Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tadfield was very nice, because, frankly, of course it was. Crowley had only been a vague accessory to the Dowlings’ relocation plans, but the family had been consumed with such decisions as square footage and commuting distances for nearly an entire year. His favorite had been the week Mr. Dowling was obsessed with deciding which of their possible new homes was in the best school district. Warlock wouldn’t even be going to those schools. That was the point of Crowley, and he’d already agreed to move with them by then.

He’d wanted to get out of the city. It probably wasn’t a move he’d have ever actually taken on his own, but now, walking down a quiet street of houses with gardens and trees taller than the buildings, he couldn’t help but wonder what the hell was wrong with him. This was what he’d always pictured for himself. In various shapes and colors, but he’d never planned to spend his whole life in the city.

The Dowlings’ new house was out towards the edge of the village, just barely within walking distance of the three or four streets that qualified as a town center. It meant the house was huge, and had a lot of empty land someone was going to have to figure out how to take care of, and Mr. Dowling could still get excited by the prospect of his son biking into town the way he probably never actually had when he was a kid. Crowley had decided to test that theory out. Besides, he’d finished moving into his new set of rooms the day before. Warlock and his parents would be showing up sometime after lunch with the last of the furniture and boxes. He had just a little bit of time to explore his new home by himself.

The houses got noticeably more quaint three blocks or so from the Dowlings’ house. Not that there were really blocks out that way, to begin with. The houses were all too big. But most of Tadfield lived in cottages and houses of reasonable size, once he passed the outliers.

A few blocks in, an enthusiastic ringing of bicycle bells made him turn. A pair of preteens flew past, one speeding ahead while the other craned her head to squint at him as she went by. Crowley raised a hand in greeting, one eyebrow quirking behind his sunglasses. Small town. He’d forgotten how that could be. Probably every kid in a mile radius would know there was someone new in town within the hour.

He also made note of the direction the kids were coming from. They looked to be Warlock’s age. It would be good to be able to tell him there were kids he could try to make friends with living nearby.

There were other people out as well. It was a Sunday morning, and just far enough into spring that the more daring were starting to go out without a jacket. Crowley wasn’t one of them—he wore a leather jacket like it was a breastplate, defending him against preconceptions of nannyhood—but even he had to admit that as long as he was in the sun he’d probably be more comfortable in a T-shirt. He might have to restructure his dresser organization. He hadn’t expected to be craving his sundresses so soon.

Nearly all of Tadfield was strictly residential, minus the handful of tiny businesses that ran out of their owners’ homes. It was going to be an adjustment. No more 2am chip runs. No more window shopping or taking a different underground route to work on a whim. That was part of why he wanted to scope out the place early. He had to know what his options were.

And there was something infuriatingly refreshing about not having to think about the bus route he wouldn’t take. London was huge, and he’d still always felt like he had to go out of his way to avoid a particular neighborhood he never wanted to step foot in again. There was only one neighborhood in Tadfield. And it could be all his. No memories attached.

The weather and the irresistible hope of a fresh start put a spring in his step as he made it to the first building actually dedicated to doing business. It was a New Age trinket shop, of all things. One window was full of tarot decks and books on constellations. The other had a placard announcing a weekly LGBTQ book club (all welcome; books available for lending) and a biweekly tea tasting club (tea leaf reading NOT practiced). Crowley snorted at that. There was a story there, and he was almost curious enough to investigate. But the ringing of bicycle bells ahead caught his attention, and he looked up to see the pair of riders who had passed him before swing widely around a bend and pull up to a corner just as another boy raced down another street to meet them. A moment later, a fourth pedaled—much more serenely—to meet the others, and after a very brief discussion, they all took off together.

He was going to have to look into how to teach someone to ride a bike. Thad would buy Warlock one in a heartbeat, but he was much too busy at work to take the time to teach his son how to use it.

“Hello?”

Crowley jumped. The door to the occult shop behind him had opened, and a young woman in a profoundly practical blouse and rolled up overalls was leaning out. He blinked, then was embarrassed for it. His whole schtick was upending what people expected of a nanny. He shouldn’t have been caught off guard to find the owner of a witchy shop didn’t wear all velvet and dark Victorian skirts.

“Er. Hi,” he said.

She looked him up and down briskly, then tilted her head. “The tea, or the book club?”

“…sorry?”

“You were staring at the sign.”

“Oh. I mean, that is the point of it, right? To catch attention?” As ever, as soon as he’d let his mouth run, his brain caught up and recognized the sharpness in her tone. “Ngk. Shit. It was the tea. The no leaf reading thing. Queer as they come, me, don’t worry.”

The sharpness in the young woman’s eyes didn’t disappear, only stopped aiming directly at him. “Want a flyer?”

Crowley’s nose scrunched up. “No thanks. Not a tea person.”

“I didn’t think so. You just moved into that huge new house on Oak Street, right?”

“Well… sort of. Yeah. It’s not mine, though.”

She looked him up and down again, more thoroughly. “My name’s Anathema. I meant a book club flyer. I think you should come.”

“Ah.” Crowley tried not to squirm, which was a lot harder than it should have been under Anathema’s gaze. “Not a great reader, me. Probably couldn’t keep up.”

Anathema shrugged. “To be frank, half the group usually hasn’t read up to the goal most weeks. No pressure, but, you know, we won’t be assholes about it, if you’re behind. Good time to try it out, too, if you want, we’ve got another two weeks of this book before we start the next one. You could get a head start, if you wanted.”

And, despite the squirming embarrassment that he’d always known things like bookclubs weren’t for him, and the fact he’d known this woman for all of two minutes and had no reason to believe she wasn’t just trying to sell him something later, there was a distinct pull yanking him gently towards the idea. He hadn’t really had a group of friends since his second shot at university. And even then, he’d spent half his time working and the other half frantically studying, with things like socializing a distant third.

Fuck it, he decided. New starts. And if Warlock, budding goth supreme, could make his Goal For The Move be making friends, so could Crowley.

“Yeah, I—sure, I guess. When do you meet?”

“Thursdays, mostly. Sometimes we do a Sunday afternoon just to shake things up.”

“I usually work weekends.” Technically he didn’t, but his contract with the Dowlings included abundantly fair bonuses for babysitting during times he was technically off, as long as they gave him enough notice. He almost never had anything he’d prefer to do over spending a little time with Warlock.

“That’s fine. We take votes before moving anything. You can show up before we change books if you want to meet everyone.”

“Might do.”

“Cool.”

A car pulled into a parking spot in front of the shop, and a woman with a very large handbag got out, waving to Anathema with all the yoo-hoo spirit possible in a gesture. Anathema waved back, stepping aside to let her into the shop. “Hi, Mrs. Tyler. I’ll be with you in one moment. Yes, he’s good, weather has been nice, how are you?” It took very little perception skill to see the change in Anathema’s expression as soon as an actual customer—or one of this particular type, at least—was the object of it. Crowley immediately felt a little better about the whole thing. This was clearly Anathema’s customer service persona. That meant he’d been getting something at least a little more real.

“One sec.” She ducked inside to rummage around in a box attached to the inside wall, and popped back out with a bright teal flyer. “It’s got my email on if you have any questions. You can just show up, or not, no bother.”

“Got it. Thanks, er, Anathema.”

She threw him a preemptively tired sort of salute, and turned inside to face Mrs. Tyler.

Crowley considered the flyer. Despite the color of the paper, it was a very calm, orderly poster. Date, time, location, a list of the next few months’ planned reading. In a little box in one corner was a suggestion to “buy (or lend) local!” with a list of shops that carried the books as well as the address of the local library. Another thing he’d have to look into, he supposed. Might be a good place to take Warlock, when he had schoolwork to do.

There was only one address among the bookshops that he recognized. Blossom Street was another block or two up, he was pretty sure. He’d already planned to take a look at a hair salon up that way. Might as well pick up the book club’s next book, if he really was going to take a stab at getting ahead on it.

Anathema’s street was still vaguely residential, other than another two small shops and a pizza place, but the next street up was clearly the town center. From the corner Crowley could see signs for the post office, two pubs, and a whole menagerie of quaint little stores. Also, there was a sign. Someone was very intent that outsiders like him know that, despite the houses crowding in on all sides and the flats over nearly every storefront, this was the place where people came to do business.

And walk dogs, of course. And go for strolls and sit on pleasant looking benches near a little square of greenspace just up the road. Crowley couldn’t help staring at the tiny park for a moment. Back home, that would be considered an exorbitant amount of plant life. Here, surrounded by trees and grassy yards all of two blocks away, it seemed exorbitantly funny.

He nodded politely to the people sitting on the benches, though. Most of them nodded back. Two or three smiled, and it made him feel like smiling to himself, too. He’d never actually liked the casual rudeness he put on so easily in the city. It was what he had to be to get through the day. It was part of why he liked kids, he thought; they were so much more willing to react to what he was actually doing, and not the gap between it and what they expected. Here, though. He had no plans on being chipper, or even really cheery, but to be seen as nice would be… nice. Kind. He’d like kind, if he could manage it.

He crossed paths with the four bicycle riders again as he crossed over to Blossom Street. One of the boys, on a battered blue bike that clearly had not been painted professionally, was in the lead, directing the others through the maze of streets. The girl who’d noticed Crowley on the first pass was keeping a close second, occasionally zipping forward ahead of the others, but always circling back, despite rolled eyes and complaints to come on, already. On one of these circle backs, she spotted Crowley again, and gave him another good squint. He waved again, trying not to laugh. One of the boys noticed his friend staring and turned too, and then in a clatter of near-missed bicycle wheels all four were looking at him.

The boy who’d been at the front waved back. Crowley resisted the urge to wave yet again. He shoved his hands in his pockets instead. In the time that took him, a rapid argument was had across the street, and a moment later the kids were off again back down the road past him.

“Hi!” the one in the lead called as they passed him by. “I like your coat!”

By the time Crowley had looked down to remember what jacket he was wearing, they were all gone around the corner of the post office, bike bells and laughter the only things left behind.

Probably not a bad kid to introduce to Warlock, that one. Decent sense of fashion, if nothing else.

The hair salon looked pretty standard. It was hard to get a read on whether they’d be weird about a man coming in with long hair like his, but he’d have to try eventually.

He was half way up the rest of the block to the appealing little building that housed the bookshop when he realized, actually, he might not. Anathema would probably be able to tell him where people would be chill about his gender choices. She’d probably like to, even.

He was a bit absorbed in the frank weirdness that was discovering he could rely on someone for something like that, and wasn’t paying full attention as he climbed the few steps to the bookshop door. A bell tinkled cheerily as he went in. There were big picture windows to each side of the door, one of which was displaying books to the sidewalk and the other of which was simply letting in lots of sunlight. Crowley couldn’t help looking in the sun patch on the sill to see if there was a cat. He’d always liked the idea of bookshop cats. Not that it had ever been an option, he was allergic as could be, but this wasn’t that bookshop. This one could have a cat. This one could have him, wandering the shelves, not burdened by memories or what ifs creeping over his shoulder.

Unless there was a cat. One or the other. His choice would be the cat, if it were up to him.

The place seemed to be organized with the new books at the front and used ones past the first few shelves, according to friendly looking signs posted on the sides of shelves. Right up by the front counter was a small table draped in patchy tie dye that, upon closer inspection, was a sort of gentle rainbow. Crowley’s suspicions were confirmed by the stack of teal flyers in one corner, weighed down with a polished bit of purple crystal. Anathema was not entirely anathema to her expected aesthetic, it seemed.

There weren’t a lot of books on the table; probably the tiny village queer book club didn’t get new members awfully often. But there was a gently used copy of the novel labeled on the flyer as the next read. He flipped through it a little. When he did choose to read, it was almost never novels. Not adult ones, at least. And, strictly speaking, the kids’ books he read for work weren’t really his choice, either. Lifting his sunglasses up, he squinted at the text and sighed. Small and tightly packed, as ever. For the upteenth time in his life, he wished he had the attention span for audiobooks. It would make his life so much easier.

A door closed at the back of the shop. “Be with you in one moment,” a voice called.

“No rush,” Crowley called back. There was a little nook with a loveseat and a pair of stools squeezed into the corner between the window and the front counter. He plopped down, peering out at the picturesque sidewalk and the various new neighbors strolling along it. This might be a nice place to take Warlock, too. If they bought a book or two every so often, the owner might let them hang around and do work, as long as the shop wasn’t too busy. It seemed like the kind of town where that was a thing. Seemed like the kind of place where people trusted—

“Ah, hello th—”

There was a loud thump, and a strangled sound. Crowley looked up to find a stack of hardbacks scattered on the floor. Then he looked farther up and made a strangled sound of his own.

“Aziraphale?”

The bookseller—he was always meant to be a fucking bookseller, it was what he was— made another wordless noise, now a bit closer to scandalized than sheer shock. His cheeks were turning completely red under the reading glasses perched on his nose.

His hair was shorter. It had always been just on the edge of curls, just on the edge of mess. Now it was a shock of white fluff kept out of his face by its own anti-gravitational preferences.

It looked good on him, and that made Crowley furious.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

“What—what am I? This is my shop! I live here!”

“But this is Tadfield!”

“And this is A.Z. Fell’s Used Books. My place.”

Fuck. He hadn’t even looked at the sign. The flyer had just said “local used bookstore.” He wanted to kill Anathema for not being more specific, and that wasn’t fair, and that made it worse.

“Can’t go to one fucking bookstore,” he muttered.

Aziraphale stiffened. “So it would seem. Can I help you, or are you simply here to ruin my morning?”

Crowley resisted the urge to grit his teeth. His dentist had warned him about that. He held up the book in his hand. “Just getting this. Thank you.”

Motions measured, Aziraphale picked up the books he had dropped and stacked them fussily on the counter before going around to the till. He took off his glasses, letting them hang from the chain around his neck, because of fucking course they did. Crowley put the book on the counter and then shoved both hands in his pockets, where he could let them go white knuckled in peace. Aziraphale’s spine was so straight as he checked Crowley out he could have been on a scarecrow’s pole.

“Not your usual thing, if I remember,” he deigned to point out as he put the receipt inside the front cover.

“It’s been a long time,” Crowley snapped back.

“Only a comment.”

“Save it. Things change. I’m joining a damn book club.”

Aziraphale froze, hand still on the book. His spine had been straight. Now it was positively skyward. “A bookclub.”

“Yes.”

“This one?” He pointed accusingly at the rainbow covered table.

“Yes.”

“You’re staying?”

He sounded absolutely dismayed. It was as encouraging as it was ruinous. “Moved in yesterday.”

“Of course you did. I can never be anywhere for long before you show up.”

“Hey, I was in Soho way before you got there.”

“And I was in Tadfield first!”

“Well you’re stuck with me now. Sorry to ruin more than your morning.” Yanking the book out from under Aziraphale’s hand, he stormed to the door. “Goodbye, Aziraphale.”

“Good bye.”

The bell over the door was a lot less cheerful when it was followed by the door slamming.

Crowley stood on the sidewalk for a minute, then realized he was still in front of the windows and hurried off, not paying any attention to where he was going, just needing to be out of Aziraphale’s potential eyeshot so he could have a fucking breakdown in peace. The sidewalk was suddenly too crowded, which was impossible given his standards were London, but he desperately wanted two seconds on his own.

His feet took him back towards the residential streets. Backtracking under auto-pilot, he had very nearly reached an empty, quiet block, when he turned a corner and found himself faced with a ladder in his path.

He’d made it back to Anathema’s shop. She was up the ladder now, repainting the wooden sign over the door, but when she saw him she put down the paintbrush and folded her arms on the top of the ladder, looking down at him.

She stared for a moment. Crowley stared back, not really capable of anything more at the moment. “I’ve got coffee, but it’s just decaf,” she finally said.

“…is that an offer?” Crowley managed.

“Of decaf coffee, yes. And a chat. I don’t read coffee grounds, either, don’t get started.”

“Why? The—not the coffee grounds, the coffee. Me. You’re working.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. And I’ll be frank, that’s the kind of thing my business relies on.”

“Ghosts?” Crowley was feeling more lightheaded and turned around with every word. With Anathema up the ladder, Crowley felt oddly like he was in a courtroom, being looked down at from above by the judge.

“Yeah. Ghosts are great. Also, I’m worried you’re not going to make it home without keeling over.”

“You’ve known me for all of twenty minutes total.”

“And you are currently the second palest man I have ever met, when you were maybe tenth this morning. Come in. I need to talk to somebody who’s not a Mrs. Tyler type, anyway.”

By the time Crowley had decided a little sit down wouldn’t be a bad idea, Anathema had already put the ladder and paints away. She left them unattended on the sidewalk while she led Crowley inside.

“I can’t stay too long. Family’s going to be here soon, and I told Warlock I’d help him unpack.”

“That’s fine. It’s instant coffee anyway.”

Crowley couldn’t even find it in him to be dismayed by that. “Wasn’t a ghost, either. In case you’re hoping for a haunting.”

“It usually isn’t. Here.”

She had led him to a little sitting nook in the back of the main shop. It was still in the same room, but a tapestry and a bit of creative furniture placement gave it the illusion of cozy privacy. There was a kettle and a single-cup coffee maker, as well as a plate of wrapped biscuits and another sign reminding customers that there was NO tea leaf reading offered.

The armchair he fell into was surprisingly comfy, despite the duct tape he could see holding one leg together. “My fucking ex is here,” he burst out. Then he took his glasses off to pinch the bridge of his nose and said again, “My goddamn fucking ex.”

“Ah,” Anathema said, already handing him a cup. It almost seemed like she must have had the coffee ready in advance, but he was too worked up to think on it too hard.

“How many tiny little villages are there in this country?”

“A lot.”

“And how many fucking exes do I have?”

Anathema raised an eyebrow over her tea mug.

Crowley collapsed backward, letting his breath whoosh out of him. “One. Exactly one man in the world I would like to not see again, and where does he live?”

“You didn’t know he was here?”

“Nope.” He sipped his coffee. It wasn’t terrible, and that didn’t change his mood. “Figured he’d still be gathering dust in that rickety shop in Soho.” He laughed bitterly. “Didn’t think he’d ever actually leave.”

“Ran into him in the street?”

“Worse. Waltzed right into his shop. Got this, though.” He held up the book club book. “That pissed him off, I think.”

“Wait. Is this Aziraphale?”

Crowley squinted at her. “Yeah. What?”

Anathema’s head tilted. “Huh.”

Crowley opened his mouth to interrogate that, but a clock in the shop chimed, and when he checked his watch he realized he only had an hour until the Dowlings were supposed to arrive. He needed to get back to the house. He felt he needed a good scream, and that was easier to explain when the house was empty.

He put his half full coffee down on the table. “I have to go. See you, I guess.”

“Yeah. Feel free to come to the book club meeting this week. Don’t worry about the reading.”

Crowley paused at the door. “Does he—you know, does Aziraphale? Come to it?”

Anathema’s eyes took on a new flavor of sharpness. “Not usually. Sundays, sometimes, but rarely on Thursdays.”

“Got it. Cool. Yep.”

“See you later, Crowley.”

“Yeah. Bye.”

Outside, Tadfield was well on its way from a pretty Sunday morning to a lazy afternoon. Crowley stomped home, hoping he’d have enough time for a shower on top of his scream.

The sun felt much too hot, now.

Chapter Text

They first met in a park, on a beautiful mid summer day, and hated each other on sight. It was situational rather than personal; Aziraphale was on his measly lunch break, desperately in need of a little calm and quiet, when a man rounded the corner by his park bench followed by a pair of screeching preschoolers. He’d glanced up, groaned to himself, and then stubbornly set his attention back on his book, determined to ignore the lot of them and not let it ruin his day.

For his part, Crowley had spent the past twenty minutes slowly herding his charges towards the one shady bench he knew was always empty. His shoes were too tight, and it was far too hot, and he’d been up since the crack of dawn wrangling two four-year-olds. Finding what he considered His Bench occupied was amount to a declaration of war.

They avoided each other, all while staying within a few feet. Aziraphale adamantly read his book, and Crowley set the twins to playing tag on the hill behind the bench, hovering until the man left or finally wised up and moved his damn bag to make room. The second he checked his watch, hastily packed up his things, and left, Crowley swooped in. He hadn’t even picked up his bag yet before Crowley had sat down. A glare was exchanged, and that was all. They both moved on with their lives.

Until the next week, when it happened again.

The park had quickly become Crowley’s go-to place whenever he desperately needed to get the kids out of the house, which happened once a day at absolute minimum. He’d babysat since high school, and even worked as a teacher’s aide for a short while before trying university, but the Dawson twins were hands down the most chaotic kids he’d ever worked with. It was one hell of a first nannying job. That, plus moving to a new town, and the hottest summer Hillford had ever endured meant that Crowley’s usually broad imagination was stretched thin. Shouting that they were going to the park, stop putting your brother’s toy cars in the kitchen sink and put your shoes on, please, was an easy way out of an awful lot of budding headaches, he had discovered.

Everything always seemed a little bit easier once they were out in the open air. The twins’ shouts weren’t quite as ear piercing, and with room to run around they usually stopped bothering each other in favor of inventing their own games. Not that the Dawson house was cramped; Mr. Dawson co-owned a very large chain of children’s clothing stores, and Mrs. Dawson was a lawyer with a disturbing amount of sway in the local political scene. They had money, and they weren’t skimpy with it, which Crowley was thankful for every time he fell to bribing the twins with ice cream. His paycheck was decent, but he was a twenty-two year old with no savings living in a tiny attic room above the nursery; getting dedicated snack money when they went out was not a small factor in his personal finances.

He did like his job, though, as hellish as it often felt. His dad had always said he was good with kids. He’d wanted to be a teacher for a long time, though it hadn’t worked out yet. And he was learning. The tantrums and arguments were all starting to feel less like one step forward two steps back and more like part of a daily rhythm. He could tell most of the time when Georgia was about to dash away from him quick enough to catch her, and was starting to know which of Vincent’s whines were general complaining and which signaled true distress. Going to the park began to feel like an actual, responsible decision rather than an emergency tactic.

Most days.

It always seemed to be the most stressful days, though, that the blond man was inevitably on his bench. He didn’t seem to have a consistent schedule. Just that whenever Crowley most needed a sit down in the shade, he would be there first, stubbornly reading and occasionally wincing when the kids got too loud.

Crowley could have just asked him to share, of course. It’s what he would have told anyone else to do. It was just that, by the time it got silly to be standing and waiting every time, it had become normal. Breaking that pattern by then, when he was usually already functioning at half power, was never something he had in him.

So he watched, and glared occasionally, and quietly felt like a fool for not just talking to him already.

For Aziraphale’s part, he just thought the man in black— always black, even in the height of summer—was vaguely rude, but at least quiet about it. He preferred that to the blatant nastiness he spent the rest of his day dealing with. He told himself, early on, that if he would only ask him to move his bag, he would, of course. But if he didn’t want to bother, so be it.

He may have been in need of an outlet for some frustration.

They would have stayed like that all summer, probably, until one day things went differently.

“Excuse me?”

Aziraphale looked up, blinked, and looked down, where a young, dark eyed boy was hovering at the side of his bench. He held up a small, hardbound book, title obscured by the glare on its shiny plastic library cover.

“I’m supposed to find somewhere to read,” he announced. “May I share your bench, please? It’s the only one I can find in the shade.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, thrown off by the child’s manners. He was so accustomed to the rowdy preschoolers and their enabling guardian, it took him a moment to process a different sort of person. Once he had, though, he moved his bag without complaint. “Yes, of course. Plenty of room here for both of us.”

“Thank you,” the boy said seriously, and climbed onto the bench with the practiced grace of a child who is fully aware that the world is built for beings much bigger than him. He wasn’t, now that Aziraphale got a better look at him, very much older than the other kids he usually saw around the park. A year or two, maybe, but his politeness and the wire framed glasses set precisely on his nose gave him a gravity much beyond his years. Aziraphale was instantly charmed.

They read in silence for a while, the only sounds the trees rustling in the breeze and the occasional flipping of pages. Aziraphale found himself quietly keeping an eye on the boy, in the same way unaccompanied children in the bookshop caught his attention. He was sure the boy’s parents were somewhere nearby, but while Aziraphale was the only adult around, he’d make sure he was alright.

So he noticed, a few minutes in, when the boy stopped turning pages. Peeking over at him, Aziraphale found him frowning down at his book, chewing on his lip in between trying to sound out a word.

“Alright, there?” Aziraphale asked. The boy immediately thrust the book on top of Aziraphale’s, apparently having been waiting to be offered help.

“I don’t understand this word.” He pointed to a paragraph, and Aziraphale squinted for a moment, eyes adjusting to the sudden shift in font size.

“Oh!” he gasped, once he’d gotten his bearings. “Winnie-the-Pooh! I love these books.”

“My cousins’ nanny helped me pick it. Aunt Beth said we had to go to the library yesterday, and I’ve never seen the cartoon, but the twins wouldn’t stop singing the song in the car. They’re only four,” he confided, with all the solemnity it deserved. “I don’t like singing very much, but their nanny thought I’d like the stories anyway, so he got the book for me on his library card.”

“That was very kind of him.”

“Mhm. Mum thinks it’s weird to have a nanny, but I like him. I can ask him what this word means, if you don’t know.”

Aziraphale barely held back a laugh. “Don’t be hasty, I haven’t had a chance to look yet. Now let’s see, which one was it? Ah, there, that’s—hm.” Aziraphale frowned, and lifted the book closer to his face. “Now that can’t be right.”

“I’ll go get Mr. Crowley.”

“No, no, my dear, it’s not that I don’t know the word. It’s that it isn’t a word. See? That should say ‘sinking,’ I believe, not, er, ‘sirking.’ It’s a misprint, the ‘r’ should be an ‘n.’”

The boy’s eyes widened. “You mean books can be wrong?”

“They absolutely can. There are an awful lot of people who go into making a book, and they make mistakes just like the rest of us.”

“That’s cool.”

“It is! I love misprints. They make things so much more interesting.”

“And I did know the word!” the boy crowed, bouncing happily in his seat. “My sister Cora says I’m too little to read chapter books on my own, but I’m not. If there hadn’t been that—what’s it called?”

“A misprint.”

“That, if not for the misprint I would’ve read the whole chapter without any help at all.”

Aziraphale smiled. “If you got that far on your own, I bet you can finish the whole book pretty soon.”

“Yeah! And I can tell my cousins about the stories, because Georgia has a Tigger doll, and now I know who that is, and—”

“Dominic! When I said you could find somewhere to read I meant nearby, not halfway across the… park…” The rude redhead and Aziraphale stared at each other. Aziraphale had to scramble to fit this lovely, quiet boy in with the park’s rowdiest visitors, while their nanny appeared to be doing the same with Aziraphale’s sharing of the bench.

Dominic, with no such prior conceptions to be challenged, jumped up off the bench and ran to hold his book up to the nanny. “Mr. Crowley, look! There’s a misprint!” He grinned at remembering his new word. “It’s supposed to say ‘sinking,’ but somebody made a mistake so it’s got ‘sirking’ instead. Do you think the library knows about it? Should we tell them? Maybe they can put a note in it.”

“Dunno,” Mr. Crowley said, one eyebrow still raised. He took the book and held it up close to his face, pushing his sunglasses up a little so he could see. “Huh, yeah. Good catch, kiddo.”

“I didn’t catch it. I couldn’t read it, but he helped me.” Dominic pointed at Aziraphale, and the nanny’s other brow lifted.

“He’s a very good reader for his age,” Aziraphale said, just a little defensively.

“Huh,” the nanny said again.

Dominic reached up to silently ask for his book back. “Where’s Georgia and Vincent?” he asked as he slipped his hand into the nanny’s, book tucked carefully in one arm.

“They’re at the playground still. There’s other parents watching them while I went to hunt you down.”

Dominic made a face. “It’s too hot for the playground. There’s no trees, it’s all in the sun.”

“You don’t have to tell me, kid.”

Aziraphale watched, slightly bemused, as the pair started down the path toward the playground. Dominic turned back at the corner and waved. “Thank you, mister misprint!”

Aziraphale bit back a laugh. “You’re very welcome. I hope you enjoy the rest of the book, and prove your sister wrong!”

“I will!” the boy called, and then ran off ahead of the nanny, who turned back to squint at Aziraphale one more time before he was around the corner and out of sight.

Aziraphale pondered his own book for a moment, as that unexpected interaction sunk in. It took a minute to reconcile the man who hovered over him while he tried to read with Dominic’s story of the nanny who helped him pick out a library book. And Winnie-the-Pooh, no less.

“Huh,” he said, and wondered if they’d be at the park again next week.

They were. It had been a few days since Crowley saw Mister Misprint, but the next time Aziraphale’s lunch break lined up with their park outing, Crowley was prepared. The path had been opened, so to speak. He was going to ask for a seat, and that was that.

He didn’t have to. As soon as Mister Misprint looked up and saw Crowley and the twins come around the corner, he quietly picked up his bag and set it at his feet, leaving the other seat free. He even looked a bit sheepish about it.

“Hey, Vincent, Georgia, let’s stay on the hill today, alright?” The twins were already off, Georgia to find the ideal spot for rolling down the slope and Vincent to find a decent bit of dirt he could use for his toy construction trucks. Cautiously, but hands in his pockets to appear nonchalant, Crowley approached the bench.

He sat down. No one said anything. No traps were sprung. He kept his hands in his pockets, awkward as that made his arms feel. He always felt cramped when he had to sit normally.

It was probably close to a minute later that he finally opened his mouth. “Hi.”

Mister Misprint startled a little, like he’d expected they’d go on as normal, reading and watching, just less passive aggressively. But he didn’t look displeased. “Hello. Er.” He sighed. “I’m sorry for—you know. With the bench, and everything. I’ve been quite silly.”

“’S okay,” Crowley said, oddly touched at getting an apology so easily. “I always could’ve asked to sit.”

The man nodded, seemingly satisfied that they had both been acting childish, and had now put it behind them. “I’m Aziraphale, by the way. Since it seems we’re both here quite often.”

“Crowley.”

“Ah. Not Mr?”

Crowley scoffed. “Please. I hate it enough when the kids do it.”

“Fair enough, I suppose.”

“Thank you,” Crowley blurted, not even really aware he’d been wanting to say it. “For Dominic. For keeping an eye on him.”

Aziraphale looked bewildered. “Of course. Children wander away from their parents—and guardians, of course—all the time. Someone should keep an eye out for them.”

“Gave me a damn heart attack anyway,” Crowley gave a strained laugh, shoving a hand through his hair. “Didn’t think three would be much harder to wrangle than two, ‘specially since he’s such a calm kid, but I still managed to lose one.”

“It all worked out alright,” Aziraphale said soothingly. Crowley was a little bemused to find it was actually calming, and not patronizing as he would have expected. “I see he’s not with you today?”

“Nah, he was only temporary. My boss’s sister came to visit and paid me an obscene bonus to watch her youngest while they were here.”

“Ah. That’s a shame, I’d hoped to see him again. He’s a sweet boy.”

“Nothing like his cousins,” Crowley agreed, watching Georgia ram a plastic truck into a nearby tree, with all the accompanying sound effects such a calamity deserved. “Hey, Georgia! What did I say about nicking Vincent’s toys?”

“But he’s not using this one!”

“But he’s going to realize you’ve got it in a minute and then where will we be?”

The little girl looked between her “borrowed” truck and her brother, sitting a few feet away running a complex building operation, one dump truck short. Crowley watched her considering her options, and saw the moment mischief flashed in her eyes.

“Nope,” he said, swooping over and scooping her up before she could go ruin Vincent’s game, and, consequently, Crowley’s day. “Cars or coloring book? We’re going to sit in the shade for a little bit.”

“But I want to play with Vincent!” Georgia whined, wiggling in his hold.

“No, you want to bother Vincent. And he does not want to be bothered. Cars or coloring book?”

She flopped limp against his shoulder. “Cars,” she mumbled.

“Good pick.” The ground right around the bench was dirt, but there was a nice patch of grass to the side, just within Crowley’s reach if Georgia decided to go be a nuisance anyway. He plopped her down there and rummaged in the backpack of necessary supplies and distractions he always carried with him to find a plastic bag filled with—shared—toy cars. “Play nicely. Please.”

Georgia blew a raspberry at him, but took the toys. He counted that as an absolute win.

It was only when he collapsed back on the bench that he realized Aziraphale was staring at him. “What?” he said, immediately self conscious.

“Oh! Er, nothing.” Aziraphale’s cheeks were very pink, but that could have been from the summer heat. “You’re very good with them.”

“Sometimes,” Crowley agreed. “I’m having a good day, so far.”

Aziraphale nodded. His face got momentarily redder. “I think I am too, actually.”

Chapter Text

Most kids would have bounded out of the car the second it parked, after over an hour driving with only their parents for company. That, or clamber out slowly, still focused on an unfinished digital distraction.

Warlock did neither of these. He just sort of slumped against the car when he got out, looking bored of absolutely everything, but especially whatever you were about to put in front of him.

It hadn’t taken Crowley very long knowing him to see through it, though it was certainly convincing. He’d felt like a deer in headlights often enough as a kid to spot it anywhere.

“Crowley! Glad you made it okay,” Thad said as Crowley came down the front steps. This despite the fact that Crowley had let them know he was at the house yesterday morning. The poor man was cursed with terminal small talk.

“Hi, Thad. Hope the drive wasn’t too bad.”

“No, it was exciting! New town, new house! Look at this!” He looked at the house—and the exorbitant amount of lawn around it—like it was a brand new treasure he was getting the first look at. Which was also ridiculous, because they had all not only seen the house before, they had spent an entire day there moving almost all of their things in the week before. But that was Mr. Dowling for you.

While he began enthusing his wife about the wonders of the house they had researched and bought together months ago, Crowley sidled up next to Warlock. “Was it terrible?”

Warlock’s mask broke. “He just won’t shut up about the house.”

Crowley snorted. “Almost done, kid. Come up and get your room set up, then you’ll have somewhere to hide.”

Pulling a backpack from the car seat, Warlock slowly followed his parents towards the door, keeping close to Crowley’s side. “I couldn’t sleep last night. All the stuff I like was already here.”

“Yeah. First and last nights places can be weird. I had trouble last night, too.”

“Is it going to be weird, you living with us now?” Warlock made a face. “I don’t want you to be like, like a nanny. I’m too old for that. It’d be weird.”

“Kid, I’ve been tutoring you for over a year. You know what I’m like.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t lived here before.” Warlock hesitated in front of the entryway. “I hate new houses.”

“I know.”

“I won’t know where any of the floors creak, or which rooms are too loud.”

“You learn fast.”

“And I don’t think I like being so far away from everything,” he said very quietly.

Crowley considered, and then pulled him into a one armed hug. “We’re both gonna have to get used to that.” And other things. Big other things. “But, hey, good news. I took a walk this morning, and there’s lots of kids your age around.”

If anything, that made Warlock shrink in further, but Crowley could see it was shyness over anxiety. “Oh.”

“No rush. But there’s options, for Operation Make Friends.”

“Stooooop. Mom should never have told you that.”

“Your mum tells me everything.”

“I know. I hate it.” And with that, Warlock finally stomped inside his new home, making a good go at discovering the first batch of creaky steps as he theatrically moped his way up to his new bedroom. Crowley leaned in the doorway and resisted a chuckle. He was such a good kid. Crowley was a little uncertain about being live-in again, too, but it was worth it to stay with this particular family for a while longer. And the move had been planned with the probability of him finding his own little house or flat nearby after a while, anyway.

That part of the plan might be on hold. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stomach looking for a flat in a town he knew Aziraphale lived in.

Just living there at all was going to be enough of a nightmare.

Aziraphale went about his afternoon routine very methodically. One foot in front of the other, that was what he knew how to do. It didn’t help to get overwhelmed by what he was doing when he was already playing catchup with his thoughts.

But he watched the clock until four o’clock came. The shop door was barely locked when he grabbed up the phone and called Nice and Accurate Devices.

“Hello, my—”

“One sec, Aziraphale, I’m checking someone out.”

Aziraphale stopped, mouth open, train of thought ground to a sudden halt. He waited, and wished he’d called all of thirty seconds later. It was always so much easier to keep talking after he’d already started, rather than having to build up the words all over again.

The phone picked back up barely a minute later, but he had still lost his bluster. “Sorry about that. What’s up?”

There was something knowing in her tone, but there was always something knowing in Anathema’s tone, so it was a useless measure. “Er. I have a question. For you.”

“Alright?”

“Did you—perhaps—meet someone today? New to town?”

“Someone like who?”

He swallowed. “Red hair. Long, now. Er, wears all black, sunglasses. You may have given him a book club flyer.”

There was a shifting sound over the phone. “I did meet Crowley, yeah.”

“Ah.” He swallowed again. He couldn’t seem to do much else.

Anathema’s tone was as soft as it got, which was still quite businesslike, but kind. “I ran into him again, a little later. He told me.”

“That we’re…?”

“That he’s your ex.”

“Yes. I suppose. My ex.” Somehow, that particular word had never been one he’d used. But then he’d always been a little slow to take up new things.

They were silent for a moment. Anathema was always frighteningly good at waiting people out. “That’s all, really. Just wanted to check in.”

“Mhm. Do you have plans tonight?”

He sighed. “My dear, I do not need to be goaded into spending time with other people. I am quite capable.”

“No, I know. But tonight’s maybe going to be weird. You might want a distraction.”

He didn’t know if he had enough braincells free to manage a distraction. “I’m alright, dear. Anyway, I’m going to Maggie’s for dinner. That’ll be alright.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

“Yes, yes. Er, one thing. Would you—if he comes to the book club, could you let me know?”

“Why?” Anathema asked, immediately wary.

“Because… I think if he’s going, I’d better not. Neither of us will be happy with it.”

He distinctly heard a second voice on Anathema’s end of the line, though Anathema seemed to ignore it. “Yeah, okay. I can do that.”

“Thank you. And, if you wouldn’t mind, would you tell Tracy? I have to start the drive soon and I’d rather she hear directly from you or I than let the gossips get to her first.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” He heard a muffled laugh, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, of course she’s there now.”

“She’s very good at extrapolating from one side of a conversation.”

“Don’t I know it. Alright. Thank you, my dear. It’s, er. It’s been an odd day.”

“I bet. I’ll let you know, about book club.”

“Thank you. Goodbye.” He set the phone down, and then sighed and let himself crumple down into a chair. Odd did not begin to cover it. “How many damn times?” he mumbled to himself.

It was not a far walk between the bookshop and Accurate Devices, but it still usually took more than a few minutes. And yet, within two, there was a very familiar knocking at the door. Aziraphale still hadn’t stood back up yet.

“Oh, for heaven’s…”

Sure enough, Tracy was on his doorstep, scooter helmet in hand, looking for all the world as though she hadn’t just broken several traffic laws to get there. “Let me in, love, I’m making you tea.”

“I have to go soon,” Aziraphale protested needlessly, as Tracy was already halfway across the shop floor. “It’s Sunday. I’m going to Maggie’s.”

“No, you aren’t. It’s the 28th. Last Sunday of the month, your sister’s visiting that friend of hers in London.”

Aziraphale blinked at the calendar behind the register. Sure enough, today’s marker pen X was not circled in blue, as were all the other Sundays of the month.

He stared at it for a moment more. He hadn’t gotten that turned around about the date since…. “Oh. Oh, dear.”

Tracy popped back from the break room to pat his arm. “Don’t you worry, Anathema told me everything. It’s no wonder your head’s done in.”

“She did not.” He followed her, for lack of any other guidance. “She didn’t have time.”

“I got the important bits.”

“Which were?”

“Your old beau. The one we never hear about. Walks into your shop out of the blue to buy a book, with no idea you’re here.”

Aziraphale felt his smile tighten. He nodded slowly. “That is about the shape of it.”

“And sooo…” With a presentational flourish, she put a tray of empty teacups, saucers, and an impressive bottle of whiskey on the table. “We’re going to do what I do for everyone in the midst of romantic woes, and which I have frankly been dying to do with you since the day you moved in here.”

“You’re getting me drunk?” he asked, more hopefully than he expected.

“Not yet. I’m making you dinner, and then you’re going to tell me everything so I can comfort you properly, and then I’m going to get you drunk.”

“We can skip that middle bit to save time,” he offered faintly.

Tracy paused, and looked at him more closely. It was true, Aziraphale wasn’t usually one to shy away from gossip. He and Tracy were of a similar make; they liked to know everything about everyone, but mostly so they could keep an eye out, and help where it was needed. But while Aziraphale had politely hushed his instincts for most of his life, Tracy had not, and was thus very skilled in the arts of meddling and general busybodying. And she could see when something was only secret, and when it was truly private.

Aziraphale talked openly of his family, and his childhood. He loved to talk about his bookshop, and, if you got him going enough, even the one he’d had before, when he’d still lived in London. He’d never once spoken to her about his love life, though. There was a gap there. Tracy had always been able to see it, and make out the vague shape of someone. She could admit, when she’d heard she might be able to meet the person who had made it, she had been giddy at the prospect. But now she saw it might not be the time for that.

“Dinner, then, to start,” she declared. “One thing at a time.”

“One thing at a time,” Aziraphale agreed, nodding.

He could decide if he wanted to talk after his stomach was full. Maybe by then he’d feel a little more attached to the ground.

Warlock had had a lot of new houses in his life. It came with his dad’s job. Luckily, he’d only been in Kindergarten when his parents realized that wasn’t going to change any time soon, and decided they’d be better off picking out an online option that he could keep up with no matter where they moved, so at least new houses didn’t mean new schools, too.

There were drawbacks, though. Like having to go out of his way to find new friends. At least in a real school, he’d be around other kids without having to try. The making would still be a problem, but the meeting, at least, would be taken care of.

Way easier than wandering the new neighborhood, hoping he’d happen to run into one on the street.

A bicycle bell rang behind him, and he turned, hopeful, but by the time the cyclists had passed him he had his shoulders hunched in again. Big kids. Bigger than him kids, anyway. Crowley had said he’d seen kids his age around, but all he’d found so far were babies and high schoolers.

The town was nice, at least. It sort of reminded him of one of the towns they’d lived in back in the States. Dad had tried to teach him to ride a bike then, but it hadn’t… stuck. Now, hearing more bike bells and the occasional comedic honk, he wished he’d bothered to try and learn again.

Retracing the steps Crowley had told him about on the weekend, he made his way into the center of town. It was a Wednesday, but it was right after school. Surely someone had to be around.

The little park was empty, though. And when he peered through the window of a building that appeared to house an ice cream shop, among other things, there was no one inside.

And then, as he was considering whether he might just as well go home and find something to bother Crowley with, he heard bells again, and this time, they were followed by voices. Voices that didn’t sound like grownups.

He made his way towards the corner by the post office, where he’d heard them, sudden shyness and hope warring for space in his stomach. He took a deep breath. It might be nothing. They might not be his age, anyway.

Or they might be the start of his very first best friends. He took another breath, squared his shoulders, and turned the corner.

To be immediately met by both a face his age, and a scream.

“Look out!”

“Adam!”

To his credit, the boy on the first bike didn’t hit him. He swerved neatly away, bouncing off the sidewalk and still keeping his footing—er, wheeling.

Unfortunately, while the other two braked well in front of Warlock, the boy at the back just kept flying towards him, shrieking.

Warlock was coordinated enough to jump out of the way, but only just. He missed the step down off the sidewalk and rolled, which probably would have been mostly fine, except that the boy on the bike had the same idea. He rolled again, the other way, and stumbled back to the asphalt as he lost his balance. The boy went careening across the street, still yelling, until he hit a bush in front of someone’s house and finally stopped, bicycle wheels spinning aimlessly in the air.

“Are you okay?” The boy on the first bike had run over, staring down at Warlock as he lay on the ground. Warlock rolled over and sat up.

“What were you doing?” he demanded, feeling he needed to make a case for reckless bicyclists over one inattentive pedestrian. “You almost hit me!”

“What were you doing, jumping out of nowhere?” the only girl pointed out. So much for that. “You could have hit us.”

Warlock opened his mouth to argue back, but the boy with glasses on spoke up first. “Are you alright though, actually? Because if you are, we really should go get Brian out of the hedge.”

As one, they all turned to look at the bush. Brian’s bike wheels had stopped spinning, but his feet were sticking out of the leaves next to it. They could see the bush shaking as Brian struggled to get up.

“Pepper, you come help me get him out. Wensley, you can stay with…”

Warlock felt his face heat, and hated it. “Warlock,” he muttered.

But the boy in the lead only nodded confidently and kept on. “You stay with Warlock. Also, sorry. We’re the Them.” That was all the explanation he got before he and the girl trotted off across the street to rescue Brian and his bike.

Warlock looked at his guardian, Wensley, calculating. He was a small boy, exactly the sort of person you expected got their lunch money easily stolen on a regular basis. Except, he looked not at all skittish. To be entirely fair, almost all of Warlock’s experience with What School Was Like came from movies, but still. Something about this boy suggested that being in this group— the Them, that was either a very stupid or very clever name, he hadn’t decided yet—meant he wasn’t worried about such things.

Or maybe it wasn’t an actual thing that happened. He had no way to know, and asking seemed rude.

He did seem to be taking his role as guardian seriously, though. “Are you hurt though, actually?”

Warlock did a body scan. He hadn’t hit his head. His hands were a little scraped, but not bleeding, just covered in gravel. Elbows felt fine, he’d banged his hip a little on the fall, but—“Oh, no.”

The knee of his shorts was a big dark stain. On carefully peeling the denim away, he found a bloody, torn up mess.

“Oh.” Wensley looked just a little pale. “That’s hurt, definitely.”

“Ow.” Now that he was aware of it, and no longer distracted by new people, it stung awfully. Warlock was not much one for playing outside, but he’d still had his share of scraped knees. This one looked nasty.

There was a loud rustle and an oof from across the street, followed by another rustle and a lot of clattering. Brian and his bike had been removed from the hedge, seemingly undamaged.

“I’m sorry!” Brian wailed as he ran over to Warlock. “My brakes wouldn’t brake!”

“You let them get all rusty again!”

“I don’t mean to! It just happens!” Brian’s bike was, indeed, a mess of rust spots and mud. “Are you okay? Oh no…”

They’d all seen the blood now. While Wensley was avoiding looking at it, Pepper seemed intrigued, and the other one, the leader, only looked businesslike.

“Right. We’ll take him to Aziraphale. He’s always got plasters. Pepper, you go ahead and tell him we’re coming. You run faster than the rest of us.”

Pepper nodded, taking that as her due, and ran ahead up the street.

“Can you walk?”

“It’s just a scrape,” Warlock said, a little testily.

“Scrapes can get infected,” Wensley pointed out.

“Yeah. And then you could get sick and die.”

“No I couldn’t,” Warlock protested.

The boy shrugged, un-put out. “Probably not. But it’s more interesting that way. Come on, Aziraphale will sometimes make us cocoa when we visit. And he’s got this spray, like a disin—disern—”

“Disinfectant?” Warlock offered.

“Yeah! And it doesn’t even sting.”

Warlock’s eyes widened. The disinfectant they had at home most definitely stung. “…okay,” he said.

“Wicked!” The boy helped Warlock up, then stood carefully next to him while he tested his weight on his injured knee. “I’m Adam, by the way. We’re the Them.”

“You said.”

“Yeah, but it’s a cool name.” Up ahead, a shop door opened with a jingling bell, and Pepper leaned out, waving them over. “Come on. Sometimes, if we’re really lucky, he gives us money for ice cream.”

With a little help from Adam, and a fair bit of anxious hovering from Brian, Warlock followed the group up the road to the shop where Pepper was still watching them. They left their bikes on the sidewalk, leaned against walls, but unlocked. Warlock walked into the shop with the little bit of trepidation he always had at meeting new adults, but the store was bright and friendly.

“Ah, hello, there,” said the owner, a soft, cozy looking man with bright white hair and a kind smile. “Your name’s Warlock, did I hear right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Aziraphale, it’s very nice to meet you. Now, let’s see about this scraped knee.”

Warlock burst through the door at home and ran immediately into the living room, where Crowley was sitting on a sofa on his laptop.

“Crowley! I made friends! And I got hurt but they got me band-aids and we also got hot chocolate, and they pretty much go everywhere on bikes but Pepper’s got this weird extra bit at the back of hers that I can ride on for now and Brian thinks my hair’s cool even though he’s the one who ran me over and umph.” Warlock hit the other couch and collapsed backwards. Crowley raised one eyebrow over his laptop.

“Did that monologue begin with ‘I got hurt?’”

Warlock threw his bandaged knee up in the air as evidence.

“Carry on.”

“They did it right and everything. Alcohol wipes and goop and it didn’t even sting.”

“Do your new friends just carry this stuff on them? Not that I’m complaining.”

“No. We went to a grownup. He lives near where I got run over.”

“Ah. Someone they knew?”

“Yeah. Like, Adam’s uncle, or something, I think. He was really nice, he had all kinds of band-aids and made us hot chocolate and then he let us play cards in his shop ‘cause I couldn’t play outside anymore.”

“That is really nice.”

“Yeah. And I think they’re all really nice, too. Even Brian, even though he’s the one who hit me with his bike.” He sat in silence for a moment, contemplating. “Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think… I don’t think any of them have someone like you. Like.” He fidgeted. “Somebody who gets paid to look after them.”

Crowley considered for a moment, and then shut his laptop. “Yeah, probably not. Your family’s got more money than most people.”

“I know. It’s weird, sometimes. And not, you know, I’m, I’m—”

Crowley stood up. “I’m going to make lemonade, if we’re having a capital-C Conversation.”

“I know I’m lucky for it,” Warlock said. He threw his hands over his face. “But, I… all the friends I had before were also like that, because they were all people Mom and Dad knew. Most of them had nannies, too. And I don’t know, like... I guess how to tell them about you without feeling weird that they’re going to feel weird about it. I guess.”

Crowley paused in the door to the kitchen. The house hadn’t been able to decide if it wanted to be properly open plan or not, so had compromised with enormous single-use rooms with big archways between them. The result was that you felt like you should be able to carry on a conversation from the next room over no problem, but actually still felt like you were all alone in the room.

“Well, we can start with this,” he said, leaning in the archway. “Lots of kids have people besides their parents who look out for them. Adam’s uncle’s one.”

“Sort of uncle. I think.”

“And maybe he’s not getting paid all the time, but I bet all of your new friends have had a babysitter at one point who was.”

“It’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not.” Crowley sighed. “But, look, you know I’m not just here because I’m getting paid. I look out for you because I care about you. I wouldn’t have moved with you if it was just a job.”

Warlock considered. Then he flopped over onto his stomach and buried his face in a cushion. “I don’t like this conversation. I’m confused.”

“You can still have lemonade, if you want.”

He sighed loudly. “Sure.”

Crowley laughed, and finally disappeared into the kitchen properly.

It would probably be easier to figure out how to talk about Crowley if he had a word he used for him himself, Warlock considered. But he wasn’t a nanny and he wasn’t really just a tutor, and he felt it would be a little too close to lying to try and say he was his own sort-of-uncle. He was weird. And he was exactly what Warlock had needed. He’d always just sort of hung around the house with his mom, and various au pairs and such, until they moved to London and Mom got a full time job again. His parents had needed to find someone to be with him at home, but Warlock had put his foot down about a nanny. He was way too big for that.

He wasn’t too big for a tutor, though, And he did need a bit of help with his grades in science and history. So Crowley was found—highly rated, well reviewed, years of experience, and, best of all, extremely un-nannylike. Warlock was still grumpy about it on principle. But before he’d known it Crowley had become someone he really trusted. And a sort of friend, even though Warlock hadn’t thought he wanted that.

He was important to him. And that seemed like something important to share with his new friends. Especially since Crowley would likely be the one to come with him for—not playdates. The thing bigger kids than that did. He was certainly more likely to meet his friends than his parents were, at least. Early on.

“Oi. Budge over.”

“There’s a whole other couch over there.”

“But you’re over here, and I want to sit with you. Also, you can’t drink lemonade with your face in a cushion.”

Grumbling, Warlock sat up. Crowley crashed down next to him, handing over a glass. “Have you still got that documentary you have to watch for history?”

“Yeah. It’s stupid.”

“Let’s start it. Good a time as any.”

“Fine.”

Chapter Text

The bench became a resting place, a sort of watering hole for two strung out young adults in need of a break and a little time with someone who seemed to understand them. Crowley found his heart beating faster whenever he came around the corner towards their spot, wondering if Aziraphale would be there today. He knew by now that Aziraphale’s work schedule was a disaster of inconsistency and sudden changes, but still, he wished he might know when to expect him, if only so he wouldn’t be so disappointed on days when he wasn’t there.

He hadn’t had a real friend since he was in school. Well, that wasn’t true. He’d had really shitty friends in school, and then they’d gotten even shittier when he dropped out, so that was the end of that. He’d been ready for the inevitable side eye, or quiet reevaluation he knew he’d get when he told Aziraphale he hadn’t managed to finish his degree, but he did it anyway. Testing the waters, sort of, even though he surely knew the reaction he’d get, especially from someone so quietly posh, and so smart, as Aziraphale.

But all he got was a sage nod and profoundly understanding eyes. “I was this close,” Aziraphale said, holding his index finger and thumb a bare squidge apart. “Failed two courses my third year, and was miserable in the others. I actually left for two weeks, brought all my things with me so I wouldn’t have to go back.”

“But you did,” Crowley pointed out, hopeful nonetheless.

“I couldn’t stand sitting in a room with my brother all day.” He shuddered. “He actually, somehow, judged me into working on all the readings I hadn’t kept up with. Silently. He just looked at me all the time. I was so desperate for something to do that let me sit at my desk, staring at a wall instead of at him, that somehow a lot of it got done. And then it just… didn’t make sense not to turn it in, since I’d done the work. Barely passed the year. And wouldn’t have gone back if I hadn’t.”

Crowley turned away, ostensibly watching Georgia and Vincent playing tag on the other side of the path. “I didn’t even make it through my second year,” he confessed. “Wasn’t even fully unpacked when I gave up.”

“That’s alright.” A warm hand settled on Crowley’s knee and squeezed, and it shouldn’t have been possible to feel touch starved when he spent all day carting kids around, but it felt reviving all the same. “School’s not for everyone. You’re absolutely marvelous at what you do.”

His chest glowed, full of warmth and pride. “Yeah. I guess. But it’s. Er, it’s not what I really want to do. Long term, I mean.”

“What do you want to do?”

Crowley turned to Aziraphale again, and found that genuine sparking curiosity he’d already started to become fond of. “Teach,” he said. “Properly, y’know, at a school. Always wanted that to be what I did.”

“Oh! That’s lovely. What years, do you think?”

“The little ones,” he said immediately. “Not that little,” he added with a nod to the twins, now discussing who could climb a tiny sapling of a tree faster. “But, you know, primary school.”

“You’d be wonderful,” Aziraphale said without hesitation. “Although I… I see why university is a bit more of a roadblock, now.”

“Yep,” Crowley popped. “Not really got great odds for going back, either, with my marks. Not anywhere good.”

“There’s other ways, surely?”

“Sort of. It’s complicated. Don’t even have my undergrad, though, so a teacher’s cert isn’t even on the table yet.”

The hand on Crowley’s knee, which hadn’t moved, wonderfully, squeezed gently. “Something will work out. Something.”

Crowley’s chest glowed again, this time bright with fondness. “Maybe,” he said, with more hope than the little word could muster on its own.

They sat for a moment, watching the twins, enjoying the late summer breeze. It was starting to creep towards autumn now. The kids would be starting their very first bit of school soon, though Crowley’s job was secure in the fact that they’d only be doing half days and their parents were still too busy to do drop offs or pick ups, much less watch them the rest of the day. He was just going to have a little bit more blessed time to himself.

A tinny alarm beeped from Aziraphale’s watch, signaling the end of his lunch break. Crowley slightly loved Aziraphale’s watch. He was the sort you expected a fancy—not ostentatious, but old—family heirloom of a watch from. Honestly, a pocket watch, even, wouldn’t have clashed with him, despite the fact that he generally wore dress shirts and plain slacks instead of anything like a waistcoat. But instead he wore a velcro banded, plastic faced sports watch, with the foggiest screen Crowley had ever seen.

He knew you could get fancy looking watches for barely more than Aziraphale’s would have cost. People liked things that made them feel posh.

Aziraphale liked the alarm more.

“I have to go,” he said quietly. The remains of his lunch were already packed away. There had been no sign of a book.

“I’ll see you next time.”

“Yes.”

Standing, Aziraphale dusted off his bag and slung it across his shoulder. He waved at the twins as he passed, heading towards the park gate and out to the business street.

Curiosity bested Crowley’s better instincts just as he reached a bend in the path. “Hey, Aziraphale?”

He turned. “Yes, my dear?”

“What did you study?”

Aziraphale smiled, a little chagrined already. “English.”

Crowley snorted, and then started to laugh full out. “Of course. English, of course you did.”

“I am an open book.” He waved again. “Goodbye, my dear.”

“Bye. See you.”

“See you.”

And with that, he was gone, though there seemed to be more of a spring in his step than there had been.

Crowley sighed, chin resting on a hand leaned against the bench’s armrest. When he turned, he jumped. Two little faces were looking up at him from right in front of him.

Without pause, Vincent asked, “Are you in love with him?”

Crowley startled. “I—” He started to laugh again, and scooped Vincent up to sit next to him. “I am not in love with him. I’ve gotta get you two some better books. We’re friends.”

Georgia pulled on his trouser knee, and he helped her up, too. “I thought we were your friends,” she said, put out.

“You are also my friends. And little gremlins.” In one motion that he usually wasn’t strong enough for, he grabbed one twin under each arm and swung them all to standing, to a chorus of shrieks and laughter. “I think it’s time for little gremlin story hour at the library.”

“Ice cream!” Georgia shouted.

“Ice cream after,” Crowley agreed. The parlor next door to the library was by far the best incentive possible for encouraging them to sit still while they listened to the librarians read. He was starting to master this nannying thing.

Squealing and wiggling, the twins escaped his hold and dropped to the ground, running off in the same direction Aziraphale had gone. Crowley packed up the toys left around the bench, and followed much more slowly.

He also couldn’t help but wonder if the bookstore Aziraphale worked at did story book readings. He knew some places did, depending on how big their children’s department was.

It would be nice to listen to Aziraphale read, he thought. He liked his voice.

He liked a lot about him, actually.

Next time took a lot longer than either of them expected.

For Aziraphale, it was solidly most days he went to the park that he saw Crowley and the twins. He had to have enough time, of course; going to the park really only worked when his lunch break and his fifteen were scheduled back to back, though thanks to Gabriel’s approach to “universally efficient planning,” that happened fairly often anymore. And he was only likely to meet them if said break came just after the lunchtime rush, which, again, Gabriel was all too happy to do. Not that he asked for it. It just sort of worked out that way.

But while he didn’t make it to the bench every day, or even most days, nearly always if he was there at the right time, so was his new friend. And then, for two weeks, he didn’t see them at all.

It surprised him, how distressing he found it. He began, hesitantly, to take his book out of his bag along with his lunch. Though he rarely had the attention span to actually read more than a page or two. He always found his focus drawn to the bend in the path where, surely, a pair of four-year-olds were about to come racing down, followed by Crowley. And yet he always found himself waiting alone.

He couldn’t have expressed the joy and, yes, relief, he felt when he finally turned onto the path himself one day to find Crowley already there, slouched on the bench, watching the twins drawing with chalk on the asphalt of the path.

“Crowley!”

He turned, and the way he lit up when he saw Aziraphale made something funny and wonderful happen in his chest.

“Aziraphale!”

“Aziraphale!” one of the twins repeated, jumping up to zoom two circles around him before returning to her chalk. Aziraphale laughed. The children hadn’t interacted with him much directly, but they were of course aware of his presence. Vincent waved. He waved back, and slipped effortlessly into his place at Crowley’s side, still beaming.

“I was getting a bit worried I wasn’t going to see you again,” he admitted, unbothered and profoundly happy as he began to unwrap his lunch.

“Sorry, I know, I was, too,” Crowley sighed, running a hand through his hair once before giving up and starting to pull it back into a short ponytail. There was more of a copper tone in the red than there had been even when Aziraphale first met him. Time in the sun had brought out the brightness in it. It probably wouldn’t be too long before the summer-tinged parts grew out, and were shorn off. Aziraphale quite liked Crowley’s hair, the way it could swoop artfully across his forehead or fall in jaunty waves to his shoulders depending on his mood, but he momentarily wished it was even a little bit longer, if only so the copper would last. “The kids started Reception the other week. Completely threw off the routine.”

“Ah. How are they doing?”

“Well, Georgia fit herself right in, got new friends already. I’m going to have to schedule playdates soon. Vincent… I dunno. I think he’ll be okay. He’s just quiet. And a little different.”

“Has the change in routine affected him much?”

“Actually Georgia was worse for that. He likes school, definitely. It’s just the social stuff that I worry about.” He laughed self consciously. “Not that I have any leg to stand on, having one friend.”

Aziraphale nodded, and they sighed almost in unison. On the path, Vincent finished drawing a very methodical crude letter A, followed more slowly by its lowercase match.

Aziraphale thought about the empty bench. Though about one friend. “Here, I… here.” He dug around in a pocket of his satchel until he found an old library receipt and a pencil. “I think it’s only going to get harder to randomly meet here like we have been. And, of course, it’s going to get colder, and…”

“And I don’t want to stop seeing you.”

Aziraphale nodded, heart full of warmth. “Precisely. Here, my phone number. I’m not always home when you’d expect, you know, with work—”

“I know.”

“—but I’d rather play a bit of phone tag on the answering machine than wait on the whims of our schedules to meet up here.” He handed over the slip of paper, which was immediately tucked safely into an inner pocket of Crowley’s jacket, which it was still too hot for, but he insisted on anyway.

A small voice called from the path. “Crowley? I don’t think this is right.”

Crowley gave him one more soft look before he stood and went to look at Vincent’s drawings. “What are we working on, then?”

“I want to draw the al—alph—the letters, like Miss Landon has up on the wall at school, but it doesn’t look right.”

Aziraphale watched, incredibly fond, as Crowley walked Vincent through turning his lowercase A the right way round, and then moved on to the appropriate hight of the letter B. They’d only gotten as far as E so far at school, it seemed, but Vincent was already a determined scholar.

He ate his lunch, and enjoyed watching Crowley work, and helped keep a quiet eye on Georgia while he was focused on her brother. It was a fragile sort of perfect. But it felt a lot less precarious, knowing Crowley had promised to call and make sure they could see each other again.

And then, after the blessing of the phone call, there came the specter of scheduling.

It was a complete mess. Crowley now had a chunk of time alone each morning while the twins were at school, but that came after the hurricane of getting them out the door in the first place, and if he didn’t have lunch ready by the time he went to pick them up, well, there went his hopes for a headache free afternoon.

And he had promised himself something, the very first day he went along with the Dawsons for their orientation day. He sat down in a classroom, in a chair much too small for him, the odd one out in a room full of parents, and swore he was going to put a little time each day, just a minute if that was all he could manage, into getting himself back into school. Just something. Just enough to feel like he was moving forward, instead of watching the kids seem to make more progress than him. The hour or so he had between cleaning up from the morning and setting up for the afternoon was just enough to sit at the computer in the spare office and research his options. It was stressful and awful, and he felt miles better for it.

So their options were limited to evenings, and then only when Crowley was off. He had weekends, sort of, because Mrs. and Mr. Dawson were home, but he had to help put the twins to bed Sunday night, so really it was Saturday with a bit of Sunday thrown in. It wasn’t bad. He was only half on most evenings, just an extra pair of hands, and the Dawsons were good about giving him time if he asked for it.

Weekends in childcare and weekends in retail were very different beasts, though. Aziraphale worked all of Saturday ninety percent of the time. Which left only the evening, which presented a new dilemma.

“Park closes at dusk,” Crowley sighed, leaning his head against the wall. He was on the floor of the kitchen, not having been able to work up the energy to climb the stairs after walking the twins to school. “By the time we both get there…”

“Yes, I know. And I don’t particularly fancy sitting in the dark, if we can come up with something else.”

“My knowledge of Hillford is entirely limited to preschool-level distractions. Library’s closed by then, ice cream parlor’s really loud. Playground closed.”

“I’m afraid I don’t go out much, either. Ever, really.”

They sat in silence for a moment, each thinking. Crowley idly noticed a sock under the dishwasher, and decided unilaterally that it was a lost cause and doomed to languish there forever, because he did not feel like finding a ruler and fishing it out.

They threw out a few more lackluster options. Crowley unenthusiastically suggested the movies, but that didn’t have any steam under it. They liked talking, was the problem.

“I… well, if we’re running out of other options, I suppose…” Aziraphale hesitated. “I—you could come over here, maybe. To my flat.”

Crowley leaned his head against his shoulder. “You don’t sound enthusiastic about that.”

“Well it’s—oh, no, it’s nothing to do with you, my dear. I’d happily invite you to my flat. It’s only that this flat is, well…”

“A mess?” Crowley guessed.

“No. I don’t have enough room for a mess.”

“Ah.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Let’s just say I certainly didn’t pick this flat for entertaining.”

“What did you pick it for?”

“My ability to pay for it. And walk to work.”

“Fair enough. My place isn’t an option, unfortunately. Not allowed guests.”

“We can make it work, I suppose.” Aziraphale’s voice suddenly changed, becoming more assertive. “We will make it work. Or give it a shot, at least. Only, don’t… don’t expect much, when you come here. Please.”

“No expectations, me. I’ll be pleased with a roof and a place to sit.”

“I’ll have to work on that second one.”

Crowley laughed. “Scratch that, then. I like the floor.”

“I don’t. My knees are too creaky.”

“I’ll nick a camp chair from the attic.”

“Oh, yes, that’s so much better.”

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the half hour. Crowley looked despondently at the sock under the dishwasher, and remembered the trail of similar socks scattered across the upstairs hall. He still had a lot to do. “I’ll see you Saturday, then. At yours.”

Aziraphale agreed, and gave him his address, which Crowley wrote carefully on a post it note and put in a pocket to take upstairs with him. “Alright, my dear, I won’t keep you longer.”

“Yeah. Er.” He narrowly resisted the urge—instinctive, entirely—to say another sort of goodbye. “See you, then.”

“See you.” The phone clicked. Crowley reached up to put it in its cradle on the counter. Then he sighed, and had a little moment, and went to get a ruler to rescue the poor sock.

Chapter Text

Crowley’s rooms in the new house were absurd. He thought they may have been designed as a snazzy in-laws suite. Or, just as likely, they’d been built to house someone exactly like him. The kind of people who bought houses like this were also the kind of people who had live-in help.

But he certainly wasn’t complaining. He had two rooms, one big enough for a king size bed, and the other for a nice sofa and a kitchenette. They had big windows, and a balcony that looked out on the back garden. The bathroom was nicer than any he’d had in a flat he could afford on his own.

And he had set up a camp chair on the balcony that second night, new book in hand, and started to try to read. He didn’t have good light for very long, it was still too early in the spring. But he got a few pages done. Not enough to tell if he liked the book, but enough to tell that, while keeping up with the book club was going to be a challenge, it might not be insurmountable.

On Thursday, after he’d officially handed off Warlock back to his parents for the evening and slipped his share of dinner up to his room to eat, he sat on the balcony and stared between the book and the teal flyer he’d kept on a magnet on his fridge.

“Oh, fuck this,” he said, after far too long feeling jammed between a rock and a hard place. He’d been to Anathema’s twice more since he first met her, once by accident and the other to see if she had any cool rocks for one of Warlock’s science projects. The second time, he’d given her his phone number in case she got in anything new, and she’d given him hers “in case the crystals didn’t do the trick.” He called her now, hoping it wasn’t too late to make it and dreading that it was too early and she wouldn’t have an answer for him.

“Hi, er. I have a question.”

“Okay,” Anathema said, unflappable. “Are you coming to book club? You can ask me when you get here.”

“Er. Maybe.” Silence. It was more effective than any torture for interrogation. “Is. Could you let me know if—ngk. Fuck. It’s complicated.”

Anathema made a humming noise. “Are you trying to ask me if Aziraphale’s going to be here?”

“…yes.” Better to be honest. Probably.

Anathema sighed. “I don’t know. And I’m not asking him for you. But, if it helps, I don’t think so.”

Crowley chewed his lip. If phones had still had cords, he’d have been yanking on it. “How confident are you?”

“Alright, look. If he does show up, either somebody leaves early or the rest of us try to ignore you staring daggers at each other. If we absolutely have to, I can play interference. I don’t really want to, but I have before. I’m very good at it.”

Crowley considered. The fact was, he didn’t really want to risk even that. The way Aziraphale had reacted when he saw him had blown a hole in his heart he hadn’t even known there was still material for.

“Thanks, I’ll, um. Maybe next week.”

Anathema sighed, loudly. “Alright. How’d the quartz work out?”

“Ngk—er,” Crowley scrambled, completely thrown off guard by Anathema’s brisk change of conversation. “Good, I think? We’re not doing the full experiment till the weekend, but it looks a bit like what his teacher has, so hopefully it’ll work.”

“Good. Let me know how it goes.”

“Er. Sure.”

They said goodbyes, Crowley now on guard for any more sudden changes of topic. Anathema seemed finished, though, or at least like she needed to be getting on with her life. And her book club. He did hear her sigh again, just before she hung up. It almost sounded like she was going to say something, and had reconsidered.

“Fuck this,” Crowley said again. An early night bird swooped up above the silhouette of the tree line, then back down to find its dinner in the loose woods scattered around the outskirts of Tadfield. It was lovely. And he couldn’t even fucking enjoy it without thinking of everything else he’d stumbled into in this pretty little town.

It was a few days later that Crowley took his first trip out of town, not counting the few drives back and forth to London while he had slowly moved his things to the new house. Partly, it was so he could go out to a shopping center the next proper town over and get a few things for his kitchen. Mostly, it was because it was beautiful out, and he hadn’t had a long drive with the windows down since he couldn’t even remember.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Since he wanted to remember.

New toaster oven and hot plate in hand—he’d never been one for cooking, but not having his own stove was still a small annoyance—he started the drive back to Tadfield without any rush. It was a Monday, which was one of his main days off. Harriet worked from home on Monday, and they always tried to get all of Warlock’s week of homework done at the weekend, so all he had to do was go to class in the morning. He still hated it. Crowley always winced when he thought about Warlock going to school in-person. He would be absolutely miserable. Crowley could relate. School hadn’t gotten any better for him even as an adult.

Both of them fared better working at home. Now if only he could be confident they’d both fare better in Tadfield than in London.

The roads around Tadfield were an even split of highway and back road, and Crowley very deliberately chose the back roads as he made his way home. His car was old—the sturdy kind of old that meant he could expect a good few more years in outdated bliss—and it couldn’t handle his phone and the radio at the same time, so if he wanted directions, it’d have to be on blast from tinny phone speakers over the oldies rock station on the radio. But he’d always been good for directions, and getting a little bit lost almost seemed pleasant in this weather.

It was as he was going past a tiny, slightly overgrown orchard, humming along with the radio, that he rounded a corner and found another car—the first he’d seen in ages—ahead of him. He frowned, and slowed. The front half of the car was angled off the road, as if it had hit something, but there was nothing in front of it but a bit of rotting fence a good yard away. The back half was still mostly in the road.

There wasn’t anybody there, either. He pulled to a stop and got out to check, but all he found were some footprints in the mud heading forward back onto the road. The car wasn’t even damaged.

Satisfied there wasn’t anybody there in need of help, if still confused, Crowley wiped his shoes off on an exposed root and got back in the car. He kept the radio off, though, and drove slowly. He’d gotten stranded with a shitty car more than once in his younger years. It seemed infinitely less trouble now that almost everybody had a phone on them at all times, but he still remembered the horrible feeling of being stranded.

He found the source of the muddy footprints only a few more slow minutes down the road. A man in a dress shirt and mismatched socks was walking up the road in the same direction Crowley was going.

“Hey,” he called, rolling the window down the rest of the way. “Is that your car back there?”

“Oh—yes, sorry.” The man rubbed the back of his neck. He was quite young, despite his car looking like it had rolled out of a badly judged time capsule. “Broke down. Again. I don’t suppose you’d be able to make a call for me?”

“Yeah, ‘course. Hang on.” The side of the road here was muddy too, and Crowley didn’t like his odds of pulling his car out of it, so he pulled carefully just to the edge of the pavement. Plucking his phone out of the cup holder, he got out and offered it over. “Go ahead.”

But instead of reaching for the phone, the man only flinched back. “Oh, er—sorry, would you mind doing it?”

Crowley blinked. “You… don’t want to?”

“It’s a bad idea,” the man said, sounding almost guilty. “I’m a bit cursed.”

“Cursed.”

“Just some days. But definitely today. The car, you see. And I can’t get my phone to connect. Which I know happens to everyone! It’s just, with me, it… spreads.”

“…okay. Yeah, sure. I don’t know any of the mechanics around here yet, just moved into Tadfield, but if you know a number—”

“Oh, it’s not worth it. Nobody knows how to fix it anymore. They don’t make the parts. If you could call my partner, she’ll come and get me.”

“What about the car?”

“I’ll come back tomorrow. Probably I’ll be able to get it to work then.”

“Uh-huh,” Crowley said slowly.

“Don’t worry. No one will mind it there. Everybody in the area knows Dick Turpin.”

“Including me, now, I guess.”

“Welcome to Tadfield.”

Crowley snorted. As awkward and odd as the man was, he liked his sense of humor. “Do you live in Tadfield?” he asked.

“Yes, just on Juniper Street a little outside the village.”

Crowley considered a moment, then decided to throw in his lot on the side of neighborliness. “I’m headed back into town. I could drop you off, if you want?”

The man brightened, if cautiously. “Really? I mean, only if it’s not any trouble…”

“It’s not,” Crowley shrugged. “Still getting the lay of the land. I could do with a drive out to that part of town.”

“Well, I won’t say no, then. It’d be a while before my partner could come, probably.”

“They’d leave you out here?”

“Oh, she knows I’m fine. I get stuck out here a lot. I’m Newt, by the way.”

“Crowley,” Crowley said, shaking Newt’s hand. “Climb in. I hope you like Queen.”

Newt did like Queen, or at least wasn’t bothered by it and hummed along off-tune to some of the melodies. He was an excellent passenger. He kept his hands folded in his lap, far away from any of the car’s equipment. He wouldn’t even roll down his window until Crowley gave him explicit permission.

From there, they rode mostly in silence. Newt struck Crowley as the quiet sort, and he himself had never been one to strike up random conversations.

A few minutes into the drive, still a little ways from Tadfield, Crowley’s phone buzzed in the cup holder.

“Could you check who that is?” he asked Newt as the ring tone went on.

Newt shook his head firmly. “Bad idea.”

“Right. Forgot.” A quick glance down and a little maneuvering let him see it was Warlock calling. “Ah, hang on a second.”

There hadn’t been anyone else on the road at all, so he just pulled over to answer the call. “You alright, kid?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Warlock said breezily, unfazed by Crowley’s immediate concern. “Sorry, I know it’s your day off, but could you maybe do me a favor?”

“Hugely depends what the favor is.”

“We went over to Wensley’s house so I could meet his cat, but Pepper’s allergic and went home early, and I can’t ride on anybody else’s bike, and it’s a really long way to walk…”

“Uh-huh.”

“He lives all the way on the other side of the village. He’s out by the woods!”

Crowley checked his watch, then turned to Newt. “Do you mind a little detour?”

“No, that’s fine.”

“Okay, fine,” Crowley said back into the phone. Warlock immediately whooped. “Tell me what street he’s on. I should be near there in ten minutes.”

“Thanks, Crowley. Hey, Wensley? What street are we on?” There was a little muffled noise in the background. “Ash Lane.”

“Be ready when I get there,” Crowley warned.

“I will. Thanks, Crowley!”

Hanging up and putting the phone back in its spot, Crowley pulled back onto the road. “Sorry. Gotta pick up the kid I nanny. He’s on Ash Lane, I think that’s on the way to you?”

“Oh, yes, that’s very close. No problem.”

“Cool.”

Sure enough, Warlock was waiting outside 16 Ash Lane when they pulled up. He waved to his friends still in the garden, and then ran to Crowley’s car.

“Back seat, kiddo,” Crowley called through the window.

“Why?” Warlock complained.

“I picked up a hitchhiker.”

Warlock rolled his eyes, until he climbed in and saw Newt. “Oh, wow. You actually did.”

“Just dropping him off at his house, then we’ll head home.”

“Okay. Thank you again for picking me up. Even though it’s your day off, and everything.”

“I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to. Besides, I was already out. Had to get a toaster for my room.”

Warlock lit up with an idea. “Can we make microwave cakes tomorrow?”

“Kid, we’ve got an oven. We could make a real cake if you want.”

“The little mug ones are more fun, though.”

“Yeah, but the measurements get ridiculous. Who has an eighth of a teaspoon spoon? Why would I ever want to halve an egg?”

“Fine. I won’t make you one.”

“Hey now, there’s no need for that.”

Next to him, Newt chuckled quietly to himself. Crowley decided that he liked him. Supposed curse and all.

“Hey, Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got a weird assignment for my art class.”

“Okay,” Crowley said, turning at Newt’s instruction onto a road that led farther out of the village. “What kind of weird?”

“It’s like a field trip, basically. But we all have to pick a different spot to go, ‘cause we all live different places.”

Crowley groaned internally. He understood the idea of a remote-school field trip, he really did. But it was an absolute pain in his rear to organize. At least when he’d worked in a classroom, somebody else had usually picked the museum. “We’ll sort it out. Maybe ask your parents if they have any ideas tonight.”

“Do I really have to do—”

“Sorry, this is me,” Newt interrupted, pointing to a cottage tucked into the curve of the road. Crowley pulled into the driveway, empty but for a bicycle leaning against the fence.

“Thanks again for the ride. It was nice to meet both of you.”

“Yeah, no problem. I’ll see you a—”

Everyone jumped as the cottage door slammed. Crowley looked up, and was startled again to find a familiar figure jogging towards the car.

“There you are,” Anathema said as Newt climbed out of the car and kissed her on the cheek. “I was just about to go out looking for you.”

“Sorry. The car again. You’re not at the shop?”

“Closed early. Wanted to give Agnes a visit.” She leaned down and squinted through Crowley’s open window. “Hi.”

“Hi?”

She considered him for a moment. “Hm.”

Crowley stared back, feeling distinctly observed and not sure if he liked it.

Finally she straightened up again with a little nod. “Thanks for getting him home.”

“Er. No problem.”

“Are you coming to book club next Thursday?” she asked bluntly.

“Anathema,” Newt chided. “Leave him alone.”

Instantly, she softened. “Yeah. Sorry. You should come, though.”

“I’ll… I’m gonna try. I think.”

“Alright. See you then, Crowley.”

He threw them an awkward little salute as he backed out of the driveway.

“Is that the witch you met?” Warlock asked. He was leaning into the front to watch Anathema and Newt go into the cottage.

“Oi. Don’t call people witches unless they tell you to.”

“Pepper said she does, though. Call herself a witch.”

“Oh. Well. Thin ice, then.”

As he drove them back through the village towards the Dowlings’ house, he couldn’t help but think it was probably a good word for her, anyway.

“Yes, I—no, my dear, don’t bother.” Aziraphale heaved an armful of shopping bags out of his car, phone clutched clumsily to his ear with one shoulder. “If Theresa’s going to—yes, precisely. If she wants to see me when she comes to visit she will have to let me know herself.”

“And would you come?”

“If she asks, of course I would. But I’m simply too old to keep playing along when she can’t decide what she wants to do more than a day ahead of time.” He dropped the groceries by the front door and went back for the birdseed. “It’s not as if she doesn’t know how to reach me. My telephone number hasn’t changed in a decade.”

“Do you want me to tell her that, or are you just going to wait?”

“I am very good at that.”

Maggie snorted. “Suit yourself. The older kids will probably come to see her, though, if you want to take advantage.”

Aziraphale wavered. “Have I really become the dull uncle?” he asked mournfully.

“You’ve become the reliable uncle, and don’t you regret that for a moment. They know they don’t have to catch you the once in a blue moon you’re here. Anyway… it could be a nice idea to come visit for a little while, yeah? Maybe sooner than when Theresa gets here. Get you out of Tadfield for a little while.”

Aziraphale sighed. He'd told her about Crowley, of course. Over text. She'd been kind enough not to call him about it or bring it up yet. “I'm perfectly fine here, Maggie. It's not like it's that small a town. I'll probably hardly run into him at all. It was just... jarring, was all, the first time seeing him.”

His sister made a familiar knowing noise. How he'd found his life full of women who understood too much from very little information given, he couldn't say.

It was a blessing as much as it was a curse.

“I'll see you next week, my dear,” he said, gently closing off the conversation there. “Give Emily and Art my love, will you?”

The groceries waited on the front stoop while he went around the back with the sack of birdseed. There was a large plastic crate by the back door, and he set the bag down beside it.

“Yes, my dears, I know,” he murmured, smiling at a pair of nuthatches watching him curiously from the feeder by the fence. “I'll be right with you. Just let me put my own dinner away.”

He let himself in through the back, and flicked the kettle on on his way through the kitchen. By the time he'd brought all of his shopping in, it was ready for a mug and one of the new tea bags he'd picked up earlier.

He'd done quite a lot of errands that afternoon. There had been a lot to get done, anyway. A stop first at the chemist to pick up his prescription and a restock of plasters and disinfectant, then the tea shop as a reward. That had shored him up enough to poke his head into the post office next door to send off a letter to his nephew, and even the hardware store to pick up a bit of scrap wood to try and fix a wobbly table in the shop. He almost hadn't made it to the grocer's after that, but a robin fluttering over his head on her way back to her nest had reminded him there were other mouths besides his depending on it.

It wasn't so bad once he was in the stores. Once he'd had a chance to smile hello to the people at the registers and scan the aisles for pulse-stopping red hair, his mind would settle back into his body and he could shake off the persistent need to look over his shoulder. Then it was suddenly impossible to want to leave.

He'd delayed driving home longer than he would have expected. It had taken a while to work out why, but as he'd finally turned onto his quiet little street and felt a blanket of relief fall over him, he'd realized it was because he didn't yet know where in Tadfield Crowley lived.

He didn't want to know. Hopefully he never would know, and Crowley would leave before he ever had the misfortune of finding out. But he did not, at first glance, appear to be in Aziraphale's neighborhood.

It was a shoddy check; all he really had to go on was the lack of the man himself or a familiar car, and the odds Crowley would still be driving the same vehicle all these years later were very slim. But there wasn’t any immediate evidence, and that felt like more of a reprieve than he could have expected.

His sister had called him as he pulled into the driveway. That had probably been another blessing, or who knew how long it would have taken him to get out of the car. And he'd just bought a new carton of milk.

In his own little house, on his own familiar street, the awful see-sawing tension of his outing began to fade. As he packed each bag of groceries away into each of their places, and the tea finished steeping, a new emotion settled over him.

“Oh, come, now, old boy,” he chided himself, mustering a chuckle to prevent something else. “It's not all that bad, surely.”

His body insisted otherwise. He could be proud, at least, that it only took one blinking back of tears for him to give in to that.

“Alright,” he said. “Alright.” He took a deep, low breath, feeling it all the way down in his diaphragm, and came up smiling abashedly. “Just a moment to get comfortable. And—oh, the poor birds. The feeders have been empty too long, I'll just—yes. Bird feed and a blanket, and then—yes.”

Aziraphale went about the next five minutes with calm, if occasionally clumsy, efficiency. It was much easier when he had a task to hand, and a goal. He gathered up one of the heavier throws from the sofa, a glass of water, and his tea, and brought them all outside to the little wooden chair and table near the back door. Then he heaved up the sack of birdseed, and went out to fill up the feeders.

“There you are, my dears. I'm sorry it took me so long to get you more seed. You'll need quite a lot of energy soon, won't you?”

One of the nuthatches perched bravely nearby cocked his head at him.

“Yes, I know. Lots of little fledglings on their way, aren't there?”

The bird did not respond, but he kept chatting to him anyway. He didn't think that was what his first therapist had had in mind for him when she recommended he find some birdwatching videos as a mindfulness exercise, but the idea had taken off further than either of them had expected. In London, he'd been limited to videos and what little time he could manage in a park, but when he'd moved to Tadfield and realized that a proper back garden meant birds of his own...

“Alright then, loves. That should have you set for a while, hm?” He closed up the bag, then carried it back over to the house and secured it in the plastic crate by the door, to keep any other interested critters from getting into it. He didn't mind it much when the squirrels got into the feeders—they needed their dinner too, after all—but he knew better now than to trust them with a loose bag of seed. He took a last moment to scan the garden, and make sure all was well, and felt the wave of what he'd been putting off start to rise up just as he nodded to himself.

“Yes, alright.” He chuckled wetly. The next devolved inarguably into a quiet sob.

It wasn't fair. It was awful. He'd found his place, his safety, had worked so hard to get himself the things he'd been depriving himself of for so long. He had friends—dear ones, who loved him and asked after him and fussed when he was upset—and his favorite sister's family just a short drive away, and a house of his own that had always been his own, and a bookshop he'd started from scratch just the way he wanted it to be. It was friendly. It was brightly lit. It was a place children came for help when they were hurt.

He could recognize when he was hurting, now, and knew who to reach out to when it started. He was better, and settled in it, finally. He'd finally stopped jumping whenever he saw a redhead out of the corner of his eye.

And then he came back. And it all fell down.

He made his way the last few feet to the patio chair. He made himself take a sip of water, even if it was really too late for preparatory hydration, and then sat down. The chair was arranged just so to give him the best view of his birds without being so close as to bother them. He watched a pair of them, the first ones to bravely investigate the feeder after he'd been there, hop to the work of their dinner.

Aziraphale put his water down with a shaky hand, and leaned back in the chair. Then he settled in, handkerchief waiting in his pocket, and had a very long cry.

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen Casablanca .”

“I don’t have a television! How would I watch it?”

“It comes back around in theaters somewhere at least once a year. Come on, Aziraphale, it’s exactly the kind of movie you’d like.”

“I’m sure it is, but I don’t watch many movies. Something has to really catch my eye for me to be interested.”

“But… but Casablanca.”

Aziraphale laughed, louder and freer than Crowley had ever heard him before. “If it’s so good, you’ll just have to show it to me sometime.”

Crowley sighed and threw his head back, narrowly avoiding the leg of the coffee table. “I can’t believe I’m the one introducing you to classic media .”

“Come now, my dear, it’s not such a hardship. I’m not completely hopeless. It’s not like you’ll have to sit through Gone With the Wind with me. Or The Sound of Music.”

Crowley snorted. He was lying on Aziraphale’s floor, and taking up pretty much all of it. Aziraphale had his feet pulled up under him on the sofa to make enough room.

The flat was tiny, and Crowley loved it. Crammed in above a rundown laundromat, the whole building seemed to rattle and hum. There was barely enough room for a ratty but clean love seat in what passed for a living room, and there had been some creative tetrising to get both a kettle and a microwave to fit on the little stretch of kitchen counter. The bathroom was almost funny.

But Aziraphale had made it work, and made it his own. The floors were stained and scratched, but he’d put down soft, if faded, rugs where he could fit them. There wasn’t room for more than one bookshelf, and even that was almost inaccessible behind other furniture, but, as Crowley had discovered on a previous visit when he went looking in the kitchen cabinets for tea, Aziraphale had adapted by filling half of the cupboards with books. And while the windows were drafty and only looked out onto a dreary road, he had put in window boxes, and filled them with overgrown herbs.

“I don’t actually cook much,” he had explained the first time he visited, when Crowley leaned out to smell the mint and parsley thriving unattended. “But they were cheaper than flowers, and at least they’re green.”

“I think it’s great,” Crowley had replied, completely heartfelt.

Now, a few hours into a visit and starting to creep past their usual bedtimes, he rather thought everything was great. Especially Aziraphale. Even if he hadn’t ever seen Casablanca.

“Oh—er. Crowley?”

“Mhm?”

“Do you really have every Saturday off?”

“Pretty much.” There was a dent in Aziraphale’s ceiling that looked a bit like a duck, if you squinted at it right. It was more entertaining that it should have been, in his semi-exhausted state.

“What about the week after next?”

“I think so?” Crowley craned his head around to see Aziraphale better. He was fidgeting with his hands. “Why?”

“I’ve got the day off,” Aziraphale said in almost a whisper, as if he were afraid if he said it too loud the miracle would disappear.

Crowley’s eyes widened. “On a Saturday?”

“I think Gabriel messed up the schedules. But as long as he doesn’t notice before tomorrow, he’s not allowed to change it.”

“You mean we could do something together? All day?”

Aziraphale’s face went a very endearing shade of pink. “Would you like to?”

“Fuck yes—ow!”

“Oh, my dear, your head!”

Crowley clutched his temple, which had come into unceremonious contact with the edge of the coffee table when he tried to sit up too fast. His hand came away a little bit bloody. “Ow.”

“Shit. Hold still, I have a first aid kit somewhere in the bathroom.”

“Didn’t think it was possible to lose anything in here,” Crowley commented as Aziraphale stepped carefully over him and disappeared around a corner. “You haven’t got enough storage for it.”

“Hush.”

“I don’t want to, though.” Checking his head again, he found it still bleeding just a little. He knew better than to be panicked. He’d gone through a very thorough first aid course before he even tried to get a job as a nanny.

Aziraphale, to his credit, looked just as unfazed as he bustled back in with a little plastic case and a damp washcloth. “Hold this on your forehead there, my dear. Let’s get you up on the sofa.”

Crowley opened his mouth to insist he was fine, but then Aziraphale crouched down to help him up, and he just… let him. Let Aziraphale situate him on the love seat and check his cut and make sympathetic noises over it, all while promising he’d be right as rain in a moment.

He was so gentle with him. It was impossible for Crowley to resist.

“It’s not very deep. Nothing to worry about, just needs to be cleaned and covered. Minor head wounds often bleed a lot, but it’s just dramatics.”

Crowley snorted. “Dramatics?”

“They want all the attention. You’d barely have a bruise if you’d banged your arm or your knee instead. This is going to sting, but only for a moment.”

“You’re very—ow, fuck,” Crowley hissed as Aziraphale carefully cleaned his cut with an antiseptic wipe. But he was done almost as soon as he’d started, and then the sting was replaced with a cool ointment and gauze. “You’re really good at this.”

“My eldest sister’s a doctor. Or will be very soon, anyway, she’s nearly finished medical school. But she’s been practicing since we were little. I was her favorite pretend nurse because I actually listened to what she told me to do.” Aziraphale chuckled while he cut little strips of medical tape. He reached up to brush Crowley’s hair away from his forehead, and Crowley suddenly couldn’t breathe. “It turned out to be helpful later, anyway. My youngest sisters hardly went a day without scraping something. Well, you know, you know how often children get hurt.”

“Don’t remind me,” Crowley groaned. He’d had to take care of three skinned knees just yesterday. He wanted to strangle Mr. Dawson for getting his kids bicycles.

Aziraphale pressed a final piece of tape on, then closed up the first aid kit. “All done, my dear. I think the bleeding’s already stopped. Just keep a clean plaster on for a few days.”

“Yes, Doctor Fell.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but smiled as he left to go put the first aid kit away. Crowley, left briefly alone on the love seat, considered the ceiling again.

“Big family, then?” he asked when Aziraphale came back. He hadn’t rolled back to the floor, instead pulling his knees in to squeeze onto one half of the sofa. Aziraphale only looked fond when he sat down and immediately found Crowley’s socked feet in his lap.

“I suppose it depends on your perspective, but yes, probably,” he said, patting Crowley’s ankle absently. “I’m one of six.”

“Jesus.”

“It was very nice, actually. Always someone to play with.” He sighed. “And to interrupt your homework, or pull a prank in front of your friends.”

“Sounds like a nightmare to me.”

“You’re an only child, I take it.”

“Yeah. Had some cousins nearby for a bit, but they moved away when I was a kid.”

“Well, we’ve both moved away, now.”

“Yeah.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Downstairs in the laundromat, a dryer began clattering loudly.

“Do you get lonely?” Crowley finally asked. “Living alone?”

Aziraphale considered. “I think… honestly, I think I’ve been so busy enjoying living alone I hadn’t noticed. But… yes. Sometimes.” He looked at Crowley, smiling softly. “Not always, though.”

Crowley’s heart skipped. All he could do was smile back.

“Oh!” Aziraphale suddenly cried. “Saturday!”

“Right! Saturday!”

“I still have no idea what there is to do in this town,” Aziraphale sighed. “I hardly go out at all on my days off, except to pick up groceries or sit in the park for a little while…”

“Tell me about it. When I’m not home I live at the library now. As far away from the kids’ section as I can get.”

“That won’t work particularly well for conversation.”

“Nope.”

“Well… maybe we’ll think of something. We’ve got two weeks. I’ll certainly call you, if I come up with anything.”

Crowley squinted at him. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“No,” Aziraphale said guiltily.

“You can tell me to leave.”

“I don’t actually want you to leave. I’m just worried about you getting enough rest.”

“You’ve got a morning shift tomorrow, don’t you?”

“He’s just so horrible in the mornings!” Aziraphale burst out. “I don’t know how many more times I can listen to Gabriel spout off about being an early bird without clobbering him with a dictionary. And that’s with enough sleep under my belt!”

“Maybe I should keep you up,” Crowley laughed. “Get you to finally do something about that dickhead.”

“I can’t. I need the job.”

“I know.” Patting Aziraphale on the shoulder, Crowley stood up, back cracking impressively. “I’ll let you get your sleep, then. We’ll plan to murder your boss another time.”

Aziraphale caught his hand. “I really don’t want you to go,” he said. “Really, if I didn’t have work tomorrow…”

“I know, Aziraphale.” Feeling brave and happy and still just a little bit punchy, Crowley leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “Call me if you think of anything for Saturday.”

“Erg,” Aziraphale swallowed. “I—yes, of course I will. Be safe getting home, alright?”

“Yeah, will do. Want me to call you when I get there?”

“Please.”

“Alright.” He gathered his shoes and his wallet and opened the door. “Talk to you soon, Aziraphale.”

“Goodnight, my dear.”

“Night.”

It was an easy walk to the bus stop by Aziraphale’s flat, and a very short trip. It wasn’t actually all that late; the twins had been wiped out after an afternoon on their damnable bikes, so Crowley had been able to clock out early, and they’d been able to get an earlier start to their evening together than usual.

The house was quiet when Crowley got home, which he was thankful for. He’d gotten very good at hiding in the mud room if he came home while the twins were still up until he could sneak upstairs to the attic, but that made calling Aziraphale to tell him he’d made it home safe a whole thing.

Mr. and Mrs. Dawson were up watching TV when he came in; they all waved to each other in acknowledgment, and then let each other get on with their evenings. But as he picked his way through the scattered toys in the hallway on his way to the kitchen, he overheard a little of the news program they were watching.

A little snippet about the weather, and weekend plans, and what to pack for a picnic.

He ran to the phone with more energy than he had a right to at that hour. “Aziraphale, listen—yes, hi, I’m home safe, but—yeah. I’ve got an idea for Saturday.”

It was starting to get too chilly for a really comfortable picnic, but despite the clouds it held off raining, and that was all they needed.

They picked a different section of the park than usual—an open field that had been much too hot a few weeks ago but was now a haven of present, if faint, sunshine. And far from the playground. Very far.

“I brought sandwiches. Not sure what kinds you like—”

“I’m not picky, dear, whatever you have is… fine?”

Aziraphale’s voice rose as he watched a small avalanche of wax-paper wrapped sandwiches spill out of Crowley’s bag. “I may have gotten carried away.”

“Crowley.”

“It won’t go to waste! Georgia will eat anything, I’m just covered for lunches for the next few days.”

“Weeks.”

“Don’t be dramatic. What did you bring?”

Aziraphale lifted a stack of plastic takeaway containers out of his own bag. “Deviled eggs. Blueberry scones. And some of those horrible chalky biscuits you like.”

Crowley had already snatched the box of scones and opened it. His eyes widened. “Did you make these?”

“They’re a bit wonky, I know,” Aziraphale shifted his weight. “A few of them tipped over in the oven.”

“I thought you said you didn’t cook.”

“I said I don’t, not that I can’t. My mother was quite insistent that we all learn to fend for ourselves.”

“You can fend for me, too, if you like,” Crowley said through crumbs. “These are delicious.”

Aziraphale felt himself blush, and settled himself in more comfortably on the blanket. Blankets plural, actually. They had forgotten to establish who would bring one, so both of them had. It made for a very luxurious—if generally faded and worn—spread of space for their picnic. Crowley was already lounging across more than half of it.

The whole thing had been a bit disorganized like that. It was sort of delightful.

They sat quietly for a while, passing food back and forth and enjoying the park. The promised rain seemed to have scared off some of the crowd that would usually be there on a Saturday afternoon, especially as the earliest changing leaves kept reminding everyone that it would be too cold for time spent outside in just a few months.

Aziraphale had never felt comfortable with silence. He had grown up surrounded by the noise of other people. The only time things had really seemed to be quiet was when someone was waiting impatiently for him to say something or when he was in trouble. His mother was very good at playing the waiting game.

But Crowley was so easy to be around. He found himself speaking not because he felt he had to to avoid embarrassment, but just because he wanted to. “How was your week, my dear? Have the bicycles gotten any easier?”

“Mr. Dawson caved and got them training wheels, so yes. Still having to practically glue Vincent’s helmet to his head, he won’t leave the straps alone, but at least they’re not falling every two feet.”

“I never learned to ride a bicycle. I always meant to.”

“Oh, I lived on a bike as a kid. Tiny, tiny little town, it was the only way to get anywhere. Can’t really do it so much anymore, my knee doesn’t like it.”

“Maybe you’ll teach me one day. We could try one of those snazzy two-person ones, so I could do more of the work and give your poor knees a rest.”

Crowley snorted. “‘Snazzy.’ I’d have made such fun of you when I was a kid.”

“You make fun of me now.”

“But I would’ve meant it, then. I was fucking mean sometimes.”

“I think all children are mean sometimes,” Aziraphale said gently.

“Yeah. Probably. Still.”

“I once edited my brother’s final history paper so he’d lose points on the spelling.”

That made Crowley burst out laughing. “Yeah, but he was probably being an arse.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale hummed. “I suppose.”

Looking a little cheerier again, Crowley folded his hands behind his head. He’d laid down on his back as soon as he finished eating, watching the clouds. Aziraphale was more comfortable sitting, but he was also enjoying watching his face.

“Hey, Aziraphale?”

“Yes?”

“Could you have edited it properly? If you wanted to, I mean. Fixed the spelling, and all.”

Aziraphale rubbed his cheek in mild lingering embarrassment. “That’s what he asked me to do, actually. So, yes, I could have.”

“Cool.” Crowley stared at the clouds, visibly working up the words for something. “Could—I mean, if I asked—would you do that for me?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Check your spelling?”

“Yeah.” Crowley squirmed a little on the blanket, but there was a hint of excitement in his eyes. “I’ve been working on going back to school.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped. “Oh, Crowley, that’s marvelous!”

“Yeah, well, I’m just working on applications right now. But, er…” He sighed. “I’m just really shit at writing.”

Aziraphale resisted the urge to argue. He had to keep reminding himself how short a time he’d known Crowley; it seemed like forever, like they should know everything about each other by now, but their conversations were still full of new pieces of history. He’d never seen any of Crowley’s writing. It would sound completely disingenuous to pretend he knew anything about it.

Instead, he prodded further. “‘Shit’ how, exactly?”

“Just bad at words, honestly. Can’t spell for anything. I can never remember where all the little bits of punctuation are supposed to go.”

“Oh, well that’s not such a problem. I can help you with that.”

Crowley looked at him, hope sparking in his eyes. “Would you? I mean—you don’t have to, I know it’s a lot of work—”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale cut him off, putting a firm hand on his knee to stop him. “It would be no hardship at all.” He smiled softly. “You certainly shouldn’t feel cut off from your dreams just because of spelling.”

“Tell that to the admissions offices,” Crowley snarked, but he looked hugely relieved. More than that, he looked very, very happy. “Thanks, Aziraphale. Haven’t got anybody else who’d do that for me. You’re a godsend.”

Aziraphale looked away hurriedly, overly aware that he was blushing. “Don’t be dramatic,” he parroted.

“How about a heavenly gift, then? A miracle? An angel?”

“Stop it,” Aziraphale said, but he was laughing now. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m allowed.”

“I suppose.”

“Deal with it,” Crowley said, grinning as he laid back down again. “You’re stuck with me now, at least until I get back into school.”

Aziraphale stared up at the passing clouds, smiling to himself. “I think I can handle that.”