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Crowley’s in a bit of a daze. Must have been for quite a while because he hasn’t realized that Tilda’s been slowly crossing the room, from here to there and back again, admiring his plants.
Well, the Almighty actually talking to you, for the first time, in more than six thousand years, does have the effect. No one can blame Crowley for being a bit distracted, can they?
“Oh, how splendid!” Tilda is standing in front of the gigantic Monstera deliciosa, eyeing the vivacious green leaves with nothing short of adoration.
“I’ve never seen anything like it, dear. It’s definitely the biggest and greenest Monstera I’ve ever seen. I have one of these myself, you see. Not as big, of course. Had it for ten years now, but… how do you get the leaves to shine just so? Mine’s all dusty and dull.”
“Huh? Oh, err… yeah, it’s… well, ngh... yeah.”
Crowley shakes the cobwebs from his brain eventually. He slowly strolls over. The plant starts to tremble a little, apparently fearing Crowley’s undivided attention. “Stop it,” he hisses under his breath. “We have a guest.”
“What was that?”
“Oh, nothing. I just… well, I…”
“Do you use some kind of oil for the leaves? Oh, tell me, dear. What’s your secret?”
Crowley can’t tell her the truth, of course. A little demonic miracle now and then, combined with a healthy dose of threats and wrath… well, no. He can’t tell her that. So, he spontaneously invents some sort of special lotion, promises to get her some next time he’s to the shops – not that he ever goes to the shops, least of all to buy stuff - and lets her go on believing in his green fingers.
They go on chatting like that until a low buzz from the pocket of her cardigan makes Tilda jump. “Oh Lord, that’s the alarm for my daily soap. Starts in ten minutes. Do you know it? ‘Hearts of Amber’?”
“Err, uh, no. No. Never seen it.” Monday to Friday, half past five. But… everybody knows that, right? He’s not a fan or anything!
“Oh, you must give it a try, dear. It’s really something. Though I don’t like that Amber b… beast, not at all. I much prefer the side story of Ben and Miguel. They’re gay. It’s so romantic!”
“Ah-huh.”
“That reminds me.” Tilda puts a hand on his arm, forgetting about the social distancing for now. “I really don’t like the thought of you moping around here, all by yourself. Wouldn’t you rather stay with your man? Especially if he’s discovered baking, like you said. You could do with a bit of something on your ribs. I mean, look at you! You make a stick figure look fat!”
“Well. I’m not much for cakes, really.”
“I can see that. But you should. I’m sure your boyfriend agrees. Maybe that’s why he started baking!”
“Nah, he just likes to eat. Gets peckish the worst of times.” Like during the French Revolution, he doesn’t say. It’s then that Crowley realizes he hasn’t objected to the ‘boyfriend’ thing. Oh, it’s far too late in their chat to start correcting her now, right? Tilda sends him a sweet smile. She wouldn’t believe him now, anyway.
“Why don’t you go over, huh? I’m sure he’s missing you, too.”
No, he’s not. Aziraphale’s having the time of his life. He’s in his cosy bookshop with no customers threatening to buy his precious books. He’s baking all sorts of treats, endlessly savouring them, making the most delectable noises. Maybe he’s even gone and started cooking his favourite things, like coq au vin or salmon in mustard sauce…
Crowley shakes his head. “I can’t go over. He won’t let me. I asked.”
“Oh, why ever not?”
“Because he wants to set an example for everyone else, staying home.”
“Why, right he is. But he can still do that with you by his side, can’t he?”
That’s exactly what Crowley’s been thinking the whole time. But Aziraphale, well… seems like he doesn’t see it that way.
Tilda must see something of his frustration in his face because she comes close once again. “Aww, does he know how much this is bothering you? I mean, have you told him? Really told him, how you feel?”
“Err, ah… yeah, no, err.”
“Because some people need it spelled out for them, you know. I’ve never met your fellow, so I can’t know but, have you considered that maybe he’s just not as emotionally aware as you are? Or maybe he’s afraid to show his true feelings? Puts up a brave front. Not everyone’s comfortable wearing their heart on their sleeve like you do, dear.”
Crowley’s eyes couldn’t get any bigger, were he to transform into his snake-form right now. Emotionally aware? Wearing his heart on his sleeve? Oh, puh-lease!
He shouldn’t even have emotions!
“Tell you what, dear.” Tilda’s opened the door. “You call your boyfriend right now. Tell him how you feel. Tell him he’s an idiot if he doesn’t want his loved one by his side in times like these.”
“Ngh, well… it’s… we’re not…”
“What? You don’t love each other? Oh boy, who’re you trying to fool?”
Crowley doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. Just watches her walk out the door. She’s almost reached the elevator when he sticks his head out after her.
“How did you know?” He blurts. “I mean, how can you tell? We barely know each other. You’ve never seen me with Aziraphale, you’ve never even met him.”
“But I’ve met you, honey. Sometimes, that’s enough.”
The fork makes a terrible scraping sound on the empty plate when Aziraphale puts it aside. He flinches. Is there something wrong with his ears? Why are they so sensitive all of a sudden? Or is it the plate? Is it broken?
He leans back in his chair with a sigh. Or maybe it’s just that the bookshop’s unusual silence is finally getting to him.
A day or two ago, he wouldn’t have thought it possible, but… he’s starting to miss the sound of the doorbell chiming, of books whispering softly being pulled from the shelves, of customers’ feet slowly shuffling through the shop, from aisle to aisle…
He misses the squeaking of the sofa’s springs with every restless shuffle Crowley will cause… he can never sit still for long, can he?
Aziraphale sighs again, and it has nothing to do with the delicious Victoria sponge cake he’s just had. He can admit it to himself at least, right? He misses Crowley.
He would love nothing better than to have the demon waltz through the door right now. Aziraphale’s gaze turns to the front door. He can imagine it vividly; The door swings open with a snap of his fingers and there he is. Crowley, with his fiery hair sticking up in every direction, sunglasses low on the bridge of his perfect nose, a case of superb wine under his arm, that ridiculous necklace-tie-thingy swinging to and fro with every sauntered step he takes, jeans so tight you can see he’s made an effort even if he isn’t really… you know, making an effort…
Aziraphale feels a blush creep onto his cheeks. He stops that train of thought immediately. Well, he tries to. It takes quite a lot of effort – Ha! What a terrible pun. Crowley would laugh himself silly. – but eventually he manages to steer his thoughts into less hedonistic territory.
“If he were here… I wonder what sort of cake he could be persuaded to try. Oh, I know he’s not much for cake, Crowley isn’t, but… there must be something.” Aziraphale goes through all the recipes in his mind that he’s tried out in the last few days. There must be something that would tempt even Crowley. Perhaps something with nuts? Crowley likes nuts. And he has a bit of a sweet tooth for chocolate. Oh, how about that nougat tarte with almonds and chocolate coverture? That would be just scrumptious!
He’s halfway to the kitchenette in the back, mentally listing the ingredients he’ll have to miracle in because he doesn’t have them in the larder, when he realizes his flaw.
“Oh,” he slumps into the armchair at his desk. “I can’t bake a cake for Crowley. He won’t be eating it. Because he’s not here. I can’t give in. I can’t let him slither over, no matter how much I might be missing him. I can’t. But what if I bake a cake and send it over to him? Miracle it over? Would he eat it? Would he try? If I asked him to? Perhaps it’s best if I ring him first. Ask him… Oh.”
Aziraphale jumps in his chair when the phone suddenly starts ringing this very instant. He takes a second to shake thoughts of cake and a certain demon from his mind and then reaches for the phone.
“Hello. I’m afraid we’re still quite closed.”
“Angel, it’s me.”
“Crowley! Oh dear!”
“Err, what’s the matter? Are you alright? You sound off.”
“Oh, no. I’m perfectly alright, my dear. I was just thinking about you…”
“You were?”
“About what sort of cake you’d like. I’ve decided to bake you one and miracle it over. Then you can eat it at home.”
“Oh, right. Err, well… about that.”
“Don’t you start again. We will not be breaking the quarantine.”
“Listen, Angel…”
“No, Crowley. We can’t. I can’t. I know it’s difficult for you to understand, but… I must insist. And besides, it can’t be all that hard for you… I mean, we’ve gone far longer without seeing each other, or even talking to each other… you’ve slept through a whole century once, remember?”
“Yeah, no… I know, but…”
“That reminds me, didn’t you say you’d sleep through the rest of the lockdown? What happened to ‘I’ll set the alarm for July’?”
“Well, I said I’d wait two days, see if anything comes up. And…”
“Yes?”
“Yeah, err… the thing is, something did. Something happened earlier, ah, well…”
“Is it something bad?”
“No, yeah, err… well, no. I don’t think so.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“Of course I want to tell you, Angel! Why do you think I’m calling you?”
“Well, go on then.”
“It’s not that simple.” Crowley has, for the better part of two hours, tried to think of a way to tell Aziraphale about his chat with the Almighty. He has come up with nothing that won’t make him sound like a lunatic though. “I know it sounds bonkers but… I had a chat. Of sorts. With, err… with, you know. Your boss.”
“What?”
“Yeah. It was Her. The Almighty. Err, talked to me, at me… whatever.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, definitely.”
“How do you know it was Her?”
“Well, voice in my head no one else can hear… calling me ‘little serpent’…”
“But how do you know it was in your head? Weren’t you alone?”
Crowley realizes that he won’t be able to talk around the fact that he’s had a guest in his flat. So he launches into an explanation for that first. Tells the angel about Tilda, about how they’ve become friends… well, acquaintances.
“Anyway,” he concludes. “Remember that silly little plant you made me get, last time we went to the market? The ivy?”
“I didn’t make you buy it, Crowley. I just pointed out how lonely and forlorn it looked. And that I hoped someone would come and rescue it, poor thing.”
“Yes, anyway. Your little ivy, it hasn’t behaved exactly as it should, and Tilda heard me setting it straight the other day…”
“Crowley! You mean you shouted at the poor thing, don’t you?”
“Do you want to hear this or not, Angel?”
“I do. Apologies. Please, do go on.”
“Thanks. Anyway. I was showing Tilda the ivy and…”
It takes half an hour for Crowley to explain what exactly it was the ivy did – he could sum it up with ‘mingling’ but he has to make sure Aziraphale really gets it - and then he recounts, word for word, what the Almighty has had to say.
When he’s done, the silence stretches uncomfortably. Crowley shifts in his chair – his throne – and finally breaks.
“So… what do you think, Angel?”
“Huh. I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t it sound to you like, well… like…”
“Like what?”
“Like, dunno… She was, err, maybe comparing us… to the plants?”
“Hhm.”
“You know, you and me… ivy and…”
“Now, wait a second! Why do I have to be the ivy? I’m not. If anyone’s the ivy, it’s you!”
“Oh, for Go… Sat… for anyone’s sake! Fine! You’re the passionflower then!”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously!”
There’s not a sound to be heard for perhaps three seconds and then… they both break into silly giggles. It turns into full-blown laughter and eventually ends in low chuckles.
“Ahh, that was…”
“Quite.”
“So.”
“So?”
“So, I’ve been thinking, what if She’s really kind of alright with, err, us…”
“Oh. That’s… right.”
“Well, I was wondering, with Her blessing and all, if you’d… you know, changed your mind? Let me come over?”
“What? No, Crowley. We can’t. She didn’t mean it like that. Not now! I’m certain She was talking more about in general. I mean, who can really know what She meant. But no. No, you can’t. I wouldn’t feel comfortable.”
“Angel, none of us can get ill. We don’t spread the disease. What’s the harm, really?”
“It’s against the rules. I can’t go against the rules. You, you don’t care about that sort of thing, you’re a demon. I know that. But Crowley, I must set a good example.”
“But no one would see me, Angel. No one would know. I’ll even leave the Bentley here. I’ll just… miracle myself over.”
“But I would know.”
Crowley lets out a frustrated sigh. “Angel, you don’t honestly believe that every single person in the world is spending the lockdown by themselves, do you?”
“Well, no…”
“People are huddled together in their homes.”
“Why, yes. Families. Children with their parents, certainly. Husbands and wives, couples, that sort of thing. But not… we’re not any of that, Crowley. We’re not…”
“Yeah, well, whose fault is that, eh?” He hasn’t meant to say it; it’s just slipped out.
“Well, it certainly isn’t my fault!”
“…”
Aziraphale sounds almost indignant. “I wouldn’t mind, obviously. But you don’t, I mean, you haven’t… done anything, so…”
“Wait. What?”
“Well, you’re the one who knows how to go about these things. Being a demon and all. You have experience. So, obviously I’ve been waiting for you to…”
“Uh-ngh… err, ah…Hold on, Angel. Err, wait, wait. What? What? What are you talking about? You can’t… err, you don’t mean…”
“Well, being… you know. Together. That’s what we are talking about, isn’t it?”
“Err, ah, yeah, no, err… we are? I mean, I thought so, but… it can’t be.”
“Oh.”
“No, err, I didn’t mean… it can! Of course, it can. I just meant…“ Crowley takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself enough to make a lick of sense. It’s not easy. “Let’s just… rewind for a minute. Let me get this straight. You’re saying that you, err, you want… to be… with me?”
“Why, yes, obviously.”
“Obviously!?! ‘S not obvious to me!”
“Oh.”
“Wh - Why haven’t you said anything?”
“Well, I wouldn’t know where to start. I mean, I haven’t… How does one go about it?”
“How should I know? I don’t know any more about it than you!”
“Of course you do. You must.”
“…”
“You have been with… people.”
“What? No. Why would you think that?”
“But you’re a demon. You do that. You… tempt people… and I thought, well, I assumed…”
“Oh, well… I’ve tempted people into… that, yeah. But… not, err, not with me, I mean…”
“Really? Why ever not?”
“Angel, I’ve been in love with you for six thousand years! You think I’d be gallivanting about with humans? What would be the point?”
There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “Would you… please say that again?”
“What? That I’ve been gallivanting about? I haven’t, I promise.”
“No, no. Not that, I got that. I meant… before that. What did you say before?”
“Before? I… oh. Oh. Err, ah. Ngh, yeah. No, I didn’t… I meant, I…” Shit, shit, shit! Crowley’s heart is hammering in his chest like mad. He did not just say it, did he? Shit!
“Crowley?”
“Yeah, no, don’t make me say it again, Angel.”
“Crowley, please…”
“Ngh,” he squirms in his seat. He can’t.
“Come over. Now.”
“Ha! Give me two seconds!” He jumps up like he’s been stung by a whole beehive, only in a good way. In a gloriously good way!
“Take as long as you need, dear. Just… come over and stay.”
The line goes dead immediately.
TBC