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Crowley pressed his fingertips into the damp soil at the base of the little Ginkgo biloba, where a stream of angelic Intent wound around its roots. “You can do it,” he said, kind but firm. “I expect a lot of you, but never more than you’re capable of.”
Its leaves seemed to stand a little straighter in response.
“That goes for all of you,” he said, turning in a slow half-circle to take in the other greenery. “I’ll be proud, but you’re going to work for it.”
He grinned at his newest acquisition and withdrew his hands, absently wiping them on his dark trousers instead of his apron. The humans in this part of the world didn’t know the Ginko’s restorative properties yet, but Crowley had always had a loose relationship with Time; he tended to sneak peeks further ahead than he was really supposed to and was always delighted by mortal ingenuity. Someday soon, the towering tree would be just as commonplace in England as it was in its native China. And in the meantime, Crowley would relish the rarity of his seedling.
Less than a decade ago, Crowley had found a quaint little building in Soho; it, and the surrounding block, had been perfect for an arboretum. And now his plants, flora from around the world, were flourishing here, in the heart of London. He’d installed floor-to-ceiling windows that had cost nearly his entire Earthly savings; the rest had gone to the enormous domed skylight, spilling the sun’s rays across the floor in bursts of colour. Every penny had been worth it, too. While technically considered an embassy of Heaven, this place, and everything in it, were his. He was home.
The bell above the door jangled merrily. Crowley sighed, fondly exasperated. Opening day and he’d already had to chase off three people who'd tried to look in before he was ready.
“Not open yet,” he called, testing the moisture of the next pot. “Come back in a couple of hours.”
“Surely you’ll allow tidings of good news,” came a smooth, cultured voice that lifted the small hairs on the back of Crowley’s neck.
He turned, and there was Lucifer, in all his beauty; hands tucked in his trouser pockets, a suit that was so light a grey that it could have been white, blond hair shimmering gold in the dappled light as it flowed past his shoulders. Calculating green eyes took in every inch of the room in such a way that Crowley’s shoulders began to hunch. He shifted his attention to Lucifer’s companion, an angel that he didn’t know. They barely came to Lucifer’s shoulder, a head shorter than Crowley himself, with tanned skin, dark eyes, and even darker hair. Thin lips were pulled into a moue of distaste, and the antipathy from beneath that crinkled brow made Crowley feel very much like a pest crawling in the dirt.
Still, Crowley made himself smile. “‘Course. Always welcome a spot of good news,” he replied, lounging against the display shelves. He didn’t think for a moment that his black clothes might come away stained, or that stems and leaves might tangle in the fiery curls that tumbled past the small of his back. All of Crowley’s living things loved him too much to entertain the notion, even if he wasn’t always aware of it.
That was not to be said of Lucifer, whose own smile was almost predatory. “I’m so glad to hear that, Anthony.”
Crowley tried very hard not to flinch. Some of the archangels had been nothing short of outraged when he’d told them that he was no longer answering to his God-given name. Lucifer had merely raised a sculpted brow and continued on as he always had, in order to “keep the peace.”
“Right! So, your good news!” Lucifer clapped his hands in front of him. “You’re going back to Heaven!”
In the space of a second, Crowley’s stomach plummeted, his heart lodged in his throat, and the world leaned seventy-three degrees on its axis. “Heaven?” he blurted. “I’m being recalled?”
His world lurched further when, over the small angel’s shoulder, Crowley saw Aziraphale framed in an eastern window. He had a bottle in one hand, a wrapped paper parcel in the other, and an unreadable expression on his face. Those deep blue eyes met Crowley’s and Crowley dared to minutely shake his head. Aziraphale scowled at Crowley’s ethereal visitors, looking them both up and down with a sneer. Crowley swallowed past the lump in his throat and tried to focus on the fact that Lucifer was still talking.
“…what every angel wants, isn’t it?” Lucifer finished, a quirked eyebrow prompting Crowley to profess his gratitude.
“Just seems so sudden,” he hedged, shrinking beneath the unimpressed glare of the Supreme Archangel. His copper-brown eyes were hidden by his amber-tinted coquilles, but he still felt Lucifer’s stare boring into them. “Got lots of projects here. Need some time to bring my replacement, er, up to speed. And, um, the Demon Aziraphale–”
Lucifer’s face hardened. “Yes, we know all about the demon, Anthony.”
Crowley sincerely hoped not. “So you see, it would be awfully inconvenient to–”
“It’s starting to sound like you don’t want to return,” the small angel broke in, eyes narrowed.
“Well that’s– That’s just nonsense!” Crowley said with a forced chuckle. “Where could be better than Heaven?”
He very staunchly ignored the needless throb of his needless heart that thumped here, here, here.
“That’s settled then!” Lucifer smiled again, like the dawn breaking over a mountain range. “I have a massage in an hour, and then we’ll send down your replacement.”
“Can’t wait,” Crowley said around a baring of his own teeth that he thought might be construed as happiness.
The pair had barely turned the corner before Aziraphale stepped in, obviously trying to temper his anger into idle curiosity. “What did his Most Illustriousness want from his Earthly plenipotentiary?” he asked, setting both bottle and package on the counter by the door.
“I’m going. Back to Heaven,” Crowley said, the words carving a hole in his chest and leaving ash in his mouth.
Aziraphale hummed as he paced over to the spread of pots nearest the western window, hands clasped behind his back. Crowley tracked the motion with his eyes, glutting himself on what might be the last time he saw Aziraphale. Cream and beige suited him, Crowley thought with a pang. The suit and waistcoat were fashionable without being flashy, and the light blue shirt was almost a perfect match to those intelligent eyes.
“Will you be gone long?” Aziraphale asked idly, reaching out to brush a finger over the broad leaves at his waist.
“No, Aziraphale. I’m going back to Heaven.”
He saw the moment the emphasis landed; Aziraphale stiffened, his chin coming up a fraction as Lucifer were still here to challenge. “I see,” he said, and while his voice was full of its usual sweeping cheer, there was something deeper in it that made Crowley’s feathers puff. “And Lucifer has merely left you here to stew until he comes back to fetch you?”
Crowley flapped a hand in the direction the angels had gone. “Said he has a massage.”
“Oh! I know just the place. It’s across the road from the place I got my manicures!” Aziraphale brightened; Crowley merely eyed him all the more suspiciously. “Wait right here, my dear. I’ll be back in two shakes.”
“Aziraphale–”
“Two shakes!” he called over his shoulder, and then he was gone.
~*~
Heaven certainly had some gall.
Aziraphale marched through the streets at a pace he would normally be mortified by—no proper gentleman ran after all, and certainly not a demon with nothing behind him—but in this case, needs must. Thousands of years had gone into this wonderful, fragile friendship. Thousands of years of gently pushing and pulling at Crowley until their lives had slotted together. He needed Crowley like he’d once needed the Almighty’s Love—and Lucifer, that prig, was about to tear it all down.
Not that Crowley could ever know the intensity of his obsession, Aziraphale thought as he rounded the corner into a back alley. His hidden desires were not at all gentlemanly, were completely, irrevocably demon. Never-ending, never-fulfilled, only a huge, sucking void that Crowley kept at bay with his incandescent smile and quicksilver mind. Aziraphale’s devotion was paid for with scraps of time, bits of affection, and in return, Aziraphale would kneel on hallowed ground to worship Crowley as he deserved.
Returning to Heaven would dim Crowley’s blinding light until it died, and Aziraphale would give into the lonely madness that threatened to suffocate him without his seraph nearby to keep the balance.
There, down the street from where Aziraphale poked his head out the alley, was his problem personified. Lucifer bent to look in a shop window with genuine curiosity while a short, dour-looking angel leaned against the building with crossed arms. Aziraphale didn’t remember much of Heaven, but he knew that that… crony had been in the tightest of Lucifer’s inner circles. Their messy black hair and black eyes had matched their ever-black moods; something that Aziraphale presently found lacking in even the most disgruntled of fiends. He would tell that angel to go to Hell, but quite frankly, he worked there, and he wasn’t about to see them every decade.
And Lucifer. Aziraphale huffed derisively and drew himself back into the alley. The reason this whole Fallen Angel business had come about was entirely his doing, and he’d passed the buck to Gabriel, of all people. The Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of this World and Lord of Darkness shouldn’t address their underlings as sunshine, really.
God’s favourite would have made a much better Adversary, was all Aziraphale was saying.
Lucifer was quicker to the mark than Gabriel—Satan—had ever been, but surely this leader of the Host wasn’t used to those beneath him lying. Crowley had always managed to skirt the worst of Heaven’s scrutiny with some well-timed omissions and a few reports that were objectively true in word, if not necessarily in spirit. Speaking around the heart of a thing was a talent that Aziraphale had discovered long before the Beginning, and had honed every day since Sunday, October 21, 4004 B.C., at 9:13 in the morning.
All that was left was for him to apply it.
Drawing more power from Below than was strictly required, Aziraphale cloaked himself from sight. When he leaned around the corner again, Lucifer’s head had popped up and those green eyes were staring directly at him.
Excellent.
Aziraphale sighed and let his profane energy surge again. He was sure to hear from Gabrie– Satan about his frivolous miracles—something about only using Hell’s power in the crusade to tempt souls, which Aziraphale thought much defeated the purpose of being a demon—but he would survive a meeting with Ga– Satan. Maybe the lazy bastard would simply send a note. A strongly worded one, perhaps. But even if this little venture meant time Downstairs, Aziraphale would bear it with grace. He would spend any amount of time Underneath if it meant that Crowley would be here, on Earth, when he returned.
Lucifer straightened, ethereal senses brushing over Aziraphale where he stood, his physical eyes darting along the street. He could obviously feel the aftermath of a strong miracle done by the Enemy, but didn’t appear to see Aziraphale, standing in the middle of the pavement while pedestrians flowed around him. Aziraphale smiled as he thumbed through the envelope he’d summoned, then let it drop carelessly from his fingers. The pages fanned over the concrete, passing Londoners oblivious while Lucifer’s attention was glued to the innocuous manilla folder with an Infernal mark on its back.
Editing his old reports while pulling them from Hell and through spacetime was a tricky bit of manipulation, and one that left Aziraphale’s head fizzy. Most angels didn’t have the mental acuity for it, to say nothing of the demons, and just because he could do it didn’t mean it had been easy. Regardless, Aziraphale genially made way for the Supreme Archangel as he rampaged by and dropped to one knee. One hand held the other in the small of Aziraphale’s back as he slowly circled.
“Go. Find the demon,” Lucifer hissed at his companion. The saturnine angel hurried down the alley that Aziraphale had come from, leaving the two celestials alone in a sea of humanity.
Lucifer nearly tore the folder in half in his eagerness, eyes growing wide as he leafed through the contents. Aziraphale didn’t blame him; if he’d turned those reports in as they were written now, his lower-downs would have put him on duty shovelling Hound shit for at least two millennia. According to those records, Crowley had been a very busy agent of the Lord, thwarting wiles willy and nilly. Aziraphale didn’t care that he’d made himself look entirely inept, not if it served his goal.
“I’m going to keep him, you know,” Aziraphale said mildly as he came abreast of Lucifer. “I do tend to take care of what it mine, Archangel, and Crowley is. Mine, that is. You can do your worst, but I will not allow you to take him from me.” He looked up through his lashes at Lucifer’s almost-painful beauty. “Run along, now.”
He wasn’t sure the suggestion would take; Aziraphale daren’t use too heavy a hand, but too light a touch would be brushed off by an angel of Lucifer’s power. But Lucifer shook himself as if he’d been in a trance and crumpled the folder in one large hand. Aziraphale allowed himself a contented smile, trailing behind Lucifer as he stalked back towards A. J. Crowley’s Arbor, feeling lighter than he had in decades.
~*~
“Anthony!”
Crowley, in the middle of giving the Ginko’s neighbours a half-hearted talking-to, jumped. Lucifer burst through the door with such force that the bell caved in on one side. Crowley wordlessly restored it as the door slammed against the wall, slowly closing in Lucifer’s wake with a new noise in its hinges. He didn’t know what to say under that furious green appraisal, with Lucifer’s beautiful face bright red and his golden locks streaming behind him like a banner as he stormed across the arboretum.
“Supreme Archangel,” he began, forcing a smile. “Been an hour already?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Lucifer demanded. His barrel chest heaved, and he shook one fist, holding a ream of documents that looked comically small in his large hand, in Crowley’s face.
“Erm… You see… I can explain–”
“I certainly hope so. Because this demon. This Aziraphale.” Crowley’s heart rocketed into his throat. “You haven’t told us—told me—everything. Have you.” Lucifer’s deep voice was resonating on another plane, dipping into a timbre that had once called the Host to war. Crowley shuddered down to his wings.
“No, I haven’t. But there’s a reason that I–”
“In Parliament, Anthony?”
Parliament?
Crowley’s mouth worked for a second too long. Lucifer waved the papers again, eyes narrowed almost to slits. “You didn’t think to report a single one of these incidents?” The Supreme Archangel looked very much like he wanted to take Crowley by the collar and shake him.
“I…” Crowley didn’t know what his face was doing while his mind whirled. A little warning, next time, Aziraphale. “I… didn’t want to brag. Your Beatitude.”
“Didn’t want to–” Lucifer sounded both appalled and warmly approving, a blend that made Crowley deeply uneasy. “I’m beginning to feel like you’re not taking this responsibility seriously.”
“Oh, but I am. Didn’t want to waste the valuable time of anyone Upstairs with all this Earth nonsense.” Crowley chuckled awkwardly.
“That changes today,” Lucifer proclaimed with a quiet finality. “You are to tell us when you thwart the demon who had set his sights on our Heavenly Embassy!”
“Oh, yes, definitely. Will do.” Despite his best efforts, an edge of hope bled into Crowley’s cautious words: “I’m… staying, then?”
Lucifer waved an irritated hand. “Yes, of course you are. I didn’t realise that you were so vital in bringing the demon to heel.”
Crowley would love to bring Aziraphale to heel, but that was a fantasy entirely inappropriate when Lucifer was still hovering at arm’s length. He cleared his throat and made a vague gesture in the direction of the bunched pages, all filled with a neat, copperplate script that Crowley would recognise anywhere. “Can take those from you, then. Want to really study the demon. Keep ahead of him.”
“A sound plan. Keep up the Good work, Anthony.” Crowley’s fingers had almost touched the bundle when Lucifer pulled his hand back and favoured him with a pointed look. “And more accurately, going forward, yes?”
“Yep. Sure will,” Crowley promised. His knuckles were white around the Foolscap-sized documents and his teeth almost chattered with his smile. “Walk you out, Supreme Archangel?”
“No, no need.”
Lucifer nodded to him once, and then disappeared in a flash of Light.
Crowley collapsed against the nearest rack, taking in gasping breaths while he clutched the damning pages to his chest. He slowly let gravity take him, oozing to his knees on the soil-dusted floor. Aziraphale must have no self-preservation to put something like this in Lucifer’s way. Even from Earth, Crowley knew that there were unofficial backchannels that ran between enemy lines. His demon could have been stolen from him by one moment of bad luck! Crowley squeezed his eyes closed. The very idea hurt too much to think about. It was one thing, being recalled himself; it was quite another for Aziraphale to get caught on the losing end of a dozen temptations.
He was still kneeling in the dirt when Aziraphale returned, looking pleased with himself. “Crowley, are you quite well?” he inquired lightly, head tilted to one side as Crowley got to his feet.
“I’m… I’m staying.” The implications hadn’t truly hit him before, but Crowley once again felt his world slant and his legs turn to jelly. “I’m staying!”
“Oh, you are? Splendid!” Aziraphale reached for the bottle he’d left on the counter and made a soft noise of approval as the cap came loose.
“Don’t pretend with me,” Crowley growled, shoving the papers into Aziraphale’s chest.
“Wherever did you find that?” Aziraphale asked airily, making a show of looking them over. “Oh, I see. You’d better be careful. Those could cause such trouble in the wrong hands.”
Crowley drew on a thread of power from Heaven and they burst into flame.
Aziraphale looked entirely nonplussed and blew the fire into nothing. “Well. That takes care of that.” He rested a hand on the neck of the bottle with a winning smile. “Care for a drink, seraph?”
Too elated to be angry, Crowley grinned back. “Suppose I could. Here, come on.”
The small back room that he led Aziraphale to was considerably cooler than the atrium, outfitted with an outrageously comfortable couch that Crowley had already spent many an afternoon lounging on to soak up the sun. A few smaller, stiff-backed chairs, like the one Aziraphale sank into, were arranged around the small wooden table between. Crowley clipped his coquilles to the V of his shirt by the arm and took a long-stemmed glass in each hand.
While the scent that rose from the dark liquid was undeniably alcoholic, it smelt nothing like the wine Crowley had become so fond of. Aziraphale poured him a finger’s depth and handed it back.
“I was in the New World recently, and came across this.” Aziraphale gave himself the same amount and held it to the light. “It’s not entirely to my taste, but I thought it might be to yours.”
Crowley took a large, indelicate mouthful and rolled the alcohol over his tongue. It was different, smoky in a way that even the dryest wine would never achieve. And stronger, the burn settling in his cheeks and searing a line down his chest when he swallowed. Crowley breathed raggedly when it hit his stomach and spread, coughing until Aziraphale’s smirk blurred from his gathering tears.
“That,” Crowley said, glaring at his drink like it might become more palatable through the sheer weight of his displeasure, “is one of the worst things I’ve ever tasted.” He set his glass on the table and flicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
“It really isn’t so bad once you’re used to it. In fact, I daresay this will be everywhere, once they’ve gotten the bottling process ship-shape.” Aziraphale took a more delicate sip, looking at him with an arched eyebrow.
“And, this brought you all the way back to London?”
“Of course not! I’m here for your opening day!” Crowley blinked, but Aziraphale prattled on like he hadn’t just upended Crowley’s universe with a few simple words. “I’ve brought you a celebratory drink—I mean it, Crowley, whiskey is going to very popular—and a gift!” Aziraphale wiggled in his excitement and placed the package between them. “Here. This is for you.”
Crowley turned the parcel in his hands. It was nothing extraordinary; a palm-sized bundle of brown paper, tied in a ball with a bit of twine. But Aziraphale had remembered. He’d come halfway around the world to be back in time for Crowley’s opening day, and he’d brought a gift. Crowley couldn’t bear to look at him for fear his whole secret heart would come tumbling out and frantically blinked away the dampness on his lashes.
“It’s very rare, so you must take extra care with it,” Aziraphale warned as Crowley began unwrapping. “Dionaea muscipula, or the Venus flytrap, as the locals call it.” Crowley gasped as he drew away the last bit of paper concealing the tiny seedling. “Carnivorous little thing. It needs quite a bit of sun and very little moisture. Let it winter belowground and it’ll be tip-top come spring.”
“Aziraphale, this is so–”
“Careful, seraph. There is language that I won’t tolerate, even from you.” The words were light, but Aziraphale’s eyes were intense.
“Thoughtful,” Crowley finished innocently. Aziraphale huffed through his nose and took another long sip of whiskey. “And I know just the place for it.” A sudden joy, a jubilation that he would have the time to watch his little plants grow and bloom and fade brought Crowley to his feet. “Bring that awful stuff and let me show you.”
Beaming, Aziraphale followed.
One door shut behind them with a click. Another door had its Closed sign flipped to Open.