Work Text:
The fountain was not meant for climbing.
The sign said so. Very clearly. In three languages.
And yet.
Aziraphale had just finished his pastry from the bakery down the street when he heard the crying.
It was faint, echoing oddly,the kind of whimpering sob that turned the stomach. He turned in a slow, alarmed circle, until his eyes landed on the little park fountain.
A child. A very small one. Curled in the shallow basin, hands over its eyes.
“Oh dear,” Aziraphale muttered, already breaking into a determined waddle, clutching his tote bag to his chest. “Sweetheart, you’re not supposed to— Oh goodness, it’s cold—!”
He had just climbed awkwardly onto the edge of the fountain, socked feet splashing in the water, when a blur of black stomped past him on the other side.
“What the hell?” said the man,tall, sharp, dressed entirely in black like a rock star had wandered into a PTA meeting. He was already halfway into the water.
Aziraphale, freezing, hissed, “Excuse me! I saw them first!”
“You were moving at the speed of molasses,” the man snapped, and waved him off. “I’ve got this, don’t get your knitwear in a twist.”
They both reached the “child” at the same time.
Grabbed it.
And froze.
“…Is this a mannequin?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley stared at the thing. Damp plastic. Glass eyes. Handmade shirt that said ART IS EMOTION.
He shook it lightly. Its arm fell off.
“Ugh. Bloody hipsters,” he muttered.
“You yelled at me,” Aziraphale said, scandalized, “for trying to rescue a mannequin?”
“You charged in like a wet knight in cardigans,” Crowley fired back. “And I thought it was crying!”
“It was crying!”
They turned in unison toward the source of the noise.
A goose stood at the far end of the fountain, honking furiously. It looked like it was ready to fight God.
“Oh,” said Crowley. “I think I was yelling at that.”
There was a pause.
Aziraphale sighed and picked up the mannequin’s arm. “Well, now we’ve desecrated an installation and alarmed a waterfowl.”
“You’re the one with your socks out.”
“You’re wearing sunglasses in the rain.”
They stared at each other, soaking wet, glaring and then something cracked. Not the mannequin. Not the goose. Something else. A look passed between them: tired, damp, ridiculous.
“…Tea?” Aziraphale offered, blinking.
Crowley shoved his sunglasses up. “…You buying?”
“Only if you stop yelling at geese.”
“No promises.”
They climbed out of the fountain together, bickering the whole way. The goose escorted them to the edge of the park.
They were just about to slink off,dignity damp, Crowley trailing mannequin arm, Aziraphale squelching with every step when someone shouted:
“HEY! What the hell are you doing with my child?”
Both men froze. Crowley made a noise like a dying radiator. Aziraphale attempted to discreetly hide behind a tree.
A very intense person in paint-splattered overalls marched toward them across the park, arms flailing with the fury of someone who absolutely spent four sleepless nights making an emotionally symbolic mannequin. They looked like they’d cried in a supply closet about it just this morning.
“My apologies,” Aziraphale tried, stepping forward and sort of holding up the dismembered arm like an olive branch. “We thought there was a real child in distress.”
“IT’S A REPRESENTATION OF CAPITALIST ISOLATION IN MODERN CHILDHOOD,” the artist screamed.
Crowley blinked. “…Looked like a toddler trapped in a birdbath, mate.”
“It’s called Cradle of Sorrows!”
“Oh. That’s worse.”
The artist advanced, wild-eyed. “Do you know what kind of permits I had to forge to get that piece in this park? Do you have any idea what I went through to get the crying sound synced to the motion sensors?”
Aziraphale turned very pale. “The mannequin was crying?!”
“Of course it was! You’re supposed to resonate with its helplessness, not yeet it into the fountain wall and break its elbow!”
“Technically,” Crowley said, coolly, “I broke the elbow.”
“I hate art,” Aziraphale muttered into his wet coat.
“I demand reparations,” the artist snapped, pointing at the two of them. “A new mannequin. Or performance art. Or fifty pounds and a signed letter of apology from the goose.”
“…We don’t control the goose,” Aziraphale said, helplessly.
“No one controls the goose,” Crowley said, with great respect.
There was a pause.
“Fine,” the artist growled, plucking the mannequin’s arm from Aziraphale’s hands. “But if either of you ever set foot near Cradle of Sorrows again”
“You’ll what?” Crowley challenged.
“I’ll make you part of it.”
They left very quickly after that.
Outside the park gates, soaked and still vaguely panicked:
“Well,” Crowley said, flicking water from his sleeves. “Still want tea?”
Aziraphale considered.
“…Yes. But we’re not telling anyone about this.”
“Oh no,” Crowley said, already grinning, “I’m telling everyone.”
The little tea shop down the street was blissfully quiet, all warm wood and clinking porcelain, with a cheerful old woman behind the counter who gave them one look and said, without blinking:
“Bathroom’s through the back. Towels under the sink. No fountain wrestling in the seating area.”
Aziraphale went crimson. Crowley gave her a salute.
Once dry-ish (Crowley had attempted to blow-dry his shirt under the hand dryer, which only succeeded in giving him an accidental ruffle), they settled into a booth by the window.
Aziraphale took a deep breath.
Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Still recovering?”
“I you..that entire situation was utterly preposterous,” Aziraphale spluttered. “A crying mannequin! A furious sculptor! A goose with blood in its eyes!”
Crowley grinned over the rim of his cup. “Park really is the cultural heart of the city.”
Aziraphale muttered something very British and offended, then distracted himself by stirring far too much honey into his tea.
“You didn’t have to help, you know,” he added, after a beat. “You could’ve just… let me make a fool of myself alone.”
Crowley tilted his head. “Didn’t seem fair. Plus, you already had your shoes off. Too late to back out once socks are in play.”
There was silence. Not an uncomfortable one,more like the kind that filled itself with unsaid things.
“You were very quick to jump in,” Aziraphale said eventually, watching him over the steam. “For a stranger.”
Crowley shrugged. “Didn’t feel like a stranger.”
Aziraphale blinked at him.
“…And also I thought you might actually drown trying to rescue a dummy toddler,” Crowley added quickly, looking away. “Bit of a heroic instinct. Deeply buried. Comes out when people wade into questionable water features.”
Aziraphale smiled,soft and a little shy, the kind that bloomed without permission.
Crowley noticed. Tried very hard not to look like he noticed.
“You don’t have to stay,” Aziraphale offered, polite again. “You’ve been very… chivalrous, in your own way. I’d quite understand if”
“Nah,” Crowley said, too fast. Then casually, “I mean. S’not every day you meet a man who goes full Jane Austen over a drowning mannequin.”
Aziraphale choked on his tea.
Crowley leaned back in satisfaction.
They sat in silence again. Crowley tapped his fingers on the table. Aziraphale tucked his damp curls behind his ear. The window fogged up.
Outside, the goose honked in the distance, like a warning or a blessing.
“…Would you like to get lunch sometime?” Aziraphale asked, very quietly.
Crowley blinked.
“…With me,” Aziraphale added, as if that wasn’t obvious.
A slow grin curled across Crowley’s face. “Only if geese are involved.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Still yes.”