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The apocalypse had been averted, thank… well not God, he and God hadn’t been the best of friends lately. Thank…Satan? No, not Satan, he was a bit of a prick…thank, Adam. But coming within a hair’s breadth of losing everything Crowley had come to hold dear gave rise to some serious introspection. And then just barely escaping execution at the hands of some very testy demons and angels really made him look at his existence. Now, having left the Ritz after a lovely meal, Crowley stalked around his apartment, battling himself. He wanted to examine his feelings, but demons didn’t really do that. They purposely squished ladybugs and laughed when people slipped down the stairs. Crowley had once laughed for five minutes straight when some poor bugger in ancient Rome got his tunic stuck in a chariot wheel and was dragged behind the horses. His job was to pretty much not have feelings. Which was why having feelings about having feelings was twice as aggravating.
He growled, and grabbed a spray bottle, ready to threaten his plants. He stopped at the statue in his hall and pulled his glasses down the bridge of his nose, questioning the rationale in his purchase. The more he looked at it, the more the statue looked sexually suggestive. A fleeting thought of he and Aziraphale as the models flitted through his mind and he blushed furiously. Crowley slapped himself in the face and began to aggressively spray water at the greenery, spouting threats and curses.
He ran out of horrible things to say after only a few moments, and his heart just wasn’t in it. Not that he had a heart…dammit! He sighed in defeat, and the plants stopped shaking, more interested in his uncharacteristic docile demeanour. Or, as docile as he got.
“That Angel has done in me in. Ever since that night thirty odd years ago, when he gave me the holy water... I asked him to come to stay with me! Can you believe it?! And I asked him to run away with me, like some hormonal human teenager. Perhaps I do care for him…”
The plants didn’t answer, obviously, but they seemed to lean in. Crowley snapped his fingers, and a couch appeared. He flopped onto it and scowled at the plants.
“Gossipy bastards. Fine! I like him. I like him a lot. He’s obnoxiously well-meaning, as gullible and trusting as a child, and his fashion sense would offend a blind man. He’s…Aziraphale. And I…oh bloody hell I’m having a therapy session with my plants. I even have the couch. I've gone insane. It finally happened."
The plants just sat there, being characteristically silent. But for some reason, Crowley took it personally.
"Stop judging me! It's not easy for me to talk about feelings. I'm a demon. And he's an angel. We're natural enemies, and it's already risky, us being friends. If we were ever more...but it doesn't matter, because I don't have feelings for him. LIking someone is different from having feelings. That's that."
The plants seemed to scrutinize him, oppressing the space until Crowley jumped up, flipping the couch onto its side before making it disappear completely.
“Stop pressuring me! What do you want me to say? That I’m in love with that bloody Angel? That the idea of never seeing him again makes me ache? That I want to take him to Paris and give him all the crepes he wants just so I can see him smile? Fine, you got me. I’m in love with him. I’m in love with Aziraphale!!! Are you happy now, you nosy, no good shrubs! You’re lucky I don’t use you all for kindling! I will. I like a nice fire, I’m a demon!!”
The plants didn’t even shake a leaf, and Crowley felt a presence behind him. He turned around slowly and found Aziraphale standing just outside the room, smiling shyly. Crowley immediately cleared his throat and straightened his jacket.
“Aziraphale. What are you doing here?”
Aziraphale pulled a bottle of wine from his jacket. “Well, I found this Cabernet, 1945. Lovely vintage. So, I thought I’d come to see if you’d like a glass.”
Crowley shushed his pounding heart. “Ah, yes, great. Did you, um, happen to hear any of that?”
Aziraphale looked down, a blush on his cheeks. Crowley began to panic.
“Of course, you did. Quite all right. Supposed to be a surprise! It was a practice run. For…my play. The plants and I are putting on a production. About a demon who falls in love with a plant. A talking plant…named Aziraphale. Quite avant-garde, really. Hoping to get it onto the West End…”
Crowley’s voice died because Aziraphale had migrated closer and closer during his rant until they were inches apart. Crowley could feel the angel’s breath on his face. He smelled like cinnamon and brown sugar and wine, and it was unfairly alluring
“I do hope you’ll invite me to the premiere. You know how I love a good show. And I'd love to know how it ends...”
Crowley nodded and swallowed hard. “Me too...Why exactly are you here, Angel?”
Aziraphale spoke softly, one hand trailing down Crowley’s lapel. “Well, you did say I could come to stay with you…and I found that once I got back to my bookshop, all I could think of was you. And, what good are books if one can’t stop thinking about someone else long enough to read any of them?”
Crowley grabbed Aziraphale by the bow tie and kissed him. He heard the angel’s little gasp of surprise, followed by a bottle breaking and leaves shaking. When he pulled away, he saw the plants were moving again, but he could tell it wasn’t with fear. They were cheering him on. Crowley snapped his fingers, restoring the broken wine bottle. Aziraphale was beaming, cheeks flushed.
“So, does that mean I’m invited to stay?”
“No.”
Crowley smiled wickedly and Aziraphale’s face fell for a moment before Crowley pulled him in close and whispered, “you’re required to stay.”
They kissed again, Crowley more insistent and Aziraphale more confident. Crowley took the angel's hand and threatened the plants with death by waterboarding (overwatering, in plant terms) to get them to stop cheering. He led Aziraphale to tour the apartment with a specific destination in mind. As they passed the statue, Aziraphale remarked, “art generally imitates life, but in this case, I’m rather feeling we should follow its example. Don't you think, dear?”
Crowley smirked, reminding himself to make a habit of having therapeutic talks with the plants. It seemed to yield bloody good results.