Happy Holidays, meredithsock!

[goe_mod]

Title: Guests on Memory Lane
Recipient: meredithsock
Rating: G
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Warnings: None

Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale babysit Anathema’s cousins for the weekend.

The request had come suddenly, in a phone call at 8 o’clock in the morning, and poor Anathema had sounded so desperate, and Aziraphale, who had allowed himself be tempted into indulging in a few hours of sleep the night before, had neither wit nor heart to refuse the dear girl.

“You’re sure it’s not going to be a problem?” she asked again, and Aziraphale assured her that nothing would delight Crowley and himself as much as helping her out of her pickle.

Anathema thanked him profusely, told him she would come by around six, and hung up.

Aziraphale stared at the receiver for a long time, and then heard the rustle of covers in the bed behind him.

“What exactly did you agree to now?” Crowley asked, yawning, and put his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Young Anathema has something of an infestation of frogs and bats in her house,” Aziraphale began, and put the receiver down. Crowley draped himself across his back.

“And..?” he asked suspiciously.

“And, er, she was supposed to watch her cousins over the weekend because their parents are out of town, but, seeing as the frogs are apparently enchanted, and the bats rather… feisty, she doesn’t find that her place out in Tadfield is… suitable for children, so, since we have plenty of room -” at that, Crowley snorted, “We do, Crowley. Well, in any case, I told her, of course we can watch them for the weekend, while she takes care of her… little plague. I do hope it is no bother to you.”

Crowley sighed.

“Why didn’t you just offer to take care of her animal-problem?” he asked. He swung himself out of bed, and shrugged a soft black bathrobe around his pajama-clad shoulders. On his way to the doorway, he stepped over a stack of books, and then around another, and then turned around to look at Aziraphale. “Tea?”

“Please,” Aziraphale said, and got up to join him. “And you know I don’t like to meddle in the affairs of witches. If she has gotten herself into this situation, she can get herself out of it, is what I always say. Er.”

“Anathema Device is neither subtle nor quick to anger, but I guess I do see your point,” Crowley said, and together they made their way into the kitchen. It was a nice, spacious room with warm-coloured tiles on the walls, cream-coloured doors on the cupboards, and a large wooden dining table that was cozy for two if they sat on the same end, and sizable enough to entertain a small dinner party at, had it not been covered almost entirely in knick-knacks and objects that were supposed to have been assigned a proper spot somewhere in the house but now lived a strange wandering life between available free surfaces. Crowley had a secret desire to shove every surplus item in the house into a appropriately sized box and dump it on Aziraphale’s bed, seeing as the angel was entirely to blame for the lack of order, but seeing that said bed was also Crowley’s bed, that would only inconvenience himself. So he didn’t.

Instead, he shoved a bunch of miscellaneous papers away from the stove, filled the tea kettle and put it down on the stove. Before long, the tea water was boiling merrily^[1].

It was after dinner, when their doorbell chimed at last. Crowley’s head picked up, and he looked over at Aziraphale.

“It’s for you,” he said.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at Crowley’s lack of enthusiasm.

“Well, I suppose I’ll get it, then,” he said, put down his book on top of another pile of books, and got up and out of his armchair. He went down the hall from the living room and manually unlocked the front door. Crowley trailed along reluctantly, and leaned against the hallway wall.

Aziraphale opened the door.

“Mr. Fell!” came the instant greeting, and Anathema, grinning sheepishly, barged into the hall and took Aziraphale’s hands. “I am beyond sorry to disturb you guys on a Friday night, but oh, you know, my place really is not a place for children at the moment, and I couldn’t just let them stay back home all alone, or ask Cassandra to cancel her romantic getaway to Venice, and- oh man, I’m a mess, sorry.” She let go of Aziraphale and turned back to the door, where two little faces peeked inside with utter disinterest.

“Come on gals, come say hello to Mr. Fell and uncle Anthony, won’t you?”

It was obvious that the children were close relatives of Anathema. They had the same dark hair, the same serious eyes, and the same well-formed, if mismatched, facial features. The taller one looked up at Aziraphale with suspicion painted across her face. The smaller one furrowed her brow and stuck her thumb into her mouth, chewed on it a few times, and then marched in.

Aziraphale crouched down in front of her, and folded his face into the most trust-inducing expression he could manage. Crowley snickered in the background.

“And what’s your name, my young, er, associate?” he asked, in the tone he usually reserved for polite dogs. The child looked him up and down.

“Tell Mr. Fell your name, C,” Anathema urged. The child looked up at her, then back at Aziraphale.

“Why’s you got so many eyes,” she said after a beat, narrowing her eyes.

“He’s got two eyes, dummy,” the other child said, barging in after apparently having enough of her little sister’s reluctance. She extended her right hand. “My name is Theodora, and her name is Circe, and mom says she’s a mystic, but I say she’s just stupid. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Fell,” she added in a very serious tone. Aziraphale shook her hand.

“It’s, ah, nice to meet you too, Theodora, dear girl. And Circe. Yes. Er,” Aziraphale righted himself again, and turned over to look at Crowley, who was barely hiding a mocking smirk. “Crowley, dear, why don’t you show the girls where they’re supposed to sleep, while I have a word with Ms. Device?”

“Thought you said ‘is name was Anthony,” Theodora said, eyeing Crowley with curt interest.

“Anthony Crowley, kid. You can call me either. Come on.” Pushing away from the wall, Crowley beckoned to the girls with an incline of his head, motioning down the hall. Circe looked from Aziraphale to Anathema to Crowley, and then hobbled after the demon as fast as her small sturdy legs could carry her.

“You’ve got funny eyes too,” she said, reaching up for his hand. Aziraphale could sense Crowley’s hesitation before he took her little hand in his, but then it was as if the whole air of the hallway shifted, and Crowley threw her a smile.

“You’ve got funny eyes,” he said, and tugged gently at her arm. “Come on, now.” Circe laughed at him, and they made their way into the living room, Theodora following close behind. Aziraphale felt an odd pang of dissatisfaction weave through him, but decided not to examine the feeling too closely.

“Ahhh, kids, right?” Anathema said, a little bit desperately.

Aziraphale sent her a wary glance. “Delightful children, dear girl. Don’t you worry, we will all get along just fine, I don’t doubt.”

Anathema nodded.

“I’m sure. Circe is… a liiittle bit psychic. It’s usually not a problem. It’s not like this house is haunted or- …” she trailed off and swallowed awkwardly. “Well, she takes to Crowley well enough, it seems. Not that I was worried. I mean. You know-”

“I know,” Aziraphale nodded regretfully. The child took a little too well to Crowley for his comfort. There, he said it. Fortunately, it was only for the weekend.

“I’ll just go get their things from the car,” Anathema said.

Aziraphale walked with her to the car. “I took the liberty of collecting some herbs for your, er, your problem,” he told her, and produced a little velvet bag from the pocket of his cardigan. It contained a few twigs from their backyard and a handful of thyme from their kitchen, none of which were in itself particularly magical, but Aziraphale had given the thyme a good talking to before he cut off the herbs, and wherever it went, bats and frogs would most likely feel inclined to leave rather quickly.

Anathema took the bag and sniffed it, then smiled. “Oh! This is good stuff. Powerful. Where did you get it?”

“Oh, here and there. I wouldn’t want to unmask my source. Just take it.”

Anathema pocketed the bag. “Thank you,” she said, relieved. “I don’t know what I would have done if you two hadn’t been able to take those two little devi- ah, disasters, off my hands. Now, here are their things. Circe sleeps with the raccoon. Theodora insists she’s too old for teddy bears, but the handsome-looking guy here,” she held out an old thing that remotely resembled a bear, “that’s hers. They gotta be in bed by eight. Circe can’t brush her teeth herself. They’ve already had dinner. They’ll eat anything. Theodora has homework for Monday. She’s really into astronomy. Circe likes drawing, but don’t let her try to summon anything, she might get it right, I’m not sure… Anyway, don’t let them bully you guys. That’s all I’ve got. Thank you so much, again.”

Aziraphale gathered the bags and the teddy bears into his arms and looked at her, trying to process the whirlwind of information. “In bed by eight, brush their teeth, no summoning demons. I think we can manage.”

Anathema smiled.

“Great! Say hi to the girls from me. I’ll pick them back up on Sunday.”

A brief, awkward embrace later, Anathema got in the car and drove off, leaving Aziraphale on the curb with his arms filled with toys and bags.

He sighed. Surely, they would manage.

***

The next morning, Crowley announced that he was taking the children out for a drive.

“Whatever you go around telling yourself, angel,” he said over his morning-coffee, “some of us have to work for a living. The girls and I can get into some shenanigans around the shops, you know.”

Aziraphale looked up from his Telegraph, and sent Crowley a wary glance. He was torn between asking Crowley if he remembered his fruitless attempts at influencing the presumed antichrist back in the 1980’s, and sternly telling him off for even thinking about attempting to corrupt humans at such a young age.

Unable to decide, he just shrugged and nodded. “When will you be back, then?”

Crowley shrugged and slurped the last of his (scalding, surely) coffee down his throat, and put the mug down in the sink. “Whenever. In time for dinner. Maybe get some of those horrendous boxes out of my bedroom in the meantime - this house is turning into a flea market as we speak.”

Aziraphale sniffed at that. “Speaking of, dear, have you seen the tax reports? I had them here just a moment ago.”

“Am I supposed to keep track of every little piece of paper going around this firetrap?” Crowley said. Then he realised himself, and shuddered. “Er. If you’re talking about the mess of papers you had dropped all over the chairs, then I put them over by the window.”

“What mess, Crowley?” Aziraphale said, getting up. “This was all well and sorted, now you’ve gone and made a mess of them.” He picked up the bundle of papers and sighed. “Need I remind you again not to move the books in the study?”

“They’re on the floor! It’s a tripping hazard if I ever saw one!” Crowley crossed his arms. “And they make it impossible to vacuum!”

“In all the years we have lived here, I haven’t seen you use the vacuum once. You only acquired said machine because you liked the futuristic design.” Aziraphale lifted an eyebrow at Crowley, and placed his teacup by the sink.

“Maybe I would have, if it was at all posssssible,” Crowley hissed. The cups in the sink began washing themselves up guiltily, as if they could sense the air of an argument about their state of cleanliness^[2].

Aziraphale sighed. Crowley was being ridiculous. Everything was perfectly organised; Aziraphale had a system. If part of that system included hiding a wine stain on the carpet with a pile of neatly organised books, then, well, where was the harm? The red wine was never going to come out of the light carpet anyway, and it was not as if Aziraphale was going to forget it was there, so.

“I’ll see about the boxes in the bedroom, dear. Weren’t you taking the children out? We can’t stand here all day.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Crowley said, nodding profusely. “We’ll be out of your hair, absolutely.” The demon turned and stalked out into the living room, where the children had been glued to the television for the better part of the morning.

“Get your coats, kids, Mr. Fell needs some peace and quiet with his clutter,” Aziraphale heard him say in that high-pitched, judgemental voice that Aziraphale closely associated with skirts, stilettos, nursery rhymes, and the Dowling residence. Elegant. Dangerous. He rolled his eyes.

Soon after, he was waving goodbye through the window in the study, watching Crowley, dressed in a black, puffy coat, scarf over his hair, leading both girls by gloved hands, nanny-persona on full display. The three of them crawled into the Bentley, little Circe in the front seat, Theodora in the back, and were off.

***

Aziraphale spent the day organising.

Or, that is to say, first he spent an hour on the back porch, reading the newspaper. Then he intended to look at the boxes piling up in the bedroom, but was distracted by a surprisingly affectionate cat that had strayed into the yard and was meowing at him until he took pity on the poor creature and fed it a can of tuna in the kitchen. While the cat was eating, he figured he might as well have some lunch himself, and by the time he had finished, the cat had crawled into his lap and was sleeping peacefully. It was well after noon before he finally convinced the animal that it did not actually live there, and he could walk into the bedroom.

When he looked at it, he could maybe objectively see why Crowley was bothered. In order to clear the storage room and turn it into a guest room suitable for children, quite a lot of knickknacks had been shoved into the bedroom without proper care for the aesthetics of the room. Aziraphale would give Crowley that.

The bedroom was not exactly spacy to begin with, and it did not help that Crowley had insisted on getting the largest possible bed money could buy. Crowley saw the purchase as an investment. Aziraphale saw it as ridiculous, but had eventually been won over by the arguments provided by the dark side. In any case, the bed left very little space for other furniture, and the fact that all the crates and boxes he and Crowley collectively owned and had not yet unboxed had somehow been crammed into the room did make it slightly impassable.

Well.

A lot of the crates and boxes belonged to Aziraphale, or, actually, all of the crates and boxes belonged to Aziraphale, and while he knew that at some point there must have been some sort of organisational system to it all, a lot of them were very old, and very dusty, and any semblance of order had deteriorated with the haphazard relocation. Many predated the twentieth century entirely. Even an angel can only keep track of so much.

Aziraphale scratched his head. He really ought to sort this out - not only out of obligation to the organisational system of his other things, but in particular out of courtesy to Crowley. Aziraphale recalled the dissatisfied manner in which he had left earlier, and frowned. The bedroom was Crowley’s space, even if Aziraphale occasionally joined him in the slothful indulgence of sleep. If Crowley wanted the boxes out, then of course out they must go. A spot of cleaning out one’s literal closet might be in order, and this was of course a perfect opportunity to go through and possibly get rid of some of the stuff Aziraphale hadn’t looked at in more than a century.

Aziraphale picked up the nearest box and looked at it. It was old and worn and rather plain-looking, and had ‘misc’ scribbled on one side and ‘maybe recipes?’ on the other. He shook the box carefully and then decided that that one could wait, and put it back down by the door.

He picked up another, sat down on the bed, and opened it. The contents were an interesting array of items Aziraphale vaguely remembered having shoved away during a rare fit of cleanliness in the spring of the year 1900. At the top, there was a box of never unpacked silver teaspoons with a ribbon around that he, at the time, had had in mind to bestow upon a friend who kept making off with Aziraphale’s spoons whenever she had come around for tea. What had her name been? Lorelei? Belinda? Amelia? Poor woman had lived down the street in the 1890s, and had outlived both her son and her husband, and Aziraphale had felt obliged to listen to her complaints about a family heirloom she had been cheated out of, and he always spoke to her in a friendly manner even if she was robbing him one silver teaspoon down her umbrella at the time.

At least she had had no interest in making off with his books.

Aziraphale put the teaspoons down on the floor, making the beginnings of a ‘keep’ pile, and dug further in.

***

Two hours later, he had made it quite far down memory lane and through five crates filled with assorted goods, and decided to get rid of a lamp, four chipped coffee mugs, a pair of stockings that were a hundred and sixty years out of fashion even by Aziraphale’s standards, a rock the size of a fist that he didn’t remember picking up, a velvet bag of almost fossilised chestnuts, and a hat he deemed too ugly for anyone’s eyes to see.

On his right side, he had a ‘maybe keep’ pile, a ‘definitely keep’ pile, and a ‘find out if these keys unlock any doors before making further decisions’ pile. Alongside these piles was a sketch made by a long forgotten artist in the streets of Paris in 1793 where Aziraphale had been staying at the time, depicting Crowley and himself standing by the Seine, smiling at each other.

Aziraphale did not remember the day or the artist, but he remembered how Crowley had put his hand on Aziraphale’s arm and squeezed afterwards, saying ‘this was remarkably pleasant, let’s keep in touch, huh?’

Aziraphale’s chest had fluttered strangely, and afterwards he had wanted to, had ached to write, but every time he sat down and tried, nothing would present itself in a way that could be articulated properly or indeed without admitting to something Aziraphale couldn’t actually explain himself. Something he had suspected Crowley wouldn’t approve of. Oh, how stupid he had been.

When he finally made it back to London, Crowley had been asleep.

Aziraphale was forced to abandon his reverie when he heard the familiar roar of the Bentley’s engine out in the street. He looked around the bedroom, making a quick assessment of his progress. He had been, admittedly, a little too meticulous in his attempts to get through all the memorabilia stored in his boxes, and the state of the bedroom was, if anything, worse than it had been before he began.

Crowley would probably not be amused.

Panic seized him momentarily, and he wrung his hands in indecision. Then he heard a key turn in the front door, and he shook himself.

“Ah, what the hell,” he said, and made a sweeping gesture with his right hand. The sorted items jumped back in their boxes, and boxes and crates decided that they would rather be elsewhere for the time being^[3].

With that out of the way, Aziraphale emerged back out into the hall, brushing some dust off his face, and was promptly rewarded with an armful of distressed demon rushing inside.

“Save me,” Crowley hissed and grabbed onto Aziraphale’s lapels, looking back over his shoulder to where their young charges were walking peacefully towards their own room.

Aziraphale followed his glance and then looked down at Crowley’s clutching hands. He grabbed softly around the demon’s wrist.

“What’s the matter? Did they misbehave?” he asked.

Crowley laughed desperately.

“Oh! No, no, not at all. Quite the opposite. It was awful,” he said, and extricated himself from Aziraphale again. “I tried everything. Sugar, a toy store, a cafeteria, bringing noisy toys into the art gallery, and everywhere we went, all these little old ladies showed up out of nowhere, congratulating me on my delightful children.” Crowley dragged his hands across his cheeks and made a truly disgusted face. “I feel… defiled. I’m going to have one glass of wine, and then lie down. In my bed.”

It was all Aziraphale could do not to blurt out, I don’t know what you expected, but Crowley was already making for the kitchen. Aziraphale checked in on the children, who had sat down in their room, playing quietly.

“Did you have a good day?” he asked, and both their heads turned to look at him.

“Yes,” They said slowly, in unison, and narrowed their eyes at him. Aziraphale shuddered involuntarily.

“Er- that’s terrific,” he said, and was about to say something more, when Circe opened her mouth and said,

“Uncle Anth’ny needs your help, Mr. Fell,” staring at him with her big, serious black eyes.

Aziraphale furrowed his brow, but within seconds, a call came from the kitchen.

“Angel! Why, why are there writing utensils in the bloody kitchen drawer? Where’s the blessed corkscrew?!”

“I better make him go to bed,” Aziraphale said, and the girls nodded in silent agreement.

Crowley growled at him when Aziraphale came into the kitchen, but relaxed visibly when Aziraphale produced the corkscrew from a jar by the stove, and continued to pour Crowley a glass of the wine he had been struggling with. Then he steered him towards the bedroom.

“Now, lie down, and relax for a while. You’ve been rather wound up all day, haven’t you?” he said, and pushed the door open. Crowley looked inside and froze.

“You… You did it,” he said softly, and turned to look at Aziraphale in wonder. Aziraphale gave him a smug smile in return.

“Didn’t take long,” he said. “Now, I’ll feed our guests while you do what you do best, how about that?”

Crowley grinned at him, and leaned in to peck him on the cheek.

“You’re an angel,” he said. “See you later.”

Crowley shut the door. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and shook his head fondly.

“That I am,” he said.

***

With Crowley sleeping, Aziraphale slowly started to think about dinner, and it wasn’t long before he was completely engulfed in cooking. Anathema had told him the girls would eat anything, but he decided not to take any chances and assembled a pasta dish from the actual ingredients in the fridge.

When he called on the girls, all hell broke loose.

Theodora came into the kitchen, dragging her sister along after her, and announced to Aziraphale angrily that Circe had stolen her astronomy book.

Circe tugged at her hand to get free and wailed like only an aggrieved three-year-old can wail, and when Aziraphale tried to smooth things out, she only screamed louder.

Afraid that the noise would wake Crowley up, Aziraphale ushered the girls into the kitchen and shut the door. When Theodora still hadn’t let go, Circe bit her hand, and suddenly Aziraphale had two crying children on his hands.

“Calm down,” he tried, looking sternly at the two of them, hoping faintly that his eardrums were made of sterner stuff than the average human’s. “Let’s not make all this infernal noise. Why don’t we all talk about the issue over dinner, I am sure we can come to some-” he had to cut himself short, because suddenly the three plates levitated off the table and rushed right across his head, smashing against the wall. Silverware and half the pasta dish followed in quick succession, and Theodora screamed, and ran to hide behind the table.

Her little sister turned after her, face cherry red from anger and the strain caused by her own screaming. The kitchen drawer hauled itself out and the assorted writing utensils and silverware flung themselves after Theodora.

Aziraphale blinked.

The screaming stopped instantly.

Crowley chose that moment to walk in.

“What’s the matter?” he said, looking curiously at the scene. “Why is there confetti everywhere?”

Theodora raised her head from behind the dining table, looking confused and quite festive, as she was now covered in glitter and colourful pieces of paper. Circe turned and ran face first into Crowley’s knees. He scooped her up into his arms, and she hid her little red face in his shirt.

“There was a … disagreement,” Aziraphale said, quickly letting the shattered plates put themselves back together and retake their assigned places on the table. “I think we have it sorted out now.”

“O… kay then,” Crowley said, and sat down at the table.

Aziraphale and Theodora joined him. Miraculously, there was food enough for everyone.

***

After dinner, the four of them had relocated to the living room, and halfway through Disney’s Robin Hood both girls were asleep, cuddled against Crowley. Crowley himself was leaning his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and blinking owlishly.

“We had better tell Anathema that the little one might need a … professional,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley yawned.

“A professional, as in ‘join the professionals’? That’s a bit of an overreaction, don’t you think?”

“As in professional witch, Crowley, you--”

The demon snickered helplessly. “Aziraphale,” he said.

“Crowley.”

Crowley nudged Aziraphale’s arm with his face until the angel put it around him. The sounds from the television dimmed slightly, and the lamp light glowed a little more golden. Crowley was silent for a while, then he sighed softly into Aziraphale’s jumper.

“You kept the sketch from Paris…?”

Aziraphale swallowed.

“Ah- yes. I did, didn’t I?”

“I thought you might have… thrown it out, back then.” Crowley’s voice was soft and uncertain.

“I would never - I mean. I did mean to send it to you, but you know how it goes. Forget my own head next.”

“Angel.”

“What is it?” Aziraphale snapped.

“That is your go-to lie. Admit it, you liked it too much to let it go.”

Aziraphale pretended to ponder that for a moment, then shrugged.

“The picture, yes. But even more the subject matter.”

Crowley lifted his head and looked up at him, yellow eyes bordering on golden in the low light, pupils blown wide. Aziraphale brushed a strand of hair that had escaped its slicked back confines away from his forehead, and was just about to lean in, when Circe suddenly sat up straight and proclaimed she was hungry.

Aziraphale managed not to groan.

Luckily, Anathema would pick her cousins up in the morning.

¹The stove was not actually plugged in, but since Aziraphale didn’t know that, and Crowley didn’t care, it worked just fine.^{[return to text]}

²  They couldn’t, of course. They were only cups. The teapot, however, was fully sentient and had a betting pool with a silver candelabra and a very old bottle of cognac about when Crowley would simply crack and take to desperate measures such as buying the house next door, or nominating Aziraphale for a reality TV show about hoarders. The cognac, who had known both Aziraphale and Crowley the longest and thus was aware of just how long it had taken Crowley to admit his feelings about Aziraphale even to himself, was patient and gave them at least another three decades.^{[return to text]}

³ At the same time, the woman living alone next door received a phone call from her bank, threw her passport, her bikini and her copy of War and Peace into a suitcase, and ran out the door and into the first taxi she could find, making for the airport. On the way there, she called her dayjob and told them she would be working from her five starred hotel in Bali for the next six months, or, well, actually, she quit.^{[return to text]}