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Warlock Dowling was no stranger to being kidnapped. Heck, he was no stranger to people wishing him harm—for one thing, he’d been an absolutely terrible brat when he was younger, and for another, his father was rather important and that came with enemies.
So, no, Warlock couldn’t say that he was really surprised by all this. But he wasn’t so delusional as to say that he wasn’t scared. And he was—he was scared shitless.
When Warlock was younger, he’d been kidnapped more than once; but when he was younger, Warlock had also possessed the strange idea that he was invincible. When he’d been snatched from the park on one of the rare days when he’d been in his mother’s care, six-year-old Warlock had fixed his captors with a nasty stare and told them that he looked forward to eviscerating them all—in those exact words.
The hired thugs had been understandably unnerved by the utterly bizarre child that he’d been; Warlock had just waited impatiently for his Nanny to come collect him—after all, she’d said she would pick him up from the park so that Mom could attend some dinner party, and it was far past time she should have shown up.
In the back seat of the kidnappers’ car, he’d kicked the driver’s seat and screamed at the huge man sitting next to him, complaining that “you’re gunna make me miss my TV show! Nanny never records it when we miss it!”
He’d screamed the whole way to the huge empty warehouse, and when one of them had slapped a hand over his mouth, he’d bitten him. Really, he’d been oblivious back then—so foolishly and fully confident that he couldn’t possibly be hurt. And when Nanny had shown up hours later with Brother Francis, he’d only thrown himself at them and whined that he’d been bored. He never questioned how they found him, or where the kidnappers had gone.
Looking back, he’d been an idiot. But then, he’d only been six and a brat. When he was kidnapped again at age nine, he’d had less of an excuse.
Still, being kidnapped when you’re nine is different from being kidnapped when you’re six, no matter how ridiculously overconfident you are. When you’re nine, you have more self awareness; more understanding of the workings of the world. So when he was nine and they had snatched him right off of school property, he had been a little bit frightened. But he’d also been sure that this was temporary and that he’d get out of it, because Warlock Dowling bowed to no one and no one could ever match him. But…he was also small—a mop-headed, skinny child stuffed into a stiff and uncomfortable school uniform—and the men who’d manhandled him into the back of a van had been huge. They’d gripped his arms hard enough to bruise, and they’d told him if his father didn’t send them money, they’d cut his fingers off.
So even at nine-years-old and slightly delusional, he’d been nervous. He hoped that the secret service men would notice soon that he was missing. He didn’t complain this time—at least not aloud.
The small basement he’d ended up in was moldy and damp, and one of the men had kicked him right across the face when he’d said he had trouble breathing. It had started to feel real, then. It was the first moment in his life that Warlock had begun to doubt himself even for a moment—because if he really could part the seas and cause rains of blood—if he could curse a grown man to be struck down by lightning—then why was he still here?
Warlock had wheezed in the damp air of the basement and felt his cheek begin to swell. They left him alone in the pitch black dark for hours, and no matter how much he daydreamed about having his kidnappers drawn and quartered, he was still there.
This time when Nanny and Brother Francis had shown up it was different.
It happened like this: there was a noise from upstairs. There were loud voices muffled by the floor, and several thuds. At the same time, there was a sudden rectangle of light as the basement door was thrown open, and then approaching footsteps. Warlock had curled into himself against the concrete wall.
There was a soft thump and then a familiar voice had muttered curses, and Warlock had said, “Nanny?” soft and desperate. In the next moment there was a shock of light, and he saw Nanny at the foot of the stairs. He’d blinked at her and exclaimed, “Nanny!” as he’d struggled to his feet—and then he’d doubled over, coughing.
In an instant, Nanny’s hands had been on his face, cupping his cheeks. She was soft and warm, and Warlock had leaned into her, still wheezing.
“Oh, darling,” Nanny had said, “what have they done to you?”
She’d rubbed his back and the coughing had eased, but he didn’t pull away from where he’d buried his face in her blouse.
There was another sound from the stairs, and Brother Francis’ voice called down, “Did you find him?”
“Yes!” Nanny had called back, “We’re down here; I’ve got him. Have you finished with the kidnappers?”
“Oh, yes,” said Brother Francis, sounding satisfied, and then Warlock had heard him walk down the steps to join them.
“Is he alright?” said the gardener.
“I think so,” said Nanny, nudging Warlock, “He hasn’t said anything other than my name since I got down here.”
Warlock felt Francis’ hand on his shoulder, big and soft and gentle.
“Are you all right, dear child?” he’d said, “Can you look at me?” and Warlock had finally pried his face away from Nanny’s chest. Francis had sucked in a breath.
“Oh, his cheek,” he’d breathed, voice shaking, and Warlock raised a hand to the bruise. It must have looked bad; it certainly hurt.
Francis and Nanny had exchanged a short look, and then Francis had knelt down next to them. His face went serious.
“Warlock,” he’d said, and something in his gruff accent had shifted slightly, “do you understand what happened?”
Warlock nodded.
“I got kidnapped,” he said, “and the stupid, useless secret service people didn’t find me. You did.”
“Well, yes,” said Brother Francis. He’d hesitated.
“Do you understand how dangerous this could have been?” he’d asked, and Warlock’s face had gone all scrunched.
“I wasn’t in any danger,” he said, “It sucked, and I hate it, and I hate the—the stupid jerks who kidnapped me—but. Um.” He looked from Nanny to Francis.
“Um,” he said, “It’s not like they could have really done anything. I—I could have—uh—I could have crushed them if I wanted to. I was just waiting for you.”
Where she was pressed against his side, Warlock could feel that Nanny was shaking; he remembered that particularly because it had been so strange.
“Warlock,” she’d said, and cupped his face again, “I want you to promise me something. I want you to promise me something, and it might seem odd, but I need you to do it, okay?”
“What?” said Warlock.
“Just promise me,” said Nanny.
“I promise.”
“Good,” she’d said, “Now, if you ever—and I mean ever find yourself in a situation like this again—one that seems scary, or one where any normal person would be in danger—I need you to pray. Pray to Aziraphale or to Crowley to come and get you.”
“Who’s that?” asked Warlock.
“Just promise me,” insisted Nanny in a voice like iron, “Aziraphale and Crowley. Can you repeat those names?”
“Y—yeah. Azif—Aziraphale and Crowley.”
“Good boy.”
Nanny pressed a kiss against his forehead.
“How’s the upstairs look?” she asked Brother Francis, “Can we take him through?”
Brother Francis’ brow had furrowed behind his bushy eyebrows.
“Er,” he said, “Give me a moment. I might have left a bit of a mess. Hang on.” And he’d stood and disappeared back upstairs. It hadn’t been too long before he’d called back down that they could come up, and Nanny had scooped Warlock into her arms and taken them all back home.
He’d learned that day, sitting in the back seat of a vintage car, that his Nanny drove like a maniac. He adored it.
But now Warlock was fourteen, and that was all far in the past.
Nanny and Brother Francis had vanished from his life like figments of his imagination, and sometimes he even thought that’s what they were. He’d been a strange kid, with odd ideas and delusions of grandeur, and it wouldn’t have been so odd for him to have made up a pair of magical guardians who actually cared about him. It would be completely in character to invent caretakers who raised him like he was special, like he’d be a king of Narnia one day.
Warlock wished that he could go back to that because right now, he was terrified. He was terrified, and he was hurt, and his parents were both out of the country and far away.
Warlock strained at the ropes that tied him to a chair and winced, tears stinging at his eyes. He wished he could just see, but his kidnappers had blindfolded and gagged him.
His wrist hurt. It was throbbing something awful from how he’d struggled when they’d taken him. He could swear that he had felt something go crunch when one of the men had stepped on it; he tried to push the thought away before he threw up into his gag. That would only make everything worse.
There were deep, loud voices shouting from a short distance away. Then a door slammed.
Warlock jumped, and the movement jolted his wrist and set fire racing through his nerves again. Oh god.
“And here’s the ambassador’s brat,” said a booming voice, “You’re sure you grabbed the right kid?”
A rough hand grabbed Warlock’s jaw.
“He doesn’t look like much.”
“It’s him,” said another voice, “Definitely the Dowling kid. We checked against the photo.”
Someone laughed.
Warlock tried to stifle his breathing. He was sure the person holding his face could feel how fast he was gasping.
“Good. He’ll make a good bargaining chip. Have you sent the latter to the embassy?”
“Yes,” said a third voice, and how many people were here? There could be twenty, and Warlock would have no idea.
But—wait.
They’d sent a letter to the embassy.
But his father was out of the country.
It wouldn’t reach him.
…But someone else would surely get it, and they’d look for him, right? They wouldn’t just leave him, even if his father wasn’t there.
But. How much could they do?
He didn’t know what his kidnappers had asked for; it could be anything.
…It might not be something that someone was willing to give.
All at once, there were hands on Warlock’s arms; someone had undone the ropes, and was dragging him to his feet in a hard grip. The hands shifted from his biceps to his wrists, and Warlock cried out.
“Shut the fuck up,” someone said, and he was shoved into a wall; his head struck tile or concrete. The world spun.
Everything hurt.
He wanted to go home. He wanted to go home. He missed Nanny and Francis so very, very much right now.
There was something…the last time he’d been kidnapped, when he’d only been a little scared—they’d made him promise. When Nanny had swept down into the dark, had lit up the room and held him in her arms—when Brother Francis had somehow taken care of Warlock’s kidnappers like it was nothing…they’d made him promise that he’d pray. Even if it didn’t make sense.
He could try it.
But what were the names?
It had been so long, and what were the names?
Azi…Azi-something. Azi-something, and something that started with a C.
There were hands on Warlock again, and he didn’t make a sound. He was being dragged through a hallway, he thought. There were a lot of echoes of footsteps.
He wracked his brain. What were the names!?
Aziraf? Azirel? Co—Cro—damnit.
Nanny and Francis had disappeared completely from Warlock’s life when he was ten. Would they even care now? He obviously wasn’t anything special. He was weak and pathetic and couldn’t even protect himself, let alone crush the world beneath his boot.
Shit.
There was another slamming door; it sounded like metal. Then he was being pushed and shoved down into a small, cramped space. His wrist banged into the edge of something hard, and his head spun.
He had to try, right? What would be the harm? He had to try. He had to. Nanny and Francis…they were the only adults who had ever really listened to him—they were the only ones who had ever really cared. They must still care, right? They must have had a reason to disappear without a word.
There was another tremendous slamming sound that echoed all around him. He shifted.
He couldn’t move.
There wasn’t enough space to unbend his legs.
Warlock’s heart rate doubled in an instant, and then he was thrashing wildly against the tiny space that he’d been shoved into.
His shoulders pressed against metal, and his fingers met metal, and the back of his head slammed against metal, and he couldn’t breathe—he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe—oh god.
“Please, please,” he thought, “Nanny, Francis, I need you. Nanny, Nanny, what were the names!?”
He screamed, and the sound reverberated.
Az—Azi—Azra—Azirafell—no—Aziraphale! And—and—Crowley!
“Please,” he sobbed, feet and shoulders pressing hard enough against metal walls to make him ache, “Aziraphale, Crowley, Nanny, Francis, please, help me.”
For a moment there was nothing but the sound of his harsh sobs. Then, somewhere, there came a noise like thunder that shook everything. Warlock rattled in his metal coffin.
There was distant shouting, and he could barely hear it over his own breathing.
Did it work?
Did it work?
Did praying to those names, like Nanny had made him promise actually work?!
Warlock screamed and shouted, and slammed his back and feet against the metal.
“Get me out!” he cried, “Help, help, help! Please, let me out!”
He screamed loud enough to tear his voice. They had to hear him.
He screamed so loud that he didn’t hear anyone approach; he only knew they’d come when he felt fresh air across his face, and suddenly there were soft hands on his shoulders, drawing him upright.
He choked on another gasping sob.
“Nanny?” he begged against the gag, “Francis?” His voice was hoarse and muffled, and sticky tear tracks ran down his face from beneath the blindfold. He couldn’t imagine how he looked.
“I’ve got you, dear,” said a voice so familiar that it hurt.
Warm hands tugged the blindfold from his face and unknotted the gag to pull it from his mouth. Warlock blinked and swallowed, and strained his eyes against the light. Then he moved without thinking and threw his arms around Nanny’s waist.
He sobbed wretchedly into her shirt, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and tucked him under her chin.
Nanny looked a little different, but she was still Nanny and she held him the same way she always had. She held him like a child, and he clung to her like one. It felt good. It felt like relief; like safety; like home.
His sobs came harder, and he felt her begin to hum softly; he pressed his face into her chest and listened to the vibrations.
And then there were approaching footsteps, and Warlock’s head jerked up. Was it Francis?
It was, but he looked startlingly different, even more so than Nanny, who…who was a man? All right. He already knew that they were magic. They’d answered his prayers, after all.
“Brother Francis,” Warlock rasped, and stretched out a hand towards the former gardener. It was his bad wrist. It looked worse than he’d thought: swollen black and purple. He stared at it.
“Oh,” said Warlock.
Brother Francis’ eyes went wide, and he fell to his knees beside them. Carefully, he took Warlock’s wrist in his hands and ran his fingers over it. Almost uncomprehendingly, Warlock watched the bruising and swelling disappear until the pain was completely gone. He flexed his hand. Then he caught Brother Francis by the forearm and threw himself into his arms.
Warlock was sprawled halfway across Nanny’s lap with his arms latched around Francis’ shoulders, and he was crying again; his eyes hurt from it, and throat felt like gravel.
“Thank you for coming,” he choked out, “thank you, thank you, oh, god, thank you.”
Brother Francis held him carefully, as if he’d forgotten how, but his arms were still as soft and warm as they had always been. Nanny stroked a hand through Warlock’s hair.
“Of course we’d come,” said Francis.
“You did such a good job,” said Nanny, “such a good job. You prayed, just like I told you to.”
Warlock shook his head. Brother Francis’ clothes were threadbare-soft beneath his cheek.
“I almost forgot the names,” he said, “I couldn’t remember them—I thought I wouldn’t remember. I—I was scared. I thought you wouldn’t come.”
“Oh, my darling,” said Nanny, her hand stilling on his nape, “but you did remember. You did so well. We’ll always come.”
She was trying to be reassuring, he knew. But Warlock wasn’t a child anymore, and he could hear the way her voice was shaking.
“I did,” he said, “but I almost didn’t. I almost didn’t.”
He peered up at her through his ratty, sweaty bangs. Her face was stricken.
Warlock smiled crookedly at her.
“Thanks for coming,” he said again. And then:
“Can I borrow your glasses? Seeing hurts right now.”
Brother Francis sucked in a breath.
“Concussion?” he asked, and moved one of his hands from Warlock’s shoulders to his temple.
“Looks like it.”
Nanny’s voice was stiff. She sounded angry.
“Shall I?” said Francis.
“Let me,” said Nanny, and the pain in his head stopped, too.
“I’m so glad you’re not pretending not to be magic anymore,” said Warlock, lolling his head against Brother Francis’ chest, “It’s really nice.”
“Uhm,” said Nanny.
“Magic?” said Francis.
Warlock giggled.
He felt so nice right now. The pain was gone, and he was safe and tired, and Francis and Nanny were both holding him.
“I really missed you,” he said quietly. His throat didn’t even hurt anymore.
“I really, really missed you both.”
“Oh dear,” said Francis, “Crowley—”
“Shut up,” said Nanny, sounding choked, and then to Warlock:
“I missed you too, darling. I only thought….”
“We thought,” said Francis, in barely more than a whisper, “we thought that we had interfered enough. We thought that leaving would be better.”
“Well, you were wrong,” said Warlock, “but that’s okay. You’re back now, right?”
He hands clenched in Francis’ jacket.
“You’re not going to leave again, are you?”
“No!” said Nanny, “No, Warlock, we—of course we won’t. Not if you want us to stay.”
She looked at Brother Francis over Warlock’s head. He had seen them exchange that sort of look before; Nanny expected a fight.
Warlock tipped his head back, looking up at Francis with red-rimmed eyes under messy bangs.
“You’re not leaving, right?” he asked in a small voice.
Brother Francis’ odd, hairless face twitched. His lips pursed. His brow furrowed. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Warlock’s temple.
“Of course not, my boy,” he said, “As Crow—as Nanny said, we can stick around for as long as you want us there.”
“Good,” said Warlock, “So, forever, then.” He paused, and scrunched his face up.
“So, is Nanny really Crowley, then? Does that make you Aziraphale?”
“That’s right,” said Nanny.
“Okay,” said Warlock, “that makes sense.”
Later, he will end up in the back seat of Nanny’s vintage car again, just like the first time, and he’ll laugh and whoop freely as she takes them through a roundabout at sixty miles per hour.
Even later, they will sit together in a bookshop, and Nanny and Francis will exchange serious looks and explain things like Heaven and Hell.
Later still—much, much later, on a summer evening when the sky is clear and Warlock has no plans, he’ll ask Nanny if she can teach him how to drive. It will absolutely be worth the look on Francis’ face and the way that asking makes Nanny smile.