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Crowley stared into the basket, features creased into… Well, into what would have been a frown, if he was entirely sure that there was a need for a frown.
“One… Two… Three…” he muttered, fingertips moving along with his count as he looked over his children. “That doesn’t seem right. Wait a minute. One… Two… Thr-Oh, that’s-.” He paused, and looked over his shoulder. “Yeah, no, that’s not good.” Peeking back into the basket, where three-quarters of his offspring were currently curled together, Crowley bit his lip. “Well, shit. I-I-NO. No, don’t repeat that. Your father will kill me.”
Three sets of eyes stared up at Crowley. No one hissed a syllable.
But, yeah. Yeah, there was definitely cause for a frown.
Oh, that was dandy. Just fucking peachy. Aziraphale had left the house for two hours. Two hours. Count them: One. Two. (Still was far better accuracy than he was having, at the moment). He’d gone to the bookshop, leaving Crowley in charge of their four children. Now, count them: One. Two. Three. (See that? There was no way in the world to get four from three. Well, except for New Math. Who the hell knew what was going on there).
With a heavy sigh, Crowley scrubbed his hands over his face. Ohhh, the ways that Aziraphale was going to punish him. None of them fun. The children were only days old. Days. And he’d already gone and misplaced one of them.
Worse off, he wasn’t sure which one it was that he’d lost. The thought set something to sinking in his gut. He was a terrible mother.
“All right,” he continued, taking in a deep breath. “All right, let’s see.” Crouching down, Crowley put himself at eye-level with his babies. Their basket had been placed on the sofa, under the warmth of a floor-standing heat lamp. A little oasis, just for them.
How fitting, that one of them didn’t get the memo.
Crowley leaned forward, until his nose was pressed to the basket’s edge. He hadn’t made a habit of saying it out loud, but damn, they’d made some adorable little brats. Hellions, the lot of them.
“So, I see that Pinky’s still here.” The child in-question flicked her tongue out. Crowley smiled a little, picking his head up to return the gesture. The little girl was an easy spot. She’d been born with a small cluster of blush-coloured scales on her left side, which neither of her parents could really account for. The rest of her body was pitch black, as were her brother and sister, beside her.
“Heckle. Jeckle. I see you’re both minding yourselves, as well.” Both children raised their heads at the same time. Aziraphale hated that he called them that. Bitched, endlessly, that he was going to give them some sort of a complex. Or worse, that they’d come to like the unfortunate little nicknames. But really, what else was he to have called them? Two identical little jokesters, hiding out in the same egg. Those two were born up to something, he could see it in their mischievous little eyes. To be perfectly honest, he was surprised that they weren’t the ones he was looking for.
That left the one child that, quite frankly, had been pegged for the ‘good one’.
Well, so much for that.
“Don’t suppose you’d be able to nudge me in your brother’s direction, mm?” No sooner did the words leave his mouth, than he heard a quiet clattering sound come from the kitchen. “Ah. Speak of you-know-who.” Standing back to his feet, Crowley glanced to the Trio of Terror. “Have a nap, while I see if your brother’s dethroned any of you in the Tournament of Troublemakers.”
Crowley stepped into the kitchen and glanced around. There wasn’t much for the boy to get into in that room, which loosened the knot that had tied itself around his heart. Terrible mother or no, the thought of anything, at all, befalling his children was enough to make him want to burst into tears. (And he’d had enough of that while pregnant, thank you, very much). Knowing that this was just a case of ‘over the wall’, well, he could live with that. Now, it was just about ending the jailbreak.
“All right, you little rascal. I know you’re in here.” He paused, and listened. Nothing, for one beat, then two. Finally, he heard that same clattering noise again. It took a second to register, before Crowley frowned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He knew that sound. Oh, he knew it well. In three short, quick strides, he crossed to the counter. There was a ceramic jar on the counter, pure white, with a tartan band, and matching cover. One of Aziraphale’s 'homey little touches’ to Crowley’s flat. (And, oh, he’d accused his angel of being touched, all right). Upon closer inspection, the jar’s lid was askew.
Crowley smirked. He might have known.
Lifting the lid, Crowley peered into the jar, and huffed out a relieved laugh. Settled in the center of the jar, atop a mound of biscuits, was his missing child. Said child stared at his mother, caught, with a biscuit wedged in his mouth. He held still, showing off the tiny little stripe of red at his underbelly. Crowley wasn’t sure if he was scared of being in trouble, or still hoping to get away with it, unseen.
Either way, it was adorable as hell, and, had it been anyone else’s child, he probably would have gagged. As it was his own, well.
Reaching a hand into the jar, Crowley scooped the boy out. “Get out of there, you.” He eyed the biscuit, and raised an eyebrow. Tried not to smile. “Now, you’re not supposed to be eating those.” It might have been his imagination, but he could have sworn that the tiny thing clamped down on the biscuit, even harder. Crowley's smirk widened. “I know, I know, Freddie. You want it. That’s what matters.” Blue eyes held his gaze bravely, almost defiant. Defiant, and all too familiar.
Replacing the lid on the jar, Crowley leaned a hip against the counter. He set Freddie down beside the jar, before crossing his arms over his chest. “Just like your father, aren’t you?” he murmured fondly. Freddie wiggled to the side, just a little, but didn’t let go of his prized treat. He seemed awfully pleased with himself, now. “You know, this reminds me of a time, some years ago, now… You see, it all started when your father wanted some crepes.”
The story didn’t quite make it off the runway before the front door opened. “Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice called, concerned, surely for the fact that three of their children were presently unsupervised.
“In here, angel,” Crowley returned, gaze still fixed on their wayward child. “Come and have a look at what your son is up to.” He grinned, proud beyond measure. “Bit of the devil in this one, I think.”