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The meadow was Aziraphale's favourite place. He often came here, to rest on the fragrant grass. Enjoy the distant rumble of the waterfall and his scrolls.
It wasn't that he particularly enjoyed being outdoors. It was beautiful, yes, and the flowers which would always grow around his form whenever he was too deep in thought, they were the most luscious flowers one would ever see. And given this was Aziraphale's special place, well, they were everywhere.
But anywhere was better than home, with his noisy family and his mother, Zeus, his mother. Aziraphale would have dug himself a hole to the Underworld if it only meant escaping her controlling gaze for even a moment.
Which, well...
"What is a sweet thing like you doing all alone?"
Aziraphale turned towards the sound of the voice and felt his heart stutter. It wasn't fear. His gifts might have been useless in a fight, but he was a god, nonetheless. No mere mortal could scare him.
A man, but it couldn't have been a man, for Aziraphale could feel something mythical, something just like himself, inside the person before him. But the figure, lazily leaning against a tree, it did not scare him. He was trying to, the sharpness of his teeth, the gleam in unnaturally slitted eyes, every muscle of his lean body as if posing to strike.
But the reason Aziraphale could feel his heart beat a tad bit faster and his breath come ever so slower was different. And more dangerous, altogether.
He willed himself to smile, head cocking to one side. It wasn't one of his usual smiles but there was no way for the newcomer to know this. Yet, Aziraphale could see the grin stretching thin lips darken, ever so slightly.
"No mortal would be foolish enough to attack me," he replied finally, not really answering the question. There was a certain danger to that, going around answering random creatures' questions.
"Ah," the other mocked, light and airy, as he slowly stalked forward. There was something earthy in the way his body swayed, like a vine in the wind, something so terribly alluring and Aziraphale caught himself staring despite himself. Lucky for him, the creature was looking at the meadow now, at the flowers blooming every-which way, roses next to tulips next to dandelions, all struggling for warmth and affection.
There was a metaphor there somewhere. Aziraphale had tried so hard not to see it for a while now.
"What about something else?" The not-man turned to him sharply, pinning him down with the force of his chrysanthemum eyes. And what a strange analogy that was. Trust Aziraphale's brain to try to translate the world around him in the language of flowers.
It took him a moment to hear the threat behind the words, even less to hear the tease, buried even deeper. He laughed, head thrown back against the bark of the tree.
"That, my dear, would certainly be a most unpleasant way to start a friendship."
Aziraphale looked up, just in time to catch the mint twisting in the sharp edges of the creature's face. That... that was unexpected. The god had never had anyone be suspicious of him. It should have left a giddy feeling in his stomach, someone finally overlooking the softness in his features and the flowers below his feet. But his insides were too busy for that, twisting at the prospect of this unknown stranger having any negative feeling towards him.
Before he could do something, maybe reach a hand and try to soothe the other, like he had so many times before, but with mortals, and he had yet to know who this person was. Before he could do anything, the creature was smiling, slithering even closer and there was nothing threatening in the way he moved now.
"What would be the best way then?" the creature asked, sycamore-sweet. "To start a friendship?"
Aziraphale tilted his head, momentarily lost in thought. He didn't have many friends. None that were not in any way related to him, in fact. And, oh, his mother would most probably lose her mind if she knew he was talking to a stranger.
He smiled, shifting to make space for the stranger to sit beside him. Space the other occupied momentarily, folding himself in ways that did not speak of mortal joints and yet, even so close, he was so careful not to touch Aziraphale.
The young god didn't know why that bothered him so.
"I'd reckon with a name," he replied finally, when the distraction that was another body so close to his own, receded.
"Crowley."
The creature, Crowley, bowed his head, outstretching his hands and waving them slightly in a manner the god had never seen in his life. It didn't fail to make him laugh, that and the grin, stretching the stranger's thin lips.
"Aziraphale," the god managed between chuckles. He offered his hand, he had seen the mortals shake them, a curious new trend, and he did not want to appear old fashioned.
It would not have been ideal, he reasoned, for the stranger to find out he still preferred his scrolls made from animal skin than the more modern papyrus. But it seemed trite now, the age-old debate he always seemed to be having with himself about the perks of using old fashioned scrolls. Not when long fingers wrapped around his hand and soft lips laid a chaste kiss on top of it. When Crowley, the stranger that made his heart dance to an invisible melody, was smiling at him oh so prettily.
Far away, in a very distant corner of the meadow, previously devoid of all life, a gardenia bloomed.
And the rest, as they say, was a myth.
It took way too long for Aziraphale to find out exactly what Crowley was. It shouldn't have been so hard. There were, of course, the more obvious signs. The other's eyes, and his too sharp smile. The way his spider fingers would sometimes look too long, too pointed. The scales Aziraphale had spied at the base of the other's neck, that curious day when Crowley had decided to wear his hair up in a ribbon.
It still left too many options. His friend could have been a strange creature he had never heard of, or he could have been cursed. Of course, he could have also been a god. There was something about him, in the way he talked sometimes, like he was used to being heard, listened to. Aziraphale was unfamiliar with how that felt, which was why it was so easy for him to see it in others.
But Crowley would not tell him. And no amount of begging and sly questions and flower-bribing would work on him. He would chuckle and snap his fingers and the flower would be gone and yet, Aziraphale would have nothing more than a smile in return.
It wasn't exactly an unfair deal, not that he would ever admit this to Crowley.
So Aziraphale decided to be direct.
"Are you a Gorgon?" he asked on an otherwise unremarkable morning. He had just made a valiant attempt to learn about his friend's past only to end up talking about his own for the last half an hour.
The effect was immediate. Crowley was spluttering, hands waving in every direction while Aziraphale tried hard not to trip over himself in his laughter.
It served the wily creature right.
"A Gorgon?!" The shriek that came out of the other sounded as if the god had called him a lowly nymph. "What the bloody fuck, petal? How did you even? A Gorgon?" Crowley gestured to his flaming locks, which looked very much like hair at this moment. "Where do you see snakes? Or any women bits for that mater?"
Aziraphale held up a finger, brows furrowing. "I will have you know I met a fascinating male Gorgon just last month."
"Oh, did you now? A fassscinating Gorgon?" Crowley was mocking now, voice raising and snake-like. Aziraphale almost pointed out he was not helping his case by hissing, but managed to bite his tongue. There was a rather lovely flush, climbing on his friend's cheeks and he'd really rather see how long the other's monologue could last.
It turned out- a very long while. Which Aziraphale knew he needed to end right after what should have been an unremarkable albeit a tad hysterical question of whether Crowley had ever turned the young god into stone with his stare. And Aziraphale really did not want to answer this.
"Then what are you, my dear?" he snapped finally, cutting a rant about, of all things, a lolling tongue?
Crowley sighed, hand pressing at his face. Whatever he was, it looked he would rather tell Aziraphale than let the young god believe he was a Gorgon. Which should have been frightening, but was, instead, honestly exciting.
"Promise you won't freak out?" his friend finally mumbled, barely audible from the hand still pressed against his mouth.
Aziraphale hurried to nod, before he realised the other couldn't see him.
"I would never mind what you are." And then he added, because he was a bastard and because the flush on Crowley 's cheeks was receding and he had been rather fond of it,"Even if it turns out you are a Gorgon."
A groan from the other and a light chuckle from Aziraphale later, and Crowley was snapping his fingers. The meadow around them disappeared, bright colours dimming until there was nothing but grey. Grey and stone, tall walls around them both.
Aziraphale could feel his friend's eyes on himself, could taste the anticipation in the air. He looked around, but there was nothing to see.
"It's nice," he managed finally. And then he added, because his mother had raised a polite god, "It's very roomy? Is it your lair?"
Before Crowley could even respond, that is, say anything other than the groans his vocabulary had been apparently reduced to, Aziraphale spied a corridor to his left. And made a bee-line towards it.
"No, Aziraphale," Crowley tried to stop him, but it was too late.
The young god had just seen the most beautiful flowers he had ever laid eyes on, in his life. And much to Crowley's horror, he would not stop saying it.
So Crowley was a god. That should not have been a surprise. Aziraphale almost felt silly that he hadn't guessed it the first time.
What he was a god of, that had been less obvious. While, yes, Crowley had a flare for the dramatics, and the only colour Aziraphale had ever seen on him was the flames of his hair but... The Underworld? The scariest, bleakest place in the whole of existence? And his friend was the god of it?
The same friend that would bring Aziraphale food from distant countries, who would spend hours with him talking about poetry? Who would come to the pond with him and stand guard when Aziraphale wanted to dip into the cool water, because sometimes Crowley was worse than his mother and that was saying something. That friend?!
Obviously, Crowley had expected things to change. It was clear in the way he stared at the other god, marigold shining in his eyes, teeth eating at the tender of his lips.
It had changed things. For one, Aziraphale now knew there was nothing the other could refuse him. The god was too young still, his powers- useless. But Crowley was powerful, and more than that, Crowley loved spoiling him. Not that Aziraphale took advantage, much. But, oh, if suddenly there were a few more picnics shared between the two or if Aziraphale found himself trying the most exotic of dishes... Well, where was the harm, really?
Crowley was happy and Aziraphale, well, at least, he had some excitement back in his life.
Which led him to the other thing he was desperate to change. For no matter how much he hinted and asked and straight-up begged, Crowley would not, under any circumstances, let him leave the meadow.
"It's too dangerous, petal. I wouldn't have my powers there," he said, unusually gentle, on a day when Aziraphale had been more stubborn than normal.
His words made the young god freeze, thoughts of distant countries and foreign men replaced by something equally unfamiliar. Except that it wasn't, was it? He had heard it before, hadn't he?
"Petal?" he still asked, as if the endearment was not ringing in his brain, heating up his body.
Crowley flushed and made a sound that sounded like a word, if 'mmyeahohwellyeah' was a word. He then waved his hand and they found themselves in the Underworld.
It did sound like a compromise. A foreign place where Crowley could still be next to him, his powers intact and ready to protect him. Not that Aziraphale would ever comment on the last part of the unspoken promise.
And Crowley still called him that sweet word. All in all, Aziraphale couldn't complain
Aziraphale definitely could complain.
Don't get him wrong, he absolutely loved the Underworld. It was peaceful and quiet, always that perfect temperature that was made for curling under a blanket with a scroll in your hands. And he was allowed to decorate Crowley's palace.
Well, not so much allowed as never explicitly told not to. So what if Crowley would come home after having to suddenly disappear on some god business and there would be a few more trinkets laying around on shelves that definitely had also not been there when he had left. He didn't even say anything, and would roll his eyes only at the most colourful of Aziraphale's selections.
Crowley also had a pet snake. A most beautiful red bellied black snake by the name of Cerberus that loved to curl around Aziraphale whenever he would sit down with a scroll. Not to mention Crowley's flowers. Oh, they were marvelous and Aziraphale knew flowers. He could stand next to them for hours, simply whispering praise and listening to the rustle of their leaves. Something Crowley did not like in particular but as it was with all things, he never outright forbid the young god, so Aziraphale never really stopped.
So, yes, Aziraphale felt at home in the Underworld. Even more, he felt better than at home. He felt like one was supposed to feel when at home. But there was only one problem.
It wasn't a small problem.
Aziraphale was not allowed to eat in the Underworld. He just... wasn't. And yes, Crowley was usually overbearing and way too protective, not that Aziraphale ever minded. But he was also reasonable and he never asked something of the young god without explaining his reasoning.
Except... this.
And it wouldn't have been a problem, not really. But there was a table, in the centre of Crowley's throne room and it was always heaving under the weight of morsel upon morsel of the most delicious food. Everything Aziraphale could have imagined, numerous things he had only read about in his scrolls. All there, all just for him.
Except the first time he reached for a plate, Crowley outright slapped it out of his hands. And he would have felt offended, he might have even pouted a little bit, but his friend was slamming him against a wall, panic wild in his eyes.
"Do not, ever, touch any of this food," Crowley growled. Their bodies pressed so close, Aziraphale could feel the wild beat of his heart, the shortness of his warm breath. It was almost endearing, the way his best friend, the god that would save drowning flies from the pond when he thought no one could see, was trying to pretend he was scary, all of a sudden.
Aziraphale laughed. It appeared it was the wrong thing to do.
"I'm a god," Crowley hissed, long, sharp teeth on display. Aziraphale wanted to shut his mouth. With his lips. The thought crossed his mind so suddenly and was shaken off even faster.
"So am I, my dear," instead, Aziraphale replied good-naturedly, patting the hands curled around his robes. And that was that. And then again, not.
It wasn't that Aziraphale needed to eat. He was a god, he could choose not to. And it wasn't even that Crowley didn't feed him. Whenever the day drew to an end, Crowley would snap them back in the familiar meadow and they would dine together, laughing under the stars. Aziraphale always looked forward to that.
But it was all rather pointless, wasn't it? Going outside just to eat. As if there wasn't perfectly good, delectable even, food, in here?
Months later, Aziraphale decided that he could no longer stand it. The days spent with Crowley were longer now, and far more frequent. It had come to the point when he was spending more time with the other god than alone and it was getting ridiculous to have to wait for Crowley to transport them somewhere else so he could eat.
His stomach rumbled and Crowley looked up, hands already lifting to snap them back to the meadow and Aziraphale. Had. Had. Enough.
He slammed his scroll on the ground, making poor Cerberus jump from his place in the corner and upon a brief consideration, slither quickly away.
"I have had enough, Crowley," Aziraphale snapped and he knew any other time the other would have snickered at the young god's outburst. But he hadn't used his friend's name in so very long and Crowley could probably see something on his face, something he did not like, because he was jumping on his feet and hurrying towards Aziraphale.
And then he was wrapping his arms around him, and it would have been enough to calm the spring god. It had been enough so many times, but not today. No, today, Aziraphale was taking a stand. Today, Aziraphale was eating here, damn it.
"You can't," Crowley almost sounded pained about it. He was shaking, ever so slightly, pressing the other against his chest as if Aziraphale was planning on turning into mist and disappearing into the air. "You can't, petal. I'm sorry but you can't."
"Well, why the bloody Underworld, not?" Aziraphale growled. Had it not been so long, and the rage inside him so seething, he would have taken pity on his friend. But it was too late now. "And do not tell me it would kill me because I have seen you eat, Crowley. I have seen many others eat. Just not me."
Finally, Aziraphale managed to disentangle himself from the other, scowling at the panic in the god's eyes.
"What is so special about this food that I am the only one who is not allowed to eat it?"
Somehow, the fact Aziraphale was no longer in his arms managed to snap his friend back to the present and put a stop to the mantra of, "You can't," flowing from his mouth.
"You don't want this, okay?"
"Please, let me decide what I want, Crowley."
Cyclamen-bright, Crowley's sorrow flared before crumbling in a heap of despair and resignation. The god's shoulders sagged, all the breath leaving his lungs as if at once.
"You will be bound here. If you eat anything from the Underworld, you would never be allowed to leave," Crowley whispered, voice altogether too soft and yet too hoarse.
"Oh," was the only thing Aziraphale could reply. And then the other was looking at him and that must have been the worst thing. The understanding in Crowley's eyes, the utter lack of any anger, any resentment, any blame. Crowley was looking at him as if he understood and he really, really didn't. But it was enough to ignite the leftover spark of rage inside Aziraphale's chest and before the spring god could even think, he was marching towards the table and grabbing the first thing he could- a handful of pomegranate seeds. He couldn't remember how many times he had stared at them, the bright of their red, and wished he could do what he was about to.
Without a second thought, he popped them in his mouth. Felt their juice run down his throat.
In the corner, a jasmine shrub cracked the stone floor and bloomed.
Crowley was at his side instantaneously.
"Aziraphale, what did you do?" his voice was quiet, but it wouldn't last. It was growing in volume, shaking as it did, and Aziraphale could feel the panic rising like bile inside his friend. He rested a hand against the other's chest, trying to calm down the frantically beating heart, but the other slapped him away. "Why the fuck would you do that? Are you stupid? Are you deaf? You wouldn't be able to leave, do you understand that? You are stuck with me now."
Aziraphale was just about to retort that he was indeed neither stupid nor deaf and there was nothing that sounded more lovely than being 'stuck' with Crowley, when he looked around. Finally, he took in the throne room for the first time, in what seemed like millennia.
All around them, there were flowers. Some were old, numerous pear blossoms, like vines crawling across stone walls; purple lilac, the first symbol of love, was hanging from the ceiling. And then, more recently, rows of bellflowers lining the left wall; a bouquet of primroses, on the table.
And finally, the jasmine. Eternal love. Flowers were everything Aziraphale had ever known. Yet, when it was most important, he had failed to see.
"Have you noticed how many flowers there are around here, my darling."
It seemed not even the unusual endearment was enough to break Crowley from the spiral of panic he was slowly sinking into.
"Sod the bloody flowers, petal. Do you not understand what you have done?"
At least they were back to petal, now. Aziraphale hoped this meant Crowley would be ready to listen soon.
But he didn't want to wait. The realisation was glowing inside him, warm like the sun on the first day of spring and he wanted to, no, he had to. He had to share it.
He wrapped himself around the other god, stopping his incessant pacing, although Crowley did manage to move them a few feet before he realised there was now extra weight on top of him. Up close, Aziraphale could hear him mutter now, about spells and induced vomiting, and how many gods owed him a favour, maybe it was time to collect. It wasn't the way the spring god had imagined this going.
To be perfectly fair, he hadn't imagined it in any way. But for what it was worth, induced vomiting was the least romantic topic Crowley could start while here, Aziraphale was, trying to confess his love.
"My dear," he tried, gently but when nothing happened except that the monologue grew faster and even less intelligible, he snapped, "Crowley."
That seemed to do the trick. Crowley was staring at him, eyes wide and unseeing. Then arms were wrapping around him, holding him tight and it was perfect. Maybe Crow-
"I'll fix this, okay, petal? I'll fix this, don't worry," the other god whispered in his curls and it took actual effort for Aziraphale not to groan.
"I don't want you to fix it."
Crowley moved back, thankfully, still wrapped around the other, and looked at him. Shook his head as if that, somehow, would change Aziraphale's words.
"I want to be here." And just so he was sure Crowley would finally understand, he added, "With you."
It was, somehow, the wrong thing to say. Suddenly, the other god's breath was coming out so fast it sounded like he was hyperventilating and it was Aziraphale's turn to hold him now, too scared that if he let go, Crowley would end up on the floor.
"It must have messed with your mind. Oh, petal, I will fix it. I promise, I will fix this."
Aziraphale shook his head. This was starting to get a little too much and he was not a patient god. No, especially not now, when he knew he could be spending his time so much better, once Crowley was finished with his freak-out.
Desperate, he pressed the other closer and crashed their mouths together. It was pleasant, Crowley was warm and soft and Aziraphale would have enjoyed the experience so much more, had the other god not frozen like a Gorgon victim the moment their lips touched.
"Do you know the language of flowers?" Aziraphale asked the moment they separated, hopeful that the kiss had been enough of a shock to clear Crowley's mind for even a moment.
"What does-"
"Do you?"
Crowley scoffed, his hurt pride apparently enough to break him from his panic. "Of course I do. How long have we been friends?"
Aziraphale beamed, that warm feeling inside his chest as if illuminating from every pore of his body now. Oh, but they were so close. He could almost feel it.
"Then look around," he croaked, throat too tight with anticipation. "Look at the flowers that have been blossoming, underneath my feet for months. Look, my dear."
And so Crowley looked. And after a while he laughed. He laughed, body shaking against Aziraphale, forehead pressing against the other's shoulder. And through it all, the spring god just held him closer, relishing his warmth, the press of his body. Knowing it was his now. Knowing he was Crowley's.
Later, Crowley kissed him. It was just as magical as Aziraphale had thought it would be.
Much, much later, when the spring god finally allowed him to leave their palace, Crowley created a garden for him.
It was a beautiful garden and every day, a new flower would blossom.