Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Beelzebub. Beez. Wake up. It is…7 am. The campers are going to get here soon, we need to set up.”

Beelzebub groans and rolls over, facing away from the voice.

“Five more minutes.” They slur, suspended in the grey area between consciousness and sleep.

They can practically hear their best friend roll his eyes.

“No, Bee. Now. We’re the head councillors now, we have to be responsible.”

Oh, no no no. It is FAR too early for that lecture. Beelzebub reaches a hand out, eyes still closed, and fumbles blindly until they find one of their throw cushions.

They then chuck that cushion in the direction of the voice.

Thud!

“Ow! Oh, very mature..Look, if you get up now I’ll help you clean the canteen after lunch. I know you hate that job.”

Beelzebub considers the offer. Cleaning the canteen is the most monotonous, soul sucking responsibility the councillors have. Endless sweeping and scrubbing, and some kid always manages to get food stains on the wall. They roll over onto their back and glance up at the boy standing next to their bed, arms crossed. It’d be almost intimidating if he didn’t look like a human cotton ball.

“Deal. I’ll be through in a few.”

Aziraphale nods. “Finally. Honestly, you need to get an alarm.”

“Alarms are for the weak.”

“…I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

Beelzebub yawns as they leave their room, scraping their hair back into a stubby ponytail. “It’s way too hot to have hair on my neck.” They mutter as they shuffle into the kitchen, grabbing two waffles from a pack on the counter and putting them into the toaster.

“You could always cut it all off again. Remember that?”

They hop up on to the counter, ignoring Aziraphales protests about hygiene, and sit swinging their legs over the ledge.

“How could I forget? It took more than a year to grow back. Can’t believe you did that to me.”

“I didn’t do anything! Don’t you dare blame me. You got sick of your hair getting tangled when you were in the sports area all day, and cut it off in the middle of the night. You asked me to help clean it up because you couldn’t see the back of your head.”

“And you managed to muck it up even more. I barely had any hair left! How old were we then? Thirteen, fourteen?”

“Hm. Thirteen, I believe. It was the same year Anathema almost shot Newt when he ran across the archery range, right?”

Beelzebub nods. Good times. Good times.

“Are you sure you don’t want a crepe?” Aziraphale asks from where he’s hovering over the stove, carefully spreading batter into an even layer.

“Absolutely not. Waffles are superior in every way. Crepes are just…pretentious pancakes. No substance.”

“Maybe you’re just not refined enough to appreciate them.”

“Maybe you should shut the fuck up.”

“Point proven! Also - you first.”

This is an argument they’d been having since they met. Waffles VS Crepes, a never ending battle. Eventually they had given up trying to actually change Aziraphales mind, but they still brought it up any chance they got, just to mess with him.

“When are the others getting here?” They ask as they drizzle their now toasted waffles with honey and take a bite. As head councillors, they’d been allowed to come a day early to help set up and settle into their new rooms. Campers share cabins, and the Councillors share a larger one, but most still share rooms. Not the head councillors though. They each get their own, smaller room. One of the privileges that comes with the new responsibilities.

“Anathema should be any time now, and Newt and the rest are on the coach with the rest of the campers. Not a clue how Hastur and Shax are getting here, don’t make a point of catching up with them.”

Ha! For as perfect and polite as Aziraphale seems from the outside, he’s always had a bitchy streak in him. Even when they were kids.

“Oh! And those two new Councillors are coming too. Gabriel Archer and Anthony J Crowley. Brothers. Half brothers, I’m assuming from the names.”

Beelzebubs mood instantly sours. Right. They’d forgotten The Sergeant had accepted two new councillors, to fill in for the gap they’d left behind when they’d been promoted to heads.

Now, they’re not super with people, let alone new people, at the best of times. They’re both introverts, but out of the pair of them, Aziraphale is the people person. But that’s not why they’re worried. No, it’s much more dire (when did that become part of their vocabulary? Aziraphale is a bad influence, clearly.) than that.

They haven’t saved up enough to move out yet - though if they manage to get into the same Uni as Aziraphale this September (results day is a couple days after camp ends so fingers crossed) they’re planning to take advantage of the opportunity to get a dorm on campus. They’ve been dealing with him every summer for seven years, so it’s better than having to live with a stranger - so Camp is the one time of year they get to be away from home. Essentially, the only time of year they get to really be happy.

It’s like that corny romcom series Maggie made the councillors watch last year, huddled around the little TV in the councillors building. They’re pretty sure ‘Summer’ was in the title, actually…Oh. That’s it. ‘The summer I turned pretty.’ It had been far too mushy for their tastes, and they’d never understood the appeal of love triangle stories. One is usually a much better option than the other, and for some reason they’re never the one who gets picked!

But there was a quote that struck a cord with them. “For me, it was almost like winter didn’t count. Summer was what mattered. My whole life was measured in summers. Like I don’t really begin living until June.” They don’t remember the names of the characters. The girl was named after a body part and one of the boys was named…Conan? Maybe? But that line stuck with them.

Regardless.

They know they’re probably overreacting, but hey, when have they not? Their short fuse is infamous at camp. They just don’t want these new councillors to come along and muck everything up. All the other councillors have been coming here since they were kids, most not every year like them and A, but at least a few.

Putting people who’ve never been to camp, who don’t know the first thing about the not-so-secret-last-night-bash or the ghost of Cabin 3, in a position of power feels wrong. Like they’ve not earned it.

As much as they hate to admit it, Beelzebub cares about this place. They care about the memories it’s given them, and the campers they’ve grown up around, and the other councillors, their ‘brothers in arms’ as Sergeant Shadwell calls them. They can’t let people who don’t give a shit about this place - probably just in it for something to put on their University applications - mess up the one good thing they have going for them.

“Beez.”

“Huh?”

“We need to go set up.”

Beelzebub smiles and slides from the counter, oversized purple camp t-shirt catching on one of the drawer handles.

Time to get this show on the road.

Chapter Text

The coach is too hot. And crowded. And loud. He can still hear conversations over Bohemian Rhapsody.

The people sitting in front of them, a couple he thinks - haven’t shut up the whole drive.

“Beez just texted the group chat. They’re all set up, and they planned the itinerary last night so all we have to do is get briefed and get going.”

“Wow. So those two can be organised.”

“I’m pretty sure Camp is the only thing they care about enough to organise for. Bet both of their rooms are a mess though.”

“Oh, obviously.” They both snicker.

Crowley turns the volume all the way up. He’s sat at the front of the coach with the other councillors, but he’s yet to talk to any of them. He’s not sure what his mother was going for, sending him here. Something about teamwork and bonding?

Gabriel has no such problems, and is enthusiastically chattering away to a thoroughly unimpressed pair of girls about…something. He’s not paying attention.

He knows Gabriel is his brother. That they’re family. And that, according to their mother, family is supposed to look out for each other. Support each other. But if he’s being honest, his pet snake is more family to him than Gabriel is.

Their mother had him just under a year after Gabriel, and raised them mostly on her own. Money was never really an issue, but she was always working. They were left to their own devices a lot of the time. That didn’t go well. Something about the two boys personalities just didn’t…click. Like two north ends of a magnet, repellent. It only got worse with time. That’s why, when their mother moved back to America for work, taking Gabriel with her, he decided to stay behind. Moved up to Scotland to live with his dad. He had only ever seen the man during holidays before, so they were practically strangers, but better a stranger than someone he physically could not stand.

At least he thought.

Whatever. Not time to think about that now. Remember what Doctor Terry said. Anyway, they moved back. And he started living with them again. It sucked, having to deal with Gabriel, but it was better than Scotland. That’s all that matters. They’ve learned to ignore eachother. Mostly.

Eventually - mercifully -  the coach rolls to a stop.

Crowley goes to stand up, but unfortunately, there is a stupid tall manchild in his way still sat cheerily talking to the girls, who themselves are now getting up to leave.

“Gabriel, move.”

Gabriel smiles in a way that reeks of condescension. “I believe you’re missing something.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right. Gabriel, move your sorry ass before I make you.”

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Threatening me already? Isn’t that the entire reason mother sent us here in the first place?”

“What mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” Crowley grumbles as he elbows past his brother.

“Did you pick up your father’s temper while you were living with him?” Gabriel asks, following him. Oh, no. Fuck. No.

Crowley whips around sharply and hisses “At least my father is still alive.”

Gabriel narrows his eyes. “At least mine wanted me-“

Crowley lashes out. He doesn’t mean to. But something overcomes him, as it typically does in these situations, and he can’t help himself. He shoves Gabriel. Hard.

Thud!

Chatter explodes through the coach, people pausing on the steps out to see what just happened.

“Agh! What is wrong with you?” Gabriel says, pushing himself up from the seats he was shoved backwards into.

“If you say that again I’ll knock your teeth out.”

“You do realise you just proved my point, right?” He says with a saccharinely sincere voice. Holier than thou prat.

Suddenly, Crowley feels a tug on his sleeve. The couple from earlier are standing at the door to the coach, directing the campers out, but standing in front of him are two girls. The one Gabriel was talking at. One wears dreads and looks completely sick of…well, life in general. The other is blonde. Softer looking.

“Look. I don’t know what that was about, but I’d strongly advise not pulling that shit around the kids again,” the girl with dreadlocks says drily. “You’re the new councillors, right? Your whole job is to be good influences.”

“Exactly.” The blonde girl interjects. “Besides, it’s really more for your own sakes. You don’t want to make a bad impression on the owner, obviously.”

“Or Zira and Beez.” The darker haired girl mutters. She turns to the blonde girl and places a hand on her shoulder. Crowley can’t help but notice that the blonde girls face flushes a little. “C’mon Maggie. If we don’t get to the stage soon we’ll be the ones upsetting thing 1 and thing 2.”

“Nina! How many times? Stop calling them that.”

“Oh, come off it. It’s funny! I’m being funny!”

Okay, noted. Nina and Maggie.

He and Gabriel are the last ones left on the coach. How unfortunate.

The girls were right though, they’re being forced to spend almost their entire summer here, it’s not a good idea to upset the people in charge. Resigning himself to his fate, Crowley grabs his duffle bag and swaggers off the coach, tucking flyaways that escaped his bum behind his ears in the warm wind.

People seem to be gathering around a stage in the centre of the circle of cabins. Weaving his way through the crowd to the front he sees the couple from earlier, apparently a witchy looking girl and a boy with messy hair and glasses, plus the girls - Nina and Maggie - ascending the stairs to join a pair that seemed to have been waiting for them. The shorter one seems to have snatched a megaphone from the tallers hands, and he is currently attempting to get it back from them. It doesn’t seem to be going very well for him, his friend dodging under his arm as if they can predict his movements.

He can just hear the witchy girl over the bustling of the crowd. She has an American accent, he didn’t realise before. He hopes she’s more tolerable than Gabriel. “Aziraphale, why on earth did you think it was a good idea to give Beelzebub a megaphone?”

Aziraphale and Beelzebub. Those must be the ‘Zira and Beez’ the others mentioned on the coach. Why would he not want to get on their bad side? The blonde one is very pretty, but neither of them is really intimidating.

“I did not give them the megaphone! They took it!”

Beelzebub smirks, evidently very proud of themself. “And you’re too much of a wuss to get it back.”

The blonde rolls his eyes, and Crowley can’t help but notice what a startling shade of blue they are.

Aziraphale seems to give up on his attempts to retrieve the stolen speaker and simply nods at his friend. They look almost comical standing side by side. One tall, round, and as pale as snow, the other short, athletic and with hair and eyes like coal. He’s not sure why, but he doesn’t like the short one. Just a hunch.

They switch on the megaphone and a screech of feedback rings out, silencing the crowd.

“Oops. Well, that’s one way to shut you all up.” They say. Aziraphale nudges their arm sharply and raises his eyebrows.

“Oh, come on. They know what I’m like by now. Isn’t that right, maggot- I mean campers?”

Most of the campers - especially the older ones - laugh.

“Now, for the uninitiated - hi. I’m Beelzebub and this is Aziraphale. We’re your head councillors.” So that’s why they’re important. “Yes, us. The ones who got stuck up a tree for a whole day when we were fifteen. New people, don’t ask, it’s a long story. Not our proudest moment, I’ll admit.”

More laughs. It’s strange, he thinks as he looks around, at the campers around him. These people are so…happy. Just to be here. The councillors especially. They all seem so comfortable around eachother. His mother always tells him the people you grow up with know you the best. It certainly wasn’t true for him, but maybe for them it was.

Aziraphale manages to grab the megaphone while Beelzebub is distracted pointing the other councillors to a bag in the back corner of the stage.

“Anyway,” he says, ignoring their indignant scoff, “in addition to us, the other councillors here are Maggie, Nina, Anathema and Newt, who are on stage with us,” Witchy girl and glasses boy. Got it. “Plus Shax, Uriel and Hastur, who are…where are you?”

Three people push through the crowd. A hulking boy with what looks like a straw blonde mop on his head, a girl that looks like she just walked out of the 1950s, and, looking very out of place among the other two, a person with cropped dark coils and impeccable posture. They can’t have been more than 5’9 but they looked taller when compared to the others on stage, all with shoulders relaxed and posture slouched, like normal people.

“Oh! And we also have two new councillors joining us. Gabriel, Anthony?”

Oh. Shit. That’s him.

Crowley shuffles onto the stage, overtaken quickly by Gabriel who bounds over and - he shits you not - attempts to grab the megaphone, claiming that he wants to introduce himself properly. Beelzebub smacks his hand away with a glare, muttering something about not being entitled to everything.

He takes back his hunch, maybe he will get along with this one.

The four he met (well, kind of) on the coach return and hand out clipboards to the rest.

“So! Here’s what’s happening today. We’re going to announce cabins, unpack, and meet in the canteen for lunch. There you can write your names on the signup sheets for todays activities, or if you prefer, just relax for today. It’s been a long trip for some of you.”

Crowley doesn’t catch the rest of what Aziraphale says, but he knows he has a very soothing voice. Posh. He must be from London. He tilts his head and squints. Under the sunlight, the boy looks suspiciously like an angel.

The canteen is hot. And crowded. And loud. But oddly enough, it makes it feel more cozy than stifling. The cabin felt a similar way, though he’s being made to share a room with his brother. He half suspects his mother specifically requested that, maybe thinking forced proximity would help ‘heal the rift’.

Kids sit around circular tables, eating soup and sandwiches. He overhears snapshots of conversations as he passes. Most excited about the activities. Archery. Art. Music. The sports hall, which his mother told Gabriel was exemplary. Some mention events. The talent show, sports day, a sleepover. And some, that he listens to more keenly, whisper about the councillors. Glancing conspiratorially at the larger table they sit at. Kids go over to them occasionally to ask questions.

“So the girl that looks like a witch,” He knew it wasn’t just him that thought that! “Is going out with the boy in glasses, right?”

“Anathema and Newt. Yeah.”

“And Nina and…Maggie, was it?”

“Oh, they’re not a thing…yet. We’re all waiting on it though. Those two have been pining for years, but Nina got a girlfriend last summer because she thought Maggie wasn’t interested. Broke up though. Lindsay was a right piece of work.”

“The others?”

“Hastur has a long distance boyfriend, I think. Some bloke named Ligur he’s always blabbing about. Shax has had at least three separate relationships in the years she’s been here, pretty sure there were two within a summer once. That was awkward. Uriel doesn’t seem interested in any of that. They’re the straight man of the group I think - metaphorically of course.”

“What about the other two?”

“Oh, neither of them are seeing anyone.”

“Really?”

“I mean, yeah, I wouldn’t lie. Why?”

“Okay, pardon my French…FUCKING LOOK AT THEM. You’re telling me no one’s interested in those two?”

“Oh, plenty of people are interested in them. Neither of them really seems fussed though. Aziraphale kissed a dude in spin the bottle once. Think he fancied him. But he didn’t come back the next year so nothing ever happened.”

Oh. Well. That’s…interesting. Definitely not saving that information for later.

He reaches the councillors table. There’s one seat left for him. Between - Joy! - Aziraphale, and - Ugh. - Gabriel.

He slides into his seat begrudgingly.

Aziraphale has already finished his food, and is holding a clipboard up to the others, explaining the plan for the afternoon. He assigns them to specific activities.

Beelzebub is on archery, ‘obviously’ according to everyone else. Gabriel asks if he can help with that too, but Crowley sees Aziraphale glance in Beelzebubs direction, the two seemingly communicating non-verbally. He then tells Gabriel that he’d rather keep the new councillors close by, and that Anathema will be the second archery monitor.

Nina, Shax and Hastur get sports hall duty. They all silently cheer, apparently having one of the easiest assignments.

Maggie, Uriel and Gabriel are told to stay in ‘the circle’ and look out for the kids that choose to not do any activities this afternoon.

And him?

“Anthony,” Aziraphale begins.

“Call me Crowley. ‘Don’t really like my first name. Got some bad memories, is all.” He interjects.

Most of the others just nod, but Beelzebub has the slightest hint of a smile. A little sad. He can tell it means ‘me too’. Once again, his hunch seems to be incorrect. They actually seem pretty chill. And Aziraphale seems to like them, which for some reason - despite just having met the boy and having had maybe two conversations while unpacking and waiting in line for lunch - indicates to Crowley that they’re trustworthy.

“Oh, terribly sorry dear.” Dear? He sounds ancient, but somehow it still makes a heat rise in his cheeks. “Crowley, I saw on your application that you’re artistic. You’ll be with me, supervising the art session in the centre of the circle. We can work on projects ourselves, since the artsy types are usually quite subdued when they’re at work.”

…Huh. Okay. Great. Cool. ‘Ts not a big deal. That’s fine. Time with the boy that he already feels himself going insane around. In the quiet. Doing art. Like in some sort of poem…Does Aziraphale like poetry? He seems like the type to. He caught a glimpse of the head councillors rooms as he passed in the cabin. They both had books everywhere, but out of the two titles he had seen on the coffee table in the main room, ‘Emma’ and ‘Frankenstein’, he was pretty sure he could figure out what each of their tastes were. He could be wrong though, ‘never judge a book by its cover’ as they say.

Funny, he thinks, as they finish up lunch. He’s been here no more than a couple hours, and he’s already starting to feel more positive about this summer. Not about his mother’s goal of fixing his relationship with his brother, of course, he’s quite sure nothing could do that. But having a good summer? Well, that seems more than on the cards. God (or maybe Godiva. His mother’s name.) works in mysterious ways, apparently.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale Prince likes to think that he’s a responsible person. He looks after himself well, and he manages to bully convince Beelzebub into getting out of bed every day even when he’s miles away. Simply call them at least five times and they’ll get so agitated they throw their phone across their room, thus forcing them to get out of bed to retrieve it. It’s a wonder they don’t just turn their phone on silent; they’re supposed to be the logical one in their friendship. He suspects they appreciate the help, really.

He was completely prepared for his new responsibilities this summer.

What he was not prepared for was one of the new councillors to be distractingly pretty.

He keeps glancing up at him as he works on his sketch, leaning back on the great oak tree in the middle of the circle. When he next looks down, he realises that - whoops - he’s started drawing him.  There’s no way to deny it. The curve of his jawline, the way his hair falls. Definitely him. Shit. He’d been meaning to draw a generic figure, practicing his facial proportions.

“Is that me?” Crowley is suddenly hovering over his shoulder.

“Oh! Uh. I-“ well, no use trying to deny it. Maybe just…sugar coat the truth. “Yes. It’s just that you have a very…interesting face. To draw. Lots of angles.”

Crowley grins. “Ah, well, I’d be happy to model for you, if you’d like. You were right, these kids don’t need much help. They’re doing great. That one over there, with the curls. They’re a very talented sculptor. Shy, though. Very jumpy. Have they got some…issues?”

He briefly ignores the model comment and looks over to where Crowley motioned to. Ah. Muriel. They’re sixteen, joined when they were eleven and came every year since, just like he and Beez had. They reminded him a lot of himself when he had first came to camp, so he’s always looked out for them. Crowley is right. Despite being one of the clumsiest people he’s ever known, they have a steady hand when they need to, and can focus so intently it seems like they’re not even breathing.

“That’s Muriel. Yes, though they’ve not been diagnosed with anything. Their parents don’t believe in diagnoses like that. Madam Tracy has sessions with them while they’re here though, which seems to help.”

Crowley’s eyes narrow. “What, they won’t even consider it? Not even if it will help them?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Unfortunately not. Bee once got in trouble for chewing them out over the phone when they tried to call Muriel after they’d had a panic attack a couple years back. Told them they were unfit parents. We talked to them later, and Shadwell and Tracy agreed with us, but apparently Muriel’s parents are ‘influential’ and it would have put the camp at risk if they weren’t reprimanded.”

Crowley smiles at him again. Interesting, his smile is crooked, the left corner of his lip twitching upwards first. Maybe he should add that to his drawing.

“You guys really care about this place, don’t you?”

…Usually Aziraphale doesn’t like talking about this. The other councillors know, but he’s known them for years, and even then only Beelzebub really knows the whole story. It’s always been their little secret. An ‘I won’t tell yours if you don’t tell mine’ situation. But for some absurd reason, he feels like he can trust Crowley. Almost as if he’s known him his whole life. Or maybe a different life.

God, Bee’s right, he reads too much Jane Austen.

Regardless, it may be nice to share with someone. He keeps so much bottled up.

“Neither of us are very happy at home right now. I can’t speak for Beez, that’s their story to tell, but as for me…My family are very religious. I was always very religious too. But when I started realising I liked boys, things went downhill. I think my first crush was on one of the paintings of Jesus at church - I’ve always liked boys with long hair - I made the mistake of saying something about it once. I was little, I didn’t know they’d react the way they did.”

Wait. SHIT. Should not have said that. Is Crowley tucking a strand of hair behind his ear because of that comment? No. He must be imagining things.

Crowley, thankfully, ignores the part about him liking long hair, instead asking “And have they…made things difficult for you?”

Aziraphale looks down. “Yes. I think they’ve always suspected something, even before I knew myself. They’ve tried a lot of things. Sent me to the ‘church therapist’, put me into sports, everything. When I was eleven they decided to send me to a camp for the summer.”

“But this place obviously isn’t the kind of camp they were talking about…”

Aziraphale shrugs. “They don’t know that. I’d heard of this place from school, and I managed to edit a leaflet together one night while they were asleep. Slipped it into the shelf of pamphlets at the back of church the next morning. They fell for it hook line and sinker.”

Crowley smirks. “Well, well, well. Not as much of an angel as you seem after all.”

Angel? Crowley thought he was an angel? No. No. No. Stop it Aziraphale. You’re overthinking things again. Just…keep talking.

“Well, anyway, I ended up here. They’re so proud of me, you know. At church they hold me up as some great success story of the miracles of ‘correctional treatment’. I actually hated myself at first. For lying to them. To God. I started trying to actually do as they asked, and pushed those parts of myself down. I got close to admitting what I had done, letting them switch me to a real conversion camp.”

Sensing his shift in tone, Crowley’s eyebrows furrow. He cautiously reaches out for his hand, a show of support, before flinching back, probably thinking he would be overstepping. Aziraphale takes the hand back.

“I think what really snapped me out of it, in the end, was Beez coming out themself. We were fourteen. They seemed so…scared. To tell me. They thought, after everything I had told them over the years, about my family and my church, that I might hate them. And I realised that that was the exact kind of fear I’d been holding on to. And I realised that I never wanted to make someone I care about so much feel that way, and that I didn’t deserve to feel that way myself. So I decided to tell them the truth too. It was…a lot. So many tears. We were snotty, splotchy messes.”

It’s a bittersweet memory for Aziraphale. It brought everything he’d convinced himself of crashing down, but it started him on a path so much better than he would have thought possible before. He should probably lighten the mood.

“Don’t ask them about that though, they have a reputation to maintain and if they know I told you that story they may kill me.”

“Noted.” Crowley squeezes his hand. “You’re brave, you know? I’ve been through something…similar, recently. Problems with a parent, big ones. I’d never have had the balls to do everything you’ve done. You’re doing good work here, too. Everyone seems so happy. And they seem to like you so much.”

Aziraphale glows with pride, mood instantly lifted at the praise. “That’s all I want, really. For this place to make other people as happy as it’s made me.”

“Well, you’ve certainly made my…roughly three hours here better.”

He attempts to hide the heat that rises in his cheeks, but realises it’s a lost cause. Really, this isn’t a good idea. He knows that. The last time he let himself get involved with a boy at camp, he was strung along for a summer, then ditched when September rolled around. Blocked. The boy never to be heard from again. (By him at least. He doesn’t know this, but Beelzebub, Anathema and Nina found the boys number and started signing him up for scammy websites as revenge. That boy has still not found a way to unsubscribe himself from the Scientology newsletter. In their defence they had been fifteen, and had been telling Aziraphale all along that the boy was bad news. It was their right to enact vengeance on a no-good playboy, correct?) But it couldn’t hurt to make a friend, right?

“All in a days work, my dear. Now: Could you sit still for me? Turn your head to the right, I need to get a look at your side profile.”

Crowley laughs and obliges. “As you wish, Angel.”

Chapter Text

It’s been a couple days, and Gabriel thinks he’s settling in well. Of course, he’d rather not have to share a room with his beastly brother, but you win some, you lose some, as they say.

He walks into the living area of the councillors cabin to find an already familiar scene of the other councillors gathered around the kitchen table where the plan for the day has been layed out. He’s finally being allowed to help in an area that isn’t within the circle, which is great. He’s running a game of capture the flag with Beelzebub. They glare at him, and then at Aziraphale, who shrugs and mouths something he can’t quite catch. Anyway. The further he can get away from his brother, the better. That’s why he moved to America with his mother in the first place.

Aziraphale allocates the other assignments and the group head off to prepare.

As they walk, Beelzebub mutters the instructions to their assignment. They set up for the game and act as the team captains. He feels almost bad for them. They can’t be taller than 5’5, and probably weigh next to nothing. Even if he gets a team of duds - oh, right, probably shouldn’t call the kids that - he has the game in the bag easily.

He’s not sure why that’s the first thing he’s thinking about, but he thinks they could stand to be knocked down a peg or two. Something about them just…irritates him. Something diametrically opposed to himself. They seem almost unnaturally self-assured, confidence almost to the point of cockiness. He’s seen it in a lot of his debate team rivals. (Yes, he was on the debate team. Yes, he was infuriating. Yes, he would make a great lawyer. Whether that is a good thing or not is up to interpretation.)

He was wrong. Beelzebub Hellborne is good. Very good. They zip around the court almost like a fly loose in a house, commanding their army of teens like a military leader.

“Eric, dodge! No, not you, the other one! Why did your parents give you the same name? Muriel, leg it!”

Gabriel is a fairly strong sportsman, easily defending his teams flag physically, however, what he didn’t account for was tactics.

Beelzebubs team ambushes his teams area all at once, causing a distraction that lets the smallest - a thirteen year old boy named Adam - to slip through unnoticed and, as the name of the game implies, capture the flag.

Beelzebubs team wins.

He…isn’t used to this. Losing. It’s weird. Unnatural.

Now, any rational person would congratulate their opponent and accept that they have been bested. But Gabriel Archer isn’t rational even at the best of times, never mind when he’s humiliated.

In addition to his promise to his mother to ‘at least attempt’ to make amends with his brother, he makes his own silent bow. Before this summer is over he will beat Beelzebub at something. That may be hard though, seeing as they seem to be ignoring him.

“Hi!” He says cheerily, catching up with them. They sideye him, flecks of amber in near-black eyes catching the light. They look a little like fires.

“What?”

“What do we do now?”

“Go again, obviously.”

He tries harder this time. Pushes his team, doesn’t let them slack. That’s the only way to improve, right?

He loses again. Three rounds in and he’s still not managed a win. He’s gotten close, but they somehow manage to snatch the victory from him at the last moment.

Now he’s starting to get a little angry. They high-five their band of kids and smirk over at him, seemingly very pleased with themself. He’s sure now that they have something against him, trying extra hard just to see him suffer, purposely giving him a worse team. Well, two can play at that game. He turns to his team.

“Come on now, kids, we can do better than this! Put some effort in!”

“Actually, we need to be heading back now.”

They begin to stalk away from him, instructing the kids to grab a piece of equipment and follow. He reaches out to grab their arm.

“What? We’ve only been here like an hour. Come on, don’t be such a sore win-AGH!”

He lets out a pained cry and clutches his wrist as they twist themself around in his grasp and yank his hand off, twisting it sideways.

“What is WRONG with you?”

“You grabbed me. I don’t like people touching me without permission.”

“Didn’t…whatshisname, the blonde boy, the soft one, shove you for trying to eat one of his candies earlier? That’s much worse.”

They look at him with a look of incredulity. “Are you thick? Someone I’ve been friends with for years messing around is a COMPLETELY different situation than you trying to drag me backwards when I - and I’d just like to make a point that I’m currently the one in charge of you - was clearly leaving. I’d ask if they just don’t teach you about boundaries in America but Anathema understands perfectly fine, so I guess it must just be you. Also, it’s sweets, not ‘candies’.” They add the last part in a highly inaccurate imitation of his accent. 

There’s a chorus of “oooooh”s from behind them. He turns back to see the kids - including the ones from his team, the little traitors, giggling and nudging eachother. One pipes up.

“I’d just like to speak for all of us when I say, yes, it’s just him. Most of us know better, Beez.”

“Attaboy, reverse parent trap. Now go help Adam, he’s struggling to hold all that on his own.”

The American boy, ‘reverse parent trap’, though he hears Adam say something like ‘Warock’, runs off to go help his friend, who seems to be attempting to carry as much as possible.

The walk back is tense, at least for Gabriel. He tries to talk to Beelzebub but his words seem to slide off like water on a ducks back. They keep their eyes forward, not even sparing him a glare. The kids chatter behind them, and he thinks they’re talking about him. Something about one of the camps old councillors followed by a string of groans and mutters about having blocked him from their memories, someone saying ‘my legs still hurt from all the laps he made us run. Camp is supposed to…’ the kids seem to notice him glance backwards at them and hush their tones so he can’t hear.

“You know,” he begins, sidling up to Beelzebub as they keep walking, “I really don’t see why you have such a problem with me.”

Still not looking at him, they furrow their brows and mutter “You clearly don’t give a shit about this camp. You’re just here because your mum made you - you and your brother should really argue quieter, by the way - and to be perfectly honest you’ve been doing a terrible job. This place is meant to be fun, somewhere the kids want to be, and I’m not going to let you fuck that up. Start acting like a grownup and treat the kids with a little respect, and maybe I won’t ‘have a problem’ with you.”

“Oh, lighten up. It’s not that serious.”

They finally turn their gaze to him. “Yeah, well, not to you, but it is to me. And, as I’ve already reminded you, I’m the one in charge here. Suck it up, smartass.”

Unfortunately for him, Gabriel is, in fact, a smartass. One whose primary interest is movies and their tropes. As the group comes to a stop in The Circle, near the great oak in the middle, he asks: “Why do you care so much about this place? Let me guess, I love this game; your family ‘bad news’ and this is your ‘only chance to escape’?…Nah, that’s too cliche. Ooh, are you the bad news? Is this your chance at redemption? Community service in place of time in jail? Come on, if you’re going to be so uptight I at least want to know why-“

There’s a loud thud - almost a crack - as Beelzebubs fist meets his nose. He staggers backwards, tripping over one of the Oak trees roots and landing flat on his back.

“AGH! What the FUCK?”

Beelzebub stands over him, glowering.

“I don’t owe you a fucking thing, prick. I’m the one running this place, so you have to at least try to do what I say, okay? My reasons are none of your business.”

“God, you’re a psycho. Maybe you should be in prison.”

They lunge forward and he braces himself, trying to scramble away from them, but no impact is made.

He looks up and sees campers and councillors alike crowding around. Beelzebub is struggling against Aziraphales grip to get at him, but eventually lets up, dropping their head. He turns them around and walks them in the opposite direction, but oddly enough the way he secures an arm over their shoulder as he guides them away strikes him as being more protective of them than of him. It makes no sense, he’s the victim here, but he guesses he must be biased.

Uriel yells to everyone to get back to business as usual and suddenly he’s being hauled to his feet by two of the other councillors.

“I can take it from here, Hastur. I don’t think the new guy wants to talk to you after getting his shit rocked.”

“What makes you think he’d want to talk to you?”

“My personality is better. And my fashion sense. How many times, Hastur? Knee-length shorts are a crime. Shorts or pants, pick a side. Come on, whatever your name is…Michael? One of those angel names.”

“Uh, it’s Gabriel.”

The councillor - Shax, he thinks her name is - nods. “Close enough. Anyway, you need to get to the medical centre for that nose. Not to freak you out, but it looks broken.”

“Wait, really?”

The girl laughs almost viciously (he should be mad that he’s being laughed at, however the Heather Chandler energy is undeniable and he honestly has to respect it. Evil but fashionable is the best villain trope in his opinion.) “No, not really, but I just wanted to check if my hunch was correct.”

“What hunch?” He hurries to keep up with her, staggering slightly, still reeling from the shock of the injury.

“That there’s finally a councillor around here that Beez will hate more than me. Nothing worse than a vain pain in the ass that refuses to acknowledge they’re a vain pain in the ass.”

“Wait, what?”

But they’ve reached the door to the medical office and the girl is stalking off, leaving him to wonder what the hell she’s talking about.

“See you ‘round, new guy. Hope you learned your lesson, that’s your first strike, next time they may actually break your nose.”

Oh, whatever. She’s talking shit anyway. He’s the one that got attacked! There’s no lesson to be learned except that Beelzebub is clearly a lunatic. He should stay away from them, that she’s right about, but not because of any fault of his own.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to put a little more effort in, though. Just to keep them off of his case.

Chapter Text

They recognise him by his footsteps before he even speaks.

“Figured you’d still be up…Is this more of a ‘talk about it’ situation or an ‘eat copious amounts of ice cream and watch The Real Housewives’ situation?”

He stands behind the couch wrapped like a burrito in his blanket. He looks like a very tall worm. Once again, Aziraphale really would have a shot at being intimidating if he wasn’t the softest person on the face of the planet. That’s fine though, being intimidating is their job. They smile, a familiar sense of ease cutting through their foul mood. Despite seeming as different as chalk and cheese on the surface, Aziraphale is probably the person most similar to them that they know of. It’s a strange kind of bond forged by a love of food, classic literature (they’re still trying to convince him to read Lovecraft, he keeps saying it’s too dark for him but they know he’s a morbid little shit deep down), vintage fashion, and, although they’ve sworn an oath to never share this information with anyone - they have reputations to maintain after all - trashy reality TV. Something about ignoring their own problems to watch other people deal with theirs is almost therapeutic.

“Second one.”

“Thought so. You know, one day we’re really going to have to come up with something better than solving all of our problems with food.”

“Never. Therapy is expensive, eating moose tracks is cheap and much less uncomfortable. Mentally at least. I should really take a lactaid pill.”

Aziraphale, as usual, is way ahead of them, placing a white tab in front of them along with a pint of ice cream.

“Why are you so insistent on eating things that harm you?”

“Just because dairy doesn’t like me doesn’t mean I don’t like dairy.”

“A logical argument.” He concedes and plops himself down on the couch beside them.

A couple episodes and a lot of ice cream later, Aziraphale pipes up again.

“I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it, but you do know you’ll have to talk to Shadwell and Tracy tomorrow, right? If you explain why you did what you did I can help you.”

They consider this. He’s right. Of course he’s right.

“He wasn’t taking me seriously, kept bugging me about ‘why I care about this place so much’. I was ignoring him, but then he started asking if my family was bad news. If I was bad news. Asked if I was here as a replacement for jail.”

“Ah.”

Beelzebub isn’t proud of what they did. They’ve been trying so hard to control their temper, not lash out. They’ve been better, really. But Gabriel’s accusations struck a nerve. Mostly because they were right on the money.

“I have a criminal record, A.”

“I know.”

“They might not let me into university.”

“They will.”

“How do you know? How? They’ll look at that, you know they will.”

“They’ll also look at your grades, and your extracurriculars, and the appeal we submitted. You’ll get in, they’d be stupid not to accept you.”

They desperately want to believe him, but it’s hard. A criminal record is bad, time served in a detention centre is worse. They try not to think about it, but they regret it every day of their life. They had been working so hard for so many years, slaving through the night getting their grades up, putting everything they had into netball in case they needed to fall back on a sports placement. They’d had it all planned out. Get into University, get the hell out of Dodge (or ‘Devil Town’ as they had dubbed it), and block everyone in their family the moment they’re in their dorm. They had been doing so well. But they had been a coward, and they had gone along with what they’d been told, and they’d payed the price.

“Do try not to punch anyone else this summer, though.”

“I’ll try, but no promises.”

“Close enough.”

They sit across from Shadwell and Tracy, straight backed, trying their best to look polite. It’s early morning, before the campers are out of bed. That’s good, at least. They won’t be behind on their responsibilities.

“Now, Beelzebub, we’ve already talked to Gabriel. He says you attacked him, and almost half on the campers witnessed it. Can you tell us why you did that?”

Tracy is the guidance councillor of the camp. She’s one of the few adults Beelzebub can actually stand. They hate that she’s talking so softly, like they’re a kid, or they’re fragile. They guess Aziraphale warned her and the Sergeant ahead of time that it was about a sensitive matter, and they know she’s just trying to help, but it still stings. They’re not a kid. They’re not weak. They can handle this.

“He started asking me why I care about this place so much. I tried to keep my temper down, really, but then he started guessing. He said something about my family being criminals, and…and I just snapped. I’m sorry, I know it was stupid and I should be setting an example for the kids and everything. It’s just…you know what happened. I’ve been so worried about it all year, and I couldn’t handle someone I don’t even know probing me about my personal life.”

Shadwell and Tracy look at each other, then back at them.

“Well, ordinarily this would be cause for a write-up, and a suspension of your duties, but considering that this is the first time you’ve behaved this way - at least as a councillor - and the information we know…you’ll be getting a warning. A probationary period. Just don’t do it again, okay? Can’t run this place without my best officer.”

“Aye aye, Sergeant.”

“Atta girl…boy. Whatever you are. Tracy?”

“Just say ‘good’, dear. No need to over complicate.”

“Okay. Good. Now get going or you’ll miss breakfast. Wait, what day is it?”

“Monday, sir.”

“Ah, I knew it. That’ll mean the sleepover is tonight, correct? Have you made up the plans?”

“‘Course we have. We’re announcing it at breakfast. Half of us take the kids to the lake for the rest of the day while the others set up the sports hall.”

“Well, then, you’d better get going.”

The canteen is alive with chatter that morning, and they try to ignore the whispers that are definitely being exchanged about the incident the day before. Standing up, they clap their hands and call for silence. The room falls quiet, and they hand the reigns over to Aziraphale.

The old hands are unsurprised but excited, and begin to tell the new kids about the tradition. In the first week, the whole camp gathers in the sports hall and eats pizza, watches movies projected onto the big white wall and stays up as late as they want. It’s been one of their favourite parts of camp since year one, a chance to just kick back, surrounded by noise and warmth and blend into the background. Just exist. It’s a big deal to the campers, a sort of ‘proper welcome to camp’ as Aziraphale puts it. Everyone is, of course, absolutely shattered the next day, but it’s so much fun that no one really cares.

The canteen clears out quickly, kids rushing around gathering anything they want to take to the lake and the councillors responsible attempting to keep some semblance of order. It’s useless though, like trying to herd cats. The chatter fades into the background as Beelzebub crosses the circle to the sports hall, organisation councillors in tow. The sun is bright and warm today, just how they like it. They can’t stand the cold.

The sports hall is cold, but it won’t be for long.

The assignments for the day are as follows: half of the councillors stay back and set up, while the others take the kids to the lake on the other side of camp for the day. They would have preferred to be assigned to the lake, but the duties of the head councillors include being present for the organisation of the ‘events’ that happen throughout. It’s not so bad though, there’ll be other chances to go to the lake; at least it means they won’t have to deal with Gabriel and his bullshit today.

Their train of thought is interrupted when they feel something being pressed into their hands. It’s a book, a leatherbound journal, latch beginning to rust and pages beginning to yellow. Aziraphale had found it in his attic after he got home last year, and, knowing they were going to be head councillors, had began writing their plans for the summer down in it. ‘The Great Plan’ as he had dubbed it.

“You should take the lead on this one, I think. They’ll listen to you.”

“Damn right they will.” They flip open the book to the correct page and step up onto one of the gymnastics vaults that had been left up from the day before. “Okay maggots, let’s get to work! Hastur, you’re strong, go gather all the mattresses and shit. Uriel, you go with him and help get the blankets and pillows - I don’t trust him to carry all of that by himself, you remember last year.”

“That was one time!”

“One time too many to drop all of the bedding in the pond, toad-face. Maggie, you’re the only one around here that knows how to be polite, go check on the food preparations. Anathema. You, Zira and I will stay here and organise everything else. Has everyone got that?”

The group raise their hands in mock salutes. It’s a ritual amongst the councillors to pretend as if the head councillors were their ‘superiors’ in some kind of summer camp army. Shadwell is the Sergeant, and the head councillors are his lieutenants. They have no idea if they actually have the terms right but no one’s ever bothered to look it up.

It’s kind of fun to be on the receiving end of it this time.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, guys? Didn’t you both end up with bloody noses the last time you tried this?”

“It’s fine, Anathema.”

“Doesn’t look fine. You’re shaking like a leaf. Are you sure we don’t know where the ladder is?”

She does have a point, though they won’t admit it. Standing atop someone’s shoulders definitely isn’t the safest method for hanging up a banner, but they can’t find the damned ladder so they’re working with what they’ve got. It really didn’t work out too well the last time they’d tried this trick, they had fallen forwards trying to fix a ceiling light and hit their nose on the railing of one of the top bunks, kicking Aziraphale in the face as they fell. Painful all around.

Thankfully that accident is not repeated, and they manage to put the banner up easily. Getting down is a little more difficult but eventually they just decide to jump.

“Wait, could we have not just used one of the vaults as a ladder? You were standing on one like five minutes ago.”

Ah. Shit. They didn’t think of that.

“Shut up, Anathema. Now, how do we set up the projector?”

Over the next half an hour they make good progress organising the bones of the operation. The projector, the tables along the side wall, the fake fire pit in the middle of the room. They really don’t see what the harm in a real one would be, then they could make s’mores, but Aziraphale says something about carbon monoxide poisoning. It’s a giant room and they can open the windows so they don’t see his point, but they decide to let this one go. They’ll just have to add a real campfire to the camp plans at some point.

Hastur and Uriel thankfully manage to haul the mattresses and bedding in without much incident, save a close call of Hastur almost being knocked down by Uriel pushing a mattress off of one of the top bunks.

Beelzebub looks around the hall. It’s not done of course, not yet, but they’re making good time. It’ll be ready by the time everyone gets back. Maggie shows back up soon after with the news that the food plans are exactly as intended. Uriel, never one to miss an opportunity for a dry remark, looks at them and then fixes their stare onto Aziraphale.

“You two would be unstoppable if you put this much effort into organising your own lives, you know that, right?”

“Of course we do, we just choose to put our effort into this.”

Everything seems to be going perfectly according to plan. For the first time since the incident, Beelzebub feels themself really start to relax. Maybe, just maybe, everything will turn out alright. If they can pull off running a summer camp they can figure out a way to make it - whatever ‘it’ is, life? Uni? They don’t know. Just…it. - work. They allow themself a moment to be sappy, just one. They’re surrounded by their favourite people, in their favourite place, and they’re making it work. When the sun glared through one of the windows up by the ceiling and the warm light catches their face, they take it as a good omen. Aziraphale often says they’re like some kind of feral cat, they eat, they cause chaos, and they seek any warmth they can find because they’re eternally cold.

A buzz in their pocket drags them out of their trance, their friends’ voices coming back into focus.

They have a text. From their father. Well fuck, they must have jinxed themself with all those fluffy, idealistic thoughts.

Where are you? Mammon is in holding until we can get money for his bail, I need you to run some stuff.

Of fucking course he only contacts them when he wants something. They hadn’t expected anything less, but still. They had told him they were going to be at camp all summer, they always did.

That sounds like a you problem, I’m miles away. I don’t work in summers, remember? That’s the deal, pops.

They regret the message as soon as they hit send, but it’s too late now. They see the ‘typing…’ icon and shut their phone off as quick as possible. They can deal with the possible consequences of virtually backchatting their father tomorrow, they just want to enjoy this day. Hold onto the fluff just a little longer. 

Noticing Aziraphale looking at the phone over their shoulder, they scowl and shoot him a look that they hope says ‘Don’t say anything. Not now.’ He receives the message and nods.

They turn to the rest of their companions.

“Alright, let’s start setting up the sea of mattresses…make sure we get the unstained ones, I don’t want to have to deal with blood or pee or anything. God, we should really wash these soon.”

Just a little longer. 

Chapter Text

This camp is a lot bigger than he expected, it takes almost an hour just to get to the lake. To be fair, it does seem pretty worth it when they finally reach the damned thing. A great circle of water much bluer (roughly the same colour as Aziraphale’s eyes, if he thinks about it) than he’s seen at any beaches he’s visited…though that’s probably just because said beaches were British and the usual colour of the British ocean is ‘just grey’. It’s surrounded by low hills and cliffs on one  side and a pebbley bank on the other that stretches back into the forest they just emerged from. It’s almost like a Hunger Games arena, minus the bloodshed…mostly. He glances over at him and is pleased to see that, yep, Gabriel’s nose is still bruised. He has to admit, Beelzebub is growing on him; that was a excellent right hook. Maybe they’ll teach him.

“So yeah, my parents are being huge dicks about me wanting to go to uni for catering. Say college was enough education for that and I don’t need to ‘waste my money’ going any higher. Jokes on them though, no discounts for them when I eventually get something up and running.”

He’s not sure how he feels about most of the other councillors just yet (he’s already wary of Shax. She’s a little too much like Gabriel for his liking. At least she seems self aware, which is more than he can say for his brother.), he hasn’t really had a chance to talk to them properly, but Nina seems cool. Snarky and constantly seeming just a little sick of everyone else. Apparently her parents aren’t very supportive of her career choice. He gets that.

“What about you?” She asks, nudging him with an elbow.

“Oh. Uh. I want to be an astronomer.”

“That’s stars, right?”

“No- well…Ngk. Yeah. But it’s more than that. It’s the study of the universe itself. How it formed, how it’s changing. What makes it tick.”

“Huh. Sounds a lot deeper than wanting to run a coffee shop. Your folks happy with that?”

“Mum is…fine with it, but I can tell she’d prefer me to be doing something more traditional. A more applicable science, probably. Dad isn’t really in the picture, so I don’t know what he’d think. Probably nothing good.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry. Did he…pass away?”

“No, that’s Gabriel’s dad. Mine just…isn’t around.”

“That’s kind of personal, mate. You probably shouldn’t tell people that if he’s not told them. Kind of a dick move.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like he’s never told anyone my secrets. Now, what do we have to do with these little shits?”

While clearly not pleased with that description of the campers, shooting him a withering glare that could compete with his mothers, she’s enthusiastic when explaining to him - and the group of campers that gathers around her - the plans for the day.

There’s a lot to do. Swimming, obviously. Apparently the water is deep enough that supervised cliff jumping is allowed. Volleyball, art (this place would make for a wonderful landscape) and a game of hide-and-seek in the forest. Some kids opt to just relax in the sun, he can’t blame them.

He, unfortunately, gets stuck with Gabriel supervising the swimming. Apparently none of the other councillors with them are sporty types. Despite not getting along at all, the brothers do seem to have the typical sibling ability to make subconscious agreements. They’ll stay as far away as possible from eachother, Gabriel will take the cliff (Crowley has never been a big fan of heights) and Crowley will manage the swimmers.

It goes smoothly, for a couple hours, he can hear laughter bouncing from everywhere around. Muffled yelling from the forest whenever someone gets found. It’s refreshing, actually. Home isn’t bad by any means, but much too quiet for his tastes. That’s one thing he thinks he’s starting to like about this place, it’s so full of life. It’s not an easy task, but it’s never dull. Some of the kids are pretty cool, actually. Adam - a young man with messy brown hair and mischief in his eyes that reminds him of himself - can dive very well, and his friend Pepper is the only one of the kids that manages to beat him in a race. She’s very determined, apparently. Stubborn. Another thing that reminds him of himself.

The boy in the glasses - Newt - sits with the group of kids who chose to stay on the shore, sketching or reading or snoozing. He seems to be trying to fix something, but from the sounds of it is only making things worse.

Shax is running a game of volleyball. He’s not sure how she’s managing that in the flouncy skirt she’s wearing, but she’s surprisingly agile.

All is calm.

And then it’s not.

There’s a scream from the centre of the lake. Someone yells. “Help! Muriel- They just- help!”

In a split second he changes course from the race Warlock had challenged him to, insisting he could win this time, bolting towards the noise. He hears a splash from near the cliffs, but no time to focus on that.

The swim can’t take more than half a minute, but it feels like an hour.

Muriel - the quiet, clever, charmingly oblivious kid that Aziraphale is fond of, the one whose sculpture some little shit knocked over yesterday. - seems almost frozen, not moving a muscle, just floating. No. Sinking. Fuck.

“You - Eric, right? Help me get them to shore. You take the left side I take the right.”

The kid nods, clearly terrified, and together they manage to secure the frozen teen, keeping their head above water. It’s not easy to swim with dead weight but he pushes forward as fast as he can, he’s not letting any harm come to this poor kid.

They manage to reach the pebbly bank, and the other councillors are already in motion. Shax has commandeered one of the campers beach towels and Newt rushes over to help haul Muriel out of the water and onto the towel.

“What’s wrong with them?” Adam asks, pushing to the front of the group gathering around.

Nina steps in, rummaging through a first aid kid and pulling out what looks like a blanket made out of foil. “They’ve gone into shock from the cold water. I know, it happened to me a few years ago. Someone grab all of the towels, they need warmth. Eric, did they inhale any water?”

“Uh, only a little, I think. They gasped when they went under but they bobbed up and started coughing. I didn’t let their head go under after that.”

Eric, Eric B, the older one - he has a little brother also named Eric, known as Eric C. Not sure why their parents did that - sits next to Muriel, clasping their hands and holding them up, seemingly trying to warm them by breathing warm air onto them. He looks, to be quite frank, distraught.

“Good job, kid. We need to sit them up, there may be some more they need to cough up.”

Crowley and Nina go to help but Eric insists he can manage, easing them up into a sitting position and propping them up against the larger rocks behind them. As he does, they begin to stir, blinking and murmuring unintelligibly. Suddenly they lurch forward and cough violently, dredges of water splattering out and onto the pebbles. Nina kneels down and rubs their back, muttering soothingly. Poor lamb.

They’re still shivering, but by the time they’ve coughed up all of the water they’re more coherent.

“I don’t know what happened.” They whisper, voice scratchy from the strain of coughing. “I jumped like everyone else but then I just…froze.”

“You went into shock. Your body changed temperature too quickly and you seized up. You’re okay, now, though. Maybe no more cliff jumping for you for the time being.” Nina explains.

Crowley, who had moved over to one side to quickly make a cup of hot chocolate with the camping stove they had brought, walks back over, careful not to spill.

“Here you go, lamb. Drink up. We need to raise your temperature.”

They reach out for the cup and smile at him weakly. “Thank you, Mr. Crowley.”

He winces. Mr. Crowley is his father. No, don’t think about that right now. Stay in the moment. What did Doctor Terry say again? Try to stay present. Don’t let yourself drift. Ground yourself. A drop of the hot chocolate drips onto his skin as he passes the cup, the brief sting shaking away the clouds forming.

“It’s just Crowley, lamb.”

Muriel is apparently still little shaken, because they start giggling. “Lamb? Baa. Baa. I have a fluffy jumper that makes me look like a lamb, it’s in my cabin.”

Eric B pipes up again “Are they okay? Do we need to get an ambulance? Why are they talking like that?”

“They’re fine, Eric. Just a little shocked. They’ll be fine once they warm up, and the sun is belting down right now. That reminds me - everyone has put sunscreen on, right? Go back to what you were doing, Crowley will stay by Muriel and watch the swimmers from the side.”

“But I want to stay. I need to make sure they’re alright.”

Eric C steps in and holds on to his older brothers arm. He mutters something he can’t quite hear, but Eric seems to relax. He gives a little smile and nods, quickly ducking to give Muriel a hug before walking away with the rest of the campers, slinging an arm over his brothers shoulder.

There’s something in that little interaction that’s almost alien to him, but not unfamiliar, at least not after the past few days. He’s noticed it a lot since he got to camp. It’s almost overwhelming, the feeling it stirs in him.

It was in the weary but affectionate eye rolls from the guidance councillor as she stood with the camp owner in the corner of the canteen, watching the organised chaos of the first day.

It was in the nudges and banter the campers exchanged, sat in little flocks on the grass peering at the itinerary.

It was in the very walls of the councillors cabin, Uriel and Shax banding together to beat Hastur at Smash Bros as apparent revenge for him stinking up the room the three share, Anathema and Nina watching from the couch while a rerun of ‘friends’ plays and joking that pettiness is ‘the basis upon which this friend group was founded’, the head councillors huddled together over a leather bound notebook, snickering at the chaos before continuing to mutter conspiratorially and pass (or, more accurately, snatch and/or swipe) a fountain pen back and forth to scribble down notes. He saw a page of the notebook as he walked by; like almost everything about the pair, their handwriting styles seemed like complete opposites at first, but there were a lot of similarities if he looked closely.

One wrote in distinct, swooping calligraphy, and the other in slanted chicken scratches that looked like the writers brain moved faster than their hand, the ink struggling to keep up. He didn’t see either of them write so he didn’t know who’s was who’s, but he could probably hazard a guess. They write their As the same way, though. Starting on the top left side and leaving a loop through the top of the curve that formed the tail on the right. Both loop their Hs.

Crowley isn’t sure why, but this is the moment he finally realises what that something was, the thing that he had seen and felt all around him since he got to this strange, sunny place. Family. Honest to God, real, raw, family.

It’s so different to anything he’s known growing up. A well meaning and caring but distant (both literally and figuratively) mother, a father who’s care for his son - and temper - changed with the tide, and a brother only in blood, opposed in every other way. Family in the coldest, most clinical sense of the word.

But whatever this is, it’s warm. It’s not perfect, but it’s something so genuinely good it almost confuses him. Crowley had always thought that the importance of family was overblown, that no one really cared about another person that fiercely. It seems he was wrong. It should make him hopeful, happy even, but mostly it makes him angry, resentful almost, and so damned sad and-

“Anthony! What is your problem? I was closer, I could have got them. You were in charge of the swimmers, not the jumpers. Why didn’t you stick to your job?”

Aaand there it is. Never mind. Maybe he doesn’t want to know what having a real family feels like after all.

He turns around, resisting the urge roll his eyes. Gabriel is attempting to shake the water from his hair, leading the group that had been up on the cliffs at the time of the incident over to where he’s standing.

“Yeah, you were closer, but that doesn’t change that fact that I got there first. Isn’t it better that they got to safety quicker?”

“I worked as a lifeguard all of last summer, I’m far more qualified for this situation and you know that,” he turns to Muriel. “Did they keep your head above water? Are you sure you’ve not inhaled too much? Do you feel like you’re experiencing hypothermia?”

They freeze up, clearly bewildered by the sudden - loud - onset of questions. “I- I’m fine. It’s very warm and Crowley made me some nice hot chocolate-“

“We need to take them back to camp and call an ambulance.”

There’s a biting laugh - though he’d call it more of a cackle - from behind them. Shax stands at the front of the pack of campers - seemingly assigned to crowd control for this situation - and tilts her head.

“Really? Because I was a lifeguard last summer too. Private beach. In situations like this - far away from any means of contact, in a hot place - we’re told that the best thing to do is to let them warm up naturally until they’re ready to go. If we leave now that would mean walking in the hot sun, which would mean sweating, which would cool them down even if they felt warmer. Besides, they should be right as rain within the hour, they’ve already stopped shaking.” She turns to Muriel, ignoring Gabriel’s attempt to reply (Yet another person Crowley is having to reassess his assumptions about. Anyone who shuts down one of Gabriels rants is cool in his books.). “Maybe stay out of the water for today though, Muriel. You can play Volleyball - I’ll even let you be on my team.”

Their face lights up. “Really? Oh, but you never pick me for your team! That’s so nice of you, Shax.”

Shax frowns and mutters something about it being out of pity, not niceness, but she nods at them anyway. “Do try to remember to hit the ball instead of throwing it this time.”

Muriel nods eagerly, beaming.

Crowley catches his brother glaring at him one last time before he ushers his group of campers away, and smirks. It’s cruel, but if he’s being honest, it does feel good to see Gabriel defeated, even in a small way.

The day goes on with little incident. He follows the unspoken rule, the one that was just proven to be necessary. Stay away from Gabriel. He knows it goes against the entire reason they were sent here, but it’s just not working. There will always be something in the way, something to set them off, a new argument about nothing. He pushes down the pang he feels as he towels off his hair, spotting Eric C whisper something in his brothers ear and push him to where Muriel is standing. It would be nice, he thinks, to have someone in his corner. Someone to have his back and give him the nudge he needs to keep going when shit gets tough. But that’s not going to happen, and he’s made his peace with that. Bless his mother’s heart for trying, but it’s too little too late in his eyes.

He has a brother, and a mother, and a father, but he doesn’t really have a family. Not really. Not like that.

“Oi, Crowley. Walk with me, I can’t have you getting left behind or thing one and thing two will be out for my blood.”

Nina, seemingly having appeared from thin air, grabs his arm and drags him along (apparently, in his reverie, he had almost been abandoned as everyone else began the trek back to camp), casually picking right up from their earlier conversation and asking him what exactly he plans to do with an astronomy degree, quipping that he’s awfully ambitious for someone who obviously wants to be perceived as cool and unbothered. She’s a little mean, but it’s fun, in a way. Natural. Newt sidles over from the back of the group and jokingly asks why she’s being so much nicer to Crowley than she ever was to him or Hastur.

“Well, Hastur is a dick, and as for you, your parents are actually proud of you and support your choice of career - though I really think you should reconsider, mate, the only time you ever actually managed to get one of our computers working was when you made it worse and Beez punching it somehow fixed it - so you don’t really need me to be nice to you. Us, though-“ She nudges Crowley “We’re disappointments. It’s a bond, a brotherhood. We gotta look out for eachother, right starboy?”

His mind stops in its tracks for a second, digesting the words, and then bursts into a hum of activity, turning the thought they conjure over in his brain. No, he may not have a family as such in the biological sense, but a lot of the people he’s met here don’t seem to either, and that’s not stopped them from forging one for themselves, has it? Maybe he could do the same. They’re disappointments. It’s a bond. A brotherhood. Something imperfect and real and good. He knows, somewhere deep down that he’ll never be as solidly bonded to these people as they are to eachother, the group he’s surrounded with grew up together, it’s undeniable, but he could finally have something.

There it is. That feeling he knows seeing real family on display should have stirred in him. Hope.

Chapter Text

By the time the campers get back, the sports hall has been transformed. It looks, as Maggie so succinctly put it, like a giant blanket fort. Quite impressive if Aziraphale says so himself. He can’t quite bring himself to fully bask in the accomplishment, though. He’s worried.

Beelzebub is strong. The strongest person he knows. They’ve been through hell and back and managed to stay standing; honestly, he’s impressed they even lived this long. Never mind nerves of steel, they’re titanium…But they’re not invincible. They may think they are, but they’re not.

He’s always struggled reading social situations - Autism is fun like that - but as with most things, he’s managed to teach himself. He observes small changes in expressions and behaviour. He’s gotten quite good, actually, though not a patch on Shax and her psychology A-level. She’s like if Regina George was a mind reader. Though, while Shax is good, if there’s one person he can read better, it’s Beez.

The changes are subtle, but they’re there. They’re just a little quieter, speech punctuated with a nervous buzz to their voice. Their posture, usually casual and confident, shrinks ever so slightly, shoulders more slumped and hands tucked in pockets when not in use. Most telling of all, they snap at him. He tries to stay close as they set up, making sure they don’t drift off and start spiralling like they do, but as he goes to help drag chairs into the store room they whip around with a scowl.

“Oh for fuckssz sake. Will you stop following me around? I don’t need any help, I’m fine. Go find someone else to bother, szhithead. Just - just leave me alone, okay?”

They turn on heel and rush out of the back door.

Beelzebub has a famously short fuse, he learnt that the hard way in the early days, but in the last couples of years he can count the times they’ve snapped at him specifically (snapping at the room in general doesn’t count - and even when they do that they usually tack on a ‘Not you.’ In his direction before they storm out) on one hand, and they were almost always when they had been bottling up something they were upset about. Anathema says he has ‘beekeeper privileges’. He only gets stung when they’re agitated.

If Aziraphale knew what was good for him, he probably would have stayed put, but Aziraphale only knows that his friend needs support, and so he follows.

They’re outside, slumped against the wall and staring at the black screen of their phone.

“I told you to leave me alone.” They mutter, not even looking up.

“You did. But I can’t do that. You get self destructive when you’re upset and I don’t want you to deal with that on your own.”

They still don’t look at him, but they give a small grunt of recognition. Now for the riskier move.

“Give me the phone, okay? It’s just going to keep bothering you all night if you have it on you. You can use my phone if you want, but I’m not going to let you see what that piece of…” he still struggles with saying swear words sometimes, a life time of indoctrination is hard to shake off, but there’s only one word fitting in this situation. “- That piece of complete and utter shit has come up with to hurt you this time. We can deal with that later.”

“…What if I’m letting them down?” They mutter, finger hovering over the power button. Nope, he does not like that. Shutting that down immediately. Not going down that road again. He steps forward and pries it from their grasp.

“Then you’re doing exactly what you should be doing. I know you love your family - I love mine too, but you know perfectly well what trying to please them has done to us, and we both know that we can’t keep doing that. Every summer those bags under your eyes get a little darker, did you know that? They’re killing you, Bee.”

“I almost got myself killed.”

“Exactly. You were fifteen, Bee. Fifteen! They put you in a situation you never should have been in because they were too selfish to give up one deal. They didn’t even try to bail you out! That is exactly why I’m putting this,” he brandishes the phone “in a place where you won’t find it until at least tomorrow. I’m not letting you do something stupid because your father made you feel guilty for not wanting to be a part of that anymore.”

Finally he gets a nod. For a second, he’s eleven years old again, finally managing to (unintentionally, he tripped over someone’s bag and dropped his lunch tray on the floor.) earn a laugh from the sour little girl (at least, supposed girl. Clearly things have changed a lot since then.) reading Dracula in the corner of the canteen. It’s weird, when he thinks about it, that that was seven whole years ago…He often gets the urge to joke that they still haven’t grown an inch taller since that day but he won’t tell them that. That’s pushing his luck, even with beekeeper privileges.

“Yeah, okay. You’re right. Sorry for yelling at you.”

“It’s not a problem, you’re upset, I get that. Now: get your game face on, we have a sleepover to host.”

A couple hours later Aziraphale finds himself sitting comfortably on one of the mattresses in the centre of the room, dressed in his best pinstriped set. It had only taken a minute to explain the event to the new campers and then the party was on. After smoothing out the incident that occurred at the lake, of course - Muriel is in one of the corners being absolutely swamped with blankets by their friends despite insisting that they’re fine and perfectly warm now, and fretted over constantly by Eric B, rushing back and forth grabbing anything they need, refusing to let them get up. He hears him say something about needing to keep them safe over the noise.

He suspects he may win that bet he has against Shax about those two after all. Speaking of Shax (looking dramatic as ever in an extremely fluffy dressing gown. How she’s not got heatstroke running around the hall in that he’ll never know.) -

“Shax! While you’re over at the food table remind Beez to take their lactaid before they eat all that pizza. I don’t want to spend half the night holding their hair back while they vomit because they forgot. Not after last year.”

“You could just tell them to deal with it themself, you know.”

“You do realise some of us actually care about our friends, right?”

“Oh, all too well. I can’t believe you guys told me to reject that guy from my class.”

“He cheated on every girl he’s been with! You told us that yourself! Oh, I’m too tired to argue with you right now. Just tell them, please?”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine, but only because you asked so desperately.”

“There we go. I knew you weren’t completely awful!”

“…shut up.”

Despite how frustrating some of his fellow councillors may be, he truly does care about all of them. They’re his people. A dysfunctional little family bonded through the age-old traditions of communal trauma dumping and questionably safe summertime activities.

His contemplation of the strange little ecosystem that is friend group is interrupted by a voice behind him.

“This seat taken?”

Crowley stands over him in a black shirt and tartan joggers. His long hair is let down for once, he looks good. He nudges a nearby mattress with his foot.

“Not at all.”

Crowley gives him a small smile and sits down.

“I never had a sleepover growing up,” he started “so I wouldn’t really know - but this is very impressive. Cozy. Art, organisation, charm, what can’t you do?”

Attempting to ignore the compliment, he focuses on the more alarming aspect of Crowley’s sentence.

“You’ve never been to a sleepover? Ever?”

He shrugs. “Well, never had any friends to invite over when I was at ma’s - kind of hard to have friends in a country you only visit during summers - and as for dads place…well, I didn’t have many friends there either, but I wouldn’t want those I did anywhere near there.”

The way he says it is casual, but there’s an all too familiar look in his eye. Something sorrowful. Something he’s felt himself. He doesn’t want to overstep, but he nods.

“I…I get that. You know, you don’t have to tell me, obviously, but if you ever want to talk about whatever it is, you can come to me. I know it can be hard to be around this many strangers, away from home - I had multiple panic attacks my first summer.”

He cracks a smile at him now, a little of the sadness lifting, but then it’s back, and he furrows his brow.

“Can I…can I tell you something now?”

Aziraphale nods.

Crowley scoots over until they’re sat close together, face to face. He pulls a blanket around himself as if he needs support or warmth, despite the sheer mass of bodies in the room making it plenty warm on its own.

“So, I’ve never told anyone this before. I don’t know why I’m telling you this now, to be honest, I barely know you, but I’ve not slept in a couple days so let’s call it delusion. This is my thought process: if I tell you the worst of it now, if we ever talk about this stuff again you won’t be surprised by any of the other stuff, right?”

Aziraphale briefly wonders if Crowley is drunk, somehow. If he managed to sneak alcohol in. But he smells fresh as a daisy - actually, he thinks it’s lavender, light and floral, coming from his hair - and there’s no trace of drink or smoke on his breath as he leans forward to whisper.

“My dad was a complete arse. Narcissistic fuckhead. Real piece of work. Living like him was like playing Russian roulette. One day he was all calm and aloof, sitting on his ass and letting me go out as late as I wanted and only telling me to ‘bring back something for him too’, some days he was actually pretty great, playing games with me on his crusty old console and ordering junk for tea…but those were the good days.”

Aziraphale’s face scrunches up. He really doesn’t like where this is going. He can’t smell anything on Crowley’s breath, but he can almost convince himself there’s a smell of something bitter and painful leeching from his very skin.

“Most of the time he was just…so angry. So, so angry. At the world. At my ma for leaving. At me for existing. He yelled a lot, drank more than usual. Didn’t get violent often though, thankfully. Usually too tired to get off his ass and try. There were a few times, but never as bad as this one time. I think it was a bottle. Hurt like a bitch. I hid, obviously. Then ran. Called the police. It was fuckin’ ugly.”

For a second, everything around Aziraphale screeches to a halt. He wants to hug him, to protect him, to stop anything from hurting this boy he met less than a week ago but who trusted him enough to share his darkest moment with him ever again. He doesn’t, though, because Crowley isn’t done.

“You want to know the worst part? As much as it hurt - couldn’t open my eye for a month - the worst part is that I hadn’t seen it coming. I should have known he would snap eventually but I just kept hoping and hoping and hoping that one day he’d just stop having those episodes, go back to being dead-to-the-world dad or delivery-and-banter dad. I know I shouldn’t blame myself; that’s what Doctor Terry says, but I do. I just…I feel responsible. Like I could have saved him from himself.”

That’s something he gets. He really does. It’s hard to give up on a parent, even when you know you should. He reaches out and takes Crowley’s hand in his own.

“I’m sorry.” He says. He doesn’t know what he’s sorry for, but he is. He thinks there’s a way to make amends, though, for whatever guilt this is.

“Well, you told me your worst. Can I tell you mine?”

Suddenly it’s Crowley holding his hand. Squeezing just a little too tight for comfort in a way that somehow brings comfort. He always wondered if oxymorons were possible in the physical space.

He nods. “Please do.”

Aziraphale has thought about it a lot. There were a lot of bad things that had happened to him. A childhood of repression, of strict rules and harsh punishments. He got hit, sometimes, if he did something he wasn’t supposed to, but he was almost desensitised to it by the time he was able to process it. No, his worst memory, surprisingly, took place at camp.

When he was fifteen, things were bad. For him, yes, his father on a particularly enthusiastic campaign of hate, forcing him to be a part of it, threatening him when he refused. But it had been for everyone else, too. Almost everyone in his little group had gone through something especially difficult in the lead up to that year’s camp. The first day, the group huddled at a corner table in the canteen, talking in hushed voices, laughing bitterly and passing around tissues in case of runny noses or tears on the part of the more emotional friends. (Communal trauma dumping, remember?)

As the days had worn on, they managed to return to some semblance of normalcy, archery and swimming and art filling their days, midnight feasts and hushed conversations a tradition within their little circle. They were feeling better.

At least, most of them were.

He still kicks himself for not recognising the signs sooner.

He had been woken up in the dead of night. a week and one day into camp. There was a thud, just outside the cabin door. Then, a sharp crack, and a scream. Almost deafening in the silence. The others woke up with starts, everyone looking around with eyes full of sleep and brains full of fog. He thinks it was Hastur who first realised one of the beds was empty.

Aziraphale made it to the door first, almost leaping from his top bunk, stumbling on the way.

There they stood, fists covered in blood, broken back of one of the wooden chairs from the stage in hand and the rest of it scattered about in the grass, eyes like black holes. Empty. Angry. Sad. They raise it up again and bring it down on the dirt, smashing off one of its sides. Multiple people started talking at once, attempting to reason with them, comfort them, ask them why. That only made them angrier. They stalked around in front of the cabin like a caged animal, broken piece of chair in hand, brandishing it wildly as they ranted about plans and mistakes and how ‘fucking stupid’ they are. Eventually, his friends turned to him, nudging him forward. ‘They’ll listen to you.’ They said.

He stepped towards them, speaking gently. Reassuring them. For a second, their grip on the chair loosened…and then they’re crying worse than before, face red and splotchy and angry, and they’re raising the chair, swinging it at him. He doesn’t know what to do, he panics, his fight or flight instinct kicks in and he shoves them as hard as he can muster. Throws them, almost. It’s a blur, all he knew was panic and retaliation and immediate regret. He hears wood splinter as they fall sideways, landing and breaking their would-be weapon. He feels sick to his stomach. He swore to himself he would never hurt another person, not after he’s been hurt, much less his own friend, already hurting so badly themself. But he has to act quickly, to stop this situation before it could get any worse, so he signals to Hastur to help him grab them while they’re still too stunned to do anything, hauling them inside and sitting them in the tub in the bathroom, surrounded on all sides so they can’t get out again.

They’re unstable right now. He doesn’t want to know what they may do to them - or themself - if they don’t calm down soon. But the anger seems to have evaporated, leaving only torn, ugly sobs, bloody hands and exhaustion.

Maggie, with her even voice and general air of comfort, is the one who manages to finally get them to tell the group the cause of the breakdown. That’s fine. He knew already, of course, but he’s glad it’s a shared secret now. A problem shared is a problem halved, as they say. What’s not okay is how much they apologise. It only makes him feel worse when they refuse to accept him placing any blame on himself, insisting he did the right thing. They give him a hug and laugh into his shoulder through the drying tears and blood, saying something horribly self deprecating. They thank him for stopping them before they could do something truly stupid.

He doesn’t think anyone sleeps that night, sitting on their beds and laughing and whispering and working through all the hurt like they usually do, but he lays facing the wall, silent, feeling nauseous when he thinks of the bruises forming on their arm from the fall.

He doesn’t tell Crowley who ‘they’ are, but it’s probably obvious. He just can’t bring himself to say it. It was three years ago now, lost to the sands of time by everyone else involved, even ‘them’, but he still feels a sting when he thinks about it. A lingering guilt.

“Wow.” Crowley says. “Your worst memory is hurting someone else, not being hurt? Maybe you really are an angel.”

That…that makes Aziraphale angry. No. No. That’s not true. It’s not.

“Don’t say that. It wasn’t some altruistic thing…I felt bad for entirely selfish reasons. I can handle being hurt, I can handle bad things…I just can’t handle losing good things. I felt sick to my stomach because I hurt someone I cared about, but I also felt sick to my stomach because I thought they’d hate me, and that the others would hate me too, and I thought I’d deserve it, and I thought I’d lose the closest thing to a proper family I ever had. I know, that’s an awful way to think about it-“

“No it’s not.” Crowley interrupts him, gripping his hand and looking him dead in the eyes. “It’s not. You’re allowed to worry about losing things you care about, you’re allowed to worry about being alone. That’s not selfish; even if it was, you don’t need to be completely selfless all of the time. You’re allowed to want things for yourself, you know that, right?”

Aziraphale looks down, hides his face.

“I’ve wished my whole life that I had a proper family. If I got one and then thought I might lose it, would you call me selfish for being upset?”

Crowley is surprisingly logical in such an emotional moment.

“Of…of course not.” He sighs.

“Then don’t hold yourself to a different standard. Now, that was a lot. Pizza?”

He smiles, wiping away the moisture building in the corners of his eyes. “Sounds lovely.”

As they go to stand up and head toward the food table, though, a gaggle of councillors come stumbling towards them, struggling to carry pizza boxes and navigate through the mess of blankets and mattresses.

“Maggie is a legend!” Beelzebub holds a box above their head dramatically. “Managed to convince the sergeant to let the councillors get some shit just to ourselves. We can finally have our favourite without having to share with any of the kids who will just call it gross and waste it anyway.”

They kick-nudge him over and sit down beside him, opening the box.

“Barbecue sauce, chicken, donner and sweetcorn. Just for us.” They grin, picking up a slice and immediately dripping sauce onto themself. They’re lucky it won’t show up very clearly on a black T-shirt (Yes that is a Team StarKid logo on the shirt, no they will not explain, they gave up on pretending they weren’t a nerd long ago. They like musicals okay, now bugger off and leave them alone, kid.) and ratty red shorts.

Crowley grimaces. “What? That…that sounds awful. You two actually eat that?”

Much to his dismay but not surprise, there are murmurs of agreement from his supposed best friends.

“What? It’s good, really!” Aziraphale grabs a slice and pushes it toward him. Unlike any of the others he and Beez have tried to convince of their correctness on this matter, Crowley actually takes the slice and tries it.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Huh. Not half bad. Can I have the rest of this slice?”

“Sure. No more, though, this one’s ours. Right A?”

Back to business as usual with them, it seems. He hopes ‘out of sight, out of mind’ really is true for the phone hidden in the pocket of one of the costumes hung behind the stage. If there’s one thing they take seriously it’s their food. “Obviously.”

Crowley shrugs and tells them that’s fine, he’ll have Hawaiian. This is met by a much louder outcry from the surrounding group.

“That barbecue thing is a monstrosity, but at least all the ingredients are acceptable as toppings separately.” Nina says, “Pineapple on pizza is just criminal.”

Ah yes, another age-old argument of the group: pineapple on pizza, yay or nay?

Aziraphale falls firmly on the ‘nay’ side.

“Finally!” Beez cheers, patting Crowley on the back. “The teams are even! 5-5 now, snobs. Welcome to the fold, red.”

“Heathens, both of you.” Aziraphale mutters. This is, quite possibly, the worst team up that could occur in this argument. With the combined powers of a best friend and a mysterious new boy, how is a protagonist supposed to hold to his morals in spite of potential bias? They laugh and high five over his head, Crowley says he’d rather be a heathen than a snob. Damn it, his conviction is already slipping. Maybe pineapple on pizza isn’t that bad…

It is nice, though, to see everyone smiling, joking, jabbing. It grounds him. No, these people don’t hate him. He has his family. He forgave and was forgiven long ago. He’s not ‘alright’ persay, none of them really are, but he thinks he will be.

“Wow, he really hadn’t grown into his teeth by then, had he?”

Scratch that. He will not be alright. His best friend is a traitor and he is going to have to kill them for their betrayal. Beelzebub is showing Crowley their ‘Aziraphale blackmail’ photo folder. Specifically a picture of him at 13, at his spottiest and most awkwardly proportioned. Well, two can play at that game.

“You think I look bad? You should see what they did to their hair that year.”

“Oooh.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Chapter Text

“Get that fruit-covered monstrosity away from me! I’m not going to try it!”

“Come onnnnn, A. He tried our pizza, you need to try this.”

“Yeah. Come onnnnn, Angel.”

“Wait. What did you call him?”

“Oh. Uh. Angel.”

“Ha! As if. Trust me, red, I’ve known him since he was a repressed little church boy and even then he was no angel.”

“Says the person who named themself after a literal demon.”

“Touché.”

“Ugh, French. They had one good idea and it was crepes but their language is stupid.”

“Okay, one, you’re just bitter you failed French class, and two, they had one good idea and it was the guillotine. Fuck off with your pretentious pancakes, aristo.”

“Sacre bleu…”

“…You know, I’m starting to see why you two are friends. I’m pretty sure you’re the only ones keeping up with this conversation. What were we talking about again?”

Gabriel rolls his eyes and attempts to block out the inane conversation. To be perfectly honest, he is…not having a good time. He’s actually a little jealous. People seem to like Anthony, there’s a little group gathered around him and his new friends.

People don’t seem to like him so much. He doesn’t really get it. He goes through the list in his head. Everything his father told him about how to be successful, be liked.

Be strong.

Be confident.

Be smart.

Never let someone else’s opinion of you bring you down.

Always give life 100%.

He remembers them all, a mantra he lives his life by. He repeats them to himself every morning, before he puts the photo  of his dad back in his wallet.

Dad was always reliable, the person he could turn to when he needed him, not distant or cool like his mother - a solid, warm presence in his life - and when he went, that was all Gabriel was left with, so he sticks to it like the letter of the law. 

It’s not working now, though, not like it always did. Not like it should. It’s fine, though. He can make it work. He always does. For dad.

Finally, Gabriel gets up and heads over to the food table. He usually doesn’t eat pizza, but if he must, he goes for mushroom.

“Mushroom? I told you he had issues.”

“Shax!”

“Oh, calm down, Maggie. I’m only joking. Oi. Yankee. Michael or whatever it was. Come here, we wanna talk to you.”

He looks up to see three figures standing on the others side of the table. Maggie, the blonde one, looks almost apologetic, the tallest of the three - Uriel, maybe? - looks nothing short of apathetic, and between the two is the girl who dragged him to the nurses office a couple days ago, with a smile that lands somewhere between friendly and downright menacing.

“Yankee? Are you…talking to me?”

“Do you see any other yankees around here? C’mere, we need to talk to you.”

Well, dad did say to give life 100%, and if no one else wants to talk to him, he should at least listen to whatever these three have to say.

“The Yankees are from New York. I’m from Missouri.” He says as he walks around the table to join the group.

“I know that, we saw your application, I just can’t be assed looking up the vaguely-mean name for that. Anyway. Since you clearly didn’t listen to my warning after the best punch I’ve ever seen Beez throw, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try a second time.”

Uriel holds an arm out in front of Shax and mutters to her to stop talking. ‘They’ll handle the serious part’. “That stunt at the lake? Not good. Your brother was right, it was more important that Muriel was safe.”

“You’re irresponsible. You’re harsh. You don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself. Do you know how many complaints we’ve had about you? More than I had in the whole of last summer. You’ve been here less than a week…It’d be impressive if it was a record for anything good.” Shax butts in. It seems this girl really can’t keep her trap shut.

“Hey, hey. I didn’t come over here to get berated. Do you three have an actual point or can I go?”

“Our point is that you’re a self absorbed oaf that’s been nothing but a bother since you got here. Your arguments with your brother are petty and pointless. You don’t respect anyone’s boundaries. Your ego is the size of a house-“

“Slow down, I thought we were going to ease into this stuff-“

“And that’s where you’re wrong, Uriel.”

Uriels admonishments and Maggies fretting are cut off by their friends much louder voice. Always opportunistic, Gabriel takes his chance to finally speak. The sooner he can get this conversation over with the better.

“Yeah, you’re wrong. You don’t know me, I didn’t even do anything.”

“What? Oh, no, I didn’t mean that. Most of what they said is dead on. They’re just wrong about the ego.”

Uh oh. It seems he’s about to face another round of baseless insults.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I get why Uriel would think you have a big ego, you certainly act like it, but action and truth aren’t always the same thing. You put up a good front, I’ll give you that, but there are some pretty glaring cracks. You get defensive when your image - self or otherwise - is threatened. You keep saying you’ve done nothing wrong, but every time someone brings it up your face creases just a little bit more. You refuse to even acknowledge that you’re part of your own problem. You’re textbook, Yankee. Inferiority complex. Subconscious, probably, you don’t even seem to realise it.”

“Alright, first of all, you have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t think I’m better than anyone else but I also don’t think I’m worse. Second of all, who in gods name do you think you are to say this shit to me anyway?”

Shax rolls her eyes and motions for her companions to step closer to her, effectively walling him off from the rest of the room.

“Alright, first of all,” She says in a mocking tone, “I  have an A-level in psychology and assuming I get the grades I need, I’ll be going to London Metropolitan University to get my masters. Second of all, ever heard of the phrase ‘it takes one to know one’? Like I said at the nurses office, before you got here, I was the problem councillor. But I know that, and I am trying. I didn’t start pulling my weight just for someone to drag us all down again.”

Oh. Well. Shit. Still, though, there’s no way she knows all this about him from less than a week.

“Fine then, whatever. I’ll start helping out more, okay? Can I go?”

Gabriel goes to walk back around the table, but he’s stopped by the wall of annoyance closing in around him.

“Not quite.” The blonde girl, Maggie, has a bite to her voice for the first time since this little discussion started. “It’s not enough for you to just start doing stuff when you’re told to, that’s the bare minimum. You need to actually start putting effort in. Stop acting like a baby being bossed around. We know you don’t care about this place but we do, and Zira and Beez have worked too damn hard on this for you to fuck it up now. Apparently Beez telling you this followed by a very public humiliation didn’t persuade you so maybe this will - We keep a record of all…incidents, involving fighting or similar, and there are a lot of security cameras around this camp. If you don’t start shaping up all of those are going to your mother so she can see exactly the kind of manchild she raised. A little birdy told me you were always the favourite kid, not so sure she’ll be so fond of you after that.”

This news hits him like a truck. Shit. Fuck. No. Mom is already having a hard enough time as it is lately. He can’t let her down like that, not now. He already let her - and dad, though he guesses that’s less of a risk now, mostly because of him…nope. No time for that. - down once. That was one too many. She was already exasperated enough at him and his brother for their constant arguments.

“Are you…threatening me? Am I being Heathers’d right now?”

Uriel shrugs, Maggie quirks an eyebrow as if saying ‘obviously’ and Shax laughs. Cackles, more like, like a witch. Fitting. “Ding ding ding! He finally catches on. Not as stupid as he looks after all. Thanks, by the way, Heather Chandler is exactly what I was going for. One problem though, what you said implies you’re Veronica in this situation, right?”

“Well, yeah. Why?” He asks cautiously. He’s quickly learning any response from Shax is bound to be a shot at his ego.

“Oh dear, it’s just, you’re no Veronica. You’re more like…one of the dudes on the football team. The ones who have no lines. That’s another sign of low self esteem, you know? Pretending you think of yourself as a main character, some big hero. Overcompensating, you know?”

Aaand there it is. He’s officially done with this conversation.

“Alright, are you finished now?”

“I think that’s about everything,” Uriel says. “Shax, come on. Isn’t it our shift to work the face painting? Besides, I think he’s heard enough. Just got to let our message sink in.”

“Ugh, you’re right. Make sure to only give me the kids that want something simple though, you remember how well I did last year.”

The trio walk away from him, laughing. Gabriel sighs and grabs another slice of mushroom pizza before heading back to his spot. It seems he needs to really start working at this, he can’t let mom down, or dad…also, it may be nice to actually find some friends.

He looks back over at his brother and the group around him. He and Aziraphale are now talking enthusiastically to some of the other councillors, seemingly engaged in a debate over whether or not the ocean is technically a soup. Beelzebub is sat sideways from the group, leaning back and propping themself up against their friends side, reading quietly and occasionally muttering their own additions to the argument. Apparently they say something that offends Aziraphale as he quickly stands up, causing them to fall from their resting place and land with the side of their face smushed into a blanket, their book dropped onto the floor between mattresses. He expects them to snap, they seem tired and from his experience with the…incident…have a temper. Instead:

“Oi! I was comfy!”

“You insulted my pronunciation of bouillabaisse.”

“Don’t say it again, you’re going to make my ears bleed. Whatever, I won’t mention it again.”

“Very good.”

Aziraphale sits back down beside them and they manage to wriggle themself back into their slumped position, resuming reading as if nothing happened, rolling their eyes as the oh so serious debate continues. It’s odd. They look so small like that, relaxed. Soft, almost, though he knows better.

“That’s what mums cat does when I stand up to go get something.” Crowley laughs.

“Mine too. What breed do you have?” Nina asks, lifting her head from where she’s lying face down on her mattress.

He shakes his head and lies down, putting in his headphones and scrolling on his phone. He can deal with everything - making friends, putting some work into his counselling, dealing with the possibility that maybe a girl getting a degree in psychology knows what she’s taking about - in the morning. He’s tired now.

When Gabriel wakes up, it’s early. There’s only a few people - kids and councillors - awake. He groans and shuffles down the hallway off of the sports hall into the boys bathrooms. A couple kids nudge eachother and giggle as he walks past. Weird.

When he goes to wash his hands, though, it suddenly makes sense.

“Who the hell drew on my face?” He yells as he storms out of the bathroom. He tried to wash it off with water and paper towels but that only moved the colours around and made it look worse.

“No one told you?” Chandler.

Oh for the love of god, not more of this.

”Told me what?” He asks, not wanting to face anyone looking like he did.

“It’s a tradition. If a councillor falls asleep at the sleepover, the kids draw on them.” McNamara.

“Scrubbing it like that won’t do anything, believe me.” Duke.

He relents and turns around. Sure enough, in the door to the girls washroom across the hall, are Camp Armagetalongs very own trio of evil cool people.

“Why don’t any of you have blue eyebrows then?”

“Shax and I managed to stay awake long enough to avoid it.” Uriel says.

“What about you?”

“Oh, I got hit, but I just used makeup wipes. That’s what everyone does; work a charm. Here. Can’t believe no one warned you.” Maggie tosses him a pouch of wipes.

“Thanks. Wait. You three spent all that time lecturing me last night, why didn’t you just tell me?”

Uriel and Maggie both blink, look at eachother, and then turn to the one member of the three that doesn’t seem at all surprised.

“Wait, weren’t we going to tell him that before we left?”

“Oops. Must have slipped my mind. Good luck, Yankee. See you later.”

By the time he processes everything, they’re gone again. He’s got a long summer ahead of him if he’s going to be dealing with those lot shadowing him. Maybe this is their way of attempting to intimidate him into doing what he said he would. He hates to admit it…It’s kind of working. The less he annoys the queen bee with crazy in her eyes, the silent sentinel that he has half a mind to believe can read said mind - something about the glare - and the deceptively meek blackmailer the better.

Chapter Text

“Oh, buck up, Bee. Stop being so mopey. Your name is Beelzebub, not Belphagor. We’ve got a lot to do today.”

They groan and slump against him as they walk over to the canteen. “No. Too tired. Bogg off.”

“You’re such a child sometimes.” He complains, but lets them lean on him, half-dragging them towards the doors. That’s the thing about Aziraphale; even when he’s annoyed, he’s still looking out for them. He’s a natural born guardian. It’s almost cliche that someone like him would befriend someone like them. “It’s your own fault, I told you to get some sleep when all the kids did but you were too damned stubborn to avoid getting drawn on. I do know that ‘azirafart’ on my forehead was you, by the way. I recognise your handwriting.”

“Someone’s got to be the fun councillor.”

“At the expense of the one friend that has stuck by you since before those campers could do their times tables? Betrayal.”

“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make for the favour of the blue and orange moral-ed little shits that are our campers.” They sit heavily down into their seat, letting their head thump onto the table.

“Well, since you’re showing no signs of getting up I suppose I’ll have to go grab breakfast for both of us, hm?”

“You get it.” They attempt to nod sagely but hit their chin on the table. “Agh! Fuckkkk I bith my thongue.”

“First of all: language. Second of all: since I need to go grab breakfast, you’re in charge of telling the others what we’re doing today…once that lisp wears off.”

“Go tho hell.”

“Charming.”

They grumble and let their head fall onto the table again. They don’t get much peace, though, before the others start showing up.

“Are you okay, Beez?” Newt asks, sipping his tea - it was decided long ago that Newt can’t have coffee. Makes him even more jittery than usual. - before pulling out a chair for Anathema. Those two are disgustingly sweet. If there’s one thing Newton Pulsifer can do well (definitely not fix electronics), it’s dote on his girlfriend…That reminds them. He still owes them and Hastur a favour for setting them up. Who knew locking two people in the storage room was such an effective way to get them to talk about their feelings…Okay, technically it was an accident - Hastur and Beelzebub had both been blasting music as they put stuff away and couldn’t hear the pair they locked in as they walked off - but they still take credit for it.

“Do I look okay, Newt?”

“Well, the eyebags are no darker than usual so it’s hard to tell. You always seem to be in some state of exhaustion.”

“…The man makes a fair point.” They lift their head and prop themself up on an elbow, face resting in their hand.

“So, since everyone’s shattered today, we’re taking it easy. Indoor stuff. Keep everyone in the same vicinity. Someone boot up the game system, crafts in the corner, you guys know the drill. Oi, red.”

Crowley, who had just sat down and taken a sip of his coffee (which appeared to be multiple shots of espresso in a big cup. How does he drink that with a straight face?) looks up with a face like a surprised animal.

“Me?”

“Yeah. You’re with me today. We’re running baking in the kitchen.”

“Oh, yeah, okay. Cool.”

Crowley’s expression is slightly bewildered, like being called on was the thing that truly snapped him out of his half-asleep daze, but he nods.

“What we cooking?”

“Well, we need to check what we have in the kitchen first, can’t make brownies without cocoa powder, y’know, but then we leave it to kids to decide.”

“Really? We’re letting a bunch of sleep-deprived teenagers debate what to bake? Won’t that cause arguments? And that many kids in a kitchen at once…carnage.”

Oh, he has so much to learn about this place.

“Well, yeah.” They shrug, face breaking into a grin. “That’s half of the fun. They get sweet treats, and we get a show.”

“Are we going to be the ones cleaning up after the ‘show’?”

“Oh, no, when the kids do cooking they clean up after themselves. According to Zira it teaches them responsibility, but I think it’s just an excuse for the supervisors to get out of it. Not complaining, though. I did my time and now it’s my turn to sit back and watch the next generation bare the cross.”

“You’re a little bit evil, you know that?”

As Crowley says this, Aziraphale reappears and sets down a cherry danish and a cup of coffee in front of them.

“That’s an understatement.” He grumbles. “They stole my copy of Pride and Prejudice and hid it for the whole summer because I ate the last slice of a pizza at last years sleepover.”

“I won that rock paper scissors match and you know it, A. That slice was mine. Don’t. Fuck. With. My. Food. How have you not figured that out in seven years?”

They glare in an attempt to intimidate, but quickly give up. Usually they’re excellent at holding grudges, but he gets more leeway than most (they have much more important targets for their anger, after all…also, he’s the only person that remembers - and doesn’t judge - the way they like their coffee, so that helps his case.), so they shrug and move on as if nothing happened, thanking him for the coffee before turning back to Crowley.

“As I was about to say before I was so rudely interrupted - I’m a necessary evil. Kids gotta learn somehow, right?”

Crowley cracks a laugh. “Ah, cheers to that.” He holds up his coffee.

“At least one of you gets it.” They throw a joking glare around the table before clinking their cup against Crowley’s.

“Wait. What is that you’re drinking?”

“Oh, well, I can’t stand the taste of coffee on its own so instead I just have espresso mixed into hot chocolate.” They grab their danish and take a bite, shrugging.

“That is…sacrilegious.”

“See! Told you it’s not just me being some coffee freak.” Nina pats Crowley on the back. “Knew I liked you, mate.” She turns back to Beelzebub. “If you want chocolate just have a mocha.”

They want to stick their tongue out at her, but that would risk spraying pastry flakes everywhere, so they just roll their eyes and hurriedly swallow before continuing talking.

“Nah. Still too bitter. Anyway, Crowley. Finish up your eggs and round up the kids who want to cook. I’ll check the ingredients.”

“Got it, boss.”

He mock salutes as they stand up from the table, scarfing the last of their danish and grabbing their coffee. They smile and salute back.

“At ease, soldier.”

Aziraphale, as per usual, has a quip prepared for any occasion. “Crowley, dear, please don’t encourage their bossiness. I’m going to have to deal with that every day at university and I don’t want it any worse than it already is.”

The table - excluding Gabriel, who rolls his eyes only to be hit square between them with a projectile blueberry. Weird. - laughs, and in that moment two feelings strike them.

The first is contentment. Moments like this? They’re the light at the end of the tunnel for them. The thing keeping them going every September to July. The little voices in the back of their head that sound suspiciously like their brothers tell them that’s stupid. Maybe it is. They don’t care.

The second is guilt. It’s not red hot, tearing through them as thoughts of everyone they cared about, everyone they were letting down, flash through their brain - like they felt when they got arrested. No, this guilt is much more familiar. Milder, maybe, but it hurts more, because it’s so specific. This guilt? It’s purple. Like the camp t-shirts. Like the bruises on their arms. Like the pen they used to help the kids vandalise the other councillors faces. It’s the guilt of knowing they’re about to tell a lie to people who trust them.

They shouldn’t. They don’t want to. But they have to.

So they lift their head, and with the best imitation of ease they can muster, they tell the table they’ll go check the kitchen.

Technically, they think as they walk across the canteen, straining to not look back at their friends, it’s not wholly a lie. They are going to the kitchen, and they will check what ingredients they have. But they need to check something else first.

They stride through the kitchen and into the walk-in freezer, tucking themself into a corner and slipping their phone from their pocket.

When Aziraphale had handed back their phone that morning, he’d made them promise they would wait to read what their father had said together, to figure out what - if anything - to do. Unfortunately, those little voices in their head have once again been able to drown out their better judgement. They try to resist, but the pit in their stomach formed by a mixture of guilt, uncertainty and self destructive tendencies is unbearable.

They turn on the phone.

For a couple seconds, nothing. And then:

Buzz

Insolent little shit.

Buzz

You’ve had enough time away.

Buzz

Grow up.

Buzz

This is the last damned time you’re going to that camp, I’d come get you myself if I knew it wouldn’t be a waste of my time.

Buzz

You’re making up for the lost business when you drag your sorry ass back, got that?

For the most part, it’s nothing they aren’t used to. Nothing they can’t push into a dark little corner of their mind and decide not to think about until it’s the middle of the night and they can finally let themself crack, safe in their cabin.

Until his final messages come through.

Buzz

Your brother is happy to have the extra space, as usual. Actually cleaned up in there for once. Found something interesting.

For the love of god, what’s Mammon done now?

Buzz

A photo. A grainy shot from their father’s grimy phone camera of a Polaroid.

Them at the end of camp bonfire party, a few years back. Their little gang crowded around them. Smiles all around.

Fuck.

Buzz

I’m assuming these are your friends. The ones you’re so secretive about. You’ve told these people about your little trip to baby jail, right? Not so sure they’d be so sympathetic if they find out the real reason you ended up there.

Double fuck. Triple fuck. No. No. No. This cannot be happening.

Buzz

If you don’t pull your weight when you get back, I’ll make sure they know all about the blood you have on your hands. So be good.

And there it is. The red hot, searing guilt they’ve been pushing down for three years. Red as the blood on their hands as they were taken into the police car. Red as the blood of the man being taken into the ambulance opposite. The man they killed.

The door to the fridge opens, snapping them out of their spiral. They shove their phone back into their pocket. Crowley stands in the doorway.

“There y’are. The kids are getting antsy. You checked what ingredients we have?”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah.” It’s a lie, of course, but they’re fairly confident the kitchen is fully stocked anyway. It should be fine.

“Great! I’ll bring ‘em in. Quick question - is that Pepper girl always arguing with her friends?”

They crack a smile. They’re in no smiling mood, but they’re fond of that little group of kids. “Oh, yeah. Always. Very opinionated, that one. C’mon, red. Let’s get cracking.”

Beelzebub takes a deep breath and, just like they have so many times before, push all the guilt and fear to the back of their mind, stepping out into the kitchen and grabbing an apron.

Chapter Text

Okay. Crowley knows he only met this person about a week ago, but even from what little he knows, something is off.

When you live like someone like his father, you get good at noticing mood shifts.

“Beez. You good? You look….”

Like death warmed up? Like him after leaving his dad’s place? Like they’re about to pass out? “pale.”

“What?” They startle from quietly observing the campers bicker over whether to make brownies or cookies and buffer for a second before continuing. “Oh. Uh. Yeah, yeah. Just…” They lower their voice to a whisper “Period stuff.”

“Oh. I mean - uh. Sorry. Er.”

Beelzebub looks confused for a second before blinking and bursting out in a laugh, seemingly having come to some realisation. “Oh, sorry, I forgot most guys react like that. The lads are so used to me and the girls popping ibuprofen and complaining about cramps they don’t even raise an eyebrow anymore. Hell, Hastur just says ‘sucks to be you’…you can imagine how well that goes for him.”

The casualness of their tone relaxes the atmosphere and he laughs. “What did you do?”

“Oh, he wishes it was me he’d said that to. I would’ve just thrown something at him. Maggie is surprisingly scathing when she wants to be. He cried.”

Before he can ask if they have a recording of that incident, there’s a crash from the other side of the kitchen.

“It wasn’t me!” Pepper yells.

“Liar! You’re the one who dropped it!” Warlock protests

“Was not!”

“Was so!”

That’s a lot of cocoa powder on the floor. And on the kids clothes. And faces. And in their hair. It’s a good job Crowley’s not tidying up.

Eventually the kids stop arguing and get to work making trays of brownies and the atmosphere settles into what he’s learned to expect from camp. A controlled chaos, warm and loud and messy.

Teenagers talking over eachother, debating wether to use dark or milk chocolate, spilling as they pour ingredients together and scrambling to eat the leftover batter once the cake (that was another lively debate eventually ended when Beelzebub googled it to find - much to most of the kitchens chagrin - that brownies were not technically cake…only to declare that it didn’t matter what google said because they were in charge and they said it was closer to cake than a cookie bar like the internet said.) was in the oven.

“Alright, you know the drill, guys, get cleaning.”

There’s a collective groan from the group and Crowley snickers. Then he stops. Because in the corner of his eye, he sees Beelzebub looking even paler than before. They’re staring into space, a frown etched onto their features. He cautiously nudges them, and they almost jump out of their skin. Even without his own personal experience, he knows that’s never a good sign.

“Beez. Seriously, are you okay? Do you need to go see the nurse or something? I can watch these lot.”

They shake their head groggily. “Um…Yeah, actually. That would be good. Thanks.”

“No problem.” He tries to smile encouragingly. “You’ve done well even holding up this long, I was sure you were about to faint for a second there.”

“Me too, honestly.” They mutter, clapping him on the shoulder (Ow. How the hell is there that much force in that small of a body.) before grabbing their phone and heading for the kitchen door. “Seriously, thanks, mate. I owe you one.”

“I’ll hold you to tha-”

For the second time that day, there’s a crash.

“AGH, WHAT THE F-”

“Language.”

“Can it, Wendslydale.”

“What did you THINK would happen if you touched it without oven gloves?”

“Shut up, Pepper!”

Great. Snapping himself back into counsellor mode, Crowley whips around and rushes over to where a group of panicked teenagers is gathered around a dropped pan of brownies and a grimacing Warlock, holding a reddened hand.

“Move it, kids, counsellor coming through. What happened?”

Warlock frowns and ducks his head.

“I couldn’t find the oven gloves, but I’ve seen chefs touch hot stuff without them before, so I thought it’d be fine.”

Ah. Hello teenage hubris, my old friend. Crowley thinks. 

“Agh, well, that wasn’t the best idea…but it’s alright. I’ve done that before, it’s not as bad as it looks. Run it under some cold water for me, I’ll call one of the others to come watch everyone while I run you to the nurse.”

He turns and grabs the phone, typing in the password. The texts that appear on screen are…what? From dad?

Your brother is happy to have the extra space.

What brother? Gabriel is here at camp. Unless he has a half brother on his dad’s side he was never told about.

A picture of a Polaroid, taken with a lens that clearly hasn’t been wiped since the phone was new. He barely processes what the picture is before his attention is pulled by the next message down.

I’m assuming these are your friends. The ones you’re so secretive about. You’ve told these people about your little trip to baby jail, right?

‘Baby Jail?’ God, he must be drunk again.

If you don’t pull your weight when you get back, I’ll make sure they know all about the blood you have on your hands. So be good.

Blood. On his hands? He’s one to talk. He must be drinking moonshine or something today.

He’s about to type as much, promptly followed by an ‘If you pull this again I’m blocking you for good’ when the phone is ripped from his hands.

“What the fuck are you doing on my phone?” Beelzebub barks, the door flung wide open behind them as they shove the device into their pocket frantically, somehow looking worse than they did when they left.

“Wha- your phone? I thought you were going to the nurses office.”

“I was, but half way there I realised this-“ they brandish a phone - HIS phone - he realises with a startle, the silver graphic on his case glinting, and drop it down on the counter in front of him. “Wasn’t mine. Brain fog, just picked up the closest phone with a black case to me. Now answer my question. What the hell were you doing on my phone?”

“I didn’t realise either! I thought that was mine too! We have the same model, see?”

Seeming to be quickly de-escalating from the heightened temper that they’d entered the room with, they frown.

“Oh. Shit. Sorry…Wait. How did you get on? I have a password.”

“Uh. Good question…210906?” He pauses to turn to the campers, who had mostly stopped listening to the conversation as soon as Beelzebub calmed down, but better to be safe than sorry. “You lot never heard that. Don’t steal my phone.”

“Holy shit, how’d you know that?”

“That’s my password. Day I got my first snake. 21st September when I was six years old. Why’s it yours, exactly?”

“It’s my birthday. 21st September 2006. You know, what normal people use as a password.”

“…Rude.”

“I stand by it.”

Now that they’ve settled down from the initial explosion of anger, Beelzebub frowns, slipping their phone from their pocket and looking physically ill as they stare at the screen.

“You saw those texts, right?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“…Yeah, whatever. Just don’t tell anyone what you saw, alright?”

There’s an all too familiar air of anxiety around them as they say that.

“‘Course not. Now, since you’re going to the Nurses office anyway, could you take Warlock with you?”

“Warlock? Why?”

Crowley snorts and beckons Warlock over.

“Little man, show ‘em what’s wrong.”

Despite the death glare, he complies.

Beelzebub grumbles something about something happening every year, and considering forbidding Warlock, Adam and their cohort from operating the ovens, and grabs a towel, dousing it in cold water, wringing it out and telling the lank haired boy to keep it on his hand.

A couple hours, a call home to inform Warlocks parents of his injury, and a lot of reluctantly helping the kids clean up the kitchen (the little menaces are infuriatingly convincing) later, Crowley is the first to the counsellors table at lunch.

He tried to forget about the messages he saw earlier. It’s not his business. More importantly, it’s not his problem. He has more than enough of his own to deal with. But unfortunately for him - and contrary to what he’d have you believe - Crowley is a good person. One who despite his best interests feels a deep pang of empathy for his new friends situation. If those texts are anything to go by they have more in common than just a fondness for black clothing and sarcasm.

So when they’re the next to sit down at the table, he takes the opportunity to discuss the issue.

“Beez. Hey. You feeling better?”

“Eh, not great, but I’ve been worse. You alright though? You look more tense than Hastur when we caught him ignoring his campers to call his boyfriend.”

“Uh. Yeah, actually, feeling a bit tense. Listen, I gotta talk to you about something-“

“I’m not setting you up with Aziraphale.”

What.

“I’ll be straight with you. You’re chill, and I can tell you really like him, but I won’t help you with anything until I’m sure you can be trusted. You wanna try your luck? Go ahead. But I’m not getting involved after what happened last time. Have to look out for my people first, Y’know?.”

Feeling heat rush to his face, Crowley desperately tries to cut off the - completely incorrect, of course - ramble.

“Wait, that’s not what I-“

“Don’t worry, though. I won’t tell anyone. Secrets safe with me.”

There is no secret! He wants to say. But that would only lead to more…speculation…so instead:

“That’s not what I meant!” He whisper-yells, thudding a hand on the table. They look startled, then embarrassed.

“Oh.”

“I meant those messages I read earlier.”

Beelzebubs face hardens.

“I don’t want to talk about that. I told you to forget it.”

“I can’t forget it. Just…listen to me. I don’t know exactly what you’ve got going on, but whatever it is…well, let’s just say my dad’s not stellar either. And it sucks. And I’m sorry you’re dealing with this.”

This seems to strike a chord, and finally, he sees something click in their brain. “Oh. Uh…thanks.”

Now for the difficult part. “Just one thing, I swear, then I’ll stop talking about it. Word of advice - whatever your old man was talking about - blood on your hands, or something…I won’t pry what that means, I don’t know you well enough to demand answers, but…don’t keep that from your actual friends. I got some stuff I’m not proud of too, but if I hadn’t shared that I’d still be stuck with father of the year. Seriously, Whatever it is - I’m sure they’d be less angry at you for that than for lying to them. Those are some good people you’ve got, Y’know?”

“…yeah. I know. I’ll work on it. And for the record - you are an actual friend. Like I said, you’re chill.”

It’s not a lot, but it’s a start. Crowley really isn’t sure what gives him the confidence to dish out advice when he’s still fighting Gabriel over comments about his father as a legal adult, but this person who’s a little too much like him, straight from the wrong side of the tracks with a chip on their shoulder even somewhere as idyllic as this, has one thing he doesn’t, and he’d be damned if he let someone squander a support network he couldn’t have even conceived of when he was in the thick of it with his ‘situation’.

“Oh, thank god it’s just you two so far. Moment of peace before the rabble get here. Children can be viscious little creatures when you give them a controller.”

Despite his earlier protests about his supposed feelings towards Aziraphale, Crowley’s attention immediately zeroes in as he approaches.

“Oh yeah, I’m sure losing ten rounds of Smash Bros was such hard work. How ever did you cope?” Beez snarks.

“They say, as if they don’t throw a fit every time I use a blue shell in Mario Kart.” Aziraphale mutters as he sits down, quickly reaching over Crowley to swipe some chips from Beez’s plate. His arm is littered with freckles, scars and blue-inked doodles on his hand. Crowley wonders, briefly, if the freckles could be connected like the constellations he studies. Maybe the little scar by his thumb was a result of his own kitchen incident, back when he was the sweet, awkward little tween he’d seen in Beez’s ‘blackmail photos’. Maybe-

His observations are cut short when the arm is quickly withdrawn, chased by chipped black nails and an ‘Oi! Don’t skip on chips and steal mine, dipshit.’

Wow. He is really not helping his case with the whole ‘I don’t like Aziraphale’ argument.