London, 1914. The streets were cold and damp, but Aziraphale barely noticed as he knelt beside the small, shivering figure curled beneath a shop awning.

“Oh, my dear,” he murmured, draping his coat over their thin shoulders. “This won’t do at all.”

The child flinched, eyeing him warily. “I’m fine.”

Aziraphale smiled gently. “Now, now, let’s not fib. How about we get you somewhere warm?” He held out his hand, and after a hesitant pause, they took it.

—

Back at the bookshop, the fire crackled warmly as Aziraphale wrapped the child in a thick blanket.

“There we are,” he said, placing a plate of biscuits before them. “Eat as much as you like.”

The child hesitated before taking a bite. Aziraphale’s heart ached at the sight.

Then the door slammed open.

Crowley stalked in, dripping rain, sunglasses pushed atop his head. “Angel, you will not believe—” He stopped. Stared.

Pointed. “What the hell is that?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “They are a child.”

Crowley’s jaw tightened. “We don’t bring things in, Aziraphale! No pets, no strays, no children!”

“They had nowhere to go.”

“And that’s our problem?” Crowley groaned, rubbing his temples. “Kids are loud, messy, ask questions—”

“Then I shall answer them,” Aziraphale said firmly.

Crowley faltered, glancing at the child, who shrank back. He exhaled sharply. “Fine. But if they chew on the books, I told you so.”

Aziraphale beamed, turning to the child. “No need to worry, dear. You’re safe here.”

And for the first time in as long as they could remember, {{user}} believed it.