Chapter Text
After the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, a certain unemployed demon and his ethereal counterpart resumed business as usual. Crowley and Aziraphale returned to the hobbies they’d cultivated after millennia on Earth—skiving off their assignments (which didn't exist anymore), feeding the ducks at St. James’s, going on long drives to the countryside and the seaside, and eating their way through the culinary delights that London had to offer.
Crowley seemed perfectly at ease with this new old arrangement, but Aziraphale’s feelings were… rather more complicated. The weight pressing down on him every time he looked at his demon friend might even be called guilt. After all, Crowley had been a loyal and stalwart companion all the way through their long centuries of friendship. Aziraphale was the one who had turned his back on Crowley, had even said cruel and hurtful things that he didn’t mean. Of course they were friends and of course he liked Crowley. Why had he ever tried to claim otherwise?
He did try to apologize once, when they went back to the bookshop for a drink after their lunch at the Ritz. It hadn’t gone well.
“My dear fellow,” Aziraphale had said, wringing his hands. “I feel the need to address the things I said yesterday. When you asked me to go away with you to Alpha Centauri.”
But before he could launch into a litany of self-castigation— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any of it, I’m a terrible friend, I don’t deserve you, I never did and I’m terrified of losing you when you realize how utterly inadequate I am— Crowley’s eyebrows shot up in evident alarm.
“Angel,” the demon said, a dark thread of warning in his tone. “We don’t need to talk about all that. It’s in the past.”
“We should clear the air,” Aziraphale said wretchedly. “Things were said, Crowley—”
“And they don’t need to be said again,” Crowley had cut him off. His lovely mouth formed a thin line that reminded Aziraphale of all the times he’d run into the demon during senseless wars and devastating catastrophes. “Please. Leave it, angel.”
And what could Aziraphale say to that? Crowley so rarely asked anything of him that it would be unfair to deny him this request. Aziraphale swallowed down the hot, shameful memory of his dreadful behavior and poured himself a generous glass of wine. If Crowley didn’t want to hear Aziraphale’s blustering apologies, then the angel wouldn’t press the issue.
He would simply have to find some other way to show the demon how much he meant to Aziraphale.
It came to him a week later, when Crowley came over and plopped a box of sinfully decadent chocolates onto the coffee table.
“Here,” the demon said, grimacing as though it pained him to hand them over. “Forgot I bought these. Figured I might as well bring them over for you, since you’re so damn fussy about your sweets.”
There was no way that Crowley had simply found the chocolates lying about his flat. They were from a new chocolatier in Paris who was getting rave reviews from all the finest food critics. Warmth bloomed in Aziraphale’s chest as he thought about how Crowley must have made a trip to Paris—a city that was far more to the angel’s liking than his own—to pick up a box of chocolates because he knew Aziraphale would enjoy them.
He gives me gifts, Aziraphale thought with wonder as he lifted the top of the gold foil box. He selected a creamy, dark square and popped it into his mouth. And he shows up when I'm in need of saving and offers me lifts in that infernal car of his. That’s how he shows that he cares, the lovely creature.
When he looked up again, Crowley was watching him intently.
“Good?” the demon asked. The sincerity in his voice made something in Aziraphale’s chest twinge with either pain or pleasure. Or perhaps a bit of both.
Aziraphale hummed and nodded. His mouth was full and so instead of speaking, he simply reached over and patted the top of Crowley’s hand.
The demon cleared his throat and placed his own hand on top of the angel’s. The warmth of his touch was more delicious than the chocolate melting on Aziraphale’s tongue.
A month later, a trendy plant shop opened across the street from the bookshop. Aziraphale almost walked past it on the way to his favorite tea shop, but one of the plants in the window display caught his eye and he found himself grasping the door handle and stepping into the shop. It was cramped and bursting with greenery—snaking tendrils coming down from hanging planters, tall fiddle leaf figs shading smaller potted houseplants, unruly ferns reaching into the narrow walkway.
It reminded Aziraphale a bit of Eden, of the way the newly formed Earth smelled after the first gentle rain.
A friendly young woman with a nose piercing and blunt bangs came out from behind the counter to greet him.
“Hello! I’m Julie. Let me know if you’re looking for anything specific or feel free to browse for as long as you want. I’ll be here to answer any questions.”
Aziraphale shuddered to think of how many books he’d have to sell if he took her proactive approach to customer service. It didn’t bear thinking about.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said, then pointed at the plant that had caught his eye. “Can you tell me about the plant in the window, the one with the rather striking pattern on its leaves?”
“Ahhh,” said Julie, and bustled over to the window to gingerly pick up the plant in question. It was in a sleek, minimalist black pot. Crowley would approve. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Aziraphale peered closer and noticed that though the leaves bore a brushstroke pattern of greens on top, the underleaf was a rich, dark purple.
“It’s absolutely stunning. What is it called?”
“It’s a calathea lancifolia,” Julie explained. “A rattlesnake plant. They’re not too difficult to keep alive, as long as you keep them in a fairly warm environment.”
Aziraphale thought of the night he’d stayed at Crowley’s flat. While it had looked cavernous and chilly at first, he had soon discovered that it was outfitted with a state-of-the-art temperature control system and heated floors.
He smiled at the memory of the way Crowley had sprawled, boneless and drunk, on those tile floors. Like a snake basking on a warm rock.
How he had hissed, "I just ssssaved the world, angel, I don't have to get up if I don't want to!" when Aziraphale tried to miracle him into a flannel pajamas and drag him off to bed. Crowley had eventually relented and even allowed Aziraphale to tuck him under the covers.
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Aziraphale said and reached out for the potted plant. “I’ll take it.”
He waited until the next time Crowley came over—which happened to be the very next day, because they saw each other almost every day now—to give him the plant. Aziraphale didn’t quite know how to go about it, so he simply pulled the pot out from behind the till and held it out when Crowley walked into the bookshop.
“What’s this, then?” Crowley asked, looking as though he’d never received a single gift in his long life. “Errr… d’you need some plant tips?”
And Aziraphale realized, with a sharp stab of guilt, that the demon had always been the one to bring him little trinkets and presents. Here was more proof of how Aziraphale had been a terrible, thoughtless friend. He only hoped that they would have at least another six thousand years together for him to correct his mistakes and make it up to Crowley.
“Oh, it’s not my plant,” Aziraphale said. “It’s for you.”
When Crowley didn’t take the pot from him, Aziraphale began to ramble.
“There’s this shop that opened across the way… run by a very nice young lady, and well… I saw it in the window and I thought, Crowley likes plants so much! He might like this one for his collection.”
He didn’t quite understand why his palms were sweating at the moment, or why his cheeks suddenly felt flushed. It wasn’t anything to be embarrassed or nervous about, giving a gift to a friend. To one's dearest friend.
But Crowley kept staring at him in mute shock, and as the seconds ticked by Aziraphale started to worry that he had made a faux pas. Was it rude to give someone a living thing as a gift, to create more work that they hadn’t signed up for? Was this as bad as giving someone a pet that they didn’t want?
“Only if you want it, of course!” Aziraphale said. “I won’t be offended if it’s not to your taste. I can always find a spot for it in the bookshop—”
But Aziraphale’s suggestion seemed to snap Crowley out of his reverie. The demon glared at him and reached out, grabbing the pot and pulling it into his chest. He cradled it possessively and took a step backwards.
“Nuh uh,” Crowley said. “You can’t take it back. It’s mine. You said it was a gift.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes.
Honestly. He tried to do a nice thing for Crowley and the demon acted as though he'd been spritzed with holy water.
“I wasn’t trying to take it back,” he said. “I simply didn’t want to pressure you into accepting it if you didn’t want it.”
“Why wouldn’t I accept it?” Crowley groused, still holding the plant against his chest. “It’s a plant. I like plants. Like yelling at them, at least. It’s a bloody good gift and I’m gonna keep it.”
Aziraphale was quite certain that this was the closest he was going to get to a “thank you” from the demon.
“Very well, my dear,” he said, trying to hide his fond smile. He didn't think he managed. “I’m glad you like it.”
He watched as Crowley scowled and marched into the backroom, where he flopped down on the sofa. instead of placing the plant on the coffee table like Aziraphale expected, Crowley held it on his lap.
Aziraphale had followed Crowley into the back room but pretended to rearrange a stack of books next to the radiator. It was always best to give Crowley time to pull himself together when the demon was flustered. Otherwise, one ran the risk of spontaneous evil deeds happening across the city, like a precipitous increase in the amount of gum on the sidewalk waiting to be stepped on.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Crowley gently rub one of the wavy calathea leaves between his fingertips. The demon leant down and whispered something to the plant that didn't sound menacing at all. In fact, it sounded almost tender.
Aziraphale beamed at the stack of books and continued to stack them at random. He waited several more minutes until finally Crowley muttered something under his breath.
"Hmm?" Aziraphale asked without turning around. "I'm afraid I didn't catch that."
"I said that you could come over later, if you like," Crowley said. “See the rest of the plants. Order something in for dinner. Maybe watch a couple Golden Girls episodes.”
Something in Aziraphale's chest loosened at the invitation. Since the night of the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, Crowley hadn’t asked Aziraphale back to his flat again. Aziraphale hadn’t known how to invite himself over without being rude about it and had worried that Crowley didn’t want the angel in his personal space. That perhaps Aziraphale’s cutting words at the end of the world had built a wall between them forever.
"Oh, yes!" Aziraphale said, turning around to face the demon. "I'll bring wine, of course. And if there's anything else I should pick up, let me know. Perhaps some alfajores from that Spanish bakery you like? Or do you prefer the flan?"
Crowley let loose a groan and slumped lower on the sofa.
"You don't need to bring anything but yourself," he said, sounding both exasperated and mortified. "Just... come over, alright? That's all I need."
For once, Aziraphale found that he'd lost the power of speech. So he nodded in response. Crowley grunted and ducked his head, returning to his scrutiny of the plant's leaves with great intensity. Aziraphale turned around again and bit his lower lip as he imagined the evening ahead of them:
Getting tipsy on good wine, sprawling out on opposite ends of Crowley's terribly modern yet surprisingly comfortable couch, listening to the murmur of the television in the background, and watching the flash of Crowley's golden eyes as he laughed through a mouthful of chow mein.
Yes, Aziraphale thought with a swell of joy. That's all I need, too.