Chapter Text
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The gramophone whirred out a tune through the dusty shelves of A.Z. Fell & Co.
“I, I can remember,” wailed David Bowie’s voice from the horn. “Standing by the wall….”
Beneath the bright light of the oculus, Aziraphale and Crowley shuffled together to the beat, or something close enough to it. Crowley was a tad behind the rhythm in his movements, but not by much. He swayed his pelvis with snakey abandon, and Aziraphale moved with him, keeping his right leg steady.
“Oh, we can beat them, for ever and ever—”
As Aziraphale leaned forward and Crowley made a swooning motion, a giggle sounded from a bookshelf.
“And what,” said Crowley, rounding on the noise, hands on his hips, “is so funny, hm?”
The giggles grew louder. Aziraphale grinned.
Bertie always laughed when Aziraphale and Crowley danced. The first time had been from their highchair in the kitchen when they were six months old. At three and a half years old, the sight of their parents dancing had evidently not yet lost its humour. Crowley had once remarked that he wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or not.
“You find this funny?” Crowley tapped his feet and shimmied his hips. “Is that right?”
A pair of golden eyes appeared around the edge of the bookshelf. “Yes!” said Bertie. They cackled harder.
Crowley dance-stalked toward them with mock menace. Shrieking, Bertie hid behind a stack of books. The giggles reignited when Crowley swooped down and scooped them up into his arms. Tiny red-tipped wings flapped—still mostly duckling-soft, though a few mature feathers had begun to poke through the grey fluff—as Crowley swung Bertie around. Soon Aziraphale was laughing too, watching them.
“Well!” Crowley slung Bertie against his hip with a groan. “I’m not going to be in dancing competitions anytime soon, am I? ‘Specially not with you as a judge, little bastard.”
“No.” Bertie let out a final titter as Crowley planted a smacking kiss to their forehead.
Aziraphale rummaged in his waistcoat pocket. David Bowie’s voice echoed into silence from the gramophone. After a quick inspection of his pocketwatch, Aziraphale raised his hand and halted the rotation of the record.
“Well!” said Aziraphale. “As delightful as it is to gain a better acquaintance of Mr. Bowie, it’s already past eleven. Shall we head out for our picnic, then?”
“Yeah!” chirped Bertie. “And ducks ‘n swans ‘n pel—” They paused to catch their breath before launching again into the last, most challenging word. “‘N pel-kins.”
“Oh yes, and your dear friends the ducks and swans and pelicans, of course.” With a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale pulled the picnic basket he had prepared earlier through the ether, shifting it from the kitchen to his arms. He peered beneath the lid for a final inspection of its contents and wriggled with satisfaction at the array of sandwiches and fruit nestled inside. A second snap delivered a tightly-rolled tartan blanket.
“Right! Let’s see about these wings, little angel.” Crowley set Bertie down and crouched to examine their shoulders.
“No!” Bertie twisted away from Crowley. “No, no! I do it! ‘Member, Daddy?”
“Indeed,” said Aziraphale. “Show Daddy how it’s done, Bertie.” He looped the picnic basket over his arm and gave Crowley a pointed look. With a sheepish wince, Crowley rested his palms on his thighs.
Bertie screwed up their face and folded their wings flat against their back. After a moment, the limbs dissolved away, slipping onto an invisible plane. Only a few silvery tufts lingered on Bertie’s shirt.
“Wonderful, raindrop!” Aziraphale clapped. Crowley gave them a thumbs-up.
Bertie smiled, very pleased with themself. They deigned to let Crowley pass a hand over their shoulder blades to muffle the spots they missed, and accepted his help in the middle stages of wrestling their way into their jacket.
Concealing Bertie’s wings before an outing had not always been a smooth process—they used to resist strongly when Aziraphale or Crowley touched their back for that purpose. It had only been recently that Aziraphale proposed teaching Bertie to hide their wings away themself, and so far the offer of control and independence had done wonders with ensuring Bertie’s cooperation. Aziraphale knew all too well, however, that deliberately not leaping to their child’s aid went against his and Crowley’s natures. Both of them needed reminders now and then.
Aziraphale reached for his cane, currently propped against the cash register. No matter where he put it, the cane miraculously never clattered to the floor. It was a handsome model, custom-made and carved from mahogany. Beneath the smooth grip of the handle, well-fitted to Aziraphale’s palm, etched snakes entwined around gold plating. Bertie liked to trace out the pattern with their tiny fingertips.
With a jovial thump of his cane to the floorboards, Aziraphale led the family outside. Over by the kerb, the Bentley honked a greeting at them and flashed a headlight.
“Beep-beep!” Bertie said in answer as they petted the car’s door. The Bentley purred.
Crowley hoisted Bertie into their carseat in the back. “Why don’t you take us there, angel?” he said over his shoulder while snapping the buckles into place.
Shimmying proudly, Aziraphale crawled into the driver’s side of the Bentley. He tapped a finger to the wheel. “It’s me this time, dear lady. You know what to do.”
The accelerator and brake pedals shifted in a series of confident clicks, aligning themselves within range of Aziraphale’s left foot. Aziraphale gave the dashboard a pat in thanks.
After they had all piled themselves into the car—including Bertie’s companion of choice for the day, the stuffed whale Pepper had given them when they were a newborn—Aziraphale drove the family over to St. James Park. His eyes were alert, his hands perfectly arranged at nine and three o’clock. He did not permit the Bentley to drive at her usual speed on the busy London streets, but he did concede control of the radio. The Bentley blasted its usual Queen songs just the way Crowley and Bertie liked them.
“Gunpowder, gelatine, dynamite with a laser beam—”
Bertie loved this number best of all the “Bentley songs,” though they struggled to sing along with it, as most of the words were beyond the linguistic capabilities of even a celestial-born three-year-old. Aziraphale thought that was rather a good thing for the time being.
Spring had undoubtedly started to stretch its legs in London. The mid-April day welcomed them with a promising warmth as they entered the park. Leaves bunched on the branches over their heads, mixed here and there with clouds of pink blossoms. The grass was a verdant shade of absinthe green. A large number of humans strolled along the lakeside to take advantage of the day’s weather. Several groups clustered around the cherry trees to admire the blooms, while others sat on the grass and benches, basking in it all.
Aziraphale kept a close eye on Bertie as they scouted out a picnic spot. There had been a terrifying day in the winter, not so long ago, when Bertie had wandered away during an outing to Crystal Palace Park. Aziraphale and Crowley had been momentarily distracted by a human-made ruckus in front of the dinosaur sculptures. When the dust had settled, they quickly realized that their child was nowhere to be seen. Aziraphale experienced the same sick fear he had felt in the days before Bertie’s birth, and saw that terror reflected in Crowley’s eyes. After a panicky, tearful search, they eventually found Bertie by their regular bench, where a kind human couple had been asking them questions about how to find their parents.
That night, after putting Bertie to bed, Aziraphale and Crowley had not slept. Aziraphale did not like to think of that day.
This was a new day, he reminded himself. Even so, he did not let Bertie out of his sight. It was apparent through his dark sunglasses that Crowley was doing likewise.
At Bertie’s request, they camped out near the pelicans to have lunch. Most of the massive birds were roosting on the rocks in the lake, with one patrolling the waters. Aziraphale was secretly relieved that none of the pelicans waddled out among the humans, as there would have been no convincing Bertie to hold still and eat their meal otherwise. They found a space beneath a tree to spread out their picnic, which was, naturally, nothing short of a miracle on a fine spring day in cherry blossom season.
“What’ve you got for us, angel?” asked Crowley as he sprawled over the tartan blanket.
“A few different kinds of sandwiches,” said Aziraphale, pulling out each variety from the basket with a flourish. “Cheese, cucumber, egg salad, and curried chicken. And to go along with them, we have grapes, strawberries, cherry tomatoes, and pickles.”
Bertie peeked into the basket hopefully. “And apples?”
“But of course!” Aziraphale popped a gleaming McIntosh into Bertie’s pudgy palms. “It would hardly be a proper picnic without them, would it?” He tossed another apple to Crowley, who caught it with a grin. “There’s a blackcurrant juice box in there for you, Bertie, and for us old fuddy-duddies…” He revealed a bottle of chilled prosecco and two glasses. Crowley’s grin widened.
Lunch passed lazily. Bertie’s attention throughout the meal was mostly occupied by the pelicans, but they nibbled enough here and there to satisfy their parents. They were a surprisingly picky eater—surprising to Aziraphale, anyway—so he had made sure to pack some food that they would reliably eat.
“Look!” said Bertie, pointing at the lake with a half-chewed cheese sandwich in one hand and clutching their whale plush with the other. “Star is washing her wings.”
“So she is.” Aziraphale popped a grape into his mouth and observed the designated pelican. Bertie knew all of the birds’ names, and somehow was always able to tell them apart. “Just like how we clean your wings during bathtime!”
Crowley fell back against the blanket. “Star knows it’s very important to keep your feathers well-groomed.”
He closed his eyes in a half-doze, wrinkling his nose as a patch of dappled sunlight tickled his face. Bertie, seeing an opportunity, crawled down beside Crowley. They snuggled up to his side, still chattering away about the pelicans. Crowley cuddled them back and hummed along with interest, occasionally asking a cheeky question (“Do pelicans eat cheese sandwiches for Christmas dinner?”) to spur an indignant answer from Bertie (“No, Daddy! That’s silly!”). Aziraphale watched them contentedly as he sipped his prosecco.
Gradually, they all packed themselves up. A covert snap from Crowley sent the picnic basket and blanket back to the Bentley. Moving onward, they ambled down the paths of the park to take in the cherry blossoms. Bertie stooped every so often to collect soft pink petals. Some they kept for themself, while others they presented to Aziraphale or Crowley as gifts. Aziraphale planned to press them between the pages of a book—perhaps The Secret Garden.
As they made their way towards the ducks, a familiar red ice cream cart came into view. Bertie looked up at Aziraphale. He raised his eyebrows conspiratorially at them, and together, they pivoted their heads to Crowley.
“Fine, fine, yeah,” groused Crowley. His resolve never lasted long when confronted with two pairs of pleading eyes.
They ordered their usual from the ice cream cart: a Twister for Bertie, a strawberry ice lolly for Aziraphale, and a ninety-nine for Crowley. Sheepishly, the vendor admitted he was all out of chocolate bars to complete Crowley’s order properly.
“Sorry, mate,” said the ice cream man. “Is just the vanilla all right? It’s only that someone came by earlier and bought up all my Flakes.”
“All of them?” Crowley’s eyebrows arched high on his forehead.
“Just so. I charged ‘em for it, though, so it was good for business, you understand.” The vendor handed Crowley a vanilla cone. “Funny sort of customer, to tell you the truth. All fancy-dressed in a white suit.”
Something prickled at the back of Aziraphale’s skull. “What did this… person look like?”
“Young, like,” said the vendor. “Big brown eyes with another colour in ‘em. What’s that called—heterophobia?”
Aziraphale and Crowley whipped their heads towards each other. Behind the dark lenses of his glasses, Crowley’s eyes were wide.
“Friend of yours?” asked the vendor as he sifted through the contents of his cart.
“You could say that,” said Aziraphale faintly. “When did they stop by?”
“Earlier this morning, soon as I opened up.”
Aziraphale plucked the lolly from the vendor’s hand. Walking away from the cart, he spoke to Crowley in an undertone. “You don’t suppose… Tablibik?”
“Yeah, I do suppose.” Crowley chewed his lip. “Could be Tabby.”
“It would seem that the ice cream we gave them really left an impression,” said Aziraphale. His gaze swept wildly over the grass and gravel paths.
“Who?” asked Bertie, mid-lick.
Crowley glanced at Aziraphale. “They’re someone we knew before you were born.”
“Oh.” Bertie rarely showed concern over matters that took place prior to their birth. Such distant history did not yet seem to trouble them.
Crowley, on the other hand, walked stiffly, swivelling his head. Aziraphale likewise surveyed the park, searching for bone-coloured suits and finding none. By unspoken agreement, he and Crowley positioned themselves on the path so that Bertie was shielded between them.
“No one’s here,” mumbled Crowley after a few moments of searching, confirming Aziraphale’s own conclusions. The atmosphere in the park was perfectly normal and earthly, the ether between planes undisturbed. If an angel had passed through here earlier, they were long gone.
Bertie did not acknowledge the change in their parents’ behaviour. The Twister in their hand held more curiosity than a strange name, and more importantly, the ducks were just ahead, as they helpfully announced. Aziraphale readjusted his face to smile down at them, and saw Crowley doing the same.
We’re safe, Aziraphale told himself, fixing his grasp on his cane. I made sure of it. And I will continue to make sure of it.
It was a fine spring day, and the three of them would claim it for their own.
Aziraphale and Crowley made Bertie sit on a bench and finish their ice cream before getting closer to the lake to see the ducks. Only the prospect of a bird stealing their Twister kept Bertie still in the end. They made a thorough mess of themself as they licked at the lolly. After Crowley furtively miracled the smears of lime from their cheeks and shirt front, Bertie scrambled off the bench.
“Watch Wally, please!” they commanded Aziraphale as they set their whale plush next to him on the seat.
Aziraphale gave the toy a pat. “Oh, I’ll stand guard over her, don’t you worry.”
“Ol’ Wally’s in the best possible hands, petal,” said Crowley.
“I know,” said Bertie, darting off to the lake. Crowley followed right behind them, dropping into a squat by the waterfront. He reached into his coat pocket to produce a balled-up bag of frozen peas, still miraculously cold. Bertie held out an eager hand to accept a palmful. They then flung their wares into the lake, shaking their tiny fingers to send a few of the stickier peas flying. Ducks swarmed around the treat, and Bertie hopped up and down at their approach. Crowley tossed his own serving of peas into the water, his cheeks rising in a smile.
Aziraphale watched Bertie and Crowley from the bench, hands clasped on the handle of his cane. Every so often he turned his head to scan the park and quietly register the presence of humans, dogs, birds, and rodents. No other beings were in the vicinity, and no one was approaching his darlings too closely. Bertie was entirely focused on the lake, making animated gestures and announcing to Crowley which of the regular inhabitants they could see. Crowley nodded along intently. Every so often he craned his neck to look back at Aziraphale.
“Papa, look!” Bertie gleefully waved in the direction of a mother duck trailed by a tangle of her babies. Aziraphale gasped to acknowledge that he could see them. Bertie had been looking forward to seeing the fluffy brown-and-yellow ducklings for weeks, and Aziraphale beamed now to see that dearest wish fulfilled.
Taking stock of the little waterfowl family, Aziraphale remembered that it had been around this time of the year, on this very bench, when Crowley had first told him he was expecting Bertie. As Crowley skimmed a hand over Bertie’s back by the lake, Aziraphale recalled the way his fingertips had fluttered over his still-flat stomach as he sat stiffly by Aziraphale’s side that day four years ago.
I think I do want it, yeah.
Aziraphale had withdrawn his hand from Crowley then, and left his fingers tied in knots on his lap. He and Crowley had walked away from the bench separately. It felt like an age ago, yet also far too recent. Observing his family now, Bertie’s eagerly pointing finger and Crowley’s grin, Aziraphale’s heart seized to think of what he almost allowed himself to lose.
He would have missed the sight of Crowley stretched out on a sofa with newborn Bertie curled over his chest. Feeling the warmth of that little body for himself when wearing the baby in the sling around the bookshop, inhaling the sweet smell of their light ginger hair. Catching the softness in Crowley’s eyes as he watched the two of them. Retreating with Crowley to their room together at the end of each day. Toddler Bertie sneaking into their bed early in the morning. Meeting Crowley’s eyes across the pillows as their child snuffled out sleepy breaths between them. Going on outings together like the one today.
All of those moments and more—precious, fleeting, unfated—had nearly slipped through Aziraphale’s fingers. He tightened his grip on his cane, and did not take his eyes from his family.
Eventually Crowley and Bertie walked back over to the bench. Bertie flung themself on the seat next to Aziraphale and, after reclaiming their whale plush, nestled up to him. Aziraphale pressed a fierce kiss to the top of Bertie’s head and hugged them tightly with both his arms.
“Papa, you’re squashing me,” complained Bertie. Aziraphale let them squirm away. Crowley sat down on his other side, and Aziraphale kissed him on the mouth, much more intensely than was usual for them in public.
Crowley tilted his head after they pulled apart. “Everything good?” he asked quietly.
Giving him a soft smile, Aziraphale threaded their fingers together. “Everything’s perfect,” he said as he kissed Crowley’s knuckles. Crowley smiled back and nudged Aziraphale’s shoulder with his nose.
Though Bertie would never admit when they were tired, the tell-tale signs soon emerged. The flush of their freckled cheeks and the whine in their voice indicated that it was time to head back to the bookshop. Crowley’s child through and through, Bertie needed their naps, and Aziraphale and Crowley knew by now they would all pay dearly if they failed to properly account for that need. Crying jags that ended in Soho-wide power outages could be quite the headache.
Crowley took the wheel on the way home, weaving through the necessary shortcuts back to Whickber Street. As he helped Bertie out of the Bentley, the little hand reached out to pat the car’s side once more. “Beep-beep,” said Bertie in farewell. Like always, the Bentley honked back.
A postcard had been slipped through the mail slot during their outing. The image showed a smattering of mountainous islands, and the text scribbled over the other side was littered with exclamation points.
“Ah! Looks like Mary and Rose are enjoying Thailand,” said Aziraphale brightly.
“Hm!” said Crowley as he helped Bertie out of their jacket. “Told them they would.”
As soon as Bertie was free and had crossed the threshold into the shop, they whipped their wings out. The two downy limbs flapped behind them as they darted through the bookstacks with practiced navigational ease. The shop was hardly what humans would consider child-proof, but Bertie knew every corner of its crowded spaces intimately. When they stood for the first time as a baby, they had pulled themself up using a pile of books.
Bertie protested being coaxed upstairs into their bedroom for a nap, to the verge of tears and a dangerously flickering lightbulb. Aziraphale gently persisted.
“You know that poor Wally needs her rest after her busy morning, dear fellow. I’m sure she could use the company. Peter Rabbit too.”
That did the trick—Bertie cared deeply about the well-being of their favourite toys. With a sniffle, they followed Crowley into the starry nursery. After Bertie had huddled down in bed, Aziraphale moved to the kitchen. He swapped his coat for a ruffled apron, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and drew back the lacy curtain at the window to let the afternoon sun spill across the table. As he combined flour, salt, and yeast in a large bowl, he did not hear a sound from the nursery.
To Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley trudged into the kitchen. From time to time Crowley napped with Bertie (often in snake form), and Aziraphale knew all too well that the previous night had been a restless one for him. He had expected Crowley to sleep this afternoon. Instead, Crowley slumped at the table next to Aziraphale and scrolled through his phone. Aziraphale shot him a look of sympathetic curiosity, and Crowley raised a shoulder. His eyes did not focus on his screen long.
“I hope Tabby showing up isn’t a bad omen,” muttered Crowley suddenly. “If that was them.”
Aziraphale froze, nearly dropping the wooden spoon in his hand. He caught himself and regained his rhythm, trying to keep his voice calm when he next spoke.
“They may very well have been here all along,” he said, mechanically mixing the ingredients in the bowl to wet the flour through. “This could just be the first time we’ve noticed a sign. Which would go to show that we truly are invisible to Heaven, when you think about it. All this time and our paths haven’t crossed.”
“I suppose.” Crowley’s shoulders hunched rigidly.
The newly-formed dough clung to the sides of the bowl in a shaggy mess. Aziraphale let out a slow breath and plunged his hands into it. “Perhaps Tablibik—if that was Tablibik—simply fancied an ice cream. An earthly pleasure. That’s also a good thing, that they’re able to do that.”
Crowley shrugged.
“I, I think we can take comfort in the fact that it was likely Tablibik and not anyone else.” Aziraphale worked his fingers through the dough with more roughness than the task called for. “And in any case, Heaven still cannot find us.”
“Right.”
“We’re safe,” said Aziraphale firmly.
Crowley said nothing, head still bowed over the table.
Aziraphale paused. He gripped the side of the bowl with one flour-covered hand and reached out to Crowley with the other. “We’re safe, Crowley.”
The clock above the stove ticked away, stable as a heartbeat. Crowley wrapped his long fingers around Aziraphale’s offered hand before glancing up. In the spring sunlight, his eyes gleamed like polished brass.
Aziraphale held Crowley’s hand and his gaze steadily. Whatever Crowley saw in Aziraphale’s expression made the lines of his own face relax. The harsh angles of his shoulders slackened, and he squeezed Aziraphale’s hand.
“Yes,” said Crowley. “Yes, we are.”
Blinking away the moisture in his eyes, Aziraphale gave him a small smile. He thumbed the back of Crowley’s hand, and only then realized he was leaving smears of tacky flour on Crowley’s skin.
“Oh, bother,” said Aziraphale, trying to pull away. “Now I’ve gone and made you all sticky.”
“S’all right, angel.” Crowley gripped him fast. “I don’t mind a little stickiness now and then.”
Aziraphale sniffed out a laugh.
“Though if it’s all the same to you, I’d much rather watch you work.” Crowley’s eyes roamed over Aziraphale’s hand, travelling up his wrist to linger on his exposed forearm.
Cheeks warming, Aziraphale wiggled. “You know I hate to disappoint you,” he said as he disconnected their hands. He returned to the dough and turned it out onto the table. Pressing the heel of his hand into the sticky lump, Aziraphale kneaded it in a lilting pull-and-push pattern. He worked languidly, making sure Crowley could see the cording of his muscles. With a snort, Crowley propped his chin on his palm and observed the show.
The clock tapped out several more beats. Once Aziraphale had covered the kneaded dough in a bowl, Crowley groaned and got to his feet.
“Why don’t you take a nap yourself?” Aziraphale suggested, heavily rising from his chair to rinse off his hands at the sink.
“Nah, not sure if I’ll be able to now.” Crowley stretched his arms with a pop. “Think I’ll check in on the garden before Bertie wakes up.”
Aziraphale smiled to encourage him. “I’ll be down here.”
After Crowley went up to the roof, Aziraphale settled in the sitting room to read. Though he trained his eyes on the pages, his ears were pricked. He was gradually getting used to spending time by himself, but a tension remained along his spine whenever both Bertie and Crowley were out of his sight. He could imagine it was much the same for Crowley up on the roof over his head.
Just over an hour later, a tiny voice called from the nursery. Aziraphale collected his cane and promptly attended to it. Bertie smiled sleepily at him from their bed as he opened the door. Warmth blooming in his chest, Aziraphale returned the smile.
“You know, raindrop, I could use a hand with baking,” he said. “There’s a loaf in the kitchen that needs seeing to, and it’s proving quite the ordeal for one silly old papa working on his own. May I call upon you for aid?”
Bertie sprang out of bed with a flap of their wings. “I will help you, Papa!” The gallant tone in their voice was all bombastic Bertie, but the determination in their yellow eyes, shining with eagerness to rescue Aziraphale from the lonely travails of the kitchen, recalled another influence.
“Marvellous!” said Aziraphale, beaming. “Between the two of us, I’m sure we can whip this dough into shape.”
After making sure they had washed their hands thoroughly, Aziraphale sat in one chair at the table while Bertie perched on the seat previously occupied by Crowley. Bertie had the task of sprinkling the surface of the table with flour, which they seized upon with relish—they delighted in the texture of the flour between their fingers, as well as the opportunity to make a mess. Aziraphale unveiled the orb of dough, now nicely doubled in size since he had left it.
“My, how you’ve grown,” said Aziraphale. He smiled as Bertie prodded the springy surface. “Now to punch it down.” Demonstrating the motion with his own hand, he let Bertie drive their small fist into the dough. “Excellent work!” Aziraphale tipped the lump onto the flour-dusted surface of the table between them. The sour smell of yeast filled the air as Aziraphale rolled, pinched, and pulled at the dough, explaining the shaping process to Bertie.
In short order, they had a well-shaped loaf sitting in a pan. While they washed up, Aziraphale suggested that they surprise Daddy up on the roof, and say hello to the plants.
“A fine idea, Papa,” said Bertie, and Aziraphale felt an eerie prickle of recognition at hearing the imitated cadence of his own voice in the declaration.
Aziraphale knew the ladder-stairs up to the roof would not permit anyone to trip on them, but he still climbed behind Bertie to make sure. Pushing through the trapdoor, he propped his cane on the steps and peered out onto the roof. Several meters away, Crowley crouched by a planter. He fussed with the soil, muttering to himself. The hem of his shirt had inched up his lower back to expose a strip of skin.
Raising his eyebrows at Bertie, Aziraphale pressed a finger to his lips and nodded. They mimicked him and crawled out through the trapdoor. Together, the two of them wove their way through the garden.
Though it was still early in the season, the rooftop was already as lush as a forest. Myriad plants draped against Aziraphale’s arms in passing. Over on one side of the roof, a row of tiny trees and saplings stood strong, crowned with emerging greenery and blossoms. Among their number was a spindly apple tree. The Japanese maple’s red leaves twitched as Aziraphale and Bertie strolled by.
Closer to the centre of the garden, a thick curtain of wisteria had just begun to bloom over the pergola. Crowley had been carefully tending to its development over the past few years, and this was the first spring in which the results of those efforts had finally borne fruit, in a manner of speaking. Aziraphale happily drank in the purple blossoms’ fragrance.
Bertie darted behind the largest hosta as Aziraphale trod towards Crowley. A broad leaf drooped to cover Bertie’s mop of ginger hair—the hosta could always be counted on to participate in their schemes. At the sound of Aziraphale’s approach, Crowley slapped soil off his gloves and twisted to face him.
Aziraphale gasped dramatically. “My dear,” he said in a loud, carrying whisper, cupping his hand against the side of his mouth, “don’t look now, but I do believe a wily bumblebee has snuck into our garden.”
“No!” Shock was written all over Crowley’s face. “A bumblebee? ”
“Just so! A bumble-Bea!”
“Are you sure about that, angel?” asked Crowley loftily, hoisting himself to his feet. “That it’s a Bea, and not, oh, a little birdie, perhaps?”
“A Bertie, you say?”
A giggle rang out, and the hosta shook. Crowley snuck over to it in slow, deliberate steps.
Unable to wait any longer, Bertie poked their head out through the leaves like a jack-in-the-box. “Me!”
“You!” Crowley’s mouth rounded into an exaggerated o of surprise. Bertie dove out to hug his knees, and Crowley ruffled their hair.
Crowley was finishing up his tasks in the garden, so Aziraphale walked with Bertie to say hello to all the plants. Bertie chattered away to the ficuses, lavender, and ferns, giving each their due. Aziraphale chimed in here and there with an accompanying tickle of greeting. The plants stretched out petals and leaves towards them in response.
The three of them went back inside together. As Aziraphale popped the loaf of bread into the oven, Crowley and Bertie retired to the sitting room. They were still within earshot from the kitchen. Childish Australian accents from the television set reached Aziraphale while he prepared the rest of their dinner.
Supper that night was stew, accompanied by the freshly baked bread. Slicing it at the table, Aziraphale told Crowley that Bertie had been a key player in preparing the loaf earlier. Crowley was, naturally, extremely impressed.
“Sounds like you’re just as much a dab hand at baking as you are at gardening,” said Crowley. Bertie straightened proudly in their seat, wings fluffed.
“It really is looking splendid up there.” Aziraphale spread a large pat of butter over a slice of the loaf and handed it to Crowley.
“Thanks, angel. Lots to do now that it’s spring. And blimey, next month is May already.”
“So it is!” said Aziraphale. “Which means that Anathema and Newt’s wedding is just around the corner, my goodness.”
“Oh! Yeah.” Crowley gnawed off a chunk of bread.
Aziraphale turned in his chair towards Bertie. “And that means that you, Beatrice Arthur, will soon be undertaking your very special duty for your godparents. Do you remember what we told you about how you’ll be helping Aunt Anathema and Uncle Newt with their wedding?”
Bertie’s brow creased as they strained their short memory. They had only recently learned the concept of a wedding, and their grasp on the idea was nebulous at best. Crowley coughed and tapped a fingernail against the vase of daffodils on the table.
“Flowers!” hollered Bertie, face brightening as they seized upon the hint. “I frow flowers!”
“Yep,” said Crowley. “Can’t have a wedding without throwing around some flowers, can you?”
“No,” said Bertie sagely.
Aziraphale smiled and spooned at his stew. “That reminds me—we need to check in with Anathema and Newt about what you’ll be wearing. I came across a darling kilt that I think will be just the thing.”
“Uh oh. S’not beige tartan, is it?” Crowley eyed Aziraphale.
“Certainly not!” huffed Aziraphale. “You know that Anathema is most insistent on jewel tones, and I would not dare go against her wishes.”
Bertie bounced in their seat. “I want purple!”
“We’ll ask Aunt Anathema and Uncle Newt,” said Aziraphale gently.
Aziraphale, along with Tracy, had been enthusiastically assisting with preparations for the Device-Pulsifer nuptials over the past year. Anathema and Newt often found themselves overwhelmed navigating the ins and outs of the wedding industry, and Aziraphale was very happy to smooth the process for them. Sometimes, as Aziraphale organized cake tastings at London bakeries, addressed envelopes to guests, and cast little miracles to nudge bookings into place, he—well, he wondered. It was interesting territory to be steeped in, certainly, and got one thinking.
As Aziraphale answered Bertie’s questions about weddings, Crowley tidied up the kitchen. A miracle might have set the dishes to sorts, but Aziraphale and Crowley wished to at least model the human methods for Bertie’s sake. The evening then dwindled into a sleepy pace. Bertie arranged a game in which they pretended to be a unicorn, with the sitting room as their forest. Aziraphale was called upon to be a knight, and Crowley a dragon, roles which they knew to play very well. They kept at it until bathtime.
It was Aziraphale’s turn to give Bertie a bath that night. He scrubbed their wings with his fingertips in the clawfoot tub, mentioning the pelican they had seen performing the task on herself earlier. As he gently circled soap into the wet red down at the tips of Bertie’s wings, Aziraphale remembered, with a jolt, washing Crowley’s back during his pregnancy, in particular the night before they made their deal with Hell. It was surprising that he should recall it now—certainly Aziraphale had given Bertie hundreds of baths before without the thought crossing his mind. Perhaps the brush against Tablibik that day had encouraged the memory to resurface.
Aziraphale flattened his palm across Bertie’s back for a moment before reaching for a cup to wet their hair.
When the water drained away, Aziraphale scooped Bertie up in a towel and raced into the nursery with them as they squealed. Crowley was waiting inside the room with a fresh pair of pyjamas. After helping Bertie dress, he tossed them onto the bed. When their giggles died down, Bertie crawled beneath the covers. Aziraphale lowered himself onto the mattress with a groan. Bertie squirmed in close to him, ready to listen to their bedtime story.
Aziraphale had read to Bertie every night since bringing them to the bookshop. They were reading The Tale of Peter Rabbit again tonight—Aziraphale had lost count by now of how many times he had narrated this story. It was a frequent request of Bertie’s. As it was the template for their beloved Peter Rabbit plush toy, and because the author’s first name was so close to Bertie’s own, their affinity for the story was not surprising.
Bertie clutched their Peter Rabbit beneath their chin—by now the plush was quite thoroughly loved and bedraggled. Looking at Peter’s black bead eyes, Aziraphale decided to put off reading The Velveteen Rabbit for another few years. Even before he had become a parent, the story had always made him a bit too weepy. And well, reading aloud with a lump in one’s throat was impractical.
Crowley lurked in the door frame during storytime, as was his habit. The light in the hallway behind him illuminated the sharp slope of his shoulders. Inside the nursery, the lighting was faint, melting out from a single antique lamp by the bedside. Even so, the nebulae and stars on the walls caught the weak lustre and gleamed. Over in a corner, the potted palm twitched a frond at the sound of Aziraphale’s voice. Bertie’s body was warm beneath Aziraphale's arm, and a scent of green apples drifted up from their freshly-washed hair as he read.
When Aziraphale turned to the final page, Bertie stared intensely at the illustration of Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail enjoying a supper of bread, milk, and blackberries. “Where are my sisters?” asked Bertie.
Aziraphale snapped his head up.
“What?” asked Crowley, his posture stiff against the doorjamb.
“My sisters,” said Bertie, with frank simplicity. “Like Peter’s sisters. Flopsy, Mopsy, Cot…” They struggled with the last name. “Con–tail.”
Crowley’s shoulders slumped, and Aziraphale shared a glance with him. Taking a breath, Aziraphale slipped off his glasses.
“Peter’s family is different from ours,” he said carefully. “Peter also has a mummy instead of a daddy and a papa, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah…” Bertie’s brow furrowed.
“And remember Bluey on the tv earlier,” said Crowley. “She’s got just the one sister.”
“Right!” Aziraphale flashed him a grateful smile. “And Roo in Winnie-the-Pooh—he has his mother Kanga, and no sisters at all.”
Bertie pondered this, lips pursed.
“There, you see,” said Aziraphale. “Every family is a bit different from each other.”
“Why?”
Aziraphale shuffled to the edge of the bed and reached for his cane. “I’m afraid that is the kind of matter we call ineffable, Beatrice Arthur.”
With a roll of his neck, Crowley stepped back into the bedroom. “Right!” He rubbed his hands together. “Time for inspection, then.”
He and Aziraphale launched into the nighttime routine of checking the dark spaces in the nursery. After Bertie had once discovered a cyborg from a science fiction series in their closet (writ small, but still furious and bent on extermination), Crowley and Aziraphale had taken to inspecting and quietly neutralizing the more frightening ramifications of an active three-year-old imagination. Truth be told, the ritual helped put the two of them at ease as well.
Crowley flattened himself on the floor to peer under the bed while Aziraphale looked through the closet. They examined each of the plants in the room, from the large palm to the tiniest succulent on the bookshelf.
“Looks like everything is accounted for,” said Aziraphale, flicking on the angel-shaped night light by the bed. Its painted porcelain cheeks shone merrily.
On nights where Bertie fought sleep, Crowley or Aziraphale usually ended up singing to them, but tonight it was not needed. Bertie was very drowsy by the time their parents came over to give them a goodnight kiss.
“G’night, little bastard.” Crowley pressed his lips to Bertie’s forehead. “Love you to all the moons and back.”
Aziraphale kissed their cheek next. “Good night, my dearest raindrop. I love you most desperately.”
“Night, Daddy. Night, Papa.”
Aziraphale used to tell Bertie not to let the bedbugs bite, but when that spurred their imagination to manifest real nipping insects in their blankets, he had quietly dropped the platitude from their nighttime farewells. “We’ll see you in the morning then, shall we?”
“Mnm,” said Bertie, burying their nose in their stuffed rabbit. “Love you.”
– – –
Downstairs in the bookshop study nook, Crowley burrowed into Aziraphale on the sofa.
The bookshop lamps glowed dimly golden around them. From the gramophone, a piano aria played out softly as a murmur. A bottle of 2019 La Mission Haut-Brion stood open on the table in front of the sofa. Crowley set his half-empty glass next to the wine so that he could huddle up to Aziraphale properly. Head tucked into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, Crowley soaked up his warmth like a reptile on a sun-baked rock.
There was a gentle brush of lips against his temple.
“You look tired,” Aziraphale muttered into Crowley’s hair. “I hope you sleep better tonight.”
It was never much of a secret when one of them had not slept well. It was the kind of secret they had both learned to not keep to themselves.
What was it this time, one would whisper to the other. The cell, the other would answer. The stairs. The Flood. You.
Aziraphale had battled nightmares a month ago. Last night, it was Crowley.
He had dreamed of a hallway in Heaven, white, straight, and perfect. Crowley stood at one end and the archangels at the other. He held Bertie close to his chest. Their little body grew heavier in his arms, and Crowley’s legs did not seem to work. The archangels kept getting closer, not bothering to hurry, knowing they had their quarry well within their grasp. Crowley had finally managed to snap his eyes open just as he could make out the lines separating Gabriel’s teeth, as white and straight and perfect as the halls around them. Aziraphale’s face was there in the darkness of their bedroom to replace him, his hand massaging soothing patterns over Crowley’s arm and shoulder.
It was a ritual they were well familiar with. Whatever they dreamed of, whoever had dreamed it, they always held each other afterwards.
Crowley often felt particularly clingy towards Aziraphale and Bertie the day after having a nightmare, and today was no exception. He wriggled into Aziraphale’s side and hooked a knee over his left thigh, being careful not to let his foot swing into Aziraphale’s right calf.
A car honked in the streets outside, and the Bentley grumbled back.
Crowley groaned and inhaled the dust-and-cologne scent of Aziraphale’s neck. “Never thought I’d say this out loud, but maybe there is something to be said for the quiet of country life.”
Aziraphale took a prim sip of his wine. “It does grow increasingly appealing, doesn’t it?”
“Mm. I like the thought of a small village where no one knows us.” A place with no opportunities for chance encounters in parks, he did not say.
Crowley rolled his thoughts onward. “I keep picturing a cottage with a big garden, a greenhouse out back. And enough space for a library, of course.” He twirled a finger at the books around them.
Aziraphale cooed like a pigeon encountering the prospect of spilled chips on pavement. “Ahh, that does sound like just the thing!” he said. “I keep thinking of a place near the seaside, with sand for Bertie to play in, and lots of seagulls for them to name.”
“Oh, yes. Flocks and flocks of birds are non-negotiable. If the village doesn’t have at least all the kinds mentioned in the Twelve Days of Christmas, well! It isn’t worth considering, by Bertie standards.”
They had discussed it a few times now, the cottage. It was an idea they tossed around as if casually kicking a ball back and forth, toeing it on the grass.
“Perhaps,” said Aziraphale, his voice softer now, “if we play our cards right, we can find a place with… with room to grow.”
The Bach melody chimed away from the gramophone. Crowley glanced briefly up at Aziraphale. “Maybe.”
He did not need to voice his misgivings—he knew Aziraphale felt the same way. They had also spoken of this in the late hours after they tucked Bertie in bed.
“I was wondering if Bertie would ask us about siblings one day,” said Crowley. “Guess the penny finally dropped.”
Aziraphale sighed into his wineglass. “And as they’re your child, they’re bound to ask a second time, and a third. And I expect the question could come to be rather more pointed and harder for us to wiggle out of.”
Crowley grunted in agreement. “You know we can’t make any promises.”
They were both well aware of the hurdles.
Another pregnancy would run the risk of tripping Heaven’s trackers again. A new anomaly would show up in the angelic division of the Akashic Records. Heaven had not been able to track Bertie directly last time, but Crowley and Aziraphale did not feel up to risking that possibility with a second child. The potential hint of Tablibik’s presence earlier that day made the question all the more pertinent.
“No promises,” echoed Aziraphale.
In the years since Bertie’s birth, after Crowley had fully healed, he and Aziraphale had been very careful. When it came to sex, they frequently matched each other’s Efforts, or avoided penetrative sex altogether. For intercourse involving different Efforts, they took extensive precautions. Aziraphale researched human infertility and walked them through the particulars of adjusting their corporations. Eggs stayed within ovaries, and emissions of spend lacked potency. Those failsafes remained in place when they swapped Efforts.
Even so, Crowley sometimes trembled during the times he received or entered Aziraphale that way. After one especially anxious interrupted session, Aziraphale gently suggested that they use a selection of human birth control methods to further bolster their sense of confidence. It certainly helped ease Crowley’s mind. Clever humans, always finding ways around things.
They had to be careful. For the sake of their family, they could not afford doubt.
Crowley ached for a reality where they could.
“I, I don’t want Bertie to go through life as the only one of their kind.” Aziraphale’s throat bobbed. “I don’t want them to feel… lonely.”
Crowley could have reminded him that Bertie had a wide circle of loving human guardians. But he knew what Aziraphale meant, on a bone-deep level. He swept a hand over Aziraphale’s thigh, fighting the pressure building in his lungs. Light bounced off the deep redness in the wine bottle before them.
“There’s no one else quite like them, is there?” said Aziraphale.
“Adam’s close,” said Crowley, knowing it was not quite the same.
Bertie’s essence was uniquely their own. Certainly they had ineffable abilities that went beyond the presence of wings. Their first conscious miracle had been to turn their clothes purple when they were a year old. But like Adam, so much about them and their nature remained a mystery.
“And they have us,” Crowley added after a moment.
Aziraphale smiled sadly and set his wineglass next to Crowley’s on the table. As he drew back into Crowley, he murmured, “I would love to carry your child, you know.”
“I know you would.” Crowley slung his arm over Aziraphale’s shoulders. “I’d like it too.”
Aziraphale adjusted his body around him, the softness of his middle pushing against Crowley’s side. Something tugged in Crowley’s gut at the thought of Aziraphale’s form rounding out with their child. He imagined what it would be like to feel the movements of their unborn baby from the outside. Reflecting on his own pregnancy with Bertie, the phantom of their kicks prodded at him.
Crowley stared out into the shelves of the shop and let out a breath. “Maybe I would even do it again myself someday,” he said, not bothering to swallow the words. “Get pregnant again, I mean.”
In all their tentative talks around the subject of a second child, Crowley had never directly voiced this possibility before—had hardly admitted it even to himself. He sensed Aziraphale watching him intently.
“You would?” asked Aziraphale, barely above a whisper.
Crowley shrugged and kept his eyes fastened on a row of books. “Maybe. I dunno.” Flexing his fingers at Aziraphale’s shoulder, he tried to put his startling thoughts into order, without quite succeeding. “Getting to do it again, but differently, knowing what we’re doing… ehh, it’s something.”
“I know what you mean,” said Aziraphale, still quiet. Crowley looked back at him again. Aziraphale’s storm-coloured eyes were bright and crimped with what Crowley recognized as regret. Crowley’s thoughts fell into a clearer pattern then.
He imagined it: going through another pregnancy with enthusiastic intention. No running away. No isolated, lonely terror in a hotel room. Instead, Crowley would have Aziraphale beside him from the very beginning, as soon as the lines appeared on a white stick. He imagined announcing the news with joy and triumph. Not leaning away when Aziraphale reached out to soothe his nausea and aches, but taking comfort from him in the way Crowley was still learning to. Kissing Aziraphale and being kissed by him throughout. He tried to imagine, briefly, what it would be like to give birth in safety and support, on their own terms.
Aziraphale’s arms entwined around Crowley’s torso, warm and tight. “I want to give that to you someday.”
“You’ve given me so much, angel.” Crowley glanced at the cane leaning against the table. The handle hovered near the wine, but there was no danger of it toppling over onto the bottle and glasses. Crowley’s eyes flicked next to Aziraphale’s wrist, just visible above his shirt cuff. Absent-mindedly, Crowley traced a fingertip over the blue veins showing through the skin. If he focused very closely, he could almost feel the ichor coursing through his own body.
Aziraphale drew them back onto the cushions, shifting so that Crowley lay on top of him. The wooden framework of the sofa grumbled at their movements.
“Well.” Crowley wedged his way between Aziraphale’s legs, minding the right one. “It’s a moot point for now, anyway.”
“But only for now, perhaps,” said Aziraphale.
“Right. We always figure things out in the end. One way or another, we land on our feet.”
Aziraphale let out a sound between a groan and a sigh. “After considerable trial and error, and sometimes rather heavier on the error side of things than I’d like.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Crowley’s head fell to Aziraphale’s chest. “But we do get there in the end, don’t we?”
“I suppose we do. You really are a stubborn old fiend.”
“Not as stubborn as you.” Crowley rubbed the flat of his hand over Aziraphale’s velvet waistcoat lapels. “If I know you, you won’t stop until you figure it out.”
Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled at him. “You do know me, my dear.”
Crowley smiled and nosed at Aziraphale’s neck, kissing the exposed skin above his collar. It was a place Crowley was always sure to be gentle around. At the same time, he brushed the pink bowtie beneath it with the backs of his fingers.
The current movement on the record faded to a close. Crowley’s eyes roamed over the study nook cocooning him and Aziraphale, taking in the bookshelves, the globe, the chessboard, the desk strewn with papers, the trusty old brocade armchair. He and Aziraphale were written into every inch of this space.
Repositioning his arms, Crowley lifted his upper body off Aziraphale so that he could hover over him and look him straight in the eye. He braced one hand against the sofa armrest by Aziraphale’s head and dug his nails into the fabric.
“Even if it never does happen,” said Crowley, in almost a growl, “we’ve got our Bertie. We’ve got us. We’ve got this.”
“That we do.” Aziraphale stared back at him and clutched Crowley’s shoulder.
They had fought like hell—and like heaven—for what they had. They would continue to fight for it.
Aziraphale’s palm travelled down past Crowley’s shoulderblade. He smoothed his hands along Crowley’s ribs, his plush thighs pressing warmly on the narrow waist situated between them. Crowley’s grip loosened on the sofa armrest. With a smile, Aziraphale slid up Crowley’s shirt to expose the stretch marks that still lingered on his stomach like flakes of cracked pepper. Aziraphale traced the scales reverently with his thumbs, as always. Crowley’s skin tingled pleasantly at the touch, and he sighed, twitching his hips against Aziraphale’s body.
“First things first.” Aziraphale’s voice was a low rumble now, the kind of pitch that set Crowley’s corporation stirring even further. “If we do find a way—if we do end up having another baby someday… hadn’t you better make an honest angel of me before then?”
“Eh?” Crowley cocked his head.
“We had a child the way humans do. Let’s do the whole thing properly.” Aziraphale wetted his lips with his tongue and blinked several times. “An awful lot of humans give marriage a try, so I suppose… I suppose we ought to as well.”
Crowley’s own tongue had gone numb. “What.”
“Oh, Crowley, honestly!” Aziraphale plucked at the hem of Crowley’s shirt—more of a nervous fidgeting motion than one of amorous forwardness. “I’m, well—I’m asking you to marry me.”
“Ngk! Marry—” spluttered Crowley. The tension in his arms evaporated, and he nearly collapsed on top of Aziraphale. A rush of joyful hope in his chest battled against a protestation of thwarted plans. “Bless it, Aziraphale! I was going to ask you to marry me!”
“You—wait, what!” Aziraphale’s words were high-pitched again, and his eyelids fluttered rapidly.
“Yeah!” Crowley spoke in a squawk now as well. “I had a night planned for the Ritz and everything.”
Aziraphale gasped. “Oh, good lord! You did?”
“Yuh, krshngh—yes! I hid a ring in the Bentley!”
“Oh my.” Aziraphale clapped his hand to his mouth. “So that’s why she keeps winking her headlight at me lately.”
“Shit,” said Crowley, bowing his head. “I had a plan.”
“My apologies for ruining it,” Aziraphale murmured. “Oh dear. Oh my.”
Crowley moaned pathetically.
Aziraphale’s hand crept to Crowley’s upper arm. “But, really, my dear. It’s only to be expected.” The low tone had returned to his voice. “Ask yourself: since when have our lives ever worked out exactly according to plan? As far as you and I are concerned, all plans may as well be ineffable.”
Crowley snorted. “You bastard,” he said before leaning in to kiss Aziraphale. With a pleased giggle, Aziraphale angled his head to invite Crowley in deeper. Lingering traces of Bordeaux wine merged together on their tongues, earthy and sweet. The hull of the sofa creaked beneath them, emitting the groans of an old ship travelling along a well-known route.
“Yes, by the way,” Crowley said quietly after a moment between kisses. Something began to thunder behind his eyes, and the buttery lamplight at the edge of his vision smeared. “My answer’s yes. It’s always been yes.”
Aziraphale beamed, the line of his lashes dewy. “Likewise, you old serpent, whenever you get around to asking me.”
“Guess it might as well be now. We’re here.”
“We’re here.”
Crowley gulped in a breath and grinned down at Aziraphale. “Marry me, then, angel?”
“Oh, Crowley. Yes.” Aziraphale smiled into another kiss. He cupped his hands on either side of Crowley’s face and dropped back to look at him head-on.
The gleam in Aziraphale’s gaze was like the fixed beacon of a lighthouse, unwaveringly pointing the way homeward. Crowley moored himself to it, knowing he was anchored on firm ground. Tears finally broke free to rim his eyes. Gently, Aziraphale thumbed at the soft creases there.
“Yes,” repeated Aziraphale. “With all my heart, with everything in me. Yes, yes, yes, yes.” His lips met Crowley’s again, slow, sure, and sound. With a half-sob, half-laugh, Crowley joined him.
They deepened their movements as one. Crowley sank down into Aziraphale, the softest of landings.
Whatever happened, they would stumble into it easily enough.
– – –
Upstairs in a star-strewn room, a not-quite-demon, not-quite-angel, not-quite-human being stirs beneath their quilt and opens their eyes. Their surroundings are dim, save for the glow of the angel night light shining against the colourful walls.
They are—not frightened, exactly, to find themself in the dark. Beatrice Arthur Crowley-Fell knows there are scary things in the world.
For one, fireworks, the kind that are so loud that Papa has to build a fort for Bertie to hide in. There is also the shadowy space under their bed, and in their closet, where once they found a monster exactly like one with the scary voice they had seen on the television (Daddy had dealt with it handily).
When they all visit Warlock—the times where Daddy and Papa dress up—they sometimes play a game where Warlock will be a growling T.Rex, and Bertie, screeching, will run and hide as he chases them. But that is a pretend scary, a fun scary.
There are other kinds of not-real things that are scary. Bertie sometimes dreams about a place with shining white walls and ceilings. It is very big, very tall, and very empty. Bertie does not like this dream, though they do not know why. Sometimes they hear Daddy or Papa’s voices in the dream, though, and that makes it less frightening.
Once Bertie got lost in the park with the funny statues. They followed a pigeon too far, and realized too late that Daddy and Papa were nowhere to be seen. That was very scary. The grown-ups who asked Bertie where their parents were did not seem to know Daddy and Papa, not even when Bertie gave their names for each other (My Dear and Angel). For many terrible moments, Bertie struggled to wrap their head around the idea of a world without Papa or Daddy.
A different kind of scary was when Daddy and Papa finally found them. Daddy ran up to them and hugged them way too tight, his breath very hot and fast on Bertie’s ear. Papa, hurrying behind as fast as he could, cried as he kissed them. Bertie didn’t know that Papa—smiling, sparkle-eyed Papa—could cry like that.
As they drove home in the Bentley that day, Daddy and Papa spoke in slow voices Bertie had never heard them use before. They explained that they had been very frightened when Bertie was missing, and Bertie was never, ever to wander off by themself again.
Before that day, Bertie did not know that Daddy or Papa were ever afraid. Daddy, who was so tall, who could turn into a big snake with coils that made a perfect place for Bertie to take a nap, who chased away the monsters in the closet. Papa, whose voice could rumble so deeply in his chest when he sang Bertie to sleep, who lifted them into the air as easily as Bertie might carry Peter Rabbit, whose cane sheathed a sharp sword he once showed to Bertie in secret. But even Daddy and Papa could be afraid.
Bertie stares at the stars painted on the walls and ceiling of their room, squeezes Peter Rabbit to their chest, and hums a Bentley song. It is a pattern they have followed before when they cannot sleep. Soon the stars glaze into a blur, and Bertie is asleep again, content and safe.
Beatrice Arthur Crowley-Fell knows the world can be scary. But they know that the world has their Daddy and Papa in it, too.
– – –