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“I have to say, I’m pleasantly surprised you’d have me over here like this,” Aziraphale says, rocking on his heels as he glances around Crowley’s flat. “It’s rather clean in here. Almost sterile, even. Reminds me of—”
Crowley groans, stretched casually on the sofa. “Oh don’t say it.”
“I’m just saying, all the white? It’s familiar.”
“It’s in style, a concept you’re demonstrably unfamiliar with.”
Aziraphale stiffens, hands unconsciously rising to adjust his bowtie. “I consider my style classic , thank you very much. Your plants are remarkably healthy, by the way.”
“They better be,” Crowley answers, directly to the plants.
“It’s a pity that alocasia appears to be wilting.”
“ What. ”
He’s up from his seat in an instant, storming over to inspect the offending plant. Sure enough, the leaves are sagging.
“Well gentlemen,” Crowley says, pacing along the shelf and holding out the pot. “It would appear we have a slacker in our midst.”
“Um, Crowley—”
“Not now, angel, this is important,” Crowley says, holding out a finger to interrupt. He turns his attention back to the plants. “After all, we all know what happens to those of us who can’t pull our weight around here!”
Crowley marches to the door, plant in tow, and Aziraphale nearly rises to stop him. It’s evident in his tone he must be up to something hellish, which means surely it ought to be Aziraphale’s responsibility to stop it.
Heaven forgive his failure to protect the poor thing.
He swears the remaining plants stand a little straighter when their owner returns moments later with an empty pot.
“Your methods are absolutely draconian.”
“None of that,” Crowley answers, uncorking a bottle of wine as he sits. “You need a firm hand for these matters. Now tell me, what was it you wanted to talk about?”