Work Text:
Set some years after the world did not end…
.
He’s having a problem with grammar. Not just any grammar. Specific grammar. Or word choice, maybe, rather than grammar. He’s not sure. Aziraphale would probably know. The problem is, he needs a title. And, as with so many things in the human world, titles seem to be dependent on gender. And therein lies the rub, because gender has always been a shifting thing for Crowley.
The demon calls himself a ‘him’ even in his own head, but it is out of convenience more than anything else. The pronoun is the best of an ill-fitting bunch. Crowley has used it, over the years, because his default dress and behaviour more closely approximate more human ‘he's than 'she's or 'they's. And, as for what goes on inside, well… Crowley has never felt particularly dimorphic. If pressed, he would probably say that he saw himself as both male and female, rather than neither, but that’s as far as he’d be willing to go on the matter. He supposes he should have a more formed opinion - having spent the last six thousand years surrounded by humans and their incessant need to categorise - but it has never really mattered, before.
In the past, Crowley had always just been Crowley. He had shifted between shapes, and dressed as he liked, safe in the luxury of being able to defend himself if he ever needed to. He had let society shift around him and let his role shift within it. He had let people refer to him as whatever they liked and, honestly, he'd never really given a fuck, b ut he’s starting to, now. He's starting to, because times are changing. There are new roles, on the horizon. Roles that require titles. And it’s important, because this is not about Humanity. It's about him and Aziraphale, and all of that, so Crowley needs it to be right.
Taking a deep breath, the demon shifts, stretches.
He is draped across a chaise-longe in sprawling home that he and the angel have made, together - watching a London skyline that shouldn’t technically be visible, from a third floor flat, in Soho. The day’s heat has left condensation on the glass and it fogs the city lights, turns them into impressionist swirls, makes the world a distant place - far away and unimportant. Something that cannot touch Crowley, safe in his sanctuary.
The demon rubs a cheek against the blanket beneath him, enjoying the softness of wool against skin. He’s been feeling a little indulgent, these last few weeks, a little prone to seeking comfort. It’s something always denied himself, in the past. Nesting had never seemed very demonic. His dark, cavernous flat was much more appropriate. A large, empty space, full of wasted potential; a metaphor for how Crowley had come to see himself.
But times are changing. And it is growing easier to allow himself comfort in the bits of life he had taken with him, after the failed Armageddon. There are no Hellish expectations to meet, anymore. No need to keep the angel at a distance. The pair of them are on their own side, now. And, though Crowley is still a demon, (or fallen angel, or strange, half-earthly creature, who has chosen to stay here and guard this world), he is also someone’s partner - and there are a whole host of things that he can file under being someone’s partner which he no longer has to file under being a demon. Things like seeking comfort. Like folding their households together and choosing things to fill their space. Nesting, like the shit demon he’s always been.
The blanket he’s lying on is one he brought home, today. It is a pale grey, rather than the pastel Aziraphale would probably have gone for, but at least it's not black. Little steps, the demon thinks.
He closes his eyes, thinking about softness, thinking about the things that he’s brought home over the last few weeks, like a bird feathering a nest. He thinks about roles, and gender, and Aziraphale.
The angel had always seemed so very sure he was a ‘he’. Crowley can remember the first time they’d talked about it - sitting together under a fig tree, at the edge of the town of Nazareth. They had been watching a father teaching a daughter how to tie a knot, in a strap of leather. Watching him teach her how to use her hands. How to be human.
“It’s insane, how they reproduce, isn’t it?” the demon had murmured to the angel, wrinkling his nose. “Bloody miracle that any of them make it through the process. I mean, have you seen how they get the new humans out of the mother? It’s horrific. And then there’s how they get them in, in the first place… downright disgusting amounts of fluid involved. Can’t work out why they all bother.”
And Aziraphale had laughed at him, at the time - eyes doing that soft, shining thing they did when he knew Crowley was being obtuse on purpose. Pretending to miss the point. Trying to embarrass Aziraphale because it was easier than admitting that he found the whole subject a bit embarrassing, himself.
Crowley didn’t like talking about things that he didn’t understand. He didn’t like feeling uninformed, or naive. And, though he’d been on Earth for a good many years, by this point, he’d really only just got around to thinking about what everyone kept between their legs, and what they did with it. It wasn’t actually until after the flood, once he’d noticed that there were no more unicorns, that he’d linked sex with procreation at all. And he definitely hadn’t understood the mechanics of it. (Though, from a few masturbatory experimentations, he did have a vague idea as to why the humans bothered).
“I imagine they do it to have more company,” Aziraphale had suggested, smiling over at him. “More humans to belong to, you know? A family. A tribe. Backup, against it all.”
“And here we are, just manifesting angels and demons from the ether. How unimaginative…”
“Well, mostly,” Aziraphale had admitted. “Rumour has it there is at least one half-angel, wandering around the place.”
“Oh, really?” Crowley had given a wide grin, at that - because it had been so very, very rare for Aziraphale to admit any fallibility from ‘his side’, back then. “Getting down in the dirt with the humans, angel?” He’d teased. “I’m impressed. Didn't think you had it in you.”
“Not me, personally!”
“No?”
“It was…” Aziraphale had rolled his eyes. “Well, if you must know, it was one of the other Principalities. And I don’t think it was part of any great plan. It was just a case of them getting a bit too fond of one of the humans and, well, you know… things happening.”
“Things happening?”
“Yes.”
“Things like putting a half-angel in a human?”
“It was the other way around, I believe.”
Crowley gave a bark of laughter.
“What? One of you idiots got knocked up by one of them?”
“Yes.”
“Hah!”
“It was rather a shame, actually. I think there was an inquiry.”
“I’ll bet there was…”
“I feel a bit sorry for them, Crowley. I know we shouldn’t speculate, but it hardly seems a terrible sin. They were only trying to love. It was never clear where the line was, on that one.”
“Well, you’d better watch yourself, angel,” the demon had grinned. “Don’t want to get chucked out over a belly full of human.”
Aziraphale had given him a withering look.
“Not exactly a risk for me, personally,” he’d replied, snootily. “This corporation lacks the necessary equipment for that sort of thing.”
“Well, it does at the moment.”
And Aziraphale had shifted, awkwardly, a flush rising to his cheeks.
“Well, you know, we were given the option of appearances, in the beginning, but I never really felt like I belonged as well in other body shapes. I tried some out, briefly, but it was very much not my thing. I’ve always felt more at home in this form. And calling myself a 'he'." He had shrugged. "And it was She who made me with a preference, after all, so it can’t be a terrible thing… can it?”
Crowley can remember feeling very fond of Aziraphale, in that moment. Aziraphale, his strange, kind counterpart, who had always felt like more at home in one shape. Aziraphale, who carried himself the same way for six thousand years - confident and comfortable. Self-assigned male, but soft and sweet, and slightly effeminate. Not entirely matched up with society’s idealised gender norms, but absolutely, perfectly himself.
Perfectly Aziraphale, Crowley thinks, resting a cheekbone against the arm of his chaise. He’s always been just perfectly Aziraphale.
Angel, angel, angel.
Friend, lover, partner.
Father, soon.
That’s the title that works so well, for Aziraphale, but doesn’t work, for Crowley. The title he’s been dithering, over the last few hours, about claiming. He wants to. He wants a title. But he cannot help but feel that this one is not ideal. It is too paternalistic, too traditionally male. And, while he walks around looking like a ‘he’, perfectly happy for people to call him a ‘he’, Crowley isn't. He just isn't.
He’s something else. A mixed metaphor. Something that exists on a sliding scale of ‘both' and ‘neither’. Something which, at a fundamental level, has always had a really hard time separating people on a basis of genitalia or societal roles. Something who has spent the last fifty hundred years dressing primarily like a man, but whose long body is now growing life inside of it. He’s not sure if there are human words for what he is.
Crowley stretches, feeling the ache in his back intensify and then lessen, slightly. Thinking about it all makes his head spin. And the heat doesn’t help. It has been a long day - a hot day - and he is glad to see the end of it. Very glad to feel the breeze that drifts in, from the open skylight overhead, to ruffle the hair on the nape of his neck. Relieving. Soothing. Summer is a bitch of a time to be this big.
He yawns, rubbing his cheek against the blanket. The radio is playing, somewhere deeper in the flat - probably on the mezzanine above the bookshop. The angel leaves it on, sometimes, to fill the silence while he works. Hums along to it, as he bustles industriously around the place, shuffling papers and books. Occasionally, Crowley sneaks in and flicks the station over to classic rock, just to make him fuss. Because he does fuss so nicely.
He’ll do this little eye roll, and a little flounce and a pout, but he’ll always come back around. He’ll always relent as Crowley pushes his face into the crook of his neck. He’ll give a slow smile and then his shoulders will soften, a chuckle rising from his throat. And then he’ll reach behind and pull the demon close, and soon they are lost to one another.
They indulge in proximity, these days. Crowley is slowly acclimatising to the concept. It doesn’t feel at all demonic, but it is the sort of thing a partner would do. And, within that role, the demon can allow himself. He feels safe, within the confines of that role. Within the confines of Aziraphale. He thinks he might be getting good at it, actually - in the moments when he manages to forget about his damage.
There’s a lot of damage, he thinks. A thousand scars. Marks that have cut much deeper than his mortal skin, or the shape of his celestial form. They’ve carved him into what he is, he thinks. Perhaps they’ve made him capable of this.
He runs a thumb against his stretched skin, arching his back until the ache in his spine dissipates. He listens to the outside slipping in, through the cracked windows; to a siren blaring, somewhere in the streets of Soho, to humans laughing in the summer air. The night is full of revellers, heading out to find friends and alcohol. It’s getting late. Nearly dinner time.
Though Crowley has never eaten regularly, in all his time on Earth, he’s starving, now. Food is a requirement, now, because the demon is sparing the magic. He has not reached out for his powers in seven months, afraid that it will affect what his body is doing for them. Though this had all come about quite by accident - by way of an impromptu mid-afternoon clinch in the backseat of the Bentley - he doesn’t want to ruin it. He wants it to be right. So, he’s drinking, rather than miracling his body to not require water. He’s washing and dressing, and travelling around the place in the mortal fashion. And he’s eating. Three times a day. A well balanced diet. Fruits, and vegetables, and all that shite.
“Oh,” A floorboard creaks, over on the other side of the room, breaking the silence of his thoughts. "There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
Crowley turns his head, squinting through the conservatory's heavy foliage.
The angel has appeared through the doorway. As silently as ever. There has always been something Heavenly imbued in Aziraphale's body, Crowley thinks - something that makes his footsteps soft, his movements precise and delicate, whereas the demon's earthly feet have always been clumsy, his hips just a little too loose. (His physical form is not quite enough, to be human. Aziraphale’s is just a little too much).
The demon tilts his chin, watching his friend approach.
“You finished for the day?”
“Yes. Just closed up.” Winding his way around a fern, the angel pads across the narrow room, ducking his head around a trailing Aeschynanthus. “ I was wondering where you’d taken yourself off to. You’ve been very quiet, up here.”
“Afraid I’m up to no good?”
“Force of habit.” Aziraphale draws alongside. He’s carrying a cup in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other. Giving Crowley a smile, he motions at the chaise. “May I?”
Crowley shuffles his legs to one side, making space, and the angel moves to fill it. Aziraphale offers out the biscuits. Crowley takes one.
“Thanks.”
“Not at all. I was going to bring you toast, but some fiend has eaten all the bread.”
“Leave off…” He crunches his way through the first ginger snap, then takes a second as Aziraphale continues to offer them out. Then a third.
“What would you like, for dinner?” Aziraphale asks, placing the empty plate on the floor. “I’m happy to cook.”
Crowley feels an odd twist in his stomach - unease gnawing at the shifting of their long-held roles.
He’s always been the one to bring Aziraphale food, in the past. He’s the one who’d learned to cook, all those years ago, in the ovens that the humans invented. The one who’d spent hours in kitchens, among the mothers and wives and sisters of the world - who’d gathered strange new recipes and practiced until he was excellent. Aziraphale had always been the one to accept. He’d exclaimed in delight, and made little noises, at the back of his throat. He’d smiled, and Crowley had liked being the one to cause that. He had liked being able to provide.
It was something he had been (just about) able to fit under the category of ‘demon’, was provider. He’d always done it demonically, after all. Stolen the bread, tricked the shepherd into parting with their milk at inappropriate prices, scattered temptations and wiles around the marketplace as he gathered Aziraphale’s favourite delicacies. It had always been deniably demonic - just enough to cover the fact that he was doing it all for an angel.
And now, well… he doesn’t have the magic to go nicking things from markets, these days. Doesn’t have the energy to work out some clever new recipe every night. Which annoys him. Because he had liked being able to do that. Aziraphale had always enjoyed it so much and Crowley had felt clever and needed and strong. He had known where he stood, in that role.
“You don’t need to cook,” he tells the angel, a little grumpily. “I was going to order in.”
It’s a loophole, really. Crowley knows that, if he offers to cook, himself, Aziraphale will fuss and protest. He’ll say he should rest, because he’s already had a busy day. He’d driven all the way down to that bookshop, in Kent, to pick up an old encyclopaedia on the angel’s behalf. And then he’d gone up to that little shop they like, to pick up fresh berries. And it was thirty two degrees out - so, really, he should lie down and have some water, this evening. Rehydrate and rest, after the heat of the day. He needs to stay healthy.
Problem is, Crowley doesn’t want to be told to lie down and rest. Firstly, because he’s already been lying down and resting for the last hour and a half. Secondly, because he’s not very good at accepting care. It’s just not demonic. It’s not what he’s used to. They’ve been bridging into it, these last few years, but he still has sixty centuries of indoctrination to shake. A lifetime of barriers to break down. He’s not good at this.
He’s not good. Not good. Not good.
Aziraphale is watching him.
Turning his face, Crowley stares over at the windows, admiring the reflections of the plants and the cityscape, behind them. Lights are coming on, across the capital, marking points of gold against the pinking sky. It’s beautiful. In summer, it takes hours for the sun to go down, this far North. Not like the sunsets of the Mediterranean, in the early days. Crowley wonders how long he will be able to distract himself, with this one, before Aziraphale calls him on it.
He gets to about minute and a half.
“Are you okay?” The angel asks, softly.
“I’m fine.” It’s a stock response. He knows Aziraphale will see right through it, but he can’t help himself. He can never quite bear to jump straight into verbalising his thoughts.
“You seem restless.”
“I’m..." He rolls his eyes. Then, as the low level panic inside him reaches a crescendo, mutters, “having a weird afternoon.”
Aziraphale doesn’t say anything.
He’s very good at this part, Crowley thinks, feeling the silence grow around them - feeling the urge to run gnawing at his bones. The angel is being quiet because he knows that Crowley wants to flee. Knows he wants to slither out of the room, with belly pressed into the floor, his body long and simple and coated in scales. He knows that Crowley wants to crawl away, to stop himself from blurting out all of the nonsense that’s going on inside his head.
Aziraphale knows. So, he holds his silence. Because Crowley can’t shift into his snakeform and avoid the conversation. And the angel knows, if he leaves it long enough, the demon is eventually just going to-,
“I’m having a grammatical issue,” Crowley blurts out, unable to hold it in, anymore. “I mean… maybe grammar is the wrong thing. Maybe it's language, or something. I dunno... It's just words. Which words I’m supposed to use. You know? What I’m supposed to call myself. It’s just... confusing."
He cringes, hating how the thoughts pour out of him, unfiltered and unrefined. Aziraphale is so articulate. He always seems to know what to say. Whereas Crowley’s mouth doesn’t even feel the right shape for human language, half the time. He can barely force sound into meaning, around his metaphorically (and occasionally literally) forked tongue.
“I just…” he stutters. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to choose, because we’ve only got humans for context on this - and they come in neat little boxes, you know? There are a handful of types. And only two possible gametes. And even if it’s two mothers or two fathers raising the little buggers, the words still work because they're always one thing or the other. But… I don’t fit like that. I could literally have contributed either part to the equation. And that’s not been a problem, before,” Crowley hastens to add, because he wants to make it clear that this crisis isn’t part of some greater crisis. “I’ve never minded about any of that. Quite happy. But now I’m doing all this… thinking.”
Aziraphale gives a soft noise. Something close to a chuckle, but gentler.
“Not thinking, surely?”
“Angel...”
“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale dips his head. “Do continue.”
Crowley lets out a long breath, the pressure of all the thoughts lessening, slightly. Aziraphale’s eyes are soft and understanding, and that calms him. Makes him think that this might not be the end.
“S’okay. I just…” he runs fingers through his hair, takes a breath in. His abdomen presses into chaise beneath him. Fuck, he’s big… “Might be panicking, a little,” he admits. “Just a little”
There is a swelling moment, during which Aziraphale continues to stare over at him, exceptional warmth in his gaze. Then he smiles, nods, looks down.
“I think that’s normal, darling.”
Crowley raises an eyebrow.
“You think It’s normal to worry about how being a genderless snake demon will affect your offspring?”
The corners of Aziraphale’s mouth twitch, slightly.
“Well, less normal for other people, perhaps,” he concedes, bright eyes tracing the lines of Crowley’s body, then the angles of his face. “But quite within bounds for you.”
Crowley stares at him, feeling slightly helpless. He has too many thoughts going on and not enough words to speak them. His mouth won’t cooperate and he wants to lighten himself but he doesn’t know how. The thoughts are all clinging, inside of him, the barbs of emotion snagging on his soul.
“You know that I’m going to get this wrong, right?” He eventually stammers, past the tightness. “You know that, eventually, I’m going to find some way of fucking this up?”
Aziraphale’s hand gives an involuntary twitch, as if he wants to reach out but thinks better of it.
“You won't," he assures Crowley, after taking a moment to suppress some other (probably much more emotional) response. “You’re doing so well, dear boy. I’m terribly proud of you. I’ve never been more proud of you, actually, and I've had the immense honour of watching you stop time and save the world.”
The demon's cheeks flush.
“I…”
He’s not sure what to say, to that. He wants to deflect the compliment - on grounds of its sickening sentimentality - but he’s actually never been prouder of himself, either.
He’s in love with this new potential of his body. He’s amazed that, even after all the damage that’s been done to him, he can still create. It has given him hope that there is something hardwired into him - that, when the time comes, he’ll know what to do. Know how to act. Know how to love. He had been made to do this, after all. In the beginning, he had birthed stars from the gas and dust of nebulae, and he had loved every one of them. He had known them all by name. He had pulled worlds together, from the fragments around them, painted their skies with colour. He had been a creator, then. Against the odds, he is still a creator, now.
Life. Electricity, bound in blood and bone. A tiny brain, sending signals down gossamer nerves. A tiny heartbeat, coordinating four tiny chambers to pump blood. Tiny lungs - still, for now, but ready to flood with air and cry it all back out, again - ready to draw from the world, over and over, ceaseless and perpetual. A tiny body, imbued with their magic. A vessel, for some ineffable part of his and Aziraphale’s immortal souls.
He’s so proud that he can do this - and that makes him feel almost nauseous, because he’s not meant to feel proud of himself. He’s a demon. He’s not meant for any of this. He’s not good at it.
He’s not good. Not good. Not good.
He clears his throat, looking away from Aziraphale.
There is a silence of about ten heartbeats. Then, the angel slides his hand across the chaise, stopping just centimetres away from Crowley’s fingertips; inviting but not initiating touch.
“Tell me?”
The demon clenches his jaw. Shrugs.
“Just talk, Crowley,” Aziraphale urges him. “I won’t say a word. I’ll just listen, I promise.”
“You just want me to just rant at you, for some indeterminate amount of time?” His voice comes out all harsh and sharp, because the moment is vulnerable and he is so shit at vulnerable. He’s not used to it. Hell isn't a place for soft underbellies or exposed throats.
“Well, perhaps not indeterminate.” Aziraphale smiles, shyly. “Why don’t we start at sixty seconds and see how we go?”
Crowley looks down, at their fingers.
“Most of it is just dramatic nonsense,” he warns, darkly.
“Mm.” Aziraphale leans in, across the chaise. His mouth finds Crowley’s cheek and presses the softest little kiss, there. Then he draws back, before the demon has time to react. “That’s fine,” he says, gently. “I have always had a soft spot for your dramatic nonsense.”
They watch one another, from a few inches away.
Crowley stares, thinking how wonderful it is that they can touch, now; that they can kiss, and twine their bodies together, and sleep beside one another; that they can take comfort in the physicality of their bodies and of this world. It is wonderful that they’ve decided, after all this time, that they are more than just friends - that they are partners, mirrors, made to fill the empty spaces of one another. It’s all a bit human and very Earthly, but, as it turns out, that’s totally Crowley’s thing. Totally does it for him.
The truth is, he’s always wanted this; personal connection, or family, or whatever. It was what had caused him to wander from the fold, up in Heaven. He’d been searching for closeness, for belonging, and he'd fucked up. He’d been looking so hard for one thing that he’d missed the rest of what was going on. And then it had all been over. And, after the fall, there had been no closeness, because the pain had driven them apart, in the end - all the rebels. And Crowley had been more alone than ever.
The idea of ever being back in that situation scares him shitless.
“I just don’t know what i’m doing.” Crowley begins, voice low and frustrated. “I have this… this… incredible ability to talk myself out of a good place. And today was a good day, you know? It was a proper good day…”
He stares up at Aziraphale for a moment, struggling to find more words. A couple of seconds pass in silence, but the angel does not speak. He just gives Crowley the smallest of encouraging nods and, emboldened, the demon pushes on.
“I got all the shit I wanted to do, done. That book, for you. Checked in on that project I'm working on, at the water treatment plant in Brixton.” The angel frowns slightly. “Went to the market. Then, as I was on my way home, I bumped into those two idiots from across the road. You know, the prats who own that bar, over on Compton?”
“Oh!” The angel beams. “Andrew and Sam?”
“Uh… maybe.”
Crowley wonders, for a moment, if he should know the humans’ names. Was that something that was expected of him because of the proximity of their living quarters? Or because Aziraphale liked them?
"Anyway," he pushes the question from his mind, to analyse later. "They accosted me, to do the whole ‘congratulations’ routine.” He hams up his accent, for a moment, in imitation. It’s a bit of an unkind imitation, really, and it makes Aziraphale frown again, but the angel restrains himself from comment. “They were,” Crowley rolls his eyes, “absolutely unbearable. Nobody should know that much about prenatal yoga. Or nipple balm. But things were fine… And then we got to a bit of the conversation where they suddenly realised they had to refer to me as either a ‘father’ or a ‘mother’. And they didn’t know what to say. Which is fair, I suppose.” He trails off, shrugging through the sting of remembered awkwardness. “They’ve never had to choose a pronoun before. You don't need to when you're just talking to someone. But now I look like this... Like a snake that had swallowed a beach ball."
He looks at Aziraphale.
Aziraphale looks like he wants to say something but, to his credit and true to his word, he doesn't. He just dips his head towards Crowley, asking him to continue.
“So, I’m standing there," Crowley signs, eventually, "and they’re just standing there… And it’s this whole thing. And, eventually, the small one thinks to change the subject - say they like my new haircut - and I manage to excuse myself and bugger off home. And I've spent the rest of the afternoon thinking about it.”
He pulls a face.
There had been no need to spend the rest of the afternoon thinking about it. It had been a stupid thing to do, really. Stupid thing to dwell on. The whole thing’s stupid, he thinks. He’s not even sure why he’s still talking about it. He should stop.
“I just… hadn’t really considered that side of things, before,” he admits to Aziraphale, mouth continuing on anyway - regardless of the intentions of his brain. “I mean, what the ever-living fuck am I supposed to call myself? ‘Mother’ seems like i’m only calling myself that because i’m doing the carrying bit. Father seems like I’m ignoring that aspect and bowing down to the patriarchy. Anything else is something new that the kid has to take on, and there's enough they're going to have to deal with in all of this without having to explain to other people about that. And… is there even a right choice? Because what if I change how I feel about it? Because I’m not sold on committing to one human gender for the rest of eternity - no offence.”
Aziraphale dips his head. None taken.
“So, whichever I choose, there are going to be times where it doesn’t match up with what society expects. And I don’t want to screw-,” he gesticulates vaguely towards his midriff, “them up. Or not give them one to use. Because everyone's going to expect to call me something. And everyone hates those kids who call their parents by their first names. So, now I’m questioning everything I've ever believed about myself.”
Aziraphale nods understandingly, but says nothing. Just continues to let Crowley babble.
“And then I started thinking - well fuck, what if this is the least of our worries? What if something else goes wrong? What if they end up damaged in some way? What if they end up with my buggered-up eyes, or your love of opera? What if they end up hateing us, because we’ve essentially ostracised them from the rest of our kind by being who we are? For bringing them into a world where they can never have a place? And what if they're a dick? Jesus fuck, what if we don't like them? Can’t take this back, you know… This is a life sentence. And what if something happens to us and they’re left here alone? What if-" Crowley stutters for a moment, then falls silent.
He’s run out of ‘what if-'s.
Taking a deep breath, he continues to rant, anyway. (He’s still got about five seconds left on the clock, after all).
“And it’s so fucking hot. I sweated through every damned piece of clothing I own, today, because I couldn’t cool down - because I can’t use a shred of magic. And I ended up walking to the fruit stall because my back was killing from sitting in the fucking car all morning. And it was so hot that I detoured through the air-conditioned shops on the way back. And my brain is so fucked that I ended up buying about twenty million tiny socks, and a tiny hat, and this blanket, because…” he pulls a face, feeling a swell of distress, “apparently, I have no self control and that’s all abstract thought can offer me, now.” He pulls on a stupid voice. “Soft things are good, good things are happy, blankets are soft things…”
A smile splits Aziraphale’s serious expression.
“I think it’s lovely that you’re nesting, Crowley-,”
“Oh, god, angel, don’t…” The demon gives a shudder. “It’s disgusssting… I’m disgussting. I’m sssweaty, and hungry, and I feel like someone has ssstretched me out, with one of those damned ‘pear of anguish’ jobs. You know, the oness I took credit for, back in the middle agess… which really serves me right. This might be divine justice if ever there was-”
In one, steady movement, Aziraphale slips his hand forward and covers Crowley’s, their digits interlocking.
“You are beautiful.”
“Bollocksss. I’ve seen pregnant snakes, Aziraphale.” His eyes slide up, to meet the angel’s. “Sss’not a good look… Not even sslightly.”
The angel leans in, presses a kiss against his jaw.
“You are beautiful. Just beautiful.” Aziraphale’s nose brushes his cheek as he withdraws. And Crowley feels his heart rate slow, a little. Feels it calm.
Their faces rest, inches apart.
“You’re also surprisingly well adjusted,” Aziraphale murmurs, breath tickling his skin. “It is a constant surprise to me."
The proximity is distracting. Crowley doesn’t register the words, for a few moments. When he does, he frowns, drawing his head back to meet the angel’s eyes.
“I beg your sodding pardon?”
“You still worry about these things because you still care. And that is incredible, considering all that you have been through. I’m not trying to patronise you,” Aziraphale clarifies, “I’m just honestly impressed, dear boy. It is a good thing,” he tilts his head, to hold Crowley’s gaze better. “You are a good thing.”
Crowley's lip curls on reflex, exposing teeth he knows are too-sharp, too-animal.
“Piss off…”
“You are. You are smart, and brilliant, and beautiful.”
“P-,”
“And I love you. So very much.”
Crowley blinks. Swallows.
The words still throw him off-balance, sometimes - though Aziraphale says them often enough. He says them when he brings the demon tea in the mornings. And when they’re trailing back from somewhere, late at night, walking just close enough for their arms to brush and their fingers to hook. He says them up against Crowley’s neck when they’re tangled together in the safe space of their bedroom. And it makes Crowley shake every time.
Because Crowley loves him, too. Proper, romantic-style loves him. And it’s very Earthly, and very human - and not even slightly demonic - but he loves him, anyway. And it makes his body shiver, in a way that he’s never been able to quantify as ‘good’ or ‘bad’.
He bites at the inside of his lower lip.
“Nng’yeh.”
He doesn’t say the words back, very often. It feels like less of a prize, coming from him - not equal to the gift of Aziraphale saying it.
The angel, who seems to understand this, sighs and reaches out to straighten Crowley’s vest. It is hanging loose at the neck, though it is stretched tight across his belly, below. It looks a bit silly, really, but it’s the only thing left in his wardrobe that he’s not sweated through or grown out of.
“Would it help, to know some of the things that I’m worried about?” Aziraphale asks, softly. “To know you’re not alone, in this?”
Crowley shrugs.
“Maybe.” It might help. Then again, it might just give his brain more to over-analyse. “Yeah…” he exhales, slowly. “Go on.” But you’re my best, fucking friend, Aziraphale. The father of my child. So please be gentle with me.
“Okay.” The angel sits back, takes a sip of his tea, then offers out the cup.
Crowley takes it. Drinks a sip.
They share, now. He loves that they share.
“I’ve been having these terrible dreams,” Aziraphale begins, a little shyly. “Where something has happened to you. Where you’re hurt, or in pain, and I can't reach you. It’s why I haven’t been sleeping much, these last few weeks - not that sleep matters, for me,” he concedes. “I mean, I never did it, before. I’ve just grown used to it, these past few years. It’s one of the loveliest parts of this.”
Crowley privately agrees - though he’d never admit to it.
He likes the sensation of them pressed loosely together, limbs tangled in their sheets. He likes the soft pattern of the breaths they do not need to take. He likes the rise and fall of skin against skin. Likes fitting himself against the angel’s back, one arm wrapped around his torso. He likes feeling safe, in their combined vulnerability. It’s one of the softest, least demonic things about them. And he likes it very much.
“I’m not dealing particularly well with seeing you in discomfort,” Aziraphale admits. “It’s my natural inclination to try and fix things. That is what I do, to show that I care, but but I can’t this time. And you are doing so well at all of this,” he smiles, indulgently. “You really are, my dear, but I know it’s been difficult. The physical discomfort, not being able to use your powers…”
Crowley looks down.
“S’fine,” he shrugs. “I’ll get over it.”
"I know you will, but it still makes me feel dreadfully guilty. Because you're doing all of the work, right now. And I feel a bit useless, really.”
"Don't be daft," the demon growls. But he doesn't really have anywhere to go with it. He is doing all the work, right now. Aziraphale's part in all of this had been markedly more brief and infinitely more pleasurable. "I signed on for this, didn't I?” He grumbles, at the angel. “I knew what I was getting into.” (This is mostly true. The sheer number of times he'd have to piss each day had been a surprise).
“I know, but I wish I could do more. You do so much for me, Crowley, and I’m so very grateful.” He smiles. “I just worry that I ask too much of you, sometimes - that you’ll get tired of this. Tired of me.”
Crowley gives his head a little shake.
“Wha-, why would you even-?”
“They are irrational thoughts, my dear,” the angel soothes. “It’s what I fear. Not what I think will happen.”
“Good,” Crowley grumbles. He’s still a little stung by the implication. “Would have fucked off earlier on in the process, anyway, if I was going to,” he mutters. “Believe me… Any enjoyment you might have perceived, in the first twelve weeks of vomiting, was entirely in your head.”
“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s fingers tighten around his. “I know it was horrible and I never actually thought you were going to leave. It is just something I irrationally fear.” He tilts his head, capturing Crowley’s gaze. “It comes from me. My own insecurities. It’s no comment on anything you’ve done.”
Crowley swallows.
He wants to believe that. He really does.
“I’m not going anywhere, you idiot,” he mumbles. “I told you that. Years ago.”
“I know.”
“I chose this.”
“I know. I trust you.”
“Right.”
They eye one another.
There is small, open moment - the kind that exists in the shadow of a confession. It feels safer, in those moments to say things that a demon would not say. Things that a partner might.
“Sometimes, I imagine that you might get tired, too,” he admits, examining the familiar lines of Aziraphale’s face. “Want something more.”
“There is no ‘more’,” his angel smiles - unabashed, as always, in offering praise. “You are everything, to me.”
“Bit, you know… damaged goods, though.”
“You are everything.” Aziraphale repeats, with gentle finality.
Crowley swallows.
There’s no arguing the point, he thinks. The angel won’t budge. He has a stubborn streak a mile wide and Crowley loves him for it. He’s loved him such a long time - has burned with the need of it for thousands of years. That burn is still there, now, but it is soothed by Aziraphale's reciprocation. They have always balanced one another, Crowley thinks. They have always fit - even before they knew how.
Crowley thinks of the early days, just after the failed Armageddon. The pair of them stepping shyly into this new life. Sort of-, nearly-, almost-together. Sitting on the sofa in the bookshop, in the evenings, before they lived in the same space. Finishing off a bottle of wine, after a film, or the theatre. Listening to the demon’s music. Or the angel’s stories. Laughing, and teasing, and eventually falling together; Crowley sliding his light body over and resting it tentatively against Aziraphale’s. Shy explorations. Terrified admissions of want. Spontaneous moments of thick, molten need.
“I miss being able to sit up, without ceremony,” he mutters, testing the waters for this change in subject. “Being able to lean over and kiss you, without the need for a turning circle and a great deal of leverage.”
Aziraphale’s smile widens, pink over white.
“Well, I’ve always preferred you horizontal, anyway."
“Really?” Crowley flicks an eyebrow.
“Apart from a few special circumstances.”
The air between them begins to feel lighter, again. Softer. Easier.
“I miss that, too,” Crowley admits, quietly.
Aziraphale frowns.
“We still do… that.”
“Not exactly.” He pauses, waits to see if the angel understands, then rolls his eyes when Aziraphale continues to frown, enquiringly. “Whatever else I shift around, I’ve pretty much always had a prostate.”
“Oh.” The angel’s eyes do a lovely little sweep of him. His lips tighten, eyebrows doing that little flick which translates as ‘Oh, I know I shouldn’t, but…’. “I miss your prostate too, dear. And everything that comes with it. Greedy of me, really. I’ve got used to having things both ways.”
His voice changes as he says it. Just a tiny shift in the pressure of his words, a tiny lacing of intention. And it shouldn’t translate as sexy. It really shouldn’t. But it does.
Crowley is a shit demon.
Giving a little groan, he drops his head back against the blanket. Listens to the angel chuckle and lean closer, and slide a strong thumb over the back of his hand. A caress. A soothe.
“It’s not really all that long to go, now, though. Only two more months.”
“Nnngh…” Such a shit demon.
Another chuckle. Another squeeze of his hand.
“Come on, darling. It’s already half six. Why don’t you order us something to eat and I’ll distract you until it arrives?”
Crowley opens an eye, peers up at him.
It’s a compromise. He still gets to be the provider, if he allows Aziraphale to care for him a little, in return. Offer a bit of comfort. He’s fairly sure what type of comfort, too, but he thinks he should probably check.
“Distract me, how?”
“I was thinking…” Aziraphale leans in, eyes slightly dark. “You could roll on your other side… and I could slide onto this couch, behind you…” his hands find skin, under the hem of the demon’s vest. “…get you free of these clothes… cool you down… rub your back?”
He grins. Can’t help it. His angel can be such a wonderful, wonderful bastard sometimes.
“Oh, thank Someone… I thought you were going to suggest something scandalous, for a moment, there.”
“Scandalous?” Aziraphale cocks his head, coy. “My dear, you’re talking to the angel who committed treason by helping prevent Armageddon, defected from Heaven to side with the Antichrist and a demon, married said demon in human tradition, and is now living with him - openly and very happily - as he gets rounder and rounder with the evidence of their physical indiscretions. I can’t imagine much else I could do, to cause greater scandal.”
“Physical indiscretions?” Crowley is squirming with pleasure as the angel leans in, sliding hands up his sides, under the cotton of his vest. “What is this, the twentieth century?”
Aziraphale beams back at him.
“What would you prefer?”
Crowley grins.
He just likes to hear him say it. Likes to see that side that the angel doesn’t show other people. That side that’s just for him.
“Fucking?”
It shouldn’t be sexy - because he’s dressed like a bleeding librarian, and he’s Aziraphale, and he’s an angel. He’s a literal angel. He’s prim, and proper, and perennially outdated. He owns a tumbledown bookstore and there’s always dust in his hair. And he’s completely dense about social interactions, and gullible, and far too trusting. And he’s kind. And beautiful. And brave. He’s so brave…
He’s the angel who committed treason, to save a humanity who would never know. He’s the angel who turned his back on Heaven, for Earth. Who marched into Hell, to save a demon. Who pulls Crowley through this world, exclaiming in wonder at it all. Teaching him how to feel. Showing him the beauty in it, even when the demon can’t see it for himself. The world doesn’t have colour without Aziraphale.
And he talks dirty in bed, sometimes. And it destroys Crowley. Because those things shouldn't be sexy, coming out of Aziraphale’s prim, pink, perfect mouth. But they are. It does it for the demon, every time.
“As he gets rounder and rounder, with the evidence of our fucking,” the angel rephrases his earlier statement, leaning himself over Crowley, who moves a leg to one side to accommodate him. Their bellies press together. Hard and soft. Different, now, but still them. More than them, actually. “Better?”
“Better.”
Crowley stares up at his best friend. He doesn’t have to say the thing that’s burning through him, because Aziraphale understands. He knows that it’s difficult, sometimes, to get the words out. And he doesn’t need them. He can feel it. He has been able to feel it for thousands of years. He knows Crowley. And he loves him. Not despite, but because.
“You can choose any words you wish, you know,” the angel murmurs, over him.
A flicker of anxiety passes through the demon. But only a flicker. Because this situation places him firmly in the category of ‘partner’, rather than ‘demon’, and he feels safe, there.
“I know…”
“You don’t have to choose, now.”
“I have to choose soon, though.”
“Mm.” Aziraphale watches him thoughtfully, for a while. “You can be a mother and still be a ‘he’, Crowley,” he says, softly. “You can be a father and carry a child. Society’s expectations only carry weight if we lend it to them. You can call yourself whatever feels right. You can even use your own name-,”
“No-,” he interrupts, a little too quickly. Then adds, (much slower and more cautiously), “I want a title.”
A familiar, soft expression flits across Aziraphale’s face.
Crowley screws up his own.
“Oh, don’t… don’t make it a thing.”
“I’m not.” The angel’s smile doesn’t fade, though. The softness doesn’t lessen. He’s glowing a little - the power and love of him shimmering in the air between them. It makes Crowley equal parts ecstatic and terrified.
“I don’t think ‘mother' works for me,” he admits, emboldened by Aziraphale’s interest in the topic. “I tried it out, in my head, but I feel like I’m pushing against the idea. Like I’d only be choosing it because I did the whole carrying bit. And I don’t want to spend the rest of eternity justifying myself to myself.”
“Father, then?”
“Nah, you’re the father. That feels right.” And it does. In his mind, it’s a male title. Slightly authoritative. Slightly old fashioned. Very Aziraphale.
The angel sighs, redistributes his weight, looks off into the distance for a moment, then smiles and looks down.
“What about Dad?”
“Thats-,” Crowley gives a short laugh. “Angel, that means the same thing.”
“Well, not really. It’s a colloquialism. That’s the point. It’s less formally male. It also, incidentally, comes from a completely different root. The word ‘father’ comes from Proto-Indo-European origins. ‘One who begets a child’. Whereas ‘dad’ is a word designed about the mouth anatomy of an infant. Same as ‘mama’. They are just sounds that children label their parents with. Less derived, in background and usage.”
“I love it when you talk linguistics.” Crowley deadpans. “It really turns me on.”
“It’s the same in so many languages,” Aziraphale continues, ignoring him. “The same mouth-shape, with some variation. ‘Abba’, ‘papa’, ‘tata’, ‘dada’… They are the closest thing to a linguistic universals, actually. Almost invariably a human’s first words.”
Crowley stares up at him.
He can remember those words in all sorts of languages. They conjure memories. One, in particular, draws a scene to his mind from the distant past. Children running barefoot through a camp, squealing in joy to see the adults returning from the field. He can remember them having left him, sitting in the dust with his hair half braided, to throw themselves into the arms of their parents. He can remember their squeals of joy, the way they called out.
Maybe he can be a dad and carry a child, he thinks. Maybe he can be a dad and still be a genderless snake demon. It feels less paternalistic and constrained. It’s just a sound that a child uses, after all - not some formal derivation of ‘begetting’ in some proto-indy-whatsit-thingy. It’s more fluid.
“And it doesn’t matter that they mean the same thing, does it?” Aziraphale continues, beaming down at him. “Because we’re going to be the same thing, aren’t we? We are both going to be parents, Crowley. We don’t have to be different. Not anymore.”
And something warm and tight is pulling at the heart of the demon, suddenly, because maybe Aziraphale is right. Maybe - in this one thing - they don’t have to be different. Maybe it would be okay for them to have the same sort of title. A different word for the same position in their offspring’s life. There will still be times when he doesn’t match up, in society’s eyes, but that’s okay. He’s never really minded what anyone else thought. Just the angel.
And he’s smiling a bit, now - but rolling his eyes, too, because Aziraphale looks just too damned pleased with himself. He’s propped himself up, the top of his thighs pushed against the underside of the demon’s, and he’s beaming
And Crowley is beaming, too. And it’s sickening. (It's perfect).
“Yeah, alright…” he breathes out, slowly. “Maybe.” The swell of emotion within him reaches a peak and becomes too much. He turns his head and looks away - because he’s not good at this.
Not good. Not good. Not supposed to be good. He is a demon.
But he was an angel once, too, he reminds himself. He’d been made to create and his body can do this amazing thing, and a demon can’t be proud of itself, but he’s not just a demon. He’s also a partner. He’s doing this for Aziraphale - for him and Aziraphale - and Aziraphale thinks he is good enough. So, maybe, as a partner, he can be good enough. Let the demon part fall away. Claim some other title. Be some different creature.
“Think on it,” the angel dips his head in, to press a kiss against his cheek and lay a hand against the swell of his belly. “Mother, father, dad, parent, whatever you choose, we'll figure it out.”
The movement causes a little thrill of pleasure. Then, a few seconds later, a different fluttering - deep inside his body. A kick, or three. A flex.
The angel’s eyes jerk back up to his, delight spilling across his features.
“They always dick around when I’m hungry,” Crowley explains.
They sit for a minute, feeling the movement stir between them. Then, the angel gives a little sigh and gathers himself.
“Lets get you fed, then.” Lifting himself gently off Crowley, he bends down and picks up the demon's mobile phone, from where it was lying on the floor. “Here,” he offers it out. “I have no idea how to work the blessed thing.”
“As if you’ve ever really tried,” Crowley grumbles, but he’s already taking the phone and flicking through apps to find the one he wants, scrolling past previous orders; finding what the angel likes best because he’s really not fussy about food but he’s always liked watching Aziraphale enjoy himself. “Done!” He drops the phone back to the floor, victorious, with a clatter.
Aziraphale frowns.
“Really, Crowley… It’ll break!”
“It wouldn’t dare.” Crowley reaches up, fingertips grazing the angel, tempting him down again. Over him. “Now, if I remember correctly, promises were made.”
A sly smile greets his words.
“Promises? I don’t know what you mean, dear boy.”
“Promises about back rubbing and the like.”
“I don’t remember any such promises.”
“Come,” he murmurs, fingertips snagging him by the lapel of his waistcoat. “Come here…”
“I have really no idea what you’re-,”
“You can’t be cruel to pregnant snakes,” Crowley hisses, as Aziraphale smothers a smile and rearranges himself so that he can be drawn closer. “They’re all sensitive and shit.”
“Do they bite?”
“Occasionally.” He flashes just a little fang.
Aziraphale chuckles and then he’s crawling over and slipping in behind Crowley, on the chaise, folding the demon back against his chest. Strong arms. Face pressed into his neck. Then kisses into his cheeks. And into his forehead and chin. And then, finally, into his searching lips.
“I’ll have to keep an eye out for snakes, then.”
“You are absolutely shite at that.”
The angel chuckles again.
It’s an old joke. An old pattern, which fits so very perfectly alongside their new patterns. The patterns Aziraphale’s fingers trace, along his body; the patterns they use to work his clothes gently away and pull them together. Good patterns. New, but good.
“Well, if I do manage to spot any,” Aziraphale murmurs, against his lips, “I’ll be extra nice to them.”
“Yeah?” He opens his eyes. They are so close. He can barely focus on Aziraphale, between their languid, slightly wet kisses, and it is perfect. His body is strong and alive, pressed against the angel’s, and it is perfect. “What will you do?”
“To the snakes?”
“Yeah, tell me.”
He will tell him, Crowley knows. Aziraphale will lean in and tell him what he wants to do in glorious, painstaking detail. He’s very, very good at it. And Crowley knows that it shouldn’t be sexy because it’s Aziraphale - prim, proper Aziraphale, a literal angel - but it will be, anyway, because Aziraphale is doing it for him. Nobody else gets to see this. It’s only for Crowley.
And that’s what really does it, for Crowley. That Aziraphale is choosing him - them - a future. Not despite, but because.
“I’ll miss this, darling,” the angel whispers against his neck. “I’m so very excited, for all we have ahead of us, but I think I’m going to miss this a little." His hands are at Crowley’s hips and his neck, anchoring him flush. “You are so beautiful.”
And Crowley swallows and pushes back against him. He feels big, but also strong. And a partner can accept praise in the way a demon can’t.
“And yours,” he murmurs.
“Mine?”
“Yeah.”
Aziraphale makes an overly dramatic noise against the back of his neck.
And Crowley chuckles, because he's doing it on purpose. Aziraphale is a sweet, beautiful, wonderful, bastard of an angel and he’s being silly on purpose, just to make Crowley feel less awkward about verbalising emotion. And he’ll let Crowley continue to order food, and cook, and fetch things for him, just so he can feel useful. And he’ll fuck him, spooned together on the chaise. And it will be perfect, because the narrow sofa will make itself as wide as it needs to be, for Aziraphale, and because the angel knows the exact angle to make Crowley feel good.
And he’ll probably end up rubbing his back afterwards, too, the demon thinks. Because he’s the absolute fucking best.
“Come on, angel. You only have fifteen minutes before food gets here.”
“They’ll wait.” The angel’s soft, careful hands are undressing him, words only just making it out past the meetings of their lips. “They won’t know why, but they’ll wait.”
“Frivolous.”
.
The food arrives outside of the bookshop at the allotted time. As he pulls up on his pushbike, however, the young delivery driver is suddenly struck with a strong desire to call his mother, so it takes a further ten minutes to reach the door.
Rather miraculously, he doesn’t receive a reprimand from the delivery company. Somehow, the system seems to register rates him five stars. And, somewhere up in Berkshire, a mother goes to sleep happier, that evening, feeling blessed to be back in contact with her estranged son. (They’ve even planned to meet up for coffee, next week).
Meanwhile, in the sprawling flat above the bookshop, an angel strokes a very full and very contented demon’s back as they watch reruns on the overstuffed sofa in their living room.
And somewhere up in Heaven, someone in the miracle-receipts office probably rolls their eyes, at Aziraphale… But doesn’t dare do anything about it.
Life goes on.
.