Battles we fight

CW/TW: Implied Homophobia, Implied Peer Pressure, Mild Profanity

It was a blessedly quiet day in the bookshop. It had been surprisingly nice so far too, given it was already fall and constant rain was to be expected. Aziraphale had decided that, with it being such a beautiful day, the ideal situation was that no potential customer dared to come in and interrupt his peace. An aura of something difficult to describe surrounded the shop, scaring off any human who might otherwise have felt courageous enough to even take a look at the angel's place.

Aziraphale was humming and milling about in the bookshop, taking advantage of the gorgeous sunlight pouring in through the window to order his books in a way that only he could truly understand and appreciate. Although he had the strong suspicion that Crowley would be able to grasp the intricacies of his method if he ever paid enough attention to it. And maybe he did but decided to pretend he didn't. Aziraphale smiled despite himself as he adjusted the pile of books he was carrying. He walked them over to the intended shelf, still humming to himself, and put them down delicately.

However, the moment he was about to start pulling the books out of that shelf to substitute them with the ones in the pile, an unusual sound broke through the silence of the bookshop, interrupting his off-tune hum. Aziraphale looked around, suddenly a bit scared.

Was Heaven coming for him, now, after everything that had happened?

After a couple of seconds of confusion, he placed the unfamiliar ring—it was his old rotary dial phone ringing from the back of the shop. Feeling relieved and a bit silly, he wrinkled his nose at the prospect of answering. No human being would be able to enter the bookshop but he had failed to take into account the possibility of one of them telephoning, as it had been some time since one of them had dared to do so. With a sigh, he went to the back and answered.

"I am afraid we're quite definitely closed."

"B-brother Francis? Is that you?" asked a young human's voice nervously on the other end.

Brother Francis?

The nervous voice was somehow familiar and Aziraphale took a moment to place it.

"Oh, Warlock, is that you? How have you been, my dear?"

Through all the Armaggeddon business, Aziraphale had completely forgotten about the fact that he had given Warlock his number just in case he ever needed anything. Crowley and he had basically raised the kid, and it was only normal to have some level of concern for his well-being. Giving him the number allowed Warlock to decide whether he wanted to keep in touch. Aziraphale had only been the weird gardener, after all.

"Fine," Warlock mumbled.

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow. Warlock's voice was insecure, as if he was trying to convince himself of the answer. Part of Aziraphale's mind realized his voice sounded a bit older now—how long had it been since the not quite End Of The World? Four years or so? Warlock should be around 15, then. How time flew by for mortals.

Either way, something was definitely wrong. Warlock seemed to be worried about something. All lingering annoyance about being called on such a peaceful day evaporated and was replaced with concern for the boy.

"What can I help you with?"

Warlock sighed but didn't say anything. Aziraphale waited patiently. It seemed better not to push him; he had found the resolve to call, so he obviously wanted to talk about something. Still, Aziraphale knew that sometimes it was hard to actually start a conversation, so he figured he ought to give Warlock some space so he could collect his thoughts.