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In all matters of the universe, there is a particular order to all things. This fact has remained spectacularly constant throughout time, creating a wonderful predictability that allows for assumptions.
The sky has always been up, and, predictably, when the Heavens open, rain falls down. [1]
The sun will always rise each morning in the east, just as it always sets in the west. The moon will always pull the tide, ushering wayfaring travelers out to sea. And as the seasons change, ever evolving into something new, winter will always yield to spring.
In all matters of the universe, one thing is certain: the demon Crowley is a complete and utter wreck when it comes to the angel Aziraphale — a fact even more pronounced now that his angel is seven months pregnant.
“And you’re sure, he’s not there, Justine?” Crowley asks as he paces around the bookshop, raking his hand brusquely through his unruly hair. “No. Right. I understand, but–”
Suddenly the line goes dead, and the demon looks at his mobile, affronted.
From her place on the settee, Nina looks on. “What did you two get into a spat about, anyway?”
“Oh, piss off,” Crowley huffs without any real venom, stalking over to the windows and looking out towards the gray, dull sky. Dark rain clouds churn ominously in the distance, a particularly rough gale rattling the glass in their panes.
Behind him, Nina scoffs, the sound rough in the back of her throat. “May I remind you that you recruited me for this little manhunt you’ve got going. Least you could do is tell me why he’s on the run.”
He sighs, crossing his arms. “I might’ve… laughed. Just a little bit. At him.”
“Laughed at what, exactly?”
Crowley makes his way across the bookshop floor, brushing past Nina and flopping down next to her in a graceless heap. The demon sprawls his arms out across the breadth of the cushions, letting his head hang over the back of the couch.
“S’nothing, really. Just some baby names.” [2]
Nina guffaws, toeing the demons sock-clad feet with her shoe. “Oh, you’re in for it now.”
He throws up his arms, spreading his fingers in abject exasperation. “Someone should’ve told him to get his head out of the newspaper and stop picking things from the columns. Pretty sure he’s even pulling from the bloody obituaries. Our child’s gonna be named after some old biddy.”
The chime of the bookshop’s bell heralds the entrance of Maggie, the blonde rapidly typing away on her mobile. “Right, so I’ve been up and down Whickber Street and he’s nowhere to be found. I even checked in with Simon at the patisserie round the corner — you know the one with the lemon cakes? Mr. Fell’s not been in this morning.”
“Bugger it all,” Crowley growls in frustration, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I don’t understand. He’s big as a house and on foot, for Satan’s sake. It’s not like he could’ve made it that far!”
Maggie taps her nails on the back of her mobile case before sighing, sitting between the two of them on the couch. “Mr. Fell’s always been remarkably spirited when he puts his mind to something.”
“You checked in with Mutt?” Nina asks. “Ms. Cheng?”
“Sweetheart, I’ve tried the whole neighborhood,” Maggie replies, taking Nina’s hand between hers. She frets absentmindedly, tracing lines into her partner’s palm. “As far as I can tell, he’s nowhere in Soho.”
Nina turns to Crowley, quirking a curious brow. “Can’t you just…” She wigglies the fingers of her free hand flippantly. “I don’t know — feel him?”
“S’the problem, isn’t it? I can feel him everywhere.” He scratches at his chin idly. “It’s like he’s woven into the bloody cobblestones. Doesn’t mean I know where he’s actually standing.”
“So he’s missing,” Maggie says. “Actually, properly missing.”
“Yeah.” Crowley frowns, bracing his hands behind his head. He chews idly on his lower lip, eyes darting to the grandfather clock, noting just how much the hands have turned. “Fuck.”
He stands abruptly, running both of his hands down his face. The movement is sharp, the demon thrumming with an undercurrent of restless energy as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Right, you lot stay here. I’m heading out.”
“But shouldn’t we come with you?” Nina asks. “Split up, cover more ground.”
Crowley shakes his head decisively. “No. This is home. He’ll have to come back here eventually, and I’ll need you two to call me the second he does.”
—
Aziraphale knows humans to be marvelously creative beings. Throughout the millennia, he’s had the pleasure of meeting numerous ingenious individuals — some lost to the passage of time, others still fondly remembered. If he was being honest, he’s rather proud of his miraculous contributions over the ages; take E.E. Cummings, for example. Or the creation of the gramophone.
Rather nifty of him, really, if he does say so himself
Transport for London, he was now certain, has Crowley’s demonic influence all over it.
“What do you mean you're a cashless entity!”
“Sir, again — if you would just tap your contactless here.”
“I’ve already told you — I don’t carry a mobile telephone on my person and I certainly don’t partake in electronic payments!” He pulls harshly at the hem of his scarf, leaning in, scandalized. “It’s the principle of the thing.”
“If you don’t have payment–”
“I have money,” Aziraphale huffs, waving a five pound note in the gate attendant's face. The man merely raises his brow, much like the last two times Aziraphale had attempted this approach. “The last I checked this is still Great Britain, yes? This is perfectly acceptable currency!”
The attendant hums in assent, turning down the chattering on the radio attached at his hip before crossing his arms. The action only serves to infuriate the angel further, adding to his outraged sputtering.
“This is -– this is discrimination!”
“Sir, I can assure you–”
“Are you refusing me service because I’m pregnant and male presenting?”
And ah, that’s his ticket through.
The man blanches, hands clenching nervously as his eyes flick down to his rather apparent tummy filling out his cable-knit sweater, and back up towards his face. “Now sir, I don’t–”
Aziraphale gasps, affronted. “Why I never. In all my years this is by far the worst experience I’ve had with a Transport for London employee.” Never mind he’s never actually been on the tube, but that’s neither here nor there. [3]
Hands resting on his belly, he carries on with a stiff upper lip. “I’d like to lodge a formal complaint.”
Aziraphale’s not sure how it’s possible, yet the man pales further.
“No!” The attendant clears his throat, tongue darting out to deftly wet his chapped lips. He glances towards the passerby filtering through the gates around them, acutely aware of the escalating scene. “I don't think that's necessary.”
“Quite right.” Aziraphale pats his arm gently. “Now be a good fellow and let me through the gate, hm?”
The ride down the escalator is easy enough, if not a tad daunting in the way that he can’t see his toes. The walk to the platform is blessedly short, for which he is grateful. The metal benches lining the walls, however, prove to be dreadfully uncomfortable on the bottom. He’s considering miracling up a cushion when the next train arrives.
He braces against the armrests and heaves himself up, managing to get his feet under him on the second attempt. The carriage he’s chosen is quite empty, scattered tourists and commuters alike attempting to make it home on a brisk late-winter evening. He takes a seat closest to the doors, using one of the metal poles to ease his descent — and not a moment too soon it would seem — as the train lurches away from the platform. [4]
The heating in the carriage is a bit overwhelming, and he loosens his scarf from around his neck, beads of sweat accumulating under the cashmere.
Glancing around, he takes in the other passenger’s faces; all of them seem to be focused on their mobiles, modern listening devices plastered over their ears as they seemingly bob their heads along to tunes only they can hear.
Aziraphale wiggles slightly in his seat, sitting up straighter as he realizes the seat across from him has a peculiar substance slathered across its fabric. He leans in to get a better look — an immediate mistake. A stench so foul it could be classified as an abomination assaults his nostrils, settling headily in the back of his throat.
The back of his hand flies to his nose as he reels in horror, frantically searching for the cotton handkerchief he keeps in his pocket. He clasps the thin fabric to his face, fruitlessly using it as some sort of filter.
“Oh good Lord, that’s abhorrent.”
The stifling humidity is doing absolutely horrendous things to his curls, and he’s not sure where to begin with that dreadful screeching noise, train rattling along the tracks in a way Aziraphale finds deeply unpleasant.
It’s all rather overwhelming.
He breathes carefully through his mouth, swallowing thickly against the casual rebelling of his stomach he’s become quite accustomed to. With a quick snap of his fingers the air clears, and his next inhale comes much easier despite the slight headrush.
He’s squinting past the harsh overhead lights when another passenger sits beside him. Even amongst his mounting discomfort, hips aching something fierce, it’s hard to ignore their eyes roving over his corporation.
“Can I help you?” he bites out through thinly veiled annoyance.
“Oh!” The young woman startles, cross necklace glinting when her hand flies up to her throat. [5] “I’m sorry, I was just…” she trails off, eyes pointedly flicking to his belly before attempting to look anywhere else.
Now, if Aziraphale didn’t have a headache brewing between his temples and settling uncomfortably at the base of his skull, he might’ve just sent her on her way. But today, he’s feeling particularly brusk, spurred on from his argument with a particular demon and the fact that he’s been feeling rather peckish.
“Is something the matter?”
She blinks in surprise at his acknowledgement, wringing her manicured hands in her lap before she’s able to meet his eye. “It’s just… are you a follower of Christ?”
Now, in all his years of existence, Aziraphale has never had a natural proclivity for patience. So, in his state of rapid deterioration, he makes an assumption and jumps to his conclusions far too soon.
“Pregnant?” he finishes for her. He quirks an unimpressed brow, raising his palms in mock surrender. “It appears you’ve caught me out.”
She nods briefly before turning to face him fully, a gentle hand coming to rest just above his knee. “Do you know Jesus?”
Ah. So that’s where this was going.
“Quite well, dear girl.”
She nods eagerly, a surprised yet hopeful glint in her eye. “Oh! That's wonderful.”
“Is it?” His lips curling upwards, the question falling from his lips like a rock. That seems to give her pause.
“Well… yes. A relationship with Jesus is good.”
“For whom?” Aziraphale asks. “He was particularly adept at senet, if I recall. Lost three pieces of silver on more than one occasion. I’m still not certain, but I think he might’ve cheated once or twice.” [6]
She looks at him bewilderedly, like she can’t decide quite what to do.
“A word of advice, dear girl.” He leans in, dropping his voice down low. “Don't meddle in matters that don't concern you. Now, mind how you go.”
“... I’m sorry?”
“I do believe this is your stop.”
The miracle Aziraphale pulls from the ether slams into his body with a sickening jolt, his pulse roaring in his ears. He slumps sideways, the plastic barrier beside him the only thing keeping him upright. The cool feeling of the material against his temple grants him something to hold on to, a cold sweat breaking out across his upper lip. He pants through his mouth, just making out the fog of his breath on the barrier’s surface though his bleary eyes.
In his periphery he catches sight of the young girl leaving his proximity, slipping out the doors and onto the platform. At the very least his hastily pilfered miracle has reached its intended target.
He’s shaking, he registers vaguely, hands quivering where they rest limply in his lap. The angel smacks his lips, swallowing past the overwhelming thickness that’s settled in his mouth, fighting past the bitter burn of bile that’s sitting in the back of his throat.
Inside him their baby shifts restlessly, restless movements echoing through his ribs, each little kick sharp and insistent.
“S’alright, darling,” he whispers through numb lips, his voice trembling slightly with the weight of his exhaustion. All semblance of awareness he attempts to hold in his palm recedes like the tide.
“We’ll be alright.”
—
In all matters of the universe, there is a particular order to all things.
When a certain angel is in distress, a certain demon always feels a shift in the metaphysical panes.
So, in the middle of a crowded street in Chiswick, a demon pauses — a cataclysmic surge of misery rippling through the ether in resounding waves.
And as sure as the earth turns and the rivers flow, Crowley answers Aziraphale’s call.
—
“Hey mate, you alright?”
Aziraphale vaguely registers a hand on his shoulder, a cool hand patting the flushed heat of his face. Through cracked eyelids he can just make out a concerned face mere centimeters from his own, expression drawn in a tight grimace.
In all his 6000 years, no one has ever called him 'mate,' and he certainly isn’t keen to start now. He opens his mouth to reply as such, but what tumbles out instead is an undignified moan.
“Woah, okay. Uh, guys? What do we do?”
Somehow, it's a group of unassuming university students that come to his aid, one of them stepping forward in an attempt to rouse him from his stupor.
“Oh, he looks like shite.”
“Shuddup, he can probably hear you!”
“You’re not helping!”
“Should we pull the emergency lever?”
Aziraphale finds this a good a time as any to gag weakly over the poor dear’s shoes, clutching a protective hand over his belly. She follows his movements with her frantic gaze, eyes widening when they rest upon his stomach. The hand at his shoulder tightens.
“Oh — fuck, he’s pregnant!”
The shill edge to her tone grates at his already pounding head, and he clutches weakly at his temples in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure. The tube carriage jolts around the corner, his stomach churning quite sharply as they round the bend and he chooses to verbalize the only word he seems to be able to force past his lips.
“Off.”
The girl leans in forward, tilting her head in an attempt to hear him more clearly. “Off?”
When he nods feebly, hair tugging where it's catching on the barrier he’s resting on, she springs into action.
“Oi! You lot — he needs help off at the next station, yeah? Help me get him up.” The train jolts to an uncomfortable stop, but his body hasn’t received the memo. A sickening bout of vertigo sinks its claws into his corporation, tearing at his head and stomach in rapid succession. He’s lost to his own body.
Aziraphale’s not entirely sure how they manage it—two of them half-dragging, half-leading his boneless body onto the platform, while the third holds the door open far longer than must be standard.
When he stumbles, feet twisting unnaturally beneath him, they struggle to keep him upright.
“Woah, shit okay — here, get him on the ground.”
For the first time in six millennia, Aziraphale sits on the floor willingly.
They deposit him on the cool concrete of the platform, the rough edges of the wall catching on the back of his shirt. He fights past the onslaught of sounds and smells of commuters and tourists breezing past him, a battering of stimulation forcing him to wrench his eyes closed.
“Hey, what’s your name?”
Panting heavily, he takes a moment to respond. “Aziraphale.”
“Azira– sorry, can you say it again?”
“Mr. Fell,” he offers instead, right around the same time his body loses the propensity to stay upright. He slumps to the side with a groan, losing against the churning of the sea.
He can just make out a shout of alarm over the rush of blood in his ears. Gentle hands maneuver him onto his side into something vaguely reminiscent of the recovery position. The harsh cool of the concrete against his heated cheek is a welcome reprieve. He’s even more grateful when gentle hands lift his head, pressing something plush against his face.
“Should we call 999?”
“No,” Aziraphale moans pitifully, pressing his chin more firmly into the material against his face. “My husband, please.”
“Right, we’ll start there. Sarah, do you have any signal? Okay,” she turns back to Aziraphale, hand brushing sweaty curls away from his eyes. “What’s your husband’s number?”
Crowley, uncharacteristically, picks up on the first ring. Aziraphale shivers and tries very diligently not to faint.
“Okay, right, let me ask him.” A hand on his bicep rouses him from his stupor. “Your husband wants to know if you’ve done anything strenuous this afternoon… Like, ah — any magic tricks?”
Aziraphale nods woefully, swallowing past the tightness of his throat.
“He’s nodding, yep. Yes, I– okay, what would you like us to do?” She pauses, nervous hand rubbing soothing circles across the side of her neck. “Okay, can do. We’ll see you soon.”
The hand resting on his bicep tightens, and Aziraphale glances up when Sarah crouches down beside him.
“Right, so — your husband is on his way. He also said your little one might be giving you trouble. He said your blood sugar is probably low and that the heat they’re blasting down here isn’t helping.” She chews on her lower lip. “We think it might be good to try and cool you off and get you something sweet to drink, alright?”
He nods, resting the back of his clammy forearm over his eyes, seeking reprieve.
“Perfect. I’ll be right back, Mr. Fell. Hang in there.”
—
Modern-day sports drinks are a complete and utter godsend.
Aziraphale shivers as the soggy paper towels at his neck release a trickle of water, sluggishly trailing down his back. He’s got another one across his brow, and few more diligently across his major pulse points.
He’s just swallowing another tentative sip through the offered straw, recently reoriented into an upright position when Crowley makes his way onto the platform. When Crowley’s eyes finally land on Aziraphale, his shoulders drop, his whole body sagging in relief.
“Oh, for Satan's sake, angel.”
“Hullo, my dear.” Aziraphale lets his eyes drift closed as Crowley crouches beside him, welcoming the press of the demon's lips at his temple. Deft fingers trail lightly across his jaw before Crowley presses the back of his hand to Aziraphale’s cheek, feeling the clamminess there.
“You don’t do anything by halves, do you?” There’s no bite behind the words, just a perpetual softness reserved only for him. Crowley readjusts the cold compress across his forehead when it slips, running a grounding hand across his bicep. Aziraphale settles contentedly against his side.
“Come now — best keep life interesting, hm?”
He takes another sip of his sports drink. Crowley’s hands cover his shaking ones, steadying them as he guides the bottle to Aziraphale’s lips.
The demon Crowley isn’t in the business of thanking people. But right now, as he looks at the three university students hovering nearby, still wearing matching expressions of concern, he figures he can make an exception.
Sarah — he remembers her name from their brief call — rocks back on her heels, arms crossed over her chest in palpable anxiety. One of the others, a bloke with curly brown hair, keeps glancing at Aziraphale, his discomfort with the events of the afternoon evident in the way he’s got the skin of his thumb caught between his teeth. The third, a girl with a nose ring and a pair of combat boots that have seen better days has her hands shoved deep in her pockets, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
Crowley clears his throat, dragging a hand through his hair. “Right. You lot did a load of good. Looking after him — calling me…” He exhales through his nose, lips pressing together around the unfamiliar sentiment. “Thank you.”
Sarah nods, taking a shuddering breath. “Oh, yeah. Of course. Really, it was the least we could do.”
Nose-ring pipes up. “Seriously. We’re just glad he’s okay.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Crowley dips his chin in acknowledgement, offering a wave as the kids offer their well wishes and make to depart. He tosses a miracle or two after them, ensuring their safe travels and good fortune in the coming year.
The demon glances at Aziraphale, the angel regarding him with a small smile and soft eyes.
“That was awfully kind of you, dearest,” he offers, lips closing around his straw.
“M’not nice.”
Aziraphale hums in thinly veiled disagreement as he drinks, his free hand coming to rest on the swell of his tummy. The surge of sugar across his tongue isn’t exactly pleasant, but it’s doing wonders for his lingering vertigo.
Crowley watches him carefully, paying rapt attention to the color finally returning to Aziraphale’s cheeks.
“Sprog doing alright in there?” Crowley asks, long fingers coming to trace over the angel’s hand before settling fully atop it.
Aziraphale wrinkles his nose in discomfort, shaking his head. “They’re awfully unhappy at the moment.”
Crowley leans forward, pressing his lips to the curve of Azirapahle’s stomach. “Quiet down in there, petal. Papa’s had a rough day — I think he deserves a bit of rest, don’t you?”
The angel lets out a contented sigh, baby settling inside him. His hand comes to cup the back of Crowley’s head before he threads his fingers through his unruly hair with a simple kind of reverence.
“A rather wise serpent told me that a cuddle can cure all ills,” Aziraphale murmurs, letting his head fall back.
Crowley huffs out a laugh, the sound of it smothered where his lips are still pressed against Aziraphale’s tummy.
“Oh, did he now? Sounds like a smart bloke.”
“Yes, quite. Insufferably so. Now do be a dear and help me up.”
[1] And, on one rather auspicious occasion, the other way round.
[2] The name in question, dear reader, is Clive. Aziraphale found a rather moving article about a horse near Southend that had fallen into the mud, the poor dear. He found his whole rescue inspiring. Teary-eyed and invigorated by his find, he waddled off to tell Crowley.
The demon, not looking up from his round of Candy Crush, told his angel that the name sounded like “Some sort of dip you eat whilst watching the footy.”
Everything devolved rapidly from there.
[3] Aziraphale was, in fact, clapping giddily amongst the crowd when the Metropolitan Line opened in 1863. Quite an ingenious contraption, he thought. He was, however, opposed to riding inside one of the carriages. He was never one for being over-crowded in particularly tight spaces. But hey ho, there’s a time for everything.
[4] The angel Aziraphale is not particularly well-versed in the way that the tube lines run. Yet, ethereal suggestion is surprisingly influential. For the first — and likely only time since its opening — the Metropolitan Line is heading to Hampstead Heath, simply because he expects it to.
Aziraphale has always thought fresh air to do wonders for the mind, and is particularly looking forward to feeding the ducks.
[5] It was a bit gaudy for his tastes, but he wasn’t about to tell her that.
[6] Somehow Jesus always ended up with more than the ten pawns that he was allotted. Aziraphale rather suspected that there was somewhat of a fish and loaves situation transpiring. He was positively certain Jesus was cheating.
It’s not blasphemy if you’re right.