Crowley, the duck, and Aziraphale — in that order — formed an orderly march around the park. It was spring, but summer was beginning to stretch and wake, and it would soon have its shoes on for a jog. Aziraphale could feel its approach in the pleasant warmth that settled over the park, stirred occasionally by a still-chilly breeze. They'd had a picnic lunch in the park, and they had been on their way home when the duckling had started following Crowley. He was still carrying the mostly empty picnic basket.
They were on their third lap around the park. They had checked every rock, bush, puddle, pond, reed and bridge, and the river and the surrounding park still showed no sign of the duckling's mother. Aziraphale's legs were beginning to tire, and he wasn't sure they'd ever find her.
"Crowley," said Aziraphale, jogging to catch up to him, "I've had a thought."
Crowley stopped short, the duckling bumping into his boot before shaking off. "Yeah?"
"If a duckling imprints on anyone, you see, it really ought to be its mother. Who is, er, currently... Misplaced. And if she hasn't imprinted on her, and there's no sign of her — well, sometimes, a duckling, in the absence of anything else — we're a little duck-shaped, if you think about it."
Crowley furrowed his brow. "There's a point in there somewhere."
"Right. Yes. My point is, if she hasn't had anyone else to imprint on, then her mother might very well be dead, or she's..."
"Been abandoned?" finished Crowley, his face falling. He looked down at the duck. "Just left, like she's nothing? And now she doesn't have anybody?"
Aziraphale winced. That look was what he'd been afraid of. "Yes. I'm afraid." Then he added, "I don't think she'll survive very long on her own. Someone's dog is bound to get off leash, or, or something."
"Nature's a cruel mistress, hum?" he said, more to the duck than Aziraphale.
She chirped at him in response.
"We're going home," said Crowley, sourly.
"Oh, yes. She's included in we."
Aziraphale brightened and fell back into line. They marched all the way back home.
Aziraphale made a call to the local wildlife rehabilitation centre whilst Crowley fussed about. He occasionally poked his head into Aziraphale's office to ask where all the frozen peas had gotten to (The freezer, where else? You checked the bath tub? What on Earth for? Look behind the blueberries.) or why they didn't have any bales of straw on hand (We live in a cottage, Crowley, not a farm.) or fret (If she feels too cold, put her in your jacket.) before Aziraphale finally shooed him out and asked him to stop confusing the lovely young lady on the other end of the line.
It turned out that they could keep her, but they'd have to make sure she was warm. Crowley already had a box set up in the living room near the fire, but since it was unlit he gave her a heating lamp as well. They kneeled over her box, peering in. Her soft, downy body was curled around a small blanket and a pile of straw. She had two bowls, one with water and the other with a pile of peas and oats. She looked golden under the orange light of the lamp.
"I always thought it'd be nice to welcome a pet to our cottage," said Aziraphale, sighing happily. "Won't it be lovely when she grows up? We can have fresh duck eggs in the morning."
Crowley hummed in agreement. "We'll have to name her, if we're going to keep her."
They went quiet a moment, thinking. The duckling curled up further and buried her bill under her wing.
"You could name her after yourself," said Aziraphale, coyly.
"Hm? Anthony? Antonia, I suppose."
"Nooo, I meant your middle name."
Crowley scowled at him. "Don't start that again. It's just a J."
"It is! People have — I'm not starting this again."
Aziraphale tried and failed to suppress a giggle. "Very well."
"Could call her Motherducker," said Crowley.
"Will you stop being crude?"
Crowley laughed. "Okay, okay. Er. Picnic?"
"I like picnics," he said, defensively.
"No, no. It's cute. I like it."
As if to agree, Picnic lifted her bill from underneath her wing and chirped at them happily.
Aziraphale came outside one morning, a few weeks after they adopted Picnic, to find Crowley at the bottom of the garden near their pond. It was barely past dawn, far earlier than he'd normally be up. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he was leaning against a post he'd driven into the ground.
The light of the morning felt fresh and new; it was a soft blueish white that brushed against the trees, clouds and the sea that their back garden overlooked. They were out of view of the neighbours, and Crowley had his sunglasses off. Picnic foraged at his feet.
"Crowley," he called, holding up the two cups of coffee he'd brought out. "You're up early."
"Morning, angel." Crowley lifted an arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. His hair clung damply to his forehead. "I wanted to get her coop built before her siblings arrive."
They'd bought some more ducklings from a neighbour, just to make sure she wouldn't get lonely. She'd be their eldest sister.
"She's old enough to start swimming lessons, isn't she? Has she been in the pond?"
"Not yet, but she's getting braver. She's been dipping her bill in to eat the bugs off it."
When she learned to swim, they'd move her and her adopted siblings to the coop so that she could sleep in its warmth and security with the other ducks. In the mornings they would let them out to nose through the grass and swim in the pond. He could already envision their sleek white bodies and happy quacks as they spent all day exploring the garden.
He smiled and handed Crowley's coffee to him. Aziraphale noticed the dirt under his fingernails when he took it. He took a long drink from the mug, shoulders relaxing.
"Let me help," said Aziraphale.
He put his mug down on the ground too heavily, and some coffee splashed out and sunk into the soil. He paid it no mind and started to roll his sleeves up.
Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley led him over to where he'd put the plans. It was a roll of paper that he kept flat with two rocks pinning it down. It was a simple coop, lifted off the ground with a ramp to the door. Aziraphale suggested they paint it yellow, and Picnic quacked at that, so of course they had to. He let Crowley explain the plans to him, basking in the warmth of raising a little family with him. Duckfathers, he thought, and managed not to giggle.
