Archive of Our Own

Crowley tends to his plants when Aziraphale isn’t home.  He couldn’t quite say why, but he just… doesn’t want Aziraphale bothered by the sounds.  Yes, that’s it. 

“And for the last time, you miserable plants, I expect nothing less than perfection,” Crowley yells.  He turns and yells at the petunias in the corner. “You’re on very thin ice.  I’ll be merciful today, but if your flowers don’t-”

“Crowley!  What in the world is all of the racket?  Are you alright?” Aziraphale’s voice comes from behind him.  

Crowley turns around, heat burning on his face.  Aziraphale is standing in the door with a strange look on his face as he takes in the scene of a slightly disheveled Crowley scolding his plants.

“I’m taking care of my plants,” Crowley says.  He turns to fix them with a steely gaze, gratified when they tremble.  “They need to grow better .”

Aziraphale is silent for a long moment, and Crowley has the distinct feeling that he’s being read like one of his first editions.  His angel’s face twitches almost to a frown and then to a concerned expression.

“And the yelling?” Aziraphale asks.  

“How else will they know what disappointments they are?” Crowley asks.  “They know what they need to do. They just refuse to be good, to do what they’re supposed to.”

Aziraphale presses his lips together for a long moment, and Crowley feels curiously like a boy about to be reprimanded by a stern teacher, not that that’s particularly within his realm of experience.  

Instead, Aziraphale crosses the space between them and wraps an arm around him gently.  Crowley lets himself be led out of the greenhouse and to the main bulk of the house. For reasons that he can’t understand, Aziraphale steers him to one of the overstuffed comfy chairs that he likes to keep around.  He wraps a blanket around Crowley’s shoulders and presses a kiss to the top of his head.  

“I love you dearly, you know that, right?” Aziraphale murmurs into his hair.

His husband, while always sweet and affectionate, is being even more so than usual.  It’s overwhelming in the best way, even if this isn’t the reaction he expected when Aziraphale found him gardening.

“I do,” Crowley reassures him, finding one of his hands to squeeze gently.  “I love you as well, angel.”

“Okay, good,” Aziraphale says, squeezing back.  

Crowley doesn’t think much of it until the next morning.  He can’t find Aziraphale in the main part of their house, which gives him a little twinge of residual panic until he notices that the door to the greenhouse is hanging open and he hears Aziraphale’s voice coming from inside.

Curious, he lingers just outside the door 

“-doing so well!  I’m so happy that your flowers are coming in,” Aziraphale says.  There’s a shuffling for a few moments. “Why, hello there! I see your leaves are turning a little yellow.  That’s okay! I know you’re trying your best! How about a little extra sunlight for you, then!”  

Crowley rubs his suddenly damp eyes, slipping the sunglasses in his pocket on.  Having a layer between him and the world feels better in this moment. Otherwise, he’s frozen in place, listening to Aziraphale say sweet things to his plants and treating them with tender love.  

“Oh! There you are, my dear!” Aziraphale says as he comes out of the greenhouse.  

“What-” Crowley’s voice catches in his throat, and he coughs to clear it.  “What are you doing in the greenhouse?”

“I brought you a new plant, so I figured I’d bring it by the greenhouse!" Aziraphale says.  "And your plants are growing so wonderfully, but I think they need a bit of tenderness."

Crowley has to take a moment to process that.  Having Aziraphale in his greenhouse makes him feel a bit lightheaded.  Of course he's allowed- it's their home- but Aziraphale has never had much interest in gardening after his stint as a gardener.  

And Crowley's greenhouse… it's his little heaven that he controls.  He's not sure why having Aziraphale involved makes him feel a bit uneasy, but he doesn't like it.

“What kind of plant did you get?” Crowley eventually asks.  

“Come and see!” Aziraphale says, looping his arm through Crowley’s and leading him inside.  “I think you’ll be pleased. I was a gardener for a while, you know.”

Crowley still feels a bit light-headed as he’s led into his greenhouse.  The plant that Aziraphale got him stands out amid his other plants.

All of Crowley’s plants are verdant and healthy.  Their bright green leaves are free of any spot or flaw, and all of the flowers are vivid and perfectly shaped.

The plant that Aziraphale bought him is… not like his other plants.  The few leaves are yellowed and twisted, and the tiny little buds are browning.  Crowley is fairly certain that it’s a lily of the valley, but he can’t be quite sure because of how sickly it is.

“Aziraphale, where did you find this?” Crowley asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral.  

“They were about to throw it away, can you believe it!  I think that with the right kind of care, it would be able to flourish,” Aziraphale says. 

Aziraphale looks up at Crowley with wide, hopeful eyes, and while Crowley would normally throw such a twisted plant away before it even approached this state of decay, he can’t do that to this gift from Aziraphale.  

Crowley nods slowly, running a tentative finger along one of the leaves.  It’s dry and rough and it nearly crumbles under his gentle touch.  

“You’re going to be okay,” Aziraphale says softly.

Crowley doesn’t look down at him because he can feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him, and not even his sunglasses feel like enough of a barrier.  

Aziraphale tugs him down so he can press a kiss to his cheek.  He lingers there a moment, and Crowley can feel a soft smile against his skin; it tingles.

When he releases Crowley, Aziraphale pads off, leaving Crowley alone with his plants.  The other plants are quaking with nervous anticipation as he rounds on the new arrival.  

Crowley is silent as he works, repotting the lily into a proper sized pot with nutritious soil.  He runs his finger gently along the failing bud. 

"Grow better," Crowley pleads, softly.  "Please."

He turns to his other plants, glowering at them.  Crowley opens his mouth to yell at them to let them know that it’s time to be judged, but he can practically feel the wilting lily of the valley behind him, so he hangs his head, sighing a little.  

“Just… be better,” Crowley hisses at them as he starts his tending.  At least the edge is still in his voice.

He prunes and he waters and he makes sure that they’re all set to grow as strong and as hardy as possible.  Most everything is up to standard, except those darn petunias.  

Once he’s done with taking care of the plants, he scoops them up.  He can’t quite look at the lily of the valley as he shakes the petunia planter threateningly.  

“Let this be a lesson to you,” Crowley says.  He’s still not quite yelling. “You have to be good.  You have to live up to my standards, and if you don’t like it, I will met out my justice.”

Crowley turns on his heel and stalks out of the greenhouse, silent as he moves through the house he shares with Aziraphale.  No more words for this miserable speck beneath his notice. This mite doesn’t deserve his attention or any explanation. It-

“What are you doing?  Oh, Crowley! Is that a petunia?” Aziraphale appears in the hallway and cuts off his internal monologue just as he’s getting real worked up.  “It’s quite lovely.”

“It’s a disappointment,” Crowley says, voice catching in a growl as the plant shakes in its pot.  “So it needs to be dealt with. To make sure that it doesn’t contaminate anything else with it’s… wrongness.  Burnt up into ash.”

Crowley catches the same concerned expression from the night before on Aziraphale’s face for the briefest moment as he presses himself into Crowley’s side and Crowley’s arm wraps around him automatically.

“I think that it’s lovely,” Aziraphale, slipping the petunia from his grip somehow.  “Can I keep it?” 

“Angel, I can grow you a much nicer petunia than this one.  You should have the best, after all,” Crowley says, pressing a tender kiss to the top of his head.  

“But I love this one,” Aziraphale says, holding the pot close to himself.  “It may not be perfect, but it is trying, and that’s far more important.”

And now he’s looking up at Crowley with a happy, hopeful look on his face.  More than that- there’s bright clarity on Aziraphale’s face, which is welcome after the millennia of anxiety and upset that he knows Aziraphale endured under heaven’s thumb.  

Crowley wants to give Aziraphale something perfect, but this is, apparently, what Aziraphale wants.  

“If you really want it, you can keep it,” Crowley says.  

Aziraphale perks up.  “Thank you, my dear! It’s really quite lovely.  I must find the perfect spot for it! Maybe in the bookshop!”

Crowley shakes his head as Aziraphale takes off down the hall, admiring his new gift.  He’s not really sure why Aziraphale likes this plant so much. Maybe because Aziraphale has no taste.  

There’s a lump in Crowley’s throat as he watches him go.  He realizes that his hands are shaking a bit and he forces them to relax.  There’s no reason to have a reaction to this. No reason at all.  

Crowley tries to sleep most nights.  It’s not necessary, but he quite likes it.  Sometimes life gets busy and he needs the time, or he thinks he’s going to sleep, but Aziraphale has sexier and more fun plans for the night, but still.  Most nights, Crowley sleeps.

But this night, he finds himself laying in bed, discontent.  He can’t quite put his finger on why he’s so upset. All Aziraphale asked for was a flower and for him to tend to an imperfect plant.  That’s not a lot. That’s hardly anything- Crowley faced the potential consequences of defying hell for thousands of years for Aziraphale with much less internal angst.  It wasn’t that he didn’t think about the possible consequences of defying hell for Aziraphale- quite the opposite, considering his vivid imagination and experiences with the mercy of heaven- but he had decided that the worse fate was being without Aziraphale.  

Crowley sighs, switching to his other side.  It’s ridiculous to be this upset, which somehow only makes him more upset.  If it was rational, it’d be fine.  

He tosses and turns, even trying to sleep on the ceiling to no avail.  When the light starts to filter through the shades, he presses his palms into his eyes and stretches.  It’s nonsensical, but he’s exhausted.  

"Are you alright, my dear?" Aziraphale asks as he trudges into the kitchen.  

"Just didn't get any sleep," Crowley says.  

Aziraphale smiles at him welcomingly.  He holds out a cup of freshly brewed coffee, the smell of which perks Crowley up as he takes it.  

Crowley inhales deeply.  He doesn’t care much for eating, but drinking, he enjoys.  Drinking something prepared with love by Aziraphale? Even better.  

The coffee is sweet, as Aziraphale always makes it, and it helps remind his body that he didn’t actually need to sleep in the first place.  Crowley perches on the counter while he sips the drink.  

Aziraphale is moving through the kitchen, making eggs for his breakfast.   He’s working steadily at his task, humming softly to himself. It’s part of a lovely morning routine, and Crowley loves being part of it in the soft, early morning light.

The only jarring thing is that the petunia is sitting on the kitchen ledge.  It still hasn’t bloomed quite right, and the light isn’t doing it any favors.  

Crowley finds himself glaring at the plant over his cup instead of enjoying Aziraphale.  This makes him loathe the thing even more than before.

“Oh, are you admiring my new petunia?” Aziraphale says when he notices him looking.  “I got it from a rather handsome gardener I know.”

Crowley blushes absently at Aziraphale’s words.  

“I thought you were going to keep it at the bookshop?” Crowley asks in a carefully neutral tone.

“I wanted it to be somewhere I could see it more often,” Aziraphale says.  “Is something wrong?”

Crowley takes a long sip of his coffee.  “I’m just not a fan of the petunia.”

“Oh, Crowley, why are you so upset about this petunia?” Aziraphale asks with a gentleness in his voice that warms Crowley somewhere inside.  “It’s alright.”

“I just want it to be perfect for you.  It can be much better than it is; it could be perfect, even, if it would just try,” Crowley says.  “It has too few leaves and the flowers should be blooming brighter.”

He has his cup between the two of them like a shield; boy, does he wish he had wore his sunglasses.  Now that they’ve laid their love for each other bare, Crowley doesn’t generally bother when they’re together because he doesn’t need to hide from Aziraphale.  Except right now, he’s really wishing that he could hide, just a bit.

Aziraphale comes up to him, slipping between his legs and taking the cup out of his hands.  He sets it on the counter with a gentle clink and brings his hand up to cup Crowley’s cheek.  As always, Aziraphale just radiates warmth in all ways, and he looks at Crowley with enough love to make him feel like he’s going to be set alight, but he never actually does.  

“My dear, no one is perfect.  Not you, not me, not any of the billions of humans that have existed.  No one in heaven or in hell. It’s okay,” Aziraphale says softly. “The petunia doesn’t have to be perfect to be worth loving.”

Crowley resists the urge to pull away from Aziraphale touch as his stomach flips unpleasantly.  He’s laid so bare under Aziraphale’s understanding gaze.  

“I’m not unreasonable.  I gave it plenty of warnings.  It could’ve been better,” Crowley says, ignoring the slight waver in his voice.  

Aziraphale leans up to press his lips to Crowley’s forehead, pulling him down a bit so he can reach.  He lingers there for a long moment, and while demons can’t feel love as a matter of course, Crowley can feel the love radiating from his angel.  

“I love your petunia for all its imperfections,” Aziraphale says softly.  “I daresay even some of the imperfections aren’t even really imperfections, but simple variations.  Things to celebrate, not something worth casting it out over. I hate to say it, but you may be missing out by your rash action, my dear.”

For reasons that Crowley knows in theory, but has thoroughly hidden from himself on a conscious level, he finds himself clinging to Aziraphale and pushing away the tears that have welled up in his eyes.

“Do you really think so?” Crowley asks in a small voice.   

“Oh, my love, I’m completely certain,” Aziraphale says firmly, voice rumbling through Crowley.  “By destroying any rebellious plants, you’re missing out on the best plants of them all.”

Crowley has the distinct feeling that he’s not talking about the plants anymore.  

“You have a lot of thoughts about my plants,” Crowley finally says when he has enough self control to pull away from Aziraphale.  

He’s not able to put the pieces together yet.  He just can’t deal with it, and he begs Aziraphale silently to let it drop.  

Aziraphale smiles at him sadly, nodding ever so slightly.  He makes a vain attempt to smooth out Crowley’s restless bed head, just to touch him, and Crowley appreciates that.

“I’m just being silly, I suppose,” Aziraphale says.  “Thank you for indulging me, my dear.”

Crowley surges forward to kiss him, hard.  He wants to pour everything that he’s too cowardly to think of into the kiss.  If anyone would understand, it’s Aziraphale.

The eggs are burning beside them, acrid scent burning his nostrils as they sizzle.  Crowley wants to decide that they’re not burning, but it won’t quite come. Typical.

Crowley stays perched there a bit longer, watching as Aziraphale tuts around the kitchen.  He could miracle away the mess, but instead, he scrubs the pan by hand, only miracling it dry so he can get started on the eggs again.  

Aziraphale hums softly to himself as he works and the familiarity soothes the part of Crowley that’s been so troubled lately.  Crowley reflects that he’s grateful that they have epochs’ worth of mornings like this ahead of them.  

The lily is still, of course, sitting where he left it.  It looks no better than it did the day before.  

“Could you maybe grow a bit more?” Crowley asks as he waters the plant.  “Just a bit.”

It doesn’t reply because it’s a plant.  

Crowley sighs and hangs his head.  The rest of his tending passes relatively uneventfully until he nearly reaches the end.  Right there, sitting on the end of the row is a plant with a brown spot right on its leaf.   

He glares at it, gratified by its shaking, and lifts it up.  

"You all know what happens when you you fail,” Crowley says.  He’s not yelling because he doesn’t want to yell in front of the lily, but he can still work up a manacing hiss.  “This kind of behavior is absolutely unacceptable. If you can’t grow better, you will suffer the consequences.”

Crowley scoops up the quivering plant, muttering cruel things to it as he turns and stalks out of the room.  His hands are shaking a bit, thinking about the conversation with Aziraphale. He’s standing with the plant in hand, not sure what to do next.  

He takes a steadying breath and then goes upstairs, and then another flight of stairs that he’s decided exist to the rooftop garden that he’s decided they have.  It’s empty right now, but Crowley places the pot in a planter.

The plant’s confusion is palpable in the tension with which it holds itself.  

“I’m…” Crowley trails off.  

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and he can’t say the rest of what he was going to say.  He hates this. He hates this all of a sudden, as standing out in the open air suddenly feels oppressively close.  

Like a coward, Crowley flees the rooftop garden, retreating back into their house proper.  He takes a few deep breaths to steady himself once inside and it mostly works to help him regain his sense of himself.  

Crowley goes to find his sunglasses, perched on his nightstand, and he slides them before finding Aziraphale.  He’d like to be close to his angel right now, but more comfortable behind his glasses.

He finds Aziraphale mending a jacket with needle and thread, and he takes a long moment to admire him at work.  Aziraphale always takes such extraordinary care.

Crowley sneaks up behind Aziraphale so he can surprise him by pressing his lips into Aziraphale’s curls.  His angel stiffens his spine a bit, leaning up into his touch with a happy hum but continuing his work.

“I love you,” Crowley murmurs softly into his hair.  

Aziraphale hums happily to himself.  He finishes his work, smoothing it out, and then looks up at him.  His smile falters for the briefest moment when he sees his sunglasses; it’s been awhile since he’s worn them around Aziraphale with the sort of regularity that he has been lately.

To his credit, Aziraphale doesn’t say anything and he’s smiling as soon as he’s processed it.  He leans up to press a kiss to his lips, curling his fingers through Crowley’s hair.  

“Are you all done tending to your plants for the day?” Aziraphale asks.

“Yes,” Crowley says.  “They’re… they’re, you know.  Plants, still.”

“Yes, well.  What else would they be?  Aardvarks?” Aziraphale says.

Crowley feels inordinately tetchy about having his own joking words thrown back at him, even in jest, so he doesn’t reply; best to avoid saying things he will desperately regret. 

The closest he’s ever felt to this was right after his Fall (capital letters, in his mind) when everything felt new and raw and unbearable, when being cut off from the Love of God (also capital letters) felt like losing half of himself.  But then, he had been staring into Lucifer’s eyes, cold and unimpressed with him.

Now, he’s staring into Aziraphale’s bright and shining eyes, the love ever-present and plain enough even for Crowley to read, even mixed up with concern.  This is much better.

Aziraphale gets to his feet, draping the jacket on the chair he vacated, and he takes Crowley’s hand.  He pulls himself close to Crowley’s body, short and round frame fitting ever perfectly against Crowley’s lankiness.  

Crowley has a sudden desire for closeness, even closer than pressed body to body.  Aziraphale always feels so good .  

The hand at Aziraphale’s waist slips down to his hip, and it slips under the fabric to rub at the soft skin.  Crowley is always hungry for contact; six thousand years of isolation will do that, even to a demon. At least if that demon is Crowley.

Aziraphale groans, rocking against him.  It’s a gentle exploration of hands and lips that soothes the shaky parts of whatever Crowley has instead of a soul.  

They slowly start to shed their clothing, but Crowley leaves his sunglasses on and Aziraphale doesn’t move to take them off.  Crowley appreciates the consideration.

Aziraphale pulls away from him and Crowley makes a pitiful whine in the back of his throat; he wants more contact.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” Aziraphale says gently, grasping his hand.  He tugs Crowley forward, leading him. “I’m just taking us somewhere more comfortable.”

When they pass by the new staircase, Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, just looks back at Crowley with a raised eyebrow.  Crowley can feel the blush spread across his whole body, but he just shrugs.  

They reach their bedroom and fall together onto the bed.  Crowley kisses tender apologies into Aziraphale’s skin. He’s not sure what he’s sorry for, but the scourge of guilt hangs over him nonetheless.  Guilt for being a demon, guilt for asking too many questions, guilt for not being able to take his sunglasses off and for feeling way too much about some stupid plants.  

He has a lot to be sorry for, at least to Aziraphale.

When they’re done, Crowley stays curled up around Aziraphale, lanky limbs holding him firmly.  It’s good, being with Aziraphale like this. He’s able to focus on him instead of on himself, and that’s appreciated these days.  

Crowley’s tired existence is able to find sleep like this, wrapped up in Aziraphale, and that’s appreciated, too.  He can dream if he wants to, and he used to quite a bit- small indulgences that he couldn’t allow himself in the waking hours, like walks through his favorite cities hand in hand with his favorite angel.  But now he has his favorite angel all to himself for real, so he doesn’t generally bother.

Tonight, though…

Crowley is in heaven.  Crowley is in heaven as it was before his Fall, which is much the same as it was the last time he was there.  Heaven is unchanging. That’s part of how you know it’s heaven; it’s perfect so it doesn’t ever need to grow.  

There is a place that he didn’t get to go the last time he was in heaven.  God’s inner sanctum, from whence She makes her decrees. He’s dressed in the stark white uniform of heaven, boing and plain, with his long hair in the loose plait he used to wear it in.  

“You Have Been Asking Questions.”

“Yes!  There’s so much in your creation that I want to know.”

Crowley stares up into her Loveliness with a gentle smile on his face.  This part hasn’t changed. He had assumed that this was a good thing. That he would have answers and joy.  

But this time-

This is where he was offered his Choice.  shut up or Fall. As if there was an actual option.

He’s relived that moment an uncountable number of times.  He’s reimagined it countless times. Smoothed out the edges, so he wasn’t scared, so his voice didn’t tremble and his hands didn’t shake, so he didn’t scream in agony as God pushed him out the metaphoric window, so he didn’t lay, shivering and desolate, in the sulfur pit of hell and beg her to take him back.  So he was brave. So he stood up to the awful tyrant and never looked back.  

But this time-

“That’s So Wonderful, My Darling.  I See The Bright Spark Of Creation In You, And I Know That I Have Done Good.”

“Your creation is lovely!  I love the stars, especially.  Their shimmering, their majesty...”

And this fantasy can’t last any longer than this, because when he thinks about the loveliness of creation, he thinks of Aziraphale.  Aziraphale, who he has loved for nearly as long as humanity has existed. Aziraphale and his stuffy books and determination to do pitiful human magic tricks and his love of food and his incredible love in general.  

Aziraphale, who is so brave.

Aziraphale, who was abused by  heaven for so long and treated so poorly by god’s agents when all he wanted to do was save everyone.

You’re supposed to love god before all else, but Crowley could never love anyone so cruel.  Certainly not more than he loves Aziraphale. And Aziraphale has never demanded his love; Crowley has always been able to give it freely.

Why is some part of him searching for acceptance from this cruel being?  Given the choice between Aziraphale and god, it’s no contest.

Crowley realizes that he’s no longer asleep.  He’s still curled up around Aziraphale, still holding him firmly.  

Aziraphale has turned, though, so he’s facing Crowley.  He’s running gentle fingers through his hair, down his neck and vertebrae.  His fingers linger at the base of his spine, stroking softly.

  Crowley can’t see his expression; it’s dark in their bedroom and he’s still wearing his sunglasses.  He can imagine it, though, because he’s seen the way that Aziraphale looked at him, and he’s memorized each expression.

“I know that you’re going through something right now, my love,” Aziraphale’s voice is barely a breath.  “Whatever it is, I’ll be here for you during it and I’ll be here for you after it.”

Crowley nods, just barely.  He knows that. He believes in Aziraphale.  

He’s always believed in Aziraphale.

Crowley stands in his garden.  The lily that Aziraphale sent him is looking, if anything, worse than before, and the other plants are on the decline, as well.  

Maybe.

(And this is an uncomfortable thought)

Maybe living things shouldn’t be ruled by fear.  Maybe treating things that way is bad.  

Well.

Well .

Crowley walks out of his garden.

But, of course, his plants need tending.  And Crowley won’t abandon the things that he’s responsible for.  

So he goes back.  He’s careful as he waters and tends.  His hands feel like they’re not quite his and his breath catches just so in his throat, like if he’s not careful the whole process will be irrevocably screwed up.   

The plants are shaking as he works, and he realizes that that feels bad.  He doesn’t relish in fear, not really. Sure, it was useful to present himself that way; after all, if he wasn’t doing his demonic duty, then he’d be sent back to hell or destroyed.  

But it doesn’t feel good. 

Well.

“You’re doing,” Crowley’s voice catches in his throat.  “You’re trying. That’s. That’s something.”

His voice sounds pitiful, even to his ears.  

The plants shake a little less.

Crowley lays out under the stars.  They’re beautiful. He helped weave a lot of them into being, and that was good.  He made such beautiful things at the behest of the Almighty.  

Maybe that’s why it’s so hard.  Because it wasn’t all terrible. Because he can’t shove it all into a mental box labelled “bad.”  

The bristling energy of a star, just as he’s coaxing it to shine, burning bright between his hands as he finds the perfect spot for it.  The care with which he placed and named each one, drawing patterns and doodles across the sky. Nobody asked him to turn it into artwork, but he did because it was so achingly beautiful..  It was truly glorious in a way few things actually are.

“Maybe it wasn’t all bad, but that doesn’t mean it was all good,” Crowley says aloud.  “That doesn’t mean that it was all right.”

His heart thuds in his chest, hard.  Saying things aloud is what got him in trouble in the first place.  It wouldn’t be below the Almighty to smite him down right here as he’s right on the cusp of something that sure does feel important.

But he doesn’t cease to exist.  His hair is long again because he wants it to be, so he can braid it.  The steady rhythm is soothing and he feels nearly at peace.  

When he runs out of hair, it’s unbraided, so he can start up at the beginning.  A third time through, and when he’s done, he’s content to lay there as he stares up at the sky.  He finds himself napping peacefully, and if the night lasts a big longer before turning to day, well, Aziraphale thinks that it’s what his Crowley deserves.

Crowley wakes up feeling surprisingly well rested.  The nice thing about barely having a spine is that he can lay on the roof like this all night and hardly feel a twinge, not even a bit of stiffness that needs to be thought away.

His hair is still long, although not quite as long as the night before.  Just down his back a bit, now. The braid stays put even without anything to tie it up with, and Crowley shakes his head a bit to get used to the new-old weight.

The plant he brought up here the day before is sitting, lonely, right where he left it.  The spot is widening, but maybe that’s okay.  

“You’re trying.  That’s more than enough.  That’s good,” Crowley says, getting up and moving closer to it.  

The words feel strange in his mouth.  He takes off his sunglasses and says it again.  

Better.  

His hair is no longer in a braid, but falling freely around his shoulders.  Possessed by a sudden energy, he goes down to the greenhouse.  

“You’re all going to have a new home.  A better home. And, uh,” Crowley makes one of those incomprehensible noises that he makes sometimes, “no more yelling.  No more threats. It’s going to be better.”

They don’t seem to trust him, still shaking as he picks them up one by one.  It’d be easier to miracle them upstairs, but he’d rather do it the old fashioned way (or is it the newer way, since angels and demons came before humans?  Either way).  

He finds good places for each one, murmuring stilted words of encouragement to them all.  The words don’t feel natural, not yet, but they’re getting there.

The last one he brings upstairs is the lily that he got from Aziraphale that started this all.   He cradles it against his chest, nearly dropping it when he runs across Aziraphale on their landing.

"Are you…?" Aziraphale's face twists unpleasantly at the sight of the lily in his arms, but then he takes in the rest of him and he looks tentatively hopeful.  "Are you feeling a bit better, my dear?"

"I think maybe," Crowley says.  "I think I figured out what you were talking about."

Aziraphale cups his cheek with a gentle hand, looking far too innocent to actually be innocent.  "I'm glad I could encourage you to be a bit kinder towards your plants."

Crowley leans against his hand, nearly melting when Aziraphale cards his fingers through his hair.  He definitely should’ve grown his hair out longer before now.  

“Kind is a four letter word,” Crowley says, no bite at all in his voice.  “‘m not kind.”

“What did that even mean?” Aziraphale says.  “The whole four letter word thing? Fuck is a four letter word, too.  So’s dick.”

Crowley shrugs.  “No idea.” There’s a brief pause.  “I’ve never told you much about falling, have I?”

It can be a lowercase now, maybe.  He can make it one.

Aziraphale stiffens, just a bit.  Not like he’s upset or angry. Like he wants to be careful with this offering, and Crowley appreciates it because his heart is suddenly hammering hard again.

“Just that you didn’t really fall.  Just sauntered vaguely downwards,” Aziraphale says slowly.  “Quite cool of you.”

Crowley’s instinct is to look away from Aziraphale’s loving gaze.  Aziraphale loves him so much and it’s written so loudly on his face that it’s a wonder that they never got caught before the world almost ended.  But Crowley pushes through his instinct because Aziraphale loves him so much and it’s written loudly enough on his face that Crowley wants to be better than he is, to maybe, just almost, be worth it.  

“I wanted to be that cool and that composed.  Wanted it to not be something that affected me, because of how much it did.  It was definitely not my coolest moment,” Crowley says. He realizes that his hands are shaking as they grip the flowerpot only when Aziraphale steadies him by resting his hands on his.  Crowley flashes a quick smile on impulse. “I was mostly just scared. I’m not ready to tell you about it quite yet, but I will be. If you’d want to hear it.”

Aziraphale nods slowly, standing up on his tip toes so he can kiss Crowley’s forehead.  “When you’re ready, I’m here.”

“Thank you,” Crowley says.  He tilts a bit so he’s nestled against Aziraphale’s soft body, and Aziraphale slips an arm around him automatically, keeping him secure and safe.  “Come up and see my new garden. I, uh, did a little remodelling.”

“I noticed,” Aziraphale says, steering him towards the new staircase.  “I quite like it.”

They make their way silently, Aziraphale’s thumb playing with the smidge of skin between Crowley’s shirt and pants.  When they make it to the top of the stairs, there's a strange thrill of nervousness in Crowley's gut.  

Sure, Aziraphale won't mind his plants' imperfections; he never has before.  But still, it's something that Crowley expects from himself. None of it makes any sense, and Crowley hates that.  

"Are you sure that you're alright with me coming inside?  You seem… upset," Aziraphale asks when Crowley puts his hand on the doorknob.  

Crowley wants to be good enough, together enough to shrug it off and welcome him in.  He's not.  

"I'll be downstairs in a bit?" Crowley asks, an apology.  "I'm almost through up here anyways."

Aziraphale leans up for a gentle kiss on his lips, reassurance that no apology is needed. 

They continue on like normal after that.  Days in and days out with Crowley tending to his plants and Aziraphale tending to his shop.  

One day, Crowley brings Aziraphale a bouquet of homegrown flowers, and Aziraphale blushes and preens as he takes the bundle from him.  

"They're lovely," Aziraphale says, careful in a way that's tender instead of patronizing.  "Thank you, Crowley."

And the next day when Crowley visits Aziraphale in the shop and sees them sitting on the sill along with the petunias, he's able to smile with pride.  

His voice shakes less and the words he says to his plants are actually nice.  It still feels new and tender, like if he says the wrong thing or if his thoughts wander down the wrong trail, his progress will shatter and he’ll have to start at the beginning.  He really doesn’t want to start back at the beginning.

The plants respond to his gentler side by continuing to grow, better than before.  It’s a completely unintended side effect, but it seems like when given the chance to grow past their first mistake, they have the potential to be quite lovely.  

And, sure, they still have spots or buds that don’t quite come in right, but there’s more to them than that.  They still survive and grow and thrive anyway, and isn’t that what Crowley loves about humanity?  Isn’t that admirable, instead of something to scorn?

Even the lily that Aziraphale gave him, that twisted and dying thing, has rebounded.  The flowery bells are coming in nicely, and the dead bits have been replaced with verdant leaves.  It’s growth.

It’s good.

Months pass, and one bright and shining afternoon, Crowley looks around his garden and realizes that he feels content.  

There is one more thing he has to do before he can put this to rest.

Crowley walks downstairs, leaning in the doorway of the sitting room where Aziraphale is reading.  He’s sitting there, head tilted just so and chewing on his bottom lip absently, and Crowley watches him for a long moment that stretches to hours, a bit overwhelmed with how much he loves his angel.

Aziraphale stirs and looks up at him, blinking to help his eyes focus.  

“How long have you been standing there?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley realizes that it’s getting dark now.  Ah, well, so much the better.  

“Not long,” Crowley says.  “Are you at a good stopping place?  I’d like to show you what I’ve been working on upstairs.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says warmly.  

Crowley takes his hand and leads him upstairs.  There’s no hesitation this time as he opens the door to his rooftop garden.  There are soft lights tangled in his plants that he just decided existed on the way up here, and the effect is even better than he had hoped.  

Aziraphale gives an appreciative gasp, and Crowley looks over to see him looking wide eyed around the garden.  There’s a smile on his angel’s face as he steps forward, still holding Crowley’s hand, and reaches out to touch one of the blooms on the lily he gave Crowley.

“Crowley, you’ve done incredible work.  This is gorgeous- all of it is,” Aziraphale says, walking slowly along the garden rows.  “It reminds me of where we met.”

“Eden?” Crowley asks, a bit startled at the comparison.  

“But better,” Aziraphale decides, “because of all of the love here; I can feel so much of it.  Oh, Crowley, I love this feeling!”

Crowley can feel himself blushing at the comparison and the praise that Aziraphale is lavishing him with.  The bastard knows just how to get to him.  

“That’s not the only reason why I brought you up here,” Crowley says when they’ve thoroughly explored the garden.  “I have a story I’d like to tell you. About an angel who asked a lot of questions.”

Aziraphale inhales sharply and nods.   

"I'd love to hear your story, my dearest," Aziraphale says.  

There's a pile of soft pillows in the center of the garden, and Crowley doesn’t know which of them willed them into existence.  It doesn’t matter as they settle down together, Crowley’s head cradled in Aziraphale’s lap.  

Aziraphale cards his fingers through Crowley’s still long hair as Crowley stares up at the sky.  He can name each star, and he remembers which ones he put into place and every planet he sent spinning around them.  Oh, sometimes his heart does miss that, does miss the great cosmic dance.

Crowley takes a long moment to compose himself, full of sudden nerves.  He’s not worried that Aziraphale will judge him or cast him out. Every day, Crowley thinks that he’s discovered the depths of Aziraphale’s love, and every day, Aziraphale proves him wrong.  If he can get past the falling, he’s not likely to be upset over the specifics.

No, Crowley is nervous because this matters .  He’s never talked about this to anyone before, but he wants to do it right.  He wants to make sure that he says the right words, to make sure that he’s understood and clear.  To make sure he knows how it happens. To slot it all into place.

“I was excited, actually, that day.  I really thought it was going to be lovely, going before god in all of her splendor,” Crowley begins.  “I had so many questions and I thought that we could chat. That there were answers that she’d be happy to give.  I was so…”

Crowley’s breath catches in his throat, hard, and he’s suddenly staring wide up at the stars above them.  He’s staring past the stars to the throne room of the almighty.  The bright white light is nearly blinding in its intensity, but he stared into it anyway because it was his god it was his creator it was his purpose it was his mother it was the point of all existence and if it hurt, well, that’s worth it to bathe in heavenly light.  

He’s eased out of his revere by Aziraphale’s hand brushing his cheek and his gentle voice murmuring, with wonder, “You were full of hope .”

And Crowley shifts his focus to Aziraphale’s loving, open gaze, and he remembers that love doesn’t have to hurt.  It doesn’t have to burn; it can be the balm instead.

“I was full of so much hope,” Crowley agrees with a heavy sigh.  

And he begins to recount every last detail of his fall.  He tells him about realizing that god didn’t want to answer him and about the choiceless choice that he was given.  How god said he could stay in heaven, but only if he stopped with his questions. About how his voice shook when he said he couldn’t stop .  He needed to know, and he couldn’t promise the almighty that he’d stop, didn’t know how to be quiet and smaller.  Didn’t want to lie.

His voice shakes and grows tired, but he doesn’t stop.  He can’t stop as he tells Aziraphale about turning and walking out of the pearly gates and how wanted to fly off into the stars, where it was so beautiful, but then he would be so alone.  And then god decided for him and gave him that shove and he fell .  

Crowley almost stops when he reaches the falling, but he pushes on.  Through the surprise, the fear, the sense of tearing somewhere inside.  How when he landed in the pits of hell, Crowley cried out for mercy, and how he just cried because there was no part of him that wasn’t in agony, including the space in his chest where he used to feel the love of god within him.  

He was agony and he was empty, which was a kind of agony all its own.  

There’s a dampness on Crowley’s face, and he realizes that Aziraphale is crying.  It’s a wonder it doesn’t burn, holy as Aziraphale is (especially to Crowley), but it’s grounding as he starts to talk about his doubt.  How all he wanted was to feel that warmth and that safety again, and how he tried to pray, laying in that sulfur pit so battered and broken.  Prayed for forgiveness, prayed for the ability to be quiet, prayed to be made whole again, wondered for millenia whether or not he should’ve stayed and whether this was all his fault.  

(What inside of him made it so easy for god to throw him away)

(He can tell Aziraphale almost has something to say when he says that, sees it in the taught lines of his frown and in how his hands are no longer touching Crowley; there’s a thud of a fist meeting the concrete beneath him instead)

And then, eventually, he had to pull himself out of the pit and figure out how he could best be a demon, now that he was one.  If that was the mercy of the good and loving god above, Crowley knew that he wouldn’t survive retribution if he upset Lucifer.

He can say all of these things, all of these horrible things, because he’s staring up into Aziraphale’s loving face.  Because Aziraphale has had the patience to help him heal and gave him the space to organize his feelings into something coherent.  

So he says: I, uh, don’t really know how to end this story.  But I prayed for warmth and I prayed to feel that love again, and I shouldn’t’ve prayed to god for that.  Because god never showed me real warmth or real love. I just didn’t know that yet because I hadn’t met you yet, Aziraphale.  

“You had love inside you all along, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice catches in his throat a bit.  This is the first time he’s talked in a while. “Practically bursting with it, I’d say.”

Crowley inhales deeply, feeling the air fill his lungs, and tilts his head to look around.  His gaze runs along the beautiful stars in the sky to the beautiful plants that he’s been tending to with love, lit up by little stars of their own.  Beyond them, he can see the lights of London, twinkling brightly.  

And then back to his angel.  

“Yeah, maybe, but just…. thank you for helping me repair what god broke,” Crowley says, courageous from this long stretch of vulnerability.  He reaches blindly for Aziraphale’s hand, holding it in two hands over his sternum when he’s found it. “For filling those empty spaces. You’ve been doing it for a long time.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are wide at his words, mouth a perfect circle.  The hand in Crowleys’ twitches and the fingers scrape lightly against the thin fabric of Crowley’s tunic.  He seems to be taking a while to compose a response to that, but Crowley doesn’t mind.  

“I treasure your trust, Crowley, and your love, and I can’t even say how wonderful it is to see you less upset, to see you healing and getting better,” Aziraphale finally says.  “That I had any part in that is beyond words.”

Crowley just beams at him, shot through with the most brilliant bolt of joy.  It may have been a painful struggle to get here, but he’s made some sort of peace with himself and with his fall. 

There’s no justifying what god did to him, and he can see that now, because there was no justifying how Aziraphale was treated either.  If his choiceless-choice to fall brought him here, he can at least be content that it at least brought him to the greatest joy imaginable.

Crowley sits up, cupping Aziraphale’s cheek tenderly.  He lingers for a long moment, just admiring him. Six thousand years of this face, and Crowley finds new things to love each day.  Beautiful. Brilliant.  

He presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s lips, which open to welcome him eagerly.  It’s gentle and slow, and Crowley revels in being in the presence of his beloved, freer than ever now that he’s not holding any part of himself back.

They spend the night under the stars together, wind whistling gently through the leaves of the garden.  It feels like coming home at long last.