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When Aziraphale had first told Crowley that he was interested in the idea of having a small plant in the bookshop, Crowley had looked puzzled. Whatever for, angel? Aziraphale didn’t know what to say, truthfully. How could he explain that he simply wanted to understand Crowley’s fascination with plants? That in doing so, he hoped to learn a little more about Crowley and the things he loved? He didn’t want Crowley to misunderstand. He had instead settled on, I thought it might teach me a thing or two to have something that needs to be taken care of.
Aziraphale could tell that Crowley’s mood had shifted in the way one corner of his mouth turned down just the slightest bit. Oh, dear.
But Crowley had said nothing more about it other than a nearly indifferent whatever suits you, and that had been that. Aziraphale thought the entire conversation had been permanently shelved until Crowley suddenly showed up a few days later with a plant in tow, all thin stems and trim, white-veined leaves standing gaily at attention. It was really quite charming in its pretty white pot, dotted with tiny golden stars.
Fittonia albivenis, Crowley had said, with an odd half-smile. He’d laid it on Aziraphale’s desk with no further instructions other than, take care of her, angel, she’s on the delicate side. Then he’d walked out of the bookshop, a hand raised in farewell, and Aziraphale hadn’t seen him again for over a week.
In the meantime, the little plant had him in a near-constant agony of anxiety. Within hours, it had wilted alarmingly, causing him to pull out several of his books on plant life (admittedly, there weren’t as many as there could have been) to look for what the cause might be. He set the little pot carefully down on a sunlit table. Surely, he couldn’t have killed it already? The very idea had him in a panic. What would Crowley think of him if he couldn’t even care for such a tiny life without the help of a miracle?
Feverishly, Aziraphale read through pages and pages of material and found nothing that could help. He laid the last dusty tome down on the teetering pile of books and rose in despair to examine the plant. But for some unexplainable reason, it had perked up once more, the stems holding up the tiny leaves with their silver net of veins joyfully to the sunlight.
It must like the heat, then, Aziraphale supposed. He went to make himself a cup of tea, weary from the unexpected moment of stress, and sat down at his desk to finish Pride and Prejudice, which he was rereading for what must have been at least the hundredth time.
It was strange not having Crowley for company – he was wont to be in the bookshop at all hours as of late, ever since that last dinner they’d had at the Ritz together, which had really been rather lovely. He wondered why Crowley had suddenly decided to take off once more, but he didn’t want to pry where Crowley didn’t volunteer. He was perfectly entitled to his own time now, as Aziraphale was, and he wouldn’t have appreciated what might be perceived as nosiness.
Aziraphale sighed and looked out the window. In doing so, his eyes fell on the little plant, and for goodness’s sake, it was even more wilted now than it was earlier, its dark green leaves hanging limply over the edges of the pot. He hurriedly picked it up, bewildered at this sudden development. It had seemed to want sunlight – what in the world was wrong now? He dithered for a few minutes and absentmindedly placed his hand down on the table.
Oh, he realised. It was quite hot. Perhaps there was such a thing as too much sun? Aziraphale moved the little plant back to his desk, pulling the shades down a little to temper the heat of the sunlight. And true enough, the delicate stems pulled themselves upright once more.
Every so often that week and a half, he’d catch the little plant withering away, very much like a Victorian maiden in a dramatic fainting fit. Sometimes, it would take him so long to figure out what it wanted – did it need a bit of water? Oh dear, was that too much water? Was the air too dry, the sun too hot, the bookshop too cold? It was all rather trying at first, and all the while he puzzled over why Crowley hadn’t given him a plant that was more hardy, not this finicky little plant that wilted pathetically at the slightest hint of a chill.
Aziraphale tutted at it once as he sprayed its soil – two spritzes only, anything more was liable to send it into another episode of drooping. Oh, you, he said with a sigh. So high maintenance. Crowley would think I wasn’t taking care of you at all. Then he left the bookshop for his usual weekly appointment with his favourite nail technician at the salon around the corner, with whom he regularly exchanged gossip and saucy tidbits about the new man she was dating as she buffed his nails with an expert touch. He tipped her handsomely as always, and when he returned to the bookshop with a small box of pastries and a cup of hot cocoa from the café across the street with the delicious blueberry muffins, he chanced upon the plant and found it wilting once more.
This time, he was unable to figure out what was wrong. He tried everything – an extra spray of water, moving it into the sun, moving it out of the sun, transferring it to the flat upstairs away from the controlled humidity settings of the bookshop, but to no avail. He wrung his hands, utterly despondent, when suddenly he heard the tinkling of the bell over the bookshop door downstairs.
Oh no, Crowley was here, and he was going to see how terrible Aziraphale was at tending this plant – he’d worked himself up into a proper state by the time he headed downstairs to greet Crowley, who took one look at him before his brows drew together. What’s the matter, angel?
Oh, dear, Aziraphale said, on the verge of weeping in his distress, it’s the plant, I don’t know what to do, it’s withered frightfully, and I don’t know how to revive it.
But it does that, Crowley said, confused. I’m sure you’ve noticed.
Yes, but it’s different this time, Aziraphale said, and furtively wiped at his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve, you don’t understand, I can’t fix it.
Aziraphale, Crowley said. He took Aziraphale firmly by the shoulders. I’m sure it’ll be right as rain in a while. It’s a bit fussy, but it’ll be fine. And even if it isn’t, that’s all right, too. It’s just a plant.
No, Aziraphale said, the tears trickling down his face now, it’s not just a plant, Crowley – and somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered when he’d started thinking of the plant as some sort of absurd metaphor for whatever this thing was that had been hovering between them for the last six thousand years, unspoken and barely acknowledged but for the slightest glance, the barest touch, and the thought of the plant dying at his hands, oh, he couldn’t stand it –
Something soft dabbed lightly at Aziraphale’s face, and he realised that Crowley’s black handkerchief was pressing against his cheeks, wiping the salt away. I wouldn’t have given you that plant if I didn’t think you’d be able to take care of it. Why don’t you show it to me?
Oh, Aziraphale sighed and bit his lip, taking a long, shuddering breath. He didn’t want to show it to Crowley, not in the state it was in now, badly wilted with its stems hanging limp, unable to support its delicate green leaves.
You won’t disappoint me, angel, Crowley said, and Aziraphale looked up in surprise to see that Crowley had removed his sunglasses, and his serious golden eyes had just a hint of sadness in them. You could never.
Aziraphale swallowed, blinking the last of the tears away, and led Crowley upstairs to the flat that he had never been in before, for no particular reason other than there had simply never been an occasion for him to be there.
He looked back, bewildered when Crowley wavered at the doorway. What is it?
Nothing, Crowley said hastily, and stepped inside.
This time, it was Aziraphale who hesitated when Crowley bent over to examine the little plant for a long moment.
Come look. Crowley’s voice was gentle. Aziraphale came forward, and his mouth dropped open in surprise to see that the plant’s leaves were already beginning to revive. See? Just needed a little time, that’s all. Sometimes you have to wait a while.
I’ve never been as patient as you, Aziraphale whispered, overcome with relief, and he reached out and cupped Crowley’s face between his palms. His golden gaze was fixed on Aziraphale, the serpentine eyes wide and uncomprehending. Aziraphale’s thumbs caressed the chiselled outlines of Crowley’s cheeks and found that here, at last, was everything they had waited for. And you’ve endured so much for so long… my darling, my love. He leaned forward to press their foreheads together. Thank you, he breathed, thank you, as he tilted his chin up and at long last slotted their mouths together, thank you, as his lips moved against Crowley’s, soft but urgent, thank you, as Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale and tugged him into the dusty old bed –
And later, much later, thank you, murmured into the soft red curls of Crowley’s head pillowed against Aziraphale’s bare chest. He lay listening to Crowley breathing peacefully for a long moment, his eyes on the little plant and its happily upright stems, and it occurred to him that perhaps even after the trouble it had put him through, he was rather fond of it after all.