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If anyone had asked Crowley about the exact nature of his... Arrangement with Aziraphale, he would have found it difficult to define.
They didn't thwart each other any more than was necessary when one of them was having a performance review, they did each other favours, they enjoyed each other's company and laughed at each other's jokes. They confided their worries to each other and didn't mock each other for it more than was reasonable. Best friends, perhaps, although there was something very school-girlish about 'best friends' so probably not. He wasn't exactly weaving friendship bracelets for Aziraphale.
No, Crowley was entirely comfortable with the Arrangement the way it was, with no soft, soppy feelings involved.
Until the bloody buttercups.
*****
"I thought you'd like them," Aziraphale said somewhat crossly, as Crowley peered doubtfully into the paper bag full of corms. "You were so sulky about me taking the gardening role. And they're such a bright, cheery yellow. Like sunshine."
"Speaking of sunshine, buttercups are heliotropes. I live in a flat, and they need the sun and great outdoors. Surprised you didn't realise, being such a brilliant gardener."
"How should I know?" Aziraphale huffed. "The Ambassador didn't really go in for buttercups.""He was noted in society for his exquisite taste." Crowley could never resist a lead-in like that.
Aziraphale gave him a very Aziraphalean look, which suggested that either he didn't get the joke or wasn't going to admit to having got it. It made Crowley feel a bit foolish. It wasn't a sensation he particularly liked.
"If you don't like them, I'll return them."
"Nope." Crowley clutched the bag possessively and flashed his sharp teeth. "They're mine now. You can't have them back, you old miser."
"Oh, really," said Aziraphale, and turned a little pink with annoyance. Crowley was feeling uncomfortably warm himself. It wasn't like Aziraphale to give him a present out of nowhere, but after all, they had helped save the world together.
It wasn't exactly a bouquet, but it was, technically, flowers.
***
Crowley decided to grow the flowers on his windowsill. He hadn't had a windowsill before that, just a big sheet of glass in the living room that somehow magically gave him a complete view of the city while obscuring any of his demonic pursuits. (Whiskey and soda in front of sitcom repeats, reading National Geographic to a background of Bach and Lou Reed, and a little light potted plant menacing.) His flat was perfectly temperature and humidity controlled and full of chic empty space. Aziraphale was very unfair to call it a soulless box, even if he was technically right in regard to the lack of souls.
Buttercups, Crowley decided, needed sunlight and fresh air, so a small, old-fashioned window popped up. Firstly, it was located in the cloakroom, behind the never used toilet. That made him snicker for all of ten seconds before he started to feel uncomfortably like he was being disrespectful to Aziraphale. He moved both window and planter to the kitchen instead. Then he was annoyed with himself for feeling uncomfortable about being disrespectful to any angel, even Aziraphale, and compromised on keeping them in the main bathroom.
St Andrews's Turnips, they used to be called. Poor old Andréās; Crowley had always enjoyed discussing Greek philosophy with him, and crucifixion was a nasty way to go. He would look after the buttercups for Andréās's sake, and not at all because Aziraphale had given Crowley something not unlike a bunch of flowers, at least in a nascent state, and that was oddly touching.
Crowley scratched his neck. Sentimentality always felt unpleasantly like sunburn.
The sun flowed in the window, and the buttercups poked up little sprouts, and Crowley pondered what to do with them to keep them in order. Normally, he liked to give his plants quietly evil talkings-to so that they flourished out of fear, but it didn't feel right, doing that to Aziraphale's present.
What would Aziraphale do?
Ah, yes.
Crowley leaned over the sprouts.
"Oh hello, dear buttercups," he fluted. How are you doing today? I suppose you're enjoying all the attention and care I've been giving you? Look at you, putting out your tiny sprouts. So brave, you dear little things."
The green tendrils shivered, as if a cold wind had passed by them, and then hurriedly unfurled a few more green leaves.
Crowley smirked. Passive-aggression, that was the ticket. Aziraphale always had a few tricks up his sleeve that way.
****
Crowley didn't, in a technical sense, have to bathe at all. He did however enjoy as many of the world's pleasures on principle, and a long lazy linger in his huge bath, jet streams bubbling and silky bubbles up to his nose, was a distinct pleasure. Especially when it would lead to him being a little late for dinner. Crowley was a master of turning up just late enough to be irritating, but just early enough to make whoever he was meeting (Aziraphale, it was generally Aziraphale) seem unreasonable if they complained. It took delicate timing, and was a skill he had honed carefully over the centuries.
Knowing Aziraphale suspected he did it on purpose was half the fun.
He addressed the budding buttercups. "You'd better behave yourselves while I'm out. Don't let anyone come in and water you until you've earned watering," he threatened, and then caught himself. He didn't actually have anyone who would come in to water them. Aziraphale might, if he had a spare key, just to spite Crowley, but Aziraphale would be fully occupied eating good food, getting ragingly drunk, and arguing good-naturedly with Crowley.
The buttercups looked innocently back at him, with their nauseatingly sunshiny faces. Just like Aziraphale when he'd done something particularly outrageously bastardly, like 'accidentally' sticking Crowley with the bill five times in a row.
Crowley sank back in the bath and tried to repress how fond that thought made him feel. He wasn't sure what had come over him lately. A kind of rosy feeling, every time he thought of Aziraphale. A glow, if it wasn't that demons didn't glow, thank you very much, they blazed like hellfire. Really chill, dark hellfire.
Maybe he should take Aziraphale flowers. No, of course he shouldn't. They weren't in the kind of relationship where they bought each other flowers. Except for the buttercups, of course, and there wasn't much romantic about a paper bag full of corms.
The bath really was making him feel soft and blissful. He'd be too late if he stayed in, and then Aziraphale would be justified in sniffing and then graciously forgiving him, which would mean Aziraphale had won a battle in their millennia-long war. Unacceptable. Although Aziraphale really was endearing when he was being self-righteous.
Crowley groaned and hauled himself out of the bath. He was definitely not going to buy Aziraphale flowers.
***
That evening, Crowley found himself with a bouquet of white roses lying on the Bentley's seat next to him. They were Aziraphale's favourite.
He blamed the buttercups.
He still hadn't meant to buy any flowers, really. He had just been driving by a florist's shop, and the scent of roses had wafted into the Bentley's window, wound down to fully appreciate the scene of pollution. Next thing Crowley he had found himself inside, asking for a dozen of the biggest, whitest ones. He'd found himself daydreaming while dressing, a most undemonic thing to do. He was going to present the buttercups to Aziraphale, and then Crowley would say, "I'm not sure what this means, but I don't want you to think I'm ungrateful for your gift," and then he would give Aziraphale a buttonhole of buttercups, and then he would no longer be in Aziraphale's debt. Well, unless you counted Crowley's tendency to skive off his side of the Arrangement, which was practically his responsibility as a demon. It was a foolproof plan.
Except for the part where he had a paltry few buttercups that weren't ready for cutting yet. Oh well, he could threaten them into full bloom tomorrow. The white roses would do for now. Aziraphale would be so touched, he might even kiss Crowley. Yes, Crowley was almost positive Aziraphale would kiss him, if he played his cards right.
Crowley's foot slammed down on the brake. The Bentley, not used to such treatment, screeched in protest and careened sideways across the road, and three cars went off the road, miraculously failing to hit any pedestrians or harm the drivers. Where had that thought come from? They didn't kiss. They were an angel and a demon. Old enemies. Associates. Friends. Even best friends. But they didn't kiss. The thought was unsettling.
He drove on, a little more sedately, meaning he was only twenty miles over the limit. He couldn't possibly give Aziraphale the roses and then kiss him. That would be... that would be... He couldn't quite bring himself to finish the thought.
***
By the time he arrived at Aziraphale's bookshop, he was running very late indeed. He picked up the bouquet of roses, because it would be even more embarrassing to leave them on the seat, and he felt a little foolish as he stepped through the door.
Aziraphale was reading a book and sipping a cup of cocoa that he had probably made just to reinforce to Crowley that Crowley was late enough to have given Aziraphale time to make and drink a cup of tea. He looked up as Crowley came in, and his face lit up.
"What are you holding?"
"Nothing," Crowley said hastily. "Just something for my flat." He held up the bouquet, and Aziraphale's eyes widened.
"Those are beautiful," he said as he took them. "Are they for me?"
"No. They're for my flat, I said."
"You don't have any furniture to display them on."
"I have a sofa," Crowley said defensively. Aziraphale was holding the roses like they were something precious, and it was doing something to Crowley's stomach. "And a desk with a phone and a fax machine. Minimalism is chic, not that you'd know."
"Are you telling me you planned to display them on the sofa? I don't believe you even own any vases."
"Uh, no. You know how I feel about clutter, " Crowley said, looking around the crowded shop pointedly.
"Then they were for me," Aziraphale said. He prodded one perfect white bloom in a satisfied way. "Thank you, dear. I'll get them some water. Oh, how beautifully scented they are. They must be real ones, from a garden, not a flower shop. Did you grow them yourself?"
"We've been through that. I don't have a garden, which is why buttercups were an entirely unsuitable present."
"I'm sure you'll manage." Aziraphale bustled to the kitchenette in search of water and a vase, and Crowley trailed after him.
"Why don't you think they're from a florist?"
"They've bred all the scent out of roses for the cut flower market. The gene that produces fragrance is incompatible with the genes for disease resistance or hardiness or something like that. I read it somewhere."
"Oh. Reading." Crowley glared very hard at the florist-bought roses, which continued to spill rich, sweet perfume into the room. Well, Aziraphale could be wrong. He was exceedingly intelligent, but notoriously iffy on actual facts.
Aziraphale had found a vase and was arranging the roses carefully.
"You know, I'd forgotten how much I love roses," he said, rather wistfully. "I used to have a garden when I lived in the countryside. It was such a pleasure to tend to it, and I loved watching the roses bloom. I always liked to take a few blooms and press them between the pages of books, so I could remember their scent and beauty later."
Crowley tried not to imagine Aziraphale's cottage in the countryside, surrounded by a fragrant rose garden. He imagined Aziraphale in a straw hat, bent over his beloved roses, humming to himself, and felt a pang. The idea was oddly nice. Perhaps Aziraphale would wear dungarees.
"You should get a garden again," he suggested. "Or a greenhouse. If you want."
"Perhaps," Aziraphale said thoughtfully. "I do miss it. But I don't think I could bear to leave the bookshop."
"You could always live in both places. You don't need to sleep, you could travel back and forth. And I'm sure you could find someone to look after the bookshop when you're away."
"That's a lovely idea. Thank you, Crowley." Aziraphale smiled at him, and Crowley felt a glow in his chest that he couldn't blame on the roses.
"I wouldn't mind helping you with your garden. Get some properly disciplined plants for the conservatory."
"I thought you were offering to look after my bookshop while I was gone."
"Like... Heaven. Come on. We're late for our reservation." Which was a stupid thing to say, as he hadn't bothered to book anyway and any maître d' who was foolish enough to suggest their table had been given to someone else would find their reality profoundly rearranged, but Crowley suddenly wanted to get away from all flowers.
He was almost sure he hadn't held his arm out, but Aziraphale tucked his hand into Crowley's elbow anyway. Crowley could feel it right through his sleeve.
****
It was a terrible idea to buy Aziraphale a cottage with a garden. Crowley knew it was a terrible idea, and yet he found himself driving up to East Sussex the next morning. He wasn't going to buy anything, of course, just look around. He didn't have a garden, and he certainly wasn't going to give Aziraphale one so he could grow roses and buttercups. There was no way he could explain that one on his invoices, and Dagon would have his head.
The cottage by the cliffs was adorable, and adorable was not a word Crowley thought often or without deep provocation. It had a thatched roof full of spiders and whitewashed walls, and a pretty little garden, and Crowley could imagine Aziraphale tending it. Aziraphale would be happy there. He would befriend the spiders and read by the fire and maybe get a cat to keep worse things out of the thatch. Crowley would come to visit him sometimes, and perhaps bring him more flowers, and Aziraphale would smile and welcome him in. And they would sit together on a squishy sofa by the fire, and cuddle.
Crowley had lost all his senses.
He jumped back into the Bentley and beat his personal record for driving back to London by three minutes, and went to the bathroom to stare at the buttercups.
"I don't know what angelic spell has been put on you bastards, but I'm not letting him win. It's the waste disposal for you." He swept them up and to the kitchen, bent over the sink, and...
He couldn't. He bloody well couldn't. They were a present from Aziraphale, and Aziraphale had put the white roses in a crystal vase and touched one petal gently, and he couldn't put Aziraphale's flowers down the waste disposal. He was rubbish at being a demon, maybe, but there it was.
He cursed in every language he had even spoken, which since it included all the languages of the world took quite some time, put the buttercups back in the bathroom, and went to bed. He'd promised, somehow over the candlelight last night, to get up early to drive Aziraphale to a book festival, of all the boring places on God's earth. He must have been drunk.
Aziraphale rang his doorbell at precisely 7:30 am, and Crowley opened the door looking bleary and rumpled and not at all like he'd slept in his clothes. Aziraphale was wearing a tweed jacket and a bow tie, and he looked fusty and unfashionable, every inch the rare book dealer, and it shouldn't have been so bloody precious.
"Ready, dear?" Aziraphale said, although Crowley obviously wasn't. He snarled, made a gesture to replace his clothes with cleanly pressed, luxurious ones, and wouldn't that show Aziraphale up, and then remembered that Aziraphale was an angel who barely ever even groomed his wings and wouldn't care.
"Yes, I'm ready," he said instead, and Aziraphale beamed at him.
"Good. Let's go."
***
They arrived at the book festival and wandered through the stalls, Crowley trailing behind Aziraphale, who was already talking to a few dealers and collectors. He didn't notice Crowley's mood, which was probably just as well. Crowley was feeling sulky and irritated. The buttercups were still back at the flat, sitting on his windowsill, looking smug, and Crowley wanted to throw them out the window when he got home.
Some parasitical stalls that had nothing to do with books had also latched on to the festival. Crowley caught sight of a stall selling seeds and gardening equipment, and he strolled over. He didn't need any seeds or equipment, but he suddenly remembered Aziraphale telling him about pressing roses between the pages of books, and he wondered if he could press buttercups between the pages of a book. He bought a packet of buttercups, a book about pressed flowers, and another trowel for when he divided the bulbs up for planting in a garden bed he didn't have.
Crowley wandered back to where Aziraphale was talking to a book dealer, an entirely unattractive man with a trim figure and golden hair and a charming smile who had no business taking up so much of Aziraphale's attention. Aziraphale glanced at the books in Crowley's hands and didn't even spare a cutting remark. Like it wasn't even worthy of comment that he'd bought books. "Are you still here, Crowley? I thought you would have lost interest and gone to the pub ages ago." He said it as if that didn't matter either. Naturally, Crowley had no intention of hanging around a book festival. It still stung.
"My friend Crowley, Aiden."
Aiden gave a completely unattractive gleaming smile that lit up his entirely unnoteworthy bronzed features. "Hello. Where do you know Ezra from?"
Ezra. What a stupid name. Even if it had been Aziraphale's name, this human had no business being on first-name terms with him.
Crowley smiled with all his teeth, putting a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder. "We met a long time ago in Paradise."
Aiden seemed a bit taken aback, and Crowley piloted Aziraphale away from the stall. The angel nodded amiably to Aiden and let himself be steered.
"It's rather convenient you're still here," he said. "I have something for you."
"You do?" Crowley looked at him suspiciously. "Again?"
Aziraphale reached into his pocket and pulled out a small package wrapped in brown paper. "Here you are."
Crowley took it, staring at Aziraphale. "What is it?"
"Open it and see." Aziraphale smiled at him.
Crowley's knees felt weak, and he didn't even know why. He unwrapped the paper.
Inside was a small box, and when he opened it, he found a pair of sunglasses. They were sleek and black and the lenses were a deep, rich red, and there was no way Aziraahale had found them at this jumped-up car-boot sale, sorry, book festival.
"They reminded me of your old pair made from ruby crystal back in Rome. I thought you might like them. Rather demonic, the red lenses, but they will still hide your eyes." Aziraphale sighed as if it was quite a pity that Crowley's eyes were hidden, and there was definitely something wrong with Crowley's knees, they shouldn't feel all watery like that.
Crowley swapped sunglasses, and Aziraphale smiled again and slipped his hand into Crowley's as if they really were back in Ancient Rome.
That was it, they were definitely playing some game that Crowley didn't even know the rules of, let alone how to cheat at it. And Aziraphale was winning.
Well, he'd improvise rules, then. Aziraphale bought him some flower bulbs, he bought Aziraphale white roses. He laid a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, Aziraphale held his hand. Aziraphale bought him designer sunglasses, well, Crowley would just have to buy Aziraphale a bloody cottage. A perfectly normal escalation of hostilities.
Watch Aziraphale top that one.
****
Crowley returned to the book festival, feeling rather pleased with himself. Even on second viewing the cottage was absolutely perfect for Aziraphale, with a view of the sea and a beautiful garden, and he had bought a flower pressing equipment at a disgustingly quaint bookshop while he was at it. He hadn't even tried to haggle down the price, he'd just pulled out his platinum credit card.
As he pulled onto the lawn with Absolutely No Parking signs on it, his tyres leaving thick gouges of wet earth, the car's phone was ringing.
"Hello?"
"Crowley, it's me."
"I know it's you, Aziraphale." Crowley couldn't help smiling a most undemonic smile. "How was the rest of the festival?"
"It was wonderful. I found some quite interesting books that just need a little love and care, and a lovely little tea shop that's still open if you want to get some tea before we drive back. How was the pub?"
"Oh, it was fine. I didn't stay long." Crowley didn't elaborate.
"That's nice. Did you find anything to amuse yourself with?" Like Crowley was Warlock when Nanny had some bad deeds to do.
"Uh, yes, actually." Crowley hesitated. "I bought something for you. In return for the sunglasses."
"Really? What is it?"
"It's... It's a surprise. I'll give it to you later."
"Oh, how mysterious. I can't wait to see what it is."
"I'm sure you'll like it," Crowley said. "It's very... angelic."
Aziraphale laughed. "I suppose I should trust you, then."
"No, you shouldn't. I'm a demon." Crowley's throat felt tight.
"I do trust you, Crowley." Aziraphale sounded sincere, and Crowley felt panic flutter in his throat.
"On your own head be it, then. I'll be there soon."
***
Crowley drove up to Aziraphale's bookshop, determined not to think about the cottage. He'd drive Aziraphale there tomorrow, and... well, he hadn't really thought out the rest. Only that Aziraphale and the bloody buttercups weren't going to win.
Aziraphale stepped out of the car, looking fresh and clean and not at all like he'd spent all day in a dusty field surrounded by dusty books. Crowley got out too and circled around for him, not at all as if he was lounging around hoping for an invitation in. Crowley could smell the sea salt on him, and he wondered if Aziraphale had gone for a walk on the beach while he was off buying cottages. If he'd taken off his shoes and socks. Crowley hadn't seen Aziraphale's feet in centuries.
"Well, my dear, that was very kind. Now, I'm looking forward to fixing the spine on this manuscript," Aziraphale said, in his 'now run along dear' demon banishing voice.
"I'll see you tomorrow morning," Crowley said. "Breakfast. And your present."
"That sounds very exciting," Aziraphale said, with all the mild interest of a sheep contemplating a buttercup. If they ate buttercups. Crowley should bring his to the country the next day and find out. He turned away.
"Wait!" Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's shoulder.
They stared at each other for a moment, ruby-lensed sunglasses to silly little pince-nez, their faces only inches apart. Crowley turned his breathing off, because he was feeling oddly breathless. "G'night, angel, don't be late," he said, and stalked back to his side of the car.
When he got home, he went into the bathroom, and fixed his most furious glare at the buttercups.
"Don't look so bloody smug," he said.
***
The next morning Crowley drove Aziraphale to East Sussex, and Aziraphale chattered about the book festival the whole way. Crowley nodded and grunted and tried not to think about the cottage. Finally they pulled up, and Aziraphale looked at him with a puzzled expression.
"Why are we here? This is a lovely view, but it's not exactly a place I'd pick out for breakfast."
"I told you, I have a surprise for you." Crowley got out of the car, and Aziraphale followed him, still looking bewildered.
"What kind of surprise?"
"Patience is a virtue, and you're supposed be virtuous." Crowley led him through the garden gate and up the path, and Aziraphale looked puzzled as Crowley pulled out a key.
"Is it a, ahem, pop-up cafe? Why do you have the key?"
"No, no. It's yours." Crowley opened the door and ushered Aziraphale inside.
Aziraphale's eyes widened. They were a very charming blue, and Crowley couldn't even resist the thought anymore. "What on earth...?"
"It's your cottage. I bought it. So you can have a garden again." He shoved the key unceremoniously at Aziraphale.
He started to explain it was in return for the sunglasses, but Aziraphale dropped the key, flung his arms around Crowley's neck, and said "Yes! Of course!" and kissed him.
The 'of course' was odd, but Crowley was a bit too distracted by how utterly, improbably wonderful Aziraphale's lips against his and Aziraphale's soft plump body pressed against his was and his sudden urgent need to grab the back of Aziraphale's head and hold him still to be kissed ferociously back. He wasn't sure Aziraphale was any more experienced at this than his, but the angel's mouth opened with a kind of naive enthusiasm, and by the time Crowley regained anything like his senses they were sharing the overstuffed couch and he seemed to be doing his best to crawl under Aziraphale's jumper.
Well. He'd been right about one thing. The sofa was great for cuddling. Crowley waved a hand and the hearth blazed up a cozy fire, rather a cool one as it was a warmish day. If things continued to go well, though, he thought dizzily, it would not be as though they would be wearing any clothes soon, and he'd hate Aziraphale to catch a chill.
"Of course, what?" he asked, rather muzzily as his tongue had other priorities in mind, like the shell of Aziraphale's ear. It made the angel wriggle, and serve him right, for... something.
"Of course, I'll move in with you." Aziraphale beamed his irritatingly sweet angelic smile at him. "Not every day, obviously, I must open my shop sometimes, but I've always said you were a conveniently swift driver." That wasn't how he usually described Crowley's driving, but Crowley was too kiss-befuddled to argue. "I hoped it was coming, with the talk about gardens and cottages and the roses and candlelight being so jealous of poor Aidan and.... everything... but I was afraid you'd never quite work up the nerve. I know how self-conscious you can be."
"It was the buttercups," Crowley protested.
"Oh, was it? I was afraid it was quite naughty of me."
"You ench—"
"I knew you didn't have a place to grow them, but that you were too stubborn to give up anyway, and I'm afraid I found the idea quite amusing."
"—anted them."
"What was that, my own?"
Come to think of it, Crowley, it wasn't very likely that Aziraphale would beguile him with magical buttercups. He always said that using magic while doing temptations was cheating. And Aziraphale was kissing him again, on his neck this time, which felt... which felt like... there weren't words to describe what that felt like, it was utterly maddening. And Aziraphale had just called him 'my own' and Crowley was suddenly quite aware that he wanted very much to be Aziraphale's own. And Aziraphale going to share a cottage with him, and wear a straw hat, and read by the fire, and there was no point arguing when he'd just admitted to himself he was in love and might have been for quite a long time, was there?
Naturally, Aziraphale could bloody sense it before Crowley had recognised it himself. Demonic senses weren't particularly attuned to love.
"Buttercups," he said, vaguely.
"Yes, dear. Buttercups. I'm sorry they made you feel uncomfortable." Aziraphale was looking at him with such fondness that Crowley thought he might burst into flames.
"I liked them. I bought some wooden thing with screws. For pressing the blossoms."
Aziraphale laughed. "I'll teach you how to press flowers, darling. Don't worry. We'll have plenty of time."
Crowley mumbled something into Aziraphale's hair.
"I love you too, my dear," said Aziraphale, who didn't even have the decency to pretend he didn't hear a demon say anything entirely inappropriate.
Crowley pulled Aziraphale closer and wondered if he dared tell him about the cottage's master bedroom. They would have plenty of time for that, too.
It wasn't so bad losing, even if you didn't know the rules, when you were immortal. There was always the chance for another round.