Chapter Text
“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale complained. “I’m afraid that this is all quite beyond salvaging.”
Crowley rolled his eyes. “I will buy you another waistcoat.”
The pet park was currently a madhouse of people in uniform, official vehicles, and inquisitive village residents. Shadwell had been the first officer on the scene after the young lady with the terrier had called 999, and was making at least a token effort at keeping nosy parkers away. Still, this was definitely the most exciting event to have happened in Tadfield since the turn-of-the-millennium fireworks had set the thatched roof of the public house on fire.
Crowley raised his left arm and made excessively dramatic faces as the paramedic gently poked at his ribs where Hastur had kicked him. Fortunately, nothing seemed to be broken, but he was going to have some spectacular bruises.
The village had only the single ambulance, and that had been commandeered immediately for their other assailant, the unconscious one, in the hope that his arm could be saved.[27] So Crowley and Aziraphale were seated side by side on the nearest park bench, being provided with some preliminary patching-up before being transported to the A&E. The police had taken their initial statements and had suggested very strongly that they follow up after receiving care, but Aziraphale wasn’t worried. The children who had been filming their dog’s antics had swiftly turned their mobiles to zoom in on the more intriguing fisticuffs, and the evidence would surely demonstrate that their every action had been in self-defence.
More significantly, a cursory search of the other criminal — Hastur, Crowley had named him — once he had stopped his incoherent screaming, that is, had revealed an unambiguously unlicensed concealed firearm. Right now, the handcuffed Hastur was surrounded by at least four uniformed individuals, as he muttered to himself over and over, “Dog didn't need to do that. He hadn't done nothing to him." His dazed expression suggested that he was still in too much of a state of shock to pose a threat to anyone.
Aziraphale himself was probably concussed, certainly due for some stitches for that nasty gash on his arm, and resigned to being covered with plasters and bandages and firmly admonished to stay away from any amount of alcohol — which last strictures he may or may not choose to obey. His entire body was aching, one of his favourite outfits was a dead loss, and he had possibly never been so happy in his entire life.
While he had still been lost in the fog of the blow to his head, gazing with mingled horror and relief at Gabriel’s ruthless, efficient … intervention … he had gradually become aware that Crowley had somehow made his way to his side, clinging to his hand and calling his name over and over. Only when he had managed to respond (rather nonsensically, he realised later) “Oh, good afternoon, dear boy,” had Crowley curtly commanded his dog to back off.
He had not, however, let go of Aziraphale’s hand.
He still hadn’t.
Aziraphale had no intention of suggesting that he might, either.
“So, where’d you learn to fight like that, anyhow?” Crowley asked him, squeezing said hand tightly. “Almost gave me a heart attack, you did, when you pushed your way in between Ligur and me.”
Ligur, Aziraphale noted conscientiously. Michael was always so insistent that one remember the name of an honourably defeated opponent. “I wouldn’t call that fighting, exactly, my dear. Purely defensive. I spent a great deal of my youth being forced to practise sparring –- I believe that I mentioned my brother the general?”
Crowley laughed softly in disbelief. “You said military, angel. Nothing about the top brass.”
“Well, that’s neither here nor there, but … Michael was relentless. I believe he hoped to, er, toughen me up. I don’t know if there was any success there, and I hadn’t thought I recalled anything of it, but it turns out that having someone come at you with a knife is an experience that one never quite forgets. Perhaps I should send him a note of thanks.”
“Maybe you should,” Crowley said. There was a peculiarly earnest look on his face. “Maybe I should.” He looked away, then perked up. “Oh, finally, they’ve released the mutts!”
Dr. Pulsifer emerged from a gaggle of officers, leading a muzzled Gabriel on a short leash. Mx Bee trotted close beside, wagging zir tail triumphantly. Ze had quite refused to allow the police to take Gabriel with them, snarling and snapping and nearly getting zirself muzzled as well, until Aziraphale sensibly suggested that the veterinarian be summoned. A very casually attired Newton had then arrived and delivered Mx Bee into the hands of his capable “assistant”, Anathema Device. He then argued vigorously against those who wanted Gabriel to be tranquilised –- if not put down immediately –- on behalf of public safety.
Strangely enough, Gabriel’s strongest advocate was actually one Sergeant Shadwell, who strenuously insisted that the dog was “noo but a creampuff” and flat-out refused to believe that he could have possibly inflicted any such damage, until he reviewed the children’s recordings. However, those same recording also clearly demonstrated that not only were Gabriel’s actions probably responsible for saving multiple lives, but also that the animal was at all times under the control of Crowley’s commands, which did as much as all Newton’s and Shadwell’s assurances to convince the police to release Gabriel back to his owner.
“But you should probably keep the muzzle on until you’re entirely clear from here,” Newton advised, “Just to keep anyone from getting nervous and stupid.”
Crowley had at last released Aziraphale’s hand to vigorously rub the face and ears of his ecstatic pet, who was doing his best to climb into the handyman’s lap. “Good boy, good boy, who’s my brave hero? Who saved the day? Yes, it’s Gabriel, it is, it is!”
Aziraphale didn’t mind, since he needed both of his own hands to pick up and cuddle the equally pleased (if far more dignified) Mx Bee. Besides, there was something endearing about the effortlessly cool Crowley resorting to cooing baby-talk. “You were quite the hero as well, my darling,” he assured the Dachshund. “Without your timely courage as a distraction, all would have been lost.”
“Yeah, you both did great,” Crowley agreed. Without needing to say a word, the two men transferred their affectionate patting and praise to the other dog. They made quite the cosy little huddle on the bench, Aziraphale thought. Almost like … well, he shouldn’t get ahead of himself, should he?
After several minutes of mutual canine appreciation, one of the paramedics interrupted them by clearing his throat. “The ambulance is back,” he said. “If you gentlemen would like to accompany us to the hospital so we can continue your care?”
“Oh, but the dogs …” Aziraphale answered in distress.
“They can stay at my place, if you like,” Anathema butted in. [28] “Gabriel deserves all the fussing over, and I’m sure that Mx Bee wants to tell Dagon about zir fierceness.” She took both their leads confidently.
Aziraphale couldn’t suppress the wave of sentiment he felt, watching the two dogs stroll off with his best friend. Look at them, on the same side, he thought.
Gabriel seemed to be feeling much the same, as he leaned down to lick Mx Bee on the ear.
The smaller dog promptly cuffed him.
Gabriel yipped and kept his distance.
***
Six months later
Madame Tracy tapped her teeth with her pencil, and regarded the two men standing before her, each with a dog seated decorously at his side. “You know, we don’t normally permit joint adoptions by persons who do not share a household,” she said severely.
The red-haired fellow looked at his feet, his face crimson. “We’re working on it,” he muttered.
“Our clients have suffered enough trauma already,” she continued. “We don’t want to cause them any additional confusion or, even worse, the pain of abandonment –”
“My dear Tracy,” the blond said, amusement in his voice. “Don’t torture poor Crowley, please. You wouldn’t have contacted us in the first place, if you hadn’t found the right pet already, and decided that we would be the best placement.”
She laughed and put down the clipboard. “Why, Mr. Fell, how presumptuous of you.” She glanced at Crowley, her eyes dancing. “Love makes you daring, it seems.”
Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to pinken, but he kept his chin high. “Quite,” he agreed. “And the animal in question?”
“Not so fast,” she said. She looked at each of the dogs in turn, eyebrows raised. “This is highly irregular, you know.”
“Shouldn’t be,” Crowley said. “They’re as much a part of the family as anyone, aren’t they? I wouldn’t do this without their vote.” Aziraphale nodded.
Tracy agreed with them wholeheartedly, although she wouldn’t say so out loud, and felt even more confident in her decision. “All right, then, I’ll ask Mr. S. to bring out young Warlock, then.”
“Warlock?” Crowley asked in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you’re allowing that old fart to give the dogs names now?”
“Certainly not,” she answered primly. “Warlock was named by the family that purchased him. An American couple. Unfortunately, it seems that they had to return to the States unexpectedly –- politics, you know how it is — and didn’t see it as possible to take the poor chap with them.” She did not voice her disapproval of self-centred Yanks who bought a trendy breed on a whim, then found the needs and disruption of the real animal to be an inconvenience to their high-flying lifestyle. Yes, the moody, anxious Warlock would be much better off with this sweet caring couple. The two older dogs would provide balance in his life and tutor him in everything he needed to learn.
Four heads suddenly turned[29] at the sound of claws scrabbling on the tile floor. Shadwell appeared, tugging on a lead attached to the small dark dog trotting reluctantly into the room.
As soon as he could, the miniature Doberman Pinscher collapsed sullenly, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. He would be a handsome dog one day, with his almost-black coat and warm cream belly; but right now, he was still an ungainly sprawl scarcely out of puppyhood, all awkward legs and ears and attitude.
Aziraphale, of course, promptly melted.
“Oh, look at you, you darling pup!” he exclaimed, clasping his hands together and wiggling with joy. He approached cautiously, crouching down low so as to not loom over Warlock, and holding out the back of one respectful hand near the dog’s face.
Warlock sniffed his fingers cautiously. He licked them quickly, then looked away again.
“Aren’t you brave?” Aziraphale encouraged. He patted the floor beside him. “Come, Mx Bee. What would you think of a, hmm, younger brother? Nephew? Godchild?”
The Dachshund approached regally and gave the other dog a disdainful once-over. Warlock huddled down into himself. Mx Bee whuffed in exasperation and butted him on the shoulder gently. Warlock opened one eye and his stubby tail bapped the floor, just once.
“Minion, I’d say, is more like it,” Crowley smirked. “Your turn, Gabe. Mind how you go, now. Be nice to the little hellion.”
The big silver Alsatian pranced over to the other two dogs. He sniffed Warlock from tail to head, and back down to his tail again. Then, unable to contain his excitement, he bounced once or twice, and skidded into a play bow, with one deep, resonant bark.
Warlock shrank back.
Mx Bee rapped Gabriel smartly on the nose. He yelped and rolled over, exposing his belly.
“Oh yes,” Crowley said, “I think we can work with this.”
“Indeed,” said Aziraphale, smiling. He scratched Warlock gently behind the ears. The Dobie pushed his head into his hand, whining a little. “Welcome, little one, to the very first day of the rest of your life.”
FIN
Footnotes
27. The ear, however, was a lost cause; and even with extensive plastic surgery, half of his face would probably never look the same.↩
28. Aziraphale hadn’t even noticed that she was still there, watching and grinning in satisfaction, but now that he thought about it, where else would she have been?↩
29. Well, three heads. Mx Bee, as always, managed to appear utterly indifferent and vaguely contemptuous of everything going on about zir. Tracy wasn’t fooled one bit.↩