got other things to do! Not that I want to ditch Beez, I’m just done living at home, you know? Been swearing I’ll get my shit together to move out before I’m thirty.”

“Goodness, that should be no trouble at all. You seem like a clever, enterprising young man,” said Aziraphale, and he meant it. From the glimpses he could catch between trees, Gabriel and Beez seemed to be having a marvelous time, thanks to Crowley’s plan. “And that gives you, what, nearly a decade?”

Crowley barked with laughter. “D’you really think I’m that young? Try ten months!”

Now it was Aziraphale who struggled to keep his jaw from dropping open. “Oh, er, well. Goodness, you’re twenty-nine? I’m—I’m only five years older than you.”

“No kidding? Here I thought you were ready for senior citizen discounts.”

Aziraphale puffed up, then deflated with a chuckle. “You’re trying to get a rise out of me.”

“Well, maybe not in front of the kids.”

“Crowley!” said Aziraphale, scandalized and a bit delighted. The suggestive smirk on Crowley’s face left little doubt as to his meaning. “At least that was more creative than the line you offered Ms. Device.”

“The line—? Oh hell, that wasn’t a line! I really couldn’t remember where I’d seen her.” He stretched his long arms over the back of the bench. “She’s not my type anyway. Trust me, if I’m trying to pick someone up, I’ve got game.”

“I’m sure you do, dear.” Aziraphale gave a pointed look to the hand now positioned near his shoulder. “I suppose this is here because you’re trying to steal a cookie before the children get any.”

“Very sneaky, me,” agreed Crowley with a grin. When Aziraphale simply offered him the open tin, he tapped the tattoo on his cheek. “Careful, you know what they say about giving a snake a cookie.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I believe the title is If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.”

“Uh, the snake one is lesser-known.” Crowley took a cookie, and a bite. Then he made a sound of sensuous pleasure that Aziraphale could readily admit he’d like to hear again in a different context. “Oh, wow. I don’t blame Beez, these are special cookies.”

“I’m so glad you think so.” Aziraphale took one for himself. “What does happen if you give a snake a cookie?”

“He’ll want the whole tin.”

Crowley lunged for it. Aziraphale snatched it away from Crowley's right hand just in time, then nearly lost it to his left. Realizing that he could never win defensively, Aziraphale set the tin on the bench and caught each of Crowley’s slender wrists as he reached with both hands for the prize.

They spent a long moment staring at each other, laughing and breathing a bit harder than necessary, before Aziraphale released him.

“So is your shop a bakery?” blurted out Crowley. The skin just under his sunglasses was pinker than it had been before.

“Oh, no, goodness, no.” Aziraphale’s heart rate felt like he’d been climbing stairs. “I sell books.”

“I don’t read much,” said Crowley frankly. “But I love audiobooks.”

“Oh, that’s marvelous, though. What sort?”

“I’m on a bit of a poetry jag lately. Lot of Mary Oliver and Walt Whitman.”

“You have exquisite taste, my dear. Have you come across The Lost Words by Robert Macfarlane?”

A discussion of nature in poetry and poetry in nature led right into Crowley’s work, and Aziraphale learned that while Venus fly-traps were the most well-known carnivorous plants, sundews and pitcher plants sold much better. He also learned that when Crowley was excited he spoke with his hands and laughed with his whole body, and that the snake was only the most visible of Crowley’s many tattoos, which included a cobra lily “in a place I won’t show off ‘til the second date, so don’t even ask.”

At a lull in the conversation, Aziraphale, surprised by his own boldness, asked a different but not unrelated question. “Would you like to get together again?”

Crowley lifted an eyebrow. “You mean with or without the kids?”

“With—”

At a sudden piercing scream from across the park, both men leapt up, discarding their conversation and racing toward the source of the sound. “Gabriel?” Aziraphale called as he ran. He couldn’t see the boy, but he might be anywhere among all the shrubs and tree trunks. Perhaps he’d even fallen from a tree, oh, Aziraphale should have stayed close to him—

There was Beez, at least, hurtling toward Crowley and colliding with his legs, sobbing so they could barely breathe—“I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to!”

Chapter Text

“I brought nerf guns specifically so you wouldn’t be tempted to fight with sticks.” Crowley’s hands clenched the steering wheel, as if he could turn back time with a tight enough grip.

Reflected in the rearview mirror, Beez slouched into their black hoodie. “I know.”

“And we made a rule about aiming below the neck! That should have applied for any weapon.”

“I KNOW!”

Beez’s furious snarl made Crowley want to raise his own voice, but instead he loosened his fingers and took a deep breath for each digit.

Left thumb, left forefinger, left middle finger, left ring finger, left pinky.

At the park he’d dealt with one immediate need after another—calming Beez while Aziraphale checked Gabriel’s injury, handing Aziraphale his phone to call Gabriel’s mother, bundling Aziraphale and Gabriel into the Bentley to drive them to Urgent Care where Frances would meet them.

Right thumb, right forefinger, right middle finger, right ring finger, right pinky.

Now Crowley was alone with Beez for the first time since the incident, and both of them could finally process what had happened. Ranting and scolding wasn’t going to help. And the next thing he'd been about to say--You could have put his eye out!--was not only a tired cliche he didn't want to hear from his own mouth, but something Beez also undoubtedly already knew.

“Sorry, gnat,” said Crowley quietly. “I know you know.”

In his experience, the apology and acknowledgement would be the opening Beez needed to start talking. Actually asking was usually counterproductive. So Crowley bit his tongue and sang along in his head to the Velvet Underground, and sure enough, halfway through Some Kinda Love, Beez spoke up.

“It was part of the game. We had it all worked out, me and Gabriel were generals with two armies each, and we used up the ammo being stormtroopers, and we used it up again being zombies, and then we had to fight hand to hand because all our infants were dead.”

“Infantry,” murmured Crowley, trying to block out the unintentional horror his sibling had conjured.

“And I’m good at making swords, so I showed Gabriel how, and I didn’t mean to aim for his face, I promise, I didn’t, but he slipped, and his eye—his eye—it’s gonna be okay, right?”

“Yeah. I think so.” Crowley let out a long sigh. “His cheek stopped bleeding, and the eye’s kinda red but he can still see out of it just fine. And Aziraphale promised he’d call tonight with an update.”

Aziraphale had been, quite simply, an angel. The way he managed a crisis had been 190-proof booze poured on the flames of Crowley’s infatuation. Though obviously worried about Gabriel, Aziraphale had gently coaxed the boy’s hands away from his face and examined it without a hint of panic. Producing a handkerchief seemingly from thin air to wipe up the blood, he’d assured everyone that the situation wasn’t an emergency, but they should probably see a doctor. While he used Crowley’s phone to call his sister, Crowley had busied both Beez and himself with packing up the nerf guns. To his surprise, Gabriel had joined them, collecting ammo with one hand while he held the handkerchief to his cheek with the other.

As it turned out, stop-and-go traffic separated Frances’s office from the park. Crowley had offered to drive, and Aziraphale, after a pointed comment about the value of posted speed limits, had accepted. Beez and Gabriel had squabbled companionably in the back seat, devouring all the cookies except for two that Aziraphale had whisked away to share with Crowley.

At Urgent Care, Gabriel had surprised the adults by asking Beez to stay and keep him company. But the waiting room was crowded, and Crowley wasn’t keen to meet Frances for the first time while Beez had literal blood on their hands. So he’d said good-bye, and Beez, without any warning, had grabbed Gabriel and hugged him. Stunned, Crowley had only managed to make some vague noises with his mouth when Aziraphale offered to call later that night.

His thoughts derailed by memories of the beautiful man, Crowley skipped tracks to Pale Blue Eyes.

“This music stinks,” grumbled Beez. “I want Queen.”

“Well too bad, it’s my car.”

Beez’s voice sounded smaller when they spoke again. “Are you mad at me?”

“No, no, no.” Crowley pushed up his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. “Kids do stupid things. Hell knows I did all kinds of stupid things at your age. And accidents happen even to grownups. I’m not mad.”

After a few beats, Beez asked in an even smaller voice, “Is Mom gonna be mad?”

Crowley chewed on that for few seconds before he admitted, “Yes. But mostly at me.”

“That’s not fair. You didn’t do anything.”

“I’m the grown-up. Supposed to keep kids safe, I am. Don’t worry about Mom, she’ll get it out of her system in a day or two.”

There was quiet from the backseat, then the smallest voice yet. “I don’t like it when you and Mom yell at each other.”

Oh for fuck’s sake, thought Crowley, now we’re going to get into this? “We don’t yell at each other,” he answered, automatically and unconvincingly.

“Yes, you do.”

“Well I’ll move out and then it won’t happen anymore.”

Even before he heard the sniffles, Crowley knew he’d said exactly the wrong thing. They were almost home, but he pulled over and cut the engine. Twisting in his seat, he reached back with one spidery arm to push the release on Beez’s seat belt. “Come on. Come up here with me.”

Beez clambered into the front of the car. Crowley tucked them under his arm and they rubbed their snotty nose on his shirt. “I want you to stay,” they hiccuped. “I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t make swords anymore, I—”

“Beez, I’m not moving out because of anything you did. It’s nothing like that. I need my own space, for me and the plants, so we can stop cramping your style. You know you hate seeing the sundews eat flies.”

“I don’t care,” snuffled Beez. “The murder plants can stay if you stay.”

Crowley stroked their hair, his long fingers teasing apart the snarls. “Wherever I live, Beez, I’ll always be your big brother. You can’t get rid of me. You and me, we’re gonna stick together like, uh, like, uhmm . . .”

“Like fire and brimstone!”

“Yeah, like fire and—what?” Crowley squinted down at Beez’s grubby little face. “Where the hell did you hear that?”

“It’s what Gabriel says instead of bad words. Fire and brimstone! It’s so funny.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty funny.” Crowley laughed, shaking his head. “Are you ready to go home and tell Mom what happened? If she needs some time to cool off, we’ll take sleeping bags and camp out in the greenhouse. Sound good?”

“Okay.” Beez wiped their face on Crowley again, making him wish for Aziraphale’s handkerchief-summoning powers. “Can I beep the horn? Once? Please?”

“Sure, gnat. One beep.”

As Crowley would later explain to the neighbors, it was only one beep, albeit a very long one.

“I’m not calling Beez’s mother Dick,” Frances complained to Aziraphale as she drove to dinner.

“Why not?” inquired Gabriel from the back seat with wide-eyed innocence. “That’s her name.”

Aziraphale was amused that Gabriel hadn’t yet learned genital slang, despite his early introduction to pornography. He was even more amused by Frances’s attempt to explain her reticence without resorting to the truth. “It’s not really a name, sweetie, it’s a nickname, and it’s short for Richard, which isn’t usually a woman’s name—”

“Oh yeah, her name’s not Richard.” Gabriel nodded wisely. “It’s Bed—Bendy—Beden—”

“Benedicta,” Aziraphale supplied.

“Then that’s what I’ll call her,” said Frances definitively.

Aziraphale doubted this would go over well, but decided not to raise any objections. It really wasn’t his problem.

He was grateful that the park playdate and subsequent trip to Urgent Care had somehow, ineffably, cemented a friendship between Gabriel and Beez. Instead of bruises and scrapes, Gabriel now arrived at the bookshop after school with folded papers covered in maps and arrows. He spent hours poring over Beez’s imaginary battle plans and then detailing his own troop movements for the next day’s engagement. He kept pestering Frances to have Beez over for dinner, and Frances kept putting him off. Eventually, a dinner invitation had arrived from Dick, suggesting that Beez had been a more successful pest.

As Frances parked in front of Beez’s house, Aziraphale felt a touch of uncertainty about the meeting between the mothers. Frances and Dick were so different. But as grown adults, they were unlikely to resort to fisticuffs, and even better, Aziraphale had his own dinner plans.

Stepping out of the car, Aziraphale discarded social anxiety in favor of a more pressing concern: the safety of the plum cake. Gabriel had helped bake it, and now insisted on carrying it to the front door by himself. Aziraphale walked beside him, willing the plate to remain steady, and quickly rang the doorbell before Gabriel could try.

The thumps of small feet racing toward the door caused Aziraphale to tilt his head down, so when the door swung open, his eyes landed on Beez’s face. It was surprisingly clean. To his further astonishment, they were dressed in an absolutely precious little suit—not that Aziraphale would ever use that word to their face.

“Hello, Beez. You look very nice,” he said.

“You look like a stick of butter,” they answered. “Come on, Gabriel. Let’s play Legos.”

Gabriel shoved the cake into Aziraphale’s arms, then followed Beez at top speed up the stairs, where (Aziraphale guessed by the sound) he and Beez proceeded to pour all of their Legos onto a hardwood floor. Aziraphale and Frances glanced at each other. Technically, they hadn’t been invited in.

“We’re in the kitchen!” came a shout from Crowley.

Aziraphale led the way, following Crowley’s voice and a slightly burnt smell. In the kitchen, he found Crowley wearing a suit rather better tailored than Beez’s. The young man leaned one hip against a counter, tossed his curls over his shoulder, and projected an air of such studied confidence and poise that Aziraphale very nearly pinched his cheek and called him precious.

His mother wore jeans, a stained t-shirt, and a sloppy ponytail. She poked at the blackened crust of a pizza that had just come out of the oven.

Aziraphale smiled and set the cake down on the table. “Hello, Crowley. Hi, Dick.”

“Hey, Aziraphale.” Dick dropped her oven mitts, turned to the guests, and stuck out her hand. “You must be Frances.”

Frances shook the hand firmly, but stumbled over her words. “Yes. Uh. Good to meet you, D—Benedicta.”

“What’s the matter, don’t you like dick?” said Dick, smirking.

Frances, who was too tenacious to remain flustered for long, retorted, “Actually, I like it every bit as much as my little brother does.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help blushing. “Frances, really.”

“What? You’re here to take her son out on a date; she’s probably figured out that you’re gay.”

“My son? On a date?” Dick hauled Crowley to her side while he flailed, completely upsetting his earlier appearance of cool. “I don’t know if I can trust you with my sweet innocent boy.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched. “I’ll have him home by nine, ma'am.”

“Have me somewhere by nine, I hope,” said Crowley, somehow both sullen and salacious as he wriggled free of his mother’s clutches.

Dick sighed. “Use protection, please.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve learned from your mistakes.” Crowley picked up his car keys. “Seeing as I am one of them.”

She gave him a fond smile. “My favorite mistake.”

“Ooh, better not let Beez hear you say that.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Beez wasn’t a mistake, Crowley. I had so much fun raising you, I decided to get knocked up one last time before my ovaries shriveled and fell off the vine.”

“You decided?” Crowley looked so shocked that Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether to laugh, comfort him, or make a break for the door. “Mom, for six fucking years I’ve been figuring the condom broke.”

“You learn something new every day,” said Dick serenely. “What about you, Frances? Gabriel seems . . . planned.”

Aziraphale hardly dared to look at his sister. The Fells were not a family that discussed matters of conception, accidental or intentional, over dinner. Or before dinner. Or at any time, really, regardless of dinner.

But Frances surprised him. “Yes, he was. His father and I fucked religiously every three days for six months, but it never took until we resorted to squirting egg white on my cervix with a turkey baster.”

“Oh dear!” squawked Aziraphale, grabbing Crowley’s arm. “We’re late for our dinner reservations! Good-bye!”

It was hard to say which of them was in the greater hurry to escape the house, climb into the Bentley, and slam the doors shut, but once they were in the car, Crowley didn’t start the engine. They just sat side by side, staring out the windshield.

“So,” ventured Crowley after a few moments of silence. “You okay?”

Aziraphale took a shuddering breath. “I don’t think I’ll be able to bake with egg whites for a while.”

Crowley snorted.

“How about you? How are you coping with your family revelation?”

“Fuck, Aziraphale, I don’t even know. I have questions, so many questions, but I'm not sure I really want any answers.”

“We need a distraction.” Aziraphale turned to face Crowley. “We need to have gay sex.”

Crowley’s eyes went wide, but he nodded. “The gayest.”

“With no chance of conceiving a child.”

“None whatsoever.”

Aziraphale leaned in. Crowley surged forward to meet him. Their lips collided with slightly manic desperation. But then Crowley’s hands snaked around Aziraphale’s waist, and Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s cheek in his palm, and their kisses turned tender and sweet. They kissed until the windows fogged, until Aziraphale opened his eyes and found his fingers tracing Crowley’s tattoo, just like he’d imagined.

“Our reservation,” he breathlessly reminded them both.

Crowley’s cheeks were pink, his lips shiny, his eyes dazed. “Fuck the reservation.”

“No, my dear.” Aziraphale drew away to buckle his seatbelt. “Fuck after the reservation.”