Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was a perfectly crisp, lovely autumn day in Mayfair, and one Anthony J. Crowley, demon, was bustling about his flat with all the nervous energy of an over-caffeinated meerkat. He wore a lacy black apron  over his usual all-black ensemble and was vigorously dusting all exposed surfaces with an enormous black feather duster (which may or may not have been fashioned on a whim out of loose primaries that he’d discovered during a frantic preening just that morning). The cleaning wasn’t strictly necessary, considering that there was not a speck of dust to be found anywhere in the flat. The furniture was far too well-trained to allow that. Still, it gave him an outlet for all of his pent up anxiety while he waited for Aziraphale to arrive.

It had been nearly two months since the body swap stunt, and they were both still getting used to the idea of finally being free from their respective head offices. At first it had seemed too good to be true, but with each quietly passing day, they became more and more confident that they really had got away with it. Now, they were beginning to breathe a sigh of relief, stretch their wings (metaphorically, usually), and think about how to spend the rest of their long existence.

They decided to test the waters by starting to spend more time together, openly and without fear. And that led to the suggestion that Aziraphale come over to Crowley’s flat for a visit. It was meant to be a nice change of pace from the bookshop.

And it was fiiiiine, absolutely fine. Never mind that Crowley rarely admitted another being into his private domain, let alone the one being he’d been hopelessly in love with for the past, oh, six millennia.^[1] He had nothing to hide. Except perhaps the marble eagle lectern from a certain church, a little souvenir from 1941 that he had no idea how he would explain to the angel. With a quick snap of his fingers, it was temporarily transformed into a raven, sufficiently spooky and Gothic enough to fit in with a demon’s aesthetic.

It was not a moment too soon. In the next instant, there was a tentative knock on the door. With another snap of his fingers, the apron and feather duster vanished into the ether, and Crowley swaggered over to the door.

“Angel,” he said with a smirk and a flourish as he opened the door, exuding a confidence he didn’t feel. (Fake it ‘til you make it, as the humans liked to say.) “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Aziraphale was standing in the doorway, looking adorably nervous. He was prim and proper as always, wearing the same worn waistcoat, beige jacket, and ridiculous tartan bow tie that he’d been wearing for at least the last century. In his hands were a bouquet of yellow roses and white carnations, which he handed to Crowley with a shy smile as he stepped inside.

“These are for you, Crowley. I do hope you like them. Thank you so much for your invitation; it’s an honour to be invited into your home. Such a lovely flat, if I may say so… “

The angel was rambling on, and Crowley was left standing there dumbfounded, the bouquet of flowers in his hand. He’d never been given flowers before, not by anyone, least of all an angel with whom he was very much smitten.

What could it mean? he wondered as he looked down at them. He liked flowers, of course (when they behaved themselves). But it was Aziraphale who had been more into that whole “language of flowers” nonsense in the Victorian era.

What was yellow for again? Happiness? No, wait, friendship. Of course. He was fairly certain yellow roses meant friendship, and with that realisation, his black demon heart sank just a little. They’d clearly already been friends for the last 6,000 years or so, despite whatever the angel might say to the contrary in the heat of the moment. Was Aziraphale trying to tell him not to expect anything more now? Then again, Crowley mused, he could just like yellow. He was pretty sure it was the angel’s favourite colour. 

And the white carnations? What did they symbolise? Crowley wracked his brain. Death? Hmm, unlikely, although they had both just defied death. Purity and innocence? He nearly snorted. As if. No, wait, he had it! New beginnings.

Well, okay, he’d take that. To new beginnings, angel. Ones in which they could hang out at each other’s homes as much as they liked with utter impunity.

Crowley took the flowers to his sleek, modern kitchen, where he transformed an unsuspecting water glass into the perfect vase, then filled it with water from the tap. Next, he unwrapped the flowers and put them in the vase, taking a moment to arrange them artfully and then glare at them with venom, making sure they understood that any sign of wilting would be completely unacceptable. Finally, he snapped his fingers and vanished the cellophane packaging into the ether. Who needed a rubbish bin, anyway? Certainly not a demon.

He returned to the entryway to find Aziraphale inspecting one of his favourite pieces of art with a great deal of interest. Crowley cleared his throat awkwardly, and the angel nearly jumped out of his skin, tearing his eyes away from the marble statue sitting atop an antique side table. He looked up at Crowley a little guiltily.

“What an, er, fascinating sculpture,” the angel said, a faint hint of pink spreading across his cheeks.

Crowley arched an eyebrow and smirked back at him, his earlier nervousness suddenly forgotten. “You like it, do you?”

To his delight, Aziraphale was immediately flustered. “Oh, it’s, er… well, it’s very…”

“They’re wrestling, angel. In case you were wondering.” Crowley’s grin widened. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Aziraphale murmured, his blush a shade darker now. “How, er… artistic.” Then he clapped his hands together and smiled brightly, eager to change the subject. “Now then, my dear, will you be giving me the grand tour?”

And looking back, Crowley thought afterwards, that is when all the trouble started.

Aziraphale had never really met the plants before. (Bloody spoiled nuisances.) The angel began cooing the moment he saw the first one and adamantly refused to stop, no matter how much the demon growled, protested, and/or pleaded.

“Well aren’t you a beautiful thing,” the angel said breathlessly to one of the ficus plants.

“Nrghhh! No! Angel, you can’t tell it that!”

Aziraphale frowned at Crowley. “Why ever not? It has such lovely full green leaves. It’s very handsome.”

“Aagghh! No!” (It was, actually, very handsome, but you weren’t supposed to let it know that.)

And so it went on as they moved from room to room, the situation growing more intolerable by the minute. Aziraphale stopped to admire the anthurium, then the monstera, then the ferns, beaming at them like a proud uncle. He praised each one in turn, all the while ignoring Crowley’s increasingly loud protestations.

When he got to the Golden Pothos and began looking at it in rapturous awe, it was all too much.

“Stop it!” Crowley hissed, outraged. “Stop looking at it like… like…”

“Like it’s the most lovely specimen I’ve ever seen? What a good ivy,” Aziraphale cooed. He reached a hand out and gently ran his finger along a shiny green leaf.

An involuntary shudder ran through Crowley. “Yes! I mean, no! It’s not good!”

Why was Aziraphale doing this? Was it payback for teasing him about the angel statue? But his guest didn’t seem to take any notice of the demon’s discomfort.

“Of course it’s good! And so very beautiful, and, well… I just think they should know that.”

Was Aziraphale fluttering his eyelashes at him?! Ridiculous angel. And still he kept going.

“Not to mention, you’ve taken such wonderful care of them.”

Crowley growled. “I don’t take care of them. I rule over them! With an iron fist!” Said fist was now raised in the air in demonstration, and the demon’s face had turned a near-apoplectic shade of red.

“Of course you do, dear,” Aziraphale murmured, finally backing down and giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Now then,” he said, changing the subject as he linked his arm through Crowley’s and led him back to the white leather sofa in the lounge. “We said we were going to watch a film, didn’t we? And I do believe you promised me some nibbles… ”

~ ~ ~

Crowley didn’t realise the extent of the damage until the next morning. He had just rolled out of bed and was making his way to the kitchen for extraordinary amounts of coffee  when he saw the first offender: a slightly drooping Ficus lyrata.

“What’s wrong with you?” he snarled at it. “Fix yourself!! Look snappy!” The plant trembled slightly, but did not, in fact, fix itself. And it wasn’t the only one. He strode from plant to plant, his horror growing with every sagging stem and lacklustre leaf. It was Every. Last. One of them. They were all slacking on the job and looking pitiful, as if their very lives didn’t depend on their growth performance.

Completely unacceptable.

The only flora in the entire place who had the good sense to look alive, with not a petal out of place, was the perky bouquet of roses and carnations that Aziraphale had given him. He grabbed it now and paraded it around the flat, flaunting it in front of the others.

“Look at this! This is what you ought to be doing right now. Look alive! Or you won’t be, you sorry excuses…”

But no amount of shouting, threatening, or otherwise angry theatrics could convince the plants to perk up. It was as if they had all mutinied at once, and he couldn’t really shove the entire lot of them down the garbage disposal, could he? ^[2]

No, he couldn’t. But the demon was at a loss for what to do. He’d never experienced full-scale, coordinated insubordination like this before, and he was clueless as to what could have set it off.

That was, until shortly after the phone rang.

“Crowley,” he growled into the receiver, completely unnecessarily. The angel was the only one who ever called him on the landline, and Crowley was obviously the only one who would be answering.

Aziraphale greeted him brightly, oblivious to his foul mood. “Oh, hello, Crowley! So glad to have caught you at home.” As if there were anywhere else he would be this early in the morning.

“What is it, angel?” he asked, trying to maintain his gruff exterior, but softening in the face of the angel’s sunny voice.

“I just wanted to thank you again for such a lovely time yesterday. I hope we can do it again soon… ”

Crowley grunted his assent into the phone and flopped down onto his throne, kicking his feet up on the desk to wait for the ask. He knew the angel’s every tone and inflection, and Aziraphale was calling to cajole him into something; he could just tell.

“And also…” the angel continued.

Here it was. “Yesss… ?”

“Wuthering Heights is coming to the National, and I was just wondering… well, I thought perhaps… "

“Yeah, alright,” Crowley agreed.

“But I haven’t even finished the question!”

“I already know what it is, don’t I? Yes, I’ll go with you, but during the interval you’d better buy me a glass of—what the… ” Crowley had been glancing idly around the room while talking to Aziraphale, and now he nearly fell off the throne as he caught sight of the angel wing begonia in the window. Its speckled leaves were no longer drooping towards the floor. In fact, it had completely perked up and was currently… straining towards the desk ?!

“Crowley, what’s wrong? Did something happen?” Aziraphale’s voice came concerned through the line.

“No, no, nothing. Everything’s fine. Er… ”

Was it his imagination, or were the monsteras now peeking around the corner from the hallway? Yeah, no, they definitely were, and they were actually shaking. Not quaking in fear, though, like he was used to seeing them. Rather, they were vibrating with delight. At the sound of the angel’s voice!

“Un-fucking-believable,” he grumbled. Traitors.

“I beg your pardon?!”

“No, not you. Actually, I take that back. Yes, you. This is all your fault!”

“What exactly is my fault, if you please? I’m afraid I’m not following at all.”

“You and your bloody plant-coddling!” Crowley abruptly jumped up from his throne and stormed through the flat. In a wise act of self-preservation, the telephone transformed into a cordless receiver to accommodate the demon’s angry stomping.

“Say something to the Lady Palm!” he demanded, shoving the phone in front of the wilting fronds of a Rhapis excelsa in order to test his theory.

“I’m sorry, the who?”

“Just do it, angel, will ya? It’s a plant.”

“Oh, of course. Er… hello there, dearie. I do hope you’re having a good morning.”

The effect was immediate. The palm straightened up, its fronds once again pert and green and luxuriant, and Crowley could practically feel it preening under the attention. It was disgusting.

And yet, it worked. Every single plant the angel spoke to stepped back in line. By the end of the phone call, they had all returned to their lush, green selves, and all without a single threat or cross word.

~ ~ ~

Obviously, Crowley had a problem. A huge problem. His plants had lost all respect for him. It was humiliating.

The same pattern repeated itself the following week when the angel came over for dinner and a James Bond film. The traitorous plants had all been thoroughly delighted to see him, thriving under his praises: “Oh, aren’t you pretty today,” and “My how green and lush your leaves are,” while Crowley stood by, mortified.

And then they had been just as devastated the next day by the angel’s absence, drooping in sadness. Crowley, at his wit’s end, resorted to calling them every name under the sun until he was blue in the face, and told them that they needed to shape up tout suite, if they knew what was good for them. It didn’t work any better than it had the first time. Then he tried misting them, then bribing them with plant food, and then, in a final act of desperation, a bit of begging: “Please, won’t you just grow better?!”

None of it worked. 

And once again, they all perked right back up the second the angel called and caressed them with gentle words through the phone line. Disgusting.

This time, however, the effects of the phone call were short-lived. By the end of the day, they were all a bunch of sad sacks again. Crowley threw up his hands, defeated.

Somehow, his plants had become addicted to Aziraphale.^[3] And there was nothing he could do but feed the addiction.

Now, instead of the angel calling Crowley to convince him to try the new sushi restaurant that had just opened down the street, or to arrange a film night, or to plan to see a show, it was Crowley calling the angel and begging for help. And the angel, bastard that he was, was absolutely eating it up.

“Willyoutalktomyplants?” came the strangled request through the phone line.

“Oh, hello, Crowley, is that you? I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

There was an aggrieved sigh. Then a little louder and slower, “Will. You. Talktomyplantsagain. Please.”

“Oh, of course, dear. I’d love to!” He could practically hear the angel beaming through the phone line. “Put the ficus on, will you?” 

Except he couldn’t very well call Aziraphale up morning, noon, and night just so he could talk to the godforsaken plants. And certainly the angel had better things to do than constantly hang out at a demon’s flat and baby his greenery. 

Only, it was starting to get dire, especially for the more sensitive varieties. The recurrent wilting was beginning to take its toll, and it was clear that things couldn’t go on this way for much longer.  Finally, one crisp afternoon nearly a week later, he grabbed the sickly African violet and made the drive over to the bookshop.

“Here,” he said gruffly, pushing the pot into Azirphale’s hands. “I think Violet’s  probably better off with you, angel.”

Aziraphale looked back at him, wide-eyed. “Oh, Crowley. I’m honoured, of course, that you would entrust me with such an important responsibility. I’ll put her in the window and water her every day—”

“Ack, not every day, angel! Too much water will give her root rot.”

“Oh, right, of course. Well, perhaps I’d better leave that part to you, then.” He paused, looking up shyly at Crowley through his lashes. “You know, you’re welcome to visit her as often as you wish, not just when she needs caring for. You could even come every day, if you like.” 

“Nrghk,” Crowley responded eloquently, blushing at the tips of his ears. “I’ll, er, keep that in mind.”

“Oh, good. Now, what would you say to a cup of coffee? I stopped by the bakery today, and I have some scones that promise to be absolutely scrumptious.”

“Well, alright then. Not like I have anything better on,” he conceded, and Aziraphale flashed him a huge smile before going to start the coffee. And so they spent a pleasant afternoon together sitting at the little kitchen table, Aziraphale sipping tea and thoroughly enjoying his scones, while Crowley downed his coffee and thoroughly enjoyed watching Aziraphale eat his scones. 

~ ~ ~

Soon thereafter, Crowley was splitting his time between his flat and the bookshop nearly evenly, berating his depressed plants in vain when he was in Mayfair, and tending first to Violet and then to a slow trickle of others when he was in Soho.

“Just because he’s here and likes to tell you you’re pretty doesn’t mean you can slack off,” he threatened the newly arrived anthurium under his breath.

“I heard that, Crowley,” the angel admonished from the other room, where he was straightening a display of books.

“Well, it’s true,” the demon grumbled. Aziraphale came into the room, smoothing down his waistcoat with his hands and fixing Crowley with a stern look that he recognized at once to mean business.

“Now, dear,” he began, peering at Crowley over the tiny reading glasses that the demon was sure he didn’t actually need.^[4] “Surely you can see that she’s trying her best.” He took a step closer to the plant and gently caressed a leaf in a way that sent a shiver down Crowley’s spine. “She’s very beautiful. You’re taking wonderful care of her, and I don’t want to hear you say anything to the contrary.”

Crowley squirmed in discomfort at the accusation that he was doing anything ‘wonderful.’ “Ffffine,” he managed to get out while glaring at the plant who was now preening under the praise and showing off her fine leaves.

“Good.”

Then Crowley looked up and saw that angel was suddenly nervous, wringing his hands in front of him and clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Have you thought about…” Aziraphale started.

“Yes, angel?” Crowley raised a curious eyebrow, encouraging him to go on.

“... perhaps bringing them all here? And then just…  staying?” He said it hesitantly, as if afraid of what Crowley’s reaction might be. 

The demon gaped at Aziraphale, at a loss for words.

“It’s only, then you wouldn’t have to go back and forth so much, since the plants would all be in one place. I could speak with them and give them encouragement whenever I’m not busy with the bookshop, and you could continue tending to their needs here.”

Crowley snapped his mouth shut, his brain fumbling to catch up with what the angel was saying.

“But… what about my flat?”

He cursed himself internally almost as soon as the words came out of his mouth. Because the angel had just invited him to live with him?! And he was worried about his bloody flat?

The angel frowned. “Well, technically it belongs to Hell, doesn’t it? I can’t imagine they’re going to keep paying for it indefinitely. They might even send someone else to take over your job, and then you’d have to give it up anyway.”

“Nrghk, yeah, okay, good point.” He hadn’t thought of that. “But… are you sure you want me in your space, angel. Like… all the time?”

The angel’s expression softened into something so tender the demon had to look away. 

“Crowley,” he said quietly. “You’re always welcome here. I hope you know that.”

Crowley was blushing now, heat radiating across his face. But there was also a warm feeling bubbling up in his chest. The angel actually wanted him around. Permanently, from the sound of it, despite all of his talk of “He’s not my friend” and “I don’t even like you.” He had known at the time it wasn’t true, obviously, but it was nice to get confirmation.

“Mnyhg, yeah, okay. That could work,” he said cautiously, not wanting to sound overeager, though he wondered if the angel could hear his heart pounding in his chest. “Er… might want to bring over a few other things too, though, if it’s alright,” he added, looking around at the cluttered bookshop. Stacks of books were piled up on every available surface and there were plants in all the windows now.

The angel beamed at him, clearly relieved and so very happy. “Yes, of course! I’m sure I can make room for anything you wish to bring. Perhaps that interesting angel sculpture and your very lovely, er, raven lectern, for a start?”

And now Aziraphale was giving him that smug angel smirk, not unlike the time he’d been caught transforming Job’s goats into crows. Did the angel know what that lectern really was? Crowley grinned back at him, finding that he didn’t give a toss. He and the plants were moving in. He and Aziraphale were going to be flatmates.

~ ~ ~

It all went much more smoothly than either of them could have imagined. As promised, Aziraphale rearranged his piles of books to make room for Crowley’s most prized possessions, though the majority of what he owned stayed behind. The demon would still have his flat to go back to whenever one of them might need a little space, at least for now.

It was an adjustment, of course, for both of them. But they liked spending time with each other; always had. Now Crowley had an excuse to lounge around the bookshop all day, every day. He spent most of his time sprawled out on the sofa, watching as the angel bustled about, organising and reorganising his books. Aziraphale would frequently get distracted in the middle of it and end up sitting down with a cup of cocoa to read a dusty old novel he hadn’t seen in years. When that happened, Crowley would simply close his eyes and have a little kip. They could pass hours that way, in comfortable silence.

Occasionally, a customer would come in, giving Crowley the opportunity to glare at them menacingly from behind his dark glasses. That usually did the trick. No one stayed for very long once they spotted the demon on the sofa. Then at midday, or whenever he felt like it, really, Aziraphale would close up shop long enough for them to enjoy a leisurely lunch (during which Crowley would mostly sit with his chin on his hand and leer at the angel while he ate). On particularly nice days, they might even take a walk in the park and feed the ducks.

Evenings were spent dining out or, more often than not, staying in and drinking wine, debating all manner of pointless trivia, and talking and laughing into the wee hours. Eventually, Crowley would retire to the flat above the bookshop, and the fact that Aziraphale rarely slept meant that, thankfully, they didn’t even need to address the issue of there being Only One Bed. Besides which, Crowely could always sleep on the ceiling in a pinch. 

Of course, there were bumps along the way, too. They were learning each other’s quirks and idiosyncrasies and annoying habits. It was to be expected that they aggravated each other more than usual, and not always on purpose. There was the time Crowley tripped over an inconveniently placed pile of books and went crashing into a bookcase, sending a first edition Bronte flying. And the time he made the grave mistake of eating the last of the good jam from the farmer’s market . He wouldn’t soon forget Aziraphale’s death glare when the angel walked in on him licking the spoon in the kitchen, the empty jar in his other hand. 

And then there was the time, one morning in late December, when Crowley came downstairs and grabbed the mister, only to discover that the first plant he encountered had new anatomy.

“Aaaangel!” he called out. “Why does the ficus have bloody eyes now?” Not like weird, scary, eyes-all-over angel eyes, thank Someone, but rather… plastic googly eyes? What in the… ?

“Because,” Aziraphale sniffed, coming in from the other room, “if you want to say something rude to him, you’ll have to look him in the eyes and say it to his face now. The same goes for the others, as well.” 

Crowley let out a groan of exasperation. Looking around, he saw that all of the plants suddenly had eyes. Every. Last. One.

“You’re ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. You do know that, yeah?”

“So I’ve been told. But you like me anyway, don’t you?” There was that smug bastard-smile again.

“Yeah, maybe,” he admitted reluctantly. (“More’n like you,” he added under his breath.) Then he turned back to the ficus with a sneer and gave it a burst of water straight in the face. “Say what I want,” he groused once Aziraphale had left the room again. 

Later that evening, as they were watching The Golden Girls in the little lounge upstairs (his television being one of the few items the demon had brought over from his flat), Crowley couldn’t shake the feeling that the plants were watching them. And smiling, the nosy, self-satisfied little shits. He snaked an arm over the back of the sofa behind Aziraphale’s shoulders when Sophia started to tell some ridiculous anecdote about early 20th century Sicily. Then he glanced over at the monstera in the corner and stuck his tongue out at it.

~ ~ ~

With time, Crowley learned to be less harsh with the plants under his care, though he still made sure to grumble at them when Aziraphale was around. He had appearances to keep up , after all. Nevertheless, he had to admit that they were thriving under the constant attention and praise, looking greener and fuller than they ever had back at his flat. It appeared that positive reinforcement might be a better strategy than the threat of harsh punishment, after all. The flora were clearly living their best life in the bookshop, and they seemed positively overjoyed to be spending so much time with the angel.

Crowley was, too. Overall, living together had been going exceptionally well. So much so that Crowley rarely went back to his flat anymore, treating it as more of glorified storage space than anything else.

They had also grown steadily closer over the last months, settling into a comfortable, peaceful existence where they were not only best friends and flatmates, but also so much more. They hadn’t yet put a specific name to what that might be, but Crowley thought more and more often that he might like to.

~ ~ ~

As they neared the one-year anniversary of the Notpocalypse and the successful body swap shenanigans, they decided to celebrate. A trip to the Ritz was planned, which seemed only fitting, considering it was where they had gone last year to celebrate their new lease on life and toast to the world.

Sensing the importance of the occasion, Aziraphale decided to hang up his usual vintage suit and instead don something a bit fancier for the evening: a lovely cream-coloured suit with a crisp new dress shirt. The soft blue colour of the shirt accented the stormy green and grey of his eyes quite nicely, if he did say so himself. Of course, the tartan bow tie still went perfectly well with the ensemble.

Once he had readied himself, he headed downstairs to set up a little surprise for the demon— just a modest gift he thought his friend (dare he say partner? ) might like. The angel was just putting the finishing touches on it when he heard Crowley coming down the stairs behind him.

Aziraphale turned around, giving a sharp intake of breath when he saw Crowley. His demon was wearing a stunning new suit that Aziraphale had never seen before—the jacket was a beautiful black velvet with dazzling silver stars and comets streaking across it.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale greeted, swallowing thickly. He tore his eyes away from the enthralling demon and stepped to the side to reveal his present. “I got you a little something,” he said, indicating the plant sitting on a small round table to his left. A snake plant, with tall, striped leaves that stood straight up. It was sporting magnetic sunglasses . And a silver tie scarf, not unlike the one Crowley often wore.

“Aren’t you gorgeous?” the demon breathed, and at first Aziraphale thought he meant the snake plant, which was rather handsome, though the demon didn’t usually say such things to the plants. But when he met Crowley’s soft yellow eyes, he realised the demon was looking only at him. He blushed, and a wide, happy smile spread across his face.

Crowley smiled back at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“The plant’s not bad, either, thanks angel. I’d say more, but I don’t want him to get a big head already,” he teased. Then he put on his sunglasses and held out his arm. “Ready for dinner?”

“Oh, yes. I’m very much looking forward to it.”

“Good. Me too, angel.”

~ ~ ~

As they walked arm in arm out to the Bentley, Crowley subtly slid his other hand into his pants pocket, feeling for the ring box he was carrying. If everything worked out as planned (and he was very optimistic), there would be a nightingale singing tonight.

THE END 

^[1] Aziraphale had, in fact, been to Crowley’s flat exactly one time. However, with the threat of imminent arrest looming over their heads, he’d been far too preoccupied with trying to learn how to perform the demon’s ridiculous swagger in preparation for the body swap to spare a single thought for the decor.

^[2] In reality, he had not once shoved a misbehaving plant down the garbage disposal. His very accommodating downstairs neighbour had instead become the adoptive mother to many a leaf-spotted plant over the years. Still, he couldn’t very well deliver his entire flat full of potted plants to her all at once.

^[3] Hmm, not unlike himself actually, now that he thought about it. His mood was also much improved every time the angel was around.

^[4] Where had they even come from? Had the angel put them on just so that he could look snootily at Crowley overtop of them?