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It seemed to Crowley that he was almost in sync with the humans, after being among them all these centuries. It was sometime during the Roman Empire that he realized this – he had been growing bored of wearing togas everywhere, especially when they were only solid colors. He could not accessorize with his pastel pinks very well with one sheet of cloth. Then someone went off to visit the Chinese and finally found out about pants, everyone forgot about togas, and Crowley finally got his accessories.
Sometimes he feels ahead of them – he is almost certain if it were not for the yellow tinted glasses he wears around, humans would never have invented any kind of tinted glasses, much less glasses themselves. He also liked to talk to plants, offering encouragement to new saplings trying to place their roots and telling the flowers in the middle of a drought that they did not need any water to look beautiful. He got flack from Azirafell for it, whenever they were meeting somewhere outside and he took a few seconds to encourage the greenery nearby, but Crowley did not mind. Plants were his forte.
So, when Crowley had thought about finding a place to settle towards the end of the 1700s, owning your own business started to boom around London, and, taking the best of it, he bought a storefront to sell flowers. It took him a few months to organize everything, from converting the building so it could house the flowers to trying to figure out how he was even supposed to run a store, but now, it is almost ready to go.
He stands on the sidewalk across the street from the shop and admires the sign currently being painted – Eden Flourists in a bright, friendly purple against the stark white of the storefront. He was not particularly creative in the naming department. Azirafell will taunt him about that dreaded middle name for eternity.
“It looks great,” he calls up to the painter after crossing the street, pulling a set of keys out of his khaki pants to unlock the door. There were still flowers to shelf, and seeds to stock, and boxes to empty – not to mention people were coming over this afternoon for the grand opening.
While he is in the middle of unpacking a box of vases to sell, the bell above the door jingles, signaling someone’s entrance.
“We aren’t open yet,” Crowley calls with a frown to whoever is behind him. “That’s why the sign on the door says closed. Or can you not read?”
“Raphael,” a familiar voice rings out, already sounding impatient.
Crowley freezes for a second before setting the curved glass vase in his hand down with a sigh. “I told you not to call me that anymore,” he responds, lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s Crowley.” He turns to face the other angel and finds two of them inside the shop with him.
“Your God-given name is Raphael,” Gabriel answers, spreading his hands open in front of him. “Why wouldn’t you want to use the name the Almighty bestowed upon you?”
“Look, if you’re here about the Rosetta Stone,” Crowley starts, ignoring the question, “It wasn’t me–”
“We don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gabriel cuts off. “We bring good news.”
“Most of the time it’s not actually good news,” Crowley mutters under his breath, leaning against the table next to him and crossing his arms. “What is it, then?”
“We’re bringing you home!” Gabriel exclaims, a smile splitting his face.
“Promoted back upstairs,” Sandalphon adds, so Crowley knows why.
“Well you’ve picked the worst time possible for that,” Crowley sighs, moving back to his box of vases. “I’ve been working on this flower shop for a while now, and it’s finally opening at the end of the week –”
“It’s an excellent idea,” Gabriel interrupts again. “Your replacement can use this as a base of operations.”
Crowley turns to stare at him incredulously. “You mean have someone else profit off of the hard work I put into starting the shop? No thank you.”
“You’re being promoted,” Gabriel repeats, confused. “You get to come home.”
“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to spend five minutes longer in this world than they had to,” Sandalphon speaks up, pursing his lips as he runs a finger along the soft petals of a nearby rose.
“Seriously, an Archangel staying here on earth for almost 6000 years is unthinkable,” Gabriel agrees, his smile springing back onto his face. “Such devotion to duty should be applauded.” He pulls a box out of his pocket and presents it to Crowley. Looking through the glass top, Crowley finds a shiny medal residing. “It certainly hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
“I don’t want your bloody medal,” Crowley quips, turning to face the angels once more. “Don’t you see? I don’t want to be promoted. I don’t want to go anywhere.” Something catches his eye outside of the open door, and he has to take a second to compose himself, trying not to draw attention to Azirafell. The demon appeared suddenly in the doorway in his usual dark attire accented with whites and blues, holding a package wrapped with a bow, and he gives Crowley a wave when their eyes meet. “I don’t think anyone else can properly thwart the demon Azirafell, that is,” he says slowly, quickly trying to keep them distracted while trying to get rid of Azirafell.
Azirafell frowns after hearing this, holding the box up and mouthing, “Chocolates.”
“I have no doubt that whoever replaces you will be as good of an enemy to him as you are,” Gabriel reassures, forgetting about Crowley’s insistence on not leaving. “Michael, perhaps?”
Azirafell looks at Crowley, shocked, trying to figure out if they really mean that. “Michael’s a wanker,” he mouths.
“Azirafell’s been down here as long as I have,” Crowley starts again, playing with words to try and convince the other angels. “He’s cunning, and devious, and ever so smart–”
“It sounds like you like him,” Gabriel cuts in with a raised eyebrow.
“I loathe him,” Crowley answers immediately in a monotone voice, staring directly into Azirafell's eyes, though he is not sure which pupil to pick. Azirafell rolls his and shakes his head as Crowley makes an excuse. “I just have to give my respect to a worthy opponent.” His realizes he made a mistake and backtracks, hurrying to correct, “Not that he deserves any respect, he is a demon after all. Certainly not someone I could respect. Or love.”
“...I’m pretty sure I said like.”
“Did you?” Crowley laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. Azirafell rolls his eyes and turns around, walking away. “I think you must be mistaken then.”
“Well, either way, you will certainly be an asset to head office.” Gabriel continues, pulling the medal out and putting it over Crowley’s head.
“I have a plant shop to deal with!” Crowley desperately tries one more time. “I can’t just leave now!”
“We aren’t leaving now,” Gabriel assures him. “I need to go see my tailor first.” He and Sandalphon leave with smiles to go to the tailor, leaving Crowley to stare at his plants dejectedly as he tries to figure out how to convince them to let him stay.
~~~
Azirafell was already one step ahead of Crowley. He spent his walk to the tailor devising a plan because he would be damned again if he was going to let the angels take Crowley from him.
He inspects the building quickly, finding the changing quarters right next to the shop’s backroom.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters to himself before deliberately ripping his sleeve. Usually, a normal break-in would be fine, but he does not want anyone suspicious of him and then ruin the plan. He fakes an innocent and distressed expression before bursting into the store and marching right up to the register.
“Can I help you?” The man attending the desk asks.
“Oh, I sure hope so,” Azirafell starts, tears threatening to spill from his eyes as he makes his acting overdramatic. “I’m afraid I’ve gone and ripped my only good jacket, and I’m supposed to be at a luncheon this afternoon. My partner will be utterly distressed if I show up like this, and I don’t have the time to wait. Please, kind sir, can I use your backroom and a spare needle and thread to repair this mess myself?”
The man tsks before relenting, “Oh, alright. It’s right through there.” He points to a partially opened door.
“Oh, oh thank you,” Azirafell gushes, fishing twopence out of his jacket and giving it to the man for his troubles, making sure it will return to his coat pocket as soon as the man sets it out of sight. As soon as he enters the back room and closes the door behind him, he drops the facade and purses his lips to survey the area. First, he hovers his hand over his arm, moving it along the tear in his sleeve so the thread stitches itself back together, becoming whole once more. He throws the back door open and hastily shoves a dummy out into the alley, bits of fabric falling out with it. His skin starts to prickle in warning, meaning the two angels are close. Tugging an unfinished black cloak off of the wall, he hastily follows after the dummy, setting it upright under the window.
Azirafell remembers back to 1601 AD at the Globe Theatre, when Crowley made Much Ado About Nothing popular for him, even if the angel preferred the gloomy ones. He loved going to the shows with Crowley and critiquing the acting. Now, he channels his years watching theatre to perform the best one-person performance yet.
After waiting a few minutes to know the angels are in place, Azirafell clears his throat before loudly proclaiming, “Are you certain we are unobserved, oh monstrous creature from the greatest depths of Hell?” If that did not get Gabriel’s attention, nothing would.
In a different voice, creepy and demonic sounding, he replies to himself, “No one is listening, great demon Azirafell.”
He frowns and says in his normal voice, “I have to report that someone keeps thwarting my brilliantly evil plans. I can’t seem to do anything in the city. It is as if Heaven has sent a great champion; a worthy opponent who is too strong for me to overcome.”
“Do not worry, Mr. Azirafell,” he answers in the monster voice. “We received news today that shall make you rejoice, as it did all the powers of Hell. Your nemesis, the angel Crowley, is to return to Heaven.”
Azirafell gets a little too excited with his acting. “Oh, I was going to swallow Holy Water in my despair, but surely if this is true, it is worth rejoicing indeed. No other angel knows my ways well enough to–”
“Thwart you?”
Azirafell nods at himself. “Exactly. Let us celebrate with drinks; celebrate the success of evil on earth in the wake of Heaven's foolishness.”
Having reached the end of his performance, Azirafell quickly shoves the dummy back into the shop; hurrying away from the angels before they can do anything to him.
~~~
“So I’m… not leaving?” Crowley asks to be sure. He had prepared this whole speech for when the angels came back, so he was still trying to wrap his head around how they suddenly changed their minds.
“Change of plans,” Gabriel answers with a worried smile. “We need you here. On earth. Battling evil.”
“Carry on battling,” Sandalphon tells him, giving him a friendly but harder than standard punch on his shoulder.
“Keep the medal,” Gabriel adds.
Rubbing the spot Sandalphon hit him, he starts, “I don't understand–” but the angels have already disappeared.
He stands there confused for a few seconds, rubbing his arm, before blinking the confusion away and turning back to trimming flower stems, grateful for whatever miracle caused this.
“Crowley, darling,” Azirafell greets as he finally walks into the plant shop now that the angels finally left.
“Azirafell,” Crowley smiles in return, setting his flowers down. “Good news! The angels changed their minds suddenly; I’m not leaving.”
"Oh darling, I know," he answers with a wink and a devilish grin, setting his box of chocolates down on the counter. He tugs the corner of the ribbon to open it.
“You mean this was your demonic work?” Crowley inquires, but there’s no bite to it. In fact, one might say he is actually happy about it.
“The one and only. It was an incredible performance, much better than that idiot who played Macbeth in 1606. You should have seen it.” He pops a chocolate into his mouth, leaving the box open on the counter.
“You fiend,” Crowley teases, watching Azirafell indulge on the chocolates. “Certainly too cunning of a demon to be thwarted by anyone else.”
“I ripped my jacket though,” he sulks, offering his arm to Crowley. “Right here.” He traces the invisible line where the tear was.
Crowley purses his lips. The jacket looks perfectly fine to him. “Well, you did that to yourself. Nothing I can do about it.”
Azirafell can do something about it, however, which means he slightly sticks his lower lip out and raises his eyebrows a hair; pouting.
“Oh alright,” Crowley gives in quickly. “We’ll go look for a new jacket later today then, after the grand opening lunch.”
Azirafell gives a self satisfactory grin before taking another chocolate. “Are you gonna eat any of these?”
“I might give it a taste,” Crowley answers playfully before pressing a small chaste kiss on Azirafell’s lips. “Mmm, delicious,” he admires after pulling away, licking his lips.
“Eden, really?” Azirafell inquires with a raised eyebrow, not even phased by Crowley’s kiss.
“Oh, leave me alone. I was put on the spot for naming, I didn’t know what else to do. You know how I am.”
“Sure do, Anthony Janthony,” he teases.
“Fiend,” Crowley throws back with a sigh. “You’re never going to let me live that one down, are you?”
“Never,” he answers, chuckling.