Happy Holidays, Carina!
Dec. 8th, 2021 05:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeTitle: 'Tis the Season, and All of That
Summary: The Apocalypse being the flop of the millennium doesn't mean the work stops on Earth. Quite the opposite, actually, and Christmas is the busy season for Upstairs these days. Fortunately for Aziraphale, he has Crowley there to split the work—all the work, including what has to get done at home. Oh, and it's also their anniversary. Bookverse!
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Word Count: 4,047
Tags: One Shot, Fluff, Romance, Established Relationship, Post-Almost Apocalypse, The Arrangement, Christmas, Aziraphale's Bookshop, Crowley's Plants, Aziraphale is Trying, Aziraphale is So Done, Aziraphale and Crowley in Love
Notes: Happy holidays, dear recipient! 🎄 I combined a couple of your prompts, and it turned into this - I hope you enjoy it!
"Crowley," Aziraphale calls. "Could you come in here, please?"
The demon abandons the stacks, where he's been prowling while Aziraphale went over his ledgers, and ambles into the back room. Just as well; Aziraphale will have to give the shelves a good onceover and tut over what he's rearranged as it is.
"Yeah, what's up?" Crowley drapes himself over the doorway, an easy, open smile spreading across his face.
Aziraphale lets himself look long enough to get hot under the collar, then coughs and returns his gaze to the open book on his desk. Even without looking, he feels Crowley's grin grow even wider.
"I don't see how I'm going to make this schedule work," he frets. "I'm afraid I may have to invoke the Arrangement."
The book he's using for reference is an appointment book, simple and practical with a hard cover. Or, it had been simple when Aziraphale bought it at that little stationery shop down the road.
Now it's covered in tea stains and filled with notes in his rushed shorthand, because Upstairs simply refuses to understand when you ask them to repeat themselves or simply hang on a moment while you take down their instructions. Aziraphale's had to adapt. Between the pages, folded pieces of shining paper—the few and far between physical memos they've sent him—stick out here and there.
While delivering this grave pronouncement, Aziraphale puts on his spectacles and squints at the current page. Wearing spectacles ought to have helped, if they knew what was good for them, but even they can't make any better sense of the schedule. He simply can't be in two places at once.
Crowley straightens up immediately and strides further into the room. "What've you got on, then?" He leans over Aziraphale's shoulder, momentarily flooding Aziraphale's senses with his smoky, masculine scent before Aziraphale sternly reins in his olfactory nerves, and peers at the schedule.
"Look, they want me in Hull tomorrow, and in Glasgow the day after, and then half a week traipsing the countryside handing out blessings." Aziraphale points to each in turn. "And it's almost Christmas. My people approve of Christmas these days, you know."
"Do they?" Crowley asks interestedly. "Mine do as well. It's all the chaos brought on by the thing. And the greed, of course."
"Yes, well," Aziraphale presses on. "I do have a bookshop to run, you know. I'm supposed to meet with a fellow dealer on Wednesday; I've talked him into parting with a member of his collection, and he said it had to be as soon as possible or he was likely to change his mind."
"Very sensible of him," Crowley observes.
Aziraphale beams. "Yes, I thought so as well. What do you make of this?" He gestures at the appointment book.
Crowley looks at it again and taps his fingers on the desk, dangerously close to the edge of the book and Aziraphale's hand where he's holding it open. "I think that I've also got to be in Scotland later in the week, and I may as well go now, get a jump on things."
"Glasgow as well?" Aziraphale asks with a sigh.
"The very same," Crowley confirms. He hums to himself. "Need a favor, though."
"What is it?"
"Nnnngh. Hate to ask, really, but someone's got to water the plants while I'm traveling, because it's Scotland and then, surprise surprise, off to Hull to undo whatever it is you've done." Crowley drums his fingers more insistently on the wooden desk. "And it can't be Mrs. Wilson; her nephew's just come in for the month, quite mysteriously, I might add, and anyway, you know I don't like humans in my flat. They're always leaving their auras about." He shudders.
Mrs. Wilson is the elderly woman who lives in Crowley's building and the only one either of them is on speaking terms with, as she's tenacious even for a human and wouldn't take no for an answer. Aziraphale doesn't mind, really, but he did think it would be nice if her nephew came to see her for the holidays, since she hasn't got children. The humans did the rest of it.
"Suppose I should handle both jobs in Hull, to save time," Aziraphale says. "But I can look after your plants when I come back, if." He meets Crowley's eyes through the chic sunglasses. "Well, it's only that I need someone to mind the shop while I'm touring rural Britain, and I haven't the time or patience to place an advertisement. Would you mind?"
Crowley scoffs. "'Course not. In fact," he says with a gleam in his smile that can only mean trouble, "I bet I can do a better job of it than you, even. Better than you'll do with the plants, I'd wager. They're temperamental."
"So are customers," Aziraphale says darkly. "Especially around Christmas."
"Please," Crowley says. "Keeping weird hours, telling people off for trying to buy things they shouldn't—what's so hard about that?" He extends his hand. "Are we on?"
Aziraphale blinks at Crowley's outstretched hand. "For the Arrangement?"
"For the wager." Crowley rolls his eyes, but in a way that somehow conveys fondness. "C'mon, keep up, angel."
And Aziraphale looks at Crowley's mad, grinning face, and considers Crowley's verdant plant jungle and all the time they're about to save each other, and sticks out his hand to shake Crowley's. "You're on."
"Great!" Crowley shakes his hand and claps him on the back. "Can we finally go to lunch, then?"
*
They hash it all out over sandwiches and coffee at the little cafe down the street. Aziraphale's already dreaming about Boxing Day, when all of this will be over.
"And then we can—" Crowley leans suggestively into Aziraphale's space.
"Oh, yes," Aziraphale says with a smile, rising to it just a little. "Win or lose, I should think. It's about that time of year, isn't it?"
"Yesssss."
"I remember it was cold when you asked me." Aziraphale's fingers curl around Crowley's hand, which is resting on Aziraphale's knee and has been for the last fifteen minutes. "Was it Moscow, or was that the other thing?"
Crowley scoffs. "Neither. Moscow was the other other thing. We were in England for this, of course, although it wasn't called England then."
"Well, that's progress for you," Aziraphale says with a little derision of his own. "You can't expect everything to stay the same, can you?"
"Ha! You should talk, angel," Crowley says, leaning back and gesturing at him, an expansive motion that somehow encompasses everything Aziraphale is. Aziraphale doesn't mind it; it's nice, that Crowley understands him so well.
"Regardless," Aziraphale interjects swiftly, and the conversation continues on from there.
Eventually, they part to go back to their respective spaces—one can't expect them to spend all their time together, after all.
"You'll call me, won't you," Aziraphale says, "when you have trouble with the shop? Send a telegram or whatnot?"
Crowley takes both of Aziraphale's hands in his. "I won't need to, first because no one does that anymore, and second because I won't have trouble." He scrunches up his nose in consideration. "Except with the amount of dust there is. Might have an issue with that."
"Well, don't you dare disturb it." Aziraphale squeezes his hands, slightly harder than necessary in order to impress the urgency upon him.
"Well, don't you dare disturb my plants," Crowley retorts. "They're used to a certain approach, you know."
"Yes, you've mentioned," Aziraphale says. He sighs. "This is an awful idea, isn't it?"
Crowley's eyes glitter in the early evening light. "Yeah," he says, "but at least it'll be interesting."
"Famous last words, as they say."
*
So Aziraphale dutifully goes to the port city of Hull. It's been built up quite a bit since the last time he was here, during the war—humans really are remarkably resilient, he thinks—and, guiltily, he settles in by taking in quite in a good lunch and a charming little museum before getting down to business.
He misses Crowley, and wishes they'd just come here together after all and hanged the rest of it, but that can't be helped now. Maybe they can come back after the new year.
Irritably, Aziraphale compares the notes in his book with the hastily scribbled one Crowley handed him and realizes they were both meant to deal with the same person, a fisherwoman who lives near the shore. He's supposed to bless her catch, so that she prospers in the light of God or some nonsense like that; Crowley's supposed to tempt her into selling her little boat to one of the bigger industries, take the money, and do something or other heinous with it.
Aziraphale slams the book shut, Crowley's slip of paper caught between its pages. Honestly. These days, he never truly gets what their sides get out of swaying one person out of billions one way or another, or how they choose the particular people, or if they just enjoy giving him and Crowley busywork—and these days, he's more willing to admit that to himself.
He goes to find the woman, who's called Anne, anyway, and just watches her from a distance. It's the end of her workday, and she's just shoring up her boat and pulling in her catch; she's alone, and she looks happy enough, humming to herself as she works.
Aziraphale's alone, too, and the longer he watches, the happier he is not interfering with her at all. It'd work out the same, after all, probably. Maybe there is something to that whole approach to humanity. The more hands-off sort of thing.
He watches over Anne until she finishes her work and goes home, and he doesn't do anything, and then he goes to have dinner by himself and contemplate whether he ought to find a public telephone and call Crowley.
(He doesn't, because he's sure Crowley will understand, and that's exactly why he doesn't want to.)
*
When he comes back, Crowley's already left for Scotland, but there's a note left on his desk.
Don't worry, angel, the note reads. Didn't sell a single book while you were out. We're signed up for the neighbourhood white elephant after Christmas, though; couldn't say no to that.
At the bottom is a simple miss you that's been crossed out multiple times, followed by the single letter C.
Aziraphale can't help but smile as he reads it, despite shaking his head at the part about the white elephant. He doesn't mind, really; he's always been a soft touch for that sort of thing, despite not truly celebrating the holiday, and Crowley even more so.
After setting down his things and seeing to it that the shop is all in order as promised—it is, of course it is, Crowley's living up smashingly to his end of the wager, and if Aziraphale thinks that doesn't bring out a spark of competitiveness in him, then he's, frankly, lying to himself—he supposes he had better face the music.
Or, not the music exactly, because Crowley doesn't go in for that angle of it, but the… plant thing. All the talking to Crowley's plants and spritzing them with water, and whatnot.
When Aziraphale agreed to this, he was so caught up in this new facet of their little Arrangement and the possibility of getting one up on Crowley that he, possibly, a bit, didn't think about the reality of having to look after the plants. Crowley's plants, specifically, which makes the whole situation that much more tricky.
It's not that Aziraphale's bad at looking after living things. He did all right at the Dowlings', although those plants were so docile that all he had to do was sit there and exude as much angelic peace as he could manage, given the circumstances. Crowley's, he assumes, are much more feral.
Still, he's agreed, and it wouldn't do to fall down on their agreement at this stage, certainly not if he expects Crowley to hold up his end. So he closes up shop—that is, he realizes he never actually opened—puts his coat and scarf back on, and walks the fifteen or so minutes to Mayfair.
Aziraphale doesn't have a key to Crowley's place, but that scarcely matters. The doorman recognizes him—or Aziraphale arranges things so that he is recognized, he's not quite sure sometimes—and the door to Crowley's flat, all the way on the top floor of the building, clicks open at his touch.
The houseplants are easy enough to find after that.
"Hello… dears," Aziraphale says uncertainly, upon entering the solarium. What feels like hundreds of leaves rustle in unison at his presence. He tries for a smile, although it feels forced on his face. "Everyone doing… all right, then? No problems?"
They don't talk back, of course, or at least not in spoken language. Aziraphale wouldn't have expected that no matter how long they'd been with Crowley; that bit, definitely, comes down to biology and nothing more. But a vine curls around his wrist, and some of the nearer ones stretch enough to brush their leaves across his cheek.
"Oh!" Aziraphale jumps back, startled. "Well, I say, that's very rude. Not so much as a by-your-leave."
In the back of his mind, he can hear Crowley's teasing voice. Relax, angel, he'd say if he were here. They're just getting to know you, in their way.
"Well, ah," Aziraphale says, "I'll just be over here, getting your water, if you don't mind."
The plants retreat. He's a bit at a loss, standing there in the bright white room, until he spies Crowley's green plant mister sitting on the counter, already full of water. Aziraphale feels on firmer ground with this; Crowley told him exactly what to do. He picks up the mister and summons a spot of bravery.
"Now, you'll tell me which of you have spots, won't you?" Aziraphale says to the plants. "Or—or I'll be terribly disapponted, you know. Or, I suppose you don't know, really…."
As he speaks, he begins to mist the plants at random. Some do perk up under the water, but others seem to wilt, and he hasn't read enough on the subject to be able to predict the pattern. Between one thing and another, he quite loses the plot somewhere in the middle, and winds up in the middle of the room again, feeling lost.
"The point is, I'll be disappointed, but you don't care about that," Aziraphale says, rallying. The plants, against all odds, look interested in him again. "But—so will he. And you don't want that. Do you, dears?"
The houseplants, every one of them, begin to quiver. He doesn't exactly find it satisfying, to goad them with fear, but at least now he's getting results.
Aziraphale abandons the mister, feeling he's doing more harm than good with his haphazard approach, and just walks through the room. He doesn't detect any signs of decay or disease among them, which is usually a good sign.
"There you are." Aziraphale gingerly strokes the nearest leaf, which nearly pushes into his hand. "Oh, you are good plants, aren't you?"
Perhaps, he thinks, it won't be so difficult to hold up his end after all.
*
The next two weeks are a blur of travel and chaos. Aziraphale's meant to go on walkabout the whole time, spreading pre-Christmas blessings, but he and Crowley meet up and split the countryside in half instead, so that each of them stays in London and manages things there while the other handles the miracle side of things. He's looking forward to hearing about how it's gone for Crowley; they've hardly had time to talk about any of it.
So he goes and does, visits the people of the English countryside without getting too personal or friendly with any of them, tries hard to do the thing properly as he's meant to and not be lonely.
After the first town, Aziraphale tries to guess at the point of it, why he was given this assignment—to make people happier? Certainly, he can do that, but so can the humans without him there, and anyway, it's not really Upstairs' style. To keep him busy, miserable, and away from the creature comforts of home? That seems more likely, although a bit too obviously sadistic. Perhaps they're getting sloppy.
(He wonders, too, why he and Crowley are still taking their calls after they tried to end it all on Earth, and whether an angel and a demon can take early retirement. A conversation better had with Crowley over tea and cocoa, he thinks.)
One of the villages Aziraphale stops in happens to be holding their annual crafts fair the week he pops in. He browses the market, spreading a general sort of blessing as he goes—he's trying, again, not to mess too much with individuals. One of the stalls is selling hand knits; before he can even think much about it, he's already buying a scarf and gloves for Crowley, both knit in a soft, warm yarn dyed in a rich red color.
"Dear lady, did you make these?" Aziraphale inquires of the elderly lady behind the stall, admiring the cable knit detailing.
"Oh, not me, not anymore," she says with a rueful smile. "It's my granddaughter who does them up now, and a very fine job she does, too. It's so nice to have someone to pass things down to."
Aziraphale smiles back. "Yes, I can see that. Tell her thanks very much for me. My—well, I'm not sure what you'd call him, but it's our anniversary this month, sort of, and anyway, I'm sure he'll love them."
The stall keeper, he realizes now, has "Nana Edna" embroidered across the front of her apron. Edna's eyes twinkle as she looks him over.
"Of course he will, love," she says warmly. "You just wait and see. Take care, now."
"Ta," Aziraphale says, and sends a minor blessing her way anyway. Well, old habits are hard to break.
In between, he keeps up as best he can with his end of things in London. He's determined to do better with the houseplants than Crowley is with minding the shop, and he thinks he is starting to get on with the plants, although it's hard to tell. Meanwhile, Crowley keeps leaving him notes on his desk.
Your customers are TERRIBLE, Crowley writes, with "terrible" underlined three times. Aziraphale has to agree, at least when it comes to some of them. Handled 'em though, no problems. See you soon. - C
Aziraphale thinks for a moment, then picks up the nearest pen and writes back, in neat letters below Crowley's sprawling ones. You don't have to actually open the shop, you know. Just pick up the mail and spread the dust around a bit.
He hesitates, then continues, We'll both be home soon, see you then. - A
He's gone again for two days and comes back to find that Crowley's added, Yeah, but that wouldn't be, what d'you call it? Sporting. Gotta give 'em a fair shake or what's the point?
Aziraphale laughs, and feels it tight in his chest, and thinks again about the possibility of settling down into this life for good.
*
They're both in London for Christmas Day and the day before, but they don't see each other much. Aziraphale, bolstered by the nationwide practice of closing most shops for the occasion, does the neighborhood a good turn by staying in and radiating a general sense of peace and goodwill to all.
Crowley, he knows, is out there somewhere, probably cackling to himself about the holiday mischief he's bringing about. But he'll be back by dark, and then they'll have a good time of it together.
When Crowley does turn up, it's afternoon, and he lookss haggard but smiling. He's also bearing a Christmas turkey and pudding, lifted from goodness knows where.
"If you've—" Aziraphale starts.
"Relax." Crowley waves him off. "Got it from a shop. They were throwing it out anyway. Saved them the trouble, really."
"That's all right, then," Aziraphale says. Then, because he wants to and the situation seems to call for it, he adds, "It's wonderful to see you."
Crowley's smile grows brighter before he tamps it down into a scowl. "Yeah. You, too."
Then, he does something quite unexpected—he drops his parcels on the nearest piece of furniture (Aziraphale's sofa) and throws his arms around Aziraphale's shoulders, pulling him in close. Aziraphale pats his back and slides his hand up to ruffle Crowley's hair a bit; Crowley sighs into it.
"Next December," Crowley says fervently, "we're staying home. I don't care what they say."
"Actually," Aziraphale says, and Crowley pulls back to look at him. "I had some thoughts along that line as well."
They discuss the beginnings of a plan over the food and a few bottles of wine pulled from Aziraphale's stores. It's not much of anything yet, and no different than anything other people do when they feel for each other as he and Crowley do, but the two of them, heads bent together over it and discussing options—it feels like the beginning of the Arrangement all over again.
"That's appropriate, then," Crowley says when Aziraphale mentions it. He raises his glass, and Aziraphale does the same. "Happy anniversary, angel."
Aziraphale clinks glasses with him. "Happy anniversary, dear. And happy Christmas, too."
"Yeah, happy Christmas," Crowley agrees begrudgingly, downing his wine and immediately pouring himself another glass.
The sight of Crowley like this, sprawled out and relaxed on the sofa like he ought to be always, reminds Aziraphale of something. "Ooh, I got you something. Hold on a moment."
He rummages in the cabinet next to his desk and retrieves Crowley's gift. It's still in the brown paper that dear woman Edna put it in, but he's wrapped a piece of twine around it and tied it in a bow in an attempt at making it festive.
"Aziraphale," Crowley protests, but when Aziraphale turns around, he notices that Crowley's holding something, too, about the same size and shape as his.
They exchange gifts. Immediately, the shop fills with their laughter as they open them and realize they've gotten each other the exact same thing, only in different colors.
"Edna got to you, too, huh?" Crowley takes the mustard yellow scarf from Aziraphale's hands and wraps it around his neck, then tugs on it until Aziraphale gives in and crawls all the way into Crowley's lap, straddling his skinny hips. They kiss, a barely there brush of lips that settles into something with staying power.
"Like you, she was very persuasive," Aziraphale says when he's pulled back from the kiss. "And so kind," he adds, to which Crowley scowls. "By the way, how did you get on with everything? We haven't talked about it yet."
Crowley makes a noise of noncommittal displeasure. "Ehhhh. You know. It was work. Your work, so you ought to know."
"Yes," Aziraphale says, now impatient, "but the shop? How did you fare with that bit? Not too tiresome, I hope?"
"Did amazingly with the shop," Crowley says, a bit too convincingly. "Loved it. And you, with my houseplants?"
Aziraphale scrambles to match his tone. "Oh, um. I really think we got on spiffingly. Not a bad one among the lot. They wouldn't dare drop a leaf with me around, definitely not."
They stare at each other.
"You hated it," they both say in unison, and then they crack up again. Crowley's peals of laughter ring out through the rafters; Aziraphale muffles his against the warm skin of Crowley's neck.
"'Course we did," Crowley says. "We've both got our own things, that's all right. Call it a draw?" he offers.
Aziraphale sighs and cuddles a bit closer. "To be perfectly honest, I rather think we forgot to wager anything to begin with. A draw, then."
They stay there for the rest of the evening, talking and drinking and just enjoying being wrapped up in each other. Aziraphale's appointment book sits abandoned on his desk, entirely forgotten.
And if Aziraphale's caught the next morning, retrieving the paper and flipping through to the real estate listings while mentally drafting a Boxing Day memo to head office, Crowley's good enough not to make a big thing of it just yet. If they play their cards right, they've got time enough for all of that.
Summary: The Apocalypse being the flop of the millennium doesn't mean the work stops on Earth. Quite the opposite, actually, and Christmas is the busy season for Upstairs these days. Fortunately for Aziraphale, he has Crowley there to split the work—all the work, including what has to get done at home. Oh, and it's also their anniversary. Bookverse!
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Word Count: 4,047
Tags: One Shot, Fluff, Romance, Established Relationship, Post-Almost Apocalypse, The Arrangement, Christmas, Aziraphale's Bookshop, Crowley's Plants, Aziraphale is Trying, Aziraphale is So Done, Aziraphale and Crowley in Love
Notes: Happy holidays, dear recipient! 🎄 I combined a couple of your prompts, and it turned into this - I hope you enjoy it!
"Crowley," Aziraphale calls. "Could you come in here, please?"
The demon abandons the stacks, where he's been prowling while Aziraphale went over his ledgers, and ambles into the back room. Just as well; Aziraphale will have to give the shelves a good onceover and tut over what he's rearranged as it is.
"Yeah, what's up?" Crowley drapes himself over the doorway, an easy, open smile spreading across his face.
Aziraphale lets himself look long enough to get hot under the collar, then coughs and returns his gaze to the open book on his desk. Even without looking, he feels Crowley's grin grow even wider.
"I don't see how I'm going to make this schedule work," he frets. "I'm afraid I may have to invoke the Arrangement."
The book he's using for reference is an appointment book, simple and practical with a hard cover. Or, it had been simple when Aziraphale bought it at that little stationery shop down the road.
Now it's covered in tea stains and filled with notes in his rushed shorthand, because Upstairs simply refuses to understand when you ask them to repeat themselves or simply hang on a moment while you take down their instructions. Aziraphale's had to adapt. Between the pages, folded pieces of shining paper—the few and far between physical memos they've sent him—stick out here and there.
While delivering this grave pronouncement, Aziraphale puts on his spectacles and squints at the current page. Wearing spectacles ought to have helped, if they knew what was good for them, but even they can't make any better sense of the schedule. He simply can't be in two places at once.
Crowley straightens up immediately and strides further into the room. "What've you got on, then?" He leans over Aziraphale's shoulder, momentarily flooding Aziraphale's senses with his smoky, masculine scent before Aziraphale sternly reins in his olfactory nerves, and peers at the schedule.
"Look, they want me in Hull tomorrow, and in Glasgow the day after, and then half a week traipsing the countryside handing out blessings." Aziraphale points to each in turn. "And it's almost Christmas. My people approve of Christmas these days, you know."
"Do they?" Crowley asks interestedly. "Mine do as well. It's all the chaos brought on by the thing. And the greed, of course."
"Yes, well," Aziraphale presses on. "I do have a bookshop to run, you know. I'm supposed to meet with a fellow dealer on Wednesday; I've talked him into parting with a member of his collection, and he said it had to be as soon as possible or he was likely to change his mind."
"Very sensible of him," Crowley observes.
Aziraphale beams. "Yes, I thought so as well. What do you make of this?" He gestures at the appointment book.
Crowley looks at it again and taps his fingers on the desk, dangerously close to the edge of the book and Aziraphale's hand where he's holding it open. "I think that I've also got to be in Scotland later in the week, and I may as well go now, get a jump on things."
"Glasgow as well?" Aziraphale asks with a sigh.
"The very same," Crowley confirms. He hums to himself. "Need a favor, though."
"What is it?"
"Nnnngh. Hate to ask, really, but someone's got to water the plants while I'm traveling, because it's Scotland and then, surprise surprise, off to Hull to undo whatever it is you've done." Crowley drums his fingers more insistently on the wooden desk. "And it can't be Mrs. Wilson; her nephew's just come in for the month, quite mysteriously, I might add, and anyway, you know I don't like humans in my flat. They're always leaving their auras about." He shudders.
Mrs. Wilson is the elderly woman who lives in Crowley's building and the only one either of them is on speaking terms with, as she's tenacious even for a human and wouldn't take no for an answer. Aziraphale doesn't mind, really, but he did think it would be nice if her nephew came to see her for the holidays, since she hasn't got children. The humans did the rest of it.
"Suppose I should handle both jobs in Hull, to save time," Aziraphale says. "But I can look after your plants when I come back, if." He meets Crowley's eyes through the chic sunglasses. "Well, it's only that I need someone to mind the shop while I'm touring rural Britain, and I haven't the time or patience to place an advertisement. Would you mind?"
Crowley scoffs. "'Course not. In fact," he says with a gleam in his smile that can only mean trouble, "I bet I can do a better job of it than you, even. Better than you'll do with the plants, I'd wager. They're temperamental."
"So are customers," Aziraphale says darkly. "Especially around Christmas."
"Please," Crowley says. "Keeping weird hours, telling people off for trying to buy things they shouldn't—what's so hard about that?" He extends his hand. "Are we on?"
Aziraphale blinks at Crowley's outstretched hand. "For the Arrangement?"
"For the wager." Crowley rolls his eyes, but in a way that somehow conveys fondness. "C'mon, keep up, angel."
And Aziraphale looks at Crowley's mad, grinning face, and considers Crowley's verdant plant jungle and all the time they're about to save each other, and sticks out his hand to shake Crowley's. "You're on."
"Great!" Crowley shakes his hand and claps him on the back. "Can we finally go to lunch, then?"
*
They hash it all out over sandwiches and coffee at the little cafe down the street. Aziraphale's already dreaming about Boxing Day, when all of this will be over.
"And then we can—" Crowley leans suggestively into Aziraphale's space.
"Oh, yes," Aziraphale says with a smile, rising to it just a little. "Win or lose, I should think. It's about that time of year, isn't it?"
"Yesssss."
"I remember it was cold when you asked me." Aziraphale's fingers curl around Crowley's hand, which is resting on Aziraphale's knee and has been for the last fifteen minutes. "Was it Moscow, or was that the other thing?"
Crowley scoffs. "Neither. Moscow was the other other thing. We were in England for this, of course, although it wasn't called England then."
"Well, that's progress for you," Aziraphale says with a little derision of his own. "You can't expect everything to stay the same, can you?"
"Ha! You should talk, angel," Crowley says, leaning back and gesturing at him, an expansive motion that somehow encompasses everything Aziraphale is. Aziraphale doesn't mind it; it's nice, that Crowley understands him so well.
"Regardless," Aziraphale interjects swiftly, and the conversation continues on from there.
Eventually, they part to go back to their respective spaces—one can't expect them to spend all their time together, after all.
"You'll call me, won't you," Aziraphale says, "when you have trouble with the shop? Send a telegram or whatnot?"
Crowley takes both of Aziraphale's hands in his. "I won't need to, first because no one does that anymore, and second because I won't have trouble." He scrunches up his nose in consideration. "Except with the amount of dust there is. Might have an issue with that."
"Well, don't you dare disturb it." Aziraphale squeezes his hands, slightly harder than necessary in order to impress the urgency upon him.
"Well, don't you dare disturb my plants," Crowley retorts. "They're used to a certain approach, you know."
"Yes, you've mentioned," Aziraphale says. He sighs. "This is an awful idea, isn't it?"
Crowley's eyes glitter in the early evening light. "Yeah," he says, "but at least it'll be interesting."
"Famous last words, as they say."
*
So Aziraphale dutifully goes to the port city of Hull. It's been built up quite a bit since the last time he was here, during the war—humans really are remarkably resilient, he thinks—and, guiltily, he settles in by taking in quite in a good lunch and a charming little museum before getting down to business.
He misses Crowley, and wishes they'd just come here together after all and hanged the rest of it, but that can't be helped now. Maybe they can come back after the new year.
Irritably, Aziraphale compares the notes in his book with the hastily scribbled one Crowley handed him and realizes they were both meant to deal with the same person, a fisherwoman who lives near the shore. He's supposed to bless her catch, so that she prospers in the light of God or some nonsense like that; Crowley's supposed to tempt her into selling her little boat to one of the bigger industries, take the money, and do something or other heinous with it.
Aziraphale slams the book shut, Crowley's slip of paper caught between its pages. Honestly. These days, he never truly gets what their sides get out of swaying one person out of billions one way or another, or how they choose the particular people, or if they just enjoy giving him and Crowley busywork—and these days, he's more willing to admit that to himself.
He goes to find the woman, who's called Anne, anyway, and just watches her from a distance. It's the end of her workday, and she's just shoring up her boat and pulling in her catch; she's alone, and she looks happy enough, humming to herself as she works.
Aziraphale's alone, too, and the longer he watches, the happier he is not interfering with her at all. It'd work out the same, after all, probably. Maybe there is something to that whole approach to humanity. The more hands-off sort of thing.
He watches over Anne until she finishes her work and goes home, and he doesn't do anything, and then he goes to have dinner by himself and contemplate whether he ought to find a public telephone and call Crowley.
(He doesn't, because he's sure Crowley will understand, and that's exactly why he doesn't want to.)
*
When he comes back, Crowley's already left for Scotland, but there's a note left on his desk.
Don't worry, angel, the note reads. Didn't sell a single book while you were out. We're signed up for the neighbourhood white elephant after Christmas, though; couldn't say no to that.
At the bottom is a simple miss you that's been crossed out multiple times, followed by the single letter C.
Aziraphale can't help but smile as he reads it, despite shaking his head at the part about the white elephant. He doesn't mind, really; he's always been a soft touch for that sort of thing, despite not truly celebrating the holiday, and Crowley even more so.
After setting down his things and seeing to it that the shop is all in order as promised—it is, of course it is, Crowley's living up smashingly to his end of the wager, and if Aziraphale thinks that doesn't bring out a spark of competitiveness in him, then he's, frankly, lying to himself—he supposes he had better face the music.
Or, not the music exactly, because Crowley doesn't go in for that angle of it, but the… plant thing. All the talking to Crowley's plants and spritzing them with water, and whatnot.
When Aziraphale agreed to this, he was so caught up in this new facet of their little Arrangement and the possibility of getting one up on Crowley that he, possibly, a bit, didn't think about the reality of having to look after the plants. Crowley's plants, specifically, which makes the whole situation that much more tricky.
It's not that Aziraphale's bad at looking after living things. He did all right at the Dowlings', although those plants were so docile that all he had to do was sit there and exude as much angelic peace as he could manage, given the circumstances. Crowley's, he assumes, are much more feral.
Still, he's agreed, and it wouldn't do to fall down on their agreement at this stage, certainly not if he expects Crowley to hold up his end. So he closes up shop—that is, he realizes he never actually opened—puts his coat and scarf back on, and walks the fifteen or so minutes to Mayfair.
Aziraphale doesn't have a key to Crowley's place, but that scarcely matters. The doorman recognizes him—or Aziraphale arranges things so that he is recognized, he's not quite sure sometimes—and the door to Crowley's flat, all the way on the top floor of the building, clicks open at his touch.
The houseplants are easy enough to find after that.
"Hello… dears," Aziraphale says uncertainly, upon entering the solarium. What feels like hundreds of leaves rustle in unison at his presence. He tries for a smile, although it feels forced on his face. "Everyone doing… all right, then? No problems?"
They don't talk back, of course, or at least not in spoken language. Aziraphale wouldn't have expected that no matter how long they'd been with Crowley; that bit, definitely, comes down to biology and nothing more. But a vine curls around his wrist, and some of the nearer ones stretch enough to brush their leaves across his cheek.
"Oh!" Aziraphale jumps back, startled. "Well, I say, that's very rude. Not so much as a by-your-leave."
In the back of his mind, he can hear Crowley's teasing voice. Relax, angel, he'd say if he were here. They're just getting to know you, in their way.
"Well, ah," Aziraphale says, "I'll just be over here, getting your water, if you don't mind."
The plants retreat. He's a bit at a loss, standing there in the bright white room, until he spies Crowley's green plant mister sitting on the counter, already full of water. Aziraphale feels on firmer ground with this; Crowley told him exactly what to do. He picks up the mister and summons a spot of bravery.
"Now, you'll tell me which of you have spots, won't you?" Aziraphale says to the plants. "Or—or I'll be terribly disapponted, you know. Or, I suppose you don't know, really…."
As he speaks, he begins to mist the plants at random. Some do perk up under the water, but others seem to wilt, and he hasn't read enough on the subject to be able to predict the pattern. Between one thing and another, he quite loses the plot somewhere in the middle, and winds up in the middle of the room again, feeling lost.
"The point is, I'll be disappointed, but you don't care about that," Aziraphale says, rallying. The plants, against all odds, look interested in him again. "But—so will he. And you don't want that. Do you, dears?"
The houseplants, every one of them, begin to quiver. He doesn't exactly find it satisfying, to goad them with fear, but at least now he's getting results.
Aziraphale abandons the mister, feeling he's doing more harm than good with his haphazard approach, and just walks through the room. He doesn't detect any signs of decay or disease among them, which is usually a good sign.
"There you are." Aziraphale gingerly strokes the nearest leaf, which nearly pushes into his hand. "Oh, you are good plants, aren't you?"
Perhaps, he thinks, it won't be so difficult to hold up his end after all.
*
The next two weeks are a blur of travel and chaos. Aziraphale's meant to go on walkabout the whole time, spreading pre-Christmas blessings, but he and Crowley meet up and split the countryside in half instead, so that each of them stays in London and manages things there while the other handles the miracle side of things. He's looking forward to hearing about how it's gone for Crowley; they've hardly had time to talk about any of it.
So he goes and does, visits the people of the English countryside without getting too personal or friendly with any of them, tries hard to do the thing properly as he's meant to and not be lonely.
After the first town, Aziraphale tries to guess at the point of it, why he was given this assignment—to make people happier? Certainly, he can do that, but so can the humans without him there, and anyway, it's not really Upstairs' style. To keep him busy, miserable, and away from the creature comforts of home? That seems more likely, although a bit too obviously sadistic. Perhaps they're getting sloppy.
(He wonders, too, why he and Crowley are still taking their calls after they tried to end it all on Earth, and whether an angel and a demon can take early retirement. A conversation better had with Crowley over tea and cocoa, he thinks.)
One of the villages Aziraphale stops in happens to be holding their annual crafts fair the week he pops in. He browses the market, spreading a general sort of blessing as he goes—he's trying, again, not to mess too much with individuals. One of the stalls is selling hand knits; before he can even think much about it, he's already buying a scarf and gloves for Crowley, both knit in a soft, warm yarn dyed in a rich red color.
"Dear lady, did you make these?" Aziraphale inquires of the elderly lady behind the stall, admiring the cable knit detailing.
"Oh, not me, not anymore," she says with a rueful smile. "It's my granddaughter who does them up now, and a very fine job she does, too. It's so nice to have someone to pass things down to."
Aziraphale smiles back. "Yes, I can see that. Tell her thanks very much for me. My—well, I'm not sure what you'd call him, but it's our anniversary this month, sort of, and anyway, I'm sure he'll love them."
The stall keeper, he realizes now, has "Nana Edna" embroidered across the front of her apron. Edna's eyes twinkle as she looks him over.
"Of course he will, love," she says warmly. "You just wait and see. Take care, now."
"Ta," Aziraphale says, and sends a minor blessing her way anyway. Well, old habits are hard to break.
In between, he keeps up as best he can with his end of things in London. He's determined to do better with the houseplants than Crowley is with minding the shop, and he thinks he is starting to get on with the plants, although it's hard to tell. Meanwhile, Crowley keeps leaving him notes on his desk.
Your customers are TERRIBLE, Crowley writes, with "terrible" underlined three times. Aziraphale has to agree, at least when it comes to some of them. Handled 'em though, no problems. See you soon. - C
Aziraphale thinks for a moment, then picks up the nearest pen and writes back, in neat letters below Crowley's sprawling ones. You don't have to actually open the shop, you know. Just pick up the mail and spread the dust around a bit.
He hesitates, then continues, We'll both be home soon, see you then. - A
He's gone again for two days and comes back to find that Crowley's added, Yeah, but that wouldn't be, what d'you call it? Sporting. Gotta give 'em a fair shake or what's the point?
Aziraphale laughs, and feels it tight in his chest, and thinks again about the possibility of settling down into this life for good.
*
They're both in London for Christmas Day and the day before, but they don't see each other much. Aziraphale, bolstered by the nationwide practice of closing most shops for the occasion, does the neighborhood a good turn by staying in and radiating a general sense of peace and goodwill to all.
Crowley, he knows, is out there somewhere, probably cackling to himself about the holiday mischief he's bringing about. But he'll be back by dark, and then they'll have a good time of it together.
When Crowley does turn up, it's afternoon, and he lookss haggard but smiling. He's also bearing a Christmas turkey and pudding, lifted from goodness knows where.
"If you've—" Aziraphale starts.
"Relax." Crowley waves him off. "Got it from a shop. They were throwing it out anyway. Saved them the trouble, really."
"That's all right, then," Aziraphale says. Then, because he wants to and the situation seems to call for it, he adds, "It's wonderful to see you."
Crowley's smile grows brighter before he tamps it down into a scowl. "Yeah. You, too."
Then, he does something quite unexpected—he drops his parcels on the nearest piece of furniture (Aziraphale's sofa) and throws his arms around Aziraphale's shoulders, pulling him in close. Aziraphale pats his back and slides his hand up to ruffle Crowley's hair a bit; Crowley sighs into it.
"Next December," Crowley says fervently, "we're staying home. I don't care what they say."
"Actually," Aziraphale says, and Crowley pulls back to look at him. "I had some thoughts along that line as well."
They discuss the beginnings of a plan over the food and a few bottles of wine pulled from Aziraphale's stores. It's not much of anything yet, and no different than anything other people do when they feel for each other as he and Crowley do, but the two of them, heads bent together over it and discussing options—it feels like the beginning of the Arrangement all over again.
"That's appropriate, then," Crowley says when Aziraphale mentions it. He raises his glass, and Aziraphale does the same. "Happy anniversary, angel."
Aziraphale clinks glasses with him. "Happy anniversary, dear. And happy Christmas, too."
"Yeah, happy Christmas," Crowley agrees begrudgingly, downing his wine and immediately pouring himself another glass.
The sight of Crowley like this, sprawled out and relaxed on the sofa like he ought to be always, reminds Aziraphale of something. "Ooh, I got you something. Hold on a moment."
He rummages in the cabinet next to his desk and retrieves Crowley's gift. It's still in the brown paper that dear woman Edna put it in, but he's wrapped a piece of twine around it and tied it in a bow in an attempt at making it festive.
"Aziraphale," Crowley protests, but when Aziraphale turns around, he notices that Crowley's holding something, too, about the same size and shape as his.
They exchange gifts. Immediately, the shop fills with their laughter as they open them and realize they've gotten each other the exact same thing, only in different colors.
"Edna got to you, too, huh?" Crowley takes the mustard yellow scarf from Aziraphale's hands and wraps it around his neck, then tugs on it until Aziraphale gives in and crawls all the way into Crowley's lap, straddling his skinny hips. They kiss, a barely there brush of lips that settles into something with staying power.
"Like you, she was very persuasive," Aziraphale says when he's pulled back from the kiss. "And so kind," he adds, to which Crowley scowls. "By the way, how did you get on with everything? We haven't talked about it yet."
Crowley makes a noise of noncommittal displeasure. "Ehhhh. You know. It was work. Your work, so you ought to know."
"Yes," Aziraphale says, now impatient, "but the shop? How did you fare with that bit? Not too tiresome, I hope?"
"Did amazingly with the shop," Crowley says, a bit too convincingly. "Loved it. And you, with my houseplants?"
Aziraphale scrambles to match his tone. "Oh, um. I really think we got on spiffingly. Not a bad one among the lot. They wouldn't dare drop a leaf with me around, definitely not."
They stare at each other.
"You hated it," they both say in unison, and then they crack up again. Crowley's peals of laughter ring out through the rafters; Aziraphale muffles his against the warm skin of Crowley's neck.
"'Course we did," Crowley says. "We've both got our own things, that's all right. Call it a draw?" he offers.
Aziraphale sighs and cuddles a bit closer. "To be perfectly honest, I rather think we forgot to wager anything to begin with. A draw, then."
They stay there for the rest of the evening, talking and drinking and just enjoying being wrapped up in each other. Aziraphale's appointment book sits abandoned on his desk, entirely forgotten.
And if Aziraphale's caught the next morning, retrieving the paper and flipping through to the real estate listings while mentally drafting a Boxing Day memo to head office, Crowley's good enough not to make a big thing of it just yet. If they play their cards right, they've got time enough for all of that.
