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    Summary

    “Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, hand mindlessly grappling for the golden clasp secured at his throat. “What have you done?”

    “What I’ve always wanted,” Crowley says flatly, clutching the baby close against his bare chest. “You made your choice, angel. And I made a few of my own.”

    “Whose,” Aziraphale starts to say, and then can’t speak for a moment while something visceral moves through him. “Whose child are they? Other than yours, I mean.”

    “Look at her for yourself,” Crowley says, drawing his dark wing up just enough that Aziraphale can gaze at the newborn without feathers blocking the lamplight glowing behind them. “You haven’t even been gone for a year—don’t tell me you suddenly can’t recognize one of your own.”

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