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Crowley leaned on his shovel and took a moment to admire his work. He had, against all odds, made the stubborn garden yield to his will. The once botanical nightmare was now verdant and blooming, and his little sphere of influence was full of well-behaved dahlias, tulips, foxgloves and snapdragons. He had even summoned an improbable Strelitzia and successfully manipulated it into blooming, despite its initial objections. There was even a truce between Crowley and the rose bushes, albeit an uneasy one.
Crowley made an appreciative, content hum at the sight. He’d chalk this up to creative use of demonic wiles. (He tried to ignore the fact that thoughts of a certain angelic nanny seemed to help to make the flowers bloom a little faster. He’d chalk that up to uncomfortable coincidences.)
Yes, for the first time during his stay at the Dowling Manor, Crowley felt content. The garden wasn’t his only pride: there was also the boy. Warlock was quickly getting the hang of minor evil deeds. Sure, his methods were still a bit rudimentary and the execution was far from sly, but nevertheless, he was progressing nicely. Or, un-nicely, more like.
As he was admiring the garden, he heard small, fast footsteps approaching. He turned and saw Warlock running towards him, a wide grin on his face, hiding something behind his back.
”Mr Crowley!” the boy exclaimed. ”I have the Deed of the Day!”
Crowley grinned back at him, thoroughly pleased. He recognised the satisfaction of successful mischief on the little human’s face, and that always put a warm, Hell-fiery glow in his chest.
”Excellent! Let’s hear it.”
With a triumphant, solemn gesture, the boy revealed the hidden item. It was a beige, leather-bound book.
”I stole Nanny Fell’s diary!” Warlock announced with profound glee.
The warmth in Crowley’s chest grew several dozen degrees cooler.
”I told you not to touch her stuff!” he hissed, tossing the shovel away and snatching the diary from the boy. ”I told you to prank anyone but her!”
”But why?” Warlock whined. ”It’ll be great! She’ll go mad trying to find it! Think of the panic! The terror! All her secrets, gone!”
Crowley was very much thinking of panic and terror, but mostly his own. ”She won’t give you any biscuits if you do things like this”, he reprimanded, shaking the diary at him. ”Put it back where you found it!”
”But you don’t even know the best part yet!” Warlock protested, jumping with impatience. ”Look inside!”
Crowley sputtered for a few seconds.
”What? No!” he squawked. ”I’m not gonna look inside!”
”I looked inside”, the boy stated smugly.
Crowley could only stare in utter dismay. This child was truly, deeply, irrevocably, evil. Not only had he done something that Crowley had never, in his wildest, most voracious dreams, dared to do, now he was offering him an ultimate temptation, in the form of an innocent-looking, angelic diary. And sure, the boy couldn’t read yet, but he still had the audacity to open the diary.
”I’m not gonna look inside”, Crowley repeated through gritted teeth, talking more to himself than Warlock.
”Well, alright”, Warlock huffed, rolling his eyes. ”I’ll tell you then. I…” (He was visibly looking for the correct term.) ”...vandalised it!”
”You what?” Crowley croaked. Without thinking, he opened the diary in one frantic motion to inspect the damage.
The pages, filled with Aziraphale’s impeccably elegant cursive, were now illustraded with crude, aggressive pictures - jagged lines and lurid smears from Warlock’s crayons. Crowley had never seen a sight as sacrilegious. He tried his damnedest to only look at the damage the boy had caused and filter out Aziraphale’s florid prose, but couldn’t help becoming aware of random words. ”Exquisite.” ”Teatime”. ”Denoument”. ”Apocalypse”. ”Crowley”.
Wait, what? What had the angel written about him?
”I don’t want to know!” Crowley shrieked, slamming the diary shut. He stood there, out of breath, staring at the object in his hand with a wild look in his eyes. He snapped his head up and fixed a furious gaze on Warlock, who still looked merely pleased with himself.
”This is the worst thing you’ve ever done!” Crowley hissed. ”You are… Despicable! Unforgivable! Truly... evil!”
Now the boy looked genuinely confused. ”But… aren’t I supposed to be?”
”Yes!” Crowley spat, as he scurried away, grasping the violated diary. He locked himself in the shed and began the process of erasing the damage.
Technically, he knew it would only take one little miracle. But he had to be sure. He had to be meticulous. So, opening the diary on a few random pages was a mandatory precaution. He only did it to fully ensure his clean-up miracles had been effective.
And if, during the process, he happened to see some of the things Aziraphale had written, it was only unavoidable. Regrettable, but unavoidable.
He did not search for the mention of his name. It just… was there. In an entry written only a week ago, after a lengthy account on his new-found love for classic children’s literature and the good influence the stories put on Warlock.
Now for my demonic counterpart. It seems to me that Crowley is doing a rather wonderful job. I do believe we are balancing each other quite nicely. I am more and more confident that our collaboration will be a success.
I also must admit that it has been rather exciting to adopt the role of the Nanny. It’s almost like I am in a play! And having such a dashing co-lead certainly doesn’t make things less exciting. Crowley’s new, more rustic look suits him awfully well. His more rumpled attire combined with his usual serpentine elegance make for an exceedingly well-turned-out gardener. It is truly a joy to see him at work, cultivating his garden with such an odd mixture of aggression and tenderness. I suppose he always was a compelling contradiction: so rough, yet secretly so sweet. And I suppose that’s just one of the reasons I am so terrifyingly fond of him.
As a demon, Crowley could survive a long time without breathing. Now he had definitely stopped breathing. He stumbled to his feet and backed away from the diary as if it was soaked with Holy Water, and started pacing. It felt as if the words, written with Aziraphale’s graceful loops and spirals, were burned onto his retinas.
Dashing co-lead.
An exceedingly well-turned-out gardener.
I am so terrifyingly fond of him.
Ecstasy, pure and dangerous, was bubbling up beneath his ribs— a giddy, terrifying high of hope. It hadn’t been a love confession, but it was undeniable proof of warm feelings, undermining all of the angel’s claims of ”we are hereditary enemies with a purely professional arrangement”. Possibly it was proof of something akin to what Crowley himself was feeling for the fussy angel, or at least suggesting that such feelings might develop.
But the agony was immediate and equally devastating.
Crowley felt sick. He had looked into a place that was too sacred and private for his eyes, a place no one was ever meant to look. He had violated Aziraphale’s privacy and his trust, most likely making him much less fond of him. He knew too much and couldn’t put that knowledge back.
Crowley finally started breathing again, frantically trying to calm down. It wasn’t actually such a big deal, he tried to reason. They were friends. Of course Aziraphale was fond of him -- Crowley knew that even without reading the diary. His comments on the demon’s appearance were about simple aesthetics, nothing meaningful. He might as well have been describing a landscape he found pleasing to gaze at. Yes, his words could easily be explained away and ignored. So, no harm done, really. Now all he needed to do was return the diary without Aziraphale noticing, and force himself to forget about this whole incident.
So, when he knew Aziraphale was having his afternoon tea with Warlock in the kitchen, he snuck inside the manor, hiding the diary behind his back. He crept upstairs and slunk silently along the corridor, doing his best to blend with the shadows.
Just as he was reaching his destination – the small and cozy bedroom of Nanny Fell, a room he had only previously caught a glimpse of – a cheerful voice behind him stopped him in his tracks.
”Crowley!”
Crowley jerked backwards and slammed himself against the wall, trapping the diary between the wall and his back.
”Ah, angel!” he replied, too quickly, too sunnily. ”What brings you here?”
Coming directly toward him, with a small smile on his lips, was Nanny Fell. His pale curls were, as usual, perfectly coiffed beneath his straw boater. The crisp, white apron was spotless. On his shoulders was a cream-colored shawl that looked impossibly soft and comforting. He looked like a picture of angelic domesticity, and the sight sent a wave of heat across Crowley’s cheeks.
”I am going to my room”, Aziraphale stated, his gaze amused and a little suspicious. ”What ever might bring you here?”
Crowley pressed his back so flat against the wall it looked like he was attempting to merge with it. He could feel cold sweat forming at his hairline.
”Just… doing my rounds”, he said with all the casual coolness he could muster (which, at the moment, wasn’t a lot).
The angel snorted softly, quirking one impeccably groomed eyebrow. ”Rounds? What are you on about?”
”Demonic stuff”, Crowley explained quickly, his voice raspy. ”Highly classified. Very… stealthy.”
”Yes, dear, and you are a picture of stealth right now”, Aziraphale taunted gently. Then his gaze drifted downwards, settling somewhere around Crowley’s right elbow, and he frowned. ”What are you hiding behind your back?”
Before Crowley could move or speak, the angel had stepped forward and seized his wrist, in a gentle grip that disarmed Crowley completely. He allowed his hand to be drawn from behind his back, helplessly staring at the exposed diary.
”Oh”, Aziraphale said sharply, his voice suddenly cold. ”I see.” He snatched the object of stealth from Crowley and held it protectively against his chest. When Crowley dared to look at his face, he saw the pursed lips and reddening cheeks of a very displeased angel.
”Angel, I’m sorry”, he hurried to say. ”The boy took it! I came to return it!”
”Did you read it?” Aziraphale asked sharply.
Crowley knew he could lie. He could deny with passion, put all of his demonic dishonesty to un-good use. But seeing the accusation in Nanny Fell’s bright eyes, an ardent plea for honesty, he knew he had to come clean.
”Bits of it”, he admitted, mouth dry.
Aziraphale let out a sharp exhale, blinking his eyes rapidly.
”Well. You had no right. But at least you told the truth.” He fixed Crowley with a glare. ”After some pressing.”
”I didn’t see anything embarrassing, I swear”, Crowley hurried to say, gesturing helplessly at the diary. ”It was pretty boring, actually. Just your average, everyday, angelic musings.”
Aziraphale looked at him defiantly, his face still a bright shade of pink.
”That’s exactly what they were”, he said firmly. ”But I do not appreciate anyone prying on my mundane musings. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an entry to write about a most inconsiderate gardener.”
With that, he marched past Crowley and into his room, the door closing behind him with a loud, aggressive clunk.
Crowley sighed, and trudged out of the building. He assumed his snake form and hid under a bush for the rest of the day, wallowing in most undemonic feelings.
*
Next morning the Gardener was standing in front of a particularly lush flowerbed, with young Warlock at his side. He had the resolute air of someone who had grown tired of wallowing in a bush and was ready to move on from that emotional stage.
”Right”, Crowley said, hands on his hips. ”I have a Deed of the Day for you, boy. Today we will mutilate a garden.”
Warlock’s face lit up.
”Cool!” Then he hesitated for a moment. ”What does it mean?”
”It means…” Crowley adjusted his sunglasses and did a dramatic pause. ”We’ll cut it down.”
Warlock’s eyes went wide.
”What? Cut all of it?”
Crowley shook his head. ”Nah. Just the prettiest flowers.”
”Good!” the boy commented. ”I like the ugly ones best! But what do we do to the pretty ones?”
Crowley grinned diabolically.
”We’ll let them die. A slow, agonizing, pointless death. In a cramped vase on some dusty shelf. People will look at them and take pleasure on their suffering. Quite brilliantly evil, right?”
Warlock didn’t think it sounded terribly evil, but he was happy to wreak some havoc in the garden, so he said nothing. He happily took the knife Crowley offered him – made 5-year-old-safe with a minor demonic miracle – and started the massacre. It was a rather well-organized massacre, guided by Crowley who gave strict instructions on which flower was sentenced to death next.
After the Deed was accomplished, Crowley was holding a large, heavy bouquet of his best, most magnificent blossoms. The ones he had been proudest of. The potentially-award-winning ones. It only stung a little.
Warlock was tired of murdering flowers and frolicked off to some other mischief. Crowley didn’t even pay attention to the child at this point – he had another nerve-wracking Deed ahead.
*
Aziraphale was pulled to reality from his 19th century novel by a loud, demanding knock on his bedroom door. He stood up with a sigh, straightening his white apron, and brushing a stray curl off his cheek. He expected to see Crowley when he opened the door, but all he could see was huge, glorious bouquet of flowers where Crowley’s face was supposed to be. Before he realized what was going on, the flowers were shoved at him and as he automatically put out his hands, he staggered a little under the sudden weight. He lowered the bouquet just enough to see Crowley’s golden eyes, anxious and wide.
Aziraphale took a proper look at the flowers and gasped.
”Crowley”, he said, voice soft. ”These are your best ones! I believe I heard you even call them your ”darlings!”
Crowley immediately rearranged his face into a mask of indifference.
”I said it sarcastically, angel”, he said as he sauntered inside the room, shoving his hands into the pockets of his overalls. ”Nah, these aren’t the best. These were getting stubborn. The rose bushes were a bad influence on them. It was time for them to go.”
Aziraphale sniffed one bright red bloom, hiding his smile. ”Yet you want their decay to happen here, in my care”, he said, eyes twinkling. ”I know what this is, dear. This is you trying to buy back my good opinion. I do believe you are apologizing.”
Crowley shrugged. ”Already apologized last night, didn’t I? Nah, this is a bribe. I give you flowers, you stop sulking.”
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. ”Hmm. I’m afraid my forgiveness cannot be bought.” Then he smiled, a small, playful smile. ”But a gesture like this certainly speeds up the forgiving process. I might even write a diary entry about a certain sweet florist and his sacrifice.”
Crowley let out an involuntary, shaky hiss, the remaining tension in his shoulders dissolving. The thought of Aziraphale writing about him in his diary – him being sweet, not inconsiderate – sent a hot, ridiculous flush through his corporation that made him want to shed his skin. He fought back a grin, rapidly losing the battle to remain cool. He had the same sudden urge to flee as the first time he saw Aziraphale’s adorable nanny look.
”Right. Good. Well.” He started slinking towards to door. ”See you at the next progress meeting, then.”
Aziraphale gave him the warmest of smiles as he placed the flowers in a vase. ”See you, dear.”
Crowley returned to the garden. Somehow the missing flowers didn’t make it look any less beautiful.
Maybe it was the knowledge they were now brightening up on the room of a diary-keeping angel.