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The sleek, modern flat is dimly lit by a few stray rays of sunshine coming in through the closed blinds. Crowley has pulled them down right after he’s hung up the phone. He doesn’t want to see the empty streets, the silent world outside. He doesn’t want to see anything or anyone.
Well, no. That’s not true.
He wants to see Aziraphale, but he can’t. They’re in lockdown, just like the rest of the country. And although they can’t get sick or even spread the virus, being occult (or ethereal) beings and all that, Aziraphale has made it clear that breaking the rules is not an option.
Crowley doesn’t care much about the rules, of course he doesn’t. But he cares about Aziraphale. Well, not cares about him, not like that… Errr, who’s he kidding? Of course, he does. Like that. Exactly like that, for thousands of years. Not that he’s ever said as much, but… the angel knows, right? He must.
Anyway. So, Crowley cares for Aziraphale. And for his opinion, his friendship, his… everything. So, if Aziraphale feels like he must play by the rules and keep his socially approved distance to set a good example, Crowley can’t help himself; he must do it as well. Otherwise, Aziraphale will be disappointed in him.
“And I can’t have that, now, can I?” Crowley sighs and looks around his flat for something to do. Something to occupy himself with for another short while before the utter boredom will set in again.
He’s said that he’s going to take a nap till it’s all over but… well, not quite yet. He won’t be able to sleep now anyway, not with the images of Aziraphale baking all sorts of cake fresh in his mind. The angel eating all sorts of cake and sweets…
I could hunker down at your place. Slither over and watch you eat cake… did I really say that? Bit much, innit? I hope he’s not offended, or, freaked out or anything. Though, dunno why he should be. I mean, it’s not like he isn’t used to it by now. It’s what I always do, isn’t it? Watch him eat, I mean, not the… anyway, there’s nothing wrong with it. He eats, I watch, that’s what we do. Perfectly normal. Or is it?
Crowley fists his hair and lets out a frustrated growl. See, that’s why he can’t go to sleep right now. Stupid thoughts running rampant in his head and nothing to distract him from it.
He looks around, desperate for something to do, and his snake-eyes, for once not hidden behind glasses because, hey, he’s home alone, no one to see them, they fall on the plant mister sitting on the counter, half-filled.
Right, that’s it. He hasn’t tended to his houseplants in a while. Almost a full day! And, they need to be spoken to before he has a nap anyway, don’t they? He needs to make sure they know what’s expected of them while he’s out. And, more importantly, what fate awaits them, should they not behave. He can’t have unruly houseplants, growing whichever way they want now, can he? No. Better make sure they know the drill.
Especially that little ivy arum that he hasn’t had that long. It doesn’t know its place yet. Only a few days ago Crowley has found it latching onto the passionflower to gain height. It had two or even three leaves fully entangled with the passionflower’s delicate buds before he discovered and put a stop to it. The nerve of that little plant! It’s not supposed to do that! The troublesome ivy is supposed to grow nice and straight up the string Crowley’s put along the wall just for this purpose. And not mingle with other plants.
Each of his houseplants has its own spot in the flat. That’s how it’s always been. There won’t be any mingling, any entwining whatsoever, thank you very much! Not on his watch! Never mind that some of them are climbing plants that can’t decide on their own which way to grow. He will show them! Even if he has to resort to drastic measures (like showing off the new plant clippers he bought the other day) he will show them.
Especially that ivy arum, that wily, unruly thing!
Crowley takes the plant mister to the sink and refills it. Then he roots around the drawer, knowing he has a bit of fertilizer left. Okay, not in the drawer. Hhm, maybe in the cabinet below. He crouches down and… ahh, there it is. Liquid fertilizer for indoor plants, just like he thought. He must have not used it in a while; the bottle is pushed way back behind other knick-knacks. Or, more likely, he has simply miracled the fertilizer into the plant mister without bothering to get it out of the cupboard.
Crowley grabs the small bottle and… there’s a knock on the door. He almost bangs his head on the cupboard in surprise.
He stands up swiftly, mouth open in shock. No one knocks on his door, ever! That is, okay, no… some people do. Very occasionally. There have been, in twenty years, exactly seven people knocking on his door. The caretaker, Mr. Wilson, who lives on the ground floor. The gas man, once or twice. And a few others. But…
Crowley frowns. Who would knock now? Everyone’s supposed to be at home.
There it is again, a second knock. More tentative than the first one, hesitant. Almost as if…
Can it be? Nah, it can’t. Or can it? Crowley feels something skip inside his chest. And no, it’s not his heart. His heart doesn’t do that sort of thing, not even if it is Aziraphale on the other side of the door.
Which it isn’t, it can’t be, because the angel is at home in his bookshop, baking cakes and reading and overall enjoying himself and not being miserable and lonely and…
There’s a third knock, followed by a soft “Hello?”
Crowley deflates visibly. Not Aziraphale then. Not that he’d hoped… well, anyway. It’s not the angel. The voice is female, and slightly familiar. Crowley sets the fertilizer aside, pulls his sun-glasses from his breast pocket and makes his way to the door.
On the other side, at a safe distance from the door and him, is a little old lady. “Oh, there you are,” she takes a small step closer. “Hello, dear.”
“Mrs. Edwards,” Crowley leans against the doorframe, head tilted to the side. “What…”
“Oh, shush, dear.” She tuts. “How many times have I told you to call me Tilda?”
“Sorry, Tilda.”
Mrs. Edwards, Tilda, lives in the flat below Crowley. They’ve met countless times in the elevator, and… he doesn’t know exactly how it happened – he doesn’t usually bother with humans all that much – but, well… they’ve chatted, and he has helped her carry her shopping bags inside when she’s asked, and she’s signed for deliveries for him a few times when he’s not at home and… well, they’re neighbours. She’s the Granny he never had (or thought he wanted – not until he met her, that is), and apparently, he’s the stand-in for her own wayward children that are all grown up and live far away.
Crowley doesn’t mind. It’s nice. Well, no, it’s not nice. He doesn’t do nice. He’s a demon. Not that Granny Tilda knows that, of course not. So, maybe it is nice… just a little bit. As long as nobody finds out. Especially not a certain angel…
“Errr, what was that?” Crowley has realized that Tilda has said something, only he has been wool-gathering. “Why are you…? What…?”
“I asked if you’re alright, dear.”
“Me? Sure, I’m alright. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, I haven’t seen you dashing about in a while. Usually, you’re in and out five times a day and, well, at first I thought, of course he’s not here, he’s with his young man surely…”
“My what?”
“Your young man, the nice one, you know, with the bookshop.”
“Oh,” Crowley’s mouth snaps shut. “Ngk…”
Tilda goes on like he hasn’t spoken. “Well, and then of course I noticed that your car’s been sitting on the curb for the whole time. And I thought to myself, what if he’s sick? What if he’s sick and alone and doesn’t have anyone taking care of him? No one should be all alone when he’s sick.”
“I’m not sick.” Crowley shakes his head. “I’m fine. Well, not fine exactly… who’s fine these days, eh? But… I’m not sick.”
“I can see that.” She smiles so widely that Crowley can see it despite the blue nose-and-mouth-mask she’s wearing. Her eyes crinkle just so. He smiles back; he can’t help it. He likes her. She’s all white hair, wrinkles, a soft middle, kind blue eyes and all that. And she smells of books and armchairs and biscuits and cocoa. And she wears tartan. How can he not like her when she wears tartan?
“So, is he here with you then?”
“Huh?”
“Your man, is he here?”
“Err, ah… no,” Crowley can’t control the way his face falls. Tilda tuts compassionately. “Oh, why ever not?”
“Everyone’s supposed to stay at home, right? So, he’s home, in his bookshop. Reading, and baking, and giving out cakes to burglars and…”
“What? Why would he do that?”
Crowley shrugs, hands in his pockets. “He’s an angel!”
Tilda takes a step towards him but then remembers to keep her distance. “Aww, you poor thing. I’d give you a hug if I could. You miss him terribly, don’t you?”
“Nothing I can do about it.” Crowley shrugs again, shifts his feet a little. There’s no denying it, he does miss his angel. And Tilda is the only person in the world to whom he’ll ever say as much.
“Oh, but why aren’t you with him then? Why are you here all alone and miserable, shouting abuse at your poor plants?” She throws a look past him into his hallway. He follows her gaze. A few of his houseplants are visible. Not the troublesome ivy arum though. Their place is around the corner.
Tilda looks at him again and suddenly, her face is stern. “I heard you the other day, you know, all the way down to my flat. And let me tell you this, young man. That is no way to talk to such wonderful plants as yours.”
“They weren’t wonderful then, believe me. One of them… misbehaved. I had to talk to it. Otherwise, how will it learn?”
“It’s a plant! It’s not supposed to learn. It’s supposed to grow, and spread, wide and green, and beautiful. It’s supposed to give you cause for joy, not to have you threaten it with clippers and rope!”
“B… but… err, but… it was… the stupid ivy, it was…”
“What? What did it do?” Tilda crosses her arms over her chest. She’s smiling, though. Crowley is almost sure of it. Well, that won’t do at all! He must make her understand that it’s no laughing matter. He gestures wildly with both hands, trying to show her what that plant did.
“It… it, you know… and then…” Seeing Tilda trying to suppress a grin, Crowley gives up. “Oh, come on in. I’ll show you. It’s probably doing it again, that…”
“Oh, no. I really shouldn’t. Social distancing, my dear.”
“Oh, what difference does it make if we’re talking here or ten feet over there?” He motions backward into his hall. “I’m not saying, make yourself at home with tea and biscuits. Although, if you’d like a cuppa…”
“No, no, dear. That would really be bending the rules a bit too much for my liking.”
“Nah, you’re right. Sure. But…” Crowley steps aside and sends a little demonic miracle her way to take care of the last of her doubts. It’s not that bad. There’s not a germ to be found in his flat, let alone that stupid disease, he’s made sure of that. And he can’t be spreading anything anyhow. And she’s wearing a face mask. There’s really nothing to it, if you think about it.
Crowley is just making extra sure that Tilda feels comfortable bending the rules a bit. No harm done.
“Alright, dear.” Tilda moves inside and closes the door. “Now, show me that terrible houseplant of yours that apparently deserves threats of cutting off or chaining up or whatever it is you shouted at the poor thing.”
Crowley leads the way, sauntering over to where he left the plant mister before he shows Tilda around the corner and right into the heart of his indoor garden.
“Oh, my…” she gasps, rooted to the spot, eyes wide in wonder. “Look at that! It’s magnificent!”
“No, it’s not.” Crowley has walked straight up to where he keeps the little ivy arum. “Oh, you… Look! Just look, Tilda! It’s doing it again! I knew it! This stupid little minx of a plant! Okay, that’s it. I’ve had it with you, you…”
“Anthony!”
Crowley swivels around in shock. Tilda has never called him that before. It’s always ‘dear’, or ‘dearie’, or even ‘honey’ on occasion. It’s never been Anthony before. And no matter that it’s not really his name - he’s made it up only a couple of decades ago after all, not that long, for someone who’s been around for millennia – it works.
All at once, Crowley feels like a berated schoolboy.
“But…” Mouth open like a fish, he gestures helplessly to the plant in question. “But… look at what it’s doing.”
“What is it… oh!” Tilda comes over. “How beautiful!”
“What? No, no! That’s not beautiful, that’s… mingling!”
Tilda nearly chokes on a laugh. She looks at the small branch of ivy he’s pointing to. It’s woven itself neatly between the leaves of a particularly low hanging part of the passionflower next to it. It even looks as if the passionflower bends a bit of an extra mile, maybe to make it easier for the small ivy. How sweet.
“They’re mingling!”
“Oh, honey, you say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is! Absolutely, utterly bad! Weeelll, not bad, not like… if it were bad, I couldn’t really complain, because… well, you know. No, you don’t. Right. But… anyway. That’s not the point. The point is… it’s not supposed to do that!”
“But you can’t control the way a plant grows, dearie.”
“Of course I can.”
“Oh, well. In small ways perhaps. Like, where to put it in a room, angle it towards the light and, yes, like what you tried here, with the string, providing a climbing help…”
“Exactly!” Crowley motions to the string he’s nailed to the wall. “It’s supposed to grow that way, up the wall, in as straight a line as possible. I don’t know what it’s thinking, branching off and just… jumping over to latch onto the passionflower. That’s not how we do things around here. See how it’s wound its way around the stem here? That’s…”
“Oh!”
“What?”
“My, haven’t you been a busy little bee!”
“What?”
Tilda has been inspecting the entwined branches of ivy and passionflower at a closer angle. She motions for him to come near.
“Would you look at that. They’ve merged!”
“What?” Crowley feels like a broken record. “What are you talking about? They can’t have.”
“But they did. Look! They’ve merged, grown together, almost indistinguishable. Looks like they want to become something new. A new species, it’s beautiful!”
Tilda is all smiles and enthusiasm. Crowley isn’t. Something doesn’t sit right with him. He has had a beautiful passionflower and a fairly new ivy arum. Two plants in two different spots. He has watered them, nurtured them, cared for them. He has expected them to climb, to grow, yes. To change, maybe, to a small extent. But not to mingle, not to throw in their lot together, different as they are. Not to become something completely new.
How can they? They weren’t made for such a thing, were they? They can’t!
There’s something awfully familiar about all this but… no! Not bloody likely. They’re houseplants! Crowley’s not gonna start comparing Aziraphale and himself to a bunch of ordinary houseplants.
Someone’s laughing; a rich female laugh. ‘Now you know how I feel’.
Crowley turns to Tilda. She doesn’t notice, and she’s definitely not the one laughing, busy as she is inspecting the new branch of… of… what’s he gonna call it? Passionivy? No. Passivy? Even worse. Pivyflower? Absolutely not.
There it is again, that distant laugh. ‘Doesn’t matter what you call it, Crowley. It’s there’.
“Huh? Who is it?” He looks around the room. There’s no one there.
‘It’s me.’
Who, me? Oh. OH. It’s Her. Ngk, uh... really?
‘Yes, Crowley. Really. Why are you surprised?’
Well, you haven’t talked to me in… well, never. Not that I remember anyway. Before… perhaps, don’t know. Don’t want to know. Not really. Anyway… err, ah, what… what, is something wrong? Is it…
‘Oh, no. Nothing of that sort, don’t worry. Not for at least a millennium, I think.’
Oh, good. That’s… good. So, what…?
‘I was just amusing myself a bit. You know, watching you…’
Oh, sure, of course. Glad to be of service.
‘Don’t pout, little serpent. Be glad that I think you amusing. Intriguing even. I could just as well deem you troublesome or stupid. Unruly. Not knowing its place yet. Not growing how it’s supposed to. Latching onto things it has no business latching on to. Huh, sounds familiar?’
Err, well…
‘So, no more threats of clippers and rope. You see now that it’s futile, don’t you? Your friend is right. You can’t control the way a plant grows, Crowley. And, believe me, you don’t want to. Because sometimes, when you least expect it, it grows to be something new. Something beautiful.’
But…
Crowley snaps his mouth shut. She’s gone, he can feel it. Somehow. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does.
Wow, that was… something. Something new, something…
“Beautiful.”
“Yes, it is!” Tilda beams at him. “And I’m glad you think so, too.”
“Oh, err…” Crowley didn’t really mean the plant, or did he? He’s not sure about anything right now. God just talked to him! He can’t wrap his head around it. So, he doesn’t even try. There’s no use anyway. He shakes his head and tries to concentrate on Tilda and what she’s saying.
“So, young man. No more shouting abuse at it, alright? No more talk of cutting it or binding it…”
“Yes, yes… alright. I’ll leave it be.”
And it helps to know, somehow, that She will do the same.
TBC