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‘We must have bloody noses and crack’d crowns,
And pass them current too. God’s me, my horse!’
Henry IV Part 1
Aziraphale had been having a rather nice afternoon to himself.
Quiet days were far and few between in the Crowley-Fell household and now with their third on the way, Aziraphale’s keen to soak up any moment of reprieve whenever he’s able. He’d ignored the landline the first time it rang, electing to finish the row he’d been knitting rather than attempt to heave himself upwards. He was quite fond of his alone time — something that had been increasingly harder to come by.
The shrill notes of the rotary dial repeating for a second time in such rapid succession startles him, throwing off his spacing. With a huff he eyes the blasted contraption from across the room, debating on whether it would be in his best interest to make a dash for it. He’s inclined to let it ring. However, with a full brood and an empty home the call could be important.
The propriety of fatherhood wins out in the end.
Using the sidearm of the settee, he hauls himself upward with a grunt, frowning when the darling blanket he’d been knitting inadvertently falls to the ground.
“My goodness.” He frowns, shuffling deftly across the sitting room in his house slippers. He answers the phone, breathless. “Yes, hullo?”
“Hello, this is Lilian from Northease Manor School. I’m calling in regards to Percy Crowley-Fell and need to get in touch with his parents.”
When the baby lands a particularly hard kick to his side, he rubs at his tum absentmindedly. “Yes, speaking.”
“Mr. Fell, I’m calling to inform you that Percy was marked as absent at the beginning of his English lesson — he never returned from his free period.”
Aziraphale stills.
He tightens his grip on the receiver, knuckles blanching as something cold coils low in his belly. His first instinct is that there’s been some mistake — of all things surely Percy wouldn’t just disappear. But the sharp edge of worry sinks its teeth in further, its bite wittering away at his already frayed resolve.
“I beg your pardon?” he manages, voice tight.
“We’ve sent someone out to search the school grounds but we’ve been unable to locate him,” Lilian continues, an undercurrent of concern tinging her professional tone. “At this point we’re contacting you in case he’s made his way home or reached out.”
Aziraphale presses a steadying hand to his chest, the beat of his pulse now rapidly thrumming beneath his fingertips. “No,” he breathes, and he only has a moment to hastily miracle up a chair before he’s clumsily sitting, both hands on the telephone like a lifeline. “He hasn’t come home.”
From the mouth of the receiver he can hear Lilian speaking — something about protocols and next steps — but the words filter over him like static, lost to the racing thoughts of his mind, spiraling through half a dozen worst-case scenarios so quickly it makes his head spin.
“Right — was he seen leaving with anyone?”
“No, but Mr. Fell, I’m afraid I’m calling for a more urgent reason. It seems that prior to vacating the premises this afternoon, Percy was involved in an altercation with his schoolmates.”
“An altercation?” Aziraphale repeats, baffled. “I’m sorry, but you must be mistaken. My son doesn’t–”
“I assure you, Mr. Fell, there’s no mistake. Just before he was last seen, Percy was involved in a fight with a group of classmates that turned physical.”
Aziraphale sits up straighter, his pulse hammering in his ears. “A fight? Was he hurt?”
“We’re still gathering details, but from what we understand, it took two students to pull Percy off another boy.”
Aziraphale goes still as his fingers tighten further around the receiver, a sudden dizziness washing over him. He presses a shaking hand to his forehead, struggling to process the words.
“Good Lord,” he breathes.
There’s a pause before Lilian continues, her voice measured. “At the headmaster’s discretion, Percy is suspended for the remainder of the week.”
Aziraphale sucks in a sharp breath. “Suspended?”
“Yes. We’ve scheduled a meeting for Monday morning to discuss his behavioral concerns, which we expect you, Mr. Crowley and Percy to attend.”
And despite himself Aziraphale bristles, offense flaring hot in his chest. “Behavioral concerns? What exactly are you implying? Does anyone know why he got into the altercation in the first place?”
A door slamming downstairs startles him, feets padding quickly down the hall.
Azirapahle lets out a shaky sigh of relief as Percy’s aura presses in on the fringes of his awareness, the quality of it a bit unsteady, alerting him to his son’s mounting distress.
Oh dear, this was all quite a pickle, wasn’t it?
He cuts into whatever Lilian’s relaying, an undercurrent of intent painting his tone. “He’s just come through the door, dear girl. I’m afraid I have to go, but rest assured you’ll see the three of us first thing Monday morning.” And with that, he promptly hangs up.
Aziraphale navigates the stairs well enough on his own, using the handrail to guide his stilted descent. By the time he reaches the ground level, it’s immediately apparent where Percy has gone. Tension seeps from behind the bathroom door, thickening the air. It immediately leaves a bitter taste at the back of Aziraphale’s tongue.
“Percy?” He knocks gently, the gesture at odds with the harsh pounding of his heart. “Open the door, my dear.”
There’s a brief shuffling before the inside of the room goes eerily silent once more. Aziraphale shifts, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. Still, he’s met with silence. His nervous tongue darts out to wet his lips.
“I’m not going to ask again.”
Mercifully the lock clicks as it’s unlatched, the door opening just a tick. The hinges groan as Aziraphale steps inside.
At his core, Aziraphale is a Guardian. He had fought battles in Heaven, wielded a flaming sword bestowed unto him by the Almighty Herself. He had witnessed the first human blood spilled west of the land of Nod, matter clinging to stone as brother turned on brother. He had been in the trenches of Verdun; on a rickety vessel wrecked upon the stained sands of Dunkirk; in some nameless town in Belgium, hands steady by the grace of God as he worked to keep a little boy’s insides from spilling out.
Aziraphale’s standing in their second bathroom, the leaky tap they never quite fixed dripping in a steady beat against porcelain — but he’s somewhere else entirely. For a moment, he’s holed up in some long-forgotten church, clothes bloodied, fervent prayers spilling clumsily from his lips as he desperately intercedes on behalf of the departed.
Huddled beside the bathtub, Percy clutches a wad of soiled loo roll to his face, but Aziraphale can still make out the jagged gash above his brow. The boy sniffles, averting his gaze, blood trickling from his nose, trailing down his chin before falling to the tile below.
“Lord have mercy.”
It’s a tight fit, but Aziraphale’s on the ground before his mind can catch up, knees groaning in protest. His steady fingers pull the ghastly soiled tissue away from Percy’s face, tossing it aside. It lands on the cool tile with a muted splat.
In the cramped quarters of the bathroom, Percy’s voice is small. “Papa, I’m sorry.”
When he shifts, wiping hastily at his eyes, Aziraphale catches sight of the angry red of his knuckles contrasting starkly against the pale wash of his skin.
“Oh,” Aziraphale starts, tone wavering. “Now none of that, my dear.”
He can’t help the way his eyes well at the sight of his firstborn’s tears, streaking lines creating a pink hue as they wash down his cheeks. With a slight tremor, he brings his thumbs to rest high upon his cheekbone, forcing Percy’s downtrodden gaze to meet his own.
“Are you injured anywhere I can’t immediately see, dearheart?” The weight curdling in his tummy unfurls slightly when his son fervently shakes his head, but still — he asks again. “Are you quite sure?”
“‘S’just my face, I swear.”
Aziraphale takes a shaky breath, nodding to reassure himself. “And are you alright?”
Percy shrugs a careless shoulder, looking anywhere but his father’s face. Aziraphale’s not fooled by the carefully crafted facade of stoicism, but gives Percy the space to process all the same. “You’re safe here, plum.”
That’s all it takes for the dam to break, Percy’s quiet sniffles quickly morphing into hiccuping sobs. His breaths are stilted, throat sounding worn raw as he keens, failing to keep the noise inside.
“Oh, my darling boy," Aziraphale murmurs, wrapping Percy in his arms. The boy goes easily, pressing his tear-streaked face into his father’s neck, fingers twisting into the soft wool of his jumper. Aziraphale feels his own tears spill over as he presses a kiss to Percy’s temple.
His back is tucked uncomfortably against the linen closet door, his legs sprawled out between the toilet and the tub, but Aziraphale is exactly where he needs to be.
For a moment, Aziraphale just holds his child — as tightly as his tummy will allow — and gently rocks them back and forth. His fingers scratch soothingly at the nape of Percy’s neck, in a similar fashion to the way he used to coax him to sleep when he was small enough to be cradled in his arms. Fourteen years have gone, two more little ones added to their family, and yet — Percy still fits in his arms just the same.
When Percy’s heaving sobs begin puttering out into exhausted pulls of air, it’s evident he’s wrought himself completely out, the poor dear. Aziraphale pauses his ministrations, giving Percy an opening to pull away if he’d like. Rather than release his grip around his middle, Percy turns his face on Aziraphale’s shoulder, gazing up at him through wet eyelashes.
“They called me a freak.”
The quiet confession — muttered through a split lip and blood stained teeth — makes Aziraphale’s throat tighten like a vice. Percy sniffs, roughly pulling the sleeve of his uniform over his eyes in a desperate attempt to clear the wetness that won’t stop pooling there.
“They said–” Percy starts, voice cutting off with a shuddering sob. Aziraphale soothes him.
“At your own pace.”
Percy nods, taking a handful of calming breaths before trying again. “They said that a freak like me would have a… a tranny for a mum. That only someone like me could come out of a wanna-be man.”
Aziraphale’s grip on him tightens, swallowing past the lump in his throat — yet he remains silent.
Percy’s tongue darts out to wet his chapped lips, grimacing when it catches on the cut in the corner. “One of them shoved me into the lockers before he punched me in the nose.” Percy swallows hard. “I hit him back, Papa,” he chokes out. “I’m so sorry.”
As Percy’s emotions swell, threatening to pull him under once more, a peculiar churning stirs deep in Aziraphale’s gut. Anger rises first — a sharp, searing thing, sending adrenaline trembling to his fingertips. But beneath the heat of it, something heavier settles into place.
Remorse, thick and inescapable, seeps through the cracks of his fury, blotting it out like ink spilled across a page.
“Percy, darling — look at me please.”
When Percy glances up, Aziraphale gently brushes the hair from his eyes, noting — rather absently — that he’s long overdue for a haircut.
“I love you,” he says, voice breaking under the weight of it. “So very much.” A desperate sort of noise starts at the back of Percy’s throat, hands tightening on his jumper once again. “And I am so sorry that our diversion from the traditional family structure has resulted in difficulties for you at school.”
“Papa, that’s not–”
“No, dearheart — please listen,” Aziraphale says, swiping a finger below Percy’s eye to catch a stray tear. “Your father and I have always deviated from the norm — we’ve faced repercussions for that for the past six-thousand years. We’ve been on our own for quite some time, him and I. I don’t think we fully anticipated how our choices would affect you as you grew up in a world that can be so limited in its views.” He pauses, voice thick with emotion. “It was never our intention for you to have to carry any of our burdens.”
Aziraphale exhales shakily, hand coming to cradle the back of Percy’s head. When he speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper. “I do hope you can forgive me for my choices.”
“Papa,” Percy breathes, “There’s nothing to forgive.”
Aziraphale pulls him impossibly closer, pouring as much love as he can into his tight embrace. He lets a few loose tears fall down his cheeks, hand stroking absently along Percy’s back.
“I just want to know you’re safe, plum,” he chokes. “That’s all I could ever ask of you.”
“I know,” Percy replies, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s neck. “I know.”
And for a moment they sit, the gentle rhythm of the leak tap settling comfortably into the lull. It’s another beat before discomfort lances its way up Aziraphale’s spine.
“As much as I’d like to continue to sit with you here, the floor is doing absolutely nothing for my back,” he starts, “But I also think it’s more than time to get you sorted.”
“Oh God — I’m so sorry, here,” Percy startles, clumsily scrambling to his feet and offering Aziraphale a hand. Using the tub for extra leverage, Aziraphale hauls himself upright. His head swims for just a moment, his vision splotchy as the blood rushes back into his legs. He braces a steadying hand on the wall.
“Are you alright?” Percy questions nervously, hands fluttering at his father’s sides. Aziraphale nods, sitting on the toilet seat and waving for Percy to sit on the lip of the bathtub.
“Right as rain. Now, would you like me to…” Aziraphale gestures vaguely towards his face, wiggling his fingers.
Percy shakes his head, hissing slightly when his grimace pulls at his split lip. “Nah, I know the rules. I don't think this counts as a life-or-death situation.”
Aziraphale hums, frowning. “Well, in any case I think we better hurry. Alice and your father are due to be home soon, and I daresay she won’t do well to see you in such a state.”
Alice isn’t who Percy is worried about.
With a snap, Aziraphale miracles up some supplies, the harsh scent of alcohol immediately burning Percy’s nose. Pulling his glasses from the ether, Aziraphale rests the dainty frames on the tip of his nose before dabbing a bit of antiseptic at Percy’s brow.
“Sorry, sorry,” Aziraphale frets when he hisses, squeezing his arm reassuringly just above the elbow.
“Dad is gonna freak,” Percy groans, shifting in an attempt to put his head in his hands. Aziraphale tuts, holding fast to his chin.
“Mind your lip,” he says, dabbing the cotton gently against his mottled skin. “And leave your father to me, dear boy.” He reaches for a small plaster, gently tearing open the package.
“What about the school?” Percy questions.
Aziraphale’s gaze is focused on his face, brows lifted over the rim of his glasses. He swiftly applies the bandage to the split skin at his brow, tongue pressed to his top lip in focus. After he’s smoothed over any creases, he lets out a sigh.
“You’ve been suspended, I’m afraid. We’ll just have to set them to rights come Monday, hm?” He leans in, gently prodding at the split in Percy’s skin.
“‘S’it gonna scar?”
Aziraphale frowns, studying the gash with a discerning eye. “I’d rather it not,” he says at last, his thumb grazing lightly across Percy’s cheek. There’s something in the way his father says it — subtle yet firm — that makes Percy suspect his wound has just been given a quiet, miraculous nudge toward healing. If his father suggests something, well… the wound would do well to listen.
“Though it looks as though we aren’t going to avoid a bit of pesky bruising without a little bit of icing,” Aziraphale muses, and he sneaks one last sniffle in before exiting the bathroom. “Come along, my dear.”
Soon enough, Percy is settled on the couch under one of their heaviest quilts, the one his Papa made around the time he was seven and feeling poorly. It still brings him comfort — so much so that he feels as though there might be something miraculous woven into the threads.
Aziraphale putters into the sitting room with two mugs of hot chocolate, his stained jumper swapped for a loose gray cardigan, sleeved folded once over at his wrists. He eases himself down beside him with a quiet grunt, liquid nearly sloshing over the edge of the mugs.
“There we are,” Aziraphale says as he settles, wiggling back into the cushions to get more comfortable. “How’s the swelling?”
Percy removes the cold pack from his cheek to let his father inspect his face. Aziraphale immediately winces, draping a hand over his to guide the compress back into place.
“Best leave that there for a tick.”
They both settle in, Aziraphale prompting him to stretch out and rest his feet in his lap. A grounding hand comes to rest on Percy’s ankle, the steady pressure of a thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles. Feeling strangely content, Percy rolls to his side, melting compress releasing rivulets of water down his chin from where it’s squashed under his cheek. He lets himself doze, content with basking in the quiet comfort of the moment.
He must fall asleep under the watchful eye of an angel, because before he knows it, Alice's feet are pounding down the hall.
“Papa!” she shouts, all but throwing herself into Aziraphale’s lap. Crowley’s not far behind her, unloading grocery bags on the counter, Alice’s schoolbag still hanging off his shoulder.
“Oi!” he calls, “Watch it, sprog. Papa’s got cargo on board.”
With a startled oof, Aziraphale wraps her in his arms. “How was the school trip, poppet?”
“Oh it was wonderful, Papa! I had Daddy hold me up so I could see all the things in the touch tank,” she brags, jabbing her pointer finger in the air. “And I was the only one who knew what an anemone was.”
“Mhm,” Crowley agrees, walking over to place a quick peck on Aziraphale’s lips. “And you damn near poked the poor bugger to death.”
“Language,” Aziraphale admonishes, pulling him down for another kiss. Suddenly Crowley freezes, eyes going wide.
“Why do I smell blood?” He sniffs the juncture at Aziraphale’s neck, gaze drifting downward. His lips are strategically close to the angel’s ear when he murmurs, “You’re not bleeding, are you?”
“Oh good heavens, no,” Aziraphale assures him, shifting slightly. “But, ah… there was a bit of an, erm — incident at Percy’s school today.”
“Incident?” Crowley repeats darkly, rolling the word around in his mouth. He goes still, tension coiling through him like a predator ready to strike. “What kind of an incident?”
“Not to worry, dearest — I’ve handled the worst of it, I should think. But I suppose we do need to be in the headmaster’s office first thing Monday morning for a bit of a discussion.”
From her spot on Aziraphale’s lap, Alice squirms with barely contained glee, relishing in the mounting tension. “Ooh, Percy’s in trouble!”
“Hush you,” Aziraphale scolds, his hand tightening on Percy’s ankle. “Alice, why don’t you pop off to your room, hm? I’m sure you have schoolwork that needs starting.”
“But Papa–”
“Now, dearheart.”
Grumbling, Alice slides off Aziraphale’s lap, stomping just a touch as she rounds the corner and heads off towards the stairs. Crowley moves to crouch beside the couch in an instant.
“How bad is it?” he asks once she’s out of earshot.
Aziraphale sighs, running a weary hand down his face. “Not great, I’m afraid. Plum, I know you’re awake, my dear. Would you like to tell your father what happened?”
Reluctantly Percy sits up, removing the cool pack from his face to sheepishly look at his father.
“Oh, shite.”
“Crowley!”
“Aziraphale!” his father tosses back incredulously, flinging a hand towards Percy’s face. “What the fuck!”
They’d gotten most of the blood marring his skin off with a bit of peroxide and a damp washcloth, but the removal of the sanguine color had only made the dark mottling of his cheek stand out that much more.
“It looks worse than it is,” Percy offers quietly, wincing when his hopeful expression pulls sharply at his brow. “Papa fixed me up.”
Crowley sputters. “Looks worse than it is — oh, that’s the same sort of nonsense you’d spout.”
“Really, Crowley–”
“Who did this to you?” he growls, and Percy is startled by the malice in his voice. The hair on the back of his forearms sticks straight up, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of his neck in a way that only screams one thing: danger.
“I may be retired,” he continues, rolling up his shirt sleeves and cracking his neck. “But I’m ready to do some damage of biblical proportions. Whose dreams do I need to lurk in?”
Percy is speechless but his Papa seems unruffled.
“Very menacing, dearest,” Aziraphale says, rolling his eyes as he pats at the spot beside him on the settee. “Now be a lamb and come have a sit with us.”
In the end, the both of them diffuse Crowley with verbal coaxing and a bit of snuggling on his Papa’s part. His father is now languidly sprawled in his Papa’s lap, the latter’s fingers scratching lazily at his scalp. When Percy’s finished relaying the events of the afternoon, his dad’s keen to add his piece, counting off on his fingers.
“So what I’m getting out of this is one, I should be allowed to torment the little buggers for all eternity, and two, you can’t throw a decent punch.”
Aziraphale harrumphs, stopping his ministrations to glare down at his husband.
“What!” Crowley argues, gesturing towards Percy’s bruised hand.
“I think that’s quite enough out of you, you old serpent ” Aziraphale tuts. Turning to Percy his gaze softens. “Well, it’s been a rather eventful day, hasn’t it, plum?”
“I’ll say,” Percy replies, grin pulling at the corners of his mouth in a way his Papa told him once reminded him of his dad when he was up to no good. “I forgot to duck.”
That pulls a great big guffaw out of his dad, feet kicking up in the air. Behind the stern look on his papa’s face he can catch just a bit of mirth in his eyes, mouth pulling up briefly in a smile.
“Yes, well — the next time you choose to throw a punch, please — lead with your hip.”
“Never tuck your thumb,” Crowley pipes up.
“And when it comes down to it, my dear,” Aziraphale cautions, gaze stern. “Play dirty, not fair.”