#midna3452

A/N: This is a crossover I've been working on for quite a while, and I'm excited to finally share it! A few notes before you get started reading: This takes place in a “Nathaniel Lives" alternate ending to Ptolemy's Gate, meaning that Nathaniel survived the battle with Nouda. It's been a few years since then, so Nathaniel and Kitty are meant to be about 19-20 in this fic. Lockwood & Co. are fresh off the events of The Creeping Shadow when this fic takes place, but haven't been through the events of The Empty Grave. I love trying to combine the worlds of Jonathan Stroud, and I hope you enjoy reading this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Chapter 1

Nathaniel shivered and crossed his arms tightly. His sweater did little to stave off the cold in the government vaults, and he’d been down there for hours.

“Ooh, it does feel a bit nippy in here, doesn’t it?”

Nathaniel glanced to his left and found Bartimaeus pretending to shiver along with him, wearing a puffy jacket so big it nearly swallowed up Ptolemy’s small frame serving as the djinni’s current guise. The magician rolled his eyes, knowing perfectly well Bartimaeus wasn’t bothered by this insignificant amount of cold.

Bartimaeus met Nathaniel’s gaze and grinned. “Want me to light a fire? It would make the room nice and toasty!”

“Yes, and burn us all up in the process,” Kitty snapped from Nathaniel’s other side. She was bent over a large wooden box, busying herself with sifting through various items of unknown magical origin. She paused momentarily to glare at the djinni. “With all the documents in this stuffy room, one spark would light the whole place up in seconds.”

“No need to get tetchy; it was merely a suggestion!” Bartimaeus responded, sounding offended, making the puffy jacket disappear with a wave of his hand to reveal the jeans and grey t-shirt he’d dubbed his “modern” outfit underneath.

“It was a bad one, and you know it.” Kitty went back to rummaging around in the box. “Can either of you make yourselves useful and help me find this stupid thing? Nathaniel, remind me what we’re even looking for again?”

“Um, let me check,” Nathaniel replied, uncrossing his arms and reaching into his pocket. He pulled out an index card and read, “’A small, rounded grey disc.’ Be careful rooting around for it, though; supposedly those who have touched disc have… ‘disappeared?’” Nathaniel frowned. “If that’s the case, I don’t know why they’d leave it at the bottom of a box, lumped in with a bunch of other magical artifacts…”

“Why do humans make any of the decisions that they do?” Bartimaeus mused. He sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “5,000 years coming and going from this dreadful Earth, and I still haven’t the faintest idea.”

Nathaniel pointedly ignored him, silently reading over the index card again.

Two years after the Makepeace Incident, as the attempted overthrow of the government and subsequent near-takeover by magical spirits had become known, Nathaniel was fully resituated into his job as Information Minister. Once he’d recovered from his miraculous survival, there was talk of him moving up in the ranks, and even mention of him taking on the role of Prime Minister someday. But after everything he’d been through, Nathaniel realized he truly didn’t want the immeasurable power that came with leading an entire country. All he wanted was to have a stable job that kept him busy, with his newfound companion Kitty by his side.

Nathaniel never planned to see Bartimaeus again, figuring that after all the djinni had done for him and the world, he deserved a long rest. But, to his surprise, the time they spent bonded together (not to mention Kitty’s visit to the Other Place) had sparked a strange desire for Bartimaeus to want companionship from the two of them. Of course, until a way to freely move back and forth from the Other Place was discovered, Bartimaeus could only visit through a Summoning. So, the djinni agreed to be occasionally summoned to Earth by his familiar master under the strict condition that Nathaniel would release Bartimaeus whenever he wished.

This arrangement suited everyone just fine. Nathaniel had to admit that being so closely connected to the djinni’s essence created an irrevocable bond between them; he often felt as though a part of him was missing whenever Bartimaeus rested in the Other Place. There were so many things about Bartimaeus and Spirits in general that Nathaniel wanted to learn, and the snarky djinni was more than willing to divulge this information to him and Kitty in his own time. The trio still argued constantly, but their words were now only full of playful banter; a mutual understanding between them assured that no one truly wanted to hurt each other anymore.

It was during one of Bartimaeus’ visits that Nathaniel had been tasked to go down to the government vaults and locate an item of interest for Internal Affairs to review. Kitty wanted to help, and her new position in the government, as well as her close relationship with Nathaniel, allowed her to aid him with this task. While Kitty never wanted to be too embroiled in politics, she found success and a sense of worth as the official liaison between the members of Parliament and the common people. Nathaniel had been extremely vocal about Kitty’s efforts in helping take down Nouda, giving Kitty a notoriety that allowed her to have a hand in a lot more things than would normally be expected from her job title alone.

Thus, the trio found themselves down in the dusty government vaults. Kitty immediately set to work rifling through boxes upon their arrival and, seeing as she was on a mission, Nathaniel and Bartimaeus knew not to get in her way unless she asked for assistance.

“Wait, I might not need your help after all!” Kitty suddenly exclaimed. With a grunt of effort, she pushed herself back onto her feet. A circular object was clutched in her right hand, barely wider than the length of her palm. It was wrapped in a black cloth that had begun to fall off in one place, revealing an outer edge to the grey disc laced with an intricate pattern.

“Those are runes!” Nathaniel said excitedly, peering closely at the exposed edge. “Like from a summoning circle, but… off, somehow.”

“Interesting,” Bartimaeus agreed, his golden eyes lighting up with curiosity.

Kitty laid the disc on top of another box and carefully pulled the cloth away, revealing a scrying glass covered in strange markings on the outer circle. The three of them stared at the disc, trying to decipher what it was and, more importantly, what it was used for.

“It seems like a combination of runes for a typical summoning, some Ptolemaic markings of a reverse summoning circle, and…” Nathaniel wrinkled his nose in confusion, pointing to a symbol scratched near the edge of the disc. “…something else. I’m not sure what that symbol means. Bartimaeus, care to enlighten us?”

“What, that one?” Bartimaeus raised an eyebrow. “That’s the Greek word for ‘stay!’ Come on, Nat; this is kids’ stuff!”

“No, not that one!” Nathaniel jabbed his finger a little closer. “That one!”

“The Egyptian symbol for water?”

“No!”

“The Greek word for-”

“I can read Greek!” Nathaniel let out a growl of frustration. Bartimaeus knew just how to push his buttons, especially when he wasn’t in the mood for it. The slightly upward tilt of the djinni’s mouth made Nathaniel glare harder. “This symbol right here.”

For a second, dead silence filled the room. Nathaniel swiveled between Kitty and Bartimaeus’ shocked expressions, eventually casting his gaze downwards to where his index finger pressed firmly against the grey disc. Another beat of silence passed, and then Kitty began to shout.

Nathaniel couldn’t hear her words clearly, for his mind was solely focused on his hand currently being pulled into the center of the disc. The rest of his arm followed suit, flattening and twisting as if it were liquid being pulled down a drain. He felt only a numb tingling sensation, and for that he was grateful. If he was about to die, he’d rather it be fast and painless.

A tug on Nathaniel’s other hand made him glance back to find Bartimaeus clutched onto him with an iron grip. The djinni pulled as hard as he could, and this did cause Nathaniel much discomfort; he felt as though his arm might be ripped out of its socket. Kitty firmly grasped him around the waist and tried to aid Bartimaeus in moving Nathaniel away from the dangerous object.

But the pull of the disc was far stronger than the combination of a determined human and a powerful spirit. Before he could utter any poignant final words, the rest of Nathaniel’s body was sucked into the disc and the world went black around him.

***

When Nathaniel opened his eyes, his first thought was that the afterlife looked extremely dull. He’d expected white, pearly gates or some other fantastical sight, but the area he laid in was dark, dingy, and only marginally warmer than the government vaults. He felt a pressure upon him and turned his head to see Kitty laying on his back, arms still clamped tightly around his waist. Her eyes were shut, face twisted in an expression of fear and determination.

“Kitty?” Nathaniel said quietly. He made a move to stand and realized that Bartimaeus’ hand remained tightly around his own. The magician gave a small sigh of relief; if the djinni was present, it meant that Nathaniel was still alive. It also meant that they weren’t completely defenseless.

“It amazes me how you continue to do such stupid things after all this time,” Bartimaeus commented dryly, his eyes glowing in the dim light as he wrenched his hand back. His intense glare made Nathaniel grimace; he could tell Bartimaeus was legitimately upset with him.

“I agree, and we need to have a serious talk about that again… but that’s not our main concern right now,” Kitty said, disentangling herself from Nathaniel. Bartimaeus stood and held out his hands; Nathaniel grabbed one, Kitty took the other, and in one swift motion, the djinni pulled them both to their feet. As the trio examined their surroundings, they realized a rather startling fact:

They were not alone.

A pudgy boy sat at one of the desks that formed a semi-circle around the room. He had round spectacles, wide, bright blue eyes, and a pale-lipped mouth that hung open like a fish. His gaze swiveled to each member of the trio, trying to take them all in at once.

“Oh, uh… hello!” Nathaniel quickly regained his composure, straightening out his shirt and puffing himself up like a person with authority. He flashed a smile, but the boy simply stared. Nathaniel noted that he appeared to be in his mid-teens. The magician took a step forward and extended a hand. “We apologize for the intrusion but… we seem to have found ourselves here accidentally.”

“…I can see that,” the boy responded, slowly getting to his feet. The trio watched him intently as his eyes flickered to a door at the other end of the room. “And how exactly did you end up here?”

“Well…” Nathaniel trailed off, wondering how much he could reveal. His work within the government vaults was top secret and couldn’t be shared with just anyone he came across.

“Magic,” Bartimaeus said, and Nathaniel snapped his head towards him. The djinni wore an indecipherable expression, though Nathaniel could tell by his posture—arms crossed, hip jutting out slightly, eyes scanning the boy up and down—that Bartimaeus was sizing this kid up to determine how much of a threat he was.

“…Magic, huh?” The boy looked mildly offended as he removed his glasses and rubbed them furiously on the bottom of his sweatshirt. “Right. Well… I know someone who’s quite skilled in magic, so… I’m just going to pop upstairs and find him.”

The boy calmly repositioned his glasses onto his nose. Then, with a surprising burst of speed, he suddenly bolted for the door. Kitty took off after him, but the boy was already too far ahead of her and slammed the door in her face. Kitty smacked a fist against it with a growl of frustration, while Nathaniel looked at Bartimaeus questioningly.

“Why didn’t you go after him?!” he asked. The djinni shrugged.

“He’s just a human,” Bartimaeus responded. “Maybe he’s getting help, maybe he’s getting the authorities. If he causes trouble when he comes back, I’ll take care of him. Right now, our most important task is to try to find a way out of here. Since that disc was obviously a portal, I suggest we see if there’s a matching one somewhere in this room.”

Nathaniel pursed his lips but couldn’t argue with Bartimaeus’ logic. He glanced at Kitty, who had already busied herself with trying to pick the door lock with a hairpin pulled from one of her jacket pockets. Nathaniel sighed and turned back to Bartimaeus; with a nod, they began their search for a way home.

***

“How?!” Bartimaeus and Nathaniel exclaimed in unison, matching looks of horror on their faces.

“Hold on, hold on!” Kitty exclaimed, frantically flipping through the massive stack of notes in her lap. She sat cross-legged in one of the summoning circles, occasionally shooting a worried glance at the pair in the adjacent set of runes.

“You’d better fix this stat, kid,” said Nathaniel’s body, though the voice that came out of it was distinctly not his. Kitty paused her wild search to shoot a scathing look across the room.

“If you’d like to do this for me, be my guest!” she snapped, and the boy crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. He made a move as if to rise into the air but only succeeded on tripping over his own feet and falling hard onto his knees. He let out a shriek of pain and cursed in a language a thousand years forgotten.

“Hey! Watch what you’re doing with my body!” the djinni by his side exclaimed, floating a little too high. Still grumbling, Nathaniel’s body righted itself on shaky legs, then quickly grabbed the djinni’s foot and pulled him towards the floor.

“And watch what you’re doing with mine, you idiot! Do you want to phase through the ceiling?!”  

“Will you two shut up?!” Kitty yelled, and the pair froze to look at her. She sighed and went back to the notes. “I must’ve misread something, or spoke the wrong syllable somewhere… Sorry, I’ll fix it in a moment!”

Bartimaeus and Nathaniel looked at each other, and then the floating djinni’s shoulders sagged.

“We know, Kitty, no need to apologize; we're sorry for being so difficult,” he said quietly, and the boy holding his foot widened his eyes as if he’d just heard someone confess to a murder.

“Wow, Nat, I didn’t know you had it in you,” Bartimaeus commented.

“Oh, be quiet,” Nathaniel snapped. “And stop smirking like that; it makes me look demented!”

“What, like this?”

“Ugh, yes! Stop!”

An Encounter Most Unexpected

"Crowley, what in God’s name are you doing?”

The angel’s sudden voice made Crowley pause mid-step, one foot hanging in the air as the other precariously balanced all her weight.

“Oh,” the demon breathed, a combination of surprise, confusion, and hesitant relief[1]. Her lips quirked up in a smile. “Hi, Angel- whoa!”

Crowley’s greeting was cut off as a sword missed her stomach by less than an inch. She jumped back just in time to avoid another blind swing of the weapon from the human she’d been dealing with before Aziraphale arrived.

“Watch where you swing that thing!” Crowley exclaimed, and the human swiveled wildly towards the voice, the blindfold across his eyes rendering him completely sightless in the dim light of the cave.

“Foul fiend!” he shouted with another sword swipe. Crowley mumbled a curse in an ancient tongue and gave the man’s back a light push, sending him careening deeper into the cave. Then, Crowley turned her attention to Aziraphale and gave her a wide grin.

“…What are you doing?” Aziraphale asked again, slower this time, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Her gaze flickered towards the human wandering aimlessly and shouting occasional threats at the nonexistent monster.

“Okay, it’s not what it looks like,” Crowley began, taking a few steps closer to the angel so they wouldn’t have to yell across an echoing cave. When she stopped a few feet away, a strand of red hair shot out towards Aziraphale’s face, making the angel flinch and instinctively grab it tightly before it touched her.

“Ow, ow!” Crowley cried, pitching forward. Startled, Aziraphale realized the fiery lock of hair in her grasp resembled a sentient snake, complete with a flickering tongue and amber eyes that matched Crowley’s. The angel released it quickly, taking a step back.

“For Satan’s sake, Angel, I thought only humans were trying to take my head off!” Crowley muttered, running a hand over the now dejected-looking snake. It was then that Aziraphale noticed that the entirety of Crowley’s normally curled mane was completely made up of these serpents.

“Oh, I should have known,” Aziraphale said with a roll of her eyes. Crowley quirked an eyebrow as the angel tutted at the ridiculousness of the situation. “The humans in town were saying that a Gorgon was living nearby, and they were trying to vanquish it. They were making such a commotion that word eventually traveled upstairs, and since I happened to be in the area, I’ve been sent to investigate it.”

“…Ah,” Crowley said, and at that moment the blindfolded man found the chattering pair and decided to go in for another attack. Crowley easily evaded another sword slash and spun him around a few times, pushing him again towards the interior of the cave. Task accomplished, she refocused on Aziraphale, who was absently tugging at one of the soft folds of fabric that made up her peplos[2].  

“Another question,” Aziraphale began, meeting Crowley’s gaze. “How did you manage to convince the entire population that you were a Grecian monster?”

“Funny story, that,” Crowley replied, grinning again. “I was just minding my own business- really, I was!” Aziraphale had given her a look that said she didn’t believe that claim, but gestured for Crowley to continue. “Anyway, I don’t have any assignments from down below, so I’ve just been wandering. A group of locals saw me on the outskirts of town one day, and apparently I looked enough like that Medusa girl they started screaming and ran off to tell their entire community. Like I said, I was bored, so… I figured I’d run with it for a while.”

Aziraphale sighed.

“My dear girl, can’t you think of a better hobby than terrorizing the townsfolk?” she asked, and Crowley shrugged in response. A few strands of snake-hair slithered towards Aziraphale curiously, but Crowley stopped their quest with a glare.

Aziraphale let out a giggle, then quickly covered her mouth with a hand– she was meant to be annoyed with Crowley, after all. The pair stared at each other for a moment, unsure of what to say next. They had known each other for years at this point, but were still trying to figure out where exactly the bounds of their growing relationship lied. Unbeknownst to each other, they both hoped it was leaning towards true friendship, though they knew it would be a difficult friendship to uphold. For now, it was best to keep on cordial terms.

“Uh… listen,” Crowley said, absentmindedly stroking the head of a wriggling strand of hair. “I only got into this mess since I was bored. Demons and boredom don’t do so well together, you know- we become rather wily.”

She raised a thin eyebrow, hoping Aziraphale got the message. The angel’s forehead creased momentarily, then a light of understanding dawned on her face and she gave a radiant smile.

“Well, as an angel on a mission to investigate the cause of strife among the humans, it’s certainly my job to thwart the wiles of a demon,” she responded primly. She tapped her chin, making great show of thinking about her next move. “Hmm… I suppose providing a distraction from terrorizing people would be a good way to go about this, don’t you think?”

“Oh, certainly,” Crowley nodded with a casual grin[3]. Aziraphale’s smile widened and she clapped her hands together.

“Well, that settles it then. Foul fiend!” She pointed an accusatory finger at the demon, then promptly flipped her hand over and held it out, palm up. “Would you care to accompany me for a spot of lunch?”

Crowley laughed and took the proffered hand without hesitation.

“You’re good, Angel; I didn’t stand a chance- Oi!” Crowley snapped at a wayward strand of hair that moved a little too close to Aziraphale’s face. It managed to give the angel’s cheek a feather-light lick before Crowley cajoled it back into place, and this time Aziraphale really did laugh.

“Crowley, they’re very sweet, but you might want to miracle your hair back to normal before we leave the cave,” the angel suggested.

“’M not sweet,” the demon mumbled, and with a snap of her fingers, the writhing snakes fell down into long, curled tresses of fiery hair. Without thinking, Aziraphale reached out to run a hand lightly over one of the curls. Crowley froze, astonished at the intimate gesture, and Aziraphale’s cheeks flamed pink. Both of them suddenly realized they were still holding hands.

“Evil beast!” came a familiarly annoying voice, startling the pair and giving them an excuse to let go. They turned to see the man running towards them, having managed to turn himself around and hone in one the chattering duo yet again.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” Aziraphale said with a sigh, snapping her fingers, and the man froze. She walked up to him, removed his blindfold, and whispered in his ear, “You are going to forget all about this encounter and your mission to find the Gorgon; you will go home and wake up in your bed, having dreamed of whatever you like best.”

With another snap, the man dropped his sword and walked out of the cave, hazy eyes paying no attention to the two supernatural entities nearby.

“There; that takes care of my assignment, I think,” Aziraphale said matter-of-factly. She spared a quick glance at Crowley. “I… I do still have quite a bit of time before I’m expected to report back, so if you’re still amenable for lunch…”

“Of course, Angel,” Crowley replied. She wiggled her eyebrows up and down. “You still need to distract me so I don’t go back to my evil ways, don’t you?”

Aziraphale rolled her eyes, trying unsuccessfully to suppress another smile. “Quite right, my dear; quite right.”

                                                             ***

[1] Crowley hadn’t seen Aziraphale for quite a few decades and was starting to get anxious. She knew the angel could take care of herself- she hadn’t been chosen as the Guardian of the Eastern Gate on a whim-, but it still left a bad taste in her mouth when they went for long stretches of time with no communication.

[2] It was white, of course, and with the back-lighting of sunset streaming in from the mouth of the cave, Aziraphale positively glowed. It took a monumental effort for Crowley not to flinch at the angel’s sheer brightness.

Part 1

Azirafell stepped out of the taxicab and slammed the door shut behind him, snapping his fingers to miracle a few dollars into the driver’s hand. The demon didn’t feel like exchanging final pleasantries; while he’d been able to shut his eyes, it hadn’t been much of a rest, as the ride had been unnecessarily bumpy and left him in a slightly sour mood. All he wanted to do was go to his pawnshop and pour over the latest collection of knickknacks he’d picked up.

So, it was with great shock that once the taxi sped off and Azirafell turned around, he found an old, dingy bookstore standing in the space where his pawnshop should be. The demon blinked a few times, rubbed his eyes, then blinked again. Sure enough, the bookshop remained- a place that looked dusty, warm, and unbearably homey. This must be part of some elaborate prank, the demon thought with noise of disgust, though Azirafell had no idea who would dare try such a thing on him.

“Alright, what the heaven happened to my shop?!” the demon exclaimed, slamming open the old wooden doors. It was just a he feared- rows upon rows of dusty, filled-to-the-brim bookshelves. Azirafell’s lip curled into a scowl as he stalked further into the room, trying to find the cause of his beloved shop’s upheaval.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale the angel had been carefully restoring an ancient book when the slammed door caused him to jerk in surprise and tear a hole right through the page he was working on. He sucked in a breath, trying to control his swiftly rising temper, and henceforth missed the loud declaration from the intruder. Aziraphale carefully set his tools down and stood, adjusting his waistcoat in preparation for meeting his uninvited guest. He took a few seconds before leaving the back room to see if he could sense any supernatural presence- sure enough, the unmistakable tingle of demonic energy filled the air around him.

The angel frowned. Crowley often came over unannounced, and while he usually entered dramatically- as “dramatic” was the demon’s default setting-, he’d never slammed the doors like that before. With a twinge of fear, Aziraphale wondered if something bad happened- had Hell gotten over their fear of the demon who could (supposedly) survive holy water and come to destroy him once and for all?

“My dear?!” Aziraphale called, rushing out into the main room, looking around frantically. “Are you alri-”

The angel sharply cut off his words as he rounded a corner and came across the demon- at least, the creature’s aura certainly identified it as a demon. The face, however…

“Um… what’s going on?” said the other version of Aziraphale, and the angel frowned, noting the double pupils and, more concerningly-

“My goodness, whatever are you wearing?!” Aziraphale blurted out before he could stop himself. He clapped a hand over his mouth, knowing this to be the least of his worries, but he couldn’t help it. He prided himself on his fashion, as outdated as it was, and to see himself in a coat of deep teal, black, and white in lord knows what sort of pattern caused an involuntary reaction of horror.

“What am I wearing?!” the mirror image said, lips twisting in a sneer unbecoming on such a face. “What in Satan's name are you wearing?! You look like you stepped out of a Victorian catalogue! It’s the twenty-first century!”

“Excuse you, this outfit is considered ‘vintage,’ which I’ve been told is all the rage now!” Aziraphale pursed his lips, unable to stop himself from verbally lashing back. If Crowley saw him now, he would be astounded. But, the demon before him was not Crowley, and therein lied part of the problem. Aziraphale shook his head briskly, clearing away the thoughts of fashion choices in favor of more pressing matters.

“This shouldn’t be our concern right now,” he said, voice returning to a calm, reassuring lilt. The mirror version of himself flinched at this, as if physically pained by the angel’s demeanor. “Let’s try this again- I am Aziraphale, an angel, and this is my bookshop. And you are?”

“Azirafell,” the other version said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “A demon, and this is supposed to be my pawnshop.”

“…Right,” the angel said, resisting the urge to comment on the demon’s on-the-nose choice of name. He knew Crowley would certainly mention it if he were there. “Well, I regret to inform you, but this building has never been a pawnshop; I’ve owned this bookstore for well over two centuries.”

“Same amount of time as my own establishment,” Fell said, one eyebrow raised. “I have a feeling that one of us isn’t where they’re supposed to be… and that would probably be me.” The demon let out a huff of air and rolled his eyes. “Typical. Nothing is every easy, is it?”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said, thinking of how to get this unnerving version of himself out of his bookshop as soon as possible. He certainly couldn’t contact Heaven- not that he ever would, seeing as he was on his own side now-, and Hell was surely out of the question. So, really, the only option was-

“Anthony!” Fell suddenly exclaimed, startling the angel. The demon frowned, staring at the floor in contemplation. “I wonder if he ended up here, too…”

“Your Crowley?” Aziraphale ventured, and the demon met his gaze with a nod. Aziraphale smiled. “Well, it seems we’re both of the same mindset, at least somewhat. I was going to suggest we call my Crowley and see if he’d have any idea of how to sort this out, seeing as demons are more of his thing…”

Aziraphale trailed off with a vague hand gesture and Fell sighed again, flopping onto a nearby couch with a weary wave of his hand.

“Fine, sounds like as good a plan as any,” he responded. Aziraphale beamed at him even more and the demon wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, will you wipe that stupid grin off your face? It’s unnerving.”

“I could say the same about your constant scowl,” Aziraphale muttered tetchily, not liking when he was told not to smile. However, he knew arguing further was a lost cause, so he ignored the demon’s scoff and went over to the phone. He dialed Crowley’s home number first, figuring that he would try his cell if he didn’t answer.

“Hey, Aziraphale,” Crowley answered on the second ring, and the angel frowned. Crowley didn’t usually greet him by name.

“Hello, my dear. Um, I’m not quite sure how to explain this, but I seem to be having a sort of… situation at my bookshop.” Aziraphale glanced at the demon still lounging on the couch. Though Fell faced away from him and was seemingly focused on examining his nails, the angel was certain he was listening carefully to everything he said.

“Let me take a wild guess,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale heard a twinge of strain in his voice. “Another you showed up at your place and nearly took your head off?”

“Er, well, I wouldn’t say he ‘nearly took my head off…’” Aziraphale frowned, noticing that the demon on his couch had perked up and was now watching him, fully focused on the conversation. “But yes, there is another version of myself here. Well, sort of. He’s…”

“Guessing again- he’s a demon?”

“Yes, actually.” Aziraphale’s frown deepened and then he jumped suddenly as Fell appeared at his side and snatched the phone away.

“Crowley, right?” the demon said, sticking out an arm out to physically hold Aziraphale away from grabbing the phone back. There was a beat of silence on the other end, before Crowley responded, slowly:

“…Who’s this?”

“Oh, it’s Lord Beelzebub, just dropping in on the call to say hello,” Fell responded with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Who do you think it is?! It’s another version of your angel- and I’m guessing you have my angel in your apartment right now?”

“Uh, y-yeah,” Crowley said, and Fell smirked at how utterly taken aback he sounded.

“Okay, good. Well, not really good, but at least we’re in the same boat. Now- hey!”

The ever-smoldering fire in Fell’s eyes flashed as Aziraphale snapped his fingers and miracled the phone back into his hand. The angel smiled triumphantly and quickly said into the mouthpiece:

“Crowley, dear, it’s me- listen, I think it’d be best if you and Anthony meet us at the bookshop so we can sort out this whole mess as soon as possible. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Crowley responded. He paused, then said, softly, “Be careful, Angel, alright?”

“Of course, of course.” Aziraphale waved his hand to brush away Crowley’s concerns. “I’ll be perfectly fine; just please get here as fast as you can.”

“Will do; see you soon.”

With a click, Crowley hung up the phone. Aziraphale did likewise and then focused his attention back to the demon in his bookshop, who currently stood with his arms crossed and a mildly annoyed expression etched across his face. Aziraphale cleared his throat and tried another smile, which was met with another curl of the demon’s lip.

“Right, well, Crowley and Anthony are on their way,” Aziraphale said. “Knowing Crowley’s driving, I’m sure they’ll be here soon, but… care for a spot of tea while we wait?”

***

Approximately thirty minutes before Crowley’s phone rang, he was tending to his plants. The large fern by the window looked particularly scrawny, and Crowley was giving it a stern lecture when an overwhelmingly angelic presence appeared out of nowhere, almost knocking him to the ground with the sheer force of it. The demon steadied himself and gripped the plant mister tighter in his hand; he’d used it as a weapon once, and he’d use it again if need be (though he doubted tap water would have much effect on an angel save for making it angry at being spritzed).

Crowley cautiously stalked towards his front door, plant mister held out in front of him like a gun, wondering what any angel other than Aziraphale could want with him. And this angel was definitely not Aziraphale. Crowley was extremely familiar with the soft vibe that hid Aziraphale’s true nature as a Principality; his angel gave off a sense of warmth and comfort, unlike the presence Crowley felt now that gave off an aura of cold power. Whoever this new company was, they meant business.

The doorknob jiggled a bit as Crowley stopped dead center in the middle of the room, ready to attack. He wondered half-heartedly if he should call Aziraphale and let him know that something was about to go down, but he knew that any distraction could mean his instant discorporation. Because he and Aziraphale were now on their own sides, Crowley wasn’t sure they would get another chance at returning to earth with human bodies. So, he decided to face the potential threat head-on and hope for the best.

“Who’s there?” he called loudly, putting a demonically threatening undertone into his voice. Crowley sensed the presence on the other side of the door still for a moment, before a shockingly familiar voice responded:

“I should be asking you the same question, demon.”

Crowley blinked, plant mister lowering a millimeter as he struggled to understand why his own voice had responded. There was a gentle sigh on the other end of the door and another half-hearted shake of the doorknob.

“Listen, we can make this easy, or we can make this difficult- your choice,” the voice said, and though its tone was calm Crowley knew the presence wasn’t playing around. Still in a fighting stance, ready for an altercation, Crowley snapped his fingers and miracled the multiple locks on the front door open. Slowly, the door swung inwards to reveal the last person the demon expected to see.

Smitten

"My dear, if you don't hurry up, we're going to be late," Aziraphale said, stressing the last word in the vain hope that her partner would be prompted to move a little faster.

"We'll be fine, Angel!" Crowley responded, speaking loudly to be heard over the running water. Aziraphale pursed her lips and shot a glare through the open bathroom door, where the demon's silhouette could be seen through the extravagant, opaque glass walls of the shower.

"I really don't know why you insist on bathing the human way," Aziraphale huffed, leaning against the doorframe impatiently. "We can miracle ourselves clean if we need to; it saves so much time."

"Yeah, but you miss out on the experience," Crowley answered, and Aziraphale could hear the grin in her voice. "A shower is the best place for contemplating the mysteries of the universe, you know. Or, well, they are when you don't have someone chattering away at you from the outside."

Aziraphale made an offended noise. "Oh, I'm sorry. I could go to the play on my own and leave you to your contemplation, if you'd like, dear."

"Aw, you know I'm joking around, Angel." Crowley opened the door just enough to stick her head out, hair sopping wet and dripping all over the tiled floor, to shoot the angel a playful smile. Aziraphale couldn't help but smile a bit in return, though she crossed her arms to show that she was, in fact, still annoyed.

"...You could join me, you know," Crowley continued, wiggling her eyebrows. "It's roomy enough for two in here." Aziraphale rolled her eyes, pointedly ignoring the slight blush creeping up her cheeks.

"While I appreciate the offer, love, that will not help us make it to the theater before the show opens," the angel responded. Crowley let out a resigned sigh and retreated back into the shower. From the vague outline Aziraphale could see, she noted that the demon was now washing her hair. The angel gave a small sigh of relief- hair washing was always the last step in Crowley's bathing routine.

Sure enough, a few minutes later (and with a bit more prompting), the demon finally emerged back into the world. The water had been so hot that the steam trapped within the glass box shrouded Crowley just long enough for her to wrap a plush, black towel around her torso before anything was revealed. Aziraphale tried not to stare as the steam cleared, not needing any further distraction; Crowley had made it clear that she didn't want to see this show tonight, and though the demon eventually bended to her angel's wishes 99% of the time, there had been moments where Aziraphale was swayed to change plans and stay in with Crowley instead. While Aziraphale certainly never regretted those nights, she did very much want to see this play and wasn't going to let the demon tempt her into something else.

"Ah, that was sssso relaxing," Crowley drawled, languidly stretching her arms above her head.

"I'm glad," Aziraphale said, turning her back to Crowley and taking a few steps into the bedroom, no longer blocking the doorway. "Now, if you hurry and get changed- or better yet, miracle yourself dressed- we can still make it with a few minutes to spare."

"Yes, yes, alright," Crowley responded. Before the angel could blink, she felt the demon sidle right up behind her, lean arms sliding over her shoulders to hang loosely in front of her. "But, Angel, there's something I'd very much like to do firssst."

Aziraphale gulped, feeling the weight of the demon on her shoulders and working herself up to resist whatever temptation was in store. As she readied a retort on the tip of her tongue, Crowley leaned down so that her mouth was right next to Aziraphale's ear and let out a low chuckle. Then, without warning, the demon pressed her sopping wet hair against Aziraphale's cheek and nuzzled, earning a shriek from the angel at the sudden cold. Aziraphale struggled to get free for a few seconds before Crowley released her, cackling as the angel wiped the dampness from her face with her jacket sleeve.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale pouted, snatching at the hand towel Crowley miracled from nowhere and using it to wipe away the rest of the water. “Oh, you… you demon!”

Crowley responded with another laugh as Aziraphale shoved the now-damp towel back at her. “Couldn’t resist, Angel; you’re so adorable.”

Aziraphale huffed and snapped her fingers, and Crowley’s hair was suddenly dry, red curls pooling around her face like an ironic halo of fire. Crowley grasped a piece of hair between two fingers and cocked an eyebrow at Aziraphale.

“I thought you were going to cut back on the ‘frivolous’ miracles,” she said, and Aziraphale merely shrugged.

“It’s not frivolous if we’re late,” the angel responded curtly, then snapped again and gestured to the pile of clothes now laid out on the bed. “Now please get dressed, my dear.”

“Alright, alright, you win,” Crowley relented with a grin, as though there had actually been a possibility she would go against her angel’s desire to see the play that night. Aziraphale turned for modesty's sake as Crowley slipped into the black dress and matching black heels (with a signature red sole, of course). Crowley gave a cursory glance at the golden band wrapped around the finger of her left hand, making sure it had stayed miraculously dry during her shower. The ring knew better than to let even a drop of water or speck of dirt mar its pristine surface, especially because Crowley had absolutely refused to take it off from the moment it was securely placed on her hand a few years ago.

Satisfied with her appearance, the demon cleared her throat. "Well? How do I look?"

Aziraphale turned back around, a smile as bright as the sun lighting up her face. "Beautiful as always, darling."

"Flatterer," Crowley said with a roll of her eyes, proffering a bent elbow towards the angel.

"Temptress," Aziraphale responded, and Crowley winked as the angel slipped her arm through hers, the glint of her matching ring catching in the dim fairy lights strung about the bedroom. Aziraphale let out a small, elated chuckle and Crowley couldn't help but mirror her happy expression as they headed to the car. 

The staff working at the Ritz were trained to serve customers with the utmost grace and respect. They were not to argue with or talk back to the patrons, and they certainly were not to gossip about those they served. This was not a hard task, as most patrons only dined at the Ritz once for the experience, and those that were repeat customers did not necessarily come in often enough to warrant interest in their lives.

However, there is always an exception to the standard, and in this case it was a pair that dined at the Ritz so often they had a permanently reserved table, kept open every night on the assumption that they would most likely drop by. None of the staff knew how the pair could afford dining at the establishment so much, and their seemingly endless supply of cash was one of the hot topics of debate underneath the servers’ politely disinterested façade.  

In fact, the pair themselves were the cause of a great many discussions behind the scenes of the Ritz. They were complete opposites, physically- one tall and lanky, always dressed in black and dark greys, the other slightly shorter and round where the other was thin, dressed in cremes and light blues. Their demeanors matched their outfits, claimed the waiters who’d served them, and there would often be a small competition between staff members to see who would get to interact with them that evening to see if this was true.

The most prevalent discussion, though, was not the pair’s fashion sense or what careers allowed them to dine at the Ritz so frequently. What everyone was most interested in was what the pair were to each other. While some employees claimed that they were friends- best friends, surely, but nothing more-, most people had other ideas. However, the lack of requests for anniversary specials, and the more concerning lack of wedding rings, left the waitstaff endlessly wondering just what these two meant to each other.

“I’m going to ask them,” a young waiter said one crisp, October evening, instantly earning a chorus of gasps from his coworkers.

“Oliver, you can’t just go asking people that sort of thing,” one of the chefs said, glancing up from her prep station to give the boy a scathing look. Oliver was the one of the newest members of the Ritz waitstaff and his eagerness to learn anything and everything often irked his fellow coworkers.

“I’m going to be subtle about it!” Oliver replied, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like I’d just walk up and ask them if they’re a couple; I’m not an idiot.”

The chef made a dissenting noise, indicating that she didn’t quite believe that. She placed a ceramic dish of freshly-made crème brûlée onto a small plate and handed it to Oliver. “Well, this is for their table, so good luck; try not to get yourself fired.”

Oliver stuck out his tongue and then flipped his mouth into a smile, plastering on the façade of kind civility that he was required to wear at all times when in view of the customers. Balancing the plate skillfully on his fingertips, he walked to the table where the familiar duo were involved in an animated discussion. Well, more specifically, the blonde was talking nonstop and gesturing wildly while his companion watched him with almost unnerving focus, nodding on occasion.

“Pardon me for interrupting, but I have the crème brûlée you ordered,” Oliver said, gently setting the dish down in front of the one who’d been talking.

“Thank you, dear boy,” the man said, flashing Oliver a beaming smile. His companion merely shifted to rest his chin on his hand, eyes unreadable behind the sunglasses he constantly wore. Oliver wondered, half-seriously, if the shades were glued to his face.

“You’re most welcome,” Oliver replied. He knew that he should turn on his heel, go back to the kitchen, and let the pair enjoy their dessert in peace. However, this was probably his only chance to find out the answer on everyone’s mind; if he chickened out now, he knew he’d never be able to live it down. He cleared his throat and, still addressing the blonde, asked, “Would you or your husband like anything else?”

The redhead made a sort of choked-off noise and slammed back into his chair, as if the words had physically assaulted him. In tandem, the blonde’s entire body jerked as if startled, the spoon he’d just picked up clattering onto his plate. The room seemed to freeze, all sounds lost into a void of uncertainty, and Oliver wondered what in the world he’d just done.

Then, a slow smile spread across the blonde’s face. If Oliver hadn’t been told that this man was as sweet as could be- an angel, his coworkers often said-, he would swear that it was more of a sly smirk.

“No, thank you; my husband and I are just fine for now,” the blonde said, his tone smooth and level despite the furious blush creeping over his cheeks. The redhead made another noise, this one desperately confused, eyebrows creased together in astonishment.

Oliver gave a slight bow and hightailed it back to the kitchen. He stole one glance back just before the door closed behind him and saw the blonde gently grasp his partner’s hand atop the table.

“Well?!” the chef asked once Oliver had turned around to find what seemed to be the entire waitstaff staring at him questioningly. He swept his gaze across the room, taking a dramatic pause before answering, reveling in the fact that in less than five minutes he’d gained the answer to a question everyone had been asking for god knows how long.

“They’re married,” he said triumphantly, and a cheer broke out so loudly that the chatter in the dining room momentarily ceased as the patrons shifted their focus to the closed kitchen doors.

                                                           ***

“I wonder what the fuss is about,” Aziraphale mused, lifting a bite of crème brûlée to his mouth. He hummed contentedly when the sweetness washed over his tongue, closing his eyes briefly. He opened them to find Crowley staring at him more intently than usual. “What is it, my dear?”

“You called me your…,” the demon trailed off, gesturing wildly with the hand not clutched in Aziraphale’s, and the angel couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped his lips. Crowley was absolutely adorable when flustered.

“My husband, yes.” Aziraphale put down his spoon and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Do you not like me calling you that?”

“No! I-I mean, yeah, I do! I like it!” Crowley stuttered, automatically squeezing Aziraphale’s hand in affirmation. They both blushed at the gesture, still getting used to the physical closeness after 6,000 years of staying just out of each other’s reach.

“Well then,” Aziraphale said primly, his gaze flickering from Crowley’s hidden eyes to their intertwined hands. “I suppose we should make it official.”

Crowley’s jaw dropped open, his glasses sliding down just enough for Aziraphale to get a tiny glimpse of serpent eyes that were completely yellow, indicating that whatever emotion the demon was feeling, he was feeling it a lot.

“Are you… are you proposing to me, Angel?” Crowley eventually asked, slowly. Aziraphale didn’t answer for a moment, lost in Crowley’s utterly vulnerable expression. For the thousandth time, Aziraphale couldn’t believe he’d wasted so many years denying his feelings and, more importantly, Crowley’s feelings as well. The angel gave his demon’s hand another squeeze, his face lighting up in an utterly radiant smile.

This story was written for the March 2020 Bartimaeus Prompt Week. The prompt for this fic was “Springtime.”

A Visit in the Springtime

“Nice day, isn’t it?” Kitty asked, staring up at the sky. The warm breeze pushed a wayward lock of hair into her eyes, which she gently tucked behind her ear. “I could definitely do with a few more like these,”

Her mouth lifted up in a tiny smile as she glanced downwards. “Is it just as nice where you are?”

The headstone was silent as ever. Kitty sighed and leaned over, resting her cheek against the cool marble.

“I hope it’s peaceful, at least,” she murmured into the stone. Another small breeze sent a soft flicker of wind against her face, like fingertips lightly brushing against her forehead.

More peaceful than where you are, surely, it seemed to say, playfully.

Part 1

Aziraphale raised his head from his book as the bell over the shop door jingled merrily. The angel carefully set the book and his glasses on a nearby table, standing up with a small sigh. Today had been blessedly quiet and he’d hoped that it would remain as such- this was only his third customer and it was already mid-afternoon. Still, he knew that if he let whoever had just walked in wander aimlessly, they might feel the urge to buy something; it was best to check on the visitor and see what their mission was before they tried anything rash.

“Hello!” Aziraphale said warmly, rounding the corner of an overstuffed bookshelf to find a boy examining a section of Italian poetry. The boy was in his late teens, with a lanky build just a smidge taller than Aziraphale. He wore dark jeans and a V-neck t-shirt bearing the logo of some pop band the angel would never understand. His hair, a cross between dirty blonde and light, light brown, was cut short, save for the unruly swathe of bangs that fell in front of his bright blue eyes.

“Hey,” the boy replied, pushing his bangs out of the way to get a better look at Aziraphale.

The angel blinked as he was hit with a wave of strange familiarity. A slight crease between his eyes was the only thing that alluded to this; otherwise, he kept himself composed. Aziraphale had seen so many humans over the years, he got the occasional twinge of feeling that he knew someone passing by in the street, but it always turned out to be a double of someone he’d met long ago. This boy, surely, was no different.

“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for, young man?” Aziraphale asked, clasping his hands behind his back.

“No, I just… kinda wandered in to look around, honestly.” The boy laughed and Aziraphale couldn’t stop his smile from widening. The laugh, coupled with the boy’s American accent, triggered something deep within his memory, though he couldn’t quite reach it. “The Yelp reviews of this place are wild; I wanted to see what it’s like for myself.”

“Yelp reviews?” Aziraphale questioned, tilting his head. He’d heard of this before from some of the other customers. From what he gathered, Yelp was a platform where people could post reviews of places they’ve visited. Based on what Aziraphale had been told, his bookshop would be classified as having a “mixed rating.”

“Yeah, people have said all kinds of shi- er, stuff about this shop,” the boy replied, correcting his near-curse as he guiltily met Aziraphale’s gaze. Something told the boy that the shop owner wouldn’t appreciate that sort of language. Remembering a particularly interesting review, the boy’s face lit up. “Is it true there’s a giant snake in here?!”

“Ah, well… sometimes,” Aziraphale admitted, a bemused light in his eyes. “He tends to wander, though; he’s out at the moment.”

The boy’s face shifted into an expression of mingled confusion and curiosity. Aziraphale’s unneeded breath caught in his throat. The strange sensation pulsed in the back of the angel’s mind, the feeling that he definitely knew this boy. He wanted more information on his origins, but it wouldn’t do to push too hard, lest he scare the boy off- Aziraphale had been told on more than one occasion that he could be rather “ruthless” (according to a certain demon, though the phrase made the angel scrunch his nose up in disgust) when it came to gathering information he desperately wanted to know.

“We don’t usually get many visitors from out of the area; are you on holiday?” Aziraphale asked, busying himself with reorganizing a shelf of books that had been shifted out of alphabetical order. There had to be some connection- he’d probably met the boy’s family or long-distant relative on a trip to America many years ago.

“No, I’m going to college here- university, whatever you want to call it,” the boy replied with a shrug. “Well, I mean, I don’t have class today- I’m not skipping or anything.” Again, there was that guilty look, as if the boy was afraid of disappointing the man in front of him- which was odd, since the boy had certainly never met the elusive Mr. Fell before. “I’ve got a day off, so I figured I’d check out Soho. I never really got to just, like… explore England when I was a kid.”

The angel froze mid-task. His slowly turned, focusing on the boy’s face and really looking. Time seemed to fade before his eyes, the boy’s defined features softening into the lanky face of a pre-teen, then melting further into the chubby visage of a child with a smudge of dirt on his cheek from where he’d rubbed his face while planting flowers-

“You okay, Mr. Fell?” the boy asked, noting the slight tremor in Aziraphale’s hands. The angel blinked, quickly composing himself.

“Yes, I-I’m fine, young W-… dear boy.” Aziraphale caught himself as his voice slipped into an accent he hadn’t used for over seven years. He shook his head; there was absolutely no way this could be the same child whose bruises he’d healed with a loving kiss and a touch of divine miracle.

“…Okay.” The boy didn’t sound convinced but decided to let the matter drop. He’d heard that the owner of the bookshop was eccentric and figured that the hyper-focused attention he was receiving was part of the package. Although, the boy had to admit that, just for a second, the man had sounded terribly familiar.

An awkward silence followed, neither of the two knowing how to continue the conversation. Aziraphale’s mind was racing, trying to figure out if this really was the boy from his memory and, if this was true, why in the world he had chosen to visit the bookshop. Aziraphale and Crowley had a discussion many years ago about whether they should try to reconnect with Warlock Dowling and had concluded that they’d already interfered in the boy’s life enough. His personality had seemed fairly balanced when they’d left, save for a tendency to be extremely blunt when speaking his mind. They had no idea what they'd really done to the poor mortal boy’s psyche and decided it best to leave him be and hope that he grew up as normal as he could from his eleventh birthday onward.

So, Crowley and Aziraphale stayed far away from the Dowlings for nearly a decade. They were so strong in their conviction of never going to see Warlock again that they hadn’t even entertained the possibility that the boy might find them.

No, it’s too much of a coincidence, Aziraphale thought, watching the teenager as he started looking through the poetry books in front of him. The angel glanced towards the ceiling, his lips pursed. Unless this is another part of Your ineffable plan…

“Hey, Mr. Fell?” The boy’s questioning tone brought Aziraphale back to Earth instantly. “I know you don’t, like… actually like to sell stuff, so the internet says, but maybe you could help me find a book for my mom’s birthday? I honestly don’t think she’d notice if I bought her a first edition Shakespeare collection or whatever, but… I dunno.” The boy shrugged. “I thought I could try something different and see what she thinks.”

The look in the boy’s eyes is what ultimately convinced the angel that his instinct was true. Aziraphale had seen that look much too often for his liking- it was a look of sad resignation that Warlock's parents, ever-distant and too wrapped up in the political world to raise their own child, didn’t care about him nearly as much as they should. A twinge of ice shot through the angel’s heart. He’d hated seeing that expression on a child’s face, but he utterly despised it now, knowing that things didn’t seem to have changed nearly a decade later.

“Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” the boy asked, seeing Aziraphale’s face slip into a strange expression. “You look-” He was about to say “weird,” but it was at that exact moment that the nagging familiarity that had also been gnawing away at his own mind came to the surface. He saw the face in front of him sporting a shining collection of bad teeth framed within a cloud of fluffy hair, though the mental image was skewed as if he had to look up from a much shorter height than he was now.

But, as with Aziraphale’s own recognition, it was the eyes that ultimately broke through the fog of childhood memories- the eyes currently gazing at Warlock full of more love than anyone should be able to comprehend. Without warning, Warlock felt tears prick at the edges of his vision.

“…Brother Francis?” he choked out in a small voice. Aziraphale smiled, and if Warlock had any remaining doubts about the man's identity, they were blown away like the shadows of night banished by the rising sun.

“Oh, my dear, dear boy,” Aziraphale said warmly, opening his arms, and Warlock fell into the hug without hesitation. They gripped each other tightly, and the angel realized what a fool he’d been for leaving the boy without a word. He and Crowley should have gone back after the apocalypse was thwarted, or at the very least written a letter explaining why they’d left; judging by the way Warlock held onto Aziraphale as if he were a lifeboat in the midst of a stormy sea, the angel realized that the boy must have missed them just as much as they’d missed him.

Aziraphale and Warlock stayed in the embrace for a while longer, and then the boy gently, almost reluctantly, unwrapped his arms and took a step back to give Aziraphale a proper once-over.

“What happened to you?!” Warlock asked, astonishment dripping from every word. Then, suddenly, a fierce frown twisted his face. “And why the hell did you and Nanny leave without saying anything?! Er, sorry, I mean why the heaven- ugh, you get my point!”

Aziraphale smiled again; this was the boy he used to know, attitude and all. Warlock always had a penchant for speaking his mind, a fact that was encouraged wholeheartedly by his Nanny. While Aziraphale didn’t want Warlock to stop expressing his feelings and asking questions either, he had been bothered by the boy’s increasing vocabulary of unsavory expressions, which the angel had tried to remedy by correcting him with more docile phrasing. Apparently, the instinct to do so still was still present.

“Hellooo?” Warlock said, waving a hand in front of Aziraphale’s face. “Brother Francis- Mr. Fell… whoever you are! This is really weird, and I need you to explain a lot of things!”  

“Oh, I do apologize, my dear; I get a bit lost in my thoughts, sometimes,” Aziraphale admitted with a guilty chuckle. He hesitated for a second and then gestured towards the back of the shop, where a comfortable couch and coffee table resided. “Yes, we… we really should have a little chat. Please, have a seat and I’ll put on a pot of tea and join you.”

Warlock didn’t move, instead narrowing his eyes. Aziraphale blinked at him.

“…Would you prefer coffee instead?” the angel ventured. Warlock rolled his eyes and crossed his arms in front of him, slouching to the side in a pose uncannily similar to someone else Aziraphale knew.

“You literally just up and left me when I was eleven years old,” the boy explained, a scathing bite to his words that made Aziraphale wince. “According to the internet, you’re some weird cryptid- which I can now confirm, knowing who you really are, because you and Nanny were definitely not normal. How do I know you won’t just-”

And here the boy cut himself off, realizing how vulnerable finishing that sentence would make him seem. He knew that Brother Francis had seen all sides of him, weak ones and all, but that was many years ago. He’d still been a kid then; now he was older and much more practiced at hiding his true emotions, since the only people who’d had time for them disappeared after his eleventh birthday. Just because he’d found his beloved gardener and confidant again through some divine- or hellish, he never knew which to believe- turn of events, it didn’t mean that things would instantly go back to the way they were before.

Warlock didn’t think it was possible for Brother Francis’ expression to soften even more, but apparently it could. Slowly, as if afraid of spooking him, the angel reached out and gently brushed Warlock’s bangs out of his face, tucking them behind his ear before cupping the boy’s cheek in his hand.

“I’m not going to leave you again, dear boy, please believe that,” Aziraphale said, injecting as much truth into his words as he possibly could. “It was a rash decision and your Nanny and I should never have disappeared without a word. I’m just going to flip the Closed sign on the door and put the kettle on, and then we can talk, alright?”

Warlock nodded almost imperceptibly, but Aziraphale saw the gesture. He gave the boy’s cheek a light pinch and winked, earning a cry of embarrassment. With a laugh, the angel disappeared around a bookshelf, moving towards the front door. Rubbing his cheek and pouting, Warlock shuffled to the couch in the back of the shop. He’d forgotten how endearingly annoying his old gardener could be.

Aziraphale flipped the “Open” sign to “Closed” and leaned back against the old wooden door, shutting his eyes. He was overjoyed to see Warlock again, certainly, but he was completely unprepared for this situation. What was he supposed to tell the boy? What excuse could he possibly give for Warlock’s closest companions abandoning him without so much as a “goodbye?”

Aziraphale and Crowley always regretted the way they’d handled that situation, but they had bigger concerns at the time- namely, the impending apocalypse and the fact that Warlock was not the antichrist they thought he was. Aziraphale grimaced, running a stressed hand through his hair; what should they tell Warlock about that? Should they expose him to the supernatural world he’d unintentionally been apart of for the first half of his life?

“…Probably best not to bring that part up,” the angel murmured to himself. He adjusted his waistcoat and steeled himself for the afternoon ahead. He would make Warlock a nice cup of tea, call Crowley to give him a warning on who awaited him back at the bookshop, and then bide his time until the demon showed up and they could have a proper conversation about what to do now that the boy was back in their lives. Yes, that seemed like a perfectly reasonable plan.

So, of course, it was guaranteed that things would not turn out the way Aziraphale hoped. As the angel busied himself in the tiny kitchenette area in the back of the shop, the bell over the front door rang again.

“Angel!” a voice called, and Aziraphale let out a strangled yelp. He rushed out of the back room and was greeted with the sight of Warlock, standing by the couch slack-jawed and staring straight ahead. Trapped at the end of Warlock’s gaze stood Crowley, wearing an eerily similar expression of shock. The two of them gazed at each other questioningly for an agonizing few seconds, before Warlock asked, in a trembling voice:

“N… Nanny Ash?”

“…Ah,” Aziraphale said when Crowley turned his helpless expression upon him. Though the demon’s eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, Aziraphale knew they were giving him a look of utter confusion. “Crowley, we… we have a very special visitor.”

“Ngk,” the demon replied.

And then, suddenly, Warlock was in Crowley’s arms, holding him tight, and Crowley returned the gesture without a second thought, overwhelmed with a great sense of relief. The boy was shaking, obviously trying very hard not to cry, and the demon instinctively gripped him closer and grinned into his hair.

“Hey, little hellspawn. Good to see you again.”

                                                             ***

Read Part 1. (You are here.)

Read Part 2.