Chapter Text
“What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?”
Crowley snorted lightly from his place beside Aziraphale, nudging his shoulder lightly. They were stood in a crowd full of people whose full attention was trained on a well-lit, ornately decorated stage set. Faux trees entwined up into the air to form the illusion of a wooded bower, where a slight woman with long hair and fairy wings was just beginning to wake from sleep. Below her resting place, a man with a lifelike donkey head was belting out a childish, less than on-key tune (if one could call it that). The audience gave a murmuring laugh, all eyes gleefully watching the scene unfold.
The atmosphere in the Globe Theatre was starkly different in the twenty first century; in the late seventeenth century, Crowley and Aziraphale had stood nearly alone during their viewing of Hamlet, the stands completely bare, and the production had seemed like more of a rehearsal than anything else. Crowley proudly remembered giving Shakespeare an idea for a line, in fact.
Today, in the early 2000s and in the wake of Crowley’s work getting the play some recognition all those years ago, the place was packed, sold out to the very back row seats. He and Aziraphale were standing shoulder to shoulder, blending in toward the back of the crowd. It was extremely good to be in the angel's company still, after all this time, closer than ever, and Crowley often revelled in that reality nowadays. Here they were together, heaven and hell's original enemies, reminiscing about Shakespeare and enjoying a show together. Hamlet was not the production of choice in this particular century, however.
Aziraphale smiled, pleased by the demon’s reaction. “See,” he murmured. “I knew you’d like it. It’s one of the comedies.”
“Yes,” Crowley mused, though the line that had caused his amusement had evidently flown over the Aziraphale’s head. He briefly considered asking the angel to slap him if he ever woke up and said something so disgustingly poetic as the fairy queen had in her love-fueled drunkenness, but decided to keep his humor to himself.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream was, unbeknownst to Aziraphale, one of the demon’s favorites; he’d never willingly disclose that he’d read (let alone enjoyed) something Aziraphale was passionate about, in case the angel got those sappy eyes of his and Crowley had to think of something to restore his own bad reputation again. He’d just never had the pleasure of seeing this one in person, and it really was a pleasure.
He loved the mischievous nature of the fairies, the utter chaos that ensued from simple, playful tricks, as they were witnessing now. It was something Crowley was good at, something much more satisfying than any truly evil duties he was tasked from his head office below. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t gotten a few ideas and tried to pull similar pranks on humans for a little bit of off-the-clock fun (convincing them it was all a dream afterward and wiping their mind from a more complete recollection, of course). But there were some tricks even a demon couldn’t perform, and making people fall in love was definitely on that list. Lying was not, however.
They watched for a few more minutes as Titania, starry-eyed and unaware, fawned over a man with the donkey head before Crowley leaned down toward the angel’s ear again, trying to keep hold of an impish smile. “You know, it’d be a lot more fun if it wasn’t just the play. If, say, someone worked a little bit of… mm, magic… and the flower really had that effect.” Aziraphale glanced at him sharply. “…In real life.”
“You didn’t!” Aziraphale admonished, aghast. Crowley shrugged, returning his attention to the stage, where Nick Bottom was braying loudly to the audience at Titania’s request to sing again. Aziraphale turned his full attention to his companion, scrutinizing the demon with real disdain. “How could you? After I invited you here for a nice, quiet evening out, for old time’s sake— my treat— and we haven’t been in so long, and you have to go and—”
“Oh relax, angel,” Crowley muttered back with a scowl. “I’m a demon. I can’t make anyone fall in love, that would be ridiculous. Completely against the job description. And not within my power, anyway.”
“Did you do anything?” Aziraphale demanded, and Crowley shook his head. “Oh… oh.” Aziraphale shook his head slightly, steadying himself. “Right. It was just… a joke, then. Yes. You fooled me.”
The demon huffed and rolled his eyes, the jest having fallen flat. “How come you’re so worried, anyway? As if you could do it either. It’d hardly be in accordance with the ‘ineffable plan’, would it, messing about with love?”
Aziraphale made several attempts at starting a sentence, with no success. He busied his hands at his coat pockets, keeping his eyes on the stage.
Crowley regarded him with a raised eyebrow for a few seconds before it set in. “...No. No, you’re not telling me—”
“I’m not telling you anything,” the angel spat with a sidelong glance and more anxious fiddling. “But, should the occasion arise— the Almighty does have her ways, and we are to carry out her bidding…”
“What!” Crowley hissed a little louder than he’d intended, and Aziraphale shushed him.
“Don’t make a fuss, Crowley.”
His mouth fell open in disbelief. He knew heaven didn’t really have its priorities straight, considering their stance on "moral arguments" and other issues he’d listened to Aziraphale speak on, but this still seemed like it was stooping fairly low.
“Well that's...” he said more quietly. Trying to imagine the angel lurking around the corner from a troubled couple and miracling their relationship problems away was difficult at best. “Well, have you ever?… Ever... you know.”
“No, no.” Aziraphale looked around guiltily as though someone was going to overhear. “And if you must know, I can’t do it myself. I have a… device.”
Crowley thought for a moment. “A flower?”
Aziraphale paused, his panicked eyes giving him away. “No.”
“Mm,” Crowley grunted back noncommittally. “How’d you get the flower?”
Aziraphale looked as though he were about to protest, but the demon just gave him a stern, knowing look. “Oh…” the angel sighed, then broke. “I was given it. For business purposes. And you have no way of knowing it’s a flower.” He drew himself up a little taller, his chest puffing out, attempting to save his dignity from Crowley’s skepticism. “I gave Shakespeare the idea, you know, in a dream. And it is part of god’s plan, who falls in love with who. Sometimes humans just need a little bit of a…” he scuffed his feet a bit. “Push.”
“Awfully nonconsensual to be something that came from your lot,” Crowley criticized. “Seems like it would do more harm than good, in some instances.”
Aziraphale said nothing, but examined the demon anxiously from the sides of his vision. It took Crowley a moment to catch up, and when he did, his eyes went wide behind his shades.
“Say, angel, what if—”
“No. Absolutely out of the question.” Aziraphale’s gaze was fixed determinedly ahead as the actors exited the stage in preparation for the next scene. Amused, and interest peaked, Crowley pressed on.
“Come on, you don’t know what I’m going to say! It would be fun for me. Give me something to do. And something to write the office about. You know how they’re always expecting bigger and better things from you every time you write a memo. I could just borrow it for a spell—”
“Well, you have no idea where it is. Its location is secret, and you can be sure that I won’t be the one to tell you.”
“It’s in the bookshop somewhere, isn’t it?” Crowley guessed.
Aziraphale blanched. “Of-of course not, why would I keep it somewhere so public, i-its location is secret—”
“So it is in the bookshop. What would help me out here, angel? We could go get crepes again, we haven’t done that in a long time. I still owe you. Or, I have a few bottles of that bordeaux you liked so much at my flat. I was going to crack it open for a special occasion, but you could—”
“I said absolutely not!” Aziraphale stamped his foot softly on the ground, careful not to make enough noise to disturb Oberon and Puck’s discussion in the next scene. “And I don’t want to hear another word about it. These things are not to be taken lightly, and I should not— you should be—you should be—” Crowley couldn’t help but let the corners of his mouth turn up against his will, just a little bit, at the angel’s red face. He tried not to let on, but he loved flustering the angel this way. “You should be ashamed at even suggesting it!”
Someone cleared their throat behind and a little to the left of them, and Aziraphale gave the demon one last disparaging look before they fell silent, the topic dropped. For now.
*
“You’ve been in quite a lot recently, haven’t you?”
Crowley spun around, hand still incriminatingly outstretched toward a book on the third shelf. This was the third time this week that he’d visited A.Z. Fell’s bookshop during its operating hours unprovoked, and the angel had caught him only minutes in every single time. He jerked his arm back at the angel’s accusatory stare.
“Aziraphale! Hi, fancy seeing you here. I was just, ah, dropping by for a bit of…” Crowley gestured aimlessly at the shelves, knowing he’d already lost.
Aziraphale gave an exaggerated sigh and stepped forward to reach a gentle but pressing hand around the demon’s back, coaxing him back toward the front door. “Crowley. You and I both know you don’t read much.” Crowley found himself at odds to do anything but let himself be steered away from his snooping through Aziraphale’s books. “You’ve been in here every day since Midsummer. I have to ask you to leave if that’s all you’re here for.” Crowley could have imagined it, but the angel’s tone seemed slightly hurt under his pointed request.
“Even if I brought you something?” Crowley pointed toward the windowsill a few feet away from them, where a box had materialized with a full six of the promised bottles of wine that Crowley had mentioned at the play. Aziraphale didn’t consider them for more than a breath.
“That’s certainly… very…kind of you, but I know what you’re up to! Back, ye— you heathen! Out!”
And Crowley was ushered outside for the third time this week, flowerless and also increasingly in danger of becoming friendless. As the door clattered shut behind him, he realized he was now wineless, too.
It was obvious to Crowley that there was no way he was going to get Aziraphale to give up the flower. He’d only brought it up in conversation once since Midsummer, and the Aziraphale was so upset by it that he almost got up and left their lunch, only sitting down when Crowley suggested that they could go back to eating their crepes and he wouldn’t ask about it again.
Despite this promise, the demon had a sick desire to keep pursuing it, more out of spite and commitment to his job title than anything else. He’d gotten Aziraphale to cave on plenty of issues in the past, and, in turn, he’d grown a soft spot for the angel’s requests, too—so it was frustrating him to no end that this was the hill Aziraphale had chosen to metaphorically die on.
Crowley didn’t even intend on using the flower if it ever did come into his hands; he figured that was probably crossing a bit too large of a boundary for their friendship, and he didn’t want to cause the angel (or any unwitting humans) any real distress, contrary to his nature. Only a bit of mischief, as it were. Just be able to say he had found it, and possibly give Aziraphale a heart attack that might spice up his sluggish bookshop life for a few years. What else were hereditary enemies for? And, if the angel did cave and let Crowley have a bit of fun with it, then no harm, no foul.
If only he got a chance to look for the blasted thing.
But it seemed like Aziraphale was on high alert for the next few weeks, always hyperaware of Crowley turning up unexpectedly at the bookshop when they didn’t have an arrangement, always escorting him out and claiming the bookshop was too busy today (it wasn’t, because Aziraphale always made sure it wasn’t), or that he’d see him for dinner later, or that they should talk outside. It was impossible.
On top of that, Aziraphale hardly slept—it was Crowley who indulged more in that human pastime, and he regretted a bit that he hadn’t been able to convince the angel that sleep was good for the soul in the past few centuries. The angel stayed up for days studying books and reading by lamplight in the early mornings, and Crowley subsequently spent days watching him do just that from outside one of the shop windows, waiting for an opening.
But he knew Aziraphale would sleep occasionally, or be called to business—he had to, at some point, and whatever instructions Crowley should be attending to on hell’s orders could certainly wait.
*
The time came on a Thursday evening, when Crowley had painstakingly stayed away from the bookshop and out of Aziraphale’s sight for a fortnight, hoping to soothe the angel’s worries and give off the air that he’d given up the chase.
He’d kept awake for the entire time as well, waiting diligently for an opportunity to slip in unnoticed. The demon hadn’t realized how much the unnecessary act of sleeping almost every night had formed into a habit; he was exhausted like he hadn’t been in centuries, and his eyes were drooping like a human’s would’ve after too many hours stretched past bedtime.
Aziraphale, thank Satan, seemed to be faring no better: Crowley observed like a hawk as the angel stretched and yawned theatrically, taking his reading spectacles off and setting them aside on his desk. Crowley looked away out of courtesy as Aziraphale stripped himself of his jacket and headed toward the back room, where he would assumedly ascend upstairs to nestle in his private room and rest for a few hours.
This was Crowley’s chance, the time was now, and by heaven if he wasn’t going to take it.
The demon knew Aziraphale wasn’t one to set traps or purposely cause anyone misfortune, but he did know the angel’s goodwill tended to fly out the window when his shop was threatened, and he kept an ever watchful eye for predatory book-stealers (or customers, as it were). Crowley approached the door with caution, just in case. With a wave of his hand, the door swung open, rattling on its hinges, and he made sure to close it behind him ever so gently.
The cluttered space, musty and dimly lit by the streetlamp outside, thrummed strangely with energy even when unoccupied. Crowley had never had the occasion to turn up here without Aziraphale’s company, and it had the foreboding air of being in an empty church after hours—not that Crowley knew what that felt like. But this was Aziraphale’s consecrated ground, his holy temple, and Crowley half expected himself to start burning up at any second for daring to tread on it without the angel’s permission.
Shuddering, the demon swallowed his doubts and turned his mind to more important matters. “Now, to search,” he murmured to himself, and began at the first bookcase.
Crowley admittedly knew absolutely nothing of how one was supposed to organize books, but he did quickly find that most of them were indistinguishable from each other anyway. Especially when they were mostly all ancient first editions with titles he hadn’t heard of, authors he didn’t recognize, some pristine, others barely holding to their bindings, volumes upon tattered brown volumes that had been decaying for decades.
He’d never thought to explore Aziraphale’s collection, simply because he didn’t think he’d ever be allowed; now, he was beginning to regret not at least having a go one of these years. His plan might be fruitless, and then what would he do? “Probably give up, at that point,” he said to himself.
For a chance of being close to his goal at all, he at least needed to find Shakespeare’s works, and that was proving to be a more harrowing task than anything he’d been assigned from hell. If he knew Aziraphale, the flower would be placed around there—maybe in an adjacent shelf, maybe in plain sight, maybe even in a secret compartment behind the books.
The trick was to get to it before the angel woke up again.
The more time drew on and the longer Crowley searched through endless prophecy books and other literature completely unrelated to Shakespeare, the more paranoid he became about this being a bad idea. Sure, this was only Aziraphale, the angel he’d been fraternizing with for the last six millennia without incident. But if hell knew he had broken into an angel’s sacred space to steal something, they would have all expected him to perish, most likely.
Fancy him, a demon, getting so close to an angel’s prized possessions without having the fear of god put into him. He chuckled to himself nervously, giving the gigantic section of various Bibles a wide berth as he continued on.
Hours went by and the light outside was getting brighter by the time Crowley discovered his first Shakespearean compilation of plays, and he would have let out a triumphant “ah-ha!” if he hadn’t feared Aziraphale waking up at any moment to find him. He probed about in the section, lifting up a few books here and there, desperate to find something that might be even vaguely flower-shaped resting behind them or beside them or anywhere, really. It had to be here.
Finally, after a few minutes of hurried investigation, he found a rather small, thin copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which he took and rifled through with interest, finding nothing promising. His hope deflating, he placed it back on the shelf—right next to a too-thick, hardback thumper with the exact same title.
Crowley regarded it with astonishment, eyes flitting between both copies, putting two and two together. Midsummer wasn’t a novel. It was a play. It shouldn’t be in a giant leather bound book like this…
He snatched it from its position on the shelf, feeling its insides give a rattle as it was disturbed, and yes, this was it. He could feel it. Fingers shaking in excitement, he opened the front cover.
Inside, the pages had been cut out in a large rectangle, making the bulk of the book a hollow compartment to store whatever one wished. And in the center of the pages lay an ornately carved little wooden box (probably acacia wood. Heaven loved that stuff) with a small, folded note on top.
Crowley lifted it out of the book reverently, pinching the tiny scrap of paper and unfolding it with curiosity.
Good friend for Jesus sake forbeare,
To use the flow’r enclosed here.
Blessed be the man that spares this juice,
And cursed be he that plots abuse.
“Spares this juice?” Crowley repeated incredulously, forehead creasing into a frown. What the heaven was that supposed to mean? Didn’t seem that poetic, heaven using the word “juice” in who knew which time period. A very inelegant choice of words for heaven, really. He did suppose Shakespeare used it in the play, though.
Just then, he heard a stir in the general area of upstairs, and even if it wasn’t Aziraphale, Crowley was not going to gamble with the possibility of being caught red-handed by an irate, book-crazed angel.
He slammed the book shut, carefully nestled it back into place next to the real Midsummer, and slipped the box under his coat. In a flash, he was out of the shop, locking the door behind him with a snap of his fingers. He started the Bentley without preamble, squealing out of the vicinity before he could even think about blowing his cover.
Once safely off Aziraphale’s street and on the road toward his flat, Crowley let a devilish grin twist his features.
He’d done it. Over a month in the making, and he could finally tell Aziraphale he’d beaten him at his own game.
Of course, he fully expected to be banished from the bookshop for a decade or so after this—there was no way Aziraphale would let this go, even after Crowley inevitably gave the thing back unused. But for now, he let himself bask in the knowledge of his triumph like a snake sunbathing on a particularly comfortable rock.
He’d won.
*
No matter what Crowley was thinking right now, he had most certainly not won.
Back in the upper room of his shop, Aziraphale watched from the window with satisfaction as the Bentley sputtered to life and shot away from the street, leaving a few tire treads in its wake.
He smiled knowingly, having just listened to Crowley rifling carefully through his bookshop for the last few hours, muttering audibly to himself and cursing at frequent intervals.
It had been exquisitely painful to know that someone was down there without his supervision, touching anything of his precious collections, without being able to shoo them away. But this was Crowley, and as uncomfortable as he was staying still all night while his friend rooted through his things, Aziraphale knew the demon would treat them carefully.
He was a nice demon, after all, even if that fact were never to be acknowledged aloud.
Aziraphale closed the book he’d been reading and slipped downstairs, hoping against hope that Crowley had indeed treated his books with the same care that Aziraphale would expect from a friend of six thousand years. The demon’s smell definitely lingered around the shop; he must have made quite some ground before Aziraphale had decided that enough was enough and purposely stepped on a creaky bit of the floorboards above. Crowley had taken off like a rocket—guilty as charged—and it was time to see if he’d gotten what he came for.
The angel drifted over to the Shakespearean section to inspect any damage the demon might have caused, a bit surprised that nothing seemed too disturbed. Crowley may have checked through this area, but if he had moved any books in his search, he’d returned them to their original spots. The rather bulky copy of Midsummer that served as the flower’s hiding place was not missing, as Aziraphale had assumed it would be. It sat on its own shelf, as innocuous as ever.
He contemplated, frowning. Perhaps Crowley was not as bright as he’d thought he’d be in deducing the flower’s location. Aziraphale had thought he’d been fairly obvious about stationing himself near this very section the last few weeks, making it apparent during the demon’s visits that he was attempting to guard it from prying hands— but perhaps his friend hadn’t taken note.
To be frank, when he’d realized Crowley was hell-bent on finding the flower no matter what Aziraphale had to say about it (especially when he caught sight of the demon perched outside and eyeing him from the window, no doubt waiting for an opportunity to strike. The nerve!), he’d gotten an idea.
Instead of being put out that his friend wasn’t respecting his wishes—which, he definitely was, a little—the angel decided to let him have it. To stop thwarting his attempts.
He knew full well that the note included with the box was a cautionary message for anyone who wanted to use it for the wrong reasons and, well, he could only assume that it might backfire if anyone of… other intent attempted to wield it. Crowley would certainly fall under that category, being a demon who had picked up a heaven-made object.
And who was an angel to stop nature from taking its course?
What the flower would do in retaliation for being used, Aziraphale wasn’t sure. Probably nothing that could damage Crowley in the long run, considering the warning was meant to be read by humans who might stumble upon the flower by mistake. If he had to place bets, he’d say the flower would probably divert its effect to the unworthy user.
If Crowley went daffy over the first living thing he saw and doted upon them for a few days and Aziraphale just happened to find him that way and fix it…
Well.
Then Crowley would get what he deserved, and he’d think twice before challenging Aziraphale on something so important again, and he’d especially think twice about touching the bookshop.
But, in any case, it didn’t seem like the demon had actually found the forbidden object. Aziraphale had a moment to take a relieved breath, feeling fortunate to not have to be meddling about and performing unnecessary miracles and wiping a human’s memory if need be.
His telephone rang.
*
Crowley leaned on his desk, his vintage landline in his lap, the receiver pressed between his shoulder and his ear as he waited for his angel to answer. In one hand, he twirled the cord around his fingers, winding it between them again and again; in the other, he held the little Midsummer box, still unopened and unassuming. He fiddled incessantly as the phone rang.
He could have waited a while, maybe let Aziraphale think that nothing at all had transpired in his bookshop (though he was fairly certain he had to’ve heard the Bentley starting up in the deserted Soho street at not even six o’clock in the morning). But he could worry about that later. As soon as he’d arrived back at his flat, he didn’t think he could contain the knowledge inside for much longer.
“Hello?” Aziraphale’s voice, even through the telephone, never failed to make Crowley smile. This was no exception.
“Angel!” He paused. How should he start this? Now that he was here, about to give away the secret in all his smug glory, it was almost too good. Like waiting at the top of a rollercoaster, in that final moment before you take the plunge, when you’re not sure you want to be on the ride any more but you’ve already committed.
Aziraphale might be extraordinarily cross with him about this, and Crowley didn’t really want to be alone for the next few years… but there wasn’t any turning back now.
“Good morning, Crowley,” the angel greeted politely.
Crowley still couldn’t think of something to say. He toyed with the box, finger tracing the lid, considering taking a peek at what lay inside.
Aziraphale stammered to fill the silence. “It—it’s a bit early for you, isn’t it, my dear? This hour of the morning. Whatever are you doing awake?”
At the “dear”, Crowley’s eyebrows shot up, and his finger slipped inside the box, cracking it open. For a brief second, he spied a delicate, half-bloomed flower on a thin stem, innocent white petals fading into yellowed ends that opened tantalizingly to reveal a round purplish pod in their center.
He raised his sunglasses to see it better, and watched it unfurling in utter fascination. Then he took a breath, ready to get on with it. He could study the flower later.
“Angel. You’ll never guess what I’ve been—”
It all happened rather fast, then. Before Crowley could finish his sentence, the pod burst a short stream of clear liquid, jetting him straight in the eyes.
He dropped the box and the landline, letting both clatter to the floor, and stumbled backward, his shoulders hitting the wall in his haste.
“Shit,” he hissed, but it was too late; whatever was inside the flower was already burning his eyes, taking its effect. Almost immediately, his legs felt like jelly, like they were trying to convince him to become a snake again. He slid to the floor, feeling the heaviness of sleep already beginning to overtake him.
Satan damn him, he didn’t think. That could have been any matter of defensive poison, and if this discorporated him…
“Fuck,” he said, and blacked out.