***

FIVE YEARS AND SIXTY-SEVEN DAYS LATER...

Everyone has their interests, though very few have an active imagination. When it came to Maren's interests, she had a tendency to hyper-fixate. For each term at her primary school, her class focused on a different topic -- the ones she enjoyed became one of her many fascinations.

Pirates took her interest when she turned seven. Whilst the other girls dressed up as mermaids, she showed up in full swashbuckling gear to her school's "Nautical Day". From there, she managed to become the captain of the "Jungle Gym Crew". With a team of ragtag boys and girls, they had swordfights with rulers and looted other kids' pencilcases. Their adventures only lasted a few months until the teachers banned everyone from playing on the jungle gym. It was fun, though. Her obsession with the sea fizzled shortly after, but she wouldn't trade the experience for anything.

When she was eight years old, she fell in love with Arthurian legends and the medieval aesthetic. Maren crafted her own suit of armour out of cereal boxes and Aziraphale gifted her with a wooden sword. She listened to her fathers' stories about their time as knights and how they once faced one another on a foggy day. It wasn't fun when Crowley began pointing out inconsistencies in Maren's favourite television show at the time: Merlin. 

"Merlin was not that young!" Crowley would declare. "He was an old git who waved his arms around a lot. You know, he did a lot of gestures -- most of them were inappropriate, actually."

Aziraphale didn't believe in television, thinking all it did was rot people's brains, so they didn't have one in the bookshop. "Books are far more practical than what's shown on a tiny screen." Her father would say. "However, I do enjoy the cinema from time to time. But let me tell you the theatre is so much more engaging."

Either way, she could only watch her favourite television shows at Crowley's flat. On Saturday evenings, they took to watching Richard Curtis films. Though he would never admit it, the demon had a fondness for romantic comedies. Notting Hill reminded Maren of her parents. Aziraphale and Crowley were from two separate worlds who found each other by pure chance, like Will and Anna. 

Maybe, in time, they would both see they were made for each other.

What followed after watching various fantasy films came Maren's next obsession -- witchcraft. Seeing as her parents could do magic, she wanted to do it, too. And she tried everything to make that dream come true. 

She read every book in Aziraphale's collection that referenced witches and attempted a few spells she'd read online -- nothing happened. Maren set up candles, bought crystals, and invested her time writing rhyming couplets. She even let Aziraphale demonstrate a couple of his magic tricks, but she'd suffered enough by that point.

Maren didn't want to be the odd one out in her strange, little family -- she wanted to be special like Aziraphale and Crowley.

In anger, she poured her focus into the history of witches instead, rather than learning how to use it -- it proved to be a useful alternative. And since her fathers were busy taking care of the Antichrist, it meant she could do whatever she wanted while they were gone.

"Kinda feels like we're conning them, doesn't it?" Crowley commented as the pair strolled into the bookshop, their heads held high.

"Well, it's not a con if we're saving the Earth from imminent destruction." The other whole-heartedly believed.

"A con's still a con." From above, they heard a sharp bang, drawing their attention upstairs. Crowley lowered his brows. "What was that?"

The angel released a heavy sigh. "Oh, Maren's probably torturing her dolls again." They sauntered over to the spiral staircase, beginning their ascent upstairs. "Maren!" he called out. "We're back!"

"Yeah, hi...!" her greeting drawled, its end swiftly fading.

Aziraphale wrung his fingers together, glancing back at Crowley. "You know, I feel bad for leaving her here on her own, but I don't want to leave her with strangers."

"Come on, they're paid to look after kids." He responded.

He paused on the staircase, reiterating his point. "I meant I don't want to leave her with strangers."

The demon's eyes widened. "Oh, you think she's the dangerous one?"

"Sorry, it's this witch phase. She's obsessed. She keeps setting her dolls on fire." Aziraphale told him, continuing their climb shortly after. "I always fix them afterwards, but I think that's what she wants." As they reached the first floor, he stated. "The cycle is neverending."

"I think you're overreacting, Angel." Crowley hadn't spent much time with her lately, due to his position as Warlock's nanny. But even then, she never caused much trouble when they hung out at his apartment. "Surely, she's not that bad."

But as they wandered towards her bedroom, Crowley was swiftly proven wrong. They approached her open door, her body facing away from them as she sat cross-legged on the floor. Dolls of various sizes were scattered around her, their faces painted and their bodies misshapen.

In front of her, a makeshift pyre crafted from twigs sat in a blue tray. A doll was tied on top of it, awaiting her fate. Maren held another doll in her hand, dressed in black. "Sophia Dingleberry, how do you plead?" The girl leaned over to the captured doll, and tilted her head downwards, raising the octave of her voice. "Guilty." She leaned back, smiling. "Well, you heard it here first, folks. She's a witch." She lifted the doll in black into the air, cheering. "Burn her!"

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, huffing. "Maren?"

She turned around, her face blank. "Yes?"

"What have I said about burning your dolls?" He didn't want to appear condescending towards her, but this had gone far enough. 

Maren paused, glancing back and forth at the pyre of twigs and her father. "That you don't like it."

He pursed his lips, nodding. "I did say that, yes. But I also said that fire is dangerous, especially for you. I don't want you to get hurt."

"It's fine, Daddy. I put the pyre in a tray now." She declared. "And I'm only going to burn two dolls. First, Sophia, then Agnes Nutter," her favourite real-life witch, "who actually used gunpowder to explode herself and those who accused her." Her expression remained stoic as she turned her attention to Crowley. "Daddy, can I have some gunpowder?"

"No-" his head snapped towards Crowley, pointing a finger at him, "- no!"

"I have my limits, you know," Crowley commented, leaning his right shoulder against the doorframe. "She didn't even say "please"."

The corners of her lips curved into a wicked smirk. "Please may I have some gunpowder, Daddy?"

Oh, now that was a little devious. Crowley knew his daughter had a tendency to cause trouble, though those issues were minor at best. Maybe the angel had a point.

"Pet, perhaps you should play something else?" suggested Crowley, surprising his friend. "You know, something that doesn't set your dad's books on fire."

Seeing her fathers' despondent expressions, she sighed. "Alright." Maren gathered up her dolls as her fathers turned to one another, sharing a smug expression. She strolled out of her bedroom, wandering through the gap between them. "I guess it's trial by water now, ladies."

Aziraphale's smile fell in an instant. The pair's eyes trailed her as she stepped into the bathroom. "Oh, Lord. She's getting worse." He murmured before glaring at Crowley. "This is your fault."

The demon's head jerked backwards, frowning. "What, mine?"

"Yes, yours!" Aziraphale harshly poked him in the shoulder. "You're the one influencing her to the side of evil!"

"I am not!" He rubbed his shoulder before considering the angel's accustation. "Okay, maybe a little, but look, she wouldn't hurt a fly." Crowley paused for another moment. "No, scratch that -- she did trap a wasp in a jar once and watched it suffocate, but it wasn't on purpose." 

The poor bugger just scared her too much with its buzzing and massive stinger that she didn't want to let it out, fearing it would attack her again. 

He slipped his hands into his pockets, shrugging. "Look, maybe with the whole Antichrist thing going on, we've been neglecting her." Crowley wandered across the landing, nearing the bathroom. "She might be old enough to look after herself, but maybe that isn't enough."

It wasn't always common for Aziraphale to agree with his views, but Crowley raised a good point -- it was clear she still required their guidance.

Aziraphale lifted his head, his eyes widening. His lips tugged into an intrigued smile as he met Crowley's stare. "I might have an idea."

"Really?" Ideas weren't Aziraphale's strong point, and his plans often ended in disaster. The flaming sword, the crepes, his magic show in the 1940s -- nearly all his ideas end in tragedy. If it wasn't for Crowley saving his angelic arse every time, he would have been discorporated by now.

"Well, it's formulating," he admitted, tapping the side of his temples, "but it might just work." He marched over to the bathroom, lightly pushing the door open. At the edge of the bathtub, their daughter sat on her knees, running the tap. Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, pressing his lips together and clearing his throat. "Maren, dear." She twisted the faucet, turning the water off. "Would you like a new friend?"

She returned a vacant stare, her jaw slack. "Am I being punished?"

***

In many ways, Maren was their test run -- this was the real deal. If they were to form a perfect balance of good and evil in a human, they needed to send him somebody who was already along those lines. At ten years old, Maren Crowley-Fell became the neutral party in their plan to stop the world from ending.

Mrs Dowling arranged for her valet to pick the young girl up, unaware of the pretence. With the help of Crowley's supernatural abilities, she believed the child to be the daughter of a wealthy lord who never left the house. But he insisted his daughter make friends with other rich children, so they arranged a meeting.

Of course, Maren wasn't much of a lady, and the clothes Aziraphale gave her scratched and itched like crazy. Tweed did not suit her in the slightest, and she hoped to burn it the minute she didn't need to pretend anymore. They said this would only be for a few months; a short arrangement during the summer holidays. For now, she had to shut up and smile, acting as a loyal friend to Warlock.

"Warlock, this is your new playmate," Mrs Dowling introduced the girl to her son, her hand on his shoulder, "Lady Georgiana Penelope Pembrooke Stanley."

"You can call me "George" for short." Apparently, rich folk liked their children's names to be long and pretentious. Maren wasn't sure how a name could display someone's worth in society, so it didn't make much sense to her.

Their lives were incredibly different to Maren's. She lived in a bookshop upstairs, surrounded by archaic texts which were hardly preserved, yet handled with care. Mansions like this kept their old books behind glass, never to be touched again. There were lots of things in this house they couldn't touch -- it was one of Mrs Dowling's rules.

His father was always away, discussing important matters with the President of the United States, whoever that may be. She didn't really care for politics. From the looks of it, it was just a lengthy game of pointing fingers and yelling.

Due to his absence, there were many empty rooms for the children to explore. They pretended to go on treasure hunts or solve mysteries by searching through drawers and wardrobes for anything that interested the pair. Other times, the children would chase after each other, running through the halls of the mansion and laughing their heads off.

As Warlock chased her through the library, she managed to slip past him and escape into the hallway, nearly evading him until she crashed into somebody. "Sorry, I..."

Her head tilted back, her gaze meeting Warlock's governess, aka her demonic parent in disguise. She wasn't usually around when the two children were playing, leaving them to their little games, so this was Maren's first time seeing her. The "Mary Poppins" look wasn't Crowley's style, and it made her daughter want to giggle.

Before she could, Crowley interrupted Maren with her high-pitched Scottish brogue. "If you laugh, I'll cut off your allowance."

Her curved brows straightened, her nose wrinkling. "I don't have an allowance."

"Yeah, I'll cut it off before it can even start." Her cheerful tone unsettled the young girl, a deathly chill spiking through her nerves. Maren knew it was just an act -- Crowley wouldn't dare to upset her little girl. She just had to stay in character for the time being.

Warlock rushed out, swiftly forgetting their game when he spotted his beloved governess. "Nanny!"

Her crimson-painted lips pressed into a warm smile. "Hello, dear. How are you?"

"I'm good." He told her.

"Oh, we'll soon fix that, won't we?" Crowley booped his little nose, the boy chuckling in response. "Perhaps you two should play outside."

His joy dissipated a little. "But Mommy said I couldn't get dirt on my clothes."

"But Tag would be much more fun outside." Maren encouraged him, tapping into his bad side for the sake of Crowley's job.

"Exactly." The nanny nodded, agreeing with her daughter. "Clothes are meant to get ruined, dear. That's why we wash them."

It was an excellent point and the motivation young Warlock needed. "Race you outside!"

The young boy dashed off, though Maren remained for a little longer. She angled her head upwards, and a smile grew on her face. "Love you, Mummy."

Her expression softened, admiring her wonderful daughter. "Love you too, pet."

Maren's heart was bursting with joy, pleased that Crowley did not correct her. She loved the idea of having a mother for once, but Maren didn't mind if Crowley enjoyed being a man -- two fathers are better than none.

She ran after Warlock, and Crowley watched her leave through the glass screen doors, soon vanishing from sight. Demons aren't meant to feel love -- why is that? She wouldn't say it was a good emotion; love can drive anyone crazy. 

Love is unpredictable -- Crowley kinda liked that.

***

After a lengthy back-and-forth game of Tag, the children settled under a large apple tree, exhausted. It was dying, she could see the damaged roots above ground, rotting and growing fungus. The tree itself was quite old, its long branches leaning over the children's heads. The apples were half-eaten and brown, discarded on the grass.

Maren pulled at a long strand of brown hair, staring up at the sky. "Did you know that Isaac Newton discovered gravity after an apple fell on his head?"

Warlock's button nose wrinkled, turning his head. "Why did the apple fall?"

"Because it got too heavy for the tree." She answered. "That's what grown apples do -- they fall off trees." Maren grabbed a fresher, partially consumed apple and raised her arm. "Most things fall," she dropped the item, the pair observing its fall to the ground, "because gravity pulls them down."

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"My dad read me Newton's Principia once." It was for a school science project Aziraphale didn't need to worry about, and yet did. "It almost wasn't published because The Royal Society ran out of money."

He shuffled closer, twisting the top half of his body to face her. "Did they spend it on crowns and jewels?"

"No, a diarist spent it all on publishing a book about the history of fish." She responded. "My dad read that, too. He reads anything."

They gazed into the sky and watched fluffy clouds float high above, all moving in one direction. A couple of birds flew onto the tree, one trailing the other and pecking at its feathers. "If everyone is falling, then why do birds fly?"

"Because they have wings." Then again, not everyone with wings wanted to fly. But if she had wings, she wouldn't waste them -- she would soar.

"I wanna fly." His desire matched her silent thought. "Not, like, on a plane. Like, actually flying in the sky. Maybe even space!"

The corner of her lip twitched into a slight smirk. "I've got an idea."

Once she explained her spark of genius, the children ran across the garden, locating their friendly gardener, "Brother Francis! Brother Francis!" or as Maren knew him -- Aziraphale. 

His disguise could not compare with Crowley's sophisticated appearance. He wore an old hat, and his face was all fuzzy like a sheep. He had a different accent too, though he sounded more like a farmer from Somerset. "Ah, young master Warlock and Miss Georgiana! What a delight to see you both!"

"That's Lady Georgiana to you." He's the one who picked the name -- he should learn how to use it correctly. "Do you know how we can make a swing?"

"A swing?" He tucked his trough under his arm, tapping his chin. "Hmm, let's see."

Aziraphale led the children into the main shed, putting his garden tools aside. He retrieved some wooden planks, using one of his miracles to fashion them into a proper swing seat. The children waited outside, tapping their feet and leaning against the shed wall.

Once he had found some rope, Aziraphale exited the shed, the children perking up upon seeing him. "Now, Warlock," he crouched to his height, "can you point out a good tree for us?"

The boy nodded, humming a soft agreement. He narrowed his eyes, scanning one area of his spacious garden. His eyes locked on a great, sturdy tree and he raised his arm, pointing. "Over there in the green."

The gardener ruffled his hair, chuckling. "Good boy." 

The children followed behind him, making their way over to the tree. Unlike the dying apple tree, this one still had plenty of room left to grow. Green oak leaves rustled in the breeze, midday sunlight peeking through the trees as they arrived.

Aziraphale dropped the equipment onto the ground before turning back, clapping his hands together. "All right now, children," he started, "close your eyes."

Maren's forehead creased, pouting. "Why?"

"Because..." the angel hesitated, his eyes darting off to the side, "... it just helps me work."

Warlock was already ahead of her, clenching his fists against his eyes. The older girl followed suit, slapping her palms over her face. She had wondered why he didn't have a toolbox with him, seeing how it was vital for this swing to work.

They didn't hear much handiwork going on. Less than a minute later, the gardener spoke again. "And..." Aziraphale drawled, "... voila!"

The pair dropped their hands, their eyes landing on a wooden swing now hanging off one of the branches, slightly swinging in the air.

Warlock gasped. "How'd you do that?"

"I'm a gardener. It's what I do." His daughter couldn't help but smirk, shaking her head when Warlock wasn't looking. Aziraphale wasn't a handyman -- he was built for gentler things.

He grasped the rope and hauled himself onto the wooden seat. "George, can you give me a push?"

She nodded, strolling behind his back. "Yeah, sure." Maren grasped the rope on either side of the swing, stepping back. Warlock's feet lifted off the ground as she kept pulling back. "Just swing with your legs, okay? It's all about gravity."

The moment she let go, Warlock held on for dear life as he swung forward, kicking his legs into the air. As he fell back, Maren gave him a little push on the back, and he kept swinging. After a couple more pushes, he was content to swing on his own, going higher each time. He giggled, overjoyed. "It feels like I'm flying!"

"That's the point!" Maren laughed, seeing how happy he was.

The children's goodness shone through, thrilling the angel and filling his heart with immense glee. "This was a good idea of yours, Maren."

"Thanks, Daddy." Maybe this arrangement wasn't a bad idea, after all. It was nice to have a friend, even if they didn't know her real name.

***

"I'm bored." For a child destined to destroy the world, he wasn't much like the Antichrist. If anything, Maren was more of an Antichrist than sweet, little Warlock.

"I know, Warlock." She sighed. The pair lied on the ground, exasperated by their limited options. "So am I."

Summer was coming to an end, and they'd run out of games to play. They'd used up every toy Warlock had in his chest. Once it was empty, they started using the chest as a boat, but even their imagination restricted their fun.

It wouldn't be long until they both started school again and then Maren wouldn't see Warlock for the next six years. But not all friendships last -- she knew that.

"Maybe I can ask Mommy to buy us more toys to play with?" suggested Warlock.

Maren tilted her head to the left, noticing an old, grey shed in the distance, hidden behind some shrubbery. Overgrown vines hung over its roof, and its windows were covered in dirt. She sat up, propping her elbows against the grass. "Or maybe there's some in there."

Immediately, he shot up. "No, we can't go in there!"

She glanced back, squinting. "Why not?"

Warlock drew his knees into his chest, hugging his legs. "... It's spooky."

Huh. Maren assumed he'd revel in something a little scary. From what she'd briefly seen in The Omen (before she found it too frightening), the Antichrist was meant to be a creepy little shit who caused trouble wherever he went.

Warlock, on the other hand, was something new. Perhaps Aziraphale was doing a good job swaying his evil instincts aside. "I'm sure it's fine. Come on."

He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Don't be such a wuss-puss." Maren grabbed his hand, and the children pulled themselves onto their feet. 

They made their way over, Warlock's feet dragging across the dirt. His grip tightened, his tiny fingers twisting in her palm as they approached the main entrance. Her eyes scanned for any sign of a lock or bolts, but she couldn't see anything blocking their way in. Her fingers grazed the rusting metal handle, leaving dark flecks on her hand. With a delicate touch, she grasped the handle and pulled it towards her. Its hinges creaked, and cobwebs parted from the wood, floating in the air.

"There must be something to play with in here." She ventured inside, brushing loose strands of spider silk away from her face.

"I don't think so, George." Warlock stuck near the entrance, barely taking a few steps inside. He wrapped his arms over his chest, nervously looking around. "Maybe we should go?" As Maren turned back, a harsh scratching sound interrupted their conversation. "What was that?"

"Um," she gulped, "I don't know."

They stood in silence, their body hairs standing on their ends. It could have been shifting metal; none of this equipment had been moved in ages.

But then they heard another scratch, the pair flinching slightly. Poor Warlock's imagination went wild. "What if it's a ghost?"

"Ghosts don't haunt sheds. They haunt old mansions," her head snapped towards him, smirking, "like yours."

"My mansion's not that old." The boy argued.

Maren stepped forward, the wood squeaking beneath her feet. "It came from over here."

She took another step, and Maren heard a faint shuffling behind a corroded spade. "What are you doing?"

"I'm having a look."

"But it might kill you."

"It's not a ghost!" She wasn't even sure if they were real. Angels and demons, yeah -- but ghosts? Maren couldn't help but doubt, considering all mortal spirits were taken to either Heaven or Hell upon their deaths.

"George, don't!" Maren crept closer, ignoring Warlock's cries of worry. She grasped a hold of the spade's wooden handle and gradually tugged it towards her. "Don't!"

Light spilt into the shadow of the spade, revealing a dishevelled, grey animal, its fur coat covered in dirt and muck. Her expression twisted into unbidden delight, her mouth falling open. "Aw, it's a kitten."

Warlock blinked a few times, his wariness receding slightly as he wandered closer. "What's it doing here?"

"It must be a stray." The animal must have lost its way, unsure where else to go. It was so small in a world full of tall, monstrous beasts. "Where's your mummy, darling?"

Her friend grew too confident, and being so young, he didn't know best. Warlock walked towards the kitten with his arm stuck out, a large, manic grin stretched onto his face.

In response, it bared its growing teeth and hissed, threatening young Warlock. His face turned ashen, his smile falling in an instant.

"Ah, it's going to bite me!" Warlock sped off, racing out of the shed and screaming his head off.

She jogged over to the entrance, grasping the doorframe. "Oi, come back here, you coward!"

"It might be feral!" he screeched. Fear overcame him, and the little boy sprinted off into the distance, waving his arms about as if he had been attacked.

Maren stayed behind, rolling her eyes before returning to the lonely kitten. She squatted, resting her knees on the ground. "It's okay. I know you're scared," she said, "but you don't have to be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you." 

But the kitten didn't seem to believe her, releasing rough hisses as it shuffled backwards; Maren did not back down. 

"Are you hungry?" She reached into the secret pocket in the skirt of her dress, removing an item wrapped in tinfoil. "I made a chicken sandwich, but you can have the chicken. I'm fine with just the bread." 

Maren unfurled the edges, revealing her lunch to the frightened animal. A slice of chicken wedged between two pieces of bread was promptly removed, and she leaned down, offering it to the kitten. 

"There you go." As she neared it, the animal backed away in fear. Maren gazed into its yellow-green eyes, reducing her voice to a gentle whisper. "It's okay." 

She pulled back, placing the sandwich on the floor. Her fingers pinched the chicken slice, carefully tearing it in half. The kitten stared back, almost entranced by this human girl. Maren set one half aside and tore a smaller piece from the other. With a slower pace than before, she placed the tiny chicken segment a few feet away from it. Maren leaned back, her hands settling on her lap as she waited. 

The kitten remained uncertain. For something so young, it had already gone through so much. The animal didn't expect any kindness from this unforgiving place -- and yet, this girl seemed different than the rest. It reached out its thin paw, gradually creeping forward. The kitten looked down at the chicken, its nostrils flaring. Its mouth quivered, its dry tongue salivating for the first time in ages. The animal hadn't realised how hungry it was until it took that first whiff, so it leaned forward and took a bite.

It wasn't long before the kitten ate the entire piece. It looked up at Maren, its eyes bulging as the girl's lips curved into a smile. "You want some more?"

Though she was sure the animal didn't understand her, Maren gave her some more chicken. It barely hesitated to dig in this time, tearing at the meat with its blunt teeth. Piece by piece, the kitten grew less afraid of her, edging closer each time.

"That's it. You don't have to be scared of me." She reached a hand towards it and pet its head -- the kitten barely flinched. Eventually, it warmed to her soft touch. "You don't have a mother, do you?" The kitten's sorrowful eyes met hers as Maren frowned. "I don't have one either." It melted into her palm, comforted by her love. "But that's okay. It doesn't mean we're any less important."

Maren continued to stroke the kitten, forming a bond of trust and solace. She didn't want to leave it on its own again, alone in the dark with no one to turn to.

Outside, the sound of heavy boots grew louder. "Maren, are you in here?" she heard Aziraphale's voice, no longer using his disguised accent. He opened the door, spotting his daughter on her knees. "I heard Warlock screaming and saw him run off. I hope you didn't do anything to upset him..."

His gaze wandered to the floor, acknowledging the frail kitten. "He was a little startled," Maren told him. "But it's fine -- it's harmless."

He approached the two, his brows drawing together. "What's a cat doing in here?"

"It's a stray." Gently, her other hand reached towards the timid creature, picking it up. She held it against her chest, the kitten's head leaning into her patterned dress. "I think something happened to its mother because they were here all alone."

"Well," he pursed his lips, crouching beside her, "that can happen, I'm afraid."

A light meow emerged from its throat, its strength restoring. Maren brushed thick dust off its grey coat, frowning. "They can't stay here, Daddy. They won't survive for long."

"I know, I know." He said. "But looking after a living creature can be hard, and I don't want any pressure put on you. It's a lot of responsibility." He understood the weight of another life in his hands. After all, it was tough taking care of Maren for the first few months. "Besides, there's a possibility its mother might come back."

"But what if she doesn't come back? What if she can't?" She raised a good point. "I can't just leave them. It wouldn't be fair."

"You're quite right, dear." Aziraphale took a deep breath, nodding. "All right, you can keep it."

Her eyes shimmered in the faint light. "Really?"

"Only if you promise to take good care of it," he told her, "and don't you dare set it on fire."

With a rapid shake of her head, Maren declared. "I promise. I'd never hurt them."

"Okay." Perhaps this is what Maren needed; someone she could look after. "May I hold them?"

 She bowed her head, staring at her new friend. Maren wasn't sure at first, seeing how they did not respond well with Warlock. But she knew her father would never hurt anyone on purpose -- he was an angel, after all. 

Slowly, she placed the kitten in his hands, and he held it up, briefly inspecting its body. "Ah, it's a girl."

Her brows furrowed. "How do you know?"

"Oh, well," he wasn't sure if she was ready for talks on human anatomy just yet, "one can just sense these things, you know?" Maren nodded, taking his word for it. "Do you want to name her? You did find her after all."

"How will I know what suits her?" the young girl wondered.

Aziraphale returned the kitten to her, slipping her into his daughter's safe hands. "Trust your instincts, my dear."

Maren curved her wrists towards her, the kitten facing her. They gazed into each other's eyes as the girl thought to herself.

Those accused of witchcraft in the old days were often the ones with pets -- a familiar. She had attempted to summon a familiar once; perhaps her spell was simply delayed. Agnes Nutter must have had a cat or at least some animal to keep her company.

Agnes... Ag... Ag...

"Aggie." The kitten perked up, her ears twitching. She seemed to like that.

"Well, isn't that nice?" He smiled, peering down at the little kitten. "Hello, Aggie. Welcome to the family."

The young girl cradled her new friend against her chest, her echoing heartbeat soothing Aggie as her eyes closed, drifting off to sleep. Maren may not be a witch, but she was special nonetheless -- she didn't need magic to confirm that.

***

Aggie is a Russian Blue cat. I chose this breed because Maren is a morally grey character. You get it? Yeah, you get it. If you don't, then that's your problem. But Russian Blue cats are very friendly towards their favourite humans. Kinda like Aziraphale and Crowley if you think about it. I wish I had a cat, but my mum hates cats, so that sucks.

I was reading through my old primary school topic books as research for the first section of this, and holy shit I was dumb. Like, I remember being a semi-decent writer, but the stories I wrote were freaking shit. I am so glad I've improved now.

So, yeah, I consider Aziraphale and Crowley to be genderfluid like the Doctor is. So when they're male presenting, I use "he/him" pronouns, but when they're female presenting, I use "she/her". I hope this is okay. I don't want to hurt anyone in the community, so if I have done something incorrectly, please tell me. It is not my aim to upset anyone x

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and if you did, please leave a vote or a comment because they make my day. Thank you for 4k reads x

- Alice.

PS: the next chapter is gonna go a bit hard, so i just wanted to warn you.