Happy Holidays, lunatique!

[goe_mod]

Dear Lunatique,

Your prompt gave me some extremely interesting possibilities to work with, and I liked the idea of making Az and Crowley women. Thank you for giving me the opportunity. I had a wonderful time writing this fic. Happy holidays!

Disclaimer: Though the two main alterations from canon in this AU are that they are woman-shaped beings (as Pratchett and Gaiman would put it) and that they raise a child, this fic does not mean to suggest that woman-shaped beings are essentially any more nurturing than man-shaped beings. I just think moms are fluffy and cute! I hope you do too.

Prompt: What if Crowley and Aziraphale had adopted Adam as a baby?
Author: A secret
For: Lunatique
Words: 8300
Rating: T
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley, of course!

Note: the author has allowed the mods to split this fic into two posts.

The Antichrist's Mothers


Crowley thumped the wheel of her Bentley. Everything had been going so well up till just then. She’d had it really under her thumb these few centuries. That’s how it goes: you think you’re on top of the world, and suddenly they spring Armageddon on you in a picnic basket in a dark, abandoned cemetery, and in the rain, no less. Which meant it was the end. It was lunacy, Crowley thought. The terrible battle would end in either eternal Hell or eternal Heaven, and Crowley didn’t know which was worse.

Well, no, she did, and eternal Hell would be worse, of course—but not by all that much. She remembered Heaven. It was a lot like Hell in many ways. No one good to talk to, for one. The drinks were lacking too.

There was no getting out of this, and she resented both sides for it. She resented Hastur and Ligur too, for the way they had talked down to her in the cemetery. Obviously, she knew how to read a map and how to get to the hospital. She knew earth far better than either of them, for... someone’s sake. And they were incompetent. A picnic basket? Really?

She had a brief thought of losing the thing in the basket to spite them. Yes, that’d sure be something. She could stop the car here, on this dark and damp and empty road, and take the basket and swing it round and round and let go and...

What would happen then? She answered herself with twenty dreadful visions of torture and punishments that would be imposed upon her if she sabotaged the mission. Maggots and the rack were images she could very nearly stomach, but being ground to a paste made her shudder in a queasy sort of way. She pulled over to the side of the road for a few calming breaths.

Crowley always thought fast on her feet. It was great for survival. Part of her mind had gotten ahead of her. Yes, sabotage was an idea. But it would have to be a different way.

What about the opposite? Not letting go of the basket, but hanging on to it. Keeping the Antichrist for herself.

Not right away, of course. Hospital first. She was expected there for the swap.

**

The excellent thing about a swap, Crowley thought to herself, was that you needed more than one thing in order to have a swap. Yes, of course, there had to be another baby.

Hopefully the Satanist nuns didn’t have plans for the other baby.

If they did, Crowley reflected, they were probably normal plans. Your average Satanist wasn’t a fanatic. Human hearts would prevail. The child would go up for adoption.

But whatever she told them to do, they would do, because they were sworn to answer to Hell’s orders. She could ask them to give her the other baby as a fee, and they would do it, no questions asked. Human hearts–and scruples–only went so far, especially when the humans were in service of an organization. Too many of them were content to just follow orders.

Normally, Crowley hated that. She hated it now too, but it was working in her benefit this time. All she had to do was get the good sisters of St. Beryl to confuse the other baby with the antichrist, and take the “other baby” while leaving them the “antichrist” to plant on some godforsaken Americans.

**

Phew. That had been easy. Thankfully the two babies had quite resembled each other beyond the simple way in which all babies looked like other babies. The nuns would never know, Crowley though smugly to herself.

Passing a man in the parking lot, (she didn’t know who he was, and didn’t care) she walked out of the hospital with her car keys in her right hand and the basket in her left. There was only one person who could possibly understand her situation. Whether or not she’d take the same view on the subject was less certain, but there was no use waiting around and deliberating at this point. Crowley looked at the basket in her hand. The thing in it looked back at her. Unnerved, she gently lowered the basket flap.

Right then, she thought.

She strapped it into the passenger seat of her car, made sure the door was properly shut, and drove straight to London.

**

Aziraphale was an angel, but most people never guessed. She owned a small bookshop in Soho and contrived to keep the customer count low by filing her books seemingly at random (she did have a method, it was just inscrutable to human minds) and by glowering silently at anyone who entered. It was somewhat uncommon for her to carry out any direct divine intervention among humans, just as it was uncommon for Crowley to deal in infernal influence. This was not coincidental.

She and Crowley had a deal. Or, no, that made it sound sinister. Deals with demons weren’t appropriate, especially not for angels. A gentleman’s agreement, then, except that neither of them were gentlemen. An arrangement was what it was, yes, it would be better termed an arrangement.

Some time ago, right outside Byzantium, they had sat in the shade of an olive orchard wincing at the taste of some strong resinated wine that Crowley had acquired. She had probably done so by questionable means, but Aziraphale could not be bothered to question them. It was then that they realized that, despite their markedly different views on religion, they had more in common than not, that interfering in each other’s work had the same total effect on humanity as not interfering in each other’s work, and that consequently interference was probably not worth the effort. But it was probably worth something to check in on what the other was up to now and again–strictly for business purposes, of course. Their respective employers didn’t seem to care, or even notice, so it was probably fine.

And if they occasionally covered for each other, that was also probably fine. And if their meetings gradually became excuses to go to lunch together every decade or so when human company failed or simply died, that was also probably fine.

Modern life in London was busy, and the city was big enough that she and Crowley did not tend to cross paths unexpectedly. Crowley showing up at her door unannounced came as a surprise. Her short hair was in disarray, and her eyes were wild. Her sunglasses were perched atop her head, Aziraphale noticed, which was unusual.

The baby she was holding to her chest was also unusual, to put it mildly.

“Hello,” said Aziraphale awkwardly.

As if on cue, the baby started crying.

Crowley made a face and held up a finger gesturing for her to wait. She bounced the baby up and down and patted it on the back.

“Hi,” she said once it had calmed down.

**

“So,” said Aziraphale, clearing her throat, “the baby.”

Crowley gestured at her to lower her voice. “He’s sleeping.” She was beginning to appreciate how precious an infant’s sleep could be, especially for everyone around it.

“He’s downstairs in the back room,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Hm,” said Crowley, “fair enough.”

“So, the baby…”

“It’s the antichrist.”

Aziraphale nodded as if she understood. She understood even less.

“And, how did you…why do you have…”

Crowley tapped her fingers on the table impatiently.

“Come on, Aziraphale. Don’t you see how serious this is? I’ve just gotten out of the hospital where I was supposed to deliver it, and I drove here right away because I don’t know what to do next! We should be planning for the apocalypse!”

“You delivered it earlier today?”

“Yes, that’s what I just said.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “You’re er, looking well.”

Crowley squinted at her. “What?”

“You don’t look like you’ve just given birth.”

“It’s Satan’s spawn,” Crowley explained, pulling a face. “Not mine,” she clarified quickly, seeing Aziraphale covered her mouth with her hand in a split second of pity and horror. “I stole it, obviously.”

Aziraphale breathed a sigh of deep relief.

“Do you really think I wouldn’t tell you,” Crowley continued, “if–well, in the first place, there’s no reason I’d even–look, this is too weird. And oh G–somebody, the world is going to end. I need a drink.”

She got up and crossed to Aziraphale’s glass-panelled corner cabinet. It was only after she’d emptied about a third of a decanter into a glass, looked at both thoughtfully, and chugged down the decanter instead that she felt Aziraphale’s eyes on her.

“Er,” she said, “Can I offer you a drink too?”

Aziraphale thought of remarking on how Crowley had gone into her drinks cabinet without a shred of hesitation, but then the weight of the upcoming end of times hit her and she simply said,

“Yes, thank you.”

**

“I can’t believe you’re innertf–interf–gettin’ in the way of the divine plan like this,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley was resting her arms and chin on the table and floating in and out of consciousness. Her first reaction was to laugh a deep, hazy, closed-mouth laugh. Then, when she had gathered her wits enough, she tried answering.

“No. Nonono, you sssee, the plan what I’m meddling in, the thing is, how do we know it’sss the divine plan? I mean, how do we know? I’ve never been so sure about not knowing about a thing in my life. I mean, who’s t’sssay? Hell’s fingerprintsss!”

“Fingerprints, dear girl?” asked Aziraphale, stifling a hiccup and leaning forward to hear her better.

“That’s what I’m sssaying! Their handsss are all over it. Maybe–what I’m sssaying is maybe, maybe what they’re doing isn’t the divine plan, eh? D’you think of that?”

Crowley was more awake and excited now, and her eyebrows were gesturing wildly. She wasn’t conscious of them. It was almost as if her eyebrows were self-employed and extremely hardworking.

Aziraphale took a thoughtful sip of wine. (A thoughtful sip happened to be roughly the size of ten normal sips.)

“All creatures, you know,” she said finally, “wind up serving the will of God in some way or another, willing or no. His plans are ineffable.”

Crowley scowled at her.

“You don’t have to take all the fun out of it.”

Then she brightened.

“Well, there you, go, right? We’re doing the right thing, probably.”

Aziraphale furrowed her brow and thought about it.

“Well, I suppose,” she said finally, “but what are we doing? What’s our plan? What are we doing with the little antichrist?”

Crowley realized she hadn’t planned that far yet.

“Hm. We should probably raise it. Raise it right. Non-destructive-like. What else could we do?” She said.

“Quite right, dear girl,” said Aziraphale. “I think it would draw your superiors’ attention if we, say, buried it with a stake.”

“Ah, yes, definitely. But that’s not the only reason we shouldn’t do that,” Crowley said quickly. “It is a baby. He is, actually.”

“Oh yes, yes, certainly,” said Aziraphale waving a hand, “I thought that was obvious to both of us. By the way, you can’t just keep calling him ‘the baby.’ It’s awfully dehumanizing. He must have a name, you know.”

Crowley stared at her, a bit too drunk to bother trying to pronounce the word ‘hypocrite’ properly.

“Well, he really must,” said Aziraphale righteously.

**

These were the three decisions they came to in the end, once they sobered up:

1. That the child would be called Adam. They had debated on names for a while. Aziraphale kept suggesting archaic saint names like Polycarp, Irenaeus, and Cuthbert, while Crowley amused herself by suggesting equally unusual names of historical figures that she guessed Aziraphale would disapprove of. This was partly to show her how bizarre her ideas of a normal name were, and partly to get a rise out of her.

After Aziraphale rejected the name “Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus Hohenheim (Theo for short)” on the grounds that it would get the kid bullied at school, Crowley gleefully forced her to strike Isidore, Alphonsus, Dunstan, and the like off the list too. They finally agreed to settle on a proper biblical English name, provided it was neither too holy (this ruled out Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, and several others) or unholy (this ruled out Herod, Judas, Cain, Abimelech, and surprisingly, Paul, although this was less on moral grounds and more on the grounds that Aziraphale just hadn’t gotten along with him because of his personality.)

They settled on Adam, who had been neither too saintly nor too sinful. Besides, Aziraphale had explained triumphantly after they’d agreed on it, it was theologically appropriate, really, since Christ had, after all, been the Second Adam, and perhaps, if they raised the child virtuously and uprightly, this third Adam might be a second Christ, instead of an antichrist.

Crowley had glowered at her for this and stolen Aziraphale’s wine glass out of her hand. This had prompted a second conversation, and a second and third agreement, namely:

2. That the child’s upbringing would be neutral, neither demonic or angelic. Crowley had suggested this after Aziraphale had casually mentioned taking the child to be christened, pointing out that there was no way to know what effect holy water would have on the child, and that it was too risky to find out. Besides, it would get too confusing for the poor boy to have one mother telling him to love all living beings and one mother telling him to crush them underfoot. Aziraphale was too surprised by the thought of playing mother to point out that Crowley had never crushed anything underfoot. The third decision was:

3. They’d have Adam on alternating weekends, and he’d stay with Crowley for the week, except for Wednesdays, which he’d spend with Aziraphale.

**

The first two of their three agreements were a success. The third proved more complicated. It might have worked with an older child. With a baby, it was exhausting. One Wednesday, Aziraphale had been prepared to tell Crowley how difficult it was to be the single caregiver to a small child, but when Crowley had arrived to drop Adam off, Aziraphale could tell she already knew. She had the diaper-and-formula bag under one arm, and dark bags under her eyes. Her short black hair was unbrushed and sticking out in various directions.

Weakly, she asked Aziraphale if she could sit down inside for a second. She collapsed on the sofa for about four hours, and had a headache when she woke up.

Aziraphale suggested they move in together. It would be easier.

Crowley went a bit pensive at the suggestion, but she agreed to it.

**

Crowley’s flat was more suitable for child rearing. For starters, it was much cleaner. Aziraphale’s place tended to accumulate dust. This had nothing to do with the flat itself and everything to do with Aziraphale’s housekeeping. Crowley was more tidiness-inclined.

She also had more greenery, better lighting, and two bedrooms, where Aziraphale just had one. The second room had been a computer room, but Crowley never really used her computers anyway, so it became baby Adam’s room.

Aziraphale claimed the living room as her room. She put up two bookcases with her 100 most essential books and felt quite at home. It was nice not having to run the bookstore at all.

For two weeks, she used Crowley’s white leather sofa for the occasional nap, until Crowley introduced her to the virtues of sleeping a full night on a very nice queen-sized mattress.

“I just don’t want you drooling on the sofa. It’s hell for the leather.”

And like that, they were sharing a room.

**

Babies, it turned out, were a lot like dogs: if you had one, strangers felt like they could approach you to talk, and ask questions, and coo over it.

Crowley had never spoken to any of her neighbours in her apartment building, and now at least five of them said hello to her (and Adam) regularly. She was waiting for the elevator one morning, ready to take Adam out for some fresh air in his stroller, when one of her neighbours addressed her warmly in Spanish.

She blinked at him. It was not that she didn’t understand, but she was caught off guard and by the time she had thought of a reply in Spanish, he was already apologizing.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, “you looked a lot like–Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume. Middle East?”

Crowley scratched her head. “More or less, yes.”

The man grinned. He had well-groomed dark greying hair and his face was kind and wrinkly.

“People get confused about me all the time, too, just the other way around. I was just saying hi.”

“Hi,” Crowley said.

“I’m Elías,” he said, extending his hand.

“A.J.,” she said, shaking his hand firmly, “and the little one is Adam.”

“Oh, he and I have met,” Elías said. “Good morning little sir!” he added in a softer voice.

He gave Adam a tiny wave, and noticed Crowley was looking at him quizzically.

“I met his mum, Izzy,” he explained. His accent smoothed out the z sounds and it took Crowley a couple seconds to parse that this was Aziraphale’s latest human nickname.

“Oh! Of course, right,” Crowley said, while mentally taking inventory of which neighbours had been told which of the two was Adam’s mother, and trying to remember whether she and Aziraphale had agreed on a standard version of the story, or whether Aziraphale was making up something new every time. It could be a problem if she was, because she was a terrible liar.

“I think you have a very big heart,” Elías told her.

“Pardon?”

“The two of them are lucky to have you.”

“Thanks,” said Crowley, wondering what the h–what on earth Aziraphale had told him.

A ding announced that the elevator had arrived. When she arrived on the ground floor and left the building, she did a quick loop around the block, and returned directly to her flat.

“Aziraphale,” she said to sleeping mass in the tartan armchair, “what did you do?”

This last part had been said rather loudly and startled both Aziraphale and Adam, the latter of whom started sobbing. Aziraphale scowled at Crowley and picked Adam up out of the stroller.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Aziraphale. “Look what you’ve done.”

She held him securely in her arms and bounced him gently, while making pleasant faces and telling him it was all right. The baby didn’t seem to get the message and kept on wailing. Aziraphale sighed wearily and started the routine “let’s see what’s wrong with you, then, since you can’t talk” check. She sniffed Adam, and promptly passed him back to Crowley.

“He’s soiled himself. That’s your job.”

Crowley groaned, fetched the nappy bag, and did what had to be done.

**

Later, sheepishly, she presented a clean-bottomed Adam to Aziraphale for her to feed. Aziraphale had taken a bottle of baby formula from their refrigerator and miracled it warm in her hand. She held him in one arm, which she rested on a cushion, and held the bottle up to him in her other hand. Soon enough, Adam was drinking contentedly and drifting off to sleep.

“I only meant to ask,” Crowley began, but Aziraphale gently hushed her and made a gesture indicating that she should whisper.

“I just want to know what you told the neighbour,” whispered Crowley.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, dear,” Aziraphale answered distractedly.

“On this floor. Old-ish. Name started with an E, I’m sure.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, “him. Well, I’ve not told him much at all, but I let him assume that I was divorced, and that I had an ex-husband who was a nasty character, and that you’re my good friend who took Adam and me in till I could get back on my feet. Adam looks like neither of us, but I fancy he takes after me slightly more than he takes after you, and your neighbours know less about me than about you, so I could have had him, for all they know, whereas they’ve surely seen you here and there the past year, and they’ll notice that you weren’t pregnant.”

Crowley had only heard about half of that.

“‘Til I could get back on my feet’?” she repeated.

“Metaphorically. In terms of finding a place or something like that, I suppose. His words, not mine.”

“You aren’t thinking of moving out, though, are you?” Crowley asked in alarm.

Aziraphale looked at her perplexedly. “Of course not. Why would I move out? I thought we agreed this was easier.”

“Good. Good. Thank...somebody.”

Crowley felt immensely relieved. She told herself it was for strictly practical reasons.

**

Years passed, and still they lived in the same flat with Adam.

He was three years and a few months old now, rather big for his age, and running around and chattering like anything. So far, he showed no signs of demonic parentage or supernatural powers, but Crowley assured Aziraphale that they wouldn’t appear till around age ten.

“What should we tell him, do you think?” asked Crowley at breakfast, between sips of coffee.

“What do you mean?” asked Aziraphale, barely looking up from her paper.

Adam did not look up from his toast. He couldn’t understand their conversation because they were both speaking Italian, and a form of it that wouldn’t be recognized outside of 15th century Florence at that.

“Well,” said Crowley, “the boy’s going to preschool soon, and–” Aziraphale opened her mouth to say something, but Crowley barrelled on, “Yes, he is. We talked about this, angel. He needs to be around other children his age. We’re going to have to tell him something else before we tell him the truth. You can’t impress the notion of secrecy upon a toddler. He’ll tell everyone he meets.”

“They’ll all figure it out anyway.”

“Pardon?”

“Children talk to each other about their parents, Crowley. It’ll only take one kid talking about their dad for him to pipe up and say he’s got a second mum instead of a dad. It’s too late for one of us to pose as an aunt. He calls you mummy. He calls me mama. I understand your reluctance to let people know. Adults can be quite nasty. But even though it’s not just a matter of finding the right preschool, I’m confident we can find a one that won’t encourage trouble. And you already made me agree to rule out the church ones.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, in English now, “that wasn’t what I was talking about.”

Aziraphale peered at her over the top of her newspaper. “Then what?”

“Supernatural things. Or non-supernatural things. His upbringing, Aziraphale.”

“Oh! Human upbringing till age nine, and then he’ll have time to prepare mentally.”

“Okay…” said Crowley, somewhat stunned by Aziraphale’s decisiveness.

Aziraphale switched back into old Florentine.

“We’ve got to keep the human story consistent first. It’ll cause more suspicion if we don’t. The simplest version is probably the best, and the most obvious assumption is that we are–” she frowned, trying to find an old Florentine word to describe lesbians. There wasn’t a polite or neutral one. Even in a more permissive place like Florence, it had still been the 15th century. “–the most obvious assumption is that we are tribades. It doesn’t bother me. I’m read as one nearly all the time. I can teach you how to avoid trouble with nasty folks. It’ll be easier than creating a convoluted backstory.”

This was true. People tended to assume three things about Aziraphale: that she was intelligent, that she was British, and that men would be wasting their time with her if they tried to chat her up. All three of these things were true. Angelic intellect was far above human intellect, and even if she had been no smarter than a human, she’d still have an immortal’s thousands of years of experience and familiarity with human nature to put her mind above human minds again.

British she was too, though obviously not by birth, since she had been created, not born. She’d forged the necessary documents to obtain a British passport and birth certificate a couple decades ago, and changed the dates every now and then to match her perceived human age.

And she had never bothered with human men. She hadn’t bothered with human women either, or any other gender, since the main thing about humans was their mortality, and that even at a hundred years, they were all still so young, so fleeting. She hadn’t intentionally set out to dress, walk, speak, groom herself, and sit in a way that put men off. Her primary concerns with clothing, for example, were practicality, warmth, and modesty. Putting men off was a secondary effect.

Quite simply, she dressed like a woman of the cloth, and that cloth tended to be plaid-patterned.

Crowley poured herself a second cup of coffee.

“So,” Crowley was saying, “how do we reconcile that story with the other story?”

“Which one?”

“The one the neighbours know.”

“That’s not at odds with this story. Nasty ex-husband, friend who takes care of me. Maybe she takes very good care of me and I realize things about myself.”

“Crowley?” she added, switching back to English, “Dear girl, are you quite well?”

Crowley was mindlessly pouring hot coffee down her white pressed shirt, and she was realizing things about herself.

She was saved from having to provide an explanation by Adam, who was smearing his face with blueberry jam from his piece of toast.

“Adam!” Aziraphale said sternly. “No.”

“No!” he repeated back enthusiastically, and continued to make a mess.

“Food goes inside the mouth, kiddo,” said Crowley, “you can’t eat through your nose and cheeks.”

She grabbed a napkin, dipped it in a bit of water, and passed it to him.

“Here, clean up.”

“Why?”

“You’re messy. Your face is all purple.”

“I’m purple!”

He took the napkin and cleaned one half of his face, then pointed at Crowley.

“You’re messy too!”

“Fair enough,” said Crowley, and miracled the coffee out of her shirt.

Adam didn’t blink, since he was used to that sort of thing, but Aziraphale huffed.

“What?” snapped Crowley defensively.

Aziraphale put down her paper, glared at her, and got herself another slice of toast.

“Non-supernatural upbringing, my foot,” she muttered.

“I can do it.”

“Go a week without using any abilities you have that a human doesn’t. I dare you.”

Crowley stuck her chin up at Aziraphale.

“All right, then, go on, let’s try it. One week, and whichever of us caves first has to–”

Aziraphale crossed her arms. “This has nothing to do with me.”

“Five days, if you can’t take it. Today’s Sunday. We can start tomorrow, ending on Friday. Loser buys the winner drinks Friday night.”

Aziraphale steepled her hands. “There’s a gaping flaw in your plan.”

“There isn’t.”

“Isn’t there?”

“No, because you see, winner hires a child-minder.”

Aziraphale looked doubtful.

“We’ve never both been away from him for long,” she pointed out. “And we’ve never left him with a stranger.”

“We don’t need a stranger. He gets along well with our neighbour Elías, whom we know and trust. Plus, he has a dog! Adam likes dogs.”

“Well…” Aziraphale began.

“You and I haven’t had a drink for two years,” Crowley reminded her.

Aziraphale thought about that.

“Very well, lead me into temptation, old serpent,” she said with a fond grin. “But only in moderation.”

Next: Part 2!