Archive of Our Own ^beta

Crowley was moping in his Bentley, two bottles of wine deep, when he spotted a face that he hadn’t seen in years.

It took him a moment to process what was going on, or whether the figure was actually there to begin with. He hadn’t been fully sober since the fight with Aziraphale, and everything since then had been sort of a blur. When the figure got close enough to see clearly through the window, however, he was instantly confronted with a wave of memories.

“Nanny?”

The voice was significantly deeper than the last time Crowley had heard it, and somewhat muffled by the car door between them, but he recognized the tone immediately.

Without a moment’s pause, he sobered up. It pained him to feel the alcohol leave his system, and pained him even more to be forced to confront reality after spending the last few months desperately avoiding it. Still, this was an interaction that he wasn’t prepared to handle at all, let alone trying to do it while drunk. As soon as he did, he opened the car door and stepped out, meeting the figure face-to-face.

“Warlock!” He said, pitching his voice up a few octaves. “Is that you? What are you doing back in the area?”

Warlock shrugged. “Family vacation. Dad said he wanted to go back to his glory days or something. They let me bring my Xbox, so I don’t really care.”

It was good to know that Warlock’s personality hadn’t changed much, at least. Especially when it seemed like everything else about him had in the four years since Crowley had last seen him. Crowley was familiar with the stages of human maturity on a general level. Still, even after all these millenia of witnessing it firsthand, it never ceased to amaze him. His corporation never changed at all, and the fact that these human ones never stopped changing was terrifying and incredible.

”You look so big now!” he said. He’d been used to towering above Warlock, and the fact that he now stood almost as tall as Crowley was jarring, to say the least.

“Yeah, I guess I do. You look terrible,” replied Warlock, brutally honest as ever.

“Thanks,” said Crowley drily, offering no further explanation.

“I mean it. You look really sad.”

”I look completely different than I did when I raised you, head to toe, and you’re focusing on the fact that I look sad ? I’m surprised you even recognized me in the first place. Aren’t you wondering about what I’m wearing and everything? I mean, I look…” he gestured at his hair and clothes, unsure how to finish the sentence.

Warlock rolled his eyes dramatically, in a way that made it seem like it was the dumbest question he had ever heard. He took after Crowley.

“Come on, Nanny. You’ve never looked normal, anyway. Besides,” he leaned in, conspiratorially, “I’m like you.”

Crowley stood there for a second trying to piece together what that could possibly mean. Last he’d checked, Warlock wasn’t a demon. He wasn’t even the antichrist, which had been incredibly disappointing at the time.

“...You know, I’m bi,” Warlock said, like it was a shocking plot twist at the end of a movie.

“Do you want a medal?”

”Fine. Be like that, then. I thought you’d think it was cool that we’re similar.”

“We’re not similar in the slightest,” said Crowley dismissively.

“Why? You’re clearly not cis and straight. I mean, come on, ” said Warlock, scoffing while he eyed Crowley up and down, “don’t try to tell me you like girls…”

This kid was even more annoying and nosy than Crowley remembered. That being said, he had a point.

“No, I don’t,” Crowley said.

Warlock smirked. “So do you like guys, then?”

“Not that, either,” said Crowley. Then he paused, looking at this human for a second. Sure, he was still annoying and nosy. But he was also somebody to talk to. And in a way, he was the closest thing to family that Crowley had at the moment.

“...well. Sort of,” said Crowley softly. It was one of the only times in the conversation so far that his tone wasn’t harsh or sarcastic. “There is one, but he’s not really a man. Neither am I. We’re just…”

“Nonbinary?”

“Yeah, sure, let’s go with that,” agreed Crowley, for simplicity’s sake. “Anyway, he’s the only person I’ve ever really… felt that way about. It’s just him. It’s always been him. He made me feel–”

“Is it Brother Francis?” interrupted Warlock, who had never really been one for manners.

“Fine. Yeah. Him,” said Crowley, annoyed he’d been caught so easily.

Warlock looked infinitely more enthused than Crowley had felt in the past few months combined. “I knew it! You two were always looking at each other like that!”

“Like what?”

“You know. All lovey-dovey. Everyone knew about it. I remember when I was younger overhearing Mom say to Dad… or, well, record a voice memo that she hoped Dad would listen to… that she was sure you two had a secret romance going on.”

“It wasn’t like that!”

“Come on. You two definitely…” Warlock made an obscene hand gesture, and Crowley suddenly felt the urge to miracle him right back to America.

“No, we didn’t,” said Crowley, voice icy cold. “We never did that. I kissed him once, and it was the most terrible moment of my life.”

”So it wasn’t that serious, then,” Warlock said. Now that he knew that his nanny and his gardener hadn't been sneaking around after-hours to hook up, he seemed to lose all interest.

“It was the most bloody serious thing in the world,” said Crowley, because what did this kid know about love?

He and Aziraphale had known each other for six thousand years. He had spent every single one of them growing even more attached to the angel than he had thought possible. They had been there for each other when nobody else in existence was. Over the millenia, they had shared drinks, laughter, company, and memories. They had become so used to being around each other that it felt like they were incomplete when the other wasn’t there. Even the word love seemed tragically insufficient to sum up the connection that the two of them shared.

Frankly, Crowley was running low on his already-limited supply of patience for hearing this kid imply otherwise.

His tone said, don’t push.

Warlock, who had always been a big fan of pushing things, especially other people’s buttons, ignored the warning.

“Fine, then,” said Warlock, “if it’s so serious, where is he now?”

That was all it took for Crowley to snap.

“He ran off, you little shit! He buggered off to do Satan-knows-what far away, and left me all by myself here. We had one terrible, wonderful kiss and now I’m not sure I’ll ever see him again. Okay? Happy now?”

It was supposed to sound cool and powerful. That was how Crowley had meant it to sound, at least. What he hadn’t intended was the pathetic way his voice broke midway through, the tears that he felt welling up in his eyes. Thank someone that his glasses mostly concealed them.

“Jesus, Nanny, are you okay?”

“No,” said Crowley, because he wasn’t. He didn’t even feel like lying, not now. The person he loved the most in the world was gone, and now he was ranting about his problems to an obnoxious teenage human.

The tears were getting harder to conceal now, and Crowley buried his head in his hands, trying to wipe away at them as he shook. Warlock stood awkwardly to the side, clearly not at all used to seeing his nanny crying like this, and completely at a loss for how to respond.

“I still think about him. All the time. He’s so… so good ,” said Crowley through tears. “I can’t stop thinking about everything he’s done for people. I mean, this one time he put his entire existence on the line, and lied directly to his superiors, all for the sake of three children he had just met. Can you believe that?”

“Was he the gardener for their families, too?”

“Close enough. Anyway, he’s just… he’s so selfless sometimes. He cares so much. Almost too much, if I’m being honest. I think that’s part of why he left in the first place, which makes the whole thing even worse.”

“He left because he cared?”

“Yeah, I think so. …That’s what I’ve been telling myself, anyway. He cares about the world, and he thought that if he left, he could fix an irreparably screwed up system from the inside. I think he thought he could protect me by doing it, too,” said Crowley, the words almost painful as they spilled out of his mouth. “He hates it there almost as much as I do, but he thought he could make a difference.”

“Wow,” said Warlock, looking back at him with widened eyes. “Brother Francis has always been so noble. I’ll bet he’s never done a selfish thing in his life.”

Crowley’s crying turned into laughter, and an amused smile rose to the top of his red, tear-soaked face.

“What, seriously? He can be so selfish and irresponsible and short-sighted, and it’s wonderful. He’ll take the law as a suggestion and lie to people’s faces and do anything to get out of doing his job and lazing around whenever possible. He drinks like a fish and stuffs his face and likes to be pampered, and he acts recklessly just so I can swoop in and save the day.”

Warlock’s eyes widened in disbelief. “That doesn’t sound like Brother Francis at all. He always told me those things were wrong! He said to never lie, and to never be gluttonous or prideful.”

Crowley’s smile grew further. “Well, that’s because he’s also a massive hypocrite.”

“I think you’re making all that up. He’s always so selfless, so how can he be so selfish, too? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“You’ve got it all backwards,” said Crowley, a little disappointed that Warlock still wasn’t getting it, “he’s the only thing in the world that makes any sense at all.”

“Huh?”

Crowley didn’t bother explaining any further, instead placing his head back in his hands. “I don’t even know why I’m saying anything nice about him. I’m not supposed to be nice. Besides, I should be focusing on everything else he’s got wrong with him, and trust me, there’s a lot.”

“Like what?” asked Warlock, who suddenly seemed interested in the conversation again now that he knew he could get some dirt on kind old Brother Francis.

“Well, he’s always living in the past, for one. And furthermore, he’s naive, and petty, and he can be so obnoxiously pretentious, and…” Crowley’s voice trailed off, looking for more negative qualities, but only finding one agonizing truth. “...And I miss him so much that it physically hurts.”

Crowley couldn’t recall the last time he had been this honest with anybody, but the words were just flowing out of him now, and he couldn't stop himself. It was so nice to have someone to talk to again, even if that someone was a spoiled human teenager.

“I mean, I miss his smile. It’s one of the loveliest sights in the world.”

“...Now I know what people mean when they say ‘love is blind’...” said Warlock slowly.

“No, you don’t get it. He was in disguise, just like I was. He doesn’t look like that at all. He’s got this glowing blond hair, and sparkling blue eyes, and a stupid, adorable tartan bow tie on all the time. Not that any of that should matter, but it’s certainly a little harder to stay mad at him when he looks, I mean… the way he does.”

“I can’t imagine Brother Francis looking anything other than ugly.”

“I’m five seconds away from making your future look very, very bleak, kid…”

“You can’t do that,” said Warlock, rolling his eyes.

“You have no idea…” said Crowley, then he sighed, because just because he could didn’t mean he would ever actually be able to bring himself to.

“He’s beautiful, alright? And he’s a goddamn angel. And if I hear you imply otherwise, let’s just say you’ll be wishing you hadn’t.”

“Fine. I’m not scared, though. I know you never keep your promises.”

“What do you mean?”

“All that crazy stuff you told me when I was little. You used to make up all these insane stories about what’d happen when I was older. None of it ever did, obviously.”

“That’s…” said Crowley, debating whether it was worth it to go into the specifics of how he and Brother Francis were actually an angel and a demon who, thanks to the error of a few satanic nuns, mistook him for the antichrist and tried to make him as morally-neutral as possible to prevent armageddon, resulting in potentially the strangest childhood in existence. “...A long story.”

“Fine. In any case, though, you’re a liar.”

“That’s right, I am,” said Crowley. Liar wasn’t bad. Better than good or nice, at least.

Warlock looked Crowley up and down again, and Crowley hated that. He usually considered himself far above any human’s judgment, but feeling the scrutinizing gaze of this fifteen-year-old boy was enough to make him feel indescribably weak and small.

“So you’re trying to get over your breakup, right?” asked Warlock, after assessing Crowley’s lonely demeanor. “I can help you out with that if you want. I’m kinda an expert.”

“Aren’t you fourteen?”

“Fifteen,” corrected Warlock. “And trust me, I know all about this. What you’ve gotta do is get a tub of ice cream, watch a lighthearted TV show, and cry. Not a romance, though. Oh, and DM him insults or blackmail using a burner account. Or just post a bunch of pictures of a new boyfriend to make him jealous.”

The social media advice probably wouldn’t do much, given that the last time Crowley brought up Twitter, Aziraphale assumed it was a website where you could learn bird calls. Texts, social media posts, and DMs were right out.

The other advice was surprisingly solid. Ice cream would probably be a welcome change from whiskey and wine. At the very least, something different. He was getting a little tired of the near-constant state of drunkenness he’d been in since the breakup, anyway.

“And hang out with a friend,” continued Warlock. “If you don’t have any, because let’s be real here, you don’t seem like the kinda person who does, then hang out with me. Trust me, you’re gonna want someone to talk to.”

Crowley did want someone to talk to. He wanted it more than anything, though he’d never admit it. The person he usually talked to was gone. Just maybe, though, this human could be a decent second choice. Besides, humans knew all about breakups, didn’t they? From all of the ugly separations he’d witnessed over the centuries, it seemed like that was practically their specialty.

Before Crowley could think better of it, he opened the passenger door to his Bentley, gesturing to it. “Come on. Get in.”

“Cool,” said Warlock, hopping in without so much as a second of consideration. Crowley would’ve wondered if his parents would be concerned where he was, but given that it was Mr. and Mrs. Dowling, they likely wouldn’t even notice their son was gone.

“You know, generally speaking, when an adult you barely know asks you to get in their car, you’re supposed to say ‘no’.”

Warlock shrugged, unfazed. “You always told me that strangers were meaningless dust to be trampled over, and I could do whatever I want with them. And Brother Francis always told me to be trusting and kind to everyone.”

“Wow,” said Crowley. “We really did a shit job of raising you, didn’t we?”

Crowley started the car, while Warlock leaned back in the seat. Crowley couldn’t help but look over and cringe at the sight of this human child sitting carelessly in his most treasured possession.

“Remember what I said would happen if you insult Brother Francis? Well, same goes for if you stain the interior of my Bentley.”

Warlock rolled his eyes. “Nanny, I’m not five anymore.”

“Stop calling me that. I’m not your nanny like I used to be.”

“What should I call you, then?”

Crowley briefly toyed with ‘Anthony’ or ‘Ashtoreth’, but figured that since he had been painfully honest about everything else in his life, he may as well open up about this, too. He would most likely just end up erasing Warlock’s memory of this whole conversation at the end of it, anyway.

“Crowley. It’s Crowley.”

“That’s a weird name,” said Warlock, which made Crowley immediately regret being honest about it in the first place.

“What, you think I’m going to listen to name critique from somebody named Warlock ?”

“It’s an old English name,” said Warlock defensively, “a strong name.”

“...No, it’s not. That’s just what your clueless mum told you, because an equally clueless nun told her.”

“How do you know all of that? You always act like you know everything.”

“That’s because I do,” said Crowley. Technically a stretch, but close enough to the truth that this human wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

“Oh yeah? What number am I thinking of right now?”

“Seven.”

“...Lucky guess. Hey, how far until we get back to your house, anyway?”

“I don’t have a house.”

“Fine. Apartment, then.”

“I don’t have a flat, either. Used to, but…” his voice trailed off, and Warlock looked at him with a mix of sympathy and horror.

“Are you living in your car?”

“This is a temporary arrangement, okay? I was thinking about asking to move in with uh… with him, back before, well… you know. But that didn’t work out.”

“That’s just sad.”

“Shut up,” said Crowley. “Are you helping me out with this or not?”

“Right, yeah. Well, first let’s go to the store. We can pick out a bunch of stuff.”

“I thought we were just getting ice cream.”

“Well, we’ll see,” said Warlock, before looking at the dashboard. “Can you play any music on this thing? I’m bored.”

The rest of the car ride consisted of Warlock critiquing Crowley’s driving and complaining almost constantly about Queen being the only music option. In a way, it felt familiar.

As soon as they entered the store and caught sight of the frozen food aisle, Crowley froze up like all of the ice cream.

“I can’t do this,” he said, staring at a vanilla ice cream carton that was, almost mockingly, placed right next to a container of red ice lollies.

“Why not?”

“It reminds me of him.”

“Okay, fine. No ice cream then. There’s plenty of other treats you could try. What about cake?”

“That reminds me of him, too.”

“Hot chocolate?”

Crowley cringed. “Same problem.”

“What about some fruit? Pears or something?”

“Look, this is a lost cause. Every damn thing in the world reminds me of him. Especially food.”

“Okay, fine. Sweets are like one of the best parts of a breakup though. We should go to a different store, then… maybe a clothing one.”

“That’s not actually the worst idea you’ve had,” said Crowley, a little intrigued.

“Cool. What you’ve gotta do is something totally different. Most people switch to darker colors, but in your case, probably any color at all would be a change.”

Crowley’s intrigued expression instantly shifted to dismissive. “Not a chance. I’ve worn black and red for my whole life, and I can’t think of a worse possible time to introduce some bright, happy colors into the mix.”

“No, this is the perfect time,” said Warlock. “You want to feel better, don’t you? Don’t you want to totally forget about that douche?”

“Remember what I said about insulting him?” Asked Crowley, glaring behind his shades.

“Sorry. The point is that you want to move on, right?”

Crowley didn’t respond. There was no good way to articulate how he simultaneously felt like he wanted to distance himself as much as possible and forget Aziraphale entirely, and yet somehow also hold onto all those memories like the most precious treasure in the world.

“I’m taking that as a yes, then. What color do you want your nails?”

“Black.”

Warlock narrowed his eyes, and Crowley sighed. “Fine. Yellow, I guess.”

A half hour later, Crowley emerged from the changing room wearing some clothes that Warlock had helped him pick out. (It wasn’t like he needed a changing room to begin with, but he figured that miracling the clothes on instantaneously would probably be a little too much for Warlock to handle.)

Warlock was probably a lot more used to Crowley wearing skirts and makeup than the look he had seen him in earlier that day, so it would make sense that’s what he gravitated towards in the makeover. Crowley had insisted on a black turtleneck and some fishnet leggings, and Warlock had picked out a short amber skirt for him to go along with the yellow nails (Crowley used a subtle miracle for those. Warlock hadn’t questioned it). The outfit had slightly more color than Crowley was used to, but not so much that he looked totally out of place wearing it.

Crowley had to admit: the new look wasn’t bad. He had always liked changing up his appearance, and even though this wasn’t his usual style, it could be far worse.

A small, petty part of him imagined Aziraphale looking down at the new look from Heaven and lamenting about what he missed out on. The thought of that alone made the makeover worth it in Crowley’s eyes.

By the time the two of them were back in the Bentley, new clothes in hand, Crowley was feeling significantly better than he had earlier in the day.

Another noticeable change from earlier in the day was that the list of Things Warlock Was Not Allowed to Say or Do had expanded from just insulting Aziraphale and messing with the Bentley to include: asking any questions about Warlock’s upbringing that Crowley didn’t want to answer, asking any questions about Aziraphale that Crowley didn’t want to answer, asking any questions about Crowley himself that Crowley didn’t want to answer, and calling Crowley’s favorite songs old person music.

“Any other tips for a breakup? This one wasn’t as terrible as I’d feared it might be…” said Crowley, looking down at the new clothes he was carrying as he drove.

“I’ll Google a list,” said Warlock.

Crowley sighed. A large part of why he’d brought Warlock here in the first place was because he was supposed to know how to help with this. If he was just going to look it up, Crowley could’ve done that himself and avoided getting human fingerprints all over his Bentley.

Warlock scrolled through the results on his phone, then turned to Crowley. “Alright, it says that the first thing to do is to remember that you’re human.”

Crowley stared at Warlock. Warlock stared right back. Suddenly, Crowley felt very close to crying again. He bottled it up, though. Crying one time in front of a human child was already far more than he would’ve liked, and he would do anything he could to prevent it from happening again.

“Right. Sure. Anything else?” asked Crowley.

“It says to write a letter to him, but not send it,” said Warlock, before shrugging. “Personally, I think you should send it, along with a mild threat and maybe some blackmail, but that’s just me.”

“Maybe I raised you okay after all,” said Crowley, before pausing. “What would I put in the letter, anyway?”

“I dunno. Anything you want. Maybe any thoughts you have about him that you never got the chance to say in person.”

Crowley snapped his fingers and was now holding a pen and paper.

“How’d you do that?”

“Magic trick,” said Crowley, then looked disgusted at himself for even saying that. “No. Actually, not that. Can’t believe I just said that. It’s just…” he looked for another excuse as to how he had magically summoned a pen and paper, but thinking of none, said, “I think I’m actually going to write this alone. This is sort of a personal thing.”

“Fine…” said Warlock, visibly disappointed he didn’t get to snoop on the letter. “Do I have to go back now?”

Crowley considered his options. The first was to write an incredibly personal letter with a fifteen-year-old human staring over his shoulder, offering unwanted critique the whole time. The second option was to write it alone, while drinking copious amounts of wine, in the privacy of his own space. The choice was easy.

“Afraid you do. I’ll probably never see you again after this, and honestly, that’s probably for the best. This has been surprisingly enjoyable, though– without you, I’d have spent the whole day miserable and alone.”

Warlock knew that Crowley was a liar, but also seemed to know that in this case, his words were true. He grinned a little, then asked, “can you drive me back to where I ran into you earlier? I dunno how to get back there.”

Crowley chuckled and nodded, and decided that maybe he shouldn’t erase the kid’s memories of the day after all. It was the least he could do after Warlock had been so surprisingly helpful, and it wasn’t like having him remember it would hurt anything.

“Ciao,” Crowley said when he’d reached the street to drop Warlock off, and before he could stop himself, added, “thanks for all the advice. And for listening.”

“No problem, Nanny,” replied Warlock, hopping out of the car. Crowley was about to correct him, but it was too late– he was long gone.

Aziraphale was in the middle of preparing for an upcoming meeting that he was going to host when he spotted Michael walking towards him, holding some sort of envelope.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but there appeared to be a material object in the elevator. I’m fairly certain that it was addressed to you. Would you like me to destroy it?”

Aziraphale shot out of his seat, reaching frantically for the envelope. “No!”

Michael looked at him like he had transformed into an inferno of Hellfire, and Aziraphale cleared his throat, sitting primly back down.

 “...That is… certainly not. I’d like to see it. For, er… investigative purposes. One never knows what sort of information one could acquire about the opposition when one reads letters that are addressed to one from mysterious, likely demonic sources.”

Michael looked confused, but nonetheless handed over the envelope.

“Could I have a bit of privacy? I’m afraid this is confidential. You know, important archangel things.”

Michael nodded and left the room, and Aziraphale opened the letter and began reading.

Aziraphale carefully set the letter back in the envelope, before burying his head in his hands, taking a few deep breaths.

He canceled the day’s meeting.