Chapter Text
1.
Once the plan was in place, it was better to get on with it instead of fiddling until it was The Plan proper. Nanny Ashtoreth had to rely on instinct as much as learning in this situation, after all. It was expected of caregivers and motherly types, never mind however many centuries she had seen humans blossom and wither throughout stages upon stages of their lives, all while taking mental notes that equalled libraries to make a bibliophile weep. If one was to take care of babies, one had to be able to just sense things. Which was odd. Like some kind of psychic that believed in their powers more than their vastly superior charlatan skillset, but. Here she was. Being sensible and giving all sorts of care.
The whole business had sounded vaguely more romantic than just knowing when a nappie was wet or when a gut grumble was gas that should be burped out, but then, things usually were more romantic at that distance. Romanticism was to be expected when the reality of humans wasn’t doing its best to scream its head off at you because it was tired and couldn’t sleep, because someone (not them) just keeps screaming and you need to know how to stop it.
If only she could stop his screaming.
Well, she could, but part of the plan was to be as neutrally evil as possible. Temporarily taking away a baby’s vocal cords for an hour was the sort of direct interference would be frowned upon, if not noticed by more parties than advisable, human or otherwise.
She had to be traditional.
She hated to be traditional.
Traditionally and woefully, Nanny Ashtoreth was reduced to carrying the baby Antichrist in her arms, bouncing gently and soothingly patting his back, whispering the kind of nonsense she had heard for years from harried and strained caregivers.
“There, there, angelbane, there, there,” she said, knowing exactly where there was.
He screamed in counterpoint. She shushed with endearments. He wailed. She arranged him higher on her chest so that he could scream into her shirt collar instead of her face. The sound worsened, but at least it was a vaguely lying down position. That was the end goal. Eventually, even Antichrist babies did have to take naps.
“Things’ll look better after a kip,” she told him, pitching her voice smooth as though to counteract his tired crying. “Don’t you feel it true?”
Baby Warlock only cried harder. He knew what she wanted, it felt like, and was being stubborn if only to keep her from her own cat nap on the divan. She had already taken off her jacket in anticipation and everything, ready to be slothful for an entire half hour or so before the child awoke again.
Her plans were proving to have been plotted in vain. Somewhat mortal babies had turned out to be just as exhausting as mortal ones.
“Should I take him?” said Mrs. Dowling from the doorway. Her brushings with motherhood were the sort that relied on having many people to watch a single child: heartfelt, but not worried in the least. She had other things in life to worry her.
“If’n you have the mind for it, mistress,” said Nanny Ashtoreth, changing her patting pattern to more of a long stroke. Baby Warlock breathed in a huge hiccupping gulp and grasped her shirt with both tiny fists, sick of his growing pains. “He's just having himself an upset. I suspect he’ll be getting a few more teeth soon enough.”
“Oh, it’s that, then.” Mrs. Dowling got close enough to follow Nanny’s trajectory around the nursery, peering at her son. “How can you tell? I only see the same two.”
“A nanny knows,” Nanny answered, with just a touch of that Scottish mysteriousness that seemed to delight the mother so much. The better the two could get along, the better her self-made assignment would go until the end of the world.
Warlock whimpered. He was done with screaming, she was hoping with all her probable heart, but he wasn’t sleeping yet.
“You seem to have a handle on him, at least,” said Mrs. Dowling, stopping in place. She smiled; it was the flashing one, rather than the plain pleasantness she showed to her husband's colleagues. “Is that more nanny magic?”
“Of a sort, perhaps,” she murmured. Was it magic to look at a child and know teeth were finally sprouting? She often knew strange and unpleasant things about humans. It was in her nature.
Nanny Ashtoreth sat carefully in the droll rocking chair - it looked antique but was annoyingly brand new - Warlock still propped against her chest. He sobbed and hiccupped in turn, a tiny human worn out from the work of sharing its misery with the world.
Mrs. Dowling watched. Despite her earlier question, she did not seem inclined to hold him.
“Tad is expecting another visitor,” she said, head tilted to take in the view. “They should stay downstairs, but I'll tell them to keep quiet anyway. For the baby.”
“Thank you, mistress,” said Nanny Ashtoreth. She crossed her legs at the knee and used one sensibly low heel to rock the chair to an internal beat. Warlock's grumblings petered down to nearly tolerable, his heart slowing to match the rhythm.
“Though you can tell them if they're too loud,” Mrs. Dowling added, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I don't think this newest sycophant is so important that they can't stand a little yelling to shut up.”
“Thank you,” Nanny said again, hiding her smile.
“Did you ever have kids?”
Still rocking, Nanny Ashtoreth raised her eyebrows in question. Mrs. Dowling had seen the completely fabricated resume and spoken with all of the fake contacts herself, though over the phone. One of them (Nanny in a different voice) had let slip that she was childless.
“Sorry,” said Mrs. Dowling, waving her hands in front of her as though to get rid of the words. “Sorry, I know, it's just- it's just that you seem so good with him.”
Nanny Ashtoreth could feel tears on her collar and snot on her shirt, as Warlock shuddered through determination to continue his directionless anger. It seemed sleep was winning instead. It was nothing new, no matter how many years go by.
“I’ve had all the children I could ever want,” she said, letting the vowels and consonants slip together in a direct counterpoint to Mrs. Dowling’s straightforward American speech. “Taking care of bairns like this one.”
Mrs. Dowling bit at her lip, looking more at Warlock than Nanny.
She was thinking that wanting children was a goal that Women should have. That Women should desire. It was capital, the way that Mrs. Dowling often thought it, especially when Warlock was crying and screaming in that manner that young children without adult-approved communication skills often had. Yet every time the thought crossed her sun-streaked mind, she didn't quite believe it.
Nanny Ashtoreth shifted lower in her seat. Warlock finally took the hint and began the subtle process of letting go of his misery of five minutes before.
“I don't actually want to go talk to anyone,” Mrs. Dowling said with a wrinkling of her nose. “Could I take a nap in here, too? I promise to be quieter.”
“That wouldn't be too difficult,” said Nanny Ashtoreth, remembering last minute to smile instead of wink at the joke. Her darkly tinted glasses would have hid it otherwise.
Mrs. Dowling gave a low chuckle in reply.
“Guess not, huh. I never thought that babies would be so loud.”
Nanny hummed, a neutral prompting. Warlock patted her sternum and sniffled.
“Well, of course, everybody says that they’re loud,” she said, sitting on a nearby hassock. It didn't match the rocking chair exactly in a deliberately annoying fashion. “It just sounds different, when they’re, you know. Actually in front of you.”
“Aye, you’ve the right of that.” Nanny Ashtoreth was concentrating more on the settling Warlock than the doubtful Mrs. Dowling, but her senses were perking up. If she were a lesser demon, she wouldn’t be sitting in this chair with the Antichrist falling asleep on her chest, but she would be pitifully excited about this chance for a singular temptation.
But she wasn’t a lesser demon, and mostly she wanted a nap. Taking care of babies was draining, even to a demon.
“Not that I don’t enjoy it! Most of it,” said Mrs. Dowling on her internal train of thought, smoothing her skirt over her knees. She wore skirts on days where she had to receive guests alongside Mr. Dowling, which was another thing in her mental category of What Women Should Desire. (The accompanying heels were thought of only in irritation.)
Her eyes flickered to her son fitfully as she asked, “Does it get easier, with more children?”
Nanny shifted again, the better to accommodate the baby. “Which part, mistress?”
Mrs. Dowling looked at Warlock, longing on her face. Another human might look at it and recognize it as the longing of a mother to care for their children. Nanny Ashtoreth recognized it as the longing to care for their child at all.
“Knowing what to do,” Mrs. Dowling said aloud, soft and close, her hands tucked under her knees like a schoolgirl. She averted her gaze from Nanny with distant envy, held locked inside her heart. “Knowing if you're doing anything right.”
Warlock was near fully asleep, tear tacky face stuck to Nanny's blouse. She leaned a cheek briefly against his head; he grumbled and snuggled closer.
She could see the garden from the nursery windows, overabundant with flora, likely to be riddled with fauna. (Though she never seemed to notice them when she went walking there, her mind on other things.) If it wasn't for what he would say, Nanny Ashtoreth would love to present a little mischief, ripe for the taking, but that wasn't part of the planned mission.
She had to be bloody traditional.
“I wouldn't call it easy,” she answered Mrs. Dowling, smoothing Warlock's hair away from his sweaty brow. “But I do what I can. There are always quiet moments to appreciate, after all is said and done.”
Mrs. Dowling bit at her lip again, contemplating fondness as she watched her son sleep on Nanny's chest. Her lipstick would have to be renewed at this rate.
She met Nanny's gaze behind the glasses.
“I'm glad you're here,” she said.
Nanny Ashtoreth, shocked more by the sincerity than the words, gathered herself together and replied, “This is where you need me to be, mistress.”
“That's why I'm glad,” said Mrs. Dowling. “I don't know what I would have… I'm an only child, you know.”
Nanny Ashtoreth nodded. She had never not known.
“And my own mom is so far away, and I don't even…” To further Nanny's shock, tears began to brim at the corners of Mrs. Dowling's eyes. She blinked them back rapidly, looking up at the ceiling to keep the pesky salted water from ruining her attire further.
“I don't even know what I'm supposed to be doing,” she said, cracked raw with bewilderment. She was a Woman, which meant (in her mind) that she wasn't allowed to be ambivalent or unsure about being a Mother. Yet the ambivalence persisted anyway, despite her best mental gymnastics to cast it out.
“Firstborns are tricky, dearie. No amount of preparation seems enough at times like these,” said Nanny Ashtoreth, hoping to be appropriately soothing, afraid that panic showed instead. She didn't usually have to stay when humans has a crisis. She would have been over the hill and well down the lane by the time they had figured out a crisis was happening.
“I'm sorry,” Mrs. Dowling sniffed. “I shouldn't be crying like this. I'll stop, I promise.”
Perhaps in defiance, the salt water persisted, spilling down Mrs. Dowling's cheeks. She blotted at the tears with the back of her wrists, still so contentious about the trappings of a public life.
“Oh, poor dear,” murmured Nanny Ashtoreth, thinking rapidly. She had been prepared to be caregiver to Warlock, but this was something else.
It was tricky, with a slumbering baby on her, but Nanny wriggled low enough in her chair so that she could reach her skirt pocket. She tugged out a handkerchief - white linen, as was proper, with tiny initials embroidered on one corner in red flowing script - and held it out to her human employer.
Who stared at it, uncomprehending.
“For your eyes, dearie,” said Nanny Ashtoreth. “It never hurts to have a good cry, but we can't go about leaving ourselves woebegone for it.”
Mrs. Dowling took the handkerchief and patted at her face, makeup smutching the white. She thought to glance at Warlock a moment later, who was fully slumbering in his nap now, the snot and tears from his own crying miraculously gone. She didn't seem to notice that it was also gone from Nanny's shirt.
Nanny could tell that the woman wanted to ask if she was a bad Mother. It ached on her tongue, but it would be just as painful to say. And Nanny could not give an answer that would soothe. She knew too many unpleasant parts of humanity to dress it up politely.
“Why don't I settle the babe in his crib,” Nanny Ashtoreth suggested before Mrs. Dowling could give in to that ache, “and put the kettle on?”
“The kettle?”
“For tea, and perhaps a chat.” Her nap, regretfully, could wait.
“Oh, right. Yes. Yeah, that would be nice,” she agreed, giving her face a final cursory brushing. She sniffed hard and shook out her hands in an effort at collection. She even tried an experimental smile, as she was used to doing when chasing away hard emotions. Which, as a diplomat's wife, meant anything other than having the pleasure of someone's acquaintance.
Nanny Ashtoreth would have loved to introduce this woman to the Tree, if only so she would have had a choice for once in her life that was sincerely her own.
Maybe she still could, metaphorically. If she was delicate about it, literally.
She would just have to be clever. That shouldn't be too difficult for a being of her ageless and cunning skill.
Mrs. Dowling stood, settling her shoulders.
Nanny Ashtoreth realized that she was nearly horizontal in the rocking chair, having crept lower and lower in her seat so as not to disturb the sleeping Warlock.
“Oh, bother,” she said in lieu of a proper swear.
“Need a hand?” asked Mrs. Dowling.
“No, I’ll just- hang on,” grumbled Nanny, carefully inching herself up, hovering a hand over Warlock’s back in case he decided to fuss or throw himself out of her arms. He had learned a few weeks ago that, if he did deliberately tumble out of her grip, she would catch him. And of course, he found that delightful as only a small human could.
Nanny Ashtoreth could have also found it delightfully hilarious, except she was the one expected to catch him.
But Warlock didn’t stir, even when Mrs. Dowling slipped the crib wall down with a clack and Nanny laid him on the cot. He was quite peaceful as he slept. It would have been difficult to remember his nap-time tantrums in that moment, if Nanny wasn't who she was, which was a being who very much knew that Warlock was the Antichrist and would end all of their lives - human and occult and ethereal - very, very, very soon.
His mother didn't know that. She looked on him with the pointed love of someone trying very hard to emulate a kindness never shown to them. Nanny couldn’t sense love - not like he could, the braggart - but she had been around for a while. She knew what it looked like when someone looked at another and found their own care lacking.
Well. It was only a plan, not even The Plan. What could it hurt?
“Let's get ourselves a cuppa while the peace lasts,” said Nanny Ashtoreth, nudging Mrs. Dowling's shoulder. And if they had a heart-to-heart in the meantime, she was the nanny. She could stand to have a listen, with maybe a few interesting tidbits to add.
Nothing pointed. Just an apple, held up, ripe for the taking.
“Yes, please,” Mrs. Dowling whispered. She followed Nanny out of the nursery, still clutching the properly linen handkerchief, about to be shown what it meant to have someone care for them.
2.
As far as ways to whittle away at time went, this was as good a time to whittle as any. The agreed plan was to have an agent on the inside and the outside, and he had gotten the out. Brother Francis didn’t mind. Part of gardening, as far as he was concerned, was more feeling than anything, and the plants felt delightful. He had been at the original Garden, after all, and under his eye, these faint echoes of that distant ancestor grew with the same amount of love and benevolence. They couldn’t help it. He walked among their boughs and whispers every day, telling them - truthfully - just how beautiful they were.
The plants responded in kind, which was immensely helpful on the occasions where the Antichrist was lost somewhere in the garden. The boy had yet to come into his power properly, but had graduated to running around wildly in private games of adventure, diving headfirst into the undergrowth and waving about swords made of sticks and imagination.
He especially delighted in whacking at trees with the remnants of their past. Brother Francis had tried to discourage him from this, as it distressed the trees unnecessarily, but the boy wasn’t very good at listening just yet.
Brother Francis could make him listen, of course, but that kind of influence tended to do poorly on human vessels. Even if they were human vessels for terrible, world-ending occult forces. It would be far too much trouble and cut severely into his precious reading time.
The kudzu that made up Brother Francis’ current perch rustled. Out of sight, a distinctive child’s wail rose over the garden.
Brother Francis sighed to himself, set down his book next to his favourite reading spot beneath some rhododendrons, and followed where the plants were pointing.
He found the Antichrist at the foot of a tree that had cracked a nearby low wall with sudden growth, clutching at his knee. Blood welled from broken skin as he cried the great tears of youth, displaying more artistry than sorrow.
“B-Brother Francis,” he sobbed. “I fell off the tree.”
“There, there, young master Warlock,” said Brother Francis, crouching with care towards the old knees that his current seeming had. “Let's take a look, then.”
It wasn’t terrible, as far as wounds go, but the boy was still barely a blossom by most standards. He had no way of knowing what manner of illness and death might occur from minor injuries, and so was free to imagine all of them, his growing mind working away busily to redouble his tears.
“I’m gonna catch a sick and die,” Warlock declared, wiping his face on his dirty sleeve. “Th- there’s bugs and germs and vermin in the garden.”
Brother Francis pulled out a tiny cross kit from his pocket, one that had not been there a moment ago. He never remembered to leave it under the assumption that of course, the boy would get hurt again somehow. It was inevitable, as was Brother kneeling to assess and assuage any worries. It was what he would do for all of His creatures. Most of the time. Especially to a creature that needed to be shown benevolence as a specific and pointed example in order to accomplish a balancing role in their life.
“Now,” he asked, opening a small sanitizing towelette. “Who went and told you such a thing about my garden?”
“Nanny Ashtoreth did,” the boy answered, watching as Brother Francis wiped clean his already clean hands (it being good to set an example). He sniffled. “She said the world is riddled with disease and I could catch a sick at any time and die.”
“Of course she did,” Brother Francis murmured. It sounded like her well enough, for all that she walked with him in the green just fine. “And I’ll suppose she neglected to mention all the beautiful things in the garden as well, did she?”
“Nanny hates the garden,” Warlock said plainly, as though it was a false fact everyone knew. He puzzled over the tiny, well-regimented kit, knee and tears momentarily forgotten. “What are you doing?”
“There are a tremendous amount of creatures in the world, young master,” said Brother Francis, now taking out an alcohol swab. “Many of which must be respected, and even more so that can't be seen by mortal eye.”
“Germs,” the boy said with a grave nod.
“Aye, germs is one,” he allowed. “Blood platelets are another, as what are already a part of you. We’ll need to give them a clean surface so they can get to healing you up. This will sting, now.”
Warlock hunched away, suspicious somewhat-mortal eyes narrowing with theatrical distrust.
“It already hurts!”
“We must sanitize the wound,” explained Brother Francis, settling back in his seat. “It stings because your skin doesn't like to be open. But we'll wipe it clean and cover it with a plaster, and then we can let it heal in peace.”
“Warlock! ” a different voice bellowed, far off and closer to the residence proper.
Warlock hunched towards the gardener, fear flashing freely across his features.
“The old apple tree, is it?” said Brother Francis, deliberately cheerful. He didn’t like how often that the young Antichrist was more likely to be frightened of his mortal father. The man had never struck Warlock or treated him harshly - Nanny would never allow that - but there was distant fear regardless. It was the fear one held of an unknown factor; Mr. Dowling was rarely at the residence.
“What?” said the boy, scrunching his nose.
“You’re the apple, falling far from the tree. Well, in a manner of speaking, anyway,” explained Brother, squinting to see through the numerous botanicals in the way. They obliged him by moving just enough to give a view of Mr. Dowling - dressed down in shirtsleeves and his home tie - wandering the trimmed lawn that the mortal gardeners fought to maintain constantly in defiance of Brother Francis’s influence.
“Warlock! ”
“What’s he upset about, then? This’ll sting.”
“He’s - oh!” The boy winced as Brother Francis swabbed clean the clotting cut, but with a new upset to consider, he braved it well. “I was playing tag with him and ran over here and he don’t like it when I run over here.”
“Why not?”
“Daddy don’t like mud on his shoes.”
“Where else would the mud go? His shirt?” asked Brother Francis with a wink, pulling out a selection of plasters. Warlock giggled, as intended, and picked out a plaster with dinosaurs on it. They didn’t usually come in that large square size, but Brother Francis didn’t know that.
He got the boy plastered and tidied up, pulling a large and roughly sewn handkerchief from another voluminous pocket - blue and green plaid, just old enough to be soft, as was proper - in order to dust the remaining dirt from Warlock’s legs and face. Warlock bore it with minimal complaining. He was used to similar treatment from most of the adults in his life, as the boy was near perpetually besmirched, as far as Brother Francis had seen.
“Warlock! ” came the bellow, though with a slightly desperate edge at this point.
Brother Francis stood with the appropriate grumblings and, taking Warlock’s hand, guided him around the low wall and down some steps that might have been pretty once upon a time, but were now covered in far more impressive creeping ivy and moss. He couldn’t understand why Mr. Dowling didn’t like this part of the garden. Everything flourished here.
“Warlock,” called Mr. Dowling, hurrying over as soon as Brother Francis and the boy emerged from the green. “I told you, don’t run off like that!”
“You were supposed to catch me,” Warlock said. He stood half behind the gardener, poised ready to run again if the situation called for it.
“Daddy can’t follow you over there, sport, it’s too… dangerous.” Mr. Dowling looked at Brother Francis with a frown. “What are you doing here? Isn’t it your day off?”
“It’s Nanny’s day off, daddy!” cried the Antichrist, hanging from Brother Francis’s hand in his agitation. “I got hurt and Brother Francis gave me a plaster and I got plates in me!”
“Platelets,” Brother Francis corrected gently, bearing his child’s weight. “They’re in your blood.”
“Blood plates!”
“You got hurt?” Mr. Dowling frowned. “Let me see.”
Warlock braced himself against Brother Francis and stuck out the small clean knee, a bright spot against the smudging he bore elsewhere. Mr. Dowling crouched to examine it, briefly encircling Warlock’s calf with one large hand.
“Hmm. You were doing something foolish, I expect?” said Mr. Dowling. Even crouched, he was taller than his son, young as he still was.
“No,” Warlock mumbled, chin pressed against his chest.
“Then what were you doing?”
Warlock shrugged and tugged his leg free. He stood near fully behind Brother Francis now, kicking idly at the grass.
“Well,” said Mr. Dowling, standing back up. He met Brother Francis’s gaze squarely, with the level-eyed intent of one used to backing lesser Men down through subtle threat of force alone. “Thank you, Mr. Francis, for caring for him. It’s commendable that a person such as yourself would be so kind as to assist my young son in his time of need -”
“Not a word of worry to it, Master Dowling,” interrupted brother Francis, giving a smile in lieu of impatience for the man’s odd way of talking. Behind him, Warlock began sneaking away in a beeline towards a bird bath that stood freely on the lawn. It had suddenly acquired a full complement of birds.
“Er. I beg your pardon?”
“Not a word of worry to it.”
“Hmm.” Mr. Dowling looked casually puzzled. He had a hard time with the accents of the land.
“You’re welcome,” said Brother Francis, being sure to pronounce each syllable precisely.
“Ah, yes. Thanks, thank you.”
Warlock approached the bird bath ever more slowly, fascinated by a beautifully plump starling. A small grey dog rounded the corner of the residence, saw the boy, and began a similar creep. It was odd, as Rover usually went with Nanny Ashtoreth on her free days, but who was Brother Francis to know her every movement? It’s not as though they were friends. They only planned together. And sometimes walked.
“How did he get hurt?” Mr. Dowling asked, eyes on Brother Francis. He was trying to lock gazes in an attempt at intimidation. He thought himself a Man, which meant (to him) he needed to constantly vie for position in social situations. It's what Men did in order to get the upper hand before someone else tried to intimidate them in turn, what Men had been doing since the dawn of time. It had never occurred to him to question such a thought, just as it never occurred why he found the perpetually smiling and ruddy-with-good-cheer Brother Francis unsettling. Brother Francis, to his thinking, was too ugly to be a certain kind of man, and too simply kind to be a different sort of certain. He considered the gardener to be ‘odd, but harmless’.
Which, despite the unspoken insult, was the goal. It didn't mean that Brother had to like it.
“Climbed a tree and fell off it as a matter of course,” Brother Francis said, looking up at the beautiful sky and clasping his hands behind his back. “Not much to it. He didn’t get very high, as far as the tree is concerned.”
“Hmmm.” He blinked, his only admission of discomfort. “Did you clean his knee?”
“Of course, Master Dowling.”
“With what?”
Brother Francis tapped a pocket of his mackintosh. “I’ve a cross kit, as a matter of fact. Full of useful little bobs and bits, swabs and the like.”
“Oh, yes. Good.” Mr. Dowling was still trying to decipher through the words while staring down the gardener. It would have been easier if Brother was inclined to play along. “Did you learn how to do this first aid somewhere?”
“Every gardener must know how best to care for creatures of all sorts, sir,” said Brother Francis dutifully. “Are you going to do anything about the dog?”
“What?” Mr. Dowling looked around, spotted Rover, and yelled, “Hey!”
Warlock flinched, thinking the shout was directed at him, then saw the dog. He ran back to the adults, screeching with abandon, the dog chasing him merrily. He did not care for Nanny’s little Rover. He didn’t care for any dogs, really, which was difficult to place against a teaching of benevolence of all living things, but Rover wasn’t exactly a normal dog. Brother Francis was unsure if he could press the issue on that front, as he wasn’t certain if Rover was technically living.
Once he got close enough, the boy jumped at Mr. Dowling, arms upraised to be caught. Mr. Dowling fetched him up in a high carry, grimacing at the staining of his previously immaculate white shirt.
“Go away!” Warlock shouted at Rover, nearly up on his father’s shoulders in an attempt at distance.
“Warlock, you gotta stop squirming-”
“Go away go away go away!”
“Warlock-”
The boy, still scrabbling for the high ground, overbalanced and began to fall. Mr. Dowling made an attempt to catch him but missed, his panic palpable at the sudden lapse in his Fatherly Duties.
Brother Francis caught the boy instead. Firmly by the waist, so that he couldn’t slip, but unfortunately upside down.
Warlock flailed his legs, bringing further risk into the situation.
“Away!” he shouted.
“Master Dowling, if you would.” Brother Francis held the child out to his father. The man purpled with embarrassment that was quickly resolving itself into anger, that being an easier emotion to deal with in his mind. He wasn’t rough as he grabbed up Warlock to swing him the right way around, but it was close.
“Stop screaming,” he said curtly to the boy, and then to the dog, “Get on out of here!”
Rover sat on the grass, taking in the excitement with a devilish doggy grin and wagging tail.
Warlock continued to wail. He seemed little assured in his father’s arms.
Brother Francis sighed. Mr. Dowling thought that being a Man meant intimidating people into compliance, but one could not intimidate a child out of fear. It usually just added to it.
“Please go find your mistress,” he said to Rover. “Before I tell her you were out here without her leave.”
Rover considered this. He did not like being told on.
“She’ll be most displeased to have her afternoon interrupted,” Brother added with the firm conviction of a fellow who knew exactly what that displeasure would entail. The two might not be friends, not really - it wasn’t exactly allowed - but he had her measure after a few thousand years. She hated interruptions to a quiet evening, and her hatred usually led to roasting of a less delicious variety.
The dog decided. He did bare his teeth at Brother Francis, but got up and trotted off, head lifted with disdain. Rover swung by the birdbath in an attempt at casual rebellion, but the starlings there were too many to be bullied. They took flight in a dive bomb squad to harass Rover on his way, chasing him back across the lawn at a fast clip.
Mr. Dowling watched all of this with bafflement, still holding Warlock on his hip.
“How did you-”
“There, the dog is gone,” said Brother Francis, patting Warlock’s back, winking at Mr. Dowling so that he would pay attention to the hint. “And, young master, should he bother you again, be sure to tell him firmly that you’ll get Nanny Ashtoreth if he doesn’t behave.”
Warlock sniffled and rubbed his face dry on his father’s shirt. Mr. Dowling gritted his teeth.
“O-ho-kay,” he wobbled, bottom lip out in a firm pout.
“You were fine,” added his father, wanting to be part of the conversation. “I got you.”
“You dropped me!”
“Well, you were wiggling too much,” Mr. Dowling said irritably.
Warlock grumbled under his breath and buried his face on his father’s shoulder.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” the boy muttered, half muffled by fine and soiled cloth.
“Better keep it that way,” said his father, sharp as a nettle.
Sharpness was better than the miasma that roiled in his mind, namely that he didn’t expect this Fatherhood business to be quite so tricky. His son was loud and rough and effusive in all of his emotions. Mr. Dowling, who had trimmed down his own internal worries to a negligible mountain of dust shoved under a rug, didn’t know how to cope. His oddly starched mind - full of what it meant to be a Man - didn’t include how to protect someone from their own fears. He could barely deal with ignoring that tiny mountain, let alone deal with the mountain of someone he loved.
It was disheartening, to say the least, to know such a human thing about the man. Even when he was home, he was far more involved with making sure that people knew who was in control, rather than for whom he cared.
If only he could give the mortal something by which to improve himself. But he was only the gardener and not supposed to interfere. Although, he knew, there was usually some wiggle room, especially for good intentions. No one could deny good intentions.
Brother Francis tried an encouraging smile, letting his sincere belief in human’s ability to change for the better shine through.
Mr. Dowling looked away, known discomfort stuffed down beneath the rug of his soul.
“We've been outside long enough,” he told Warlock, setting him on the ground. “Let's go get cleaned up.”
“I'm already clean!”
“Not clean enough, you aren't,” he rumbled.
Warlock stuck out his tongue, then threw his arms around Brother Francis’ legs.
“Thank you for the plaster, Brother Francis,” he said to the mackintosh.
“Oh, you're quite welcome, young master Warlock,” he replied, touched. It was a good sign that Warlock had thought to give thanks unprompted. It could be that his influence was working.
Warlock ran off to the residence. Mr. Dowling lingered behind. His tongue was tied up with suspicion, pretty words trembling to be released with their skittering threats beneath. He was trying to decide how best to say them.
“That one is quite the sprite,” commented Brother Francis before the man could say anything. The less he had to deal with the father, the better. Sly asides would only sour this otherwise pleasant time of a mission.
“Yeah, he’s a real- he’s a tyke,” he chuckled, waving a nebulous gesture to encompass the house.
Brother Francis’ heart metaphorically stopped, before he remembered that Americans used that word differently than he had learned it. They said everything differently than how he had learned it, it felt like, and usually just to be contrary.
Mr. Dowling scuffed lightly at the ground with one sharp-edged shoe.
“It’s a good thing you were there for him,” he lied, putting on the booming boisterousness that had other workers smiling politely at him, but didn’t do a thing for Brother Francis. “Who knows what could have happened!”
He looked on Brother Francis with thinly veiled jealousy and unease. It was strange, to be an ethereal being that could see down to the truth of a person. It made him want to give the man something to protect himself from his own fears, but that wasn’t part of the plan.
Well. It wasn’t the agreed plan. But he’d hardly be an angel if he didn’t at least try something. The man had so few shields of his own, and all of them were largely ineffective. Maybe he needed to see what it meant to truly aid another, as opposed to talking around them.
Maybe something heartfelt, as a good example. Something to inspire.
“I tell you true, Master Dowling,” he said with more of his usual cadence of hope, bowing from the waist. “The young master will never come to harm while in my garden.”
“That’s a noble thing to promise,” Mr. Dowling, halfway between boisterous and confused.
“It’s no promise. ‘Tis as truth,” said Brother Francis. He may have to sweet-talk some of the more reluctant plants into agreeing, but they would come around to it, especially if he could get Warlock to stop pulling up growing green willy-nilly. Eventually. If only the Antichrist would listen to him, but there were years to go yet for the proper heavenly influence.
“Hmm. Yes,” was the mild response, with a final dusting of his hands, before Mr. Dowling waved and turned to go back into the house, the idea of care pressed on his shirt with small, dirty hand prints.