Chapter Text
"You continue to disappoint me time and time again, and I have had enough," he hissed, the words cold and brutal. Serpentine eyes glowed yellow in the dark, sharp and hateful as the demon glowered down at his victim. "I've done what I can for you and you've proven you are nothing but a pest to be exterminated."
Crowley lifted up the trowel in his hand and inched it threateningly close to the spinach plant that trembled helplessly beneath him. His other hand closed around it, tilting it slightly so he could position the point of the trowel right at the soil, and then...
"My dear, please stop traumatising your plants."
Aziraphale, whom Crowley had specifically made sure was asleep before sneaking out to his garden to do just what the angel was accusing him of, shuffled ever closer, pristine white slippers staying just as pristine despite the soil that should have stained them.
Crowley froze, caught red-handed, and slowly lifted his head to look at Aziraphale over his shoulder. Even the plant in his hand seemed to lean to the side so it could see Aziraphale, or it simply gravitated to the angel who simply radiated love. One of his hands ran along Crowley's shoulder as he walked around his side, and the other ran down his arm, down his hand, and gently pried his fingers from around the plant. His fingers ran along the spinach plant gently and the plant all but leaned into his touch like a cat. If plants could purr, no doubt this one would.
"You're doing so good, little one," the angel cooed, smiling down. "Don't mind this old serpent. You keep growing big like you are; I'm so proud of you." Crowley hissed at the positive reinforcement the angel gave his plants - was he just trying to undermine Crowley's authority over his garden? - and he glared at him.
"Don't praise it!" He said. "It deserves to feel shame for its failure!"
"It is trying its hardest, my dear boy," Aziraphale tutted. "I knew there was something on your mind when we went to bed."
Crowley's cheeks flushed as he was called out. Aziraphale's hands coaxed him back onto his feet and back towards their little cottage, leaving the spinach plant to stand tall, motivated with positivity. His garden just reeked of love now.
"You said you needed spinach for dinner tomorrow; I was making sure we were getting the best damned spinach," he defended. He set the trowel aside on the closest flat surface he passed, and then he slid into one of the tall stools at their breakfast bar in the kitchen. Aziraphale pottered around the little bar and towards the kettle, filling it with water and then setting it on the stove to boil. He pulled down two mugs, set a teabag in each one and some sugar in each, then drummed his fingers along the countertop as he watched the kettle.
"And we can do that without yelling death threats at the plants," said the angel. Crowley tipped his head side to side with a scowl fixed on his lips. The angel continued. "Do you remember what I said about how you talk to your plants?" He asked. Crowley narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale.
"Yes. And it's stupid."
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. The first time the angel had caught him yelling at his plants and then uprooting one, hissing about how he was going to make it pay for its failures, he had come up with this theory that Crowley 'projected' onto his plants. He took out his frustrations about himself and his fears and trauma out on the plants that he could be fully in control of, and Crowley vehemently denied that theory.
However, whenever he tended to his garden quietly or with a little bit of care (he had yet to praise his plants, but the lack of terrorising them counted) Aziraphale utterly spoiled him; whether it be indulging him in going somewhere he wanted to go, reading to him at night, surprising him with a new heat lamp and a lovely nesting area in the corner of the bedroom when he felt the need to coil beneath it as a snake, or with physical affection. And it would be a horrendous lie if Crowley said he did not love it.
Aziraphale poured out their tea and then handed one mug over once it was complete, and Crowley took it with a muttered thanks. He crossed one leg over the other and cupped his hands around the mug of tea, breathing it in. "What time is it?" He asked, not bothering to glance at the ticking clock easily in his view. Aziraphale craned his neck to look at instead and then hummed.
"Shortly passed midnight, my dear."
Crowley huffed in acknowledgement. Aziraphale stepped over, sliding into the stool beside Crowley. He sat in a way that his foot brushed against Crowley's calf. "Are you sleeping alright?" The angel asked absently. Crowley raised an eyebrow and then nodded.
"Mhmm. Are you?"
"Well, you know I mostly read instead."
"Ah, yeah. Of course. That... that book. How is it?"
Aziraphale hummed. "It's very good. It's a collection of old poems from the seventeenth century; you would like them, I think. I could read some to you!"
Crowley pursed his lips in thought then shrugged. "Why not," he said. He might not enjoy reading, but if Aziraphale was offering to read some (hopefully) good poetry to him in bed to lull him to sleep - for they both knew that was how it would go down - then he really wasn't one to turn him down. He took another sip of his tea and then sat it down, turning instead to regard Aziraphale.
"How long until we can go home?" He asked with a pout. Aziraphale gave him a look.
"I believe it's in our best interest to continue to watch the Antichrist, my dear," he stated. Crowley hissed in distaste.
"Yeah, whatever," he grumbled. "He's just acting like a normal kid."
"And maybe one day he won't," countered Aziraphale. Crowley shrugged.
"Not our problem."
"Crowley."
"What?" Crowley held his hands up in defence. "It isn't!"
"It could be," said the angel. Crowley tipped his head side to side with a scowl.
"Fine. Fine!" Crowley threw his hands up in the air. "We'll stay for even longer."
"How about we go shopping for more plants?" Aziraphale offered. He took a moment to sip his tea contently, then sat it down. "It'll keep you busy, huh?"
Crowley huffed. "Alright," he agreed begrudgingly. "But we can't right now. It's midnight."
"Of course," replied Aziraphale. He stood up, then, in a swift movement, and in a gentle grip he took Crowley's wrists and coaxed him to follow. Sitting in their living room, on the black couch - Crowley had wanted a leather one, Aziraphale had not. They met half-way and had a soft black one with many tartan cushions - and they melt into them easily. With a flick of his fingers, the curtains opposite them roll open to reveal the window and, beyond that, the clear night sky. Crowley crossed one leg over the other and didn't mind the warmth that radiated from where Aziraphale's thigh pressed against his.
"I find that stars are very beautiful. They're very relaxing to look at on a clear night," mused the angel. Crowley spared him a brief glance.
"They are," he agreed with a small nod. "You can hardly see them in London. All that pollution."
"Shame, really."
Crowley glanced to his watch. A truly one-of-a-kind watch and completely unnecessary. He didn't need to know what time it was in twenty world capitals, nor did he need to know that it was Too Late in Another Place. The only relevant time he needed was that of their current location, but he did enjoy the continuous ticking and the simple knowledge of what time it was everywhere.
"They've really kicked it up a notch these past few decades, huh?"
"They?"
"Humans."
"Ah. Of course. Yes, I suppose they have. Shame again, I suppose." Aziraphale pressed his lips together. "I'm afraid it would take more miracles than I'm capable of performing to fix that."
"Little out of my area of expertise too."
Aziraphale expelled a breath of air. Crowley took a moment to regard him, and then he turned his gaze back to the window.
It had been a little over three weeks since they had departed from the Winchester's bunker. The three weeks had been blissfully peaceful. No Heaven, No Hell, no Lucifer, no Michael. Gabriel had shown up yesterday long enough for a cup of tea at Aziraphale's insistence and to make sure they had not died, and then he had left with a wink directed to Crowley. Crowley had started his garden to keep himself busy and, somehow, books had been stealing every available surface. Aziraphale had indulged in sleep for the first week, but had picked up his previous statement of not enjoying it, but nonetheless he had also taken to sitting in bed at night, reading some book or other while Crowley used him as a body pillow, leeching him of all body heat. The angel was always perfectly warm or, in the summer, perfectly cool. Crowley thought it was the best thing an angel could do; be able to control their body temperature. A miracle if he had ever heard of one.
Crowley thought the past few weeks had been, admittedly, rather nice. If one ignored the nightmares that plagued him when Aziraphale couldn't miracle them away, and the little paranoia he had whenever he saw a frog staring at him, then it was perfectly fine. Unnervingly fine. Aziraphale read his books and sometimes read him to sleep with his fingers carding through his hair, Crowley expanded on their garden, they went out to eat in some restaurants and Aziraphale learned some recipes of his own and cooked them some dinner. Occasionally, when Aziraphale went out to a nearby library or for food and Crowley didn't accompany him, he would switch on the heat lamp that Aziraphale had bought him, and he'd curl up as a snake beneath it and sleep the day away. Once, Crowley woke up to Aziraphale running a finger gently down his scales. He had pretended to sleep and the motion had eventually lulled him back down.
Aziraphale had checked in twice with the Winchesters. They hadn't spoke for at least a week and a half, as things had calmed down and seemed to be staying calm, and they had not seen one another in person yet. Crowley was fine with that; he wasn't here to make friends. He had Aziraphale, and that was the only company he needed.
"What are you thinking about?"
Crowley glanced back at Aziraphale and sat up a little straighter. "Nothing," he said. Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow at him and hummed. He let his gaze linger even when Crowley returned his focus to the window, pressing his lips together and tilting his head back.
"Wonder what the next century'll be like," he offered.
"Oh?"
Crowley shrugged. "I mean, yeah. 'S been a while since the likes of, like, the seventeenth century. Things keep changing down here. Wonder what it'll be like in a century."
Aziraphale tipped his head to the side, staring at the wall as if it would show him the future. Then he shrugged slightly, shoulder brushing Crowley's. "Who knows, my dear boy. They keep going on about flying cars - perhaps they'll happen. I much preferred the eighteenth century."
"That's because you're old fashioned."
Aziraphale gave Crowley a both confused and disgruntled look, shifting on the couch. "I am not. But they invented Newspapers back then, and that was a splendid creation. And there was no such fuss with - with traffic, and mobile telephones. It was simpler."
Crowley gave him a sceptical look. "And there was that revolution. That famine in Ireland, too. Everyone smelled, angel. There was that time I almost got sold in a wife auction, too - they were common." He made a face; wrinkled his nose and scowled. "Rotten food, all those diseases, toilets didn't really catch on until the end of that century - did you ever visit a dentist then? It was basically torture-"
"Russia abolished slavery, which was good. And there was no talk of teleportation-"
"That's because you were still thought of as a witch if you did speak of that-"
Aziraphale huffed in defeat and Crowley smirked. "Look to the future, angel. You'll still have your books, but you'll have your books and proper hygiene!"
Aziraphale didn't look necessarily pleased at losing the point he was trying to make, justifying his old soul, and Crowley slumped back into the seat with a self satisfied smirk. "Don't worry about it, angel. It'll be fine," he drawled, patting his shoulder. Aziraphale frowned.
"Yes, fine," he sighed. "I suppose so. But still; are flying cars necessary?"
Crowley shrugged. "I'll stick with my baby," he simply said, eyes flicking to the window in which he could see his Bentley outside. His lips twitched upwards at the sight. "There'll be air traffic, too. It'll take you hours to get from London to Spain via wings."
Aziraphale let out a groan at the mere thought. In another plane of existence, his wings twitched and his feathers ruffled. "There has to be a place on Earth that humans have yet to find," he uttered sarcastically. Crowley tipped his head side to side.
"I'm not really partial to living at the bottom of the ocean, but it is possible. Or just..." He waved a hand. "Run away to Canadian wilderness. Buy a large plot of land in the Scottish highlands. Russia."
Aziraphale frowned and looked down at the floor, his thumbs twiddling on his lap. "I really could just go for another century or so of some blissful peace and quiet," he muttered dreamily. Crowley snorted.
"You and me both. You know, right about now would be a good time for a television," he commented. Aziraphale gave him a look. They had had this discussion for the past fortnight; Crowley arguing that they should get a television and Netflix, Aziraphale arguing that it wasn't necessary. Neither of them really watched television, although Crowley was more partial to a nice movie, and he thought it would have been a good way to pass the time. Plus, he was sure that Aziraphale was a rom-com kind of guy. Either that or grim yet accurate documentaries. Crowley had a suspicion that Aziraphale could easily have some morbid interests if it was nonetheless educational.
"Neither of us hardly use a television, Crowley. It would take up space and ruin the room," Aziraphale argued, shaking his head.
"It would not," drawled Crowley in response. "Could get a little one. Mount one on the wall." His hand waved to his left and upon the wall appeared a flat screen, turning on to the Netflix home screen. Aziraphale glared at him and waved his own hands and it was gone again, replaced with a painting of a horse.
"No."
"I think yes."
"No."
Crowley pouted at the angel, rolling his eyes dramatically. His arms folded across his chest and he fully intended to sulk for the next few hours, but Aziraphale stood up, making to leave the room.
"Oi, where are you going?" Crowley asked quickly, reaching out to snatch his wrist.
"I was going to read," answered the angel, raising an eyebrow and looking almost smug. Crowley huffed.
"Well, don't be selfish. Bring your book here."
Aziraphale's lips twitched upwards and he nodded once. He disappeared for a brief moment, coming swiftly back with his book clutched in his hands. He slumped back against Crowley and, once the demon had settled himself comfortably around him, he began to read from where he left off.
Eventually, one of Aziraphale's hands drifted absently, fingers parting through Crowley's hair, and when he fell asleep he had no nightmares that night.
Crowley woke up to Aziraphale shaking him gently. Blinking his eyes open blearily, he offered a questioning look.
"I'm just going to pop to the shop," he said, "need to buy a couple of things for lunch, I shouldn't be long, my dear."
"Oh, alright." With a grunt, Crowley pulled himself into a sitting position. He realised a blanket had been draped over himself and he caught it before it fell to the ground. "Uh, have fun, I guess."
Aziraphale smiled at him, nodded, and then he lingered with a bit of hesitation. Then his head ducked and he pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, and then scurried out of the door. Crowley blinked a few times, his cheeks warm, and then he smirked to himself and slumped back onto the couch.
Affection was still a thing the two of them danced around. Crowley did not mind wrapping himself around the angel at night, for the angel was warm and soft and radiated security and safety, and there was no better way to fall asleep at night. But outwardly expressions of affection were still few; for an angel and a demon didn't indulge in such human things. Crowley thought that the kiss they had shared was less important than the way Aziraphale had groomed his wings, in terms of immortal celestial-occult being affection. Not that Crowley didn't absolutely love the human shows of affection; they made him just as giddy with adrenaline, as if they were doing something taboo and forbidden. Which, really, they were.
Crowley decided he did not mind any affection Aziraphale was willing to show him. Not at all. Not one bit.
Eventually, the demon peeled himself off the couch with the thought that he really ought to be productive. Then he thought that he was immortal and had many, many years to be productive, and he almost went right back to sleep. But no; seize the day, as someone had once said.
With a simple thought, his silk pyjamas turned to his usual apparel, and he occupied himself by using his own hands to tidy the house. He straightened the pillows up, folded the blanket and set it out neatly over the back of the couch. He dusted the shelves and Aziraphale's random ornaments and nick-knacks, groomed the flowers on the breakfast bar and dried their teacups from the night before (for Aziraphale had cleaned them and set them to dry) and he went out picked at the weeds out by their front door.
Aziraphale didn't take long. He greeted Crowley, still working away at a stubborn patch of weeds, with a caress on his shoulder.
"Since when did we have weeds here?" The angel asked, lingering for a moment. Crowley glanced up at him, shrugging.
"Dunno. Too long, probably." He glanced to the shopping bags hanging from his hands. "How much did you need for lunch?" He asked, eyebrows raising. Aziraphale blushed slightly and slipped towards the door, avoiding the question. Crowley let him go, not pestering about it but making sure to give him a knowing look. Aziraphale had just smiled and then disappeared inside to unpack.
Weeds down, Crowley slid inside the house. Aziraphale was finishing putting the last of his groceries away, perking up at the sight of Crowley.
"Do wash your hands before lunch, dear," he said. Crowley raised an eyebrow.
"Lunch isn't even ready yet," he pointed out.
"Well, I know that. But when it is."
"Yeah, yeah, I will, angel." He waved him off. "I'll be in the garden, yeah?"
"I'll call you for lunch."
Crowley shot him a thumbs-up over his shoulder, then swaggered out to his garden. He shot a pointed look towards the spinach plant he had been caught traumatising earlier, but passed it for now. They all needed weeding, and a good thorough check over, and a good misting, too. He got to work, the sun beating down on him in a way that made him grateful for the intermittent shade the trees around him gave him. Without it, he feared he might be forced to wear short sleeves. That hadn't happened since the eighteenth century, and he was determined not to make it happen again.
A car drove up to their cottage. He could hear the familiar engine from the back garden, feel the aura that accompanied Castiel, and he didn't make to go inside and greet them. He heard Aziraphale scurry to the door, greet them with shock and pleasantries, and invite them inside because of course he would.
If he heard them come bearing news of any danger, Crowley would march in their and throw them out. He was not ready to have his gentle peace broken so quickly.
He tuned them out. He pulled out a weed and chucked it aside. He inspected a leaf and muttered a praise when the plant was excellent. He misted over some and checked the soil of others. A Tupperware container appeared out of nowhere, and he plucked the strawberries and raspberries off their plants and stored them inside, planning to wash them whenever the Winchesters and Castiel left. He pulled a pack of flower seeds from his pocket that hadn't been there previously, and he got to work planting them in a perfect line.
"Oh, yes, he's just out in the garden. I ought to go bring him in, I don't think he knows you're all here."
Crowley snorted under his breath. Well, he could only put off seeing them for so long, he thought sourly.
"He does like to garden. He's been out there a while now; I've not even heard him yell at the plants. That's always a good sign."
Crowley's lips curled slightly and he spared a brief glance to the door. He could see Aziraphale's silhouette in the window, hovering by the door as he rambled with the others. Crowley turned to the spinach plant and brought forth the tension in his muscles.
"Oh, don't think I've forgotten about you," he hissed, turning his mischievous grin into that of an angry scowl. Almost immediately, the plant recoiled and began to tremble; as did the other surrounding ones. He stalked towards it, replacing his plant mister with a trowel instead. "No angel to save you now. This wouldn't happen if you could just grow better!"
He stabbed the trowel into the soil and began uprooting it, eyes flashing. He had forgone his sunglasses - he often did, considering it was only ever himself and Aziraphale around - and it only served to make the plant's terror increase, much to Crowley's pleasure.
He let all his tension bleed out, taking it out on the poor plant while hissing increasingly morbid threats and insults.
Aziraphale's feet tapped on the ground as he approached with a frown. "What have I told you about insulting your plants, dear?" He sighed, hand on his shoulder. Crowley shrugged carelessly.
"Deserves it," he simply said, looking at the half-uprooted plant. Aziraphale gave him a sceptical look.
"We can talk about that later. We have visitors!"
"Oh, really?" Crowley raised his eyebrows innocently. "I had no idea."
"Yes! The Winchesters and Castiel are here. I've offered them lunch, but they said they needed to talk. You should come in," insisted Aziraphale. Crowley heaved a dramatic sigh and then set the trowel on the ground. He jabbed a finger at the spinach.
"I'll come back for you," he hissed, bared his fangs, and then followed Aziraphale inside.
Sure enough, the troublesome trio were sitting around their living room. Sam and Dean had accepted cups of coffee, and Castiel had forgone one, choosing to sit with his hands folded on his lap and his back straight.
"Sup," Crowley greeted with a two finger wave, swaggering in and throwing himself on the couch. He only shifted slightly to allow Aziraphale to sit down next to him.
"It's, uh, nice to see you again," Sam greeted. Crowley raised an eyebrow.
"I'll agree or disagree depending on why you're here," the demon said. Aziraphale nudged him and gave him a scolding look.
"He doesn't mean that."
"I do."
"Crowley," Aziraphale hissed through gritted teeth. Crowley flashed him a nose-wrinkling, sarcastic grin, and then turned to face the others.
"To what do I owe the pleasure? I'm assuming you're not here for Aziraphale's infamous lunch, after all."
"Unfortunately not," Sam admitted, eyes flitting down to the steaming coffee in his hands. "But we were wondering if we might be able to borrow your help."
"No."
"Crowley!" Aziraphale snapped sharply. He gave him a wide-eyed stare - and on another plane of reality, dozens upon dozens of eyes blinked open from his skin to do the same, a little flash of his grace - and his hands twitched over his lap and then smoothed down his thighs. "I am very sorry. He's been kept in for too long," he uttered. Crowley turned on the couch, looking up at the ceiling and spreading his legs out along the couch and along Aziraphale's lap. He offered no apology. Not that anyone expected one.
Aziraphale's true form settled and he cleared his throat. "Of course you can. Whatever is the problem?" He asked, concern in his voice.
Gathering themselves from the bickering, Sam opened his mouth to speak only for Dean to interrupt him before he could even start.
His finger swayed accusingly between Crowley and Aziraphale. "Are you two... a...?"
"Dean," hissed Sam under his breath. He gave his brother a pointed look, and the older man simply shrugged innocently.
"It was just a question," he muttered.
"We're immortal beings of immense power that could smite your souls, yes." Crowley offered an innocent grin. Aziraphale twitched.
"Crowley," he hissed, and caught his eyes. His look said; what are you doing right now?
Crowley shrugged. "We're here on business, don't get side tracked," he chastised, clicking his fingers and pointing at Sam. "What is it?"
Sam scrubbed a hand down his face. Crowley considered offering himself stronger than coffee; he looked like he needed it. "Angels," he said, and, well, had he started with that then perhaps Crowley might have been less of a cunt. Both he and Aziraphale stiffened and, albeit reluctantly, Crowley peeled himself up into a more respectable sitting position.
"What about that?" Crowley asked, voice low. His eyes flicked to the window. "Were you followed? Angel, pack up-"
"No, no, no - we weren't," Sam hurried to say, shaking his head. "It's not like that. Rather, uh. Angels have been killed." Aziraphale gasped a little, then looked shamefully down at his lap. "We don't know by who - or what - yet, but we were hoping that maybe you had heard something about this, or if it's something we should be really worried about."
Crowley and Aziraphale shared a look. Crowley shook his head. Aziraphale shook his head.
"I - I hadn't heard a thing," stammered the angel, his hands clasping together. Aziraphale looked at Crowley and furrowed his brow. "You don't think..."
"No," Crowley shook his head adamantly. "Surely not. They don't send messages; they'd have come straight for you and that would've been that." Although the idea of Heaven striking - yet again, and wasn't that ironic, that the angels, the good guys, had fought them more than Hell had - Aziraphale terrified him, Crowley would not let that happen. Not at all.
"I suppose you're right," Aziraphale said, offering a sigh of relief.
"I was thinking that it wasn't just angels, though," Sam added. "A lot of other creatures have been killed lately, but that could be other hunters, fights within those... communities, between them. Angels... aren't like that."
Both Crowley and Aziraphale nodded. While the likes of demons and werewolves, poltergeists and vampires were hunted by human hunters and one another alike, angels didn't. Angels didn't die; angels didn't get killed. If an angel got killed, especially one on Earth, then it was purposeful. Intended. Something potentially big.
"I thought they might be connected, but I can't be sure," Sam said.
"So you want us to help you find who's killing angels?" Crowley asked, eyebrows raised. "With two angels in your little party? That's a smart idea, huh."
"We do this kind of thing," Dean bit. "We wouldn't let them get hurt."
"You can't promise that," hissed Crowley, bristling.
The image of Aziraphale, cheeks puffing out, eyes glowing, grasping at his stomach as Michael's lance speared him, flashed on his eyelids.
Aziraphale's hand settled on his thigh, and Crowley hadn't realised that he had been standing up as if he had planned to do something. He blinked and composed himself, then sat down again.
"If it's connected, then it very well could affect you as well, my dear boy," murmured Aziraphale. "As... as long as we could be careful about this, I think that... perhaps we might be able to help... perhaps. I wouldn't want this getting out of control and coming to us," he said, glancing to Crowley.
The demon grumbled something under his breath. "I s'pose," he muttered. As much as Crowley was a professional at procrastination and overlooking things, he wasn't willing to play with risks, and especially not now. If there was someone out there that could potentially end up hunting himself or, more importantly, Aziraphale down, then he didn't want to risk waiting until they were on their doorstep.
Sam smiled encouragingly. "It would be mutually beneficial, I think," he said. Aziraphale nodded slowly, but his brow was pinched in thought.
Something dinged in the kitchen. He perked up.
"Oh! Well, please say we aren't in an immediate rush. We could discuss this over lunch, yes? I've certainly made enough."
Crowley snorted at that. So much for peace and quiet.