Chapter Text
Crowley gives Warlock's hand the gentlest tug forward and Warlock falls in against him. It's a weary stumble, as if he’s gone too long without proper rest. Aziraphale hurts, to see it, knowing that whatever it is depleting him they haven't been there to help as they could -- should -- have been. Crowley has both arms around Warlock now, and Aziraphale hears the nonsense murmur of Crowley trying to soothe an anxious child. Aziraphale couldn't have said he knew that particular tone of Crowley's voice except he does know it because the sound conjures up Crowley walking circles in the gardener’s cottage kitchen with a fretful baby, kneeling to put a sticking plaster on Warlock's knee, or bending over to daub honey on a bee sting. Aziraphale feels a gentle eddy of beyond-air as Crowley opens, then closes, his wings, a brief circumscription of care as he and Warlock stand reunited in what Aziraphale ensures is an island of calm on the otherwise bustling platform.
It's a hug that doesn't last more than a handful of seconds, but both Crowley and Warlock seem the steadier for it when Crowley steps back.
Warlock peers around Crowley's shoulder at Aziraphale, a tentative but hopeful smile on his face. "Mr. Fell?"
"In the flesh," Aziraphale says, and -- taking his cue from Crowley -- he opens his arms and lets Warlock step into them for a hug. Aziraphale still doesn't touch easily, apart from touching Crowley, but he tries not to stiffen as the flutter of anxiety moves through him. "It's good to see you," he murmurs, with a little extra squeeze before letting go and stepping back. "Shall we go find something to eat?"
They leave the station and stop at the Bentley to leave Warlock's knapsack in the boot.
"You still have your cool car!" Warlock says, brightening, when he spots it pulled up at the curb. He pats the Bentley's hood in greeting, then follows Crowley around to the back to stow his bag.
"Wouldn't know who I was without her," Crowley says as he unlocks the boot.
While he waits for them, Aziraphale sorts through the clutter of humanity around them trying to re-attune himself to Warlock. Though not as strongly as he can with Crowley, Aziraphale is able to feel the particular hum of some humans' presence in the world. Humans with a similar sensitivity sometimes called it an aura, or talked about second sights and third eyes, suggesting something visible. For Aziraphale the awareness has never worked quite like that. For him it's more of a physical sensation, felt most often when he comes into contact with a person -- but sometimes when he's merely close by, and particularly if he knows the person well. He can identify Anathema's Anthemaness now, and Newt's, and each of the Them. Sky. Shop customers like Nasreen, or Safiya, whom he has come to know in more than passing terms. He can tell if they have a mild fever or woke up with a headache, whether they've had a particularly good piece of news, or spent the morning enjoying the fresh air somewhere pleasant. He'd worried right after the end-that-wasn't that retiring from active service, as it were, would mean the end to this ability. But two years on it's working as it always has. So perhaps it's just part of his nature.
During their years at the Dowlings, Aziraphale could gauge Warlock's well-being without a second's thought but he's out of practice. He feels for the hum of Crowley -- always within easy reach -- then fumbles nearby and ... there. Aziraphale feels the flutter of Warlock come to the fore amidst the backdrop of all the other humans moving around them. It's subdued, but still strong. Fatigue and a worrying note of unsafety that makes Aziraphale frown. But he can still sense the child's curiosity, so like Crowley's -- the thought makes him smile -- and Warlock's unmistakeable happiness and relief at being here, with them. They can afford to spend the afternoon enjoying London together and let the child share his troubles when he's ready.
The morning mist has blown off leaving them with a brilliant midday of warm sunshine to offset the October chill. There's an open air market on one of the side streets near King's Cross and Aziraphale, Crowley, and Warlock meander toward it and then down the row of stalls at an unhurried pace. Warlock is telling Crowley about some sort of fancy vintage automobile show he attended with his parents during the summer holidays, a discussion that quickly sails past Aziraphale's meagre knowledge of cars into the realm of make and model, engine performance, and aerodynamics. He's content to let their conversation wash over him, aware of the pleasure at hearing their voices once again rightfully intertwined, and enjoy the abundance of options at the stalls: fresh produce, baked goods, honey, herbs and spices, a cart selling sausages, and another with tamales, a stand offering mint lemonade, and another with a display of tidbits dipped in chocolate.
There are buskers as well, and they stop to listen to a cellist playing Bach's Suite No. 1 in G Major while Crowley hands over several bank notes to Warlock and sends him off to buy pasties for a midday meal from a stall down toward the end of the row.
"He's happy to be here," Aziraphale murmurs to Crowley, sliding his hand into Crowley's coat pocket to interleave their fingers and give Crowley's hand a reassuring squeeze.
Crowley squeezes back. "You feel it too?"
"He's still himself, my dear, if that's what you mean. He has worries and troubles I'm sure. But I don't feel that he's been ... " Aziraphale thinks after so many millennia of observation he should have more precise language to describe what happens when a human's spirit becomes essentially compromised. "... I can't feel any fundamental damage to his soul." Another squeeze of Crowley's hand and he shifts a little bit closer, so their shoulders are touching, and turns to press a kiss against Crowley's cheek simply because he's amazed each and every time that he can.
"Here's the pies," Warlock is back with a brown paper sack already showing signs of grease. He glances between the two of them, then holds out a fist. "And the change, Nan." Crowley takes the coins and pockets them. "There's a fire juggler up there," Warlock points back in the direction he's just come from, bouncing on his toes with contained excitement. "Can we go watch?"
"Lead on," Crowley says gravely, with the sketchiest of courtly gestures.
The juggler has the attention of a small group of onlookers as she throws the five flaming torches with speed and precision into the air. By the time Crowley and Aziraphale arrive at the circle Warlock has already edged his way to the front of the crowd and looks rapt.
"There's a bench just over there," Aziraphale points. "I'm suddenly quite hungry. Shall we?"
"What've we missed," Crowley grumbles with a frown as he settles beside Aziraphale and accepts the food Aziraphale offers.
"My dear, he's been with us for less than an hour."
"It just seems suspiciously easy," Crowley gestures with his meat and potato pie. "Give him a hug, feed him, allow him to play with fire and .. ?"
"That was rather your approach as a nanny, wasn't it?" Aziraphale plucks a piece of potato out of his pie and eats it, licking gravy from his fingers. Applause wells up from the crowd as the juggler ends her fire demonstration and moves on to a series of rings juggled while balancing on a unicycle.
"You give me too much credit," Crowley avers. "You know I never had an ‘approach.’ "
"Still." Aziraphale eats a piece of carrot. "Time with the Them have given me a better understanding of what you did, all those years. I didn't think about it as I should have, at the time."
Crowley scratches his ear, a gesture which usually means Aziraphale is correct but Crowley isn't ready to admit it. "I didn't exactly know what I was signing up for did I?"
"Mmm." Aziraphale tries to angle a bite of pastry into his mouth and ends up with crumbs down his front. "Still. Hugs, food, and fire you said? One could argue there's nothing simple about any of those things. Don't discount yourself. You made decisions. Choices. And here we are, again, because you made it possible for him to visit us."
"With so many hours left to fuck it up in," Crowley mutters darkly, but he leans against Aziraphale's shoulder as he says it and his eyes are on Warlock. The crowd is trailing away as the busker ends her performance; Warlock lingers and, with a quick glance back toward Crowley and Aziraphale, moves forward to say something to the juggler. She listens seriously and soon has a set of pins out to demonstrate a technique.
"He's quick," Aziraphale observes. He's getting a chance with the pins now and after a couple of false starts is getting enthusiastic praise from his teacher.
"Always was quick with his hands," Crowley says. "Remember the winter he demanded I teach him embroidery?"
"Indeed, I remember," Aziraphale smiles. Many of the lessons had taken place in Aziraphale's cottage. Crowley enjoyed using botanical illustrations of poisonous plants for inspiration. He also remembered much more than he would ever admit to about the language of flowers. "That was the winter we read E. Nesbit." Crowley and Warlock sitting together on the sofa, heads bent together over muslin and silk while Aziraphale sat in a rocking chair by the fire and read aloud.
Warlock comes back to the bench where they're sitting, animated, "Look! She says I can have them!" He's holding three of the bright-colored juggling hoops. Aziraphale looks over at the performer, who waves, and waves back in thanks, pushing a little extra good fortune her way for her kindness. Thank you he mouths silently, and she nods.
He wonders, suddenly, what she sees when she looks over: Two fathers and a son? Uncles and a nephew? Godfathers? They've rarely been with the Them unless Anathema and Newt are present which usually means they're the ones mistaken for parents. He finds he is not averse to people assuming Warlock belongs with them. It's true, even if human categories of belonging are limited at best.
"I hope you said thank you," Aziraphale says, turning back to Warlock and falling into old habits.
"Yes," Warlock rolls his eyes. "Of course. Can I get an ice cream now?"
“Lunch first,” Crowley says, reaching across Aziraphale to grab the paper bag holding the remaining pasty.
Yes, Aziraphale thinks. Yes. They will muddle through.