Babysitting: Milliways
Babysitting
Nymphadora is aging gracefully. That's how Aziraphael always puts it to Crowley- usually when they're alone, since she's still more than capable of pulling gargoyle faces and rather partial to the practice. She isn't old, far from it- he suspects she never will be, in the ways that count- but the laughter lines have set up residence at the corners of her eyes. She's more graceful than she used to be, but that's come with the husband, the home, the family, as much as it's come with time. She's supremely aware of her space, more at home in her own skin than she's ever been. Perhaps that's why her hair is black now, more often than not.
Bernard's temperament shows on his face. Deep-scored lines of laughter and anger give him authority, make him every inch the Boss; what the staff, old and new, call him far more than they ever use his name. He's still as hotheaded as ever he was but he's learned to control it. The only thing that can get under his skin with impressive regularity is his daughter; far too alike for their own good, the angel thinks, and Crowley is shameless in encouraging her to mischief. The angel dreads her teenage years- the few grey hairs Bernard has collected are her doing.
And then there's the Mug herself. The angel sometimes wonders if it's possible to pick up genetics by osmosis- there's never been a question in his mind that she's a Wrangle, through and through. Clumsy and hotheaded, quick-tempered and sharp-tongued… and far sweeter than she'd let anyone see, most of the time. The chewing she's grown out of, for the most part, but she still makes messes with paints. Her latest endeavors are a constantly changing riot of colour on the fridge; except for the pictures she makes after restless nights. Those are always the same- two children, the girl's hair tied back in ribbons and the boy's hands wrapped tightly around a book. The children don't have faces; she can never quite remember them when she wakes.
And Crowley? Crowley is Crowley, as he ever was. Only more so.
*
"Excellent food, Dora."
"Cheers, Crowley."
Aziraphael, sprawled on the sofa and entirely too full to move, hears the genuine pleasure in her voice and smiles drowsily.
"Run away with me. We'll move to Tuktuyaktuk and fish through the ice and live in an ig-" Dora's shout of laughter cuts the demon off mid-word.
"That's not a place!"
"'course it is. Sounds like the offspring of some unholy union between a turkey and a chicken, I'll grant you, but-"
"That's my wife you're talking to, demon." Aziraphael considers the tone of Bernard's voice. You'd have to know him well, it seems, to be sure he's joking. He does. And he is.
"I'll leave you the angel," Crowley offers generously.
Aziraphael chuckles and lifts a languid hand, offering a lazy wave. "I get the left side of the bed." Even with his eyes closed, he can almost see the grin aimed in his direction. He takes the teasing far better, now- if years of Crowley's constant presence have taught him anything, it's patience.
"Can't cook worth a damn, but he's got a nice reading voice. Pretty good in bed, too."
Aziraphael shoots up into a sitting position with an abrupt squeak of leather.
"Crowley!"
Dora is giggling helplessly, leaning against her husband, who's glaring at Crowley, who's gazing at him. And the look on his face… Aziraphael goes bright pink and collapses back into the comfortable sofa, covering his face with his hands.
"I hate you all."
"And on that note…" Footsteps approaching, and the fabric Aziraphael's head is resting against is tugged gently. "Shift yourself, angel, I need my jacket."
"You're not staying?" Bernard raises an eyebrow.
"No rest for the wicked, you know how it is. Got some business to take care of in Crouch End, but it won't take all night. And it's not like he hasn't got enough books to distract himself in the meantime."
"And also I hate you," Aziraphael puts in helpfully.
Crowley grins. "And also he hates me. So take care of yourselves, and I'll see you both tomorrow." He grins wider and tugs on his jacket, heading for the front door- his hand drops to the angel's shoulder, squeezing it as he passes.
The demon stops briefly, by the door, grabbing a pair of thin silver bracelets out of the key bowl.
"I'm taking these, too. You two have no idea how to bloody relax." The door slams behind him.
Dora flails. "But… what if something goes wrong?"
Aziraphael sits up slightly, looking affronted. "Dora, I hardly think it can have escaped your notice, over the years, that I am an angel. Everything will be perfectly fine."
She sighs and walks over to him, her perfume surrounding him as she leans down to kiss his cheek.
"I know it will, angel. Thanks for this."
"Not a problem, my dear. Now, shouldn't you be on your way?"
Bernard swears, looking at his watch, and Dora grabs her wrap from the back of a chair, listing last minute instructions.
"Anthony's down, and you shouldn't hear a peep from him if all goes well. Sunshine's in her room- I don't think she's asleep just yet, and she'd probably appreciate a hello, but you know how she is- she'll be fine as long as she can find her pencils. The nappies are in Anthony's room, and there's milk-"
"-in the fridge, yes. I do know this, Dora."
Bernard starts ushering her patiently towards the door, grabbing his keys and shooting Aziraphael a grin over his shoulder.
"Cheers, angel. See you."
The door slams behind them and, as if on cue, a high wail emerges from the nursery.
"…bugger."
*
The first thing Crowley hears, when he opens the door to the Wrangle quarters, is the low, insistent sobbing of a child in for the long haul- too tired to sleep, too miserable to wail, just soft, mournful weeping. The second thing, a familiar voice; quiet, soothing, and patient. He leans in the doorway, smiling, watching the angel pace. Anthony's in his arms, crying softly into his shoulder, and the lamplight gleams gently in Aziraphael's hair.
"…the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste. He brought me to the banqueting table, and his banner over me was-"
"Bit early to start corrupting him, isn't it?"
Aziraphael's face lights up.
"It's only corrupting when it's you, Crowley."
He walks over to the angel, leaning in to kiss him, the child's hot back hitching against his chest for a moment.
"He's been at this all night?"
"Oh, no." The angel rocks back and forth in place, jogging Anthony. "No, he had a brief boost of energy at around ten-ish and started screaming, which lasted about twenty five minutes, which was simply delightful. And then Mug came out and yelled at the both of us for a good five minutes, which had the considerable benefit of shutting this one up for a little while, at least." His smile is weary, and Crowley scowls and swears under his breath.
"Where is she?"
"Leave her be, Crowley. She's tired." The demon mutters something extremely uncharitable and slings his jacket onto the nearest chair, and Aziraphael tuts at him before continuing. "As, indeed, am I. You couldn't take him for a second, could you? While I check on her?" Before he can protest, a small hot bundle is thrust into his arms and Aziraphael is heading for the bedrooms.
"…er…"
The volume of grizzling increases, and Crowley solemnly tells the kid to shut up, with no discernable effect. It's likewise with threats, bribes and even (and only because the angel is safely in the other room) pleading. Eventually he boosts the child against his shoulder and starts pacing, trying to jog him up and down like the angel had done.
The crying slows, stops, and the demon grins to himself. It hadn't been as hard as all that- Aziraphael's been blowing things out of-
There's a soft burp, right next to his ear, and Anthony vomits copiously down Crowley's back.
*
Aziraphael taps lightly on Sunny's door.
"Who's there?"
He thinks for a moment. "Er… Doctor."
The door handle turns and she scowls up at him, long hair tousled.
"Is not. It's you."
"No, no. You're supposed to say 'Doctor Who?'"
She regards him suspiciously, Jemma dangling loosely from one hand.
"Why?"
"Er… I'm not entirely sure. I read it in a book sometime, I think. Doubtless it's some facet of popular culture I've yet to discover."
She sighs long-sufferingly and disappears into her room- Aziraphael considers the fact that the door is left open a good sign- a tacit invitation, if you will. He pushes it open a little further, allowing the light from the hallway to penetrate the gloom somewhat, and then picks his way between the toys, perching himself carefully on the edge of the bed. She is once more ensconced in a duvet and pile of soft cuddly things, and he picks up a worryingly fluffy snake and fiddles with it idly.
"Hello, Mug. How're you?"
"Mug's a stupid name."
"Yes," he says agreeably, "I suppose it is rather. But so's Aziraphael, when you think about it."
"Why d'you call me it, then? Everyone else says Sunny."
He smiles winningly. "Oh, I do it deliberately to be annoying. I've found that people like you far more if there's something slightly unbearable about you. And apart from that little foible I'm practically perfect in every way, really."
She shakes her head slowly, a terribly grown-up gesture.
"You're silly."
He strokes the snake's head. "So I'm told, but silliness is greatly underrated. That means that people don't think it's as good as really it is."
"So…" she looks innocent. "Silliness is good?"
He frowns at her slightly. "In small doses, yes."
"So why do mum and Ber'd tell me off so much?" She sounds angry, but her bottom lip is protruding worryingly far, and her chin doesn't look entirely steady.
"Well, Mug dear-" the angel turns to glare at the door and clears his throat loudly as a storm of swearing breaks out suddenly in the other room, his hands tightening on the fluffy snake. Sunny giggles.
"Well, Mug, a small amount of silliness is one thing. Painting your younger brother bright green is quite another." Her face falls alarmingly, and he carefully modifies his tone. "Besides, your mother probably shouted because of bad memories of when she was green."
The child gasped, wide-eyed, a delighted grin breaking through.
"Mum wasn't green, was she?"
Aziraphael nods solemnly. "I'm an angel, my dear. We're not allowed to lie."
"Tell me story?"
"Let me just get comfortable, and I shall." He shifts around until he's leaning against the headboard beside her, long legs stretched out along the bed. He's secretly delighted when she leans against him, her head resting heavily against his chest.
"Well this was an awfully long time ago. It all began with Bernard and a man called Raphael, who used to be a turtle-"
*
Crowley swears softly, as he steps on a small rubber frog. It emits an offended sounding squeak which trails off sheepishly under the force of his glare. The door of the nursery is almost closed, now, and there's the whole of the hallway between it and Mug's room, but he wouldn't put it past the little monster to have the ears of a bat. Carefully, he lifts his foot, and shifts it a little to the right, into a small clearing in the clutter. Hissing in annoyance, he gives in and removes his sunglasses. His eyes adjust to the gloom and he can't quite bite back his grin.
Aziraphael is snoring softly, head tilted back against the wall. One arm is curled around the soundly sleeping Sunny, and his other hand clutches a cuddly snake.
His fingers tighten on it when Crowley tries to tug it away, and then his eyes flutter open and he blinks up at the demon, a sleepy smile curving his lips.
"Hello."
Crowley presses a finger to his lips, looking down at Mug, and Aziraphael nods, taking a moment to disentangle himself and tuck her under the covers, brushing her hair away from her forehead, before he follows the demon from the room.
"Crowley, what is that all over your-"
"The tyke's asleep. Put the kettle on, I'm changing my shirt, let us never mention this again." He doesn't wait for the angel's assent, just goes into the living room, peeling the shirt off his back. He holds it up to the light, looking at it despairingly, and then scowls and balls it up, tossing it into a corner, and heads upstairs in search of a wash cloth. That the only one he can find is Sunny's and has some kind of hideous floral pattern with evil grinning faces does nothing to improve his mood.
When Aziraphael returns, holding mugs of tea, he's examining the cloth carefully.
"I think they're alive, angel. That one just-" he looks up, and catches sight of the expression, the look in his eyes, and stops. "…what?"
The angel's not looking at his face, though. Darkened blue eyes are tracing scars silvered with age on his chest, raising to rest on the thin strip of leather that circles his neck. He fights the impulse to cross his arms, hide the old marks, and just watches the deliberate way Aziraphael places the mugs on the table, sucking in a breath as he meets the angel's gaze.
His hands are cool, against Crowley's scars, and his kiss has always been home.
Nymphadora is aging gracefully. That's how Aziraphael always puts it to Crowley- usually when they're alone, since she's still more than capable of pulling gargoyle faces and rather partial to the practice. She isn't old, far from it- he suspects she never will be, in the ways that count- but the laughter lines have set up residence at the corners of her eyes. She's more graceful than she used to be, but that's come with the husband, the home, the family, as much as it's come with time. She's supremely aware of her space, more at home in her own skin than she's ever been. Perhaps that's why her hair is black now, more often than not.
Bernard's temperament shows on his face. Deep-scored lines of laughter and anger give him authority, make him every inch the Boss; what the staff, old and new, call him far more than they ever use his name. He's still as hotheaded as ever he was but he's learned to control it. The only thing that can get under his skin with impressive regularity is his daughter; far too alike for their own good, the angel thinks, and Crowley is shameless in encouraging her to mischief. The angel dreads her teenage years- the few grey hairs Bernard has collected are her doing.
And then there's the Mug herself. The angel sometimes wonders if it's possible to pick up genetics by osmosis- there's never been a question in his mind that she's a Wrangle, through and through. Clumsy and hotheaded, quick-tempered and sharp-tongued… and far sweeter than she'd let anyone see, most of the time. The chewing she's grown out of, for the most part, but she still makes messes with paints. Her latest endeavors are a constantly changing riot of colour on the fridge; except for the pictures she makes after restless nights. Those are always the same- two children, the girl's hair tied back in ribbons and the boy's hands wrapped tightly around a book. The children don't have faces; she can never quite remember them when she wakes.
And Crowley? Crowley is Crowley, as he ever was. Only more so.
*
"Excellent food, Dora."
"Cheers, Crowley."
Aziraphael, sprawled on the sofa and entirely too full to move, hears the genuine pleasure in her voice and smiles drowsily.
"Run away with me. We'll move to Tuktuyaktuk and fish through the ice and live in an ig-" Dora's shout of laughter cuts the demon off mid-word.
"That's not a place!"
"'course it is. Sounds like the offspring of some unholy union between a turkey and a chicken, I'll grant you, but-"
"That's my wife you're talking to, demon." Aziraphael considers the tone of Bernard's voice. You'd have to know him well, it seems, to be sure he's joking. He does. And he is.
"I'll leave you the angel," Crowley offers generously.
Aziraphael chuckles and lifts a languid hand, offering a lazy wave. "I get the left side of the bed." Even with his eyes closed, he can almost see the grin aimed in his direction. He takes the teasing far better, now- if years of Crowley's constant presence have taught him anything, it's patience.
"Can't cook worth a damn, but he's got a nice reading voice. Pretty good in bed, too."
Aziraphael shoots up into a sitting position with an abrupt squeak of leather.
"Crowley!"
Dora is giggling helplessly, leaning against her husband, who's glaring at Crowley, who's gazing at him. And the look on his face… Aziraphael goes bright pink and collapses back into the comfortable sofa, covering his face with his hands.
"I hate you all."
"And on that note…" Footsteps approaching, and the fabric Aziraphael's head is resting against is tugged gently. "Shift yourself, angel, I need my jacket."
"You're not staying?" Bernard raises an eyebrow.
"No rest for the wicked, you know how it is. Got some business to take care of in Crouch End, but it won't take all night. And it's not like he hasn't got enough books to distract himself in the meantime."
"And also I hate you," Aziraphael puts in helpfully.
Crowley grins. "And also he hates me. So take care of yourselves, and I'll see you both tomorrow." He grins wider and tugs on his jacket, heading for the front door- his hand drops to the angel's shoulder, squeezing it as he passes.
The demon stops briefly, by the door, grabbing a pair of thin silver bracelets out of the key bowl.
"I'm taking these, too. You two have no idea how to bloody relax." The door slams behind him.
Dora flails. "But… what if something goes wrong?"
Aziraphael sits up slightly, looking affronted. "Dora, I hardly think it can have escaped your notice, over the years, that I am an angel. Everything will be perfectly fine."
She sighs and walks over to him, her perfume surrounding him as she leans down to kiss his cheek.
"I know it will, angel. Thanks for this."
"Not a problem, my dear. Now, shouldn't you be on your way?"
Bernard swears, looking at his watch, and Dora grabs her wrap from the back of a chair, listing last minute instructions.
"Anthony's down, and you shouldn't hear a peep from him if all goes well. Sunshine's in her room- I don't think she's asleep just yet, and she'd probably appreciate a hello, but you know how she is- she'll be fine as long as she can find her pencils. The nappies are in Anthony's room, and there's milk-"
"-in the fridge, yes. I do know this, Dora."
Bernard starts ushering her patiently towards the door, grabbing his keys and shooting Aziraphael a grin over his shoulder.
"Cheers, angel. See you."
The door slams behind them and, as if on cue, a high wail emerges from the nursery.
"…bugger."
*
The first thing Crowley hears, when he opens the door to the Wrangle quarters, is the low, insistent sobbing of a child in for the long haul- too tired to sleep, too miserable to wail, just soft, mournful weeping. The second thing, a familiar voice; quiet, soothing, and patient. He leans in the doorway, smiling, watching the angel pace. Anthony's in his arms, crying softly into his shoulder, and the lamplight gleams gently in Aziraphael's hair.
"…the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste. He brought me to the banqueting table, and his banner over me was-"
"Bit early to start corrupting him, isn't it?"
Aziraphael's face lights up.
"It's only corrupting when it's you, Crowley."
He walks over to the angel, leaning in to kiss him, the child's hot back hitching against his chest for a moment.
"He's been at this all night?"
"Oh, no." The angel rocks back and forth in place, jogging Anthony. "No, he had a brief boost of energy at around ten-ish and started screaming, which lasted about twenty five minutes, which was simply delightful. And then Mug came out and yelled at the both of us for a good five minutes, which had the considerable benefit of shutting this one up for a little while, at least." His smile is weary, and Crowley scowls and swears under his breath.
"Where is she?"
"Leave her be, Crowley. She's tired." The demon mutters something extremely uncharitable and slings his jacket onto the nearest chair, and Aziraphael tuts at him before continuing. "As, indeed, am I. You couldn't take him for a second, could you? While I check on her?" Before he can protest, a small hot bundle is thrust into his arms and Aziraphael is heading for the bedrooms.
"…er…"
The volume of grizzling increases, and Crowley solemnly tells the kid to shut up, with no discernable effect. It's likewise with threats, bribes and even (and only because the angel is safely in the other room) pleading. Eventually he boosts the child against his shoulder and starts pacing, trying to jog him up and down like the angel had done.
The crying slows, stops, and the demon grins to himself. It hadn't been as hard as all that- Aziraphael's been blowing things out of-
There's a soft burp, right next to his ear, and Anthony vomits copiously down Crowley's back.
*
Aziraphael taps lightly on Sunny's door.
"Who's there?"
He thinks for a moment. "Er… Doctor."
The door handle turns and she scowls up at him, long hair tousled.
"Is not. It's you."
"No, no. You're supposed to say 'Doctor Who?'"
She regards him suspiciously, Jemma dangling loosely from one hand.
"Why?"
"Er… I'm not entirely sure. I read it in a book sometime, I think. Doubtless it's some facet of popular culture I've yet to discover."
She sighs long-sufferingly and disappears into her room- Aziraphael considers the fact that the door is left open a good sign- a tacit invitation, if you will. He pushes it open a little further, allowing the light from the hallway to penetrate the gloom somewhat, and then picks his way between the toys, perching himself carefully on the edge of the bed. She is once more ensconced in a duvet and pile of soft cuddly things, and he picks up a worryingly fluffy snake and fiddles with it idly.
"Hello, Mug. How're you?"
"Mug's a stupid name."
"Yes," he says agreeably, "I suppose it is rather. But so's Aziraphael, when you think about it."
"Why d'you call me it, then? Everyone else says Sunny."
He smiles winningly. "Oh, I do it deliberately to be annoying. I've found that people like you far more if there's something slightly unbearable about you. And apart from that little foible I'm practically perfect in every way, really."
She shakes her head slowly, a terribly grown-up gesture.
"You're silly."
He strokes the snake's head. "So I'm told, but silliness is greatly underrated. That means that people don't think it's as good as really it is."
"So…" she looks innocent. "Silliness is good?"
He frowns at her slightly. "In small doses, yes."
"So why do mum and Ber'd tell me off so much?" She sounds angry, but her bottom lip is protruding worryingly far, and her chin doesn't look entirely steady.
"Well, Mug dear-" the angel turns to glare at the door and clears his throat loudly as a storm of swearing breaks out suddenly in the other room, his hands tightening on the fluffy snake. Sunny giggles.
"Well, Mug, a small amount of silliness is one thing. Painting your younger brother bright green is quite another." Her face falls alarmingly, and he carefully modifies his tone. "Besides, your mother probably shouted because of bad memories of when she was green."
The child gasped, wide-eyed, a delighted grin breaking through.
"Mum wasn't green, was she?"
Aziraphael nods solemnly. "I'm an angel, my dear. We're not allowed to lie."
"Tell me story?"
"Let me just get comfortable, and I shall." He shifts around until he's leaning against the headboard beside her, long legs stretched out along the bed. He's secretly delighted when she leans against him, her head resting heavily against his chest.
"Well this was an awfully long time ago. It all began with Bernard and a man called Raphael, who used to be a turtle-"
*
Crowley swears softly, as he steps on a small rubber frog. It emits an offended sounding squeak which trails off sheepishly under the force of his glare. The door of the nursery is almost closed, now, and there's the whole of the hallway between it and Mug's room, but he wouldn't put it past the little monster to have the ears of a bat. Carefully, he lifts his foot, and shifts it a little to the right, into a small clearing in the clutter. Hissing in annoyance, he gives in and removes his sunglasses. His eyes adjust to the gloom and he can't quite bite back his grin.
Aziraphael is snoring softly, head tilted back against the wall. One arm is curled around the soundly sleeping Sunny, and his other hand clutches a cuddly snake.
His fingers tighten on it when Crowley tries to tug it away, and then his eyes flutter open and he blinks up at the demon, a sleepy smile curving his lips.
"Hello."
Crowley presses a finger to his lips, looking down at Mug, and Aziraphael nods, taking a moment to disentangle himself and tuck her under the covers, brushing her hair away from her forehead, before he follows the demon from the room.
"Crowley, what is that all over your-"
"The tyke's asleep. Put the kettle on, I'm changing my shirt, let us never mention this again." He doesn't wait for the angel's assent, just goes into the living room, peeling the shirt off his back. He holds it up to the light, looking at it despairingly, and then scowls and balls it up, tossing it into a corner, and heads upstairs in search of a wash cloth. That the only one he can find is Sunny's and has some kind of hideous floral pattern with evil grinning faces does nothing to improve his mood.
When Aziraphael returns, holding mugs of tea, he's examining the cloth carefully.
"I think they're alive, angel. That one just-" he looks up, and catches sight of the expression, the look in his eyes, and stops. "…what?"
The angel's not looking at his face, though. Darkened blue eyes are tracing scars silvered with age on his chest, raising to rest on the thin strip of leather that circles his neck. He fights the impulse to cross his arms, hide the old marks, and just watches the deliberate way Aziraphael places the mugs on the table, sucking in a breath as he meets the angel's gaze.
His hands are cool, against Crowley's scars, and his kiss has always been home.