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Aziraphale looked up and found himself in Mayfair, and while he hadn't intended to come this way, Crowley had not been to the bookshop all week and the silence was beginning to weigh on the angel.
After a few moments he found himself at Crowley’s door, hand raised to knock, but something stopped him, a faint whisper in the back of his mind and instead he tried the door knob.
The door swung open freely.
Aziraphale softly stepped inside–searching for the familiar crackle of demonic miracles that laced Crowley’s flat and protected him from anything that might truly cause him harm.
Nothing.
His breath caught.
He closed his eyes and stretched his senses through every corner of the flat. The usual warding miracles were simply…gone. Not weakened. Not hidden. Gone.
Just as he felt his heart begin to beat faster he felt it–not a miracle, but a sound. Faint and distant. Almost musical.
Following the fragile thread, Aziraphale crossed the sparsely furnished flat, past the oversized desk with its ornate throne behind it before slipping into the kitchen. The melody drifted onward, barely audible drawing him towards a door at the back of the dining room that appeared to lead to a laundry room of some kind.
As he neared, the indistinct notes coalesced into a song. It was vaguely familiar– one of Crowley’s favorites, but beyond that he had no clue. The door stood almost closed, left open only a fraction. Silently, he crept forward, scarcely daring to breathe and leaned down to peer through the gap.
What he saw was a room lush with greenery yet unlike any other rooms in Crowley’s flat. Elsewhere, towering plants crowded every available inch, their broad leaves reaching toward the ceiling and spilling over furniture in a wild, untamed jungle. Here, everything was smaller. Delicate vines, tiny ferns, and neat rows of seedlings sat in individual pots arranged across shelves and worktables, each with space to breathe and grow. The room felt less like a conservatory and more like a nursery. Aziraphale had always assumed Crowley had either bought the plants from a store or had simply miracled them into existence, but seeing the small helpless sprouts tended with such devotion and affection revealed a side of the demon he thought he knew that he had never imagined.
Crowley was out of sight, but Aziraphale heard his gravelly voice drifting softly from somewhere to the right.
“There’s a star man waiting in the sky…”
A moment later Crowley came into view from the right carrying a small pot still singing directly to it as though it was the most normal thing in the world. His face was animated, almost smiling, his entire focus on the tiny plant cradled in his hands.
“M’kay you little twerp,” he murmured, setting it down softly. “Time to get you into a bigger pot.” He shuffled a few things around on the table top and started filling another pot. Despite his careful handling of the plant, the rest of the process was less graceful: limbs flailing in time to the music, dirt scattering across the table in growing heaps as he worked with the joy and enthusiasm of someone who had never considered tidiness might be part of gardening. Aziraphale smiled to himself. There was no performance, no clever remark or sharp edged sarcasm. Just Crowley, entirely devoted to something small and fragile in his care.
“Alright–who’s next,” Crowley growled affectionately, tapping each little pot on the table. “Eenie meenie money mo...”
He grabbed another and the process began again.
“Sorry--I had no idea my wards were causing you guys such pain. I'll set them more carefully next time. And get you more of that plant food you like. Promise!" Crowley chuckled to himself.
Aziraphale thought about saying something but some things needed to remain private even between friends --especially those who had been friends for millennia. Aziraphale backed away slowly leaving Crowley to sing to his plants.