#I'm so soft for the 11 year interim ok

[d20owlbear-deactivated]

Joy of Cooking (or the Cookie Fic)

Chapter 1 will be on AO3 on July 10th! With a podfic version by @groovyaviator and as part of the @do-it-with-style-events minibang! 

Rating: T

Warnings:  Trauma about the Fall, mental health spiral, breakdown about the Fall and implications therein

Tags: Aziraphale (Sister Frances), Crowley (Nanny Ashtoreth), Warlock, Ineffable Wives, Crowley/Aziraphale (sort of, pining) 11-year interim, building the world, making cookies, cookies as a metaphor for trauma, God is a Kitchen Witch, the universe is made of shortbread and other things, burnt cookies as fallen angels, Warlock is presumed the anti-christ, so sometimes, expectations override reality, if you're an angel and a demon who believe something a lot, Warlock kinda sorta has powers, Crowley has to Face His Emotions Like An Emotionally Mature Being, where we tackle topics like, can anyone be inherently Bad or Good or is God is just cruel, with a four year old, Heartbreaking meta disguised as friendly theological debate between two hereditary enemies? In MY fic? More likely than you think!, a 4 year old as a stand in for God

Summary:  Nanny Ashtoreth is doing her damndest to instill the virtues vices a young Prince of Darkness. So, she teaches him about how the universe was made so that he can eventually remake it when he's 11 and grown into his birthright.

On her day off, she ends up giving Warlock a more hands-on lesson, patching together shortbread biscuits the same way God did in Her cottage at the Edge of the Universe before it was made when She created the angels. All the while telling Warlock the story of how She made the Earth and the Firmament and even Crowley herself.

But somehow, those sorts of thoughts don’t seem to end on a high note for Nanny... Luckily, Sister Frances is here to help. Or try to, at least.

Sneak Peak below!

Chapter 1: In Which Warlock and Nanny Talk About The Universe

“Nanny?” Warlock mumbled sleepily, “I’m not tired.” Crowley raised an eyebrow at that.

“Of course you are, dear. And just what did I say about lying?” She asked sternly, stopping on her way to bring the hellspawn to his bed, and looking him in the eye, letting her bright yellow gaze peek over the rims of her sunglasses.

Warlock, of course, had never been afraid of them, liked them even and Crowley had been able to report a stunning casualness in the face of outright demonic and evil activity, for which she’d been golf-clapped rudely. Remarkable achievement in Hell, really.

“You said,” Warlock sighed dramatically, which she was also quite proud of, “That if I’m gonna lie, gotta do it good.” 

“Well.” Crowley corrected absentmindedly, but continued walking and shuffled the antichrist in her arms so he could wrap his stubby arms around her neck—yes, just like that, when you’re older it’ll be a perfect stranglehold, my little dragon, hold on tight—and let him bury his head into the crook of her neck. “But, young prince-of-this-world, that was quite a good first step in your mischief. What was the next going to be?”

Warlock groaned and wriggled in her arms so that she nearly dropped him, only stilling once she hissed under her breath and held him tight against her chest. Usually it was simply a matter of waiting, and Nanny had something bordering on an infinite amount of patience, at least where Warlock was concerned. 

“Was gonna say you had ta tell me a story, Nanny.” Warlock grumbled after a child’s eternity passed, “And I was gonna mis-chiv and tie all Jeeve’s shoes together if you didn’t.” Crowley smiled slyly and tapped Warlock’s cheek fondly. The butler was, of course, not actually named Jeeves, but he took the compliment admirably whenever Nanny and young master Warlock were around. Mr. Ainsworth was a bit harder for a four year-old to say, antichrist or no.

“Ah, an ultimatum, masterfully done, my little dark lord. Just as you ought.” Crowley adjusted Warlock a little higher on her hip with a huff. “But, my dear, just why would I care if you made mischief for the butler? Why would you choose that to punish me for not giving you what you wanted?” Crowley emphasized the correct pronunciation of mischief. 

Warlock didn’t take quite as long to think about it as Crowley thought he would and his answer was a bit surprising. “I heard Jeeves and you talkin’ an’ a maid said he was,” Warlock screwed up his face and very carefully continued, “in-tre-stid in you. An’ she said ‘t was lucky. So ‘f I made him mad at you, wouldn’t be lucky.” 

Crowley stopped short in front of Warlock’s door and raised her eyebrows at him. “Oh really now, did she. How interesting…” she muttered before pushing her way into the room, not bothering to flick on the lights. She could see perfectly fine as it was and Warlock didn’t need to go anywhere.

“And that’s how you were going to punish me? Make me unlucky?” Crowley asked, setting Warlock on the bed and crossing to the wardrobe to pick out sleeping clothes for the boy. “I suppose that could work, but you’d have an easier time of it if your ultimatums or threats were against something I actually liked.”

“Like Sister Frances?” Warlock asked after a few moments of thought, raising his arms for Crowley to change out his shirts. 

“Now what makes you think I like anything at all? Let alone Sister Frances. Most everyone else seems to think I hate her.” Crowley continued the conversation, even though it was waking Warlock up, making him think like this, rather than putting him to sleep. Warlock, of course, had always liked when she asked him about “tactics”—especially when he was destroying block cities with his dinosaur toys—and was happily responsive. 

“You smile at her.” Warlock shrugged again, “An’ she gets to see your eyes. Only me and’ Frances get to see your eyes. And I know you like me ‘cause I make you.” 

“Ah, that’s true. I am but a humble servant to your whims, my little dragon.” Crowley smiled a little too fondly, a little too softly, and tapped Warlock’s cheek. “Very well then. It was a decent try, I’ll give you that. But next time, you’ll have to do better if you want a story. Understood, Warlock?”

“Yes!” Warlock jumped onto his bed and shoved himself under the covers messily. Crowley could, of course, only approve of the chaos. She tucked him in and took her usual seat by the bed.

“Alright, my great beast.” Crowley began slowly, letting her words fill her mouth and a story spin itself behind her eyes. “Let me tell you about how the world was made. So that when you reshape it and bend it to your will, you know what to do.