Work Text:
As was her common practice, when Nanny Ashtoreth returned from doing whatever she did on her afternoon off,[1] she stopped off at the gardener’s hut for a late-night cup of tea before heading to her own quarters.
“So how’d things go with the hellspawn?” she asked, once she had taken a couple of obligatory, well-sugared sips.
“Quite well,” Brother Francis said cheerfully. “Not a hitch.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, indeed.” Francis smiled, savoring a mouthful from his own unsweetened cup. “It was an altogether lovely afternoon. We spent quite a bit of time out in the garden, and had a very nice conversation regarding the intrinsic worth and value of all things great and small on this blessed and beautiful world[2], and Warlock had three ice lollies, and then we—”
Almost dropping her teacup, Ashtoreth interrupted, her voice jumping half an octave: “Warlock had what?”
“Hm? Oh, ice lollies.” Francis paused, nose wrinkling in distaste. “Well, I suppose he calls them popsicles, but that’s only because of his father—”
Ashtoreth’s eyebrows skyrocketed to join her voice in the upper regions of the atmosphere.
“Er,” Francis specified, registering the connotations of what he’d just said, “not that father. I meant his other one. The attaché, that is. His American father.[3]”
“Ohh, yeah. Makes sense.” Ashtoreth relaxed for a moment, relieved by that reassurance… and then stiffened again, recalling her previous line of inquiry. “Hang on a second. Just how many ice lollies did you say you gave our godchild?”
“Three.”
“Three.” Ashtoreth’s expression was now one of naked horror. “You let the Antichrist have three lollies. In one afternoon.”
“Yes?” Francis frowned, seeing the look on Ashtoreth’s face. “Is there a problem, dear girl?”
“Why did you let Warlock have three ice lollies?”
“Oh, don’t take that tone with me,” Francis chided. “I did it because he told me it’s what you always do.”
“Wha—” Ashtoreth gaped, aghast. “But— he— hrkmgl—!” The string of disjointed syllables strangled itself to a halt.
Francis lifted his chin, mildly annoyed by the continued interrogation. “Well, I certainly wasn’t about to give him a reason to favor you over me. If our plan is to have any hope of success, Warlock must hold us both in equal esteem.”
“But—”
“Think about it,” Francis pressed on. “If he grows up associating one side of the cosmic battle for the universe with ice lollies, and not the other, then just whose side do you think he is going to choose when the time comes?”
Ashtoreth buried her face in her hands.
Relenting, seeing that his point had evidently been well taken, Francis patted her on the shoulder. “Really, you needn’t be so dramatic.[4] It’s quite all right.”
“‘’S really not,” Ashtoreth countered, into her palms.
Francis pursed his lips. “But I did let him have the lollies. So there was no harm done, and we are still on even footing, and…”
“I only ever give him one!” Ashtoreth all but screamed.
“I beg your pardon?”
Raising her head, Ashtoreth had recourse to her tea. “I have never permitted Warlock to eat more than one ice lolly in a row,” she reiterated, this time at a more controlled dynamic. “Nanny’s rules.”
“But he said…”
“That child,” Ashtoreth stated flatly, “has learned his wiling lessons much too well.[5]”
Francis stared, brow creased… and then the penny dropped, and his eyes widened in stunned comprehension. “Good lord,” he breathed.
“More like the opposite,” Ashtoreth said bleakly.
“The Angel of the Bottomless Pit manipulated me into allowing him extra ice lollies.”
“Apparently.”
“Oh, dear.”
“You can say that again.”
“Oh, dear.”
Ashtoreth groaned.
Francis sighed, refilled their teacups, and went to put the kettle back on.
When Francis returned to the table, Ashtoreth set her cup back down with a decided clink. “You realize,” she said grimly, “this means that I will now have to let Warlock have three lollies next time he asks. And probably whenever he wants. So he keeps holding us in equal esteem.”
“Oh, dear.”
“You can stop saying that now, if you want. The point has been made.”
Francis’s lips twitched.
Ashtoreth glared.
Francis made a worthy, and entirely ineffectual, effort to conceal his growing amusement.
Their eyes met… and then the corner of Ashtoreth’s mouth began to twitch as well, no longer able to avoid absorbing the humor of the situation. “Gosh, three in a row? And you were all on your own, too. He must have been bouncing off the walls.”
“We were outdoors,” Francis informed her, with dignity. “There were no walls.”
“Right.”
“He was, I will admit, rather energetic. But that was only to be expected.[6] And it was rather sweet, after all.”
“Of course it was sweet,” Ashtoreth retorted. “It was an ice lolly. Three of them, actually. Bound to be lots of sweetness in there.”
“What? That’s not—” Catching the pun a moment belatedly, Brother Francis made a face. “Oh, you… you. ”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
Ashtoreth looked distinctly pleased by the ambiguous accusation.
Francis smiled at her, sipped tea, and decided it wasn’t worth picking a fight by pointing out (true though it undeniably was) that Warlock was not the only occult entity around who could, often, be accurately described as sweet.
Silence fell as they both sat, each lost in their own reflections regarding the impressive extent of their infernal godchild’s powers of manipulation.
A new thought crossing Francis’s mind, he sobered. He looked at Ashtoreth — head thrown back, eyes on the ceiling, lips curving slightly, and how Francis hated to disturb the mood — and said quietly, “Do you think we should be worried?”
“Yes," Ashtoreth said immediately.
“...Pardon?”
Ashtoreth moved her head upright again. ““Should we be worried that our charge is going to be eating way too many ice lollies for his own good[7] — not to mention ours — you mean? Yes, definitely. We should be worried. We should be very, very afraid.” Having had a chance to being resigning herself to this aspect of their fate, Nanny Ashtoreth now sounded reasonably sanguine about this prospect.[8]
“No, I don’t mean that.” Francis snorted, fondly. “Goodness, you are dramatic.”
"You think so, do you?"
“What I meant was, Warlock is the Antichrist.”
“Obviously. I delivered him. Not exactly the kind of thing you can make a mistake about.[9]”
“The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings,” Francis went on, ignoring Ashtoreth’s interjection, “and all that tedious business. So, should we be concerned because the Father of Lies is apparently… well… lying to us?"
Ashtoreth frowned.
Tense now as he thought aloud, following his own question to its logical conclusion, Francis continued. “Could this be a sign that we’re failing… or, worse, that we’ve failed? That he’s already coming into his heritage, before we’ve had the time to properly influence him to the middle ground?”
“Ohh.” Ashtoreth’s face was somber again, to Francis’s regret. Still, the thing had had to be said.
Ashtoreth was silent for a while, considering the question.
The teakettle boiled. Francis went to the kitchen. Set a second pot to steep. Sat back down at the table. Poured them both a fresh cup.
Absently, Ashtoreth stirred far too many lumps of sugar[10] into her drink. Finally, she looked up and spoke slowly, thoughtfully. “You know. If the Prince of This World concentrates all his occult powers and innate drive towards Evil on getting himself extra ice lollies, then I think… well.” She sighed. “I guess it could be a lot worse.”
“Hm.” Francis thought about that answer. “I suppose,” he conceded, “it could be.”
It wasn’t really a satisfying answer. Not entirely. It didn’t set all of their concerns at rest — far from it. But, well. It did, after all, satisfy as much as any other answer that they were likely to receive for the next six years.
So, then. For the time being, Francis supposed, it would have to do.
He looked at the clock, considering commenting on the lateness of the hour. Glanced back at Ashtoreth, comfortably reclining in her chair. Considered again.
It would, after all, be a couple of weeks until Nanny Ashtoreth’s next afternoon off. They might as well make the most of the evening, while they still had it.
Francis decided against mentioning the time. “More tea?” he offered, instead.
Ashtoreth paused; tilted her head; and grinned, with a level of mischief that ranked only just below that achieved by the youthful Great Beast that was (supposedly) called Dragon. “How about an ice lolly?”
Footnotes
1 She did not usually do much of anything on those afternoons, actually, other than visit a flat in Mayfair and make sure the houseplants there were staying in line. It was just that Crowley had a very strong conviction that any nanny worth her salt ought to take at least two afternoons off a month. Ideally, it should have been every second Tuesday, although in practice the actual days of the week ended up varying widely depending on the Dowlings’ schedule.
In any case, the regular afternoons off provided a window of time when the gardener was free to work his influence on Warlock unchallenged, and that helped to level the playing field.[return to text]
2 It would have been more accurate to say that Brother Francis gave a very nice lecture about the intrinsic worth, value, etc. while Warlock humored him by nodding, smiling, and politely admiring Brother Slug. Between his four parental figures, Warlock had of necessity mastered the art of humoring early on, albeit in different forms for each of said figures.[return to text]
3 Brother Francis spoke the word “American” with only slightly less antipathy than if he had, in fact, been referring to He Who Rules All That Is Evil, The Old Gooseberry Himself.[return to text]
4 This admonishment was, of course, a waste of breath, and they both knew it. Every couple of decades a circumstance would arise in which either Aziraphale or Crowley would tell the other to stop being so dramatic. Both were well aware that this was a mutually hopeless cause — not to mention the height of hypocrisy. At this point, it was practically tradition.[return to text]
5 Even at five years old, Warlock was an excellent student when it came to things that interested him. Things that interested him included maths, wiles, and ice lollies. (Things that did not particularly interest Warlock included grinding things under his heels, or having love and reverence for all living creatures.)[return to text]
6 In point of fact, Warlock’s behavioral reaction to excessive sugar consumption had been the product of a bit too much Expecting on Brother Francis’s part. There is little scientific evidence to support the popular myth that sugar increases hyperactivity. However, Aziraphale had once heard Crowley mention the supposed phenomenon of a sugar rush, and had taken it to heart. As a result, when people consumed sugary foods around Aziraphale, it tended to have a very energizing effect.[return to text]
7 Fortunately, Warlock Dowling had extraordinarily (almost miraculously, one might have said) good health. Things that ought to have been supremely unhealthy in the short and/or the long term had no effect on him whatsoever. This was because both Aziraphale and Crowley assumed that the Antichrist was above — or, technically, below — such bodily matters. (Sugar rushes, however, were in a completely different category.)[return to text]
8 Nanny Ashtoreth was feeling very torn between great pride in her protégé’s accomplishments and existential dread resulting from the same. So she had settled for both.[return to text]
9 At this juncture, the reader may feel free to indulge in a dark and knowing laugh behind their hand.[return to text]
10 Thankfully for the sake of the world, it had never occurred to either Aziraphale or Crowley that too much sugar might affect their hyperactivity levels, as well.[return to text]