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It was all going to be fine.
Crowley was going to become a nanny tomorrow; he and Aziraphale were going to cogodparent the Antichrist; they were going to save the world.
It would be fine. Crowley wasn’t nervous at all.
He was making the fifteenth modification to his nanny outfit when the phone rang.
“It’s me,” said Aziraphale’s voice. “Terribly sorry to bother you, tonight of all nights, I’m sure you’re busy preparing for our big day, I wouldn’t have called, only…”
“What d’you need, angel?”
“...Everything’s tickety-boo, but could you come over?”
Ashtoreth’s cravat hit the floor, forgotten. “Be there in three.”
Crowley hung up before Aziraphale could insist driving to Soho should take at least ten.
~ ~ ~
“The difficulty is,” Aziraphale explained, “Brother Francis will be a gardener.”
Crowley squinted. “Wasn’t that our plan?”
“Yes.”
“Are you getting stage fright?”
“Certainly not. I flatter myself I’ve quite a flair for the dramatic.”
“Ngk.”
“I simply realized… I’ve never learned to garden.”
“Oh. Um.”
“Indeed.”
“D’you want to swap?” Crowley offered reluctantly, with a pang at the thought of surrendering his costume. “I garden, you nanny?”
“No, no!” Aziraphale looked alarmed by the suggestion. “I just… I’ve books on the subject, if only I’d thought of it sooner, but now there’s no time, I need to be ready tomorrow, and…”
Belatedly, the reason Aziraphale had called clicked into place. Crowley grinned. “Fine, I’ll teach you.”
“Oh, would you, dear?”
The way Aziraphale smiled — grateful, glorious — was utterly unfair. To avoid liquefying from exposure, Crowley glanced aside. “Got any plants?”
~ ~ ~
Aziraphale had no plants, and vetoed commandeering one from Soho Square. So a potted morning glory from Mayfair found itself, trellis and all, in the bookshop.
Crowley hesitated. He’d never gardened for an audience.
Aziraphale cleared his throat.
Crowley jumped, then glowered at the trembling plant. “You look nervous. Why? You shouldn’t be nervous. It’ll be fine”— lowering his voice to a sinister hiss — “unlesss you messss up. Grow better!”
There, he was getting into rhythm.
~ ~ ~
Two minutes later, Crowley’s diatribe was interrupted by another throat-clearing. He froze, remembering his pupil’s presence, and barely refrained from squirming. “So, ngh. That’s how you garden.”
“You’re certain that’s the best way?” Aziraphale looked mildly concerned.
“Yep.”
“I… see.” Aziraphale stroked a leaf, ignoring Crowley’s protests. “Only, it feels out of Francis’s character. And the poor thing’s doing its best. Such lovely petals…”
The petals in question unfurled.
Aziraphale looked briefly astonished, then delighted. “Does that usually happen?”
Crowley checked his watch. “Not this time of night.”
“Ah.” Under the force of the angel’s beam (Crowley unwillingly empathized with the plant), another bloom opened. “Well, it’s happening now. It seems I’ve found another way.”
“You’re cheating!” Crowley spluttered.
“It’s called efficiency.” For someone panicking scarcely ten minutes before, Aziraphale now sounded unwarrantedly smug.
“But…”
“I appreciate your help. Since you’re here, how about a drink?”
~ ~ ~
Maybe, Crowley thought when he eventually returned to Mayfair to finalize Nanny Ashtoreth’s cravat, it really would be fine.