Chapter Text
Aziraphale knows that Crowley's home before he enters the lift. There's always a low, simmering demonic charge to the flat whenever he's in residence. Though he'd always felt it best not to phrase it quite like that to him, for fear that it would touch a nerve. For all that Crowley is a bright and unique individual, quite unlike his fellow demons, and more familiar to Aziraphale's senses than anything on earth, Heaven, or Hell, his basic nature is still very much infernal.
Since Armageddon failed to happen on schedule Aziraphale has been trying to make a habit of visiting him regularly, of calling on him socially with wine, or gifts. He's been trying his very best to make up for being such an awful friend. For the many long years where Crowley was the only one of them who regularly visited, who reached out, who always seemed so glad of his company. Crowley was the one who extended invitations, who gave gifts, who freely offered his help when Aziraphale needed it. While Aziraphale, to his regret, wasted too much time fretting and blundering his way through their time together, parroting an embarrassing amount of Heaven's rhetoric. He'd been too much of a coward to meet Crowley halfway, to grasp his hand in friendship, to admit that he missed him when he was gone, that he was afraid for him constantly, for his stupid, reckless bravery. To tell Crowley that he was wanted, and valued, and loved.
Being a good friend is not something that Aziraphale has had much practice with. But he's making the effort - so to speak.
He'd been uncertain at first, if his visits would be welcome. He's never really imposed himself into Crowley's life before, no matter how many openings the demon had given him, how many addresses he'd noted down in his spiky handwriting and slid across a table. Expression pinched and dismissive, like it didn't matter, when Aziraphale had known that it had, it always had. But when Aziraphale had voiced his concerns, Crowley had made a deeply rude noise, before he'd even finished speaking, insisting that Aziraphale could visit him any time he pleased. That he didn't even have to send a card, or ring ahead first. That he could even help himself to wine and fridge snacks if Crowley was asleep. His house was Aziraphale's house.
Which, Aziraphale will admit, had left him a tad emotional.
Though he still prefers to knock first, to wait a socially acceptable amount of time to be invited in. Before he'll use a miracle to open the door, to venture in and announce himself.
The long hall of Crowley's flat is currently empty, a stretch of unwelcoming grey that Aziraphale can't help but find welcoming nonetheless. The whole place feels like Crowley, and the fact that he has an open invitation to his intimate space now is genuinely touching. He sets the bottle of wine he'd brought with him on the small table just inside, calling further in, with the expectation that the demon will be out presently.
There's a low, quiet rustle from the atrium, where Crowley keeps his finest plants. The beautiful and often terrified rows of them are always so tall and glossy, and fantastically well maintained. Aziraphale regrets that he hadn't taken more of an interest in Crowley's hobbies. It wouldn't have been too difficult, he imagines, to seek out rare specimens to offer the demon. When he's been given so many long sought after volumes, and unpublished manuscripts in turn. Perhaps he could encourage Crowley to open up more, with a few well thought out questions pertaining to his plants, and their various needs. He knows Crowley has been absorbed in a special project recently, he'll make a point to ask about it today.
Aziraphale heads into the stretch of greenery, following the tap of feet on tiles, and the quiet swish of foliage. He catches a flash of red hair at the end of the room, behind a messy spray of deep green leaves, then another flash, of what might be the long, pale curve of a shoulder.
"Crowley?"
The whole room smells damp, thick with fresh soil and crushed plant matter, and it grows stronger the deeper in Aziraphale ventures. He's sure the room wasn't quite so large before, it's clearly been expanded since he visited last, a deep bed of soil is now packed at the back of the room.
"Crowley." Aziraphale eases a large spray of damp leaves aside. "I hope I'm not too early, I was -"
Crowley is standing by the far wall, carefully touching the valley in the middle of a large leaf with curious, repetitive motions.
He's also quite naked.
It's - it's unexpected to say the least.
"Oh."
Aziraphale hasn't seen the demon naked since he was forced to strip in a field in 1030AD after falling into a bog. Out of politeness he'd mostly carried on a conversation with the pile of soggy clothes Crowley had been irritably tugging free. But he still somehow has a vivid recollection of the pale, mud-smeared lines of him, his angular, narrow hips, long limbs, and curving, freckled back.
"Crowley, oh Heavens, I apologise, I had no idea I was - ah - interrupting something. I shall just take myself -" Aziraphale briefly tries to walk into a plant after turning too far, knocks over something which sounds heavy with soil. "- I shall take myself out until you've - until you've finished."
He discovers the right direction out of the leaves, only to find himself stopped by long fingers curled into the pale material of his jacket, gripping and pulling at it in a confused sort of way. Aziraphale comes to a stuttering stop, turning back to the naked demon who'd so quickly ensnared him. He's briefly too surprised and embarrassed to manage words. But the movement also brings him close enough to get a better look at Crowley's face. To notice immediately that there's an oddly vacant look to his eyes, as if he's not entirely there.
"Crowley." All thought of abandoning him is cast aside. "Are you alright?"
Crowley continues to tug at Aziraphale's jacket, giving no indication that's he'd heard or understood him. His posture is strangely stiff too, giving the impression that he'd forgotten how joints work, every movement jerky and unnatural, even for Crowley. Aziraphale reaches out and steadies him by his narrow, naked waist, feels him still completely under the touch. His skin is unexpectedly cold, clammy, as if he'd been sweating out a fever.
"Did something happen to your corporation? Did someone do this to you?" Aziraphale extends his senses, something he should have done straight away. But there are no unfamiliar notes to the demonic energy of the flat, nothing angelic either. No matter how far Aziraphale extends himself, how carefully he picks through the layers of Crowley's wards. Which are as tight and as well-constructed as they always are. He can't sense any threats, and yet clearly something is very wrong with Crowley.
There's a twitching, repetitive 'scratch, scratch' of nails against the material of his jacket, and a slow tip and bob of head on Crowley's thin neck. It almost seems like he's searching for something. As if he's trying to find the direction a sound is coming from.
"Can you understand me?" Aziraphale asks quietly.
The answer is clearly no. The scratching continues, and suddenly he can't bear it. He lifts a hand to stop the movement, to envelope and then squeeze Crowley's chilly fingers, until they relax in his grip.
"Crowley, please talk to me, my dear."
The demon says nothing, instead Crowley's fingers slip-slide against his own, tangle and then pull testingly. Before a slow smile stretches across his face. Aziraphale has never seen its like before, and it disturbs and frightens him far more than the silence. He carefully separates their fingers, and eases Crowley's hands down to rest against his sides.
"I'm hoping this is just a disconnect between you and the corporation, something you've ingested, perhaps? But I'm going to have a quick look inside at the state of your essence, just to be sure. I would ask your permission, but you're clearly not currently able to give it. I promise not to look at anything that isn't pertinent." He lays his hands on the sides of Crowley's face, which draws a hum out of the demon, it feels surprised and pleased, and he turns into Aziraphale's warmth like a flower towards the sun.
Only no matter how deep he goes, Aziraphale can find no demonic signature inside him at all. Crowley's body is still clearly demonic, but there's no occult power within him, no swell and nudge of familiar essence against his own. Crowley is completely and utterly empty, there's nothing inside the body but the most basic of responses, but they're now tangled and confused, strangely alien to his senses. Aziraphale can feel a terrible, awful panic swelling inside him, at the suggestion that his demon is nowhere to be found inside this corporation. That Crowley has been hollowed out entirely for some reason, or by someone, and taken somewhere, or worse, or unimaginably worse -
"Ah, I see the Magnoliophyta Infernis has bloomed."
Aziraphale's corporation very nearly has a heart attack, because the voice isn't coming from in front of him, but from the entrance to the room. He turns quickly, arm extended protectively in front of Crowley - which makes no sense at all, because Crowley is also standing in the doorway. Dressed in tight jeans, shirt and jacket in familiar shades of black and charcoal, snake buckle shining at his waist. He's leaning at a frankly impossible angle against the wall, sunglasses covering his eyes, hair an artistic, rust-coloured wing. Aziraphale has never been so relieved and so confused at the same time.
"I'm sorry, what?" he says helplessly, looking between the two of them.
"The Hell Flower." Crowley nods his head towards his naked double, who fixes that strange open smile in his direction, eyes widening at Crowley, as if in recognition, before dropping half shut. A long hand fidgets, before slowly lifting and curling back around the edge of Aziraphale's jacket.
"I'm sorry, what?" Aziraphale manages again, because he feels as if repetition is required here.
Crowley comes closer, in a slow slink of lazy hips that puts him next to Aziraphale, and his impossible mirror image. Then to Aziraphale's surprise Crowley reaches out and catches his double's chin, tips his face this way and that, frowning sharply, as if he's checking him for imperfections. The double submits to the attention with a quiet sort of acceptance. Until Crowley makes a satisfied noise at whatever he finds, or doesn't find, and lets him go. The other mirror image of him leaves his chin tilted where Crowley had left it, for a long moment, before it slowly tips back down.
"It's a hybrid," Crowley explains, with more than a hint of pride in his voice. His hands push into his pockets as he rocks on the balls of his feet, making the differences between them even more stark. "Some of the larger carnivorous plants that grow up here, some of the spiky, blood-draining vines from downstairs. I mean, their flowering bodies are usually quadrupedal but that's mostly because they have to chase things in Hell, fast buggers hellhounds. I thought I'd try it with a bit of my own corporation's flesh and blood, so it knew how to make a body. S'why it looks like me. Tricky business it is, needs a lot of biomass, then some careful grafting to make sure it grows one big bud rather than a bunch of little ones."
Aziraphale, for the first time, notices the huge, dripping mess of plant matter at the back of the room, which does somewhat resemble an abandoned banana skin, and could theoretically have been large enough to contain a Crowley-sized mass. Though picturing that is rather more disturbing than he would like it to be.
"It's a plant?" he says faintly, exhaling a confused sort of relief. Even if it does sound utterly ridiculous coming out of his mouth. He turns to look again, finds Crowley's face watching him from both sides. One with their mouth twisted in amusement, glasses nudged down enough for him to look over the top of them, the other with a dreamlike, blank sort of patience. It's a deeply strange experience.
"Eh." Crowley's face pulls into a frown, as he tips his head from side to side. "Well, it's a flower, to be exact. And it was a lot of work to even get it to flower, it needed exactly the right environment, with tiny, constant licks of Hellfire when it was sprouting. That's why I didn't want you to come in here for a bit, while I was getting it settled in. It grew much better than I was expecting though." Crowley's doing a fantastic job of looking relaxed, but there's a jittery sort of tension to him, as if he's found himself unexpectedly showing off something he wasn't quite ready to.
"It grew - yes, of course it did, it's very impressive." Aziraphale remembers, suddenly, that he'd decided to take more of an interest in how Crowley spends his time, to be more supportive of his hobbies and talents, and this seems an excellent - a deeply strange, but excellent - opportunity. So he takes a moment to get a good look at the flower that so perfectly resembles his best friend. He really is identical, which makes sense, Aziraphale supposes, since he is effectively a copy of Crowley's corporation. Though the complete lack of any of the expressions and physical quirks that Aziraphale has become so intimately familiar with, is more than a little disturbing. No sharp intelligence, or dry amusement, no wary mistrust, or gentle teasing, no quickly smothered glances of exquisite fondness. There's just a quiet, strange newness that, now he understands it, he feels strangely protective of. "Hello," he says at last. "I'm Aziraphale, I expect you're going to need a name as well."
Crowley sighs beside him, mutters something which sounds a lot like 'Satan, give me strength.'
"It's a flower, Aziraphale, it has all the mental capacity of a particularly assertive cabbage. It doesn't need a name."
Aziraphale frowns, because that doesn't seem entirely fair.
"Crowley, he looks like you. I thought it was you when I first arrived. I felt your presence and I found him in here. I was terribly afraid that someone had gotten to you, done something to you. He felt like an empty corporation that someone had - had cored you out of."
Crowley winces, and there's something guilty in the expression that comes after.
"M'sorry," he says. It's muttered, and almost too quick to catch, as if he thinks he'll be punished for it. But the fact that he'd voiced it at all has Aziraphale forgiving him instantly. "I was on the roof. I felt you come in, but figured you'd just have a glass of wine until I came down. I didn't mean for you to stumble on it unexpectedly like that. Certainly didn't think you'd try and -" Crowley gestures with an elbow, to indicate Aziraphale's attempt to feel out its essence. "It must have been a bit disturbing to find it full of confusing plant thoughts."
Aziraphale nods, and for all that Crowley is clearly perfectly fine and unharmed, the memory is still a touch unsettling. But something else does occur to him, he tuts briefly, and snatches a blanket out of the ether, carefully wraps it around the flower's bony shoulders. He makes no attempt to cover himself with it, but he does lift an edge of the material and finger it curiously, eyes wide.
"It really doesn't need a name or a blanket, angel," Crowley says, a flicker of irritation under the amusement. "It's a plant, and if I name it, you know you'll just get attached. I'm trying to train it up for pest control, I can't have you spoiling it. How many times have you told me I shouldn't be anthropomorphising the plants, hmm?"
"None of them looked exactly like you before," Aziraphale protests, because he thinks that's an important point. That and the nudity, but he feels like they're both carefully ignoring that. "It's hard not to -" get attached? Goodness no, he can't phrase it like that. "Feel a certain sense of responsibility," he finishes at last, then wonders if that's any better.
Crowley rolls his head, since he's never quite gotten the hang of rolling his eyes.
"I am responsible for it," he points out, rather more firmly than is probably necessary. "I grew it, and I know you, if I give it a name then there's no way you're going to let me take cuttings."
Aziraphale hopes he looks appropriately horrified. "Please tell me that doesn't mean what I think it means?"
Crowley just looks at him over his glasses, which is answer enough.
"I don't think it can feel pain," he says at last, reluctantly.
"You don't think it can feel pain?" Aziraphale looks back at the flowering Crowley, who's now hovering at his shoulder, expression above the soft drape of the blanket strangely open and trusting. Oh, no, he couldn't possibly allow that.
Crowley sighs and rubs his eyes under the sunglasses, muttering something about root vegetables not getting to decide on the menu. But then seems to relent with a noise of surrender.
"Fine, fine, if it makes you happy, it can have a name. I dunno, it's a flowering vine that's almost indestructible, so I'll call it Ivy, I guess?" Crowley shrugs, then reaches out a hand, jabs the flower version of himself in the middle of his bare chest. Which leaves the poor thing swaying gently on his new feet. "Ivy, there ya go, that's your name."
Ivy still seems more interested in the blanket that's been wrapped around him than having a name bestowed upon him. Blinking at it with a sort of surprised and curious fascination. Aziraphale thinks about it for a moment, and then miracles the blanket into a pair of dark brown jeans in the style that Crowley favours, and a soft woolen sweater the same colour as the large, glossy leaves in the background. He's encouraged by the way Ivy's long nose wrinkles in pleasure, making a low humming sound and lifting hands to touch himself. His bare toes press and clench on the floor, like roots trying to anchor into soil, but when Aziraphale steps forward to fix his sleeves he shuffles a tiny bit closer, as if drawn to Aziraphale's warmth.
Crowley makes an annoyed noise behind him.
"Don't dress it, for Satan's sake - Aziraphale, what are you doing?"
Aziraphale ignores him, since he's being obstinate about the whole thing. This is a perfect opportunity for the both of them to share an interest. Crowley doesn't have to hide anything any more.
"Do you think he's hungry?" Aziraphale isn't sure whether plants can feel hunger.
"What - it's not going to - it's a plant, it's not hungry. I should know, I've been growing it for the last three months."
"A carnivorous plant, I believe you said," Aziraphale says, to prove that he was listening. "Oh, they do the most delicious steaks at -"
"Angel, are you listening to a word I'm saying? We're not taking the hybrid demon flower out to dinner."
"Well, how were you planning to feed him then?" Aziraphale can't help but ask.
Crowley throws his hands up. "I was mostly going to toss some bonemeal on the floor for it, maybe mulch a few rats into the soil I bed it down in at night. During the day I'll probably just stick it under a few UV lamps, where it'll almost certainly stay until I move it, because it's a brainless vegetable." There's a certain amount of strangled frustration under the words, as if this is not at all going how Crowley expected.
But that sounds like a thoroughly miserable and very lonely experience to Aziraphale.
"Nonsense, it's an absolutely lovely day. We can introduce him as your brother. It will be a learning experience for him." He takes Ivy's skinny, sweater-clad arm, and gently guides him on wobbly feet out into the main area of Crowley's flat. "I think you're going to like the park. There's plenty of sunshine, and it's very green, lots of fresh air and insects and things." Aziraphale has reached the extent of his knowledge as to what plants like. He really should have made more of an effort to appreciate Crowley's hobbies. He's going to make up for it though.
Crowley follows him, expression conflicted, but he seems unwilling to stop him outright. Honestly, you don't grow a person-sized flower, with rudimentary intelligence, and then just stand them in a room to - to absorb nutrients. Aziraphale knows nothing about plants but he's quite certain of that.
"Aziraphale, I haven't studied his blooming period or anything yet. He could pollinate in direct sunlight, for Hell's sake."
"Oh." Aziraphale stops, because that's definitely an important consideration. There's certainly an inherent danger in possibly introducing hybrid infernal pollen to the already fairly polluted London air. There's no telling what could result from that. "I didn't think of that."
"Right, see, exactly." Crowley's shoulders relax.
"Yes, you're quite right," Aziraphale agrees with a nod, and quickly miracles Ivy a lovely broad-brimmed hat, and some sunglasses much like Crowley's. Which he immediately tries to grip with his fingers, until Aziraphale makes soothing noises and gently pulls his hands down.
"That was literally the opposite of what I wanted," Crowley protests flatly. He cuts the way Ivy is still holding Aziraphale's hand a dirty look. Which is ridiculous, Aziraphale is not in any way stealing Ivy from him, he's simply using his unexpected flowering as an excuse for them to venture outside, and talk about the plants that the demon loves, to give him the opportunity to brag about how clever he's been. Crowley is coming with them, of course he is, Aziraphale is not interested in going anywhere without him, and he can take charge of Ivy whenever he likes. There's absolutely no need to be jealous.
But, still, he looks so annoyed that Aziraphale can't help but deflate a touch.
"I'm trying to be more involved with things that you enjoy," he explains quietly "I'm trying to take an interest. I've been terribly ignorant about so much that you do, and I thought it would be a nice opportunity for you to tell me more about them. But perhaps you're right, perhaps it's a silly idea. You've indulged me far too much already, of course, we'll stay here."
Crowley slowy and obviously folds in on himself, as Aziraphale talks, as if the words are physically painful. Once he's finished there's a long, strained hiss, and then the quiet sound of his name. Before Crowley abruptly straightens, grumbles something that's too mangled to hear, and grabs his keys and phone off the desk.
"Alright, fine, fine, we'll take the one-of-a-kind result of three months of my hard work out for a steak dinner, and a walk through the park, and if it pollinates anywhere it shouldn't, then you're sparing a miracle to fix it."
Aziraphale gives a quick wriggle of delight at Crowley's agreement, reaching out in a moment of bravery and affection to squeeze the hand that the demon isn't currently trying to stuff in his pocket. Which gets him a strangled, confused noise, and then a squeeze of bony fingers. Aziraphale worries for a moment that he's been terribly forward, there's no Armageddon to excuse such spontaneous intimacy.
But when Crowley does nothing but awkwardly hold his hand for a long moment, glasses pushed firmly over his eyes again, Aziraphale relaxes into his slightly sweaty grip. Before he loops his other hand round Ivy's arm and encourages them both towards the front door.