Chapter Text
The following fortnight passes in a string of what Aziraphale realizes, delighted, could be counted as ordinary days in their new life together. They spend three days looking at properties near Tadfield, none of which suit, but which do give them an excuse to visit several excellent pubs. The autumn term begins at University College and Sky returns to classes, leading to a reduction in her working hours. Aziraphale finds that over the summer holidays he has grown used to full-time assistance and begins to consider the shop regulars with an eye toward recruiting another human the shop will welcome on staff. While waiting for a candidate to become apparent to him, he catches up on some reading as he sits behind the counter. Crowley keeps him supplied with Su Lin's pastries, occasionally accompanies Sky to her lectures, disappears on the sort of purposeful walkabouts through London that have produced most of the new furnishings in the back corner of the bookshop, or retreats up to the roof to spend quality time with his plants.
Against the backdrop of these daily routines, Aziraphale is aware that Crowley is seeing to the details of Warlock’s visit. Much as Crowley had discovered what paperwork was required to hire Sky at the shop, he seems to have mysteriously kept up with the sort of arrangements required to host a thirteen-year-old boy for a long weekend. There have been several emails, a telephone conversation with the school head, forms to complete as Crowley predicted (“Now I know this school is your lot,” Crowley mutters darkly), and travel arrangements to be made. Crowley takes care of it all with grumbling efficiency while Aziraphale ensures he has a glass of a favorite vintage at his elbow when his tone as he talks back to his laptop or mobile becomes particularly pointed.
The new room that’s appeared -- tucked behind the flight of stairs on the first floor -- is small but serviceable, with a bed and a chest of drawers, a bedside table with a lamp, and a cozy armchair by the window. There’s a curtain on the window that matches the one in their own room, as if Aziraphale had bought them as a set long ago. The rug on the floor is one he remembers from a small Parisian pied-à-terre that Crowley had frequented just before the Great War. Crowley may have conjured it into being with a snap of his fingers, but it looks very much as if it has always been nestled right there at the heart of their home, waiting for an occupant.
It’s also, Aziraphale realizes, after the third or fourth pause in the doorway, a room that Crowley is slowly turning into Warlock’s. The duvet and pillow cases change color several times, as does the paint on the walls. On the wall opposite the bed, above the chest of drawers, a botanical print appears only to be replaced the following day by one of Nanny Ashtoreth’s profane embroideries, then a bright, rather abstract painting of the beach at Lyme. Aziraphale remembers the three of them stopping on a walk one summer’s day so that Warlock could watch the artist mix her paints, fascinated by the idea one would use purple and gold for sky.
Several days before Warlock’s arrival, a small bookshelf appears by the armchair. Aziraphale considers its empty shelves when he pauses at the door on his way to the kitchen for breakfast, and then, after opening the shop, he walks the shelves of his current inventory and selects a few volumes. He remembers books that he, Nanny, and Warlock read together in the cottage when Warlock was small: Katie Morag and the Two Grandmothers and A Bear Called Paddington and The Woodbegoods. He remembers Warlock had always enjoyed the guidebooks to flora and fauna he’s kept at the gardener’s cottage for reference and picks a few to add to the growing stack in his arm. Then he carries the lot up to the flat and arranges them on the top shelf of the bookcase.
“There,” he says, aloud, to the empty room. It feels a scant contribution when compared to the effort Crowley’s put in, but it’s something at least.
Aziraphale notices that Crowey is quieter than usual as the date of Warlock’s arrival approaches. But it’s also October and Crowley is often moody and more solitary as the days grow shorter, the air colder. So Aziraphale tries not to become overly anxious and does what he can to keep Crowley’s beverages steaming, to make sure Crowley remembers to eat, and encourages his beloved with kisses to take his time waking up in the mornings. If there’s anything in particular that Crowley need to share with Aziraphale, Aziraphale will have to trust he will give voice to his worries when he can.
Then, the day before Warlock is due to arrive, Aziraphale finds Crowley on the roof with a potted rose on his lap staring at nothing in particular.
“My dear, you’ve let your tea get cold,” Aziraphale says, in gentle admonishment, picking up the cup and rewarming it in his hands.
“I don’t think I can do this,” Crowley says to the middle distance.
Aziraphale sits down next to him, on the beautiful hardwood bench Newt had made them as a roof-warming gift, and sets the tea cup down with careful instruction for it to stay hot. “Do what, my dear?”
Crowley doesn’t immediately answer. Aziraphale sits with him trying not to push. He considers the plant on Crowley’s knees. It’s a delicate purple rose in a glazed pot of greens and blues that Aziraphale does not recall seeing before.
“Is that a new plant?”
“What?” Crowley blinks and looks down at his lap. “Oh. Yes.” He pokes at a petal. “Won’t be for long, though, if it doesn’t put in a bit more effort.” He sniffs. “I bought it for Warlock.”
“Warlock?”
Crowley shrugs. “He was telling me about the rose cultivars he grew over the summer holidays. I thought --” his voice trails away and he shakes his head. “Anyway. I don’t think I can.”
Aziraphale considers that Crowley and Warlock have been talking enough that Crowley has found out about Warlock's experiments in gardening.
"It wasn't supposed to mean anything." Crowley says at last. "Nanny Ashtoreth. She -- I -- wasn't meant to be real. But you show up at the door and wave your credentials about with a bit of demonic oomph and the parents are all, 'Thank goodness, he's just weed in his nappy and we haven't the first idea what to do!' "
He thrusts the rose forward as if foisting the potted plant off on some invisible being standing in front of him before letting it fall back into his lap with a sigh.
Aziraphale is struck by a sudden memory, so vivid it causes gooseflesh to break out across his arms and tears to spring to his eyes, of Crowley in those first disorienting weeks when the reality descended upon them both that this was to be their lives for the next eleven years. Crowley had nodded off on the sofa in the gardener’s cottage with Warlock asleep on his chest, still so tiny Aziraphale could have fit Warlock’s downy head in his palm and Warlock’s bottom in against the crook of his elbow. Both nanny and infant had been full asleep when a knock came at the door, startling Crowley awake with a crackle of disoriented power. Aziraphale, sitting with a book across the room by the window, had seen the outflung shadow of protective wings and Crowley’s hands fly up to shield Warlock from threat.
"Crowley," he says, softly, turning his hand over on the bench between them in silent offering. Crowley takes it and grips it as if he's in danger of blowing off the roof in the light October breeze. "You were --" exactly the nanny that Warlock needed.
"They treated him like they treated us: like a chess piece," Crowley continues, bitterly, before Aziraphale can finish his thought. "Moved into position and leftthere. None of them on either side thought of him as a being who needed -- who needed --" he heaves in a sudden breath as if he's forgotten about oxygen and Aziraphale slides to his knees so he can get right in front of Crowley and see his face. He gently pulls the rose from Crowley's lap and sets it on the roof beside them.
"Darling," he says, because he isn't sure what else to say. He can't deny that this is exactly how Heaven and Hell -- even he, a lot of the time, if he’s being honest -- had thought about Warlock. He folds Crowley’s chilled hands in his own, whispering words of warmth to chapped fingers.
"I had to go and care." Crowley says, so softly that if Aziraphale hadn't been on his knees looking up at Crowley's face to see his lips move he might have missed it.
"You have always cared," Aziraphale says, watching Crowley’s face. "And cared well. It is one of the many things I love about you. And it seems Warlock agrees with me, as he has gone to a great deal of trouble to find you again."
Crowley shakes his head through the words but doesn't speak when Aziraphale stops. Instead, he pulls one of his hands from Aziraphale’s grip and picks up his mobile phone from the bench. He gives it a few swipes with his thumb and turns the screen toward Aziraphale who fumbles to accept it while not letting go of Crowley's hand. Crowley is still clinging to him and if touch helps then Aziraphale will give him as much as he needs. As Aziraphale looks down at the mobile screen, Crowley turns his head to look toward the greenhouse at the far end of the roof as if he doesn't want to watch Aziraphale read.
It takes a moment for Aziraphale to realize he's looking at a text log that stretches back across the past week or more; he remembers, now, noticing several days after their return from Tadfield that Warlock had been added as one of the contacts on his mobile -- sandwiched incongruously between Sky and Wensleydale. Not exactly sure what he's supposed to be looking for, he skims up through the past several days worth of exchanges. Most are begun with a picture or a question from Crowley: A snapshot of the science section in Aziraphale's bookshop, a query about whether Warlock is still allergic to shellfish, a picture of Newt working on the final wall of the greenhouse, a question about whether Warlock would like to visit the British Museum. There's the exchange two days previous about Warlock's attempts at rose breeding, and a proud picture of his geography essay with approving remarks from the teacher. A boy named Andrew comes up several times, and a girl named Fateemah who is teaching him how to juggle. Aziraphale notes his own relief that Warlock seems to be doing well in school and has a friend or two. He doesn't know how many friends might be considered normal in human circles, but somewhere between his own long-standing habit of one and Adam's gang of three seems plausible. Not everyone needs to be a social butterfly.
Down near the bottom of the strand of exchanges is a photograph from Crowley of breakfast that morning, which had been savory omelettes and toast. In the edge of the photograph he sees his own hand settled on Crowley's wrist; unremarkable in that it's rare these days for Aziraphale to sit within reaching distance of Crowley and not find a way to maintain physical contact. It's the closing of a circuit that keeps their world humming onward.
Underneath the photo Warlock had asked, How long have you and Mr. Fell been friends?
Crowley had responded: Since long before you were born.
Aziraphale traces the shape of that answer with his thumb.
"What can I do to help, my dear?" He finally asks.
Crowley sighs and shakes his head, though not in denial. "Just ... remind me to be brave?" He drops a crooked quirk of a smile down toward Aziraphale's hand held fast in his lap. "And maybe make sure I don't snake out of stress in the middle of Euston Station?"
"That would be a bit difficult to explain," Aziraphale smiles, but makes a mental note to put one of Crowley's baskets in the boot of the Bentley before they depart. Always best to be prepared. "Now, what would you say to a pint and a shepherd's pie at the Crofter's for supper?"