You could cut the tension in that room with a knife. The shocked silence was palpable, almost suffocating. Barnaby kept his head low, holding his breath. The boy only opened his wings halfway, slightly wrapping them around himself defensively. It felt good to spread his wings after having them tucked for so many hours. Small downy feathers stuck out at odd angles giving him a ruffled look. But what if he made a mistake? What if the adults hated them?
"Whoa...That's new," Crowley articulated only slightly better than the stammering mess of a witch-finder behind him. A part of the demon wanted to reach out and touch the beautiful limbs, but he knew better. Unwanted touch of another ethereal being's wings was a gross intrusion of personal space, no matter the side. Still they were the most magnificent wings he had ever seen. The warm cream of the inner feathers, so much warmer than an angel's. Sprinkled with flecks of varying browns, like a painter who flicked his brush at the canvas, little 'imperfections' making it all the more beautiful. The outer feathers amazed Crowley as neither angelic nor demonic. A reddish-brown with its own flashes of lighter brown mixed in, each feather outlined with a more chocolaty color. It was perfect and complete with its imperfections, human incarnate. Complicated and varied, but still whole. Unlike the straight black and white of his world.
After a few moments, Crowley tore his eyes away from the russet feathers and to their owner's small face. Not looking anyone in the eye, the boy scrunched up with tension and fear he was trying so hard to hide. Barnaby was just waiting for the other shoe to drop, to be rejected again. It was coming any second now.
"Hey, no one's going to hurt you here," Crowley lifted the young boy's chin. Hesitation and doubt flickered across his brown eyes, "Look, I have my own set, see?" The demon didn't bother taking off his coat as he materialized his ebony wings, just letting them rip right through. He could always miracle it whole again later. The demon wanted Barnaby to feel safe, to trust him. And showing his wings was the quickest way to get his point across. The room was too small for the man to spread to his full wingspan, so instead Crowley kept his immaculate wings mostly tucked.
"They're black," Barnaby whispered, moving to get a better look. They were exactly like Aziraphale's just darker, and with a bit of a glossy sheen. Not exactly an angel, the words echoed the the boy's mind. Even so, Crowley was close enough for Barnaby. It didn't mater if his wings were black, white, or purple, for all the boy cared.
"But you're human," Anathema had finally overcome her shock. At first she was taken back but even with a closer look, Barnaby was just human. She was sure of it. There was nothing supernatural at all about his aura, just a young boy who'd been through something no one should. If he was angel, demon or anything inbetween she would know. Crowley paused to think about this for a second. She was right, Bart's wings were not an angel's, and a demon that young was unheard of. Besides if he was, Crowley would have sensed it long ago. This was something else.
"So, do you want to tell us the whole story?" he asked arching his brow at the boy.
Barnaby gave a hesitant nod, "I'm ready,"
They all gathered back in the living room, prepared to listen for however long Barnaby needed. He hadn't even told Aziraphale about his past, it hurt too much. But he had to, it could be key to finding the angel. So there he sat trying to find the right words. After smoothing down a few stray feathers, Crowley dematerialized his wings. It felt nice having them out for sure, but a small part of him was always reminded of the fall, of what he lost. Besides, they would only get in the way now. Nestled between Anathema and him on the sofa, Barnaby pulled his knees to his chest. Unconsciously, he held out his wings in a defensive position, folded but not pressed against his back.
Bit by bit he began to describe a life before, a childhood of nightmares. Small rooms, white walls, and a constant stream of new faces each as cold as the next. With each day, came new 'tests' full of pain and fear. The only change was then they took him outside to run the obstacle course. Just like the day he flew away. As far back as he could remember it was always those white walls, only two faces remaining the same.
"I didn't know his name before, but Cain was always there. Just watching. He was different from the others, never poking me with needles or anything. He just made sure I obeyed, didn't run," That harsh voice was forever ingrained in Barnaby's memory. He shivered, remembering the rumbling sound in the one place he felt safe. Barnaby barely noticed his own shaking hands but, Anathema did. Without saying a word, she placed a steadying hand on his back, between the meting of his wings.
Taking a deep breath he started again, "The other person I remember is this woman. She was the only one who ever seemed happy to see me. But she was never excited for me, just my wings. Always smiling but never at me. She talked to me a lot though, but never in English and most of the time it didn't make sense. She was with me more often than the others, but it always hurt more,"
"Wait, you said most of the time it was non-sense, what about the rest?" something in his rambling caught Anathema's attention.
"Mostly just commands, siéntate* and stuff like that,"
"You're bilingual?" Newton asked surprised. Barnaby had never thought about it before. Of course he knew Spanish, but there was no need for it since the woman was the only person he ever met who used it. And everyone on the outside seemed to only speak English anyway.
"I think so," Barnaby explained, "I just kind of picked it up, like I did English,"
"Makes sense, young children's brains are hard-wired for language learning. And if she talked to him so much in it, I wouldn't be surprised if the was even more fluent in Spanish than English," realized Newton.
But a different question was pressing Crowley's brain, "Can you get back there, to that place?"
"Sorry, I don't remember how," There were so many twists, turns, and sleepless nights, it was almost impossible to remember how he found the bookshop, much less the place where he was made. Even if he wanted to.
"So, Manchester it is then," sighed Crowley. It was worth a shot.
"I want to go with you," Barnaby pressed again. He wasn't going to let this go, he had to help.
"We already talked about this," Anathema replied gently.
"But now you know! They were after me, it's my fault,"
"Bart's right," admitted Crowley.
"What?"
"Not about the fault thing. About them being after him. Whoever was after him before probably won't just give up now. They're still out there. Staying here will just put everyone in danger," the demon explained. He already lost Aziraphale today, and he'd be damned again if he'd let anyone else get hurt.
"Are you sure? I really don't mind,"
"Just keep an eye on Adam. The three of us will be back before you know it,"
*siéntate = sit down
Gravel crunched beneath the Bentley's tires as Tadsfield became smaller and smaller in the distance. And as he pulled down the last country road, Crowley could see four small figures waving them goodbye. Turning around in the seat next to him, Barnaby gave a small wave back. He'd covered up his wings again, looking just like any other kid. But Crowley knew better, it wasn't his wings that set him apart, it was his spirit. The kid had been robbed of his childhood, and the basic human need to be loved for years, finding it only in the gentle arms of a complete stranger. Then, when for the first time he finally had a chance of a real life, it was stolen from him. But still Barnaby refused to be bitter, or to just give up and accept his fate. He fought and struggled just for the chance to do something. For a chance of being to be the victim of fate, but to take his life into his own hands. And Crowley respected that.
Sitting contently in the passenger seat, Barnaby swung his his feet back and forth hitting the glove box every so often, setting off a flurry of blinking lights. Crowley gave a little snicker. The bright pink just looked so out of place with Barnaby's otherwise mature clothing, it was funny. Obviously something Aziraphale would never pick out. The demon heard about light-up shoes from his nanny days when Warlock was that age, but his parents, always the kill-joys disproved of all things fun and childish. So this was the first time he had actually seen a pair. And now that he did, Crowley had to admit wearing his own pair of blinking sneakers was sounding pretty good, except for his pride and heightened fashioned sense.
"So, new shoes?" he smirked. The boy stopped his kicking, looking down to his shoes and back up to the driver.
"My first pair, yeah,"
"Pretty colorful, aren't they,"
"Why does everyone seem to have a problem with my shoes?" asked Barnaby. He truly didn't understand what was wrong, "I like them, they're fun. And I don't even have to worry about laces,"
"Don't worry about those people, they're just jealous that they don't have lights in their own shoes," Crowley declared avoiding the real question. There was no way he was spreading that specific gender colors crap that had become so popular lately. Hell, a hundred years ago pink was seen a more of a male color. So who was to say someone couldn't wear a shirt just because of the frequency of light it didn't absorb. He missed the renaissance, back when he could wear a skirt one day, pants the next and no one would question it.
"Maybe they should all get a pair then," Barnaby figured. Maybe the world would be a better place if everyone had lights on their feet.
With a grin, Crowley flicked on the radio. Only if life was that simple.
Mmm num ba de Dum bum ba be Doo buh dum ba beh beh. Pressure pushing down on me Pressing down on you-
Barnaby practically jumped out of his seat, fanatically looking for the disembodied voice. He jerked to look into the back seat bumping into Crowley. The demon griped the steering wheel harder, severing to avoid the ditch, before slamming on the breaks. Still the boy looked around wild-eyed for the unseen men.
It's the terror of knowing what the world is about. Watching some good friends screaming "Let me out!"
"Will you stop it, it's just sound," Crowley sighed. To prove his point, the demon turned the volume knob up and down, then flicked it off and on a few times for good measure, "See, I'm controlling it,"
Reaching out his hand Barnaby pressed down knob himself, almost jumping out of his skin again when the music started again. The boy paused for a second, at first he thought it was just some men talking in unison. But now that he listened closer it had a rhythm, an underlying beat to the almost non-sense words. "What is it?"
"it's music. It's...it's like...just listen it's fun," Crowley tried to explain moving the car forward again. Shaking his head he turned the radio up a bit. This was going to be a long drive and certainly one of his strangest.
This is our last dance, This is ourselves under pressure. Under pressure.
Okay, I rewrote this like three times but still can't seem to get it right. Oh well, here it is. If you didn't know the song is "Under pressure" by Queen and David Bowe. And FYI I don't know Spanish so I'm sorry if I get anything wrong. Thank you all for reading.