And what shall be the final decision on Warlock's new home situation? It is time to find out. Because the kid deserves a happy ending. They all do.

The first plan they rejected was anything that involved Warlock returning to America in general and to the Dowlings specifically.

That should have been a difficult choice for the boy to make. Despite their flaws, Thaddeus and Harriet Dowling had been the only parents that he'd known for most of his life. The idea of leaving them and having someone rearrange their memories to the point that they wouldn't even remember having a son should have been painful, difficult, and overwhelming. And yet when he was presented with the option to stay with them or to even set up some type of long-distant schooling where he would rarely spend any time with them… Warlock found it easier to let them go. The most guilt that he felt about the decision was the guilt that he didn't feel more guilty about leaving.

But did it really count as leaving if it never felt like he belonged in the first place?

Next, they decided not to convince the Young family that Warlock was Adam's twin.

That decision took longer.

It wasn't because they boy didn't like the parents, the house, or the former Anti-Christ. Warlock had rather liked them from his limited encounters and he'd mostly gotten past his jealousy and anger towards Adam. It would have been a nice family. They even called Adam and he'd agreed to let them make the changes, the boy feeling bad that his attempt to make Warlock happier by sending him to America originally had only made things worse.

But they eventually rejected the idea. It would involve changing the memories of most of Tadfield and they would need to explain why Warlock's accent sounded rather American. [73] And most importantly, it would be the hardest of the options to maintain. Warlock would have a family that would love him, but all those memories would be fake and he would have to pretend to remember things that never happened.

Staying with Anathema and Newt would be the better choice. There would be no need to rearrange their memories. They could know the truth and simply pretend that he was a cousin of Anathema's who moved in with them. Claiming that he was related to her would even explain his accent. Some forged paperwork and Warlock would be ready to live in Jasmine Cottage.

They discussed that option the longest. Aziraphale and Crowley wrote down a list of miracles that they would need to arrange to make that plan work. They called Anathema and started discussing the plan, which involved backtracking a bit to explain why the angel and demon wanted to kidnap a child from his family. They worked out all the logistics.

But when the time came for him to make the ultimate decision, Warlock hesitated.

He knew it was the smart choice. It was the best option. Warlock would get a normal and human childhood with minimal lying. He would have a loving and supportive home, kids that he could befriend and who he'd already met, and an idyllic town that he could explore to his heart's content. There would be no security team, no closets filled with outfits chosen specifically for how they would effect the public's perception of his parents, no formal events that he would be forced to attend for publicity, and no birthday parties filled with guests that he didn't know or even like, but were the children of very important people that his parents wanted to impress. And once a month, Aziraphale and Crowley would come down to visit. Warlock knew that he should accept that generous offer.

But in that white and sleek kitchen, notepads covered in lists scattered across the countertops, Warlock couldn't bring himself to accept. It was nice, but it wasn't what he wanted. Not truly. And when he looked up into the faces of his former gardener and nanny, they could see it too.

The pair exchanged glances, a silent discussion taking place. Then Crowley looked at Warlock. He could feel his nanny's gaze even through the sunglasses.

"This is about you," he said. "This is your life and your decision. Don't pick something because it's the smart answer or the polite answer or the one you think that we want to hear. Whatever you want, we'll do our best to make it work." Leaning on the counter, Crowley asked, "What do you really want, hellspawn?"

Warlock hesitantly told him. They listened. And then they both gave a nod.


The Dowlings were a happy, high-profile, ambitious, and successful couple. At least on the surface.

Thaddeus Dowling had an impressive career trajectory, a high-profile and well-paying job, the respect of his peers, and plenty of reason to brag to anyone who would listen. His wife, Harriet, had beautiful gardens, a beautiful and expensive home, rich friends, a healthy checking account and a colorful array of credit cards, and her favorite massage therapist on speed-dial. At any fancy dinner parties, the couple would smile and would exchange gossip between all their rich friends. They appeared in newspaper articles or magazines whenever they were involved in some form of charity, even when Harriet had to contact the media herself for the publicity. They could evoke envy from those around them with minimal effort.

They had a wonderful life together on paper, even if the more observant people noticed the tension between the couple. They'd also been involved in a surprisingly large number of charities involving children lately. Arranging fundraisers for foster children and auctions to benefit schools. It was a strange and almost angelic impulse that they'd felt lately, though Harriet certainly had no issue with coordinating another party or two for their rich peers.

And they had fond memories of a foreign exchange student that they'd hosted together in their home. An act of generosity and compassion that everyone would agree made the couple seem like wonderful people. [74] If asked about it, the Dowlings might have experienced some confusion of exactly how long that he'd stayed with them, but they were certain that they cared about the boy. Perhaps more than it would be reasonable for them to be attached to a foreign exchange student. But they knew that they would be happy to see him again if the boy ever decided to visit someday in the future.

After all, he was the closest that they'd ever had to a son.

They'd considered having children. Even if Harriet was getting a little older and no beauty regime could reverse time, it was still a possibility. And adoption was always on the table and would likely be a larger boost to their reputation, especially if they chose a child from another country. Thaddeus talked about all the father-son bonding activities that he could do, listing every stereotypical masculine hobby that he could remember. And Harriet thought about how she nice being a mother might be, having someone think that she's the most important person in the world and loving her unconditionally. But something kept them from ever going forward and starting a family. Most recently it was a strange and bone-deep belief that children weren't meant for them.

But even without a child, the Dowlings were content. They didn't notice empty spaces where picture frames would have fit. They didn't notice the spare bedroom where the foreign exchange student used to stay felt emptier than it should.

And they certainly didn't notice the spunky and ambitious reporter who was already eagerly working to expose every secret scandal that the Dowlings hid just below the surface. [75] The type of scandals that could wreck a career and a marriage. And within a few months of being exposed, almost certainly would.


It began with a garden.

Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that there were several beginnings and several gardens.

There was the first garden. The Garden of Eden. Where humanity and the proper flow of time began. But just as important, it is where an angel and a demon first met. It is where six thousand years of something precious and special between them began.

There was the garden on the Dowling's estate. A garden that was kept healthy and well-cared for by miracles and the occasional threat from a nanny for about a decade. Where a red-haired nanny carried out a small child in her arms, the boy too young to toddle around quite yet, and introduced her charge to the gardener dressed in pale clothes. The unlikely pair properly meeting their claimed godchild, the Anti-Christ.

The boy who was never the Anti-Christ and was never intended to be the Anti-Christ. Or the boy who would someday choose to be the Anti-Christ, but only on his own terms and only when necessary.

There was a garden. Or rather, a park. Where an angel and a demon sitting on a bench took each other's hand and shifted appearances. Their mutual deceits had proven effective and they no longer had to pretend to be the other. And they no longer had to hide who they truly were. Heaven and Hell would leave them alone for a time. Not as long as they might have wished, but enough to let them relax and be happy. They could begin the rest of their lives together.

There was the same garden. The same park. Next to a pond filled with ducks, an angel casually speaks of his love and a demon learns that simple truth. And the understanding of love from both sides gave birth to something new and beautiful, building on the foundation started back in the first garden.

There were numerous gardens. Numerous beginnings. And they all connected together, building on each other. Growing and changing.

It began with a garden.

A beautiful and spacious garden that surrounded a cozy cottage. There were lush, healthy, and terrified plants arranged in neat and organized flowerbeds, not a single leaf or petal out of place. Ivy climbed up trellis, rosebushes bloomed like clockwork despite the plant's reputation for being fickle, and the begonias produced the most picturesque blossoms for the specific purpose of upstaging Ronald P. Tyler's prize-winning garden. [76]

In one corner of the garden was a birdbath and a bird feeder, positioned to make it easy to watch from one of the cottage windows. There were a couple wooden benches in the garden, framing either side of a young apple tree and providing the residents a comfortable place to read or relax after a day of gardening. A stone path slithered and curled around, leading from the front door of the cottage towards the road while also providing a warm spot as the large flat rocks soaked in the sun's heat. Where there weren't carefully-tended flowers, bushes, young trees, and decorative ivy, there was open space where a small-group of half-grown children and a dog could run around a bit on the days that they felt like acting young and didn't feel like heading out to the woods. And the entire front garden was enclosed by a stone wall that made it hard for passersby to peer over and glimpse things that they shouldn't and were so heavily warded by the new residents and the local witch that nothing supernatural could enter without permission.

Before, Aziraphale and Crowley had vaguely discussed the possibility of moving in together someday. Perhaps in a few years or a decade. Once they felt a bit more settled. Of course, they spent so much time together anyway that it sometimes already felt like they lived together. But their discussions on the topic usually involved staying in London somewhere. Or when they felt adventurous, retiring somewhere in South Downs. But then, all those half-considered plans involved it being just the two of them.

The cottage in Tadfield was a lovely property. Much nicer than what neighbors seemed to remember it being prior to that point. They also weren't completely certain when it came on the market. Not many people moved to or from Tadfield. Things generally stayed the same there. But the cottage was abruptly available for purchase the moment that an angel, a demon, and a not-quite-Anti-Christ decided that the best place to move would be Tadfield and a no-longer-the-Anti-Christ wanted them to find a new home.

The outside of the property was picturesque, like something out of a gardening magazine, but the inside was simply unique. Finding a middle point between Crowley's trendy, stylish, and minimalistic decorating methods and Aziraphale's cluttered, cozy, and antique preferences took a bit of time. They eventually settled on something that could be called tastefully classical. None of the furniture could be considered completely modern, but they also wouldn't be out of style in a few months. There was a balance. Modern appliances, sleek entertainment center, an elaborately carved desk, and large beds with beautiful headboards.

There was a balance in color schemes too. Dark stained-wood furniture, dark fabrics, dark crown molding, and dark cherry shelves built into the walls of several rooms. An almost-black pair of couches and maroon armchairs. But the walls were painted lighter, brighter, and more airy shades. Throw pillows made of cream, light blue, and leaf green fabric scattered in different rooms and colorful tartan blankets draped over the darker couches. Pale oak floors and light gray rugs. And large windows in nearly every room to let in sunlight and fresh air.

It would be impossible for the cottage to be as cluttered as the angel's bookshop. Mostly because most of the books remained in his shop in London and he'd only brought along his absolute favorites. [78] But it also was nowhere nearly as empty as the demon's flat. The sitting room, the library, and the master bedroom all had shelves of books that were packed full of tomes, knickknacks, and assorted souvenirs from the various ages. Tapestries, paintings, sketches, and photographs of the immortal beings throughout the millennia hung on the walls. In the library there were comfortable armchairs, a couch perfect for sprawling, a small end table with a lamp, and a statue of an angel and a demon "wrestling" in the corner opposite from the one occupied by an eagle lectern. A grandfather clock ticked patiently in the sitting room, chiming the hour just loud enough that it could be heard through most of the ground floor and ensuring that the cottage was never dead silent. Small radios in every room so that the occupants could play some form of music, regardless of the hour.

Dark cabinets carved with apple designs and white countertops. A flat-screen television sitting above an entertainment center composed of curved and carved wood. Built-in bookshelves with smaller houseplants nestled among the volumes. It was an ongoing work of compromise and balance, the contrast between the two somehow making everything a greater whole than the sum of the individual parts.

The cottage had space for everyone, even on those days when they needed a little solitude for their own sanity. The kitchen that opened up directly into the small dining room with its cherry wood table. The sitting room, which somehow managed to squeeze in two couches, an armchair, and Crowley's desk and throne in the corner, which Aziraphale had semi-stolen as a space to organize their taxes and bills. A library, which had twice the amount of built-in bookshelves as the sitting room, the same amount of sitting areas, and no television. A smaller bathroom on the ground floor, which only one occupant truly used since Aziraphale and Crowley only needed the master bathroom upstairs for the rather large tub for soaking purposes. An attached conservatory at the back of the cottage provided a warm, sunny, and pleasant place year round for the plants that could not thrive in the garden and wouldn't fit within the rest of the house while also giving Crowley a chance to yell at his plants without disturbing the rest of the household. To the side of the cottage was the attached garage for the Bentley, tucked just out of sight of the main road to lull the other citizens of Tadfield into a false sense of security and peace. And upstairs was a master bedroom for the angel and demon to share, the master bathroom, and a second bedroom that belonged the very reason that they'd moved to Tadfield.

While the rest of the cottage was a careful combination of angelic and demonic decorating styles, Warlock's room belonged solely to him. [79] Whatever belongings that he wanted from his old life were there. Not all of his toys and clothes. Only the ones that mattered and that he actually liked. Far too many of them were just things that someone thought that he should like. He kept his stamp collection, his computer, his baseball, his glove, and bat. He kept his dream journal, his box of letters that Nanny and Brother Francis sent to him during those lonely few years, a few favorite books, and his iPod. He also kept a few photographs. A couple of formal ones, where the entire Dowling family were carefully staged together and looked completely unnatural. The only remnants of how things used to be. But there were other pictures of himself when he was smaller, more casual and realistic snapshots of him in the garden. And those photographs generally had him with his nanny or the gardener. Those pictures were lined up on his dresser in a place of honor.

The furniture was simple, but sturdy pieces. He added a few posters to the pale grey walls. His bedspread reminded him of the one that he had when he was younger, a plaid pattern with hints of red woven through it. His bedside table held a small clock and, when he slept, a leather cord that held a protective charm made from a white feather and a black one. His window didn't face the impressive garden out front, but he could look down and glimpse Crowley working in the conservatory attached to the back of the cottage.

The room was smaller than the one he used to have. And he rarely remembered to clean it. But it was messy, chaotic, and his. It belonged to him and it felt right for him to be there.

Warlock felt more at home in the cozy cottage in Tadfield than he could remember feeling in his entire life.

He quickly realized that he liked living in a smaller community, out in the countryside. He liked being able to run around and explore places without having a security team watching or having to behave appropriately for his father's position. Warlock could hang around Tadfield alone. He could watch the ongoing neighborhood feud between R. P. Tyler and Crowley as it slowly grew to epic proportions, Aziraphale being more subtle with his methods by loophole-ing their way around almost any of the Lower Tadfield Residents' Association's guidelines or restrictions. He could go visit Jasmine cottage for some lemonade with Anathema and Newt. Or Warlock could join Adam and Them on whatever adventure they were up to that day. The boy made the most of his new freedom.

It took time for Warlock to properly settle into place as an actual member of the Them rather than a backup Them, like Anathema and Newt. Warlock was a new element and didn't quite fit their previous group dynamic. But all five kids knew things about the world that no one else could understand or believe. So Warlock was drawn towards them like a magnet.

They worked through things. There was some awkwardness that he needed to work out with Adam. Even if he no longer resented the other boy, Warlock still had moments where certain doubts resurfaced and Adam's presence could inadvertently cause those moments. And the first time that Greasy Johnson made a snide remark about Warlock's name, Pepper aggressively made the him and the Johnsonites realize that topic was off limits just like the topic of her full name. That day sealed the peace agreement between her and Warlock. And he and Wensleydale bonded over their fondness for stamp collecting and math being their favorite subject.

Warlock and Brian didn't have much trouble settling into a comfortable friendship. Brian was just like that.

He liked living in Tadfield. And on some of the weekends or holidays, Warlock, Aziraphale, and Crowley would pile into the Bentley and return to London so that the angel could open the bookshop for a few sporadic hours and they could enjoy some of the pleasures of the city. Crowley kept his flat and Aziraphale tidied up the upstairs portions of the shop enough to fit a bed, which gave the boy a few places to stay during the visits.

Warlock could have stayed home during their trips back to London; he was old enough to take care of himself for a few days if necessary and Anathema was just down the road in case of an emergency. But they enjoyed bringing him along and wanted to include him. Unless Adam had something huge planned for the days that they intended to head to London and Warlock didn't want to miss it, the boy joined them.

It felt nice feeling wanted. It wasn't something that Warlock wanted to squander.

But even with the idyllic and pleasant nature of Tadfield, it wasn't perfect. They arrived with their own heavy baggage weighing them down. Past trauma didn't disappear instantly without a trace. That took time to heal. Precautions were taken to help minimize the issues.

The radios in every room, the chiming grandfather clock, and the creaks of the house settling at night kept the silence at bay. On warmer nights, they would open the windows and let in the soft sounds of nature. During the day, music ranging from classical to the most recent hits came drifting from at least one of the radios. All of these things helped to ground Aziraphale to reality when his mind tried to drift back to towards the white and quiet room from before. There was nothing to remind him of Heaven. None of the walls were white; the closest was the ground floor bathroom being a shade of cream, which he had no reason to enter. Their home always had color and it always had sound.

And the angel ended up forcing himself to finally learn how to use a mobile phone. Crowley needed a way to reassure himself sometimes when Aziraphale was out of sight for too long. He needed the security of being able to contact the angel and make sure that he was safe, regardless of where he was. And even if Aziraphale still didn't sleep much, he would spend most nights sitting in bed with a few books to read while the radio played softly in the background. He would stay there while Crowley curled next to him, hand occasionally tightening or reaching out blindly for the angel when nightmares tried to plague him.

Despite his happier home life, there were days where the boy's emotions would take a dive. Warlock's behavior would have him labeled as a moody teenager by less understanding people. Sullen and dark moods that might give way to angry outbursts over seemingly insignificant things that simply served as the tipping point. Fury, pain, and heartache that he directed towards Aziraphale and Crowley, at Adam, at Heaven and Hell, at the Dowlings, [80] and at himself in equal measure. Other days were simply quiet and withdrawn, still wrestling with the feeling of not being the person that he was supposed to be or guilt that he turned his back on his old life so easily.

It took time for the household to work out when Warlock needed some space and time to himself and when he needed someone to hold him close and reassure him that he was wanted, that he was better than they could have ever hoped for, that he deserves to be happy and loved even if that meant leaving behind his old life, and that they wouldn't leave him again. Mostly because Warlock himself wasn't always certain which one he needed. But they figured it out.

And the happy moments outweighed the bad. Even the knowledge that the two immortal beings would outlive the boy by a considerable margin, that Warlock would be grown and then dying of old age in what would feel like the blink of an eye, could not cast a permanent shadow on them. Dwelling on the future or the past would help no one. It was better to enjoy the moment.

There were dinners together, both around the table in the cottage and in charming restaurants in London, where they would talk, tease, and laugh. There were movie nights where they sprawled on the couches in a variety of configurations. There were afternoons of Crowley and Warlock groaning as Aziraphale showed off his magic tricks, both of them secretly enjoying themselves even when the slight-of-hand left much to be desired. There were cozy evenings tucked in the library, listening to the gramophone play records and the angel reading from his favorite volumes. There were sunny days in the garden, watching and occasionally helping a demon traumatize the flora into obedience. There were long drives at high speeds along country roads. There were midnight premieres at cinemas where Warlock dragged Aziraphale and Crowley to watch a movie that somehow managed to miss both of their preferences and yet the boy adored. There were nonsensical arguments about whether or not dolphins were fish, whether gorillas built nests, or what She was thinking when she created the platypus, the discussions usually accompanied by cocoa and ending in helpless laughter. There were countless moments that meant nothing and everything.

But of course, these small moments combined together are what makes life meaningful. They are moments of being together. Of bonding. Of caring. Of growing, learning, and choosing. Of being a family.

Because a family is not just who is related by blood, by their connection through the act of creation, or by obligation. Family is made of love, patience, time, effort, and choice. Because sometimes a family is an angel and a demon who formed their own side and their adopted godchild who wasn't actually destined to be the Anti-Christ and didn't let a lack of destiny dictate his life anyway.

And because sometimes a family is those three, the former Anti-Christ and his best friends, a not-so-hellish hellhound, a former professional descendant and current occultist, her technobane boyfriend, and occasionally the visiting formerly-possessed former medium and the former witchfinder who would eye Warlock suspiciously due to his name. But then, no one ever claimed that families were simple.

Their story didn't end with a lovely garden in front of a cottage in Tadfield. Things like family, friendship, and love never truly end. A new chapter merely began.


[73] And sometimes when he was upset, it held a hint of something Scottish.

[74] At least those that didn't hear the explanation for where the boy they remembered living with them had gone and immediately suspect that hosting a foreign exchange student in their home for so long was simply another act of charity undertaken solely for the boost to their reputation.

[75] Demons were a vindictive bunch and Crowley could hold a grudge.

[76] The way that the Chairman of the Lower Tadfield Residents' Association attempted to welcome the new arrivals to the neighborhood did little to endear himself with the trio in general and one member in particular. Especially when he was clearly judging all of them with every look and word out of his mouth as he explained what types of standards that the neighborhood tried to hold itself too. It took one of the cottage residents a total of seventeen minutes after moving in to decide that tormenting R. P. Tyler would be his latest project. [77]

[77] Between the way he walked, the way he dressed, the way he drove, the things he said, and the way he encouraged Them to cause more trouble, Crowley didn't even have to put in much effort to set R. P. Tyler off on another letter-writing campaign. Everything about him triggered the man's mental alarms. Ronald P. Tyler would deny it to his dying day, but he still had nightmares of that burning car.

[78] And Aziraphale often switched them out with the ones still at the bookshop whenever they returned to the city.

[79] Well, him and Brother Hamster. Warlock wasn't about to abandon his pet after everything.

[80] When Warlock decided to stay with the angel and demon, Crowley was the one who brought up the issue of his surname. They pointed out that he could keep calling himself "Warlock Dowling" if he preferred or he could take on a new one. Crowley also pointed out that he could change his entire name if he wanted, as many times as it took to find what fit him, but Aziraphale requested that he stay with a single choice at least for a year to make it easier when he started school in Tadfield. Going by "Crowley-Fell" or "Fell-Crowley" didn't seem to fit him. But after some careful consideration, Warlock settled on a surname.

Since he'd claimed all the titles that Adam had rejected, that meant that Warlock had also claimed the title of "Great Beast who is called Dragon." And that almost seemed like too good of an opportunity to pass up. Besides, even after everything that had happened, he was still a thirteen-year-old boy. And no young teenager would pass up the chance to call himself "Warlock Dragon."

And with that, I would like to thank everyone who stuck with me as I wrote this story. I hope that everyone found at least something that they liked. I had a great time working on this fic and I'm fairly happy with how it turned out. And I've appreciated all the comments I've received over the course of the story. So once again, thank you very much.