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The flat. Crowley's flat had always felt like a refuge. Not a home.
It had felt like a place for him to hide himself from the earth.
A place to hide himself when he didn't want anyone to see him. When he wanted to hide from everyone and everything. When he felt emotions, because emotions weren't something right to him. Cause demons weren't meant to feel emotions, were they?
They were meant to be cold, emotionless beings, only meant for bad. Emotions didn't enter
there. They weren't meant to be weak, as he would put it.
So when he didn't feel like he was enough for even a demon, he would hide there. From any eye. Hoping no one saw him.
The aura didn't help either. Yes, it was decorated to Crowley's liking, but it didn't feel like home. The grays were cold, and the modern feeling of it all just didn't click on him.
Though, when he went there, he was in the worst mood possible to change anything.
Then there were the plants. They felt therapeutic in a way for him. A way of coping. But it wasn't a healthy one. He spent all the time he would spend there shouting, telling the plants how they weren't enough. He would then grab the plant that had disappointed him, holding it up and spinning it around for the others to see.
He would then walk into his kitchen, opening a drawer and pulling out some gardening scissors and.. well, the rest is up for debate. This wasn't healthy for him, making him hostile and aggressive every time he walked around the flat.
The first time Aziraphale found out about it, he was fuming at the demon. He scolded him about this, involving them in an argument where Crowley kept his head down. After telling him it was wrong, his heart broke at the sight. He wrapped his arms around him and apologized while Crowley hugged him back, but the demon understood that Aziraphale was right. He broke down in tears, sniffling against the angel's neck as he rubbed Crowley's back and kissed the top of his head. This all happened in the bookshop.
The bookshop. The bookshop was the closest he had felt at home, yet it wasn't quite there.
Maybe it was the warm tones surrounding it. Maybe it was the excessive decoration.
Maybe it was the way it always seemed to be warm, with no explanation. Maybe it was the cups of tea. Maybe it was the gentle sound of pages being turned, or the soft murmuring of the busy streets of Soho, reminding him that he wasn't alone after all. Maybe it was the angel. Or maybe it was all of those, together, mixed. He didn't know.
Yet it didn't quite reach home. It was almost there, but it wasn't there yet.
The people occasionally storm inside, disturbing their peace. Or the memories from when it burnt down still deep within his heart, on the day he thought that he had lost it all. Or when the angel almost left for heaven.
It all still ached inside him, making said place feel comfortable, but not like home.
It wasn't until then that he actually found out what the term truly meant.
He held a box with small potted plants in his arms as he walked up the small stairs leading to the porch. He looked up at the house. Its walls were coloured in a soft, yellow colour. Vines had grown around them, and next to the door were two wall lamps. They weren't on though, as it wasn't dark enough outside yet for them to be needed. He grabbed a few more boxes that were on the porch with the one he was already holding,
opening the door. He walked into the living room and let them by the couch.
They were almost fully moved in, except for some small left things. They had agreed to bring them in the afternoons. Once he left the boxes on the ground, he looked up, noticing that the angel had turned on the living room's fireplace. He giggled at the thought as the low temperatures of the winter had been freezing him to death.
He sat down on the couch, letting out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. He grabbed a knitted blanket that had been rested on the side of the couch, throwing it over himself and giving a contented smile.
Aziraphale walked down the stairs, chuckling as he saw Crowley snuggled on the couch in the living room. He walked up slowly to said couch, sitting next to him. The demon looked at him and smiled, wrapping his arms loosely around him. Aziraphale giggled, wrapping his arms around Crowley's neck and running a hand through his hair.
That feeling was new. He felt cold because of the winter, but he didn't. He didn't have to hide from anyone. The aura was warm, yet accurate for Crowley's liking. The plants were there, but he didn't feel like he needed to scold them. The books were there, yet it didn't feel like it was a place that was Aziraphale's only. He didn't have any memories, leaving a new, blank canvas for him to fill. No threats.
Only safety. Home.