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The apocalypse had come and gone – or not come, as it were – and Aziraphale still spent most of his time at the bookshop. He whiled away the time there, not working and not opening the doors to customers. There was a marked difference with the before times, however, and that was the frequent presence of a certain demon. Crowley.
They both spent more time in each others’ spaces, as if one final barrier had come down after inhabiting each others’ bodies that one frightful day. In Crowley’s case, that space was his apartment. Stark, cold, but curiously welcoming nonetheless. And if Aziraphale was going to spend more time in it, he would make sure it had all the comforts an angel of Heaven – a particularly hedonistic one – could wish for.
So his subtle campaign started. He brought various things with him, on his visits. He forgot to take them home when he left. Crowley’s cellar acquired several bottles of rich Portuguese wine, from the nineteenth century – not that the cellar was exactly lacking. His walls gained several original sketches by some artists who were later recognised for their genius, and by others who were equally talented but who were only ever admired by certain celestial creatures. And on one of his shelves, moved Spot.
It was actually Crowley who had given him the little plant, as a gift to celebrate the turn of the millenium.
Aziraphale had never told him that he knew that particular species was commonly referred to as a snake plant, although he was sure it had been deliberate. But at that time, giving each other more than a passing glance had been dangerous, never mind a present, never mind such a personal present.
He was still unsure what the meaning of it was supposed to be, though. He knew if he had given Crowley an angel plant he would have meant that he trusted him completely, absolutely against any common sense. But who knew if by that point, Crowley was already as emotionally invested as Aziraphale was mostly sure he was now. Maybe it was a dig about how easy it was to infiltrate Aziraphale’s sanctuary, that is, the bookshop, where it had indeed lived previously. It kept Aziraphale company.
When Aziraphale placed the little pot on the shelf in the living room, he miracled the ceramic white. It added some much needed contrast to the general black theme of the apartment. He sprayed a little water on the slightly drooping leaves with Crowley's ever present water mister.
“There, there. Changes upset me too, but this is a nice place, isn't it? You'll be in good company here,” Aziraphale murmured soothingly.
He looked around and, indeed, Crowley had a veritably lush collection of indoor greenery. In comparison, Aziraphale’s plant looked pitiful. Its leaves, speckled and yellow tipped, shrunk self-consciously.
Crowley entered the living room and immediately noticed that something was not quite right. He took his sunglasses off and threw them carelessly over the sofa. They landed on the low table, intact.
Eyes unimpeded, a spot of colour caught his attention amidst the black and green that he was used to. A white flower pot, nice enough even if he wouldn’t have chosen it in that style. In it, an ill-looking little plant who, in Crowley’s opinion, was begging to be put out of its misery.
“Oh, no you don’t.” He advanced, slick, dangerous, and stopped within breathing distance of Spot. He traced a black nail from the root to the tip of one of its drooping leaves. “Not on my watch.”
The room was filled with the rustling of shaking leaves, plants conditioned to expect a rage worthy of a demon of hell, with one notable exception. Aziraphale’s plant seemed to thrive at the careful touch of Crowley’s, following after his finger and trying to wrap itself around it. It perked up momentarily, before once more returning to its dreary state. Crowley pulled his hand away, shocked at the impertinence. He retrieved his glasses and left, forced out of his own apartment, thwarted by the unfamiliar vegetal affection.
Aziraphale was on the phone that he had forgotten to disconnect. Or that he had forgotten to forget to put back in the receiver.
“I’m afraid that will not be possible, no.” He twisted the cord, annoyed at the prospective customer. “Supply chain issues, you understand. You’ll be better off trying other book sellers.” It was then that Crowley came in, bell silent, slinking towards the counter where Aziraphale lit up in seeing him. “Well, you better hope they are part of a different supply chain. If you’ll excuse me, the shop is quite busy right now. Bye!”
“Your plant.” Crowley produced a bottle of wine and two glasses, which he filled to the brim. He drank his in one long pull and refilled it.
“Oh, dear. Spot?” Confirmed Aziraphale, worried. He took a bracing sip of the wine, which was earthy and delicious. The sheer pleasure of drinking distracted him from the matter at hand for a moment.
“‘Spot’? I hope you didn’t name it after the spots that it’s not supposed to have.” Aziraphale looked sheepish, which made Crowley all the more exasperated. “It’s on the brink of death, Angel! It’s begging me to put it down.”
“Now, Crowley, let’s not be too hasty,” said Aziraphale, taking their glasses and urging Crowley to move to the back of the shop. “I water it every day, I’m sure it will be fine.”
“You drown it every day,” murmured Crowley, which Aziraphale pretended not to hear. “Right. That’s it, then. It will be on a strict diet from now on, which I will personally oversee. And as for the impertinent attitude… it will learn the rules of the house quickly enough.”
Aziraphale was alarmed at the danger in Crowley’s tone. He looked at his reptile eyes, narrowed towards some invisible enemy, presumably in the direction of his apartment.
“Crowley,” he asked, carefully. “You won’t be hard on Spot, will you?”
“LOSE THE YELLOW OR I WILL EAT YOU!”
Aziraphale insinuated himself between Crowley and his poor plant, who was looking unsure of its place in the world for the first time. “Don’t shout, it’s a very sensitive soul!”
“YOU WILL BE COMPOST! YOU WILL FEED YOUR WELL BEHAVED SIBLINGS!”
“Crowley! Stop scaring them all!” Indeed, the apartment was filled with a thundering noise, coming from the shaking leaves of dozens of specimens that couldn’t look more perfect, or more terrified.
“Angel, your impudent plant needs discipline, it’s killing itself!”
“So let it die, then! Just stop with the threatening,” said Aziraphale, fed up. They both turned to look at Spot who, relieved, wilted and died.
Crowley sat down gingerly on the sofa next to Aziraphale. He extended a cup of chamomile tea like a peace offering. He patted Aziraphale on the shoulder, once, and considered going for a second pat but it felt too strange so he decided against it.
“Angels are supposed to nurture,” said Aziraphale, softly. “I just killed something.”
“What? No, you haven’t.” Crowley produced the white pot where Spot had been barely surviving. He brushed the fallen leaves aside, sending them away somewhere in the process, and uncovered four tiny, bright green leaves that were sprouting underneath. “It needed to shed, you just helped it along.”
Aziraphale stopped blowing his cup of tea and stared at the pot, shocked. It was a miracle. “Plants don’t shed,” he said.
“Snake plants do,” said Crowley.
Tea forgotten, Aziraphale took the pot from Crowley’s hands. He marvelled at the healthy, happy look of a rejuvenated Spot. He tickled a leaf, which shivered contentedly. “After so many years on Earth, your ignorance of certain subjects is still appalling. Thank you, Crowley.” He bumped his shoulder against Crowley, an affectionate touch, while Crowley looked away awkwardly. “I think my Encyclopaedia Botanica will look great next to your coffee pot, don’t you think?”