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It was five months after The Apocalypse That Didn't Happen.
Five months since, that one fateful night at Crowley's flat, terrified of the consequences for defying Heaven and Hell but also aware that the worst was already to come, Aziraphale had confessed his love first.
They survived their executions, Heaven and Hell left them alone. They had lunch at the Ritz. A nightingale sang in Berkeley square.
It was perfect.
After a month of dating, freely, Aziraphale and Crowley decided to move in with each other. They considered the readily available options: Crowley's flat (good for adding things, but all-in-all too dark and uncomfortable for Aziraphale) and the bookshop (too full of stuff for Crowley's comfort), but having both found lacking, they decided to buy something new. Something that would be shaped by the both of them.
In the end, two months later, they moved into a cottage, but not in the South Downs –they had considered this, but then decided that it was just too far away from the people they had met at Armageddon't and they (Aziraphale) wanted to keep in contact with– but instead in a quaint little village near Oxfordshire: Tadfield.
Sharing a home with Aziraphale was bliss. Sharing a life with Aziraphale was bliss. Crowley had never been happier. So, of course, there was something disturbing this perfection. Something Crowley couldn't get rid of even if he wanted to, and he didn't actually want to. Crowley felt guilt.
It was an entirely undemonic emotion, and one that kept him up at night. One that made him go to his garden for hours, yelling at his plants until his voice was hoarse and digging out weeds until the dirt caked under his fingernails couldn't be washed off without a miracle.
It was especially bad after spending time with Adam, because it made Crowley realise exactly what he had done. He had abandoned Warlock. And, well, one cannot raise a kid for the majority of his life without forming some kind of bond. Especially not Crowley, who, despite his best efforts, got attached easily and quickly. So, he felt guilty for abandoning his little hellspawn, and he missed him.
Five months after the Apocalypse That Never Was, Crowley finally cracked. They were in their living room on the couch, Aziraphale reading a book with Crowley's head in his lap. "Angel.", Crowley started. "There's something important we need to do."
"Yes, darling? What do we need to do?", Aziraphale prompted, putting his book down.
"We need to talk to the Dowling kid. We just left. I just left. Abandoned him. No time for a real goodbye. No explanation. He deserves–", his voice broke, he took a shaky breath, continued, "to know why. He deserves at least that much, angel." What Crowley doesn't say, what he can't say, but Aziraphale understands nevertheless is 'I was abandoned. Cast out without explanation, without time for goodbyes, and I deserved better. I can't do that to someone else. We deserved better.'
So, Aziraphale smiles and nods. "I agree, my love. He deserves to know why we left."
The next day, an angel and a demon were driving towards the residence of the United States Ambassador.
–––
Warlock Dowling, at the age of eleven, had learned one very important life lesson: money was what made the world spin.
Money, in Warlock's experience, was the only thing anyone ever cared about. Money, and status. Not Warlock. Never Warlock.
His father, Thaddeus Dowling, only cared about his job and about important rich people. His mother, Harriet Dowling, only cared about her own happiness; her luxurious. Only with press present did she seem to remember Warlock even existed. His friends –if you could even call them that– only cared about who had the most, the newest or the coolest stuff. Not even his Nanny had cared, in the end. Or at least that's what he thought. Because Nanny had left.
Nanny had left, and the gardener, Brother Francis, the only other person that might've cared had, too. Warlock was all alone. He had started having nightmares; he dreamt of a desert, and a man with white hair who smelled like poo and was angry at him for being wrong, and of pain.
He dreamed of the world ending.
After one of these nightmares, Warlock was wandering through the garden when he heard an engine roaring. Curious, he followed the sound, and froze. The car responsible for the noise was a vintage Bentley. It was Nanny's vintage Bentley. Nanny stepped out of the car, and between one second and the next, Warlock had flung himself into her arms, hugging her thight. "Nanny!"
"Hey there, little Hellspawn."
"You– You're back?"
"Not like that, kid. I'm sorry. Look, I've been really unfair to you, just leavin'. And I wanted to apologize for that. Explain. If you want me to."
Warlock stepped back, swallowing down tears. He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded sharply. Nanny looked at him –he could feel it even despite the dark sunglasses she always wore– and then, she frowned.
"Are you having nightmares?"
"Y-yeah." Another person probably would've asked 'why do you ask?' or 'how do you know that?', but Warlock knew that there were things that Nanny simply knew. There was no hiding from her. "It's always the same one, too. I'm in a desert, and there's a weird, smelly man, and then–"
"Okay. Hey, let's sit down for a minute, yeah? Angel!"
A blonde man dressed in a waistcoat and bowtie stepped out of the car. He looked familiar, but before Warlock could place him, they both were dragged towards a group of garden furniture. Nanny sprawled in a chair while the other man sat ram-rod straight. When Warlock had sat down, too, Nanny looked at him sternly and said: "Okay, Hellspawn, look. Bless it, how do I explain this? Here's the thing: I'm a demon. Aziraphale here –you knew him as Brother Francis– is an angel. We thought you were the Antichrist, so we tried to influence you, but you weren't. That's why we left. But– Hell still thought you were, yeah? And they sent you to Megiddo. In the desert. To start the Apocalypse. You forgot that, but you're trying to remember, so you're dreaming. Having nightmares."
For a minute, Warlock just stared. Then, he started laughing. "Sure. Really, Nanny, I'm not five anymore. You can say that you got a better offer, and left."
"Warlock", Nanny said sternly. "I know I broke your trust by leaving. I'm sorry. There's no excuse for that. But I wouldn't lie to you, okay? I– I care about you too much to lie to you."
"You care about me?"
"Of couse I do, little Hellspawn." Nanny looked up, throwing her head back, before re-focussing on Warlock. "That's why I wanted to explain. I didn't leave because of you. Neither of us did."
"But you still left."
Nanny just nodded.
"And that day, in the desert, that happened? It really happened?" Warlock closed his eyes. His head hurt.
"Dear boy, do not try forcing your memory.", Aziraphale spoke up. "But yes. It all happened. Crowley –Nanny, that is– told the truth."
"S-so she's a demon? And you're an angel? And– oh. I was the wrong boy. That's why you left. You wasted all that time on me. On the wrong boy."
"Oh, Warlock. Yeah, you were the wrong boy. But you're still my little Hellspawn, and none of our time with you was wasted. We care about you. That's why I wanted to explain to you that I didn't leave for a– a better job offering, or anything of the sort. We were trying to find the real Antichrist, and stop him from ending the world. That is why we left."
"And the world's still here. You didn't come back. You're gonna leave again?"
Nanny pressed her lips together in a fine line, pushing her sunglasses more firmly up her nose. She looked at Aziraphale. Warlock had never seen her this helpless.
"Yes, dear boy. I'm afraid we cannot stay here."
"But– but you say you care about me! You two are the only ones who care about me. You can't leave me alone again!"
"Well. We really can't stay." Aziraphale looked at Nanny, then at Warlock. "Maybe, you don't have to stay here, either? We– we have a spare room, don't we, darling?"
"Ngk. Yeah"
"You want me to come live with you? Would that really be okay?"
" 'Course, Hellspawn", Nanny said while Aziraphale nodded.
And thus, an angel, a demon and a human child drove away from the residence of the United States Ambassador.
–––
A year later, Warlock Dowling, at age twelve, had learned another important life lesson: money was not, in fact, everything.
He now had parents that actually cared about him. He had made fast friends with The Them, and so, now he had friends who cared about each other, who didn't meet only for bragging. If someone got a new, cool toy, they shared.
On his twelfth birthday, Warlock didn't have an army of waiters running around, or secret service guards standing guard. He didn't have a (whatever that girl had), or a magician (although Aziraphale had offered, repeatedly). He even shared his birthday party, unthinkable in his old life. But that was irrelevant, because for everything he didn't have now, and for everything that the snobby kids that used to be his friends would scoff at, he had something way more important: real friends, who were happy to be there and celebrate with him and Adam.