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Aziraphale frowns.
Something is different.
He abhors change as a general rule. Humans are always changing things so frequently, at the drop of a hat, and Aziraphale struggles to keep up with their sayings and the times and every little thing. It’s a nightmare, usually. But this bookshop is his, and it hasn’t changed very much at all in the past 200 years.
But today, something is different. Something small.
It takes him nearly an hour of pacing through the shop to discover what prickled at his senses when he walked through earlier. Such a small thing, really; hardly noticeable, which is perhaps the point.
There, on the windowsill behind a large bookshelf, is a small potted plant. Only a few inches tall, with such a tiny little pot as its home, and it looks truly radiant there in that small stream of sunlight.
It looks, for all intents and purposes, like it belongs there, on that sill.
Aziraphale thinks back. Did Crowley bring a plant here in the recent past? Did he put the plant there? Was there a conversation about such a thing? He can’t recall anything of the sort, but there is a plant in the bookshop, and he did not do this.
Crowley put a plant on a windowsill.
Such a minor thing, really.
But the demon said nothing of this.
There are no other plants in the shop, which is perhaps why this one stood out—a tiny spark of green behind a dusty shelf. But it looks so wonderfully at home there, the poor dear. Its little leaves stretch upward toward the sunlight and it looks happy and oh so healthy, and Crowley truly is a marvel with plants.
Well. Maybe this is a change he can tolerate.
It does look nice there, in that sill.
Aziraphale goes about his day.
There’s another one.
Aziraphale eyes the sudden appearance of a second plant. It’s also very small, and on another windowsill. Out of place, barely noticeable, so tiny—but still a change.
Aziraphale doesn’t mind the plants, of course. He just can’t recall Crowley saying anything about bringing them over.
Well, Crowley has been spending a lot of time at the bookshop since that day which shall not be named (according to Crowley, at any rate) and he does have a certain fondness for plants. Perhaps he thought to liven the bookshop up with the greenery.
This is perfectly fine, of course. If it makes Crowley feel more at home, this is perfectly acceptable.
Should he change things in the shop himself? Make them more… accommodating, for the demon?
Hmm. What is it Crowley would like?
Crowley has always been exceedingly hard to shop for, as it were. Not that they had many occasions to really exchange gifts in the past, as there was no viable excuse for them to do so—but still, on occasion, Aziraphale thought about what might entice the demon. Crowley certainly sprung gifts on him apropos of nothing, after all, so why not return the favour?
Not gifts, Crowley’s voice echoes in his mind. Certainly not gifts! Are you crazy? Demons don’t do gifts.
Of course not. But that was then, and this is now, and they are free to exchange gifts if they wish.
Crowley has gifted him with plants in the shop. Maybe it is to make the shop more appealing to himself, but maybe it’s a gift for Aziraphale, and Aziraphale really should return the favour.
Oh, but what to get that wily serpent?
It takes longer than Aziraphale would like to notice the third appearance of a potted plant in his bookshop. He had rather a lot on his mind, with an estate sale coming up and a few book dealers to speak with, as well as pondering what gift to get for Crowley.
So perhaps he can be forgiven for not noticing this sooner.
It’s not a windowsill this time, and is a bit larger than the other two. It’s about triple the size of them, really, but still small enough to sit on the edge of his desk, tucked between the wall and his ancient computer.
He probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all, had he not decided to get a head start on taxes and thus went for the computer. Now he eyes the plant, wondering when it appeared. Certainly it wasn’t there yesterday, right?
Crowley had been by earlier today to pick him up for lunch, but Aziraphale had only been gone for a few minutes to change upstairs before rejoining the demon before they left. Certainly that must have been when Crowley gifted his desk this plant.
Aziraphale is not opposed to plants in his bookshop.
He just wants to know why Crowley is being secretive about it.
The fourth plant appears on a Tuesday, while he is out chatting with Mrs. Kirby down the street at the local bakery. Crowley is waiting for him outside the shop when he returns, and the two enter together to enjoy some pastries.
It’s a large potted plant tucked into a corner of the shop.
Aziraphale steadfastly doesn’t look at it while Crowley is sitting on his couch, and the demon says nothing of it either.
Curiouser and curiouser.
By the fifth plant, Azirpahale has started keeping a mental tally of when he disappears and when Crowley shows up, and realises the demon can sneak a giant plant in rather quickly, in just under a minute.
That takes a coordinated effort for the lanky demon, surely.
Oh, and he still doesn’t know what to get Crowley! This simply won’t do.
Aziraphale squints at the items tucked away on the top shelf of one of his few cabinets. His kitchen is rather small, the flat above the bookshop clearly built for one, and he’s never really perused his cabinets except to snag his tea set on occasion. His wine glasses are mostly kept downstairs in his study, as that is where they spend the majority of their time drinking.
This whiskey set is made of the clearest crystal, and is not something he recalls obtaining himself. He does remember seeing a very similar set when he stayed at Crowley’s flat the night before they swapped corporations, though, and it gnaws at his mind.
The plants are one thing, but this whiskey set? In his cabinets?
Why did he even check his cabinets?
Oh, right, he recalls, hearing movement behind him.
“Um, Aziraphale? Everything alright?”
“Of course, my dear girl,” Aziraphale says, turning to smile at Anathema.
And then he snags the coffee mug he’d been aiming for in the first place, and turns to pour her a cup. Then he pours himself some tea in his usual winged mug and brings both of them to the table, where he joins the young witch.
Anathema sips at her coffee and sighs appreciatively. “Not sure if it’s a miracle or what, but your coffee always tastes the best.”
Aziraphale doesn’t preen, but he does smile widely. “Why, thank you, my dear! It’s all in how you prepare it.”
She puts her mug down. “So, you said you wanted to get a gift for Crowley?”
“Oh, yes! He’s been gifting me plants, you see,” Aziraphale says conversationally, “and I just really must return the favour.”
Anathema eyes him. “Gifting you plants?”
“He likes to garden, you see. Oh, you really must see his flat! He’s got the most wonderful plants there,” he all but gushes, remembering how luxurious and verdant they were when he visited. “I’ve noticed some plants showing up here at the bookshop, and he seems to be pretending he’s not doing it, and I just wanted to return the favour, so to speak.”
“Uh huh,” she says, eying him warily. “And these, uh, gifts… are they new things or things from his flat?”
Aziraphale frowns. “Well, I’m really not sure,” he says. “The smaller ones I don’t recall seeing there, but the bigger ones… oh, they might have been from his flat. And the…” He eyes the cabinet. “His whiskey set is here, too.”
At least, he thinks it is Crowley’s set. It certainly looks like the one he saw at the demon’s flat, and he can’t imagine why Crowley would buy a new, very similar set for the bookshop. Or why he put them in the cabinet instead of down with the wine glasses.
It is all rather confusing.
And Anathema is laughing.
Aziraphale scowls at her. “I am afraid I don’t see the humor, dear girl.”
“Aziraphale,” she says around a snicker, “he’s moving in.”
“Moving in?” Aziraphale repeats. “Certainly not! We haven’t discussed… I mean he’s never said… He likes his flat.”
“When was the last time he stayed there? I mean, really stayed there. Think hard.”
“He was there just yesterday,” Aziraphale says primly.
“For how long?”
“Oh, for several hours.”
“Aziraphale. When’s the last time he stayed the night at his place?”
Aziraphale frowns and thinks back. Night and day don’t really mean anything to an angel and a demon as they don’t need to sleep like humans do, but perhaps she means the roughly twelve hours of night. When was the last time Crowley was away for that long?
Nothing really comes to mind. Since that day, they’ve been rather attached to each other and Crowley seems to enjoy the bookshop, and Aziraphale doesn’t prefer change so he never really offers to ‘hang out’, as it were, at Crowley’s flat…
And since his rather failed attempt at sleeping, Crowley hasn’t said anything about leaving for more than a few hours at a time. He always comes back within five hours, and Aziraphale has been rather grateful for the company.
Loneliness was, perhaps, the worst part of the past 6000 years.
“Exactly,” Anathema says, taking his silence as answer enough. She sits back in her chair with a wide grin. “He’s moving in.”
“It starts with plants?” Aziraphale asks, utterly confused.
“He’s moving his things here, Aziraphale, keep up. Plants, whiskey set, there’s probably other things you haven’t found yet. Does he have a lot?”
“He’s rather minimalist,” Aziraphale hears himself saying, but his mind is a whirlwind of rampant thoughts.
Moving in. Does Crowley want to move into the bookshop with him? He practically lives here already, of course, but it’s nothing official. What would it even mean, for them to live in the same place? Can an angel and a demon even be roommates?
“Hey! Aziraphale?” Fingers snap in front of his face.
He blinks, refocusing on his guest. “Terribly sorry, dear girl. You were saying?”
She smiles softly. “Aziraphale. Do you want him to live here, with you? Are you worried about that?”
“I wouldn’t mind his presence,” Aziraphale hedges.
“Buuuut…?”
“I just… Oh, it’s rather odd, isn’t it? An angel and a demon living together? My side wouldn’t…” His lips purse. He doesn’t have a ‘side’ anymore, neither of them do. They’re on their own side.
Gabriel would have a field day if he learned about this.
Oh, let him. Gabriel’s opinion no longer matters, if it ever even did.
“Why hasn’t he said anything?” Aziraphale asks quietly.
Anathema sips her coffee, humming thoughtfully. “Why haven’t you?”
Aziraphale frowns.
What a question, indeed.
Aziraphale tries to start small so as to not spook his demon.
“Crowley, won’t you be a dear and water the plants on the windowsill?”
“Crowley, the plant on my desk could use a spot of sunlight, would you be a dear and put it in the window?”
“These whiskey glasses will go perfectly for our drinking tonight, my dear.”
Crowley freezes every single time he mentions something, but he doesn’t run. He stutters into movement and does what is asked or accepts a glass of the finest whiskey. And if he hides a smile by pressing the glass to his lips, well, Aziraphale won’t call him out on it.
Not yet, at least.
Mentioning the new items in his bookshop seems to have encouraged further additions.
This one isn’t as much to his liking, but that’s mostly because it is rather an eye sore.
“Crowley,” he says, very slowly, and the demon stills behind him, “this… this chair does not belong here.”
Crowley is eerily silent behind him. Aziraphale turns to find the demon staring at him, dark sunglasses shielding his eyes, but there’s a tension in his frame and a pervasive cloud of—
Oh. Oh, dear, that won’t do.
What did he say? The chair does not belong here.
“In the kitchen, I mean,” Aziraphale amends quickly. “This chair does not belong in the kitchen. There simply isn’t room for it! No, this belongs in the study.”
And he snaps his fingers, sending the chair to the study. Crowley remains standing perfectly still, and Aziraphale carefully takes his arm, guiding him from the room. A wave of his hand has the tray of tea following after them, levitating through the air.
They go downstairs and into the study. There, Crowley’s absurdly large throne of a chair sits just next to the couch, and the color scheme of the room has changed to accommodate its vibrant redness. Instead of the gray undertones along the walls, there is instead an undercurrent of deep red, and the chair looks like it has always belonged here.
Crowley freezes there at his side.
Aziraphale slips his hand down to slide his fingers through Crowley’s, giving them a slight squeeze.
Then he steps away and into his usual recliner, and the tray of tea moves to the table next to it.
Eventually, Crowley staggers to the couch.
“Ssso you know,” the demon says.
“Know what, my dear?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Crowley says, scowling at him. “Doesn’t suit you. I’ve been, uh… Been bringing stuff here, me. To the shop.”
“Yes, dear,” Aziraphale hums, sipping at his tea. “I’ve noticed.”
“And… and that’sss okay?”
“It’s perfectly alright,” he says. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Ngk,” says Crowley.
Aziraphale smiles into his tea and the demon slowly relaxes on the couch.
Aziraphale looks down at the box in his hand. Small, bland, but housing a precious gift. At least, he hopes it’s a good gift. Nerves flood through him and he stuffs it into his pocket.
He marks items on a list at his desk, keeping tally of all the shop’s new additions.
—12 wonderful plants
—Clothes which don’t fit him but look nice in his closet upstairs
—Fine whiskey set
—Books on planting and astrology
—An impressive collection of bebop records
—A sturdy ansaphone
—at least 20 pairs of dark glasses, scattered haphazardly through the shop
—A few lovely paintings
—A TV he doesn’t particularly like but which Crowley finds endlessly fascinating
—A collection of movies to play on said television
Aziraphale taps the pen to his cheek. Hmm. What else?
Over the weeks, his shop has become an amalgamation of things his and not his, and he finds he doesn’t mind at all.
Oh, yes.
—A ridiculous throne
Honestly, who has a throne of all things? But Crowley does seem to like it. He’s found the demon slumped in it several times since its appearance, and he smiles at the memories.
Rather a lot of items have mysteriously appeared in the bookshop or the flat above, and he finds he doesn’t mind in the slightest. Several months ago he might have balked at this very idea; what would Heaven think of him? His side would hate this, would be absolutely appalled.
But it doesn’t matter what they think anymore. He doesn’t work for them anymore.
And he rather likes the idea of keeping Crowley around.
Since that day, the demon’s absence has felt like an oppressive ache in his chest each and every time he left for his own flat, to the point Aziraphale went and blessed some tea to let him sleep properly through Crowley’s own nap so he wouldn’t have to deal with being alone.
Rather silly of him, in retrospect. It could have ended so very poorly, and he only really succeeded in worrying not only Crowley, but Anathema as well. He’s rather ashamed of the whole thing, really.
Still, though, he never asked Crowley to stay. If Crowley wanted to leave, that was his business and Aziraphale had absolutely zero right to try and stop him. But if Crowley wants to stay, well…
Aziraphale isn’t going to stop him. Absolutely not.
The chime above the door rings, snapping him from his thoughts. He looks up as Crowley strides into the study, casual slouch the epitome of cool and aloof.
“Hey, angel. You ready for dinner?”
“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale says, hastily closing the notebook in which he’d been writing. He stands from the desk and circles around to Crowley. “Let me just grab my coat. I’ll meet you outside.”
Crowley quirks a brow at him but says nothing before leaving the room again.
Aziraphale, now alone, releases a slow breath and pats the lump in his pocket. No time like the present, really. He has nothing to be worried about; Crowley wants to move in, right? This is only showing his agreement of the idea, and not asking an outright question himself. Nothing to fret about.
Still, he does feel so dreadfully nervous.
Oh, how do humans cope with these feelings?
He grabs his coat and exits the shop. Instead of locking up like usual, though, he pulls the box from his pocket and tosses it at the demon, who catches it automatically.
“Why don’t you lock up, dear?”
Crowley stares at him for a solid three seconds before he eyes the box in his hands. It is a little hard to read him with those glasses on his face, but Aziraphale watches him swallow thickly before carefully opening it.
“Ngk.”
“Something wrong, my dear?”
Crowley looks up sharply. “Is this…?”
“Hurry and lock up,” he tells his demon. “It’s rather chilly tonight and I know you hate the cold.”
Then he steps around to the passenger side of the Bentley and climbs inside.
Crowley lingers there for a moment longer, gaze snapping back down to the little box in his hand. Then he carefully pulls out the silver key, like it’s something fragile or sacred, and locks up the shop.
When he slips into the driver’s seat, he’s decidedly quiet as he starts the car.
They don’t move.
Aziraphale waits him out patiently, despite the bundle of nerves in his stomach.
Finally, Crowley utters a very soft, “Thank you” before the car stutters into movement and they pull away from the curb.
Perhaps Aziraphale is okay at giving Crowley gifts after all.
The key is so light in his pocket Crowley has to keep patting himself down to ensure it’s still there. Aziraphale gave him a key. A key to the bookshop.
Operation: Stealth-move-in was a roaring success, and he can’t quite wrap his head around this notion. When he started it almost two months ago, he wasn’t sure it would ever be completed, that Aziraphale would ever take notice of what he was really doing.
The key in his pocket changes everything.
I live at the bookshop. We live at the bookshop.
They live together now. They are going to be living together now. Aziraphale gave him a key and all of Crowley’s prized possessions are there.
Thank you doesn’t really convey the weight of it all, not in the slightest, and he’s not even entirely sure what he’s thanking Aziraphale for. But he doesn’t have to leave, now, and Aziraphale wants him to stay.
And in that moment, Crowley belongs.