Happy holidays, quantum_witch!
Title: The Ghost and A. J. Crowley
Gift Recipient: quantum_witch
Author: A secret!
Characters: Aziraphale/Crowley, Death
Rating: PG
Summary: A heartwarming tale of grisly ghost plants and fearsome floral apparitions. Has Crowley finally met his match? Will Aziraphale come to the rescue? And just how difficult is it to remove dirt stains from white carpet?
Author’s Notes: For Quantum Witch, who I want to thank: I loved the prompt! Happy holidays!
At least it wasn't one of the good ones.
Not an orchid, or the jade. Not one of the many varied and otherwise rare plants Crowley kept in his immaculate lounge.
It was only the old arrowhead vine: so old that Crowley didn't know where he'd got it, or had pushed the memory (of Aziraphale, likely, fiendishly affable as he trotted the thing to the sunniest spot on the shelf) out of his mind. Crowley only kept it out of habit. And this: a certain curiosity. Surely the sorriest plant of the lot wouldn't stand a chance against Crowley's best Cagney.
But the thing was, it did.
More accurately, it thrived.
The arrowhead took every insult, each slur and slanderous evocation. When Crowley crept from the sofa and called out, "You're miserable! No better than gutter weed or-- Or whatever grows on those Alpine cliff sides. The thorny things," it was totally unfazed.
In Crowley's defense, he'd had a bit of a time with Aziraphale that night and he was still feeling tipsy. Just the same, the arrowhead -- the confounded Syngonium podophyllum, Crowley at some point bothered to look up -- sat there like a cuckoo in the warbler's nest, happy as you liked.
It remained like that for years. Nigh on a decade.
And then one day Crowley found that it wasn't really a plant anymore, but rather a dry, brown husk.
"Serves you right," he hissed, and walked the remnants back and forth before the other plants. They trembled in the bright morning sun. "D'you see what'll happen? Eh? This one couldn't cut it."
If Crowley cared enough, he could revive it. But he didn't. The plants were only for show and esteem -- totally not worth the effort of raising sentiment. Unceremoniously, he dumped the dead arrowhead in the bin, wiped out the empty pot, and assured himself he wouldn't spare a thought for it ever again.
* * *
It was called Dennis.
Or that's what it called itself, quite suddenly one afternoon -- just shy of teatime -- in December, some years ago. Maybe it was something to do with planetary alignment. 1 But sure enough, the realization popped into the place where the brain might've been, if Dennis happened to have a brain.
What Dennis did have was roots, and a base, and a stem. Also: several long, luscious leaf stalks, and twenty-seven smashingly bright leaf blades. Dennis reckoned those leaves were the best sort of color, with both classic and modern appeal, which was a quite good combination for attracting other Araceae, or perhaps even an Apocynaceae.
This was supposition. But off and on Dennis thought it might do to put an advert in a lonely hearts column:
Mature flora seeks similar. Quiet type, good listener. Housebound.
It would of course be only fitting to leave out the bits on what sort of house Dennis was bound to: largely unoccupied save for the times when Master Crowley decided it was time to pop round and play drill sergeant.
These perfect storms of, "You there. You're looking pallid today. Why don't we see if my friend Mr Shears can coax you back to health," or whatever else fell upon the huddled green masses like so much sulphur, were enough to keep Dennis tucked back, solemn and attentive, for nigh on a week. Where the begonias would resume their aimless chatter mere hours after Crowley left, and the following day the date palm griped about stifled roots, Dennis turned cheek and held firm.
And this tactic worked; really, it did.
Oh yes.
*
Oh no. And that's hardly the worst of it. Most of what comes out of that man's mouth is unrepeatable in company. Not to mention there's never enough to drink around here. Did you know that he's a serial under-waterer?
Death looked down at the plant. In fact, he didn't know.
The former plant continued, Once a week with the spray bottle is hardly enough for an equatorial specimen such as myself. And that's if he comes round once a week. It's not always the case. Mark my words, he'll have more than one life on his hands if he isn't careful.
OH, said Death.
Which would mean more work for you, the plant persisted.
WELL, said Death. YES. AND NO.
Because work was work, and Death didn't have anything better to do with his time. 2
But he said, PERHAPS YOU SHOULD HAVE EXPRESSED CONCERN EARLIER.
Before he murdered me, hmm? the plant replied pettishly. Now there's a surprise. Death, of all people, blaming the victim. D'you have a manager I might speak with?
NO.
A form, then? I'd like to issue a written complaint.
Death shook his head. Arguing with a departed soul was no way to start the day. He'd only had three cups of coffee before setting out on his rounds, and his skull was already aching with caffeine withdrawal. So he said, reasonably, I CAN OFFER YOU THE BASIC HAUNTING PACKAGE ON A ONE MONTH TRIAL BASIS.
The arrowhead shook in its celestial pot. Death wasn't sure if this was meant to show that his offer was being taken under consideration, or if the plant had eaten a bad bit of cheese that morning.
I want six months, minimum, said the plant.
YOU ARE NOT IN A POSITION TO BARGAIN--
Six months.
Death straightened up. Then he reached into his robe to retrieve a small leather folio. He pulled out a sheet of yellowing parchment.
The terms were already written.
You'll have to sign for me, the plant chortled, if it's not a bother, what with that scythe and that. I imagine you're quite a hit with the wheat population: they're reportedly so boisterous. Country folk, you know. Well?
NAME OR ALIAS.
Dennis. Second pot from the right, third shelf, lounge, Master Crowley's flat, Park Lane, Mayfair, London--
IT IS DONE.
Oh, said the plant called Dennis. (This was hardly one of the most curious things in the universe.) Then, And I suppose there's some sort of guidebook? An adviser in the field?
YOU'LL PICK IT UP AS YOU GO ALONG.
And that's it, then?
WELL. THAT DEPENDS. DO YOU PLAY CHESS?
Um.
Death grinned. It was satisfying to break out the classics now and then.
* * *
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose and slurped a mouthful of noodles from his raised chopsticks. "When you invited me over for a meal at home, I didn't expect we'd be eating out of takeaway cartons."
"You know I can't do Szechuan," Crowley drawled. "Besides, the economy being what it is, that restaurant is probably home to somebody--"
"I'm not complaining."
"Oh," said Crowley.
"But really, my dear, the lounge? Can't we sit in the dining room like civilized people? I've had this wine glass over twice already. I haven't the patience to miracle your lovely white carpet clean a third time in one night."
"Dining room's haunted," said Crowley, matter-of-factly, crunching around a snow pea.
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "What about the kitchen?"
"Kitchen too."
"You're having it redecorated, you mean."
Crowley shrugged. "No, I mean what I said. I've taken on some sort of... novice poltergeist."
"For heaven's sake, don't worry about offending my sensibilities. You know I'm not immune to the charms of newly done linoleum," said Aziraphale. Then he sniffed, seeing Crowley's poorly suppressed shudder. "Tile, then?"
But before Crowley could counter the thought, he began to gag.
All at once, he turned pale, his skin going feverish and damp, and his lips swelled up like a pair of purplish slugs. "Mmph, mmph. Mmp."
Ah. Apparently his tongue had swelled, too.
Aziraphale swung off his chair, managing to set his food carton to the end-table but knocking over his wine. He mournfully watched the rather nice Pinot noir soak into the pile. Then he regrouped enough to help Crowley unbutton his collar, and ran a hand over his brow. His fingers came back sweat-slicked. "My dear boy, what is it? Airborne? Perhaps something in the chicken? You don't suppose it's the MSG..."
"No," Crowley managed to cough. "Plant-based. Poison." He heaved out a sigh. Gradually, with great effort, his complexion returned to normal, but he was still breathing hard. "That's... the fifth time... this week."
"What?" Aziraphale balked. "You can't be serious."
"Unfortunately, yes. But on the plus side, I'm getting better at flushing it from my system. Believe me, the first wasn't pretty. Cost me a suit jacket: there's no getting sick out of wool."
"Right," Aziraphale said, shaking his head. "Let's get you to bed, there's a good fellow."
Crowley allowed himself to be dragged back to the bedroom, where he promptly fell face-down onto the mattress. It was no simple task to get his shoes off.
His trousers came easier, but that was only because Aziraphale had practice at it.
*
Aziraphale didn't sleep.
He never had, or not really. Not like Crowley, who made an art of it; reveled in it with the whole of his body; sighed and shifted and sank into Aziraphale's side like there was no place he would rather be.
And Aziraphale didn't mind it. He liked it, even. He breathed in the scent of Crowley's hair, and the musk of his skin, picking out the layers of city grime and cigarette smoke and aftershave, and beneath that, Crowley himself, sun-warmed and sweet.
These things took up the tip of Aziraphale's thoughts.
But below, like an iceberg nested in dark waters, lurked memory. Mindfulness. There was his shop, and the signed first edition of Frankenstein he'd bought at auction that he was eager to leaf through. There were the things he needed to pick up from the shops: tea and marmalade and ninety-percent cocoa almond delight truffles. There was Upstairs.
There was the apparition, hovering some feet off the ground and quite as many from Aziraphale himself -- a plant, perhaps some sort of vine, but of course Aziraphale was never much of a botanist -- translucent and shimmering intermittently in the street glare.
"Ah," said Aziraphale.
And then, low, "A word, if you will?"
*
Crowley laughed into his teacup. "You're telling me you've been talking to a dead plant? At night, when I'm asleep? There's a word for that, Aziraphale: delusional."
"Do your worst, Crowley. I don't care," said Aziraphale. He didn't look up from his crossword. His biro tip danced across the page with gentle scritch sounds. "Your novice poltergeist just happens to be a quite sensible undead arrowhead plant."
"Oh?"
"Don't 'oh' me. It used to be yours, and you killed it. Small wonder it's haunting you."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Crowley replied. "And if I did, I wouldn't care. Those plants are under my watch. They have to respect me."
"Yes? You ought to take a look in your WC. You're in for a treat."
"If it's there's load of shrimp cocktail in the tub, I'm going to be very disappointed."
Aziraphale smiled. "Only one way to find out."
"Fine," Crowley bristled. He pushed back from the table and made for the bathroom.
Five...
Four...
Three...
Two--
"Aziraphale! For someone's sake! Get in here, will you?"
"Coming, dear."
Aziraphale took his time. When he got to the bathroom door, it was to find Crowley already half-covered in dirt, his face and arms streaked, brown and dusty. The bathroom itself was so full of peat as to be completely inaccessible. It wasn't a stretch to suppose the grout would need a thorough cleaning.
"It was like that when I got here," Aziraphale chirped. "This needn't descend into all out war. You're the only one with whom Dennis takes umbrage."
Crowley formed the name on his lips. Then he stomped off in the direction of the lounge.
"Crowley? Crowley!"
*
Some nights later, Aziraphale found Dennis lurking by the stereo system. The lounge was poorly lit, but Aziraphale's vision was good, and he was no stranger to picking out things in the dark. 3
"Hello," he said. "I know we've all been rather... at odds lately. But I have a proposition. What do you say?"
Dennis said nothing.
"Yes, well. I'd like to have a personal stake in the well-being of your fellow green beings. A meaningful, caring touch." Aziraphale pressed his hands together before him, and continued in calm reassurance, "My interest in gardens goes quite far back, you see. I'll even talk to Crowley. We'll water every other day, and improve fertilizer rations by, oh, twenty-percent. And I'll make sure you get the best sunshine available." This translated to an hour or two a week, London winter weather permitting.
But Dennis' astral form shimmered appreciatively, each leaf shaking a bit.
Apparently there were unseen winds beyond the Veil.
Aziraphale smiled. "Splendid. It's settled."
This was perhaps history's first joint Angel-Vegetable treaty. It was really something. Why not indeed kick things off with a bang? Aziraphale took up the watering can, miracled it full, and mixed in three heaping scoopfuls of HyperGro! fertilizer.
That the HyperGro! label should be crossed out and penned-over Arsenic was no doubt one of Crowley's private jokes. Oh, Aziraphale had seen him. Crowley loved to give his plants a fright.
*
"Um. Crowley?"
"Aziraphale?"
"We have a bit of a problem."
Crowley had his back to Aziraphale; he was putting on his tie. The muscles in his shoulders tightened visibly. "'We' here being the operative word, right?" he asked, far too smoothly.
"It's only that. Well." Aziraphale choked back a sob, exhausted, "Rather like pulling off a plaster, though that's so painful."
Crowley turned around, catching Aziraphale's eye -- and holding it too. "Out with it."
"Your date palm. And your peace lily. And the one begonia that's slightly lopsided, but it put up a good effort, didn't it?"
"Yes."
"Well. They've all passed on. Flown the proverbial sphere. Expired."
Crowley took a step closer. "And?" he rumbled.
"Oh, right. Also, the ficus." Aziraphale fisted his hands in his cardigan pockets. "It was only that you've been so very busy being haunted these last weeks, so Dennis and I had a word, and I thought, well, why not, taking care of plants is as easy as strudel. Only that isn't what happened. I shouldn't go into the lounge if I were you." He swallowed, "I suppose as point of reference there's some film or other where the dead. Um. Come back to life?"
Another step. Crowley was within whispering distance, and so he did: "Yes."
"Oh, good. Most dreadful rubbish. It's a good job my shop is a vegetation-free zone, eh?"
"Books are dead trees, angel."
Aziraphale blanched. "D'you suppose there's a statute of limitations on that sort of thing?"
"Well." Crowley grinned. "Only one way to find out."
-------------------------
[1] Dennis was also a Sagittarius. [back]
[2] Death had once tried to pick up bridge, but ultimately found it tiresome to keep up with Mmes. Vera and Margaret and Dolores' dissection of the latest celebrity wedding. [back]
[3] Crowley delighted in leaving things under the bed for Aziraphale to happen upon in the morning: boots, rubber snakes, lithographs of pornographic Renaissance artworks, small and expensive mechanical whatsits that failed to work whenever Crowley was shy of bloody drunk, surly traffic wardens with selective-amnesia... [back]
--------------
"A plant is like a self-willed man, out of whom we can obtain all which we desire, if we will only treat him his own way." - Goethe
Happy holidays, quantum_witch, from your Secret Writer!
Gift Recipient: quantum_witch
Author: A secret!
Characters: Aziraphale/Crowley, Death
Rating: PG
Summary: A heartwarming tale of grisly ghost plants and fearsome floral apparitions. Has Crowley finally met his match? Will Aziraphale come to the rescue? And just how difficult is it to remove dirt stains from white carpet?
Author’s Notes: For Quantum Witch, who I want to thank: I loved the prompt! Happy holidays!
At least it wasn't one of the good ones.
Not an orchid, or the jade. Not one of the many varied and otherwise rare plants Crowley kept in his immaculate lounge.
It was only the old arrowhead vine: so old that Crowley didn't know where he'd got it, or had pushed the memory (of Aziraphale, likely, fiendishly affable as he trotted the thing to the sunniest spot on the shelf) out of his mind. Crowley only kept it out of habit. And this: a certain curiosity. Surely the sorriest plant of the lot wouldn't stand a chance against Crowley's best Cagney.
But the thing was, it did.
More accurately, it thrived.
The arrowhead took every insult, each slur and slanderous evocation. When Crowley crept from the sofa and called out, "You're miserable! No better than gutter weed or-- Or whatever grows on those Alpine cliff sides. The thorny things," it was totally unfazed.
In Crowley's defense, he'd had a bit of a time with Aziraphale that night and he was still feeling tipsy. Just the same, the arrowhead -- the confounded Syngonium podophyllum, Crowley at some point bothered to look up -- sat there like a cuckoo in the warbler's nest, happy as you liked.
It remained like that for years. Nigh on a decade.
And then one day Crowley found that it wasn't really a plant anymore, but rather a dry, brown husk.
"Serves you right," he hissed, and walked the remnants back and forth before the other plants. They trembled in the bright morning sun. "D'you see what'll happen? Eh? This one couldn't cut it."
If Crowley cared enough, he could revive it. But he didn't. The plants were only for show and esteem -- totally not worth the effort of raising sentiment. Unceremoniously, he dumped the dead arrowhead in the bin, wiped out the empty pot, and assured himself he wouldn't spare a thought for it ever again.
* * *
It was called Dennis.
Or that's what it called itself, quite suddenly one afternoon -- just shy of teatime -- in December, some years ago. Maybe it was something to do with planetary alignment. 1 But sure enough, the realization popped into the place where the brain might've been, if Dennis happened to have a brain.
What Dennis did have was roots, and a base, and a stem. Also: several long, luscious leaf stalks, and twenty-seven smashingly bright leaf blades. Dennis reckoned those leaves were the best sort of color, with both classic and modern appeal, which was a quite good combination for attracting other Araceae, or perhaps even an Apocynaceae.
This was supposition. But off and on Dennis thought it might do to put an advert in a lonely hearts column:
Mature flora seeks similar. Quiet type, good listener. Housebound.
It would of course be only fitting to leave out the bits on what sort of house Dennis was bound to: largely unoccupied save for the times when Master Crowley decided it was time to pop round and play drill sergeant.
These perfect storms of, "You there. You're looking pallid today. Why don't we see if my friend Mr Shears can coax you back to health," or whatever else fell upon the huddled green masses like so much sulphur, were enough to keep Dennis tucked back, solemn and attentive, for nigh on a week. Where the begonias would resume their aimless chatter mere hours after Crowley left, and the following day the date palm griped about stifled roots, Dennis turned cheek and held firm.
And this tactic worked; really, it did.
Oh yes.
*
Oh no. And that's hardly the worst of it. Most of what comes out of that man's mouth is unrepeatable in company. Not to mention there's never enough to drink around here. Did you know that he's a serial under-waterer?
Death looked down at the plant. In fact, he didn't know.
The former plant continued, Once a week with the spray bottle is hardly enough for an equatorial specimen such as myself. And that's if he comes round once a week. It's not always the case. Mark my words, he'll have more than one life on his hands if he isn't careful.
OH, said Death.
Which would mean more work for you, the plant persisted.
WELL, said Death. YES. AND NO.
Because work was work, and Death didn't have anything better to do with his time. 2
But he said, PERHAPS YOU SHOULD HAVE EXPRESSED CONCERN EARLIER.
Before he murdered me, hmm? the plant replied pettishly. Now there's a surprise. Death, of all people, blaming the victim. D'you have a manager I might speak with?
NO.
A form, then? I'd like to issue a written complaint.
Death shook his head. Arguing with a departed soul was no way to start the day. He'd only had three cups of coffee before setting out on his rounds, and his skull was already aching with caffeine withdrawal. So he said, reasonably, I CAN OFFER YOU THE BASIC HAUNTING PACKAGE ON A ONE MONTH TRIAL BASIS.
The arrowhead shook in its celestial pot. Death wasn't sure if this was meant to show that his offer was being taken under consideration, or if the plant had eaten a bad bit of cheese that morning.
I want six months, minimum, said the plant.
YOU ARE NOT IN A POSITION TO BARGAIN--
Six months.
Death straightened up. Then he reached into his robe to retrieve a small leather folio. He pulled out a sheet of yellowing parchment.
The terms were already written.
You'll have to sign for me, the plant chortled, if it's not a bother, what with that scythe and that. I imagine you're quite a hit with the wheat population: they're reportedly so boisterous. Country folk, you know. Well?
NAME OR ALIAS.
Dennis. Second pot from the right, third shelf, lounge, Master Crowley's flat, Park Lane, Mayfair, London--
IT IS DONE.
Oh, said the plant called Dennis. (This was hardly one of the most curious things in the universe.) Then, And I suppose there's some sort of guidebook? An adviser in the field?
YOU'LL PICK IT UP AS YOU GO ALONG.
And that's it, then?
WELL. THAT DEPENDS. DO YOU PLAY CHESS?
Um.
Death grinned. It was satisfying to break out the classics now and then.
* * *
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose and slurped a mouthful of noodles from his raised chopsticks. "When you invited me over for a meal at home, I didn't expect we'd be eating out of takeaway cartons."
"You know I can't do Szechuan," Crowley drawled. "Besides, the economy being what it is, that restaurant is probably home to somebody--"
"I'm not complaining."
"Oh," said Crowley.
"But really, my dear, the lounge? Can't we sit in the dining room like civilized people? I've had this wine glass over twice already. I haven't the patience to miracle your lovely white carpet clean a third time in one night."
"Dining room's haunted," said Crowley, matter-of-factly, crunching around a snow pea.
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "What about the kitchen?"
"Kitchen too."
"You're having it redecorated, you mean."
Crowley shrugged. "No, I mean what I said. I've taken on some sort of... novice poltergeist."
"For heaven's sake, don't worry about offending my sensibilities. You know I'm not immune to the charms of newly done linoleum," said Aziraphale. Then he sniffed, seeing Crowley's poorly suppressed shudder. "Tile, then?"
But before Crowley could counter the thought, he began to gag.
All at once, he turned pale, his skin going feverish and damp, and his lips swelled up like a pair of purplish slugs. "Mmph, mmph. Mmp."
Ah. Apparently his tongue had swelled, too.
Aziraphale swung off his chair, managing to set his food carton to the end-table but knocking over his wine. He mournfully watched the rather nice Pinot noir soak into the pile. Then he regrouped enough to help Crowley unbutton his collar, and ran a hand over his brow. His fingers came back sweat-slicked. "My dear boy, what is it? Airborne? Perhaps something in the chicken? You don't suppose it's the MSG..."
"No," Crowley managed to cough. "Plant-based. Poison." He heaved out a sigh. Gradually, with great effort, his complexion returned to normal, but he was still breathing hard. "That's... the fifth time... this week."
"What?" Aziraphale balked. "You can't be serious."
"Unfortunately, yes. But on the plus side, I'm getting better at flushing it from my system. Believe me, the first wasn't pretty. Cost me a suit jacket: there's no getting sick out of wool."
"Right," Aziraphale said, shaking his head. "Let's get you to bed, there's a good fellow."
Crowley allowed himself to be dragged back to the bedroom, where he promptly fell face-down onto the mattress. It was no simple task to get his shoes off.
His trousers came easier, but that was only because Aziraphale had practice at it.
*
Aziraphale didn't sleep.
He never had, or not really. Not like Crowley, who made an art of it; reveled in it with the whole of his body; sighed and shifted and sank into Aziraphale's side like there was no place he would rather be.
And Aziraphale didn't mind it. He liked it, even. He breathed in the scent of Crowley's hair, and the musk of his skin, picking out the layers of city grime and cigarette smoke and aftershave, and beneath that, Crowley himself, sun-warmed and sweet.
These things took up the tip of Aziraphale's thoughts.
But below, like an iceberg nested in dark waters, lurked memory. Mindfulness. There was his shop, and the signed first edition of Frankenstein he'd bought at auction that he was eager to leaf through. There were the things he needed to pick up from the shops: tea and marmalade and ninety-percent cocoa almond delight truffles. There was Upstairs.
There was the apparition, hovering some feet off the ground and quite as many from Aziraphale himself -- a plant, perhaps some sort of vine, but of course Aziraphale was never much of a botanist -- translucent and shimmering intermittently in the street glare.
"Ah," said Aziraphale.
And then, low, "A word, if you will?"
*
Crowley laughed into his teacup. "You're telling me you've been talking to a dead plant? At night, when I'm asleep? There's a word for that, Aziraphale: delusional."
"Do your worst, Crowley. I don't care," said Aziraphale. He didn't look up from his crossword. His biro tip danced across the page with gentle scritch sounds. "Your novice poltergeist just happens to be a quite sensible undead arrowhead plant."
"Oh?"
"Don't 'oh' me. It used to be yours, and you killed it. Small wonder it's haunting you."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Crowley replied. "And if I did, I wouldn't care. Those plants are under my watch. They have to respect me."
"Yes? You ought to take a look in your WC. You're in for a treat."
"If it's there's load of shrimp cocktail in the tub, I'm going to be very disappointed."
Aziraphale smiled. "Only one way to find out."
"Fine," Crowley bristled. He pushed back from the table and made for the bathroom.
Five...
Four...
Three...
Two--
"Aziraphale! For someone's sake! Get in here, will you?"
"Coming, dear."
Aziraphale took his time. When he got to the bathroom door, it was to find Crowley already half-covered in dirt, his face and arms streaked, brown and dusty. The bathroom itself was so full of peat as to be completely inaccessible. It wasn't a stretch to suppose the grout would need a thorough cleaning.
"It was like that when I got here," Aziraphale chirped. "This needn't descend into all out war. You're the only one with whom Dennis takes umbrage."
Crowley formed the name on his lips. Then he stomped off in the direction of the lounge.
"Crowley? Crowley!"
*
Some nights later, Aziraphale found Dennis lurking by the stereo system. The lounge was poorly lit, but Aziraphale's vision was good, and he was no stranger to picking out things in the dark. 3
"Hello," he said. "I know we've all been rather... at odds lately. But I have a proposition. What do you say?"
Dennis said nothing.
"Yes, well. I'd like to have a personal stake in the well-being of your fellow green beings. A meaningful, caring touch." Aziraphale pressed his hands together before him, and continued in calm reassurance, "My interest in gardens goes quite far back, you see. I'll even talk to Crowley. We'll water every other day, and improve fertilizer rations by, oh, twenty-percent. And I'll make sure you get the best sunshine available." This translated to an hour or two a week, London winter weather permitting.
But Dennis' astral form shimmered appreciatively, each leaf shaking a bit.
Apparently there were unseen winds beyond the Veil.
Aziraphale smiled. "Splendid. It's settled."
This was perhaps history's first joint Angel-Vegetable treaty. It was really something. Why not indeed kick things off with a bang? Aziraphale took up the watering can, miracled it full, and mixed in three heaping scoopfuls of HyperGro! fertilizer.
That the HyperGro! label should be crossed out and penned-over Arsenic was no doubt one of Crowley's private jokes. Oh, Aziraphale had seen him. Crowley loved to give his plants a fright.
*
"Um. Crowley?"
"Aziraphale?"
"We have a bit of a problem."
Crowley had his back to Aziraphale; he was putting on his tie. The muscles in his shoulders tightened visibly. "'We' here being the operative word, right?" he asked, far too smoothly.
"It's only that. Well." Aziraphale choked back a sob, exhausted, "Rather like pulling off a plaster, though that's so painful."
Crowley turned around, catching Aziraphale's eye -- and holding it too. "Out with it."
"Your date palm. And your peace lily. And the one begonia that's slightly lopsided, but it put up a good effort, didn't it?"
"Yes."
"Well. They've all passed on. Flown the proverbial sphere. Expired."
Crowley took a step closer. "And?" he rumbled.
"Oh, right. Also, the ficus." Aziraphale fisted his hands in his cardigan pockets. "It was only that you've been so very busy being haunted these last weeks, so Dennis and I had a word, and I thought, well, why not, taking care of plants is as easy as strudel. Only that isn't what happened. I shouldn't go into the lounge if I were you." He swallowed, "I suppose as point of reference there's some film or other where the dead. Um. Come back to life?"
Another step. Crowley was within whispering distance, and so he did: "Yes."
"Oh, good. Most dreadful rubbish. It's a good job my shop is a vegetation-free zone, eh?"
"Books are dead trees, angel."
Aziraphale blanched. "D'you suppose there's a statute of limitations on that sort of thing?"
"Well." Crowley grinned. "Only one way to find out."
-------------------------
[1] Dennis was also a Sagittarius. [back]
[2] Death had once tried to pick up bridge, but ultimately found it tiresome to keep up with Mmes. Vera and Margaret and Dolores' dissection of the latest celebrity wedding. [back]
[3] Crowley delighted in leaving things under the bed for Aziraphale to happen upon in the morning: boots, rubber snakes, lithographs of pornographic Renaissance artworks, small and expensive mechanical whatsits that failed to work whenever Crowley was shy of bloody drunk, surly traffic wardens with selective-amnesia... [back]
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"A plant is like a self-willed man, out of whom we can obtain all which we desire, if we will only treat him his own way." - Goethe
Happy holidays, quantum_witch, from your Secret Writer!