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“It’s not a garden.”
Aziraphale had had his moments in the past, where he had felt a need for clarification. In this case, he chose to overlook it and point to the other misplaced object. “And why do you keep a kettle in it?”
“It’s a threat,” he said, secretly. At least, in what Crowley thought was a secretive tone.
“Well,” Aziraphale examined the kettle, finding it surprisingly clean and already plugged in, “is there anything else I need to know?”
Crowley waved his hand, disappointed that they had come to that. “Yeah.” He said, although what he really wanted was to scream ‘you don’t need to do anything, they won’t dare die’.“Don’t be nice to them. Ever.”
Aziraphale’s soft smile let him know that whatever , he would do exactly what he wanted.
**
It was a quick temptation outside London, and this time Crowley couldn’t fake it. Well, there had been a few interesting episodes of hellish relevance that could pass as his work, but they were gory, and unpleasant, and frankly not as imaginative as Crowley was. And he had to remind Hell that, you know, he was still there, and he was better left alone.
That’s why Aziraphale proposed. “I’ll take care of them.”
Care , that’s the unsettling word he used, one that could give those plants ideas. Crowley had looked at him through his sunglasses and laughed.
**
Aziraphale didn’t know Crowley had plants until after the end of the world. He was amazed at first, then he was confused, before finally he turned to Crowley and he said, “But you don’t even live here.”
At which, Crowley had shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Apparently, it did not and Aziraphale did not say a word about the fact that Crowley had been sleeping on his sofa in the past weeks, despite a) having a perfectly functioning bed in his own flat and b) not needing to sleep, which to be fair wasn’t something that Crowley did for any other reason than scaring away clients from the bookshop.
That Aziraphale silently allowed, anyway. It was quite convenient since, in this way, he had found himself with some spare time on his hands to use for far more interesting activities* and it has also the pleasant side-effect of removing the guilt of deceiving humans from Aziraphale’s list of worries.
Yet it was making him nervous.
Not the ‘scaring away humans part’, of course. More the ‘Crowley being so relaxed in staying at his place’ part, although he was not staying, more gravitating towards Aziraphale’s shop. His presence was exhausting on a new level, and it irritated him, because Crowley, despite his nature, had been one of the three things* that had not, never once, alarmed him. With exceptions dictated by their fraternizing being too obvious, or by the stupid request of holy water, or by saving books from a bombed church in the middle of a war. Things that were Crowley-related, but not necessary Crowley per se.
**
Crowley’s house plants were perfectly green, perfectly healthy and deeply terrified of their master.
Terrified was a weird word to associate with Crowley and, almost certainly, one that would not pop up in Aziraphale’s mind when he thought of him. Except, of course, when he had to report his deeds to heaven.
However, plants could not possibly clarify their lexical choice, therefore Aziraphale approached them as you would with a particular half-witted prophet that decided to live in a barrel in the middle of the desert —you do not ask questions. It also happened that those plants liked him as soon as he set foot in the garden, in an instinctive way.
He supposed it had to do with dogs. The two things were not strictly correlated but, as one can notice, dogs tend to like people when their master is comfortable around them. It had to be that.
So, as a friend fellow associate of divine intent, it was just natural for him to offer to water them, from time to time. It was a sign of fellowship. Aziraphale shook his head as the water in the kettle started to boil, the switch turning up as the water reached the correct temperature. He put down the book he had in his hands and took off his surgical rubber gloves because one must never drink and read. Never.
He took a sip. Some blurred thoughts had been on his mind the whole day as if he’d forgotten to do something.
**
He did forget.
It wasn’t like Crowley checked on him, anyway. Or had wanted him to do it in the first place. Nevertheless, as an angel, Aziraphale tried to get the best out of situations and, especially, to keep his word*. It was part of his divine job.
He was quite sure he could manage. Once in the flat – who needs a flat like that in the centre of London, he wondered, from the perspective of a book-seller with an immense book-shop in the middle of London – he found out the plants to be… well.
A week without water had not done them good.
They were supposed to be resilient and to need water just once in a month, but as soon as Crowley had left, they’d relaxed a bit too much. The result was visible on their leaves, now sagged down and pale green; some of them resembled a yellow sort of colour, which Crowley would have resented and punished.
“Oh my.”
The plants jumped off when they sensed his presence. Some of them tried to raise their feeble branches, failing. Other shrieked, or to phrase it better, they did their best resemblance of shrinking. In that way, once Crowley had not noticed a half-dead leaf.
With a snap of his fingers, the room was immersed in light. The plants looked astonished. “Now, we don’t want to look so gloomy.”
The plants prepared for the worse.
Aziraphale took his time to examine the room, from the potted little ones placed on the window, to the long slim ones that reached the roof, kneeling to assess the round, chunky few that were stocked in the back of the room. Then he sighed, brushing off some dust from his pants, and put the kettle on. The nearby cactus fainted. Aziraphale frowned, looking at the little thing.
Then he snapped his fingers again.
For someone who has nothing to do with them, miracles appeared like miracles, in which they were ethereal, magical and unexplainable with any other kind of logical process other than the hand of God. To the Plants which had been living with Crowley since the seventies, they appeared like the equivalent in photosynthesis of a year sunbathing in the middle of a rainforest, minus the deforestation and without taking into account that many of those city plants would not have survived in such an environment.
Aziraphale gasped, because he forgot to miracle his mug, too. He was becoming clumsier by day.
The garden around him was bright green again. The plants’ astonishment was now shown through the glittering of their branches, the perfect lustrousness of their long leaves that had been breathed to new life. There was also a different feeling that the plants had not been exposed to, for which they did not have a name. It left them in wonder.
“If he asks” Aziraphale prompted, “this never happened.”
The silence he received back was enough of an answer.
**
It happened again. Twice. Well, thrice. And after three, who was really counting?
It wasn’t entirely his fault. If only Crowley would have called to remind him, he would have. Yet he called just once, to say that he was moving to Hong Kong for a couple of days and that he could stop pretending with his plants.
“Never. I was a gardener once.”
“A fake one, angel.”
Aziraphale sighed at that, he didn’t bother to insist because he wasn’t making an effort. The garden, however, was.
The first incident prompted an unexpected reaction from the garden, that blossomed and encouraged the shyer ones to exhibit themselves and occupy all the space in their pot without trying to hide themselves. Aziraphale slowly started to make them at home. He nested the cactus nearby the only other small plant that he could find, in the hope that, together, he would stop fainting every time he fancied some tea. He decided not to move the bigger ones but pondered about their sun exposition. Then, he applied the same strategy he used as Warlock’s caretaker. He sat with a hot drink in his hands, reading as nature took its course.
After a couple of weeks, Aziraphale was reminded that plants were, in fact, really bad at spelling. It wasn’t their fault, either, poor things. They weren’t made for writing, as some weren’t made for music and others were made to work in the post office for all their life. They didn’t make the cut and had found themselves more comfortable in other types of personal expression.
It was a Tuesday when he spotted it, written on the potted plant in the right corner of the room.
U A C U † e
“Oh. It’s not bad for a daisy!”*
The daisy blushed. It tried hard to do so, at least. Aziraphale took note of its effort and add a mental reminder to water this one the next time.
“They’re such well-mannered ones, as well.”
When he told Crowley, the first thing that came out of his mouth was “Thanks. It was the trauma.”
The second one, which promptly followed was “They’ve never written anything before.”
“One might wonder why.”
“They wouldn’t dare to insult me like that.”
“Would you have noticed, dear?”
Touché. One had to pay close attention to catch those kinds of writing. Crowley, on the other side of the phone, on the other side of the planet, sensed Aziraphale's frown. Which was the one. The reading one. The thing was, to be completely honest, that Crowley wouldn’t have noticed even if he’d paid attention, because he didn’t read. Of course, he possessed the ability to do so, if he really made an effort. Couldn’t be bothered, though.
“I’ll read it for you when you’re back.”
“Uhm,” Crowley muttered, unprepared for fondness. He wanted to sense longing in his words, but he knew better than to be that stupid, and he didn’t want to infuse non-existent implicatures in his words, for hell’s sake. “Don’t get attached.”
“As if.”
**
Aziraphale started talking to them because Crowley did it. The logical approach to it was to treat the garden as he would have treated Crowley since pets usually take after their owner.
There were different things those plants liked. Their favourite one, however, was the sun, and Aziraphale knew how to be hot. Not in a human sense. He knew how to bring light, but not in the hell sense. Phrasing was complicated, those days.
While winter loomed over London, the plants were enthusiastic to have some sun to relish their often-dehydrated wooden self. It was a blessing.
However, they were less prone to admit cherishing to being forgotten. Even if Crowley was intimidating and a murderer, he’d never forgot to yell at them. Aziraphale didn’t yell. From time to time, he let them die and resuscitate them. From time to time, he said things like:
“Look at that. Spoiled. You’ve been at your loveliest for decades, and now it’s spoiled.”
M a Y ra c l è – T H T
“Shall I? Then I would know it was there.”
And the plant, obliged, growing faster to supply that broken branch with joy.
**
Crowley didn’t know how many calls were too many. Because ya know, you could be clingy sometimes and he didn’t want to give that impression. Moreover, they had been apart for centuries, he shouldn’t be checking his phone and fidgeting and composing and cancelling Aziraphale’s phone number over and over.
He wasn’t even sure Aziraphale would care.
“Turns out, I have to visit the USA.”
“I thought they didn’t need any further influence.” Aziraphale’s voice was dense. He couldn’t blame him.
“They don’t,” Crowley admitted because the states were a job well done. Not that he had any merit in it. He couldn’t possibly have all the merits for fucked up humans beings, but he stayed there during the eighties and he silently watched society put Capitalism First without moving a finger, so he guessed that commendation was, in fact, very well deserved. “But I have this thing to sort out and…”
“Sure.” Aziraphale interrupted him, somehow not pleased. Crowley wondered if anyone else in the airport had felt the ice rising in their blood, but surely it must have been only him.
“Angel.” He said, slowly “Are you being passive-aggressive?”
“I could never.”
“As you never lie.”
“As a line of conduct, yes. Which is…”
“Just a line.”
Silence. That was unusual.
“I’ve asked you, ya know.” Crowley fidgeted with his hands, not letting worry leak through his words “You should have come with me, this time.”
Aziraphale pressed his lips together in a tight smile. “Would it have been a better trip than one to Alpha Centauri?”
Crowley scoffed. “You bet.”
“Crowley.” He then said, after a moment – he could see him hesitate, his eyes twitching around and then lying on the surface of his shop’s desk, one hand grasped on the edge of the surface. Crowley had spent millennia recognising his character. “If they’d called, if anything was bound to happen –”
“I’m not-”
“You are.” And then added, “Maybe if you call I would know if...”
Crowley waved his hand “Know what?”
Aziraphale ought to say more, wished to say more. “To put it better, your concern is shared.”
With that, Crowley fought with a fastidious incorporeal thing stuck in his throat. He swallowed “I’ll call.” then he hung up.
Aziraphale listened to the silence from the other side of the phone and felt dreadfully alone.
**
Another week passed. Slowly, the plants were growing attached to the angel. It wasn’t hard, they had been biased from the beginning, given that Crowley would stop mistreating them only when Aziraphale called him. Another phenomenon was taking place, which was a slight shift from the initial situation.
Aziraphale was not forgetting to visit the flat anymore. He passed by once, twice a day, usually with a book. He settled the kettle and sat in the middle of the room, reading for hours. Once in a while, he did that out loud, trying to teach the whole lot how to spell, at least, cute.
“Dear me.” He said, resting the book – Small Garden, a title he picked up from an article in The Independent and which he suspected had been promoted by Crowley – on the chair. The water was boiling, and he forgot the mug again.
He couldn’t be bothered to miracle another one. He ventured into the kitchen with good intentions. Grab the cocoa, which he usually miracle as well, and anything that resembled a cup. Like any other part of the house, the kitchen looked new and like the Ferrari of kitchens, with two professional ovens and a shining central kitchen.
He found it in the cupboard. Next to it, there was his favourite brand of cocoa. And of tea. Nearby another disused kettle, he found the usual biscuit tin he's used to buy. Aziraphale blinked. Then, not because he was nosey, he proceeded to open the other cupboards, discovering that no food was stored in there, apart from a bottle of milk in the fridge.*
Aziraphale stood in front of the milk for a moment of pondering, while fighting with an unprompted smile that was taking over his whole face. With that still going on, he returned to his book, forgetting the mug and the cocoa.
A fiddle-leaf fig had grown too much and was staring at him from a higher point of view. It was the first one to realise, although the rest of the garden would have come to the same conclusion in a couple of days. There was a reason why this angel was a friend of his master: they were both utter idiots.
It immediately regretted the thought. Aziraphale was staring at him, cryptically. Did he think that too loudly? Fear started to creep through it.
“You have become taller, aren’t you?” the angel said.
Indeed, it was.
“Shall I trim you?”
The garden collectively trembled. War flashbacks of the last trimming sparked in their mitochondria.
“My dear, you have to do something about it.” The fiddle-leaf gulped, “Unless, uhm, I suppose…” Aziraphale looked at the kettle, then he hesitated “I should stop coming here, shouldn’t I?”
With that, the plant was back to his original form in a week. The others didn’t ask questions.
**
Frequency was not a synonym of accuracy, for however often Aziraphale was hanging around the flat, he did not always remember to water the houseplants as much as they should have been.
“Couldn’t blame him for liking you.”
E das not
The kettle turned off and the cactus displayed the usual Pavlovian reflex. The boiling water ended up in a black Queen mug, which was not the Aziraphale’s usual choice. He was surprised to find anything in the kitchen, really, since Crowley seemed to keep his apartment as naked as a moulting snake.
“He does, you’re lovely.” he continued, “Would have kept you for so long otherwise?”
Silence was the only reasonable response. Plants thoughts are slow, not because they are slow as creatures, but because they have them only in order to fraternize with humans, so Aziraphale didn’t take it personally.
“Well, I think you’re gorgeous.”
Even without water, that week the garden was the most luxuriant in the city.
**
Being not always aware of time, it was only natural for Aziraphale to forget to water the plants even when in the flat. He did it enough for the plants to die. It had been a combination of factors, the mixture of not having water and sun plus the fact that they were all utterly heartbroken and missed Aziraphale deeply, since those days he read in the study more than in the garden.
“Plants don’t die, do they?”
T H E Y D O
Replied a cactus, the only survivor and the best one at spelling – although he didn’t write as much as the others.
“Only if they want to, I suppose.”*
Aziraphale smiled. The needles on the cactus stood up, in a chlorophyll version of goosebumps. This one wasn’t a quick miracle; this one took time, for which Aziraphale opted for touching each one of the members of the garden, asking them to be good, to heal well, to take care of their marvellous little selves.
He wasn't caring. Neither Crowley or heaven would have approved of that world, which was sad because in his opinion all living things needed those kinds of attention, the one for which you do something good and you’re rewarded with someone else’s happiness. When he finished, he looked at the cactus knowingly.
“See, they die only if something happens to them.”
The cactus never attempted to contradict him again. Of course, he didn’t tell Crowley, and not because he would have been annoyed, but only because he would have blamed his lazy poor excuses for a device of photosynthesis to not be good enough to stay alive in his absence.
“You never told me, in the end. Why do you keep a garden in the centre of London?”
“I don’t know, why do you keep the library of Alexandria in the east end?”
“It’s not the library of Alexandria” he replied, with the voice of whom had told the same things over and over again. He wished it was. “It’s a small replica.”
“It starts in your basement and goes down to the tube. ‘Till bloody Baker Street.”
“I can see you’ve never been inside the actual library of Alexandria.”
Crowley sighed. “Whatever.”
Aziraphale waited for a second, tempted to ask when are you coming back? But it would sound like a different kind of fellowship, so he said “I mean it, though. Why the houseplants?”
If not for the breathing, Aziraphale would have thought to have lost the connection.
“Why do you care?”
“Because it’s the only part of the flat which seems…” he started, trying to choose his words “That you personally take care of.”
“The only part… what, have you been inspecting my flat?”
A moment. Then “No.”
“Wait.” Crowley took a deep breath “Are you there now?”
The Mona Lisa from the wall cryptically smiled at Aziraphale, almost like laughing at his embarrassment. “No.”
Crowley gasped. “Angel, lying is a sin.”
“Making deals with a demon is as well.”
Crowley immediately shut up. Aziraphale smiled back at the painting, sitting at Crowley’s desk that looked like it was out of an Ikea catalogue. “Well,” He amended, only because the silence started to creep through him and he had never been silent with Crowley “I’m not here most of the time, but I indulge myself in when I come.”
He could see Crowley raising his eyebrows under the sunglasses.
“You have my favourite cocoa.”
“I know.”
“And this place is… very you.” he added softly, thinking it tries to be cool but fails at it. “It’s nice to have your reflections around.”
Crowley's heart was now on Alpha Centauri, given that he was betraying him in such a pitiful way, beating so fast for the implication that the sentences didn’t have; or for that they could have, if they had been shaped into a proper form and not stayed as blurred inferred lines in Crowley’s head.
“Tell me you didn’t name my plants” Crowley was panicking, so of course he had to enter with a non-sequitur.
“Uhm?” Aziraphale brushed his fingers on the desk, “Why would I?”
“Because it’s you.” The explanation sounded reasonable in his mind, but it got lost in translation while passing from his brain to his lips. “I mean, you have… have your way to do things, because angel, you’re an angel, and…” he gestured, and a Chinese student that was busy leading a riot looked at him and decided not to judge. “You love stuff. It goes behind being good, which is a whole different thing, it’s not even a thing, because… well, that’s a different story.”
“Naming is an act of love.”
“Yes.” Crowley muttered “And no. It is in a human sense.”
Aziraphale didn’t go as far as asking for clarification. “So what do you call the fainting cactus nearby the kettle?”
“Dante.”*
Silence. Aziraphale smiled, turning in Crowley’s armchair, and taking his victory in a dignified manner.
“Shit.” Crowley muttered “Don’t tell it. Don’t you dare. It must not know it has a name.”
**
Aziraphale took delight in proving points.
In the past, he never had a chance to be actually invited in*, primarily as a consequence of Crowley being his hereditary enemy. Things could get messed up when you have sleepovers with your enemies.
Curiosity was a consequence of staying on earth for six thousand years. He’d noticed the sofa the first time he came in. Positioned in front of a big television, it had that thing that allowed humans to rest their feet and was large enough for a family. Aziraphale wondered, but he did not enquire.
In the study, Crowley didn’t have a sofa. He had a chair* instead, but a comfortable one and he surely had the space to fit another sofa, if not for the minimalistic wannabe look that the environment aspired to display. The only book in the room was a computer manual from the nineties, hence Aziraphale had brought in a copy of Dante’s Inferno to make it less aseptic.
Then wonder became an itch in the back of his neck. He would not think of it until he went back to the bookshop and eyed his own sofa. The one he got for clients, as you do when you run a bookshop or when you drink with an old serpent, from century to century; the kind of sofa that is comfortable enough, but that just starts to get at your back if you lie in it too much. And if you try to read in it, you’ll discover that the seating was actually made of stones and not designed to be comfortable at all in the long run. It was especially designed to look soft like a cloud, but stern like the pavement of the Bastille in 1793.
Still, Crowley lay on it for hours and slept on his stomach and with his sunglasses crooked but still on[*. The itch, as one could see it, was a distracting inconvenience.
Gracefully, he decided to solve the issue by exploring outside the garden.
It never occurred to him that Crowley’s bedroom could have been like the rest of the house.
He stared at it from the perspective of one lurking on the threshold of the door, although the more appropriate term for an angel would have been perching.
“I’ve seen your bed.” It had been a casual retort, like the one you give just after a ‘pass me the salt’ sentence at the dining table.
Crowley wasn’t sure on how to start to address that statement, so he managed to sputter “You what.”
“Why do you keep napping on my sofa when you have a queen size?” Aziraphale sipped from his cup, examining the colour of the bedsheet. He didn’t know what he had expected, of if he had only pictured black silk in his head to make fun out of Crowley. They weren’t silk, or black.
“You’ve seen what.” Crowley didn’t mind, really, except that the most important point suddenly came to him. “Wait. Do you want me to stop?”
“No.” Aziraphale blurted, faster than he’d imagined he’d be. “I’m not… no.”
Crowley rubbed a hand on his face, throat closed.
Aziraphale collected himself. He tightened his eyes, adding with calm. “I’m curious”
“That’s why you’re a bad angel”
Aziraphale gasped in outrage through the phone. “Do I look like Gabriel?”
“Angel,” Crowley said, very serious. “don’t be blasphemous.”
**
(“Are you still in my bedroom?”
“No” Aziraphale sat very still on Crowley’s bed.
“Liar liar you’re on fire.”
“Now.” Aziraphale sighed “First Gabriel, now the Bentley.”
“Don’t you dare.”)
**
Nothing was out of order when Crowley came back to London. He wanted to sleep and ought to see to Aziraphale. Well, not ought to. He wanted to. Unsurprisingly, he found him in the flat with a mug in his hands and a proud smile on his lips. It was the middle of the night, yet the room was filled with daylight and the temperature almost tropical.
Despite this, the plants shivered when Crowley entered the room. Aziraphale tried hard not to light up and maintained his demeanour as gracefully as any angel in his position. He didn’t move, just raised his eyes to him as Crowley meandered around him.
“I must admit.” He said, checking out one of his later plants “You were good at it. You might be a competent gardener.”
“I reckon I was the Angel of the Eastern gate for a reason.” Aziraphale straightened, proud. “I know a thing or two about gardens.”
Crowley walked around for a bit, caring only that his plants were still living in terror and were not been tricked by some angelic temptation. Maybe some of them believed themselves to be part of a proper garden, now. For real. Then, since he was there, he made an effort and looked closely to the plant nearest Aziraphale.
U r h o t t e r than flames in hell.
Firstly, hell didn’t have actual flames. Secondly, what the fuck. He didn’t know what to say. So, he didn’t say anything. “You weren’t lying”
“Why would I?”
“To piss me off. To oppose my…” he gestured in the air “… evil evilness.” He finished, committed.
Equally committed, Aziraphale lift a cactus, who had flourished when Crowley wasn’t there. On his petals, it was written:
fEl @ U
Crowley almost choked. It took him a while to process his thoughts into word. His tongue kept hissing without properly articulating anything. Aziraphale eyes talked more than his lips.
“Sssshite.” He managed, at the end “My plants are flirting with you.”
“They’re affectionate.”
“Flirting.” He hissed, taking the cactus and every hope it had to become a prettier flower for Aziraphale. “Now. I knew it. Angel, have you been caring?”
“Me?” he sounded insulted “Are we clarifying terms? Because angels are meticulous, not caring.”
Crowley pointed at it. “They’re not supposed to have flowers.”
The cactus displayed a minor stomach-ache. Crowley stared at it to let it know it was not allowed to feel sick, or to feel anything Crowley didn’t want it to feel, whether physical or emotional. As a result, its petals started to wither.
“That’s better.” Crowley’s face aimed for cruelty and rage but was betrayed by the amused light in his eyes. “Now, you will SUFFER as you NEVER suffered before.”
Shaking leaves tried to grasp the memory of the strange, unknown atmosphere Aziraphale had brought, resolving to shake even more. Crowley smirked, satisfied. Aziraphale gave him a side look, clearing his throat.
“Wait.” With a slow gesture, Aziraphale hands caught Crowley’s, making him hold still in his place. The action was so haphazard that Crowley, who believed in stern plants policies, was made a stone for the time necessary to Aziraphale to lower himself to the cactus and whisper. “Be sensible. You’re perfect as you are. You don’t need flowers.”
There was a tone in the way he said that. Crowley knew it, the tone, the gentle but firm, the 'I’ll let you know it’s for your own good, but actually, you’re doing my will'. Aziraphale was a true creation of God.
Immediately, the plant reacted. Tentative, as if not sure to be following the right orders, it got steadier on its pot and performed the best acting of a house cactus without trembling.
“Angel,” Crowley said after a moment, dead serious “have you been emotional manipulating my plants?”
Aziraphale cleared his throat, put his hands on his back and eyed him. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”
“Shite.” Crowley’s mouth worked faster than his poor, weary brain. “I love you.”[*
A long minute passed. Crowley started to puzzle his words into the form of sounds, then he reconducted that sound back to meaning.
Aziraphale stared at him, eyes wide and struck. There was a warmth in his chest, a suspicious glowing in the back of his eyes a restrained smile on his face.
“Oh fuck.” The cactus slipped out of his hands, porcelain splitting dreadfully on the floor and the body of the cactus tangled among them. “Was it too fast. It was.” Crowley muttered, trying to stabilise his heart beat and failing miserably “Fucking fast I did not want to--”
Aziraphale, who hadn’t caught up with the latest part of the conversation, realised slowly. “That’s why you’re sleeping on my sofa.”
Crowley blinked. “No, that’s because you don’t have a bed.”
**
Coda
Crowley entered the room and there was quickly a feeling to it. Something was wrong, something tasted like the feeling he got from Aziraphale’s bookshop. The houseplants sensed it too, that was why they were acting weirdly. Like they had been entitled to have feelings.
“You lied all along.”
“I’m not capable of…”
Crowley threw himself in the chair, which (rolled) a little bit at the impact. It was that kind of chair. Aziraphale looked at him, unfazed. “Oh, you are.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.
Crowley raised his arms in the air like he was trying to make a point. “You dumbass lied to God!”
“Crowley!” he admonished him “It was more like… stalling, a retelling.”
Crowley kept talking. “GOD HERSELF”.
The chair in which he was sitting accidentally – not at all miraculously – moved on his own volition, letting him fall, loudly.
Aziraphale cleared his throat “As I was saying…”
Crowley started to laugh and didn’t bother to stand up. Once you fall, you fall. He crawled to Aziraphale, then fucking held on to his leg. He smirked, sunglasses now all twisted to one side of the face. “Ah-ah”
“… so it was perfectly in line with my duties. Also, she was the first to drop the argument. Honestly, I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss about it.”
“It was just a flaming sword.”
“Exactly. Just a flaming sword!”
“Prometheus got in trouble for less than that.”
“He was from a different pantheon, created by human minds. Of course, he got an abysmal end.”
“’course, you just introduced war to earth.”
“I did not… I’m not capable of doing the wrong thing.”
“I said that.”
“You did.”
“But I’m a demon.” Crowley lifted himself on his knees, resting his head on Aziraphale’s lap, making his sunglasses even more twisted. Finally, he looked up to him, grinning like an idiot. “Do you trust a demon?”
“No.” Aziraphale’s fingers lingered in the space between them, like he was trying to constrain his own actions, and he was bad at it. “I trust you.”
“Oh” Crowley hid his face in the fabric of Aziraphale trousers, “Oh, I beg you. Think of my poor heart, you’ll give it a failure. I have just one”
“Of course, how many did you want?”
“At least two, a spare one could be of use.”
“Oh, for f---”
Crowley raised his head with anticipation, still flustered. Aziraphale bit his tongue and looked up.
“Are you going to stay like that?”
“Why? Am I a burden?” Crowley closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, “You are thinking about petting me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“Because I’m not a cat, I’m a…”
“Vile serpent, worth adversary and hard to thwart?” he said, and as he spoke, Crowley could say the lingering was over, fingers brushing softly on his face as he placed back the sunglasses, as they reach out to his hair and slowly stroke them.
“Right” Crowley muttered, “All of that…” but couldn’t help himself and ease to the touch, pressing his cheek on Aziraphale’s hand when it cupped his face. “And… ngh” he nagged on him, “more.”
“Greedy.”
“told you, ‘m a demon.”