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The pregnancy, when it happened, came as a surprise.
Oh, sure, the idea of the two of them having a kid had occurred to him once, twice, a billion times over the millennia—how could it not? He loved kids, he loved Aziraphale, it was a no-brainer. Of course he thought it would be nice to have kids with the angel. But it had been one of those Ideas Crowley didn't let himself think about, like freedom, overthrowing Heaven and Hell, and all that rubbish. Pipe dreams, the lot of them. It wasn't going to happen. He was never going to get to be together in peace with his angel, so there was no reason at all to think of that one nagging dream he couldn't shake.
But never became reality after a long and bloody battle that he and Aziraphale almost lost. They won. And after their wounds healed, Aziraphale showed him a nice little cottage he'd bought in the South Downs around the same time he bought the bookshop. Crowley liked it, and away they went. He'd whipped the garden into shape and did as much modernizing as his old-fashioned angel could stomach. Aziraphale filled nearly every wall with shelves and nearly every shelf with books. They recovered, they rebuilt themselves, and they lived.
It was fucking fantastic. God didn't want him to be happy, but too bloody bad. She'd buggered off somewhere else in the universe ages ago, and Crowley was thriving. Everything was perfect.
Then, he got sick.
Not sick-sick, not worryingly sick—that didn't happen to angels and demons. Just something a bit like a hangover that didn't want to go away, nausea and fatigue and the like. Something was a little off with his aura, too, and as soon as Aziraphale took a peek and came away beaming and crying happy tears after swan diving into his abdomen, Crowley Knew.
"Guess we can spawn together, then," he'd said, his own eyes welling up, and he and Aziraphale shared a watery laugh.
"I suppose we can," Aziraphale agreed, and that was that. Aziraphale let out a giddy laugh and swept him up in his arms, and Crowley kissed him hard.
They were going to be parents.
Months went by, that pesky hangover feeling went away, and eventually, Crowley was—even he had to say it, ugh—blossoming. Not the type of word he'd usually use for himself, but everything was beyond good. His belly was getting big, his hair was so lush, he felt fantastic, and they were having a kid.
Sweet someone, they were going to have a baby.
The endless surprise of it kept catching him off guard. In the garden, amongst his flourishing plants, he kept catching himself marveling at the life coming into being inside him. A few vines liked to reach out and caress his bump, and Crowley understood. It was hard to keep his own hands off, or especially Aziraphale's. There was someone in there, wiggling about like their angelic papa, and it was amazing.
Just as his garden was doing, he was bringing new life into the world. He was creating again. He loved it.
The kiddo kicked at his palm, and Crowley gave them a little pat. "I know, I know," he said. "Starting to get sappy like your papa." He chuckled, and the baby jabbed at him again. "Wot?" he squawked. "Not allowed to laugh?" He poked them back, and they responded with another kick. "Just you wait. Soon as you pop out, I'm gonna start tickling those things, you keep that up."
Really, he loved all their little kicks and punches and flutters. They were a great kid, in his opinion. He barely knew them, sure, but they were his and his angel's. Fantastic genes.
Did they have genes? Probably not—probably some proto-genetic material or some other Heavenly firmament rubbish. But they were part him and part Aziraphale, assuming their reproduction worked the same way as the humans' did. No matter. Amazing sprog, solid twenty out of ten score, maybe more. They'd made a good baby.
His life these days was peaceful. Aziraphale was a much more social creature than him and was always in town with his many clubs and committees and friends, and who knew what else—busy bee, the angel. Crowley was happy where he was. The garden needed to be kept in line, as did the many, many houseplants. He spent his days prowling around the yard, seeking out weeds and scolding the misfits who thought they could get away with a piss-poor performance. Not on his watch. Aziraphale might be soft on the buggers, but not Crowley.
Well, not when there were witnesses, anyway. He had a reputation to maintain. Couldn't get too soft in retirement.
The kid, though—endless softness there. He didn't feel the slightest desire to fake being a bastard with them. His hands spent more time on his belly than not, just petting the baby and telling them without words that he loved them. The pregnancy was flying by. That was the thing about being older than time—everything went by so fast. Sometimes, he thought he wanted to keep the baby inside forever, just to preserve this precious connection and keep them safe and close and there for a while longer. Stop time and stay in a bubble with his angel and their child.
Then, they punched him right in the bladder. Crowley grunted and muttered, "Oi, you little shit—what'd you do that for?" and went to take care of business.
Once he was finished, he came out of the loo to the sound of his angel bustling about in the kitchen, singing a song Crowley hadn't heard since at least the 1920s. "I did the shopping," Aziraphale said, as Crowley walked in, and the baby started wriggling about with excitement. "Picked up some—ooh! Hello, darling."
Crowley squeezed him tight and kissed the back of his head. "Mmph, hi," he said, lining himself up along the length of Aziraphale's spine as much as his big bump would allow. "Get anything good?"
"I did indeed," Aziraphale said, and Crowley could hear the smile in his voice—and could hear it brighten when the baby kicked their papa's back and Aziraphale chirruped, "Oh, hello, little one!"
"They're happy you're back, I think," Crowley said. "Really ramped up the squirming when they heard you."
"Well, I am happy to be back, even though I wasn't gone long." Aziraphale disentangled himself from Crowley's hold, then turned around and crouched in front of him. "Hello, dear one," he said, cradling Crowley's belly in both of his warm, gentle hands. He pressed a soft kiss to the bump, and the baby kicked at his lips. Aziraphale laughed, and so did Crowley. "Oh, I'm so happy to see you, too! How I missed you both, my loves."
As he often did, Aziraphale gave his belly more kisses, dropping them all over the swell with exaggerated "mwah" sounds. Crowley leaned back against the counter, bracing his awkward body, and watched with a smile. Disgusting. He'd become such a bloody sap.
But it was hard not to topple over that edge into the soppy sap with a smitten Aziraphale dragging you along, wasn't it? Aziraphale was overflowing with love and joy—so much more of it these days, too. With all of that directed toward him, Crowley didn't stand a chance.
He was happy. All those years of fear and frustration had led to this: a kitchen filled with warm spring sunshine and freshly bought food, a new life coming into being inside his corporation, and his angel kissing him freely, loving him freely, being with him freely.
Sure, God might not look upon it and see that it was good or anything, but Crowley did. Aziraphale did. They had everything they wanted and more.
He didn't know what he'd do if all of it was taken from him.
"None of that now," Aziraphale said, in a chiding tone. "I can feel your mood sinking." He stood up, straightening his jumper and jacket along the way, and splayed his hands on Crowley's hips."There's nothing to fret about anymore, my darling. We're safe."
"Ngh, there's always something to fret about," Crowley said, unable to face the blinding optimism in Aziraphale's eyes. "Things could go wrong."
"Or they could go right," Aziraphale countered.
"Or not," Crowley said. "What if—"
Aziraphale shushed him gently. "My dear boy, we were promised our freedom. The whole system has been overhauled. We aren't outlaws anymore. We're free."
"Until She comes back," Crowley said. "Eternal punishment, remember? I'm supposed to suffer until the end of everything."
"The Almighty has had plenty of time to return and put things back the way they are, and She hasn't done so," Aziraphale said. "And if She did not want this—" He moved a hand to Crowley's belly. "—to be possible, we never would have conceived our little miracle, now would we? We would have been physically incapable of breeding, or even mating, with each other. But here we are."
Breeding, mating. Crowley wrinkled his nose. "You make it sound like we're animals, angel, ugh."
"Would you prefer—how do I put this crudely enough you'll appreciate it—knocking each other up and, ah, fucking like bunnies, dear?" Somehow, Aziraphale said both with the most innocent smile, the absolute bastard.
Crowley loved him.
But he'd never broken the habit of worrying, of being deeply distrustful of happiness. Getting dragged down to Hell and tortured, having to swap bodies with your beloved to stay alive, needing to avert the end of days one last time—they stuck with a demon. Humans called that sort of thing "trauma." Nina might say he needed therapy. Personally, he thought he just needed more time with his husband and their kid.
"I'd prefer you not being so bleeding optimistic," Crowley groused, but he didn't mean it, and he could tell Aziraphale knew it from the smug glint in his gorgeous eyes. "Why aren't you worried? You always worry!"
"I'm an angel," Aziraphale said, far too beatifically for Crowley's tastes, but Aziraphale was Aziraphale. "I'm a bit more inclined toward faith than you are, dear heart.
"But, if it makes you feel better," Aziraphale continued, and stroked Crowley's belly, "I can't exactly say that I'm never worried. But I am always watching for trouble on the horizon. If something is looming, I will know about it, and we can act accordingly. Does that offer you any comfort?"
Aziraphale was watching. Aziraphale had all the power of a supreme archangel still, and he had his countless eyes on the skies. Realistically, their little private Eden was the safest place in the universe.
As he turned that notion over in his head, Crowley felt himself relax. "Yeah," he said. "You know, it does, I think."
With a tender smile, Aziraphale stood on his toes and pressed a quick kiss to Crowley's lips. "The skies are clear as a bell, my love," he said. "We aren't being watched. We aren't being threatened. A few of the old biddies in town are very interested in our impending 'homosexual' and 'transgender' parenthood—humans are so silly, aren't they?—but they needed something to gossip about anyway."
Crowley chuckled. He knew which ones. "Crotchety old hens, the lot of them." They'd soften right up as soon as they saw the little bub.
"We're safe, Crowley," Aziraphale said. "I think we might truly be safe—properly safe." His free hand wandered from Crowley's hip to his cheek. "I don't know about forever, but we are safe for today."
That would have to do, Crowley supposed. They couldn't guarantee forever, no—God was a capricious being, capable of only She knew what sorts of flights of fancy. One day She might wrap up Her vacation and decide to chuck everything She'd created into eternal nothingness, angels and demons and all. And they couldn't do anything about it.
Safe for today. "Yeah, alright," Crowley said. It didn't ease his mind entirely—he doubted anything could—but it would work for the moment. "Let's get all this food put up, yeah? Before the spawn makes me eat it all."
Aziraphale huffed. "'Spawn.' And you complained about me using 'breeding' and 'mating.'" But he got to work alongside him, handling the heaviest of the haul.
"Would you prefer I say 'fetus?'" Crowley asked. "Or—hmm." He sucked his teeth and tried to think of something awful, something vile that Aziraphale would hate. "Fuck trophy?"
Aziraphale glared. "Really, my dear, that one's just rude."
Crowley threw his head back and laughed. He didn't like it much either, but dear someone, the sour look on Aziraphale's face was priceless. "Yeah, alright," he said. "I'll stick to demon spawn, since that's what they are."
"They are not," Aziraphale said, with an adorable huff.
Getting in Aziraphale's face, Crowley said, "They are," drawing out the word, and Aziraphale gave him a loving swat to the chest. He cackled.
"They are not, you wretched fiend," Aziraphale insisted.
"One hundred percent ssssertified demon." Crowley stepped back, spreading his arms and showing himself off. "One of the most infamous demons of all at that—the Ssssserpent of Eden. And what's this?" He placed his hands on his belly, and the baby kicked at them. "Could it be some sort of spawn in here?" Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Must be a demon spawn, then!"
"And they are also part angel," Aziraphale said, haughtily. "We spent centuries canceling each other out. How is our most intimate venture to date any different?"
Crowley's argument fell flat. Bugger. Aziraphale had a point. "Fine," he grumbled, "not just a demon spawn. But!" He held up a finger. "I reserve the right to call them one if they hit me in the bladder or other various, y'know, tender bits, or keep me awake or anything while they're still in the womb, 'kay?"
"So long as I get to call them a little angel on occasion." Aziraphale stepped up to him and cradled his belly again, and Crowley stuck out his tongue, but he felt so, so loved. "We made something beautiful," Aziraphale said, softly, "didn't we?"
"Yeah, we did," Crowley said. "And we're gonna get to keep it, yeah?"
"Yes," Aziraphale said. "Yes, we are."
A start, an end, a new beginning. A garden of their own, full of blooming blossoms and ripening fruits of various kinds. A life of their own, together for forever, and a new one making them further intertwined.
And Anthony J. Crowley looked upon it and saw that it was good—no God required.