Chapter Text
Crowley’s heart is pounding which is quite odd because last he checked, he didn’t have a heart (or a working one anyway). His entire body is filled with some sort of strange electricity that jiggles his leg and causes his usually firm grip on the steering wheel to tremble, his hands unsteady. He’s never felt this feeling before, but he’s read about it before.
Fear… how distasteful.
Freddie Mercury crooning through the speakers of his Bentley sounds tinny and far away. Crowley focuses on the music to calm himself, eyes nervously flicking up to the rearview mirror to check on the brown wicker basket, completely still by the open window.
Those were the days of our lives… the speaker mournfully expels. The bad things in life were so few… those days are all gone now but one thing is true-
The song screeches to a stop and another voice filters through.
“Crowley.”
Crowley’s eyes fly wide open and he slams on the brake, heart racing. It’s just Hastur, he scolds himself. And he can’t even see me.
“Yep.” He says, forcing his voice to stay even. “That’s me. Crowley.”
“So it’s done then? The Antichrist safely delivered?”
“Uh huh.” He says, glancing at the basket. “Job’s done. Everything is fine, everything is great. Now if that’s all, gentlemen, I must be off to, to check up on the M25 and all that. Rest is for the weak, must get back to work!”
There’s an awful silence on the other end and for a moment, Crowley fears he has been caught out. But then, Hastur simply says, “Alright.” and disconnects, and Crowley wonders what he’d been so afraid of, the demon is dumber than a box of hooves.
He turns to fully face the backseat and suddenly, it hits him. The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this world, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness, sitting in his car fast asleep, sucking on his thumb.
“Oh, bollocks.” Crowley mutters, and dials Aziraphale’s number.
“Hiya Angel.” Crowley says the second he picks up. “Long story short, the Antichrist has been born, Armageddon is upon us, we’re all doomed, everyone in heaven and hell thinks I’ve delivered him to some bloody American diplomat family, and I’ve kidnapped him. The Antichrist, that is.”
Aziraphale doesn’t answer for a second and Crowley wonders if his telephone is alright, what with all the commotion he caused in the London area.
“You what?”
He can hear the silent fury in Aziraphale’s voice and it adds to his already inconvenient fear. The angel doesn’t get truly angry much (or ever, for how long Crowley has known him which is forever, literally) so the sound chills him to the metaphorical bone, scaring him a lot more than the inevitable promise of Hell’s wrath.
Crowley clears his throat. “I may have the Antichrist. In the backseat of my car.”
“Crowley…” Aziraphale trails off and Crowley can imagine him in the middle of his cluttered bookshop, dressed to nines even at this late hour, his pale forehead marred with stress lines. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Er.” Because I panicked and you’re the only one that I trust, he doesn’t say. Because you always know what to do and I need that right now. “Thought you’d like to know.”
Aziraphale makes a noise and Crowley can’t discern the tone through the fuzzy connection. “Listen, Crowley. It’s not too late to fix this. Take the baby back to wherever it’s supposed to go and everything will be alright.”
Well. Trust Aziraphale to give him sane, level headed advice.
“You really think that’s what I should do?” Crowley asks, hoping Aziraphale says no, hoping he says yes.
“Yes!” Aziraphale exclaims as if the answer is obvious. “Put it back immediately! Why you even took him in the first place, Crowley, I can’t understand for the life of me.”
“Right, then.” Crowley grumbles, chastised. “And I took him ‘cause, I don’t know, I haven’t gotten to try sushi yet and I want to know what happens to John Paul and Kieron in Hollyoaks cos they’re a bloody mess and the suspense is killing me Angel, it’s absolutely destroying me and it’s all just happening rather quickly isn’t it?”
The line is silent. Crowley stares out the dashboard at the empty stretch of the road. The Bentley had slammed to a stop sideways, blocking both lanes but nobody had come down this road for the last fifteen minutes because he hadn’t wanted any interruptions. For some reason, everyone that had the intention of driving down that particular road suddenly remembered that they had somewhere else they needed to be. Funny how things work out.
Finally, Aziraphale speaks. “You watch Hollyoaks?”
“No.” Crowley answers immediately. “I’m a demon, I don’t watch soap operas.”
“Right, of course not.” Aziraphale agrees. “Listen, how about you come down to mine instead? We can discuss this in person.”
Crowley watches his knee bouncing of its own volition. “I don’t want to drag you into this.”
“You already have, my dear.” Aziraphale sounds tired and Crowley wishes he never called. “Are you absolutely sure?” He asks. “If Head Office finds out about this…”
“Just come over, Crowley.” He sighs and Crowley nods, then says, “Okay.”
A little under an hour later, he’s being dragged into Aziraphale’s shop by the sleeve, clutching the basket in his hand.
“I don’t think anyone saw.” Aziraphale said nervously. Crowley rolls back and forth on the balls of his feet, watching Aziraphale shut the door and walk quickly around the shop, closing the blinds. “Come upstairs.”
Upstairs. Upstairs is Aziraphale’s little flat with the big, plush bed and the warm sitting room. Crowley has only been Upstairs once and that was almost half a century ago. He’s just never had reason to otherwise.
Crowley watches Aziraphale climb halfway up the rickety staircase before he remembers he’s supposed to follow him. The angel leads him to the small sitting room and they sit down on opposite armchairs. Aziraphale casts a nervous glance at the wicker basket.
“So that’s him, then?” He asks. Crowley nods, opening the lid. The baby is still fast asleep and in the soft warm glow of Aziraphale’s multiple lamps, he looks almost… angelic. “The Lord of Darkness, in the flesh.”
Aziraphale leans forward. “Oh.” He whispers. He reaches for the baby with his hand, stopping a hair’s breadth away from his cheek. He looks up at Crowley who’s looking back at him with a fond expression on his face.
“Are you sure this is him?”
Crowley snorts. Now wouldn’t that be something, misplacing the Antichrist…
“Of course it’s him.” He replies.
“He looks so human…” Aziraphale brushes the baby’s cheek with the back of his finger, watching him with wonder.
“I was going to dump him in a lake.” Crowley says abruptly and Aziraphale’s head whips up.
“Crowley!” He exclaims, aghast. “You are joking, right?”
“Er, no.” Crowley mutters. He probably could have worded that better, he thinks. “No Antichrist, no Armageddon…”
Aziraphale looks back down at the sleeping baby. “So what changed your mind?”
Crowley clears his throat. “Call from Head Office.” He fibs. He’d rather not tell Aziraphale about the whole ‘I tried to drown the Antichrist but then he cried and I felt bad about it and he’s actually rather cute for an abnormally small sized human’ thing, but Aziraphale watches him intently for a second before his eyes soften and he says, “You couldn’t do it, could you?”
See, that’s the problem with knowing someone for six thousand years, you can’t hide anything from them, they’ll know all your tells front and back.
Crowley just shrugs and turns to the baby who’s starting to wake up.
“Why didn’t you give him to the ambassadors?” Aziraphale asks gently.
“It’s just wrong, placing the single-most powerful entity on Earth in the care of those bloody Americans. The world is going to be ending in exactly eleven years.” Crowley says impatiently. “Eleven years. That’s nothing. Are you ready for an eternity of, at best, classical hymns and barley biscuits and at worst, your people being tortured in hellfire? Because that’s what’s going to happen if we don’t stop Armageddon.”
“We?” Aziraphale asks, alarmed. “Stop Armageddon? My dear, we’re just an angel and a demon, what chance do we have against the entirety of heaven and hell?”
“We’re just an angel and a demon that are in direct contact with the Antichrist.” Crowley says, and then he stands up suddenly. “Aziraphale, what if…”
Aziraphale is looking up at him, eyes wide, and Crowley thinks fuck it, he wants to be able to see that face eleven years and a day into the future, another six thousand years into the future.
“What if we raised him together? No, listen-” He says, holding out his hand in a placating gesture when Aziraphale opens his mouth to object. “We’re an angel and a demon, exactly. Two counteracting forces, heaven and hell. If we brought him up together, our… parenting… could balance each other out, he could grow up-”
“Normal.” Aziraphale finishes. His face is thoughtful, his absent gaze is fixed on the baby. “You know Crowley, this is probably your worst idea, and that’s saying a lot considering Sicily.”
Crowley shudders. “Why would you bring Sicily up, good God.” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at that and Crowley groans. “You know what I mean.”
Aziraphale watches the baby a little longer. “We need to name him.” He finally says.
Crowley frowns. “Why?”
“If we’re going to be doing this, he needs a name.” Aziraphale says. Crowley feels a smile stretching at his mouth, so wide it feels like it would hurt if he actually had any pain receptors. And then in half a second, he’s crossing the small distance between their chairs in one long stride and his arms are around Aziraphale’s neck, pulling him into a tight embrace.
“Thank you.” He mumbles into the angel’s neck. He smells like patchouli and tea and yellowed parchment and not for the first time, Crowley wants him so deeply it hurts. It’s not normal for a demon to be this enamoured by anyone, let alone an angel, but Crowley isn’t just any demon.
Aziraphale stiffens below him but after a second, he brings his hand up to awkwardly pat Crowley’s back. “Yes, well.” Aziraphale clears his throat. “I’m not exactly looking forward to an eternity of Sound of Music.”
Reluctantly, Crowley unlatches himself from Aziraphale and sits down in his own seat. “Yes, of course.”
Aziraphale looks at his feet. “We need to discuss how this is going to work.” He says quietly. “This isn’t going to be as easy as it sounds.”
“This doesn’t exactly sound easy, Angel.” Crowley points out and Aziraphale smiles a little.
“I’ll put some tea on and then we can talk some more.” He says.
Crowley watches him putter around the kitchen, humming something to himself that sounds suspiciously like a Spice Girls’ song, and he thinks that even if everything goes to Heaven and Armageddon ends up happening, at least he’ll have spent his last few years on Earth with Aziraphale.