#anyway back to the point i think neither az nor crowley are at the point where theyre willing to fight the system

[aq2003]

this image has been bothering me for a while bc like.. crowley doesn't want to dismantle the system he wants to get as far away from it as possible. yes he's disillusioned with the system but also a key part to that is how he feels like there's nothing he can do against it. tbh i'd argue that this is one of his biggest flaws

[one-with-the-floor]

I’ve Got You (And We Always Have)

Inspired by @greenfiredragonfly‘s fic Some things are worth believing in (Including you)

Warnings for kidnapping and minor (non-explicit) injury.  EVERYBODY’S FINE.  I PROMISE.  You can also read it here on AO3!

“How’s this, angel?”

Aziraphale looked up, peering over his reading glasses to see Crowley’s handiwork.  “Er…” he said, struggling to hide his skepticism.  “Well, it certainly looks very nice, dear, but, ah.  How exactly am I meant to get to the ones at the bottom?”

“You don’t.”

“Ah.”

Crowley didn’t even try to hide his smirk as he crossed his arms and leaned back against his pyramid of books.  Because yes, it was structurally sound enough to support his weight.  And no, that was not the result of a miracle.  “I feel like you’re not appreciating my work here.”

“Oh no, no, dear, I definitely, erm, appreciate it.”  Aziraphale carefully tapped at the bottom layer of hardbacks with the toe of his shoe.  “I’d just also appreciate being able to access my collected Wilde plays.”

“Pfft,” Crowley waved that away.  “Wilde.  Who needs him?”

“Oh, honestly, Crowley, are you still going on about that?  For the last time, you were asleep, I needed someone to—"

But he didn’t get to finish as he suddenly doubled over, gasping and clutching at his chest.

“Angel?”  Crowley reached for him, all the teasing and casualness gone in an instant.  “What’s wrong?  Are you���”  But then it hit him, too, and he had to catch himself on the piled books to avoid collapsing.  His heart pounded and his vision blurred as secondhand panic and terror crashed into his system, an overwhelming wall of desperation slamming across his mind.

Nanny! a voice screamed into his head, filled with all the fear he felt himself.  Nanny, Francis, please, help me!

A hand closed around his upper arm.  He jerked up to see Aziraphale, pale faced and shaking, but upright.  He pulled Crowley to his feet.  “Warlock,” he gasped out, panicking under his own power now.  Warlock was—oh, Satan, if Warlock was calling for them, after three years of radio silence, he was—he must be—

Aziraphale gripped Crowley’s hand.  “We’ll find him.”  Crowley swallowed down the panic.  Then he nodded, and in a flash of light and crack of thunder, the bookshop was empty.

A long time ago, in a damp, abandoned basement, Nanny Ashtoreth held a slightly battered Warlock Dowling in her arms and made him make a promise.

“Az… Aziraphale?”

“Mhm.  And the other one?”

“Uh… Crawley?”

“Not quite, dearest.  Crowley.”

“Crowley.”

“There it is.  Can you say them again for me?”

She made him practice until he could pronounce them both right on the first try.  The whole time, she kept catching herself staring at his face, at the dark bruise splayed across his cheekbone.  A reminder, that as much power as this little boy might have when he was older, right now, he was just a vulnerable child.  And a target, to boot, for kidnappers and blackmailers and anyone else who wanted to get at the American ambassador.

She hated that bruise.  Hated it with everything in her, and she could feel the same hatred coming off of Brother Francis crouched on the floor next to them.  Both of them itched to reach up and snap, to make the bruise go away and all the pain with it.  But they didn’t dare.  Not at the risk of revealing themselves.

“Aziraphale and Crowley.  Aziraphale and Crowley.”

“Perfect, darling.  Just like that.”

She made him promise to remember those names.  That if he was ever scared, or hurt, or in danger, he would pray to them to come and help.

Neither Nanny Ashtoreth nor Brother Francis ever expected him to use it.  They were with him most of the time, anyway, and after this would keep a closer eye out for danger.  And in a few years time, there wouldn’t be a potential kidnapper in the world capable of laying a hand on him.

Except, as it turned out, Warlock Dowling was not the destroyer of worlds.

And kidnappers were very much capable of laying hands on him.

***

The two men lounging around the room they blasted into weren’t much of a problem.  It’s hard to put up much of a fight half-blinded and overcome by a surge of occult and ethereal power.  But there was no sign of Warlock, and even as Crowley oriented himself and searched for the source point of his little boy’s prayers, he could hear shouting and footsteps pounding towards them, more of the kidnappers running to see what all the noise was about.

Aziraphale squeezed his hand.  “Go find him.  Get him safe.” Then he turned towards the approaching footsteps and widened his stance, and Crowley knew he didn’t have to worry for a second about any of the humans in the building.

Except for one, of course.

He followed the string of the prayer, relieved when it led him away from the approaching kidnappers and not towards them.  They hadn’t been with him, then, hadn’t been—

No.  Not now, not yet.  He wasn’t going to think about what they might’ve done to Warlock until—unless—he had to.

A new surge of desperation sent Crowley sprinting down the hall, looking, searching, feeling his way towards the little boy locked away somewhere and praying for his nanny to come and save him.  A woman came around the corner ahead of him and he snarled, letting out the serpent in his form as he towered over her.  “Where issss he?”  He thought he might have overdone it when she fainted dead away, but before she went down her eyes flicked to the door behind him.  Crowley whirled around, nearly tearing the door off its hinges when he wrenched it open.  “I’m coming, darling,” he murmured under his breath as he ran down another hall.  “I’m coming for you.”

The room he found himself in was dark, and windowless, and damp, and his heart clenched.  Warlock was close, he could feel it in his bones, he was so close.  So where was he?

Then he heard a thump, a dull pounding sound, and he strained his hearing, willing his pulse and his breathing to quiet so he could listen.  There, was that—that was something, he could hear something besides the continued thudding, but he couldn’t place it.  “Warlock!” he called, so sure that he was there, but he couldn’t find him in the dark.  “Darling, it’s me, it’s Nanny, where are you?  Warlock!”  Finally, after too long, he thought to miracle a light into the room, and the place lit up harsh and bright and empty.  “Warlock, where are—”

And his breath seized when he saw it.  His heart was frozen tight in his chest, and he stared, unable to think, that—no.  No, it wasn’t—they couldn’t have.  A box that size couldn’t possibly fit a fourteen year old, there was no way, he couldn’t be—

The pounding came again.  And the side of the metal box shook.

The rusting iron pulled at his skin as Crowley’s fingers scrabbled at the latch, and now that he was closer he could hear it, could hear the screaming and the sobbing and the dull thump, thu-thump, thu-thump of feet and hands slamming against the inside.  His fingers slipped on the deadbolt and his heart was hammering and he didn’t even notice he was babbling, that what was meant to be comfort and reassurance had bled down into just Warlock Warlock Warlock, that he couldn’t stop saying the name.

And finally the metal screeched against itself and the bolt flew aside and he could throw the lid open and he could see him, could see his little boy curled down and shaking with panic and sobs, his clothes torn and hair matted, a scarf cutting into the skin of his forehead and cheeks and a filthy washcloth shoved and tied into his mouth so his screaming sounded even more choked and desperate.  Warlock leaned up a little, blindly searching out the fresh air, and Crowley realized he had stopped, had frozen when he opened the box, and he had to force down the hysteria and adrenaline to keep his movements gentle as he reached in and pulled him up by the shoulders.

Warlock was saying something, was trying to, at least, against the gag in his mouth and the sobs wracking his body, and Crowley hated the way the boy’s hands hovered between them, unsure if the person in front of him was there to save him or drag him through worse.  “‘ah-ee?” he managed, pleading through the dirty fabric.  “Fa-thith?”

Crowley only just kept his hands from clenching on his shoulders.  “I’ve got you, dear.”  Warlock shuddered, and made a sound in his throat like a whine and a plea all in one, but he stayed still while Crowley tugged the blindfold off and pulled the gag away.  He whimpered when the rough fabric dragged against the corners of his mouth, where the skin had been rubbed red and raw, and Crowley hissed in sympathy, running gentle fingers along his cheek and his chin, reassuring the both of them.  I’m here.  You’re alright.  I love you.

It took a moment for Warlock’s eyes to adjust to the brightness, and Crowley had his hand raised to snap it dimmer when the child threw himself out of the box and into his lap.  “Nanny,” he sobbed into his shirt, and Crowley had never heard him like this, so hoarse, so broken, so scared.  “Nanny, Nanny, you—I, I… Nanny…”

“Shh, love,” Crowley murmured, clinging to his little boy and rocking him slightly.  “I’ve got you.  I’ve got you, you’re safe, you’re safe, darling.”  Warlock pressed his face harder into Crowley’s shirt.

There were footsteps down the hall, but Crowley wasn’t going to look up, didn’t want to turn away from Warlock for a second, and didn’t need to; he knew who it was.  But Warlock didn’t, and all he could do was hum softly and brush the hair on the back of his head soothingly as the boy jerked up to see Aziraphale come in.  Crowley felt him struggle to squirm an arm out from between them, and the demon pulled back so he could—

Oh.  Oh, Satan, Almighty, his wrist.

“Brother Francis,” Warlock cried, reaching out for him.  That was a blessing right there, really, that he recognized Aziraphale at all without his gardener disguise, but Crowley couldn’t be thankful, couldn’t think of anything but how Warlock’s wrist had gotten to be so bruised and so swollen and so off-kilter.  Warlock seemed to just be noticing it himself, staring down at his arm like he’d never seen it before.  “Oh,” he murmured, and Crowley wrapped his arms around him tighter as Aziraphale ran to them and took Warlock’s injured wrist carefully in his hand.  He watched Warlock’s eyes go wide as Aziraphale healed him with a thought, and felt the boy relax into his hold as the pain faded.  Then Warlock was moving, lurching across Crowley’s lap as he flung himself into Aziraphale’s arms.

“Thank you.  Thank you thank you, oh god…”  He was sobbing again, burning tears into Aziraphale’s shirt to match the ones on Crowley’s, and they both held him through it, Aziraphale cradling Warlock to his chest as Crowley carded his fingers through his hair, subtly magicking away the knots and debris as he went.  “Thank you for coming,” Warlock choked out.

“Of course we came,” Aziraphale breathed.  “Of course, darling.”

“You did so well,” Crowley said.  “Such a good job, Warlock, you prayed, just like I told you.  You did it exactly right.”

Warlock shook his head, though, despite Aziraphale’s gentle hushing and Crowley’s hand rubbing circles on his back.  “I almost forgot the names.  I couldn’t remember them.”

“Shh, shh, sweetheart, you did.”  No.  No, he could not go down that road, couldn’t start thinking of the what-ifs.

“I thought I wouldn’t remember.”  He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s right here and he’s—

“I—I was so scared.”  Warlock dug his face into Aziraphale’s shirt.  “I thought you wouldn’t come.”

Crowley felt the tears swelling up behind his eyes.  He knew that the second Warlock was safe and asleep, he was going to break down, that the thought of what might have happened—what was so close to happening—was going to shatter him the moment he and Aziraphale were alone.

But Warlock was still there.  And he had been through too much already to have to see that.

“Oh, darling,” he murmured, instead of crying and sobbing like he wanted to.  “But you did remember.  You did, you did so well.  We’ll always come for you.”

The boy stretched between their laps looked up at him then, and Crowley had to fight, had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself under control.  That wasn’t the look of a terrified child anymore.  Warlock wasn’t a child anymore.  “I did,” he said, his tone even despite the lingering hoarseness.  “But I almost didn’t.  I almost didn’t.”

Crowley couldn’t say anything to that.  So he just held him tighter.

Warlock sat up a little, not moving away, just shifting to see them better.  He winced with the movement.  “Thanks for coming,” he said again, and then cringed further as the miracled light hit his eyes.  “Could I borrow your glasses?  Seeing hurts.”

Aziraphale sucked in a breath.  “Concussion?”

“Looks like it.”

“Shall I?”

Crowley shook his head.  “Let me.”  He trusted Aziraphale, of course he did, but he had to know, had to make absolutely sure Warlock was alright.  The miracle was quick and comprehensive, washing away the myriad bruises and scrapes and even the soreness in his screamed-out throat along with the concussion.  Warlock slumped backwards again, melting into Aziraphale’s arms as all the aches and pains vanished, and then he… he giggled.

“I’m so glad you’re not pretending to not be magic anymore.”  He nuzzled into Aziraphale’s shirt, happily oblivious to the new crisis he’d just reminded them of.  He wasn’t supposed to know what they were.  They hadn’t gone back to him after Armageddon didn’t happen, had thought they’d done enough damage to his life, that he’d have a better chance of a normal, happy childhood without a pair of immortals hanging over his shoulders.

But here they were.

Crowley was sure the only thing keeping his heart together was Warlock’s loose hold on his arm.  They had left him.  Abandoned him without a word, and this was the result, kidnapped and beaten and locked in a—and what if he hadn’t remembered?  What if they hadn’t known, what if they’d found out days later on the news, too late, too—

The hand on his arm tugged lightly, and Crowley shifted closer, letting Warlock pull him in.  He had stopped giggling, the giddiness of pain relief replaced by exhaustion.  “I…” he started, and both Crowley and Aziraphale reached for him at the same time, brushing the hair out of his face and caressing his cheek.  Warlock’s breath hitched on another small sob.  “I really missed you.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, turning to him.  “Oh, dear, we… Crowley—”

“Shut up.”  He couldn’t.  He couldn’t, there was no way.  He couldn’t keep living without Warlock, not knowing he wanted them back.  “We missed you too.  So much, darling, so much.”  His hand traced over Warlock’s forehead, and the boy leaned into the touch.  “We just… I only thought…”

And Aziraphale, wonderful, incredible Aziraphale, came to his rescue.  “We thought you would be better off without us interfering.  We didn’t want to leave you, but it was… we thought it was the better choice.”

“You were wrong,” Warlock said into his shirt, but there was no anger, no despair in it.  “But it’s okay.  As long as you come back now.”

They didn’t discuss it.  There was nothing to discuss; the decision was made.  Warlock needed them, and wanted them, and Crowley would be damned a second time if he ever let his little boy get hurt like this again.

They’d have to figure out what came next.  How to return to the Dowling household.  How to explain the reality of the world to Warlock.  How to make absolutely sure he’d never have to pray for them ever again.

They’d do it.  They’d do it, and they’d succeed, and Warlock would never forget their true names again.