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Crowley liked weeds. They were hardy opportunists, a bit like himself, willing to do what it took to survive. No matter how many times their roots were ripped from the soil, they would find a way to come back. It was why he didn’t weed the garden outside his home; weeds overtook the roses, and their delicate sensibilities, crawling up the centuries-old brickwork in thick coils of vine, dripping from the wrought aluminum (because iron was a no-no) fencing that lined the edge of his rather large estate.
Crowley spent much of his time outside, tending to his grounds, when he wasn’t pulling the spines out of insubordinate maggots in Hell. But things seemed to have settled down now, and the soul-selling business was still hot, but manageable, and free time was now a thing that he had. And if Crowley was honest (which he always was), he didn’t enjoy free time. Because if he had free time, so did everyone else. And free time meant some idiot somewhere was going to make a mess that he was going to have to clean up.
And that was not high on Crowley’s priority list.
He had hardly stepped out of the cavernous house that he resided in when the unmistakable sound of wings greeted him from behind. Six wings. If he wasn’t mistaken (and he wasn’t. Ever.)
“I heard you were dead.” Crowley mused, deadpan, eyes fixed on the vine choking the life out of what might have once been a patch of tulips. “Thought it was a bit rude that you would leave without saying goodbye.”
“Me? Dead?” Gabriel’s laugh cut like glass in the silence. “Killing me would take a lot more effort than that.”
“Hello, darling.” Crowley turned to face the archangel with a washed out smile and dark eyes.
Crowley would be lying if he said he hadn’t missed Gabriel. Emotion was foreign to Crowley, and most of the time he simply chose not to acknowledge that it existed. He was old enough to where this wasn’t an issue. Normally. But Gabriel wasn’t normal. He was… surprising.
“I like what you’ve done with the place.” Gabriel looked up and around at the high walls of the manor, hands clasping behind his back as he walked closer to Crowley.
“It’s a work in progress.” Crowley replied, not without a measure of acid, eyes not leaving the archangel.
“Canada? Really?” Gabriel’s eyes flashed to meet Crowley’s, one brow lifting.
“World domination has to start somewhere.” Crowley replied, terse, remaining expressionless as he watched the angel move closer. “Why are you here?” Crowley’s eyes narrowed minutely, head turning a degree as he examined Gabriel’s face. The angel paused briefly by a rosebush that had continued to survive, despite the overwhelming number of things trying to kill it. Thoughtfully, he plucked a flower from the bush, and Crowley was suddenly struck by a memory of Lucifer. They were brothers, he supposed.
The angel held the flower out to Crowley who merely stared at it before meeting Gabriel’s eyes again, unimpressed.
“You haven’t aged a day.” Gabriel smirked, head tilting in that (almost-adorable) bird-like habit that all angels seemed to posses. Crowley did not take the rose and Gabriel shrugged, tossing it to the ground.
“Flattery will get you no where.” Crowley mused, eyes following the rose’s trajectory to the ground and then meeting the angel’s hazel eyes again. Gabriel’s expression betrayed no emotion, in response to Crowley’s cold exterior, no doubt. He was just as ancient as Crowley, if not more so, and even more capable of masking emotions.
Gabriel just raised his brow, taking two calculated steps forward.
“You missed me.” Crowley betrayed nothing, shrugging a little, matching Gabriel’s steps. “Don’t lie to me.” Gabriel’s eyes narrowed, and Crowley wasn’t one hundred percent sure how it happened, but they were now less than eight inches apart and Crowley marveled briefly at how such a small space could be filled with so much tension.
“I never lie.” Crowley murmured, eyes fixed on Gabriel, hardly daring to blink. One blink and the angel could be gone. Again. “Why are you here?” He repeated, voice low. Gabriel just crooked a smile, and shrugged, closing the space between them, lips next to Crowley’s ear.
“Call me sentimental.”