Chapter Text
As far as Caregiver-Little pairs went, this one was by far the cutest.
The kid was dressed to the nines: light green gingham overalls over a darker green sweater. Peter Rabbit printed on the front, hopping after a stitched-in bee. The little boy’s long red hair had been pulled back into a bun with a matching green bow. Even his pacifier had a matching green clip with little stars. Everything was well put together — all colors coordinated, all fabrics nice and well-pressed. When Agnes grinned at him, he blushed and clutched his… snake? plush tighter to his chest.
“Aw,” bemused the caregiver. “I’m afraid we’re still rather shy.” He paused his writing to pull the swaying little boy over and press a kiss to his cheek. “Hm, darling?”
Just like his baby, the Caregiver was equally as dressed up. Cornflower blue shirt, tan waistcoat, a trench. Even a bowtie. It was sweet to see a pair that seemed to fit so well together. Polite, quiet boy and polite, quiet man.
After smacking one last kiss on his boy’s temple, the Caregiver flicked his signature a final time and passed over the documents. “Here we are. That should be everything.”
Agnes grinned at the two of them. “I still don’t know how you managed to go this long without getting him registered.”
“Really, I’m just as surprised.” The man — Aziraphale, Agnes thought after reading the top — shook his head. In a smooth motion, he lifted his boy under the armpits and hauled him to sit, legs swaying, on the countertop.
“And don’t you worry. Since he’s been listed as a range D, you don’t need to come back to confirm with his Big self. This should be it.”
“Oh lovely. I know I’m supposed to be used to the city, but I try to use the Tube as little as possible. It’s a nightmare, all those people!”
Agnes chuckled as she kept leafing through. “Don’t I know it. I’m sorry this whole process has been difficult for you. Usually we have no issue with identification, but I don’t know how this one slipped through the cracks!” She playfully jiggled Anthony’s foot who frowned and hid his face in his floppy snake.
“Neither do I, really,” said Mr. Fell. “It was a little frightening not seeing him listed anywhere.”
“It’s rare, but not uncommon. I still think it was regional. Not many Scottish coming over these days.” She paused at a random scribble she saw on a page and flipped back. …Aha. Agnes’ grin sharpened in delight. Maybe not such a polite little boy. “I didn’t realize you had a scoundrel on your hands, Mr. Fell.”
“Scoundrel?” Aziraphale frowned and looked over at his boy. The boy — Anthony, Agnes saw written — had lost his pacifier and was instead chewing on his fingers, practically choking his poor snake plush. He had the expression of tired fear on his face.
Agnes just shook her head, still grinning. “Oh yes. Wrote all over your bonding forms.”
Instead of the playful laughter she expected, Aziraphale’s face went stony and he reached for the forms with the hand not supporting Anthony on the counter. “What did he write?”
Strange that Aziraphale seemed so concerned. It was only some childish scribbles. People, cats, suns, swirls, the formless shapes of a toddler she could never quite decipher. “Just some drawings, Mr. Fell. It’s no issue.”
“Hm,” Aziraphale finally seemed to relax. Slowly, with so much care, he pulled Anthony’s fingers out of his mouth, wiped his spitty fingers with a handkerchief, and put his pacifier back in. Adjusted his bow. Tucked a strand of hair back. Kissed his forehead, then his snake. “My little scoundrel,” he murmured.
They really were sweet. “Do you have any questions before you go?”
“Oh no, that’s alright. Thank you ever so much for being so helpful, Miss…”
“Agnes,” and she smiled to show she didn’t mind. “And do you have any questions for me, sweetheart?” She smoothed a hand down Anthony’s back.
The little boy jumped a little, scowled, and reached over for Aziraphale. The adults cooed as he buried his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder the moment he came close enough to. “Still shy. We’ll work at that.”
“There’s no rush, Mr. Fell. He seems like a perfect kid.”
“He really is,” said Aziraphale. Anthony clutched his snake ever closer as he was pulled from off the counter and into his Caregiver’s arms. He did seem like the perfect Little. “And now it’ll just be the two of us. Isn’t that right, my love?”
Anthony just pressed his face in closer. Agnes tried not to stare at such an intimate sweet moment.
“You have a good one, Miss Agnes!” Aziraphale gathered his things, slinging a small backpack covered in little plush spikes over his shoulder.
“And you too!”
She loved her job. Every bond was different, sure, but sometimes she got to see the real ones. And if that bond wasn’t real, she didn’t know what was.
Just like every other bonding document pack, she placed this one in the filing area. She’d have someone look over it later. Maybe she’d even point out the adorable scribbles Anthony did.
What she wouldn’t notice were four letters too incoherent to properly make out in the top right corner. She wouldn’t notice, and she would only later coo over the small snakish thing the little boy had tried scribbling out just underneath. The document would be inputted. Aziraphale Fell and Anthony Crowley would be bonded. The papers themselves would be shredded after digitization. They wouldn’t even include that one page. It was only a cover letter, after all — there was no need. Four letters shredded into incoherency.
H E Lp.
Biological Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Designations (BDSM-5), Page 12
Introduction
The creation of the fifth edition of Biological Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Designations (BDSM-5) was a massive undertaking that involved hundreds of people working toward a common goal over a 12-year process. Much thought and deliberation were involved in evaluating the diagnostic criteria, considering the organization of every aspect of the manual, and creating new features believed to be most useful to clinicians of all kinds.
All of these efforts were directed toward the goal of enhancing the clinical usefulness of BDSM-5 as a guide in the classification of mental designations. Reliable diagnoses are essential for guiding treatment recommendations, identifying prevalence rates for mental and physical health service planning, identifying patient groups for clinical and basic research, and documenting important public health information.
As the understanding of mental designations — referred to henceforth as the colloquially known “classifications” — and their treatments has evolved, medical, scientific, and clinical professionals have focused on the characteristics of specific classifications and their implications for treatment and research. While the BDSM has been the cornerstone of substantial progress in reliability, it has been well recognized by both the American Psychiatric Association (APA) and the broad scientific community working on classifications that past science was not mature enough to yield fully validated diagnoses—that is, to provide consistent, strong, and objective scientific validators of individual BDSM classifications. The science of mental classifications continues to evolve. The lack of recognition of sliders or more variable classifications was not considered an important aspect of classification until twenty years prior to publication. However, the last two decades since BDSM-IV was released have seen real and durable progress in such areas as cognitive neuroscience, brain imaging, epidemiology, and genetics. The BDSM-5 Task Force overseeing the new edition recognized that research advances will require careful, iterative changes if BDSM is to maintain its place as the touchstone text of distinguishing and determining mental classifications.
With the understanding that clinical training and experience are needed to use BDSM for determining a diagnosis, this edition will serve as a guide for clinicians to identify the most prominent symptoms that should be assessed when diagnosing a classification. The diagnostic criteria identify symptoms, behaviors, cognitive functions, personality traits, physical signs, syndrome combinations, and durations that clearly designate one of the many basic classifications. The most prominent being Littles, Caregivers, Masters, and Pets with other standard classifications being neutral with no clear designation, doms, and submissives. Note SECTION II Diagnostic Criteria and Codes for the newest section of the BDSM-5 detailing the science and diagnostic criteria for sliders, also known as variable classifications.
Many health professionals and educational groups have been involved in the development and testing of BDSM-5, including physicians, psychologists, social workers, nurses, counselors, epidemiologists, statisticians, neuroscientists, and neuropsychologists. Finally, patients, bonded pairs, families, lawyers, consumer organizations, and advocacy groups have all participated in revising BDSM-5 by providing feedback on the classifications described in this volume. Their monitoring of the descriptions and explanatory text is essential to improve understanding, reduce stigma, and advance the specific accommodations needed for each classification. Note SECTION IV Emerging Measures and Models for said accommodations.
(…)
I'll be your mirror
Reflect what you are, in case you don't know
I'll be the wind, the rain and the sunset
The light on your door—
“ Urgh– Yeah, yeah, hear you–”
Anthony Crowley slapped around his desk for the screeching iPhone (alright, it wasn’t screeching so much as playing the beginning to a more gentle Velvet Underground, but with the sheer amount of adrenaline it always shot through him, it might as well have been screeching) and rubbed his head with a groan. He really needed to stop snoozing his get-out-of-bed-you-have-a-job-to-do alarms. He lurched up from his desk chair in the closest approximation to upright as he could manage and stumbled his way to the ruddy bathroom.
When you think the night has seen your mind
That inside you're twisted and unkind
Let me stand to show that you are blind…
Giving his face one last rub, he looked up into the makeup stained mirror to study his eyes, sighing loudly before splashing his face with water. He brushed his teeth with so much force he spat blood into the sink, and grit his teeth in the mirror before flopping onto his bed to check his phone.
He browsed the obligatory social media with little enthusiasm, cleared a news notification— “ Britney comes out as proud SWITCH” — before checking his email to remind himself of his docket. Usually his days were filled with older people who didn’t need anything more than a ‘did you try turning it on and off again?’ but sometimes he got asked to go repair someone’s phone or do the many things the position stingy offices often called “tech consultant” involved.
He sighed, tugging his blankets back over him to hide from the light pouring in through the barred window of his ground floor room and went through his list. Today he was looking at a family’s wifi and fixing a broken-ish iphone. Pretty easy day. He was digging around for a clean sock when his phone vibrated with another message on LinkedIn. Crowley paused his sock quest to quirk an eyebrow at the profile picture. A middle-aged man with wild curls and an honest-to-god bowtie. Huh. Didn’t see that everyday.
“Aziraphale Fell–” he tested the name out loud as he thumbed through the man’s profile. Apparently a rather prolific book seller? Of some kind?
AZ Fell - Good afternoon, Mr. Crowley. I’m messaging in hopes of acquiring your computer expertise! I am in between services at the moment, and in dire need of assistance. I am available from the times of noon to five thirty on the days of Monday to Friday, and one to four on Saturday. Let me know what time is most convenient for you! Many thanks, - Aziraphale Z. Fell
Well, that was different. Who signs off texts with their name? As he wrote back he felt himself grinning.
Anthony Crowley - Yes, I’m free today at 3:30. Payment depends on w/e you need fixed
Crowley put down his phone and shoved himself off of his bed to get dressed for the day, taking a large swig of the flat sparkling water beside his bed before pulling on his pants. Halfway through his shirt, his phone vibrated again with a message from AZ. Studious, older, and punctual? Maybe a teacher of some kind.
AZ Fell - Wonderful! I will see you shortly. Take care! - Aziraphale Fell
Again with the sign-off! Crowley thought that was something only old people did, but this guy was in maybe his early forties and treating texting like telegrams.
This time he grinned even wider, taking an extra moment to reread the message before trudging to the kitchen for another glass of water. Hopefully whatever Fell needed didn’t take too long. He had his third rewatch of Golden Girls season five to finish watching later today and some stress cleaning to do. Very important stuff, really.
Please put down your hands
'Cause I see you…
Sure, sometimes he wished his life was a little more interesting. Being a neutral meant he was largely undesirable to a classification-heavy population of Doms, Subs, Caregivers, Littles, Pets, Whatever. You name it, he was unwanted. It left him in a pretty lonely spot in a life that involved nothing more than work, work, work and drinking himself to sleep once or thrice a month. But really, he couldn’t complain. At least he was alive. After all, it hadn’t been that long ago when even that seemed an impossibility…
But no use thinking about that . The past was the past.
Crowley slipped on his black blazer, shouldered his bag, and performed the quick wallet, keys, phone ritual before slipping outside to meet his Uber. Today was lending a hand to a small startup, and if there was anything he was expert at it was grinning and bearing annoying people.
Grumbling as he adjusted his bag, Crowley left the ride. Not for the first time, he thought about how he would have preferred to have his own car. He liked cars. Particularly nice old ones, but he was stuck with Uber. Upon doing a cost analysis (re: a quick google search) Uber was just slightly less expensive. Especially considering the nightmare that parking was. He mumbled a barely audible thanks to the driver on his way out, distractedly giving them 5 stars as he turned to face Mr. Fell’s shop.
He felt himself stop on the side of the street for a moment as his brain worked to analyze every detail of the storefront. In delicate gold lettering, AZ Fell’s Books and Antiquities was proudly displayed above the heavy wooden door and framed by two fuck-off marble columns, with a large window featuring the truly impressive magnitude of books and random things within the shop. Crowley felt the impulse to stand and marvel like a tit for a moment more before he re-shouldered his bag, adjusted his sunglasses, and entered the shop.
Upon walking in, it almost felt as if he had entered an entirely different world. Like a small, quiet bubble separate from the bustle of Soho. Almost spooky.
“Uh. Hi? Yeah. Mr. Fell?” Crowley hesitantly walked in a little further, looking for a flash of white-blonde hair.
“Just a moment!” Someone, presumably Mr. Fell, called from somewhere within the store. Crowley fidgeted with the strap of his bag.
Emerging from a hidden part of the store, Mr. Fell looked much softer and sunnier than he did in the confines of his profile picture, giving Crowley a bright smile as he adjusted his waistcoat.
Mr. Fell was by far the most studious looking person Crowley had ever seen. There were some people you just looked at and knew ah yeah, you’re a smart one aren’t you? His hair was a blonde-white riot of curls that edged the line between styled and untamed. Surrounded by books, buttoned-up with a tartan bow tie and worn waistcoat, and slight pepper scruff made Mr. Fell’s brand of intelligence seem at once mature, wise, old and supremely no-fucks out there. There was even a pair of spectacles perched at the tip of his snub nose. Almost absurd.
He seemed so… genuine.
“Apologies, I was taking a call,” Mr. Fell beamed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Anthony! Could I get you anything while you’re here? Biscuits? Tea? I’ve just baked some fruit tarts that taste better than they look.” He practically shone.
Just looking at him in his tweed-clad glory, Crowley could immediately tell he was either a Caregiver or maybe a very enthusiastic Neutral. Then again, the guy beamed like an elementary school teacher, he probably had a Little stashed away with some blocks somewhere in the shop.
Despite knowing it was probably in the guy’s nature to be all open and nice, Crowley shifted from one foot to the other. Other people’s enthusiasm made him squirm.
“Ahm, no. I’m good. Thanks. You can just call me Crowley. What’re you having trouble with?”
Mr. Fell gave a self deprecating little grin. “I’m afraid my computer is out of date. Only it’s served me so well, I don’t know if I can get rid of it. I was hoping you would give it a look and see what you could do?”
“Yeah. Yeah– course. Where is it?”
“Right this way! It’s in my office in the back.”
Mr. Fell gave a shimmy with his shoulders as he walked over to the back of the shop, showing him to an early Dell PC that had definitely seen better days. Crowley gave a little hum as he deposited his bag to rest against the side of the very fancy desk, carefully slipping into the wooden chair before pulling it forward with him as he scooted to get a little closer to the computer.
It felt a little awkward at first with Mr. Fell just standing there watching him as he clicked through his computer, but people were usually possessive of their technology. Which— understandable. Crowley didn’t like anyone but himself touching his things.
“Yeah, this might need some taking apart.” Crowley cleared his throat and shifted in the seat. “I don’t mind doing it, got my– I brought my stuff with me, but you wouldn’t have a computer for an hour.”
Mr. Fell just shook his head. “Oh, that’s quite alright.” He paused and wrung his hands together in thought. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything? Really, these tarts have to go somewhere. ”
Crowley felt himself start to refuse, but he hesitated. When was the last time he had genuine from-scratch baking? Too long.
“Yeah actually, sure. I’d– er– yeah. Thanks.”
There was no other word for it, Mr. Fell actually truly beamed. Crowley ducked his head down to busy himself with the computer so he wouldn’t stare any longer than he probably already had. The last Caregiver he’d interacted with was some sweet middle-aged woman a few months back to fix her Wifi troubles. She’d fussed over him too, asking if he wanted any water or Really, anything you need! Crowley had just grinned and huffed in exasperation.
With older PC’s, it was usually best to just go right to the source and take the whole thing apart, so Crowley wasted no time as he dug through his bag for his tools, getting straight to work unplugging extraneous cables. Unbothered by the buildup of grime and dust on the heavy black cables, he just wiped his cruddy palms off on his jeans and was comforted by the feeling of starting a new project.
His hands worked separately from his mind, intimately familiar with the process of dismantling a computer, grounding himself, grounding the motherboard, unscrewing the cover— gently pushing a stray book or two aside— and removing components to get a better look at them. He felt himself growl a little as a piece of grime kept him from removing another wire, huffing out loud as he slowly began to dislodge it. There was dirt and grime and who-knew-what everywhere. This thing was honestly better suited in a museum than an actual store in the middle of Soho of all places.
A small clinking sound pulled him out of his reverie and he turned his head to watch as Mr. Fell placed a small plate with a fruit tart beside him on the desk, arranging beside it a cup of warm tea. Normally Crowley objected to having any food or drinks around his client’s electronics, but the desk was so large he felt as if it wouldn’t matter. He cleared his throat and mumbled a, “thanks” before taking a small bite, pleased to see Fell had also kindly placed a napkin beside the plate.
Crowley let out an appreciative sound at the flavors in his mouth, savoring the flaky pastry and juicy raspberry. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he had a pretty big sweet tooth.
“Mm–” he swallowed so he wouldn’t be speaking through crumbs. “‘S good. Thanks.”
Mr. Fell gave a pleased grin at that. “It’s no trouble. I almost always have pastries around. They practically make themselves!”
Crowley swallowed again to ensure he was completely crumb free before answering. “They're an invasive species fer me.”
Mr. Fell’s eyes crinkled in mirth. “Invasive!!” He chuckled and shook his head in amusement. “I’ll have to use that one, that’s rather clever.”
“Ghrm, yeah, real clever, me. Workshopped that one.”
“Well,” said Mr. Fell, still smiling, as he brushed off some dust from the desk. “If you need anything else, don’t be afraid to let me know.”
“Yeah. Course, thanks. Appreciate it.”
Mr. Fell grinned in response and went off to do whatever managing a shop entailed.
Quickly eating the rest of the pastry before it got cold, and carefully wiping off his hands with the napkin— wasn’t the best idea to get sugar over everything— Crowley got back to work.
In the end, it turned out to be riddled with old parts. If Mr. Fell was that keen on keeping it, it would probably need some sort of divine intervention to get back into working order again. Crowley carefully put the computer back together before grabbing his bag to look through the bookshop for Mr. Fell.
Upon finding him, busy reshelving books, Crowley scuffed his foot on the dusty wooden floor. “Pretty sure you’ll have to get yourself a new computer. Be a lot cheaper that way.”
Mr. Fell turned to face him, cradling a book to his chest with a small smile. “Oh, I’m not really worried about pricing, my dear, but if you’re sure it’ll be better for business… I suppose investing in something a little more modern wouldn’t hurt.”
“Really wouldn’t. Runs faster, more storage– looks nicer too.”
“Would you mind then, writing me a list of good computers to look into?”
Crowley nodded and whipped his phone out of his pocket to send Aziraphale his recommendations. “I can do that, yeah. I’ll message you.”
Mr. Fell gave him another one of those dazzling smiles. “Thank you, Anthony. How do I pay you?”
“Just Crowley, and I do venmo or paypal. Whichever.”
Mr. Fell shuffled over to his desk and took a beat up Samsung out of the side drawer, tapping his way through it. “How much for the consultation?”
“18 for the hour.”
Mr. Fell took an extra few moments to slowly navigate his phone until Crowley felt his phone buzz in his hand. He checked paypal to clear the notification before starting to call himself an Uber.
“Oh! One moment, my dear–” Mr. Fell hurried back into the back room and returned with a small tupperware full of the tarts he had given Crowley earlier, looking rather pleased with himself as he held out the box to him.
“I– uh– … thanks.” Crowley gingerly took the tupperware, feeling his lip curl into a sort of sneer and face flush red with both the kindness of the gesture and with the embarrassment of not knowing what else to say.
“It’s really my pleasure. After all, I need an excuse to make more for myself! And– how did you put it?– Ah!” He gave a low chuckle that was so disarming, Crowley felt his shoulders relax and mouth curl up into a lopsided smile. “Yes, repopulate. They’re native to my kitchen.”
Crowley couldn’t help but snort. At least Mr. Fell was trying to humor him. “Gotta sustain that culinary biodiversity, do you?”
Mr. Fell chuckled, his face softening even further.
Right. Well.
“Right. Well.” Crowley adjusted his already perfectly-in-place collar and pushed back his hair compulsively. “Mrh. Thanks again. Let me know if you need any help with uh– setting the thing– computer– up.” He stepped backwards in the general direction of the door, his free arm flailing for the handle while still trying to face Mr. Fell so he wouldn’t look like a nut for talking towards the door.
Mr. Fell gave another warm smile. “I just might take you up on that, my dear. Mind how you go!”
Upon exiting the bookshop, Crowley took a deep breath of cold air. He was still shit at talking to people, apparently. When he went to the homes of most clients, he was largely ignored. Brought to their computer set up, given a basic idea of what was wrong with it, and then left to his devices— no pun intended. But no, Mr. Fell wanted to give him things and talk and whatever. Made him nervous.
Though, in fairness, a lot of things made him nervous. Being on time with his bills, wondering if he looked good or not, debating if had the ability to care for a cat— but talking with other people absolutely took the cake. It mostly didn't matter what their classification was either, he just really really really did not like holding a conversation.
He had never been good at small talk. Never . Which is why tech worked so well for him— get in, fix the problem, get out. With nice clients it was so much harder. He was expected to have a decent conversation and sound witty and such. Even worse, though, Mr. Fell was a Caregiver.
The last thing Crowley wanted to be was Classist like those idiots on tiktok or whatever who made fun of anyone from all sides of the system. “Gross” Pets and “whiny” Littles and “stifling” Caregivers and whatever other hurtful things they said about people. There was nothing wrong about being a Caregiver, it was just that Crowley didn’t want coddling. And Caregivers were all about warm and kind and nice. Plus, Crowley was cursed with the body of a limp noodle, and CG’s usually (always ) tried to get him to eat more. Mr. Fell was apparently no exception.
Crowley huffed and tried to look cool leaning against the side of the building next to Mr. Fell’s shop as he waited for his Uber.
So, yeah. If he could help it, he wouldn’t stick around for long if Fell needed help with his computer. Not unless he wanted to end up with another Tupperware of treats (not that he would complain, he really was looking forward to the tarts) or— god forbid— get asked if he was taking care of himself or whatever. That was always the worst question.
He quietly got into his Uber and busied himself with untangling his cheap headphones. He’d worry about his next meeting with Fell when the time came.