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Aziraphale doesn't need to do the mental math. He's already been obsessively keeping track of the days in his mind since that night. He tells himself it's fine. There's absolutely no reason to worry. Crowley could have slept with someone else since then. It might not be his.
It probably isn't his. Is it? Does he want it to be? Before he can silence it, something inside him answers: yes.
But he's getting ahead of himself again. There might not even be a child. He scolds himself, knowing it's wrong to ask if someone is pregnant just because they've put on some weight in their midsection. A lot of weight, in the shape of a baby. And usually, in these awkward social situations, the parties are clothed.
When you're naked, there's so little to hide behind. And Crowley is still rail thin everywhere else. But that doesn't mean anything.
He needs to talk to them. Aziraphale has needed to talk to Crowley since their one night stand, has wanted to talk to them since then. There's been much more on his mind than talking, in fact, but right now a conversation seems prudent.
Unfortunately, sitting as nude models for an art class is hardly a good time for a discussion, and he has no choice but to wait and fret.
It feels as though he's thought of little else but Crowley since that night. The way it felt to hold her and how comfortable he'd felt with them has always been in the back of his mind. Sitting so close to her and not being able to move or speak is proving quite difficult. As much as he's been trying to talk himself out of it, he feels the connection between them even stronger now than last time they met.
Trying not to stare, he darts his eyes toward Crowley whenever he can, assessing, observing. When he's not looking at her, he can feel her glancing at him as well.
It will have to wait. He's a professional, and so is Crowley. Nude modeling for art classes like these pays well and Aziraphale enjoys how meditative they can be, but that's not the case today, not for him. His mind is racing non-stop with worries and questions, all of which will have to wait.
Aziraphale can wait. He waits until they've both dressed and are on their way out of the building. They're almost out the door when he runs to catch up to them.
"Crowley," he starts, fiddling with one of the buttons on his jacket. "I've been wondering, you see, if, perhaps--"
He's planning to ask her to go somewhere to talk, but the first place he thinks of is the pub. It wouldn't do to ask a potentially pregnant person out for a drink. He racks his brain for another option. Dinner is too formal, too much like a date. If it's someone else's baby, someone they're dating, Aziraphale cannot ask them on a date.
He's stuck, doesn't know how to finish his sentence. Luckily, he doesn't have to.
"There's a little cafe," she says, "on the corner. We can talk."
She starts walking, so Aziraphale follows, trying not to let all of his questions burst out before they even get there.
Until now, Aziraphale had been nearly ready to give up on ever seeing Crowley again. He achieved his original goals long ago, to make some quick money for a first edition novel he wanted, and to get more comfortable with his body. He would have quit modeling weeks ago if not for the seed of hope that had been planted, the idea that he might see her again, might have a second chance at happiness.
They'd been together only one night, after sitting for a class together, and he hadn't seen them since.
He got himself tested afterwards, not because he didn't trust Crowley when they said they were clean, but because he was worried he could have unknowingly given a disease to them. Even though it made no sense, even though he hadn't had sex since the last time he'd been tested, he still got tested afterwards, to be sure he didn't pass anything on to Crowley.
The walk to the cafe is short, and when they enter, a bell dings above the door. They seat themselves at a table in the back.
Aziraphale sits down across from her and folds his arms in front of himself on the table. He waits for them to speak. It doesn't take long.
"I'm fine being a single parent. You don't have to be involved."
Faced with these simple statements, his brain stalls. Aziraphale presses the clutch in his mind and tries starting it again. It roars back to life when the server comes to the table. He orders the special, not caring what it is. The only thing that matters is what Crowley has just said.
Now he knows two things: it's real, and it's his. Aziraphale needs to sit down. Nevermind the fact that he's already sitting. He can hardly feel his legs.
"So there is a baby? And you're--I don't mean to be indelicate, but you're sure it's--you're certain I'm the father?"
"Yes, Angel. There's been no one else."
The term of endearment almost has him speechless.
"No one?"
He finds that hard to believe. Crowley is so fetching, so stunning, how is it even remotely possible they're single?
Sure, this new development complicates things, no doubt about that. But the fact that Crowley isn't seeing anyone else makes his heart race. He has a chance.
"No one else for years. But like I said, I'm willing to raise this child on my own. Don't feel like you have to, you know, do anything or be involved. You're not obligated."
It's easy to see, especially now, how strong Crowley has had to be for her entire life, how independent, how self-sufficient. That strength is beautiful, but he knows it formed in pain, not because they've told him but because he can relate.
"And if I want to be? Be involved, I mean."
"If you--"
Aziraphale reaches out to take her hand when it starts to gesture wildly. He brings it down to rest on the table and brushes his thumb over their knuckles.
"Let me start again. Crowley, I want to be involved. If you'll let me. As much as you'll let me."
He hopes, he prays, she will let him.
Her face goes through several emotions, and Aziraphale can't pinpoint them all. The way her eyes soften, though, that stays with him. Their muscles relax and Crowley takes a sip of water, perhaps to give themself a second to think.
She smiles. It's a smile that pierces something inside him. Warmth pours from the wound and travels throughout his entire body.
It's funny how he can almost see the pieces of a whole new future slotting together before his eyes as he looks at that smile. He can almost hear a child's laughter.
It's the first time he's ever thought about having children, honestly. He never thought he would want to. No, that isn't right. He never thought he would get to, and would rather avoid the disappointment of having wanted it in the first place. No one else has expected that for him, so he hasn't either.
"I knew you'd want to. I knew you'd love her," they say, so quietly he isn't certain he's heard it right.
"Her?"
They place their hand on their belly, then, smiling wider. He wants to feel it too, confirm what his eyes see, find out if she'll kick. But he can wait.
"Yeah. For now, at least. Until she can choose for herself," they say, chuckling a little at the end of the sentence, even though it's not meant to be funny. He gets the sense they do that a lot, a way of showing they're keeping things casual.
He decides he loves that about her, that little laugh. It's alright to love things about her. He doesn't think it would be proper to love them, not so soon, but he can love things about them.
It's silly, really, the distinction, as though he can't be caught believing in love at first sight. Love at first sight is for other people, for fictional stories.
But maybe, just once, he can allow something nice to be for him and not worry about losing it.
Hadn't that been what he was thinking, months ago, when he laid eyes on her for the first time? He remembers how furiously his heart was pumping in his chest when he first walked over and asked them for a drink.
There had been no hope of her saying yes, but he hadn't been able to let them walk away. Not after the coy way she kept flicking her eyes in his direction as they stood, unmoving, in the center of the room.
They're watching him now, waiting for him to say something, and he's been so lost in his thoughts he's forgotten what they said. The gender, yes, that's it.
He wants to smile, to reassure them he agrees, but he realizes he already is. His cheeks hurt a little from smiling so much, if he's honest. Their hands are still touching, so he squeezes.
Despite everything he's feeling, he still has questions.
"You said--well, you implied--I mean, how did this happen? Not that I'm upset. I'm not upset. But I thought you were on something to prevent this?"
There's that laugh again, and he worries he's made her uncomfortable. Her hand moves, and, afraid she might pull it away, he takes her hand with both of his, the second rising up to reinforce the one already there.
"Not exactly. Well, I was told I'd never be able to have children, actually. Several doctors have said. So I thought there was no way. And I--"
"You had to keep it, then, of course."
He understands the need to take a chance on something that had previously seemed impossible.
"Yes. Even if I had no way to find you, no way to tell you. I hoped I would, though. Find you, I mean. I’ve been so busy lately, appointments and all that."
"I've been looking for you. I should have given you my phone number."
"To be fair, I left before you woke up."
"That reminds me," he says, tugging a hair tie from his wrist, where it has lived since he found it under the bed. "This is yours."
He's sitting there, holding the ring of elastic uselessly out to them when their food arrives. Forced to move his arms out of the way so the plates can be set out, he slides it back on his wrist for safe keeping.
When the server has left, Crowley speaks first.
"How involved would you like to be, do you think? Weekends? Equal co-parents? Or?"
Aziraphale takes a deep breath, steadies himself for the possibility of rejection.
"I was rather hoping you might, I don't know, be open to dating me? If it works out--no pressure, of course--well, we could do it together? As a couple? Or, if it doesn't work between us, then I would know I tried? If, if it doesn't or you don't want to then it's like I said. I'll take anything you'll give me. Equal co-parents, I suppose, if you're offering."
He stops and stares at his plate of food, concerned he's rambled too much. Even though he's not hungry, he reaches for his fork.
"I'd like that," Crowley says, and touches his wrist with her slender fingers. They brush over the elastic. "As for this, keep it at your place for me. In case I need one next time I'm there."