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Crowley has never really had a home.
Heaven was relatively boring and uninspiring, and he hadn’t entirely clicked with the other angels so naturally, he had fallen into a sulky rebellion. But then Hell hadn’t proven any better and consisted mostly of talentless buffoons who took pride in the most mundane methods and continued to stagger pathetically behind Heaven in almost all advancements. On Earth, he feels more at ease, finding enjoyment in the clever achievements of humanity like phones, cars, and Cadbury chocolate spread. He has fallen into step with the way the world turns, and it suits his stride just fine. Yet even within this relative contentment, there remains a discomfort that prickles across his skin occasionally, a reminder that he is different, and that he doesn’t belong to this Earth in the way the humans have made it their home.
Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to have a real home.
It starts with some books. Crowley does not own many physical copies of books because he really doesn’t enjoy reading (much to Aziraphale’s dismay), and the ones he does own, he remembers. This is not difficult, considering they number three in total, and include Bentley: Past and Present (self-explanatory), How to Raise a Plant and Make it Love You Back (a gift from Aziraphale) and finally, Fancy Coffins (an accidental purchase made at an impossible hour of the night on far too many drinks ̶ he thought he was buying a book about fancy coffee).
The materialising books however are none of these. They’re a range of classic fiction, leather bound expensive looking things that Crowley would hazard a guess at being some fine first editions. He would also bet a right hand (someone else’s, of course) that he knows who they belong to.
He’s sitting on the park bench beside Aziraphale. The angel throws some bird seed on the ground and a duck waddles over to sweep the seeds up with satisfaction. Aziraphale had enforced the bird seed rule after discovering an online article listing the deadly issues that bread can cause for the duck population. After a small existential crisis where Aziraphale began to spout off the alarming numbers of potential bird deaths they may be responsible for, Crowley managed to calm him down and steer him in the direction of positive change. And so it was decided; bird seed, no bread.
Aziraphale throws one last handful of bird seed and closes the bag, leaning back into the bench.
“Did you leave some books at mine?” Crowley asks. He looks at Aziraphale, who is watching the ducks slip back into the lake, losing interest now that the feast is over. The crease between the angel’s eyebrows deepens a little.
“Maybe? I don’t recall.”
“Well you know I don’t own many books-”
“A travesty.”
“-and they’re not mine.”
Aziraphale shrugs.
“Well then, I suppose I must own them. I’ll pick them up next time I visit,” he says, waving a hand dismissively.
The thing is though, the books don’t disappear. Aziraphale comes and goes, and yet the books remain. Not only that, but the pile grows taller and begins to spread. A book pops up on his sofa, another on his nightstand, one sits propped up on the kitchen counter. It’s as though by naming the infestation, the disease has started to spread. When Crowley finds one stuffed beneath a cushion, he digs it out with a sigh, and places it with the others. He wonders how Aziraphale has any books left in his own collection at this point; Crowley surely must own a good section of the bookshop.
The next thing he discovers is the slippers. He accidentally trips over them walking to the bathroom in the dark. In the absence of light, he squints at them in confusion. After he misses the light switch with a few frustrated smacks of his hand against the wall, he clicks his fingers instead, and the room floods with light.
They’re a sensible sort of slipper, a navy blue with what looks like a plush interior. Absolutely comfortable and entirely boring. He doesn’t have to guess where these one’s have come from – the gold embroidered initials are clear enough.
“You left your slippers at my place,” he says to Aziraphale through a mouthful of sushi. Aziraphale dips his roll carefully in the sauce.
“Oh, did I? I was wondering where they got to.”
Crowley narrows his eyes suspiciously.
“I don’t even remember you wearing slippers at mine. When was that?”
“Must have been oh, I don’t know, maybe last week when we had tea? You know I hate wearing shoes inside your apartment. It seems far too clean for me to go traipsing about.”
Crowley highly doubts Aziraphale has ever ‘traipsed’ in his life, but he provides no such comment.
“Would you like them back?” he asks.
Aziraphale shrugs, chewing thoughtfully for a moment, before he swallows.
“Perhaps I could always just leave them there? Since I wear them at yours anyway, you know. Might save the hassle.”
Crowley spears the last piece of sushi with his chopsticks and swallows it quickly, grinning at the indignant look Aziraphale directs towards him.
“I guess I can hang onto them. You seem to be around every other week.”
A waiter comes over with the bill. Aziraphale dabs at his mouth with a napkin and pushes his chair back. He stands up, handing the bill to an amused Crowley.
“Can’t get rid of me,” he says.
Crowley watches the angel walk out of the restaurant, the bell on the door trilling happily as it closes behind him.
“End my suffering,” he mutters to the bill in his hands.
The slippers stay and, much to Aziraphale’s credit, he does use them when he stops by. In fact, Aziraphale starts to visit Crowley more often now. Since the whole ‘end of the world thing’ went down (or more accurately, didn’t quite go down) he often visits to sit and talk with Crowley over a drink or two and trade stories about their respective bosses.
There are other changes that begin to sneak in unannounced. Like the new box of tea beside his coffee machine, perfectly sorted and labelled (colour coded and everything). There is also the toothbrush that somehow slides into one of the bathroom drawers, followed by a comb and some mouthwash. A few small replica statues appear in various places around the house. Crowley remembers seeing most of the original versions of these statues on a trip to the Louvre he made with Aziraphale a century earlier. He muses on this, and wonders if maybe they should take a holiday together again sometime soon.
He says as much one afternoon, after Aziraphale knocked on his door and subsequently let himself in without waiting for a response.
Aziraphale takes a sip of his drink, a sweet rosé. His lips curve in a smile.
“It was nice, wasn’t it? I haven’t been to France in, oh, at least ten years.”
“I think I was there last about two years ago? They wanted me to do some silly thing but I got distracted and spent a whole week in Giverny exploring Monet’s garden instead.”
“Last time I was there it was to exchange some books with a rare book dealer. I didn’t even get to do the whole tourist thing.”
“I love doing the tourist thing.”
“Only because you love how easy it is to irritate them,” Aziraphale scoffs. He puts on a voice (one Crowley sure hopes isn’t supposed to resemble his own).
“Oops, didn’t mean to bump into you there sir, oh no! Did your phone fall into the Seine? It had all you family photos on it? And the photos from Lauren’s wedding? How awful!”
Crowley grins, “That was pretty funny.”
“You’re dreadful. I don’t know why I even talk to you,” Aziraphale says with a definite hint of affection. He cuts a slice of cheese and spreads it onto a cracker, face falling as the cracker splits in two.
“Bugger,” he mutters. Crowley blinks and the cracker rights itself. Aziraphale gives him a small smile before popping it into his mouth and chewing happily.
“I guess you’re not so bad,” he murmurs, after swallowing his food.
Crowley props his ankle up on his knee, arms splayed wide across the edge of his chair.
“I’m inherently bad, angel, that’s kind of my deal.”
Aziraphale just hums in response and takes another cracker. He is sitting in a chair, one strikingly similar to Crowley’s own extravagant throne, with an elaborate gold trim and tall back, but it is instead cushioned with a pale beige colour. This was a collaborative decision made after a few too many dinner drinks where Aziraphale thought it would be hilarious to have his own throne, and Crowley of course, could not help but oblige.
“Where was it when you melted that ice rink?” Aziraphale asks.
“Also France, I think.”
“Ah, I thought it might have been.”
“Yeah, but somewhere rural.” Crowley grins. “That was a good one.”
“Those poor people almost drowned, Crowley.”
Crowley rolls his eyes.
“It would have melted in another hour anyway, with or without my help I just…sped the process up a little.” Aziraphale shoots him a look of disbelief, as Crowley throws his hands up indignantly.
“Give me a break, nobody was hurt, and they got to have a nice swim.”
“In the middle of winter.”
“Can’t win them all.”
Aziraphale crosses his arms over his chest with a small frown.
“I really wanted to go ice skating that day,” he sighs, wistful.
Crowley reaches over, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t pout angel, I’ll take you ice skating another time.”
Aziraphale looks at the hand on his shoulder, then looks at him. His lips twitch into a gentle smile, the kind that tends to leave Crowley feeling breathless.
“Oh, well, that’s okay then I suppose,” he says.
The books that have been floating around his place for a good few months now have reassembled themselves in an orderly fashion by lining up neatly into a new bookshelf by the door. Crowley stands in front of it, eyes skimming the spines of the books with an exasperated expression cinched between the tight pull of his lips and the furrow of his brow. His eyes fall on an empty section of shelf and he sighs.
He waves a hand and a small potted succulent appears in the space. His lips quirk into a wry smile.
“Well,” he says, “I suppose it’ll do.”
Crowley swerves around a corner, the Bentley rolling over the bump of a gutter as Aziraphale barely manages to swallow the curse that threatens to escape him. Crowley grins; he relishes in the sheer adrenaline of screaming down the streets of London in the Bentley. He would also easily admit that he relishes any opportunity to encourage the angel to blaspheme (he’s still a demon after all, temptation and all that).
“Honestly, it’s a wonder you’ve never gotten a ticket,” Aziraphale says, slamming a hand to press the ceiling and anchor himself in his seat.
“Couldn’t get me if they tried.”
The car zigzags through traffic, narrowly missing a cyclist.
“Watch out!”
“You love it.”
“I most certainly do not!”
They sail past a stop sign while Aziraphale shoots a worried look out the window.
“Please, just slow down.”
Crowley sighs and places some pressure on the brakes.
“Anything for you, angel.”
He would be lying if he didn’t enjoy the small smile that follows this, catching a glimpse of Aziraphale’s expression out of the corner of his eye. They lapse into silence for a moment. It’s the kind of silence between friends, the kind that doesn’t anxiously wait to be broken. Just the sound of the engine, the gravel beneath tires and the soft tunes playing on the radio.
They turn a corner and continue down the road. Aziraphale has relaxed slightly and is no longer clinging to the car. His hands are clasped in his lap, a thumb circling in slow motions around his wrist. Crowley is distracted by this for a moment, but manages to drag his eyes away and return his focus to the road.
“How’s your bookshop going anyway?” he asks.
“Oh, it’s fine. I haven’t had as many customers of late. Maybe a good thing.”
“Maybe it’s also because there aren’t any books left. You know, because they’ve all miraculously decided to take up residence in my flat,” Crowley says.
Aziraphale offers an embarrassed smile
“It’s just, your flat looked so bare and anyway, those are the books I wasn’t planning on selling so it’s fine.”
“You know,” Crowley says, “Usually people ask before they decide to improve the interior decorating of a flat they don’t own. In fact, some people get a ton of money for it. But don’t get any ideas.”
“You don’t like it.”
“Well I didn’t say that.”
“Fine, I’ll take them back.”
“No!” Crowley says, a little too loudly. Aziraphale starts; bewildered. Crowley grips the steering wheel and lowers his voice.
“No, they’re fine. You’re right, my flat was too empty before. Besides, you spend half your time there now so it’s only fair that you feel comfortable.”
Crowley does his best to avoid looking at Aziraphale who he knows is absolutely wearing one of his shit-eating grins, that one where his eyes light up fondly. The one specifically reserved for Crowley. To be honest, Crowley hadn’t even realised he had grown somewhat attached to the new décor in his flat, but there is something charming about the change, and the thought of it returning to its previous bare state makes him feel unhappy. Discontent. Lonely.
“I do feel comfortable there,” Aziraphale muses. “It’s a funny world, an angel feeling comfortable with a demon.”
“Gotta keep them on their toes somehow,” Crowley replies.
A few days later a scented candle appears next to the succulent on the bookshelf. It supposedly smells like butterscotch and mahogany, with a hint of caramel. Crowley realises that what it actually smells like is Aziraphale, which subsequently means now his apartment smells like Aziraphale, and that is really messing with his head.
He is walking to the kitchen when he notices the dresser. It seems like it rolled right out of an antique shop or, more likely, someone’s garbage. It’s an old dusty wood, intricately carved with gilded handles that have worn away some of their polish. A dozen scratches disfigure its surface and one of the brass drawer handles is missing completely. It is impressively discordant with the particularly curated minimalist grey and altogether gloomy theme of his place, and it is certainly not an item of furniture he has ever chosen for himself.
“Aziraphale?” he calls, expectant.
The angel peers around the corner.
“Yes?”
“Is this yours?”
Aziraphale blushes a little, which is somewhat endearing.
“Er, yes, that one is mine. I just thought it might liven the place up a little?”
“It’s very…you.”
“Is it really that bad?”
Crowley looks at it and makes a quick list of all the things related to Aziraphale that he could possibly perceive as bad. He comes up with exactly zero answers. Crowley shakes his head, a little dazed at the revelation.
“No, it’s not bad at all.”
A rug faded from wear somehow makes its way beneath the legs of his table. It clashes horribly with the intense marble, but Crowley finds it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. A ceramic bowl appears on the table too. It’s ugly, disproportionate, and the indents of the fingers that worked to smooth the edges remain, solidified in the heat of the kiln. But Crowley remembers that Aziraphale took ceramic classes once, notes the initials scratched into the base of the bowl, and decides it should stay. He does, however, draw the line at framed print of ‘The Last Supper’ which spontaneously decides to take a trip out the tenth story window (which it shockingly does not survive). This is replaced, accompanied by a definite hint of irony, with Alexandre Cabanel's ‘Fallen Angel’ which soon after, also mysteriously goes missing. This is finally replaced by the far less religiously evocative painting of ‘The Artist’s Garden at Giverny’ by Monet. When Crowley notices this addition, he smiles, feels affection grip his chest, and decides this will do nicely (although he does change the tacky frame to a far more palatable sleek black).
Crowley stumbles out of bed one morning, woken by the call of the sun, cursing the light that filters through his window (fucking stay behind a cloud or something you flaming ball of shit!). He pads into the kitchen, bare feet against cool tiles, and clicks his fingers. The coffee machine on the counter begins to hum. As with almost anything in this world, he doesn’t need the coffee, but he decided many years ago that a strong cup of coffee is clearly the only acceptable way to start the day.
He almost sets the counter on fire when a voice pipes out from the living room, startling him.
“Good morning! I made a pot of tea, but I know that’s not really your thing.”
Crowley whips around to see Aziraphale on the sofa. Crowley has never owned a sofa. The angel holds a mug delicately in one hand and waves his spare hand at a teal ceramic teapot resting considerately on a cloth coaster. He smiles and the steam from his tea curls around his chin. His legs are tucked underneath him, a pillow resting under one arm as he leans back, settling into the sofa.
“Fuck me angel, you can’t just sneak up on me like that! I almost set the kitchen on fire.”
Aziraphale wrinkles his nose.
“Oh dear, that would have been dreadfully inconvenient.”
The coffee machine beeps to let him know the coffee is ready. Crowley takes his hot drink and has a sip. Perfectly bitter.
“So, you’re just letting yourself inside my place now huh? What’s this surprise visit about then? Got some kind of insidious, angelic plan in the works?”
“Angels are not insidious,” Aziraphale mumbles into his tea rather unconvincingly.
“Could have fooled me,” Crowley replies, thumbing the edge of his mug. He realises that his mug matches Aziraphale’s own, a white ceramic mug with a handle sculpted of angelic wings. Or demonic wings, he supposes. He does not remember ever owning these mugs.
“I just wanted to pop by to see if you would like to go out to a show later?”
“I am not seeing Cats again.”
Aziraphale looks horrified.
“I would never!”
“Fine. As long as we can do dinner at that new place first.”
“The tapas bar?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. I hear good things,” Crowley says, as he takes another sip of his drink.
“Perfect. It’s a date.”
Crowley raises an eyebrow. Aziraphale scoffs and attempts to hide his flushed cheeks behind his mug of tea.
“You know what I mean.”
Aziraphale stays over his place so often now, that it seems Aziraphale is at Crowley’s more than he is not. Crowley becomes accustomed to the smell of tea in the morning mingling with the stronger scent of his coffee. He learns the way Aziraphale sits on the sofa when he is relaxed, how he is the insufferable kind of person who wakes up far too early and delights in the sunrise. He learns the sound of Aziraphale’s humming as he reads a book he thoroughly enjoys and the way that Aziraphale gently taps the base of his glasses to realign them on his face. He learns the way Aziraphale’s mouth twitches when he is attempting to hide his amusement, the way his eyes glaze over when he is lost in thought, how his gaze drifts to the window occasionally and he seems pensive; content.
The interior decorating in his flat also changes quickly during this period of time; a new dresser appears, a desk materialises complete with writing equipment from a century past, a few more chairs around the table spontaneously pop up overnight, as well as an elaborate looking candelabra, some classical music records, and a new bed that Crowley notices one day as he walks past it sitting inside what had previously been a dusty old room he had been using for storage.
He’s on the sofa with Aziraphale one afternoon watching television. Crowley is leaning back into the cushion, arms and legs splayed out. His glasses sit on a coffee table they decided to purchase together. It’s an elegant choice, a dark red wood chosen by Crowley and purchased at a small hole-in-the-wall antique shop Aziraphale is fond of.
Aziraphale sits beside him, tucked into the corner of the sofa. The click of knitting needles sound in a steady rhythm as he moves them skilfully, looping the wool through and tugging it off the needle. He has been working on the scarf for a week now, and it trails by the floor. Every so often he glances at the television with a smile or a soft chuckle before returning to his task.
Crowley taps a finger against the fabric of the sofa. A question pokes at his brain. He looks at Aziraphale.
“Do you live here?” he asks Aziraphale.
Aziraphale pauses, looks at him, and considers this for a moment.
“I think I do,” he says.
Crowley nods.
“Alright then.”
It nears winter and the heating in the apartment is blasting at full force. Crowley has never really used it before, but Aziraphale stresses that it makes the place more comforting. It doesn’t seem to stop him from rugging up with at least a hundred blankets anyway. It also means that Crowley needs to really focus on his plants, particularly as Aziraphale has taken to coddling them with kindness. He needs to work extra hard to undo all of that good work. They also spend more time indoors than out, which is a new experience for Crowley who used to avoid his flat as much as possible. To have Aziraphale’s company as a constant in his life is refreshing. He had thought they thrived off the random encounters between them that littered the centuries but now that they spend entire days together, Crowley realises that this is something far more meaningful.
“I have a surprise for you,” Crowley says.
Aziraphale does not look up from the book his reading. The only recognition is a small quirk of an eyebrow that rises above the rim of his glasses.
“I’m taking you out somewhere.”
Aziraphale closes his book and gently places it beside him, removing his glasses and folding them to sit on top of the book.
“This is not one of your tricks is it?”
Crowley feels affronted.
“When have I ever tricked you?”
“Oh, I don’t know, how about when you replaced all my sugar with salt and told me I should make some tea? Or when you told me that youtube was just for personal use and encouraged me to upload myself singing? Or when you took me to the movies to see Titanic but it was really an American Werewolf in Paris? And when you told me I should microwave my burrito while it was still covered in aluminium foil? That time you-”
“Okay, I get it, you have no reason to trust me because I’m a demon etcetera, etcetera. But no, this is not a trick. Promise.”
Aziraphale folds his arms over his chest.
“Fine, but you know I don’t like surprises.”
“I know angel, just give me this one.”
Aziraphale gets to his feet and grabs for his coat, looping a warm scarf around his neck.
“Don’t forget yours,” he says, reaching for a second scarf that hangs around the hat stand. Aziraphale had made it a blood red colour with small dark bats in a border around each end. It reminds Crowley of Dracula more than anything, but it was such a lovely gesture and he had seen Aziraphale working on it for weeks, so when the angel had finally handed it to him with a proud smile, Crowley felt himself choke out a thank you regardless.
He takes the scarf and puts it on, followed by his sunglasses, and they leave the apartment together.
After a short drive, where Aziraphale taps his knees nervously and continues to glance out the window (I’m not kidnapping you angel, calm down!) they arrive.
Aziraphale steps out of the car, hugging his arms to his chest. The sky is dark, and the moon is hidden behind clouds, the only light gleaming from the lone lamppost across the road.
“Where on earth have you taken us?”
Crowley grins, clicks his fingers, and the ground before them lights up with soft blues and purples, revealing an ice rink. It’s completely abandoned (Crowley managed to cause a few timetable errors and emergency closures to get it this way) and he walks forward a few steps before spinning to face Aziraphale.
“You wanted to go ice skating?”
Aziraphale looks at him in awe, face shining, the coloured lights dancing in the reflection of his eyes.
“You did this for me?”
Crowley rolls his eyes.
“It was nothing. Now, get some skates and come on!”
“You know,” Aziraphale says hesitantly; embarrassed, “Ah, I’ve never actually been ice skating before.”
Crowley blinks at him. Aziraphale busies himself with putting his skates on.
“You’ve had thousands of years and you’ve never gone ice skating?”
“Well you know, I just wasn’t sure, and I thought I might make a fool of myself and besides, ice skating was mostly unheard of for many of those years, at least in England anyway.”
Crowley sighs, “Alright then, come on.”
He holds out a hand. Aziraphale looks at it, visibly swallows, and then Crowley feels the angel’s warm grip around his fingers.
“Your hands are freezing,” Aziraphale tuts. Crowley shrugs, stepping onto the ice. He turns to face Aziraphale who watches him closely.
“It’s alright, Crowley says, “I’ve got you.”
Aziraphale smiles.
“I know,” he replies.
They start slowly, Aziraphale holding onto Crowley’s hand with a crushing grip, his other hand periodically slamming into the barrier for support when he slips. His skates cut into the ice, puncturing the smooth surface to create rivets and grazes that are sure to send some poor unfortunate future skater falling flat on their face – Crowley just hopes that it isn’t him.
Crowley moves around the ice with ease, skates slipping seamlessly across the surface. He does not miss the way Aziraphale’s gaze continues to trail back to his face, or the soft smile that refuses to leave his lips. Aziraphale’s face is flushed, from both exertion and the chill, nose a blush red. His scarf wraps tightly around his neck, tucked into the front of his sweater. Even when Aziraphale becomes adept enough to skate without help, they don’t separate. They skate together, fingers entwined, one unsteady and one calm, until the early hours of the morning.
As they move off the ice, preparing to head home, Aziraphale turns to Crowley. He looks at him with an unnerving intensity that unravels Crowley completely, as though Aziraphale is looking directly into his very soul (or, lack thereof). Warm fingers brush his cheeks, thumbs hooking beneath the frame of his glasses.
“Why are you wearing sunglasses at night with nobody around anyway?” Aziraphale says with a hint of scorn as he removes the glasses from Crowley’s face, though his words are soft and lined with affection. He smiles at Crowley and Crowley suddenly feels infinitely more exposed, struggling against every screaming instinct in his body to instantly vanish.
“I like seeing your eyes,” he says, softer again, more precious.
Crowley feels his head swim. Something unreadable flashes in Aziraphale’s eyes, a flurry of emotions that tumble over each other too quickly to settle. There’s a pause, captured in the mist of breath between them, then Aziraphale stands on the tips of his toes and gently kisses Crowley.
“Thank you for tonight,” he says.
The skates in Crowley’s hands explode into a ball of fire and he hurriedly puts them out in embarrassment. Aziraphale laughs, and laughs, and Crowley thinks it’s the most wonderful thing he has ever heard.
Aziraphale begins to set up a library in the flat. Crowley is at first unamused by this new development but, as Aziraphale put it, he does have many bare walls. Though Crowley was thinking more on the lines of decorating them with some nice paintings, not setting up more shelves, he finds he can’t completely the reject the idea so they make a joint decision that Aziraphale can set the shelves up in the same space Crowley keeps his plants.
They buy the shelves in a flatpack and begin attempting to assemble them from poorly detailed diagrams. Crowley remembers inspiring this particular demonic deed, finding the idea of human frustration over missing pieces, diagrams that don’t match up, and an overwhelming amount of arrows and numbers hilarious. He immediately regrets this decision as they attempt to assemble the shelves, throwing one of the hammers across the room after only twenty minutes. Aziraphale calmly retrieves it, miracles some plaster to fill the fresh indent near the window, and gets back to work. After shouting about it for at least another twenty minutes, Crowley calms down and makes some tea for Aziraphale, thanks him for the help, and returns to work beside him.
It quickly becomes their new favourite space, much to Crowley’s surprise. Aziraphale sets up some comfortable chairs, the kind with plush cushions and deep backs that you can sink right into. He likes to sit there in the evenings, reading a book as Crowley tends to his plants. Of course, this means that Crowley needs to threaten the plants in hushed, menacing whispers now so as not to alert Aziraphale, but it still gets the job done.
Crowley is resting on the sofa, dangling his legs over the armrest with a book in his hands. It’s one of Aziraphale’s, a recent book he’s seen the angel completely absorbed in. Crowley doesn’t enjoy reading but he’s curious to see what captures Aziraphale’s attention so well.
There is a series of loud thumping sounds coming from outside as someone walks heavily across the floor. Interested, he turns his head.
There’s a muffled grunt from near the door followed by a shout of his name.
“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks with a hint of worry, “Are you okay?”
“Open the door!” he hears in return.
Crowley quickly throws the book across the room (he does not need Aziraphale to know he’s been reading it), and pads across the floor, clicking the lock of the door. It swings open to reveal an extremely tall plant with legs. No, scratch that, it’s a dishevelled angel holding an extremely tall plant with leaves that brush against the ceiling.
“Hi?” Crowley says, as Aziraphale waddles into the apartment, using extra care as he steps through the door frame to avoid accidentally decapitating the poor plant. He walks into the centre of the room and stands there, head tilted around the stem of the plant so that he can look at Crowley.
“I got this for you,” he says happily. Aziraphale reaches out, handing him the plant. His eyes are bright, and they twinkle in the light, face beaming. Crowley takes the plant slowly, gingerly placing it on the ground beside them both.
“Why?”
“It’s for our home,” Aziraphale says simply.
Crowley looks at the plant and then looks at the angel and it suddenly hits him, a realisation that causes his heart to stutter and snatches the air from his lungs, like when the Bentley passes too fast over a speed bump and becomes momentarily airborne. It’s the understanding that Aziraphale, who has slowly filled the apartment with his own valuables and things of interest, has decided to buy a plant because he knows that this is what is important to Crowley. It’s the realisation that this is his life now, this awfully domestic, comforting, companionship with someone who should be his sworn enemy. And, most surprising of all, is the realisation that this is exactly what he wants.
He blinks and swallows the knot in his throat, struggling to articulate the sheer volume of emotions tumbling through his mind.
“Thank you,” he settles on finally.
Aziraphale smiles at him and Crowley feels himself smile back.
Our home, he thinks.
He is finally home.