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The thing about the rain is that you never really get used to it. Not if you’re a Londoner, born and raised, not if you’re a regular visitor of the rainiest Scottish island, not even if it will always remind you of meeting the love of your life. You just never get used to the dampness and the humidity and the wetness and, especially, the bloody cold. “Why the fuck is she taking so long?”
No, you never get used to the rain.
Especially when the previously mentioned love of your life is doing nothing to speed up the getting-out-of-the-rain process. “She’s taking as long as she usually does, Crowley. You’re just being snippy.”
“I’m always snippy.” Crowley remarks, pulling the lapels of his coat up to his ears. “‘S why you married me, it was in your vows.”
“You’re always bringing up our vows, and you call me a sap,” Aziraphale coos and tugs him closer, so that his giant white umbrella shields them better. Not that it’s doing much against this absolute downpour.
“It’s only been three months, give me a break.” He snarks, but he can’t resist slipping one hand into the pocket of Aziraphale’s warmer, wool coat. Perching his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder, he inhales the now overly familiar lavender scent and tries to not think about his absolutely drenched trousers. “She’s going to smell so bad.”
Fluffy, for her part, is having the time of her life. A dog born and raised in Skye is bound to be used to rain and storms, but their dog absolutely thrives when the grass turns muddy and the rest of the population, animal or human, is miserable.
Right now, she’s turning the few heads who are braving St. James Park on a day like this, laying belly up in a puddle and barking happily at the rolling thunder. Crowley grimaces.
Aziraphale lets out an unhappy sound. “Good Lord. We’ll definitely have to bathe her.”
Crowley had envisioned a different end to their Sunday. “You’ll bathe, I’ll dry.”
“She’s not a dish, Crowley.” Aziraphale complains. “And why am I always on bathing duty?”
Crowley grins and presses a kiss on a freezing cheek. “You look better wet than I do.”
“Debatable.” Aziraphale says, smile in his voice. “And flattery won’t get you anywhere.”
Fluffy is still yapping happily, now rolling on the grass. Crowley envies her, in a way - he wishes he was having half the fun she seems to be having.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale muses, tilting his head sideways so that his hair tickles Crowley’s nose. “Do you think she’s looking a bit… rounder?”
“Angel!” Crowley is outraged. “How can you say that about our child?”
Aziraphale smacks his chest. “Oh, quit it and be serious for a second. You know we need to monitor her weight for her little legs.”
There is nothing little about Fluffy. Her vet is sure she’s a Great Pyrenees mix, but he also noticed she’s bigger than an average female, more in line with the measurements and weight of a male. That means they need to keep a close eye on the state of her junctures, especially as she grows older and, well, heavier. Ever since she became a recurring guest on Crowley’s cooking web show, she’s been getting way more treats. It’s not his fault she’s a great test taster, alright?
And it’s not like Aziraphale is blameless. Now that he’s working on his original play, he spends most of his time holed up in the studio, writing and rehearsing and feeding Fluffy even more treats for being ‘such a good audience’.
So, yeah. Now that Crowley is taking a good look at her, she’s definitely looking - erm, fluffier. “Alright, maybe we need to stop with all the treats.”
“You’re the one who bakes her special cookies.” Aziraphale remarks. “We’ll need to weigh her when we get home.”
Crowley groans. “As if you don’t run to the kitchen every time she bats her eyes at you.”
Finally done with her business, Fluffy seems to sense she’s the subject of their conversation and comes trotting towards their owners, wet and muddy and wiggling her tail wildly.
Aziraphale hands Crowley the umbrella, then bends down to hook her leash to her collar. “Good girl. Shall we go home?”
Crowley smiles as Fluffy headbutts Aziraphale in his pristine trousers, leaving mud all over them. “Your dad is going to give you a bath, little monster, aren’t you happy?”
Aziraphale snatches the umbrella out of Crowley’s hand and starts marching. “And he’s most definitely not going to give your other dad anything!”
What a way to rain on Crowley’s parade.
“For the love of - stay still, you beast!”
Crowley doesn’t know why he thought drying Fluffy up was the better deal. She’s squirmy and wet and ignores every one of his tries to towel her off before she shakes and covers him in fur. He is already a mess of beige and dog spit, and Aziraphale is merely laughing at him, perched on the tub in his bathrobe. “Don’t laugh, you arsehole.”
“What were you doing while I had dog shampoo in my eyes?” Aziraphale chuckles, serenely crossing his arms on the top of his chest. The robe is loose enough to give Crowley a glimpse of blond chest hair, and it’s not helping his focus. Fluffy uses his brief moment of weakness to lick a wet strip all over his face. “I am never taking you outside ever again.”
After a few moments, Aziraphale kneels beside him and picks up the hairdryer. “I’ll start in the back while you dry her ears.”
“You don’t have to-” Crowley starts, because an agreement is an agreement, but Aziraphale cuts him off with a quick kiss. “We are a team, darling.”
And honestly, what can Crowley even say to that? Apparently, nothing intelligible whatsoever, but he does start rubbing Fluffy’s head faster, so that they can get to non-verbal activities faster. It’s what Crowley’s best at, either way.
They switch after a little while, and Crowley can’t help but notice that Aziraphale was right, earlier. Fluffy is always… fluffy, but there’s definitely more to her than the last time they gave her a bath. “Angel?”
“Yes, my love?”
He takes a second to fake cough to muffle his giggle. It’s embarrassing, he’s aware, and Aziraphale is also perfectly aware of what he’s doing, if the poorly hidden smirk is anything to go by. The tosser. “Urgh. I was saying, you’re right. She’s rounder.”
Aziraphale frowns, lips settling into a pout. “Should we weigh her? Or should we take her to the vet? What if she develops arthritis? We are most definitely not strong enough to carry her around.”
“Jesus, breathe.” Crowley sets a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, rubbing little circles. “I’ll give a call to the clinic tomorrow, alright?”
“Just to be sure,” Aziraphale mumbles. He’s biting his lower lip in the way he does when he’s overthinking, which is more often than Crowley likes. “What if we need to put her on a diet? She does love her little treats.”
Crowley is so in love with him it’s ridiculous. Seriously, sometimes he squirms in embarrassment when the depth of his feelings suddenly hits him. Like right now, watching his husband pouting and frowning and talking about little treats. He kind of wants to eat him, but he settles for a somewhat awkward side hug, given the beast between them. “Then we’ll find the tastiest dietary treats.”
“Are those a thing?” Aziraphale gives him a small smile.
“I’m sure they are,” Crowley says, more confident than he feels like. Well, they already spend an absurd amount of money on Fluffy, sure finding special light dog food won’t be what tips them over the top.
“Did you hear that, sweetheart?” Aziraphale coos, petting both Fluffy and Crowley. Embarrassingly enough, they both lean into the touch. “Your dad is going to find you special treats.”
“I actually said we -”
“He loves you so very, very much.”
Crowley has learned when it’s time to give up the fight, at least.
Dr. Everett has been Fluffy’s vet ever since they properly settled in London. Given her history of distrust and wariness around strangers, finding a doctor she didn’t hate straight away has been a journey: neither Aziraphale nor Crowley could stand the sight of her howling or, worse, desperately crying outside a clinic, but no clinic was good enough for the delicate sensibilities of the most spoiled dog in London.
Then Dr. Everett came along, and Fluffy seemed to tolerate him well enough - she didn’t cry, she didn’t howl, she didn’t piss all over his clinic’s floor, and it was good enough for both of them. Hence, he’s been her vet for a year and a half now, and they trust his judgement.
Which is why Crowley would have never believed these specific words would ever come out of his mouth. “You’re absolutely shitting me.”
Aziraphale, beside him, is frozen. “I beg your pardon?”
Dr. Everett merely smiles, a bit tightly. “Yeah, I know this can be a bit of a shocker, but, uhm, we did a CT scan to be sure.” He pulls up two sheets on the lightboard and, sure enough, it’s there.
They’re there. Two tiny dog skeletons inside a bigger dog skeleton. Two puppies inside of Crowley’s girl. “What the fuck?” He feels like his stomach is slowly falling out of his body. “How - what - what is this, dog Jesus? Jesuses?”
Aziraphale lets go of the hand he’d been holding, leaning back on his chair with hands covering his face. “Crowley. Anthony,” he whines.
Crowley is too far gone in his panic to do anything for Aziraphale’s panic. “We literally never leave her alone. And I mean it. We don’t take to doggy day care or whatever the hell it’s called, she doesn’t socialise with anyone that’s not us, which, may I remind you, is something you’re always buggering us about -”
“Paris.” Aziraphale whispers beside him, head still in his hands. “We went to Paris.”
Right. A month and a half prior, their belated New Year’s Trip. It was Crowley’s Christmas and wedding gift to Aziraphale, and it was everything and perfect and completely unrelated to the matter at hand. “Yeah, angel, we did. I don’t think this can happen by osmosis.”
Dr. Everett lets out a slightly awkward chuckle, while Aziraphale drops his hands to glare at Crowley. “I meant we didn’t bring her, you nutter. It’s the only time we -”
“We left her with Anathema and last time I checked, cats can’t do something like - like this.” Crowley’s wildly flailing hands seem to be upsetting Fluffy, who comes up to him to put her big wet snout on his left thigh. He puts a hand on her head automatically. “Anathema has cats, angel. Not a single dog in sight.”
“She lives in a cottage.” Aziraphale says, his voice a thin thread laced with obvious panic. He puts his hand on top of Crowley’s one. “Perhaps a neighbour-”
“Maybe we can figure this out later,” Dr. Everett tries to chime in, but Crowley shakes his head, already fishing his phone out of his pocket. “Nuh-uh, we’re figuring this out right now, actually.”
Anathema picks up after two rings. “Hello stranger, I was actually about to -”
“Shut up,” Crowley snarls. It’s a testament to how strung out Aziraphale actually is that he doesn’t remind Crowley to be nice.
“Did you leave Fluffy unattended when she stayed with you?”
Anathema is silent for a beat. “What? No! I would never – is she okay?”
Crowley laughs. He sounds so hysterical Fluffy whines low in her throat, and nuzzles closer. “I don’t know, is she? She’s either the dog version of the Virgin Mary or something happened when she stayed with you.”
“Darling,” Aziraphale warns, and Fluffy licks their joined palms.
On the other line, he can hear Anathema breathing deeply. “She liked to explore the garden in the mornings, but she never roamed too far, I have motion sensors and - oh.”
Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s actually going to have to murder someone. “Oh, what?”
He knows Anathema well enough to know she’s probably walking around in a circle right now, brows pinched and a hand tight in her hair. “Shit, I am so sorry, I didn’t - the neighbours have an Irish Setter and I didn’t think -”
“Yeah, you didn’t think.” Crowley replies, instinctively burying his shaky fingers in Fluffy’s fur. Aziraphale gives his hand a squeeze, looking at him with wide eyes.
Anathema lets out a pained noise. “I am so sorry, I truly had no idea she would -”
“Save it,” Crowley hangs up. “I’m committing a murder.”
“No, you are not,” Aziraphale says. His hand is clammy and his bottom lip is trembling, and Crowley knows how hard he’s trying to not completely melt down in a vet clinic. The least he can do is put up an effort as well. “Now that this is resolved, we should listen to what the doctor was trying to say.”
“Right,” Dr. Everett clears his throat. “There are some issues I would like to address.”
Yeah, Crowley is definitely going to prison for life. “Such as?”
“Her age, first of all.” As if in protest, Fluffy lets out a small bark.
Up until fifteen minutes ago, Crowley thought menopause was a thing for dogs as well. Actually, he never thought about menopause and dogs in the same sentence, but if he were asked to, he would have said dogs function similarly to humans. Apparently, that’s not true.
“She’s seven years old, which is past the ideal age for breeding.” Dr. Everett continues. “Based on the images, she’s more than halfway along -”
“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale suddenly squeaks. “What do you mean she’s more than halfway along?”
Dr. Everett sends him a sympathetic smile. “Dog pregnancies last approximately sixty five days. Given the CT scan, I would say she has a little over two weeks left.”
Crowley thinks he’s actually going to pass out. Aziraphale swallows loudly, his dry throat clicking. “The Paris trip happened a month and a half ago.”
“So, that tracks.” Dr. Everett nods. “Geriatric pregnancies are more dangerous, especially with dogs as large as Fluffy here.”
Again, Fluffy protests, whining lowly in her throat. Crowley feels dazed, but still has to ask. “What does that mean?”
Dr. Everett hesitates. “Let’s not think about worst case scenarios, alright? We’ll schedule a C-section two weeks from today and we’ll keep her closely monitored in the meantime.”
Worst case scenarios. It’s the only thing Crowley can hear, even when Aziraphale asks more questions, even when the vet tells them she’s still doing okay, all things considered, even when they come up with a treatment plan and schedule surgery and leave the clinic with vitamins and medications and some weird machine to monitor his dog’s heart rate.
Fluffy gets into the car without much fuss, as she always does. He mindlessly checks if her seatbelt is properly connected to the leash, as he always does, because they drive around often with Fluffy in tow, since she’s the best and she loves it and they do everything together and now Crowley is actually breaking down in the driver seat, merely thinking about the words worst case scenarios, not even the scenarios itself.
“Oh, come here.” It’s awkward, hugging each other in a car with a console between them, but they manage, as they always do. Aziraphale holds him close, and Crowley doesn’t complain about the lack of oxygen. “I know, love, I know.”
“I’m so sorry,” Crowley croaks out. “If anything -”
“It’s not your fault. And don’t even think about that.” Aziraphale’s voice shakes, but his hands are firm on Crowley’s back, his lips a pleasant weight on the top of his head.
“It kind of is my fault, though.” It was his trip and his friend, after all. And Aziraphale is just too kind to him to point it out.
“You aren’t an Irish Setter, or at least you weren’t the last time I checked.” Suddenly, Aziraphalel lets out an uncharacteristic snort, followed by a wet chuckle. “Oh, good Lord. I can’t believe you, Fluffy.”
“What?” Crowley hopes Aziraphale is not about to give their dog the sex talk in their car, in their vet’s parking lot. He definitely is weird enough to do something like that.
Aziraphale is still laughing quietly. “She chose a lanky redhead . Of all the dogs-”
“Don’t even finish this sentence. Or this thought.” Crowley groans, lifting his head up. “Why the hell are you like this?”
Aziraphale wipes a few of his tears, rapidly brushing Crowley’s cheeks as well. “I mean, if you think about it, it is kind of amusing.”
“I don’t think about it.” Crowley snaps back. “I will never, ever think about it. You are so weird.”
Unfortunately, he immediately thinks about it and much to his dismay, he snorts.
Aziraphale smiles victoriously. “See!”
“Shut up, angel, I swear.” He tries to reign his chuckles in. “An Irish Setter, Fluffy, are you serious?”
Fluffy shifts in the backseat, resting her head on the console and silently asking for pets. Aziraphale sighs and scratches her ears. “After everything I told you about boys with red hair…”
Crowley smacks his hand away, and bops Fluffy’s nose. “I hate you.”
“Likewise.” Aziraphale smiles, a bit wobbly. “We should, uhm, we should get home. She needs her rest.”
Crowley feels the knot in his throat swelling up again, and does the only thing he can think of doing when things suck. He leans into Aziraphale, touching their foreheads together, waiting for his angel to close the distance.
As always, Aziraphale does. The kiss is short and chaste, merely a peck, but exactly what he needed. “We’re a team, you and I, aren’t we?”
“Of course we are, darling.”
That was in their vows as well. And alright, perhaps Crowley is the sap in this relationship.
(Later that night, he finds Aziraphale in the studio, wordlessly sobbing in front of an open laptop Crowley wasn’t even aware he actually knew how to use. Still, he doesn’t hesitate.
He’s the one to hold Aziraphale close, to tell him not to read anything about the worst case scenarios anymore, to brush his tears away, to kiss him until he cracks a smile. He keeps going until he gets Aziraphale to laugh a little, and it’s enough for him.
They’re a team, always. And it’s everything he needs.)
Anathema calls back the following night.
Well, she calls back the following morning and afternoon, but every call gets ignored. Crowley is perfectly aware of the fact that he’ll have to talk to her, but Aziraphale suggested waiting until the murdering thoughts pass. He doesn’t believe Crowley when he says the murdering thoughts will never pass, but it’s fine. He will.
If there is one thing Anthony Crowley is good at is keeping a grudge (well - except when Aziraphale is involved, but most things don’t apply to him); moreover, this is not simply a grudge. He knows he’s right, and he also knows she does feel bad, but one look at Fluffy sleeping soundly in front of the fireplace brings back all the anger he is unsuccessfully trying to repress.
Aziraphale is currently writing down Fluffy’s heart rate on the little notebook he selected for the occasion. He learned how to use a stethoscope yesterday and he’s already acting like he has a recurring role on a medical drama. Crowley would find him ridiculous, and he does, but those little glasses do something for him. “Angel?”
Aziraphale briefly looks up. “Yes?”
“D’you think she, like, knows?” He mimics a sort of balloon with his hands.
With a sigh, Aziraphale closes the notebook and unhooks the stethoscope from around his neck. Crowley squirms a bit, sinking deeper into the sofa. “Are you asking me if I know whether our dog is conscious of being with child?”
Good god. “Now you know damn well I was not asking you that.” Crowley groans. “ With child. Who are you?”
“You love me,” Aziraphale winks, before getting serious again. “I honestly have no idea. I just hope she’s not in too much discomfort.”
Crowley crawls towards the pair in front of the fireplace, his fingers disappearing into light brown fur and finding Aziraphale’s. “She seems like her usual happy self.”
Aziraphale hums. “I hope she is.”
Crowley looks down at Fluffy, smiling at the soft sleepy huffs she lets out only when she’s deeply relaxed. “I think we’re rather good at this dog parenting thing.”
Aziraphale’s lips twitch. “Our child successfully hid a pregnancy for months.”
“At least it’s not a teen pregnancy,” Crowley defends. “She’s a grown woman, let her take responsibility.”
“Speaking of responsibilities,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley immediately groans. “We need to talk about our grandchildren.”
“Step one, we’re not calling them grandchildren.”
He knows they’ll have to talk about it: keeping one Fluffy in their house is a thing, keeping three is just impossible. Sure, their home is big, enormous even for London’s standards, but so is Fluffy. Three of her would just make their life a living hell. They would need a spare room just for all the hair.
Adoption seems the most reasonable option. They’ll work with the vet to find good, suitable families to house the puppies, they’ll make sure they’ll be happy and well taken care of.
Still.
Still, Aziraphale can’t help but think about how sad it would be for a mother to be separated from her kids three short months after having them, and Crowley hates him because he hadn’t thought about that fact before last night, but now that he has, he can’t stop. What if they give the puppies away and Fluffy is never happy again?
“You know, I’ve read that dog mothers are resilient.” Aziraphale says in his lecture tone. “They don’t expect their offspring to spend their whole life with them. Some of them are actually happy to see them go.”
Crowley quirks an eyebrow. “Did you read this on What To Expect When You’re Expecting For Dogs?”
Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “No, darling , I asked the Google a question and I read the answers off a weird website with an orange logo.”
“It’s not the - oh, whatever, we’ve had this fight before.” Multiple times a week, actually. “Wait. Oh, god.” He snorts. “You went on Reddit?”
“I don’t know,” Aziraphale moans, eyes wide. “But then I asked more questions about geriatric pregnancies in dogs and then you found me sobbing.”
Crowley has to bite the inside of his cheek, hard, to hold in laughter. “My poor angel.”
“Yes, well.” Aziraphale sniffs. He’s back into lecturer mode. “We’re getting sidetracked. The puppies.”
Crowley taps a finger on his bottom lip. “I’m not having this conversation without a drink.” He untangles himself from the floor and presses a kiss on the top of Aziraphale’s head. “Tea or whiskey?”
“Hot chocolate with whiskey in it.” Aziraphale wiggles a bit in place and blows him a kiss. “Thank you, love.”
Crowley waves him off and smiles as he walks into the kitchen, busying himself with the task of preparing a hot chocolate up to Aziraphale’s standard. It’s the only thing his husband is decent at making, and that makes him insufferable. It also reminds Crowley of their beginning, that fragile morning in which everything was far from okay but, somehow, he knew everything would settle into place.
Gosh. He’s getting sentimental over milk and cocoa. He should have thought more about this whole marriage business.
That's when his phone rings. He doesn’t have to glance at it to know the caller, and he automatically rolls his eyes. The milk is still cold on the stove. He has time to get this over with.
Anathema starts talking as soon as the call connects, in that matter-of-fact way of hers. “The owners of the Setter are incredibly sorry and want to pay for every medical expense.”
Crowley scoffs. “I don’t give a shit about the medical expenses. And I am not mad at them.” He’s mad at their dog, but he knows how insane the thought is, so he keeps it for himself.
“I am incredibly sorry as well, like Newt is, which you would know if you picked up your phone.”
Yeah. He overestimated the calming effect of an evening spent with his husband and dog. “Listen,” he turns the stove off. “I left my dog at your house and she came back pregnant because you couldn’t be arsed to keep an eye on her like you were supposed to.”
“That’s not what -”
“And she’s seven years old, and I don’t want to tell you what it means for a dog her age to get pregnant, but know that if the worst happens, I will never, ever calm down. Now, I will call you back once I don’t think murder anytime I happen to think about your stupid cottage. Bye.”
The phone rattles on the counter with a dull thud. Behind him, someone gasps.
“What are you doing here?”
“You were taking longer than usual.” Aziraphale tilts his head. “You were very…decisive, just now.”
“Are you going to scold me for my rudeness?”
Aziraphale bites his bottom lip. It reddens upon release. “I should, but I can’t recall why right now.”
Oh. Crowley smirks. “Really?”
“Really.” Aziraphale leans against the dining table, waiting.
Crowley feels his face stretch into a wide grin. “Do you still want a drink?” He’s already walking closer.
“Do you?” Aziraphale counters, palms settling on Crowley’s chest when he’s close enough. “I think we could both use a pick me up.”
“Yeah,” Crowley agrees, already lost in the warmth bleeding from Aziraphale’s palms. “Good idea.”
“I’m full of them.” Aziraphale plays with the hem of Crowley’s old henley.
“You’re full of shit.” Crowley strokes a finger down the side of Aziraphale’s neck, pleased when the biting retort dies on his tongue. “Don’t worry, I still like you.”
“Such high praise.” Every one of Aziraphale’s soft feature twitches upwards in that mischievous way that still drives Crowley crazy. He’s been lost since day zero, honestly. “I quite like you too.”
Crowley wets his lip. “Can we skip our weird mind games since it’s been a really shitty couple of days and-”
Aziraphale cuts him off. He leans forward, maddeningly slowly, and presses their lips together. Crowley’s fingers tingle, his stomach swoops, and he’s sure Aziraphale can feel the way his heart rate spikes up, exactly like it did in the beginning. Crowley’s not sure he’ll ever stop feeling that way.
He cups Aziraphale’s face in his hands, gentle but insistent when he runs his tongue over Aziraphale’s lips. It’s been a really shitty couple of days, alright? Still, he refuses to rush when Aziraphale parts for him, licking into him slowly and smoothing his thumb over Aziraphale’s cheekbone. He pushes Aziraphale into the table until he gets his plan and hops onto the table, legs parting to make space for Crowley.
“On the table?” Aziraphale murmurs when they break apart for breath. “So unhygienic.”
“Shut up,” Crowley says, before diving back in and swallowing up Aziraphale’s giggle. This time, he’s the one to take control, gripping Crowley’s hair and moving him to his satisfaction.
Crowley is pretty satisfied as well as the kiss turns a bit dirty, all tongues and heavy breathing and wandering hands.
Somehow, he finds himself hovering over Aziraphale, who has his back pressed onto the table and his palms deep into Crowley’s back pockets. Smirking, he moves down to nip at his jaw. “Still worried about hygiene?”
Aziraphale’s hips stutter upwards, and Crowley breaks away with a gasp. “I don’t know, are you?”
Crowley sneaks a hand under Aziraphale jumper, brushing their noses together. “You bastard.”
“So you’ve, ah, so you’ve said.” Aziraphale sucks Crowley’s bottom lip onto his mouth, his hands squeezing and pushing him closer.
Crowley’s breaths go heavier, and his hand tingles as he absorbs the warmth from Aziraphale’s stomach, before moving higher, til he can find a -
A loud bark makes them break apart, because of course it does. When Crowley tilts his head, he finds two big brown eyes watching him, seeing right through him. If dogs could raise eyebrows, he’s sure Fluffy would be an eyebrow-raise champion. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Aziraphale huffs. He doesn’t move his hands. “Not after your little stunt, young girl. Go to your bed and think about what you did.”
If dogs could roll their eyes, Fluffy would be such an eye-roller. She listens though, turning around with a huff and trotting back towards the living room.
Crowley looks down at Aziraphale, trying to focus on his glass eyes and not on his bitten-red lips. “Young girl?”
The best human eye-roller lives up to his title. “I thought you wanted to skip to the good part.”
And, well, Crowley can’t disagree.
They forget about the milk until the following morning.
Somehow, in their joint insanity, they managed to schedule their dog’s C-section on Valentine’s Day.
Last year, on their first Valentine’s Day together, they pretended not to care about the holiday until the very day, when Crowley casually mentioned a reservation for two at Aziraphale’s favourite spot, and Aziraphale just as casually pulled Crowley’s favourite orchid seemingly out of thin air.
Actually, they both are saps.
It was a nice night. There were candles and overpriced heart-shaped desserts and too much chocolate, but there was also a nice dinner and Aziraphale’s soft smile and his sky eyes lighting up the whole restaurant. It was Crowley’s first Valentine’s Day, and he realised hating clichés is harder when you’re in love. Ugh.
This year, they’re spending Valentine’s Day in the waiting room of a vet’s clinic, waiting. It technically shouldn’t take longer than two hours, if everything goes well. Since Crowley won’t even think about the other scenario, he’s waiting.
Aziraphale is pretending to read the book he brought, biting his nails at almost creepingly regular intervals.
“That family seems very nice.” He says after a while, closing the useless book. “I like that the mother is a farmer.”
“Mmyeah.” Crowley comments. “Good enough.”
They didn’t do much these past two weeks, besides looking for a family for the grandchildren (Crowley stopped complaining after five days), besides watching Fluffy like hawks and occasionally crying. It’s been a journey: they managed to find flaws in every single family who replied to Dr. Everett’s announcement, and finally dividing the possible candidates in hard nos and maybes.
The Wrights have been in the maybes pile from the beginning, but ultimately won the war when they sent Dr. Everett a video of their garden and house, along with a small presentation of their family and farm.
Aziraphale found it all very cute and twee, Crowley just thought that they managed to find people insane enough to fit their standards, and they should take advantage of it.
He knows that everyone at the clinic thinks they’re insane. He doesn’t care: first, because they are; second, because they just love their dog more than anyone has ever loved a pet. Thank you very much.
Aziraphale is starting to get more jittery. His fingers dance on his thighs, his left foot tapping relentlessly on the floor.
Crowley digs into the pocket of his coat and fishes out his gift. It’s sad as hell compared to his usual, but it’ll do for a waiting room.
“I’m not a baker,” he says, trying to keep the disdain out of his voice. “But I know how to make strawberry flavoured chocolate.”
Aziraphale’s hands still as he looks up, question in his eyes.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, angel.”
Azirphale blinks at the little box in Crowley’s hands. When he looks back up, his eyes are glassy. “Have I told you lately you’re the best thing in my life?”
What the fuck? “What the fuck, Aziraphale,” Crowley groans. “You know you can’t say things like that to me.”
True enough, his glasses are already fogging up. “Just take the damn chocolate.”
Instead, Aziraphale kisses him, slow and sweet, with a hand grasping his chin. “I love you,” he whispers.
“Love you too,” Crowley murmurs.
Finally, Aziraphale takes the chocolate, but doesn’t immediately take a bite. Impossibly, he finds a pen in his pocket, and grasps Crowley’s hand.
“What are you doing, nutter?”
“Getting you roses,” Aziraphale replies simply. “This will have to do.”
Aziraphale draws three roses on Crowley’s wrist, right next to the angel wings he added back in August. “You know I’m getting that tattooed as well, do you?”
“I’ve never complained about your ink, darling.”
When he’s done, he keeps holding Crowley’s hand.
Crowley smiles, and leans his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder.
They wait.
Dr. Everett is still in his scrubs when he comes into the waiting room, forty minutes later. “So, bad news and good news.”
“Bad news first,” Crowley says, right as Aziraphale croaks out, “Good news.”
Dr. Everett gives them a tight smile. Crowley is squeezing Aziraphale’s hand so hard he’s sure he’s about to break. “We had a bleeding and had to perform a full hysterectomy, but Fluffy is okay and currently in recovery, sleeping. She’s breathing on her own and her heart looks great.”
Predictably, Aziraphale starts crying. As much as Crowley would like to join him, he finds himself asking, “The puppies?”
Dr. Everett removes his plastic hat before answering. “Unfortunately, one was just too small. We did everything we could, but couldn’t get him to breathe.”
Oh. Crowley doesn’t really know what to say to that. He’s positive his heart shouldn’t feel so heavy.
“What about the other one?” Aziraphale manages.
“She’s doing good and recovering with her mum.” Dr. Everett smiles. “You can see them both for a moment if you want.”
Crowley shoots up before he’s even done speaking.
Fluffy is sleeping in a sort of crate, cuddled in the blanket Aziraphale insisted they needed to bring, under a heating red lamp. There’s a pink scar on her shaved belly, and a tiny, too tiny looking thing cuddled up next to her. She’s light brown like her mum, but the tips of her mini-sized paws are red, just like her ears and snout. Her eyes are closed, and she’s breathing fast, whining and nuzzling closer to Fluffy.
Of course, Crowley's glasses fog up so much he can’t see anything anymore, and Aziraphale is still more or less sobbing. “Oh, she’s wearing tiny little socks,” he croaks out.
“Angel,” Crowley whines. “We’re not giving her away, right?”
“Oh, absolutely not. Look at her.”
He should have seen this ending coming. “Maybe we should actually look into those cottages we talked about.”
Aziraphale nods. “I think it’s time, yes.”
“Sorry gentlemen, I’m kicking you out in a second. We’re keeping them here overnight for observation.” Crowley honestly forgot Dr. Everett was even there, and doesn’t like him much right now. “Do I need to ring the Wrights?”
“Tell them we apologise, and their farm looks lovely.” Aziraphale turns to look at Fluffy once more. “But we can’t.”
“It happens more often than you think.” Dr. Everett replies easily. “She needs a name, now.”
Crowley glances at Aziraphale. “You’re the author.”
“Aspirant,” he mumbles, but when his eyes light up, Crowley knows they have a name.
Aziraphale squeezes his hand. “What do you think about Rose?”
“You’re a sap,” Crowley chuckles. God, he hates how perfect it fits. “Rose it is then.”
She was born on Valentine’s Day, after all.
“We both are saps.” Aziraphale blows two kisses to the sleeping duo. “We’ll see you tomorrow, girls. Sweet dreams.”
Crowley sighs. It’d be hard to top this Valentine’s Day, but he has a feeling they will, eventually.
They’re a team. A very good one.