Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world was currently still spinning, which depending on your perspective, was a rather lovely thing.

This world was once left in the hands of four incompetent but determined adults, three perfectly normal children for the time, a dreadfully optimistic angel and demon, and the antichrist. And despite all common sense, this ragtag group of individuals averted the prophesized apocalypse successfully, as most fanciful literature today will have you believe. The silliest thing about the entire ordeal was the ridiculous aftermath to follow. See, humans have an expression along the lines of the universe moving in ways you'd think absolutely bonkers until it rings true. Crowley, being the second most educated metaphysical entity on the topic of the universe, would tell you that's utter bullshit. Crowley knows the stars and gravity and atoms have nothing to do with meeting your long-lost father at the local market or getting fired just to start your wildly growing small business. And if you were to quote the alternative turn of phrase, he'd look at you with pity and rage but also a third thing too much for a human to bear or even understand completely. The worst thing about this whole mess is that even though Crowley is one of the only beings on earth who would give the correct answers to your questions, you'd find he's been an easy victim to it himself. Not that you could get many out of him. At least not anytime soon with the outright ungodly amounts of alcohol he has set out to consume.

Currently, Crowley would rather like to be swallowed whole by the worst pits of hell if it would ease his depression. In fact, he'd quite rather the world kept spinning. And hopefully, if he drank enough, it'd spin so fast that he couldn't tell the difference between dizziness and tears clouding his vision. The greatest part of drinking was that if you never stopped, you'd never get hungover. Regardless to say, he was going through a rough patch. But what's the difference to a demon who's been forgiven on many occasions but never wanted to apologize? Constantly clawing for the unattainable, but ever the Sisyphean serpent he was, blinded by grey morals and cheating the system but never to reap any rewards. What a piece of work he was, delusional until tested to destruction. Truly a feat of Job he has accomplished, to be so driven into love and to face such heartbreak but not know how to stop loving. God, what a mess he was. However, how unknowingly human a mess he was.

And that is how our favorite demonic freelancer will find himself in the dirty donkey, drunker than a German festival, arguing the bookshop across the street through a particularly concerned wooden pillar. The pillar wasn't keen on having emotional ties to the many intoxicated people who rant to it, but it had never faced someone so intimidating but convinced it was a bookshop before. Meanwhile, a cheeky hotshot with a fake ID and questionable philosophies on the world they live in strode in with the unearned confidence of a politician's child. See, because the universe might just move how it's instructed, and God may have not moved since Jesus, but people move however they damn well wish. The thing most people don't like to admit is that things happen for a reason, that reason just never involved some Great Plan. No, things happen as an act of consequence of every possible decision made. Everything is a domino effect; everything leads to something else. Perhaps the butcher you told a joke to told her friends, and her friends told their friends and the joke reminded one of them about that one jelly he had growing up. And so, when he went to pick it up, he saw his daughter for the first time since he shipped off overseas for the Air Force. Maybe when you were six years old you would only eat bread if your mother drowned it in the jelly your neighbor made and now, he runs a quality stand at the market. And maybe your old neighbor still gives you batches of the blueberry jams because your sister's ex-husband loved them, and you don't know how to tell him they separated. Or maybe you had a friendly chat with a distantly familiar face on a wall of a garden and now a boy you used to nanny is trying a bit of underage drinking after your nasty not-breakup has left you aimless.

As it stands, Warlock Dowling was definitely not expecting to see their former nanny wasted far beyond the reasonable expectation of liver poisoning and apparently genderbent. Absolutely baffled, Warlock walked away from the group of friends, or peer-pressuring acquaintances for accuracy's sake, to make sure they weren't seeing things. They got decently close and took a good look at the once-nanny-now-overtly-queer-alcoholic. It was kind of terrifying how out of sorts their old nanny looked, Warlock almost had to scurry away like a frightened rat. But then that twisty feeling started under their skin, the one they always associated with that old gardener with bad teeth who told them to be a good person. They bit back a resigned sigh they always felt echo inside them when they took the moral high ground and sat in a chair just close enough to be sitting next to the nanny but with plenty of potential fleeing room.

"Hey, Nanny...?"

Crowley hiccupped, blinked, and dragged his gaze to Warlock, "Wot? Oi, it's you! Dowling kid... Warrel- Worsa- Wrock... Hellion! What are ya doing?"

"I- uh, just here with friends." This was much more awkward than they first thought.

"You're 18? Already? What year is it then?" Crowley checked the watch on his wrist and grimaced when he realized he was too drunk to remember what numbers looked like.

Their cheeks flushed, definitely caught in the act, "It's still 2024."

"Year already, pffft- not long enough. Wait," Crowley blew his overgrown hair from his face and scrunched his nose, "Weren't you 11 in 19? That doesn't seem like math is right. Unless, of course, you're here under-"

"No, I'm here with some rich pricks who thought it'd be funny to get fake IDs. I don't really drink when we do this anyways, kinda just do this to get away from- well, Mum and Dad." Warlock always hated lying to Nanny, they could never do it. After letting that off their chest they met Nanny in the eyes only to regret seeing how broken those eyes had become. Those eyes used to have all the answers and every soft praise Mum never gave them. Without thinking and against their better judgment they asked, "What happened to you?"

Crowley gave a humorless chuckle, "Fallen from grace, the only one that mattered."

Warlock changed the subject, "I missed you, Nanny. What, um, when did you transition?"

Crowley's furrowed brow and distant look grew deeper until he understood the question, "Didn't, not really. I guess just after I left I changed... clothing... preference."

"Oh, okay, so- like you just cross-dress sometimes? Or genderfluid?"

"Fluid, it's the best phrase. Call me Crowley, if you want." He waved his hand in a dysfunctional gesture that Warlock didn't think was decipherable.

They shook their head, "Nanny might take a minute to break, but if you like Crowley I can try. I use they/them these days."

"Nanny works. Still Warlock though?" Crowley tried to miracle at least halfway sober for this conversation.

Warlock was surprised by the lack of reaction, "Yeah, I like Warlock."

"Good choice," He nodded in approval, "What have you been up to?"

"You mean besides photoshopping fake IDs? Not much besides schoolwork and extracurricular activities my Mum forces me to do for college applications." Warlock hesitates for a minute before continuing, "Actually, I've gotten really into history and philosophy. After Brother Francis left Mum couldn't find another gardener that could keep the rosebuds alive. It took me a while to see the metaphor in it, life and death and stuff. But when it clicked, I really started to look around me and think about the world and the people. How we treat each other and stuff."

Crowley took a good long look at the kid, "If you've got enough patience for them, I might have the perfect pair of idiots for you to hang out with."

"Huh?"

"I'd honestly owe you a thousand favors if you can teach them the internet..." He trailed off then focused back to the not-antichrist, "Sorry, just still drunk. I'm glad you've found your passions, Warlock. You should keep learning and thinking, becoming your own. I'm proud of ya, Hellion."

They blinked back sudden tears, "Oh, uh, yeah. Thanks. I should probably go- I mean, my friends might wonder why I disappeared. It was good seeing you, Nanny."

Crowley paused, "Yeah. Ya know, there's a bookshop across the street, lots of books. Historical stuff, philosophical, religious even... Check it out, if you think of it. We might run into each other again."

Warlock nodded, swallowed a sigh of relief, and walked back to their group. They took a mental note to ask Mum if they could get a ride to A. Z. Fell & Co. next time they have a study group. Hopefully, they'll see Nanny again. Crowley sobered himself enough to walk to the bookshop, gave a friendly but lethargic wave to Muriel and Eric as they discussed the cultural significance of burial sites, and set upstairs for a week-long nap.

Chapter Text

In a manner of speaking, it was not unprecedented for a demon and an angel to engage in human ways of courtship.

The real issue was the precedent was rather undefined and officially off the record. So, when Eric was stationed on Earth, more so he wouldn't annoy Shax than an actual promotion, he saw no reason he couldn't chat up the angel currently managing the bookshop. Originally, he went to ask Crowley questions about the mail he kept getting but was quite surprised to meet the squeaky inspector constable named Muriel again. Muriel was a very curious thing and unlike every angel he had encountered. They first crossed paths during the trial of the traitor Aziraphale, where Eric accidentally assumed they were the Archangel Uriel and followed them around for 10 minutes. To Eric's credit, Beelzebub's only instructions were, 'Follow the angel with the dark hair who will meet you at the elevator.' Due to a timing error, Uriel was approximately 5 minutes from the elevator when Muriel walked past, and the doors opened. Eric was too afraid of getting smitten to not immediately chase after the angel. Much to no one's surprise, Muriel was absolutely taken aback to realize a demon was behind them and positively began crying. Eric, who had never had anyone cry in front of him, did the only thing he could do as a demon of his rank: Run back to the elevator, terrified. Once he arrived back, he found a very impatient Uriel tapping her foot, and the rest was history. So, when it was Muriel who answered the door to the bookshop, Eric had to restart his brain. Once he realized he hadn't been evaporated by holy divinity or what have you, he figured he was probably supposed to say something.

"I'm sorry for making you cry."

Muriel, who definitely didn't forget 1 of the 7 interactions she's had with people in all 6,000 years of creation but certainly wasn't expecting an apology, replied promptly, "Happens all the time, no worries."

"Really?" He asked, almost shocked. Surely angels aren't meant to cry like that all the time.

"No," They sighed, "Well, maybe twice. It's a human expression. I've just never had someone apologize to me."

"Oh."

Muriel shifted their weight from foot to foot, "Am I supposed to thwart you? Or should I offer you a cupperty like the humans do?"

Eric considered this, "Well, I can't go in without an invite. I don't actually know about the thwarting bit? I'm just here to stir the pot, or whatever it takes to get me to stop talking. Shax says I'm annoying."

Muriel's eyes sparkled, "People call me annoying too! Mr. Crowley says the humans use it endearingly, but sometimes I think he's trying to spare my feelings. For all his grumpiness, he's really nice but don't tell him that. He gets upset."

"Do you know where he is then? I have questions about these letters I keep getting and Shax said he'd know." He held up the letters in reference and titled his head like a puppy.

"Oh yes, do come in then. He'll be upstairs yelling at the plants around now. You caught him at a good time, he won't leave for the pub in another hour." They opened the door wide and dragged him in by his shirt sleeve.

The bookshop itself looked noticeably better organized than his previous escapade, but in all fairness, his last visit was more in line with a battlefield than simple shopping. Regardless, everything seemed to have a place it belonged, and it lived there proudly. It was much nicer than his barren apartment that he suspected the previous owners hardly lived in, but more breathable than the damp clusterfuck that was Hell. He should consider getting trinkets for the apartment to give a little personality to the space. Maybe he should become a collector of some sort, maybe antique teacups or limited-edition stamps... Or even those silly little human rings that change color based on your mood. He thought those were quite neat. The many repurposed vintage alcohol bottles were a new addition to the shop as well, the detail made something in Eric squirm in panic at the implications. Muriel excused themselves quickly to a room just out of view of where he was placed, not too long after they came back with an empty mug and a bright smile.

"Mr. Crowley will be down in a jiffy. Just had to finish up threatening the bushes, very important business for him. Here," Muriel handed Eric the cup, "A quick cupperty to admire. Normally there's liquid with it but I can't bring myself to consume things quite yet. Crowley said any empty cup is just as good as long as it's enough to look at."

Eric took it gently, a million questions on his tongue, "Why does Crowley yell at bushes?"

"He says they grow better; I think yelling makes him feel better, but he doesn't like to yell at people. Plants are a compromise. Usually, he's less grumpy afterward, until he gets sad and then he goes to the pub. Happens every afternoon, he has a solid routine." They answered matter-of-factly.

"Am I interrupting? Should I leave?" He felt the panic bubble in his throat.

They shook their head, "As long as you're not causing trouble, you'll be fine. If he starts being too grumpy, I make sure he knows you're my friend. He thinks I'm a little naive, but he lets me make my own mistakes. Easy to learn that way. If anything goes wrong and I need help, I'm supposed to ask."

"So, befriending me is a mistake?" Eric didn't really understand how he should feel about that.

"No," They clarified, "But if you become a problem, it's my responsibility to clean up after you."

Eric scoffed, "Like a glorified dog, great."

"Not at all," Muriel's brow furrowed in confusion, "You aren't going to cause problems, so then there's no mess."

He tried his best to glare mischievously, "How would you know?"

Muriel was unphased, "Because you've already tried to prevent causing any, Silly."

"And he won't like what I'd do to him if he tried anything."

Eric glanced towards the very suddenly in the room Crowley. He looked worse for wear, almost like the humans Hell forces to run around in an endless foggy forest while circus music plays. He felt like he should say something... encouraging? Instead, he held up the mail and became uncomfortably aware he was still holding a mug he didn't know what to do with. Crowley sighed and grabbed the mail from him, muttering something about Dragon and her nitpicky ass filing system. As Crowley flipped through the envelopes, Muriel took the cup from Eric and offered him a seat. Eric waited expectantly for any conversation to start up, bouncing his knee in anxiety. Eventually, Crowley said he'd handle it while miracling the letters somewhere decidedly not in the bookshop. Muriel, whose attention went comically rapt, handed Crowley a wristwatch, and like clockwork, the two maneuvered around each other as Crowley went off to the bar. Eric, who was still left sitting felt guiltily out of place. After Crowley had walked out the door, Muriel walked back over with a virtuous amount of hospitality.

"Anything else for you then?" They seemed far too eager to have a demon's company. Then again, one already lived here.

He paused, "Not that I can think of, although, I have an odd question."

"Go on."

"Do you know anywhere I could find trinkets? Or shiny human novelty items?"

Muriel beamed, "Yes, a few actually! I could give you directions or take you myself if you like."

"Showing me would be easier, I don't do well with verbal instructions. But next time, I have some lurking in the darkness I'm supposed to do. Nothing scheduled tomorrow though."

"Sounds like a plan," They nodded solemnly, "Before you go, if that Mona Lisa art is still at the Mayfair apartment would it be possible to ask you to bring it over? Crowley has a soft spot for it, but it wasn't really manageable for car living. I really think he'd like it back."

"Yeah, easily done. I'm not doing much with it anyway."

Soon, Eric was visiting the bookshop near daily as he and Muriel discovered life on Earth together. They went to parks and museums, read books and watched movies, learned to crochet and cook. They even almost adopted a pet, until Crowley regrettably had to inform them that ducks only live ten years. The two did everything they could think of and asked every question they ever had. And Eric very quickly grew a collection of his new favorite thing: Muriel's sketches. And then about 7 months into their friendship, for the first Crowley came home from the bar early. And then he didn't go the next day either. And then a 16-year-old came in asking about philosophy books and Crowley stopped yelling at his plants to say hello. And something in the back of his mind told Eric that things were healing, and something domestic and soft was growing inside that bookshop. And maybe he wouldn't have to worry about Shax for another long while. Then Warlock showed him how to use Google and Eric has never been more invested in anything than Pacman.

Chapter Text

To predict one's future in its entirety with perfect clarity is a gift not given with minor exceptions.

But for Warlock Dowling, to predict the events that brought him here would have been the kind of shot-in-the-dark drunken ring toss game people leave to town legend. In no reasonable way could anyone of sound mind and body be able to fathom such circumstances, except maybe God or perhaps a maddeningly sleep-deprived author. In a short summary, his former nanny and gardener were celestial beings from before the beginning who had a falling out. And now his closest thing to an actual family is a depressed gay demon, a curious angel too naive but observant for their own good, a socially awkward demon with mild kleptomania, and the lesbian shop keeps who pop in every once in a while. Warlock imagines this is like having a single mother with a day-drinking problem, a younger sibling and their boyfriend who basically lives with you, and gay aunts who are really worried about your mom.

Regardless of the insanity of it all, Warlock was doing pretty well, they're the happiest they've been in a while. In fact, the most troublesome thing is Crowley keeps asking if they have any friends their age. They really don't want to disappoint him and admit they really don't, but they think he already knows that. Being lame in front of Crowley felt like a nightmare of getting picked on for the rest of their natural lifespan. They hoped they could get by giving vague and directly dodging responses, but after Nina offered to host a little birthday celebration at the coffee shop, they floundered to change the subject. Eventually, however, their unasked prayers were answered.

It was a quiet day at the bookshop, which was equally typical and foreboding. Every day was quiet until it decidedly wasn't. Muriel and Eric were spending their time learning to build an Ikea tent meant for a child's bedroom, Crowley had left to pick up a few things he said a friend was getting rid of, and Warlock was left to do some music theory homework with Maggie. Before Maggie could get into her speech on Classic verses Romantic composers, a group of teenagers stumbled into the store with a collective giggle. The supposed ringleader of the friends made a straight path to Maggie, he was tall with dirt blond hair that needed a brush and light trim.

He smiled a very charming smile before asking, "Weird question, but do you know where Mr. Fell is? His shop is closed, but there are people in there?"

Maggie paled just a bit, "Mr. Fell no longer runs the shop, unfortunately. He passed on ownership to Mx. Muriel, their friend Eric is probably with them. The shop will probably open back up after Crowley gets back, right Warlock?"

"Crowley said he would be back around 3," Warlock nodded, trying to avoid as much social interaction as possible.

"Where's Mr. Fell then? If not at the shop?" The boy's nose crinkled in confusion.

"He's gone up to heaven, passed on," Maggie sighed. It was the standard response the group came up with, little room for getting caught in a lie and less people brought it up to Crowley afterwards.

The boy snorted, "Why would he do that?"

Maggie and Warlock blinked wide-eyed, the boy seemed to catch himself a second later and gave an awkward but convincing condolences before filtering back to his friends' examining records. The pair brushed it off almost easily, but it wouldn't stop scratching Warlock's brain. Later, a girl wearing a jean jacket with more pins and patches than Crowley has backup sunglasses, brought up a stack of records to buy. Maggie perked up greatly, about to have the best sales she's had all year, but Warlock stayed tucked into the corner. They looked up from their essay to really look at the teens. A crusty kid who looks destined to work in a trade of some kind, a fidgety guy who really wanted to pull at the strings on his nice sweater but settled for reading the posters on the wall, the girl who was very engaged in conversation with Maggie about female artists from the 70's. And that boy with the smile and a save the whales patch on his flannel and loose papers written a million times over spilling out his laptop bag. Something weird briefly crossed Warlock's mind: What if these were the kids from the apocalypse Crowley mentioned? That would be insane...

"Are you guys the Them?' The question left their mouth before they could stop it.

There was silence and the boy Warlock decided must be Adam looked shocked, before the girl who was probably pepper piped up, "Oh my god you saw our TikToks? Guys, I told you we could get internet famous."

And Warlock laughed out a yes like a liar who doesn't even have a TikTok or any social media because his mother wouldn't let him. Adam's eyes didn't leave him as the group either gushed or cringed at getting recognized. Luckily, things calmed as Warlock didn't make a big deal about it and explained they only saw one video, but they have a pretty good memory. The group introduced themselves a little and Warlock seemed to click into their sense of humor. After some banter, the teens had to excuse themselves, explaining their ride needed to pick them up. Warlock understood and said if they're ever in soho again they could let them know if the shop is open.

"How do you guys know Mr. Fell anyways?" They asked.

"Him and Crowley are like Adam's estranged uncles or something," Shrugged Brian after no one responded.

"Oh, cool. I'll let Crowley know you stopped by."

Later, Crowley would bustle in the bookshop with a pile of stuffed animals he immediately handed over to Muriel. Mumbling about some old friends who struggled to move in together during the pandemic and finally got a new place, but Tracey didn't have the room anymore for all these guys. Warlock would mention very nonchalantly about the antichrist looking for Aziraphale and Muriel would shiver at the statement. After getting a very detailed explanation of the events and getting Maggie to confirm there were kids and they were harmless, Crowley let out a long breathe and went to mist the plants. Just then Warlock would get a text from a not-so-unknown number.

Unknown: Hey! This is Adam from the record shop, I got ur number from the phone book. Warlock is a very uncommon name these days lol. Anyway, just wanted to invite you to hang out with us next time we go out of Tadfield. We were talking about heading to the movies next weekend.

Warlock guessed they had friends now.

Chapter Text

The Poets have debated the meaning of life for centuries, but they always acknowledge death through gritted teeth.

If Aziraphale had his way death would be a less heart-wrenching affair, but what was life but a series of pain and love and going through the motions. It was such a human resilience to watch their handmade horrors, bite and claw for survival, and reinvent their efforts. Kindness has an innate ability to burn brightly out of cruelty. Humans shuffle through constant evils and pick the necessary from the unacceptable. And what was Aziraphale if not another wave of influence for humans to overcome or submit to? But who was he to force the limitations of their resilience in the name of a silent God's demand? Is it ignorant to watch history repeat itself and fall in love with its complexities just to erase it because frail yellow pages with faded ink dictated you must? Cease all that is and may become to honor someone you've never seen eye to eye with.

He came here to avoid destruction. He came here to fix the system. He came here to make changes. Make a difference. Make people happy. Stop the fighting. Change their minds. Do good. Be good. Help people. Help humanity. To spread his love of humanity. To spread love. To let Crowley love the way he used to. To love Crowley. To love Crowley freely. To be free. To be whole. To have a home. A cottage. With a library. With a garden. With Crowley. To have Crowley. To have love and home and freedom with Crowley. He came here for Crowley. Where was Crowley? He wasn't here. Why was Aziraphale here again?

"Your thoughts, Supreme Archangel?" Uriel huffed, glaring in disagreement at Micheal.

Aziraphale blinked, "On what?"

"The place of descension. For where Christ will be brought back upon the earth to enact the heavenly rapture." Micheal bared her teeth in irritation.

Descend. Not Fall. He can't fall, more saunter vaguely downwards, as a wily serpent once claimed.

"And our only choices are the Vatican or Bethlehem?" He furrowed his brow in dismay.

Micheal readjusted her posture like a bird ruffling their feathers, "Well, no. But where else?"

Where else? Something sparked in him, something ineffably familiar but still thrilling. A scheme, he was scheming. Perhaps, a different word for it, but all the same he realized his one advantage here. He knew what the Archangels didn't and even better, they don't know what he doesn't.

He realized how tense he was after he let his shoulders drop, "Well, America, of course. It's quite perfect, especially for the apocalypse. To be frank, I was rather confused when the first attempt didn't take place there."

Uriel coughed, "Well, of course, we thought of America first. But it's just such a large area, it was difficult to pick anywhere specific."

"I see," he said solemnly, "Quite the pickle, indeed. Oh! But do you know where would be perfect? New York City, I think Christ would be quite comfortable there. Always a great new construction going on, and he was such a spectacular carpenter back in the day."

"New York it is then," Micheal settled.

The days just kept stretching but time was so thin in Heaven Aziraphale couldn't keep up with the dates anymore. Everything was muddled and sterile and exhausting. It was a rigorous routine of avoiding arguments, finding ways to undermine the second coming, ravaging bouts of homesickness, and staying calm through murderous urges. He had to push through, he had to make it to the end of the week, and then the month, maybe the next year. Just keep pushing through. Maybe he can stop this. Maybe he can help. Maybe he can be happy. Maybe he can be free. Maybe he can be with Crowley. But he won't if he stops, no matter how tired he is.

Chapter Text

The wretched reality of small experiences, good or bad, is they always get lost in the mundane shuffle of life.

Crowley regrettably lived his life focused on the present moment, constantly aware of the world around him and the people. Crowley was an ideas (not)man: Creative, optimistic, and a bleeding-heart antihero who's painfully observant of systematic failings and injustice. He understood Heaven, Hell, and Humanity in ways only 3 to 5 supernatural creatures could on any given day, although those numbers seem on the fence depending on currently developing viewpoints. Regardless, Crowley was never meant to relax past a certain point. Sure, he could get wasted, nap for a century, or even let himself slip into something vaguely domestic when he was with... But he could never be fully calm. He needed some sense of alertness, he needed to be the one ready when shit went awry. And he still is, he can't take the time to slow down just because Muriel finally got sourdough right, or Eric shoplifted a retro Pacman arcade game from the price-gauged diner they all tried last week, or Warlock went out on a date with Adam last week, or Nina and Maggie got a pet cat named Scratch. He could relax when he's dead.

"Hey? Crowley?"

"Yeah, Hellspawn?" Crowley perked up from his cup of espresso.

Warlock didn't make eye contact, they felt dumb for asking, "I kinda want an orange, do you know if we have any?"

"Actually yeah, Muriel bought some to make marmalade. They got a bit excited at the store, should be by the fridge."

Warlock huffed nervously, "Do you mind, like peeling it though? I feel like I always fuck them up when I do."

Crowley paused, contemplative. Then he looked at Warlock much softer than he would admit, "I can teach you how to peel an orange if you want."

Warlock knew that wasn't the reaction they were looking for, but it felt more right somehow. They came looking for confirmation, to prove Crowley cares about them, that Crowley is a safe person. The challenge was about getting him to peel the orange. But Crowley looked at them like a parent should look at their kid and offered to guide them. That was heartbreakingly comforting. They let out a wobbly, "Yes, please."

"C'mon then, I'll show you."

The pair made it into the kitchen and Crowley took a second to criticize the outdated appliances. With a quick gesture, he made sure the oranges would be safe for Warlock to eat because Someone forbid, they get lead poisoning on his watch. It was a mess watching Ludwig suffer through it, but humans can be so stubborn with their heavy metals. Ludwig was such a spitfire too, much too vulgar for... some people's taste, but Crowley enjoyed his antics and even more his politics. Passionate and artistic minds were always a comforting inspiration in the consistency of humans. Crowley loved a good revolutionary, the youth are always good at making the world more livable after the last generation. Speaking of, Warlock handed him an orange and waited patiently with their own in hand.

He rolled it in his hands before speaking, "The fastest way is with a Spanish fruit knife. Do you know how to use one?"

"I didn't know they made knives for fruits," Their cheeks grew red.

Crowley miracled two sleek black knives and handed one to Warlock, "They open like this, you just pull the blade up until it's fully extended. Then you just carefully cut into the flesh, it's real sharp, so barely any pressure, got it?"

"Yeah," It took them about two full oranges before they got the technic down. Once it clicked, they felt a sense of pride wash over themselves. Then a little fear pricked at their chest, "What if I don't have the knife on me?"

"See that little green nub? That's what's left of the stem, you pick this off and you should be able to poke a little hole with your fingernail. Then you can peel from there and pull it in half." After they took the time to get that technique right, the pair celebrated by eating as much of the wasted oranges as possible.

"Who taught you to peel an orange?"

Crowley stilled, "An old friend taught me how to do it with my hands. When they were first in their concept design, they were called moonfruits and they were going to be white. That changed really quickly after we realized most white fruits were poisonous. Plus, there were weird trademark issues with the word moon, the celestial department was very protective over it."

"Was it... He who shall not be referred to?" Warlock knew Crowley wouldn't lash out at them for asking, that didn't make them feel any less guilty for pushing.

"No, a different angel I'm not on speaking terms with," His voice was tight and deflective but not harsh or sarcastic.

"Who taught you how to use the knife then?"

"Da Vinci, actually. but he was using a chisel at the time, these knives weren't invented until long after his time." Crowley let out a fond sigh, Leonardo and he were a great pair of troublemakers. He was surprised the menace wasn't of demonic stock, but he wouldn't have had half the brains if he was.

"Sounds exciting." Warlock gave a deep chuckle at Crowley's soft smile.

He scoffed, pushing his glasses further up his face, "Eh, been around long enough to know extraordinary people aren't as rare as you think. Most of them were just regular fools with less impulse control or a plain disregard for the consequences."

"Like Muriel? And Nina? And Adam?"

"You're forgetting Maggie and Eric. You too, Hellspawn. You've all got..." Crowley let out a shaky breath as a devastating realization crashed into him, "Something worth remembering. Something worth keeping."

Nothing lasts forever.

Warlock got wide-eyed, "Oh, that's... really nice of you."

Nothing lasts forever.

"Not nice, brutally honest." He huffed out distractedly.

Nothing lasts forever.

"Thank you for the oranges."

This won't last forever.

"It means a lot."

This won't last forever.

"Not to be sappy and shit-"

You could lose this forever.

"But you're like the only person to do stuff like this for me."

You will lose all of this forever.

"I really missed you, Nanny."

Why aren't you savoring this while you have it?

"I love you too, Hellspawn."

And if they both broke down crying, who would be able to witness it? And if they held each other until the tears passed, who would know to judge them? And if they felt so much lighter after, who would be there to stop them? And if Crowley went to visit Scratch why would anyone question his sudden interest? And if Crowley miracled the arcade machine to have unlimited levels why would anyone wonder his reasons? And if Crowley ate Muriel's experiments because it makes her happier than if she ate it herself why would anyone care to notice? And if Crowley hissed at Adam in warning of breaking Warlock's heart why would anyone stop him? Maybe he's allowed to slow down. Maybe he can just be here with them and let it be what it is.