Chapter Text
It just had to be impossible for a chair to be this uncomfortable. There must have been some sort of meeting, a collective of stuffy suits hm ing and chin-stroking at each other while they devised this sorry excuse of a sitting device. There was probably even a reason why they did it, besides the general sadistic nature of businessmen. Maybe being uncomfortable makes people more likely to let slip some things they wouldn't have otherwise. Excluding him, of course. He was just uncomfortable, not inclined to share anything he didn’t need to.
“It just might be the best option for you at this time.”
Crowley shifted in his chair for what was probably the seventh time, finally tuning back into the conversation at hand. He wrinkled his face. “I don’t– really? I know it’s not, eeeeueh, the best it’s ever been but it’s not that bad, is it?”
His case manager, Ms. Anathema Device, folded her hands in her lap. “Mr. Crowley, your university has reported a total of three unintentional drops in one month. Not only is that less than ideal, it is a sign that your gap is thinning and will continue to get worse. I know your counselor has already warned you that you may be kicked from the program entirely if it goes on.”
“Nnyeah. But full time care? How the fff– how would I get to classes?”
“We recommend enrolling online. I assure you that this facility would fully support you through your bachelor’s.”
“And let a bunch of self– self-congratulatory government Caregivers play hero? No thank you,” he sneered and shifted again in the plasticky chair.
“I know you’re hesitant,” she shifted in her own seat, though it was more plush than his own. “But at this point, the agency isn’t going to let you do anything else.”
Crowley huffed. “I thought that this last care group was going well.”
Anathema barked out a laugh. “Anthony, you bit your group Caregiver.” It usually only took her a few minutes after sharing whatever shitty news she had before she dropped the more professional veneer and got real with him. As much as he both loved and hated her for it.
Finally willing to let his own veneer slip, Crowley petulantly slid down in his seat, unable to keep from pouting. “Was an accident.”
She softened with a sigh. “I know that, and so does he. We all know you don’t mean it. It just– I think it might be easier for you if you had more structure.”
“Yeah,” he scoffed, “Cause it’s just sooo helpful.” Crowley shrunk in on himself. “Has it…has it really gotten that bad?”
“It– hasn’t gotten better. And I know it can. So we’re going to try this and see how it goes.”
“But full time care, Device?” Crowley sneered.
“To be clear, this meeting isn’t to suggest alternatives.” Anathema seemed to steel herself and shook her head. “It’s to tell you that you should start packing up and reaching out to your advisor. Toiletries are provided, and you can bring up to two comfort items not including pacifiers.”
“Are you–” Crowley gaped. “Are you fucking serious? This is happening?”
“This is happening,” Anathema repeated, unfairly calm. “And we will see you at Little Eden care off Hart street on Wednesday morning at 8am.”
“I– Device–”
“I think this will be good for you. You need to drop more often, and under more comfortable circumstances. A twice-a-week care group just isn’t cutting it anymore.”
Crowley just sat there slack-jawed. Suddenly the chair didn’t feel as uncomfortable anymore. Not in the face of this unbelievably shite news.
“And who knows? Maybe the Caregiver who can finally get you to relax will be there.” Anathema, the bastard, nonchalantly moved the clipboard heavy with his information from her lap to her desk like she was done with it.
“Not bloody likely!” Crowley was done being ‘open to ideas’ and sat straight up in his chair, incredulous and furious. He should have run the moment she said that she had a new plan.
“Try to be positive.” Now she looked entirely at peace, which, rude. “I’ll be in at about noon to check on you. I’ll bring some of those strawberry puffs you like when you’re small, you’ll probably appreciate them by then.”
“Not. Likely,” Crowley ground out, ignoring Anathema’s grin. “No one has ever managed to make me drop on their time, and no one has ever gotten me to shut up when I’m upset like…that. And it’s not going to happen. No one has, and no one will.”
It likely wasn’t necessary to pull into the parking space with such minuscule, lurching accelerations, but Aziraphale would be kidding himself if he said he wasn’t verging on his headspace. Just — you could never be too sure if there were little ones running around! And it was just safest if he was careful.
Granted, they probably wouldn't be…running around outside willy-nilly. But maybe someone was arriving at the clinic, or someone else was leaving, or maybe there was an escapee.
He agonizingly jerked into the space. Press, pause. Press, pause. Press, press. Pause. He was late, which was not the best first impression for his first day. But he had forgotten to turn on the kettle when he made his tea this morning. And, even at 32 years old, he was still constitutionally incapable of starting a day without his cup of Twinings’s english blend. At this point it wasn’t even the caffeine so much as the ritual of drinking it and starting his day on a familiar foot.
Press, press. Oh, for god’s sake, just park, Aziraphale.
It was the bright green, drooping leaf sign with the words Little Eden scribbled across that assured him he had finally made it to the center in one piece. The building, in the outskirts of the main city, was large and brown. It didn’t look necessarily confining or brutalist, but didn’t telegraph its young occupants either. He twitched into the space with a final press and squeezed the steering wheel.
He sighed aloud. “Alright. It’s time.” And proceeded to sit still, just staring at the sign for at least another 30 seconds before he finally left the car — double-and-triple checking it was in park — to push inside.
He didn’t know what he was expecting, but the minimalist waiting room was not quite it. Large chairs with old geometric patterns, a few potted plants that looked less-than-enthused to be there, and a small play table that seemed like an unused afterthought. He startled at the soft voice of the receptionist.
“Morning! What can I help you with?” She cocked her head to the side, her smile almost-perfectly tacked on.
“Ah– yes. Hello. Good morning. Uh–” Aziraphale fidgeted with the strap of his book bag. “Yes, I’m Aziraphale Fell? I’m here for the ah, Caregiver volunteer program.”
“Oh-kay! Just one moment.” The receptionist clacked away at her keyboard while Aziraphale busied himself with staring at the activity table. Did they properly sanitize it each time a new Little played with it? And with something that was safe for skin? Nothing like bleach, oh no. And nothing with synthetic scents, that may cause irritation as well.
“Someone will be up here in just a moment to collect you, Mr. Fell.” She didn’t look at him as she spoke, instead tapping insistently away at a single key.
“Thank you, miss. Do I just– ah…” He gave a weak gesture to the chairs which she returned with her own quick wave.
“Of course, go ahead.”
Aziraphale sat at the very edge of the seat closest to the back door and took out his newest read. He had sanitized its cover as well, just in case of any possible cross-contamination. That’s a thing that could happen, surely? Some horrible germs brought in by one of his patrons at the library. They could have nestled into the pages of the library’s copy of A Gentleman in Moscow and infected some poor, innocent Little. Never could be too safe. He turned the pages of the book, could feel his eyes tracking the words, but couldn’t read a single word. Instead Aziraphale’s mind buzzed with the day ahead of him.
Tracy had suggested the program, and had pitched it to him with zeal every time he confessed his fears. He was still ashamed; how could there even be a Caregiver who had trouble with, well, care- giving? It was just embarrassing. No Caregiver he had ever met had trouble with something so natural. The thought alone was almost ridiculous. Tracy assured him that it was normal to be nervous about entering a headspace no matter what side of the spectrum one laid. And Aziraphale had long since beat himself up over his inadequacies and general apprehension with caretaking, deathly afraid of hurting any Littles or Middles in his care. But Tracy was the single most confident Dom Aziraphale had met. To an impressive degree; the woman simply exuded strength and pluck. So if even she had headspace hesitation in her past, then there was hope that perhaps he wasn’t so unusual and lost a cause.
So, here he was. Fidgeting in a rather uncomfortable seat, barely reading a book he brought for the express purpose of reading, and prepared to help some Littles with the Little Hands, Big Hearts program. How did Tracy put it? “To help some little ones and yourself, dear.” Though perhaps with a touch more profanity.
“Aziraphale?”
“Ah, yes, that’s me.” Aziraphale quickly stuffed his book back into his bag and looked up to see a rail of man wearing a collared shirt under a wool jumper and, unfathomably, another collared shirt atop. A strange collared sandwich.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Newton. One of the volunteers.” He ran a hand through his mop of curly hair and scratched at a slight five-o-clock shadow. “Have you ever volunteered before?” He opened the back door that Aziraphale had been so nervously eyeing and led him through.
“…Yes, though not for any Littles. Meals on Wheels. That sort of thing.” Aziraphale stared at the hallway. Messily decorated cupcake liners as flowers, drip art, cut out handprints, and paper bag jellyfish crowded the walls for attention. The floor itself was a monochrome gray and provided a shiny counterpoint to the chaotically colorful walls. The combined smell of play-dough, antiseptic, and bread lingered.
“I promise you’ll like it here, especially if you’re a Caregiver. They don’t make you do too much, just whatever you’re cleared for and like to do.” He chuckled. “I mostly just sit with the Middles and clean up some. Michael said you had signed up for the infants though, did she?”
“I did, though I really don’t have much of a preference.” Aziraphale trailed off staring at a fingerpainting. Some sort of abstract…unicorn? The artist had taken liberties with the general shape of a horse. Painfully adorable.
“Well, we’ve got the seedlings, sprouts, and stalks. That’s infants, toddlers, and middles. And then colors to make it easy to group them. Placement sort-of varies. There are some kids who slide pretty dramatically and some who’s headspace requires both toddler and Middle stuff. It just depends.” Newton stopped to give his forehead a light slap. “Ah, I completely forgot to even give you a tour. C’mon then.”
Newton took them down the hallway, which didn’t lessen in its artistry or number of soupy paintings. “It’s all sort of organized by age group. This here is Middle lounge, that’s the sensory room for the younger Littles — Michael says she put them close for any Middles who like to play with the younger ones—”
Aziraphale nodded politely, fidgeting with his strap again as he stared at the first Littles he had seen in a long while. A group of about 5, with one pigtailed little girl squealing at her giggling friend. It squeezed his heart and he looked away so he could properly focus.
“Then there’s the Middle bunks, showers — those are only for the Middles, we have table baths for the babies and normal baths for toddlers—”
One of the others belly-laughed as she threw a triangle-shaped foam block across the room. God, they were adorable.
“The kitchen, laundry room, nurse quarters, offices, that’s all in this wing—”
But what if he accidentally hurt one of them? Or yelled? Or made one cry? Oh lord, he was not cut out for this, was he.
“Aziraphale?”
“Yes! Yes, sorry, Newton.” Aziraphale startled. “Cribs in the very back, right?”
“Yeah, but– you alright?”
“I suppose I’m just… nervous. I don’t want to ruin anything.”
Newton chuckled and seemed to loosen for the first time. “Thought the same thing. You’ll be fine. If you’re that worried, you could just clean bottles.”
“No, no. I can…I’d like to help. Really help. Just… it’s been some time.”
“We could,” Newton tugged at his jumper. “Get you started with seeing the babies and see how it goes from there?”
“Yes, that sounds perfect.” Aziraphale tried to relax as much as possible. “I’m actually quite excited, I promise.” He grinned sheepishly at his obvious nerves.
“Oh yeah, don’t worry.” Newton grinned back and led him further down the hall towards the seedling’s room. “Everyone is really nice here, especially the kids. Little Eden is mostly where more anxious or special-care kids stay. Everyone’s pretty understanding.”
They were walking down the hallway, Aziraphale still entranced by the charming wall-art when he heard the screaming. Somewhere much deeper in the building to the left. Loud screams that melted into even louder, fearful wails.
Aziraphale completely stopped in his tracks, any budding excitement in his chest quickly shriveling away to make room for fear. Every instinct in his body yelled at him to run down the hall to help whatever Little was in that much pain. He clutched his chest and whirled around to Newton for an explanation lest he make a fool of himself.
Newton grimaced in sympathy. “He’s one of our special cases. Poor guy. I promise he’s okay, we have Mary in there taking care of him.”
Though it was hard to convince himself that the crying little boy would be alright, Aziraphale nodded stiffly. “…Alright. The, ah…the seedlings?”
Newton snapped himself out of the same fearful worry, seemingly thankful for the distraction. “Right down here.” He winced at another, shriller scream, but led them down the hall regardless.
It was all right, Aziraphale reassured himself. It was alright because he could help, and he would. He would sing little mindless songs to the babies and clean them up and change them and feed them and burp them. He’d read them stories like he always wanted to when he imagined taking care of a Little, and would play with their stuffies. It’d be alright. He’d be alright.
“—And of course, one of them saw fit to pull my hair and tug on it, which I thought was even more adorable than the eating fiasco I told you about on the phone—”
“Well,” Tracy’s eyes shone even brighter in mirth as she scrubbed at the casserole dish. “It sounds like you really enjoyed it.”
“I…did. I really did enjoy it.” Aziraphale paused to take another sip of the merlot they had cracked open. Though he had been nervous at first, his first day at Little Eden went spectacularly well. The sort of warm fuzzy feeling he remembered from the time he had helped out his friend’s Little had come back full force. And, if he were to be honest with himself, felt even nicer because he knew no Littles completely depended on him. It made him nervous to imagine that much responsibility, that much love someone so innocent could have for him that he could ruin in an instant. Caring for the Littles in the program let him scratch that itch without fear. “One of the older boys, about a four year old, demanded that I read him a book. It was lovely.”
“And you doubted me!” Tracey crowed. She didn’t even seem upset that she couldn’t scrub off a particularly persistent spot on the dish.
“I did, and I shouldn’t have because loathe as I am to admit it, you are always right.” Aziraphale smiled and corked the bottle.
“So I’ll assuuume you’re going back?”
“I think I might. Perhaps after work on Friday.” He wrung his hands around the bottle, thinking back to the poor screaming Little. “Oh, Tracey, it’s so sad, I can’t imagine why no one would adopt them.”
Tracey hummed. “Someone will, dear. Though–” She scrubbed harder at the dish. “I don’t know why you still just won’t try to get your own.”
“You know how I feel about that,” Aziraphale downed the rest of his wine. “I…don’t feel ready. I don’t want to subject some poor Little to–” He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the warmth of the drink. “To me.”
“Aziraphale.” Tracey slanted into her wooden chair. “I hope I don’t have to tell you how good of a Caregiver I know you are, you goose. Everything you’ve told me about volunteering sounds like the kids loved you.”
Aziraphale squeezed the bottle tighter and nodded. “…Alright. Yes. I did enjoy myself.”
“I thought so,” Tracey sniffed and took a sip of her own glass, her hands still wet from the dishes. “Doll, you need a self-esteem seminar.”
Aziraphale gave a hysterical chuckle. “Perhapsnotabadidea,” he said into his hands. “Thank you Tracey, as always.”
Tracey sipped her wine again, this time with a bit more purpose and a grin. “Of course, pet.”
Yes, Tracey, as usual, was right. He knew his self-esteem was not…the best, but he was working on it. He was doing things he enjoyed. He was considering therapy. And, of course, he was helping Littles to indulge his more paternal instincts. He was doing everything right, he just needed some time. Maybe even at some point he would start to feel more comfortable with himself and get a Little of his own.
…At some point.