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Slowly but surely, Crowley began to regret this decision. Sure, when he was reeling from all the saving the world and (perhaps more important) saving Aziraphale business, it had seemed like a good idea. His apartment was somewhere he could keep an eye on Aziraphale; somewhere he couldn’t run off to find trouble from above or below or any direction, really. The loss of the car had Crowley out of his mind as well. He spent many days moping hopelessly about it, curled up on one corner of the (previously primarily decorative) couch in his living room. Aziraphale gave him his space, occasionally tucking Crowley in when he thought he was sleeping. Other than the infrequent hair petting (and one brief, dizzying, extremely confusing forehead kiss), Aziraphale let Crowley mourn, busying himself with other things.
Here was the thing about Aziraphale: there wasn’t just one. Aziraphale was very particular, and fussy, and impulsive, and a whole host of other things that Crowley had certainly known but had not considered before he offered a place to stay. Aziraphale was very, very bothered by Crowley’s lack of… well, anything. As if he hadn’t already been an impulsive buyer, this desire, this necessity to fill up empty space seemed to occupy the angel relentlessly. First, it was the throw pillows, then the carpet, then the armchair, then the red wingback chairs for the patio. Nothing too drastic. Crowley could… compromise. As he spent less time curled up on the couch and more time cleaning and watering, he began to notice the changes Aziraphale had implemented in his wake. It was all… fine. Bearable.
Then came the sunflowers, very out of place in a pale blue vase among the deep green ferns and philodendrons. Crowley, who had been doing a routine watering, glowered at the bright yellow flowers, mister nearly falling out of his disbelieving hand. He stormed into the living room, starting to kick up a huge fuss, but stopped dead when he was met with Aziraphale standing awkwardly in the corner of the room, running his thumb anxiously along the life line of his palm.
“What in the fuck do you think you’re doing, bringing flowers into my house? You know, just because we’re not on a side anymore doesn’t mean–” Crowley sputtered, gesturing emphatically at himself. “Look at me! Do I look like I own sunflowers? Look at this house! Do sunflowers belong–” Crowley trailed off a bit, looking at his surroundings.
They say if you boil a frog very gradually in water, it won’t notice until it has been completely cooked through. So there Crowley stood, balking at the results of the appeasement strategy he’d taken with Aziraphale’s endless requests. His black snakeskin boots stood stark against the soft yellow carpet, as did the bright blue embroidered throw pillows against the sleek black couch. The personal sketch of the Mona Lisa stood with much less emphasis along the Monets and Boteros that Aziraphale had slowly begun to include. The chilly LED bulbs had been replaced by warm, cozy Edisons in nearly every socket, his sunglasses slept in a Grecian citrus-painted ceramic dish, and vivid, ripe fruits sat in a bowl on his kitchen counter. Aziraphale was pretending to try to enjoy it less.
“I think the sunflowers really tie it all together.” He smiled, with that infuriating “I win” grin.
Crowley sputtered and gestured at Aziraphale’s whole smug being. “You…are a vicious conquistador! This is my flat, angel! I am letting you stay here!”
“Vicious conquistador?” Aziraphale laughed. “Crowley, they’re sunflowers.”
“Sunflowers!” Crowley scoffed. “And pottery and string lights and Claude Monet! I have an image to maintain!”
“For whom?” Aziraphale shook his head through his smile, raising his eyebrows. “Are we having guests over?”
Crowley threw his arms up in the air. “My flat! Unbelievable, angel! I thought it was understood that you are staying here temporarily.”
“Well, obviously.” Aziraphale shrugged, sitting on the armchair of the couch. “Nothing lasts forever. But you’ve been so happy, I figure it wouldn’t hurt to get a little bit comfortable.”
“I have not been happy.”
“You haven’t done your ‘big-man-bullying-the-poor-houseplants’ act in a few weeks. You’ve been so nice.”
“I–what? I am not nice! I’ll put the sunflowers right down the garbage disposal. And if any of mine had spots, they’d be right down there with them–”
“But none of them do.” Aziraphale gestured at the plants, lusher than ever and stretching their vast, verdant leaves in every direction. Crowley gawked and waved them off with a dismissive hand.
“They’re plants.” Crowley pshaw-ed, turning back around with a petulant arms-crossing.
“And they bloom so nicely when you’re kind to them. Much like you.”
“Much like me?” Crowley blinked, then forced his eyes shut and shook his head. “No, actually, don’t tell me. I’m not doing this with you.”
Aziraphale raised his chin smugly. “You soften so beautifully when you’re well taken care of. You’re almost behaving like a well-adjusted adult.”
“Fuck. You. Sunflowers. Garbage disposal. Or I’ll do it.” Crowley pointed the mister at them threateningly, like it was actually lethal.
Aziraphale sighed wistfully. “Fine. I’ll put them outside. They were really just to soften the blow, anyhow.”
“What blow?” Crowley squinted, already on the verge of a biblical meltdown. Aziraphale did a little twirling gesture with his finger and Crowley whipped around to see that against the back wall of the living room was a bookshelf, positively stuffed with books.
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Aziraphale had just barely managed to calm Crowley down from the literal lightning storm he’d caused when he stormed (ha) out of the flat and into the street. Crowley sat in his newly-added (and admittedly very comfortable) armchair with a cup of tea, in dry clothes, scowling at Aziraphale across the room. “I have Never owned books, angel.”
“And that’s such a shame.” Aziraphale cooed. “They’re lovely.”
“I have been alive longer than books, angel, and I have never owned one. Not. One.” Crowley spat through his teeth.
“You had the one of all the stars when–”
Crowley held up a hand and waited until Aziraphale stopped before twisting it into a middle finger and thus making him sigh. “Well. There really is no need for that.”
They sat in silence for a little while, fireplace crackling. Crowley didn’t take his glare off Aziraphale for one second. Crowley was determined to discuss further about it, aka “lose”. After many minutes, though, he found that he did, in fact, want to talk about it.
“I don’t know how to read.”
Aziraphale inconspicuously choked on his tea, clearing his throat and looking up. “What?”
“I said I don’t know how to read.” Crowley mumbled, only slightly louder. He balked at Aziraphale’s tiny laugh. “What?”
“That cannot be true. You wrote a book, a several million page long book–”
“Yes, well, that was six thousand blasted years ago, wasn’t it?” Crowley huffed.
“I’ve seen you read! Street signs and–and menus and–”
“Those have pictures on them!”
Aziraphale chuckled, more shocked than anything. “You slept in my bookshop for months at a time. You spent months there. You alphabetized things!”
“Yes, well, letters aren’t hard, and it’s not like you were very strict about them being findable–”
Aziraphale paused with a breath, melting to look at Crowley with big, sad eyes, so heartbroken, spine softening. “You… you’re being serious?”
Crowley wrinkled up his nose. “Stop that. Whatever you’re doing. Or… planning. Stop.”
Aziraphale turned slowly to the bookshelf, dragging his finger across the mountain range of varying book sizes. He eventually selected a battered, jade copy of The Hobbit and beckoned Crowley to come share the loveseat. Crowley was so beside himself with shock at Aziraphale’s audacity that he couldn’t do much but blink for a little while.
“What?” He blurted eventually when Aziraphale raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“Come sit. I’m going to teach you.”
Crowley chuckled, appalled. “You’re not going to teach me shit.”
Aziraphale sighed and stood. “You can’t not know how to read, Crowley. It’s vitally important!”
“I’ve gone just fine without it! And I can basically read, anyway. Simple words. Words that matter.”
Aziraphale groaned. “Do you want me to come sit over there?”
“No! No books. No books, no shelves, and certainly no sunflowers. You’re turning this flat into a grandma cottage, and I will not stand for it.” Crowley said, standing up to gesture madly before slumping down on the couch. “You’re turning me boring.”
Aziraphale moved and slumped next to him, book in hand. He opened it up to the first page and pointed at the first word. Crowley made a big deal of rolling his eyes and thrashing and sighing before huffing “In.”
Aziraphale beamed. “Very good.”
They slowly worked their way through the first paragraph, with Crowley kicking up a fuss and acting as though every word tasted like soap in his mouth. He only really complained when he needed correction, or when Aziraphale interrupted his stammering.
“Mee…miuh…meed…” Crowley furrowed his face and squinted.
“Meadows.” Aziraphale cooed.
“Shut up, I was getting there.”
“Don’t let me interrupt. You’re doing well. Carry on.” Aziraphale was smiling broadly and it made Crowley throw his head back in a big dramatic sigh.
Crowley continued, stammering through the second paragraph, then the first page, then the second. By the time Aziraphale could flip the page, it had been nearly twenty minutes, but Crowley had cuddled up to him properly (to “see the pages”, of course) and he was earnestly attempting. By the end of the tenth page, Crowley was wholly focused, with his head tucked into Aziraphale’s shoulder, an arm around him, and tracing the words on the page with a finger. The fire crackled softly as Aziraphale tentatively dimmed the large overhead lights with a miracle, ensuring Crowley was still focused before miracling a soft blanket, too.
Soft blankets and soft lighting had never really been Crowley’s thing, but it was all so warm, and Aziraphale had a smile seemingly tattooed. Crowley felt like a reptile laying on a rock in the sun, and reading was light enough to struggle through while also noticing every soft shock of fire fizzling up his spine. Aziraphale was warm and soft and tempting, and, just like a frog in hot water, Crowley didn’t notice how comfortable he’d gotten until chapter one had been read through and they both paused. Crowley looked at Aziraphale. Aziraphale looked at Crowley. Crowley looked up, down, and by the time he looked back up, Aziraphale had done the 6000-year-postponed chore of leaning in, just to push their noses together, eyes shut peacefully. For 15 lulling, dragging, horrifying seconds, Aziraphale kept their noses pressed tight, before pulling back abruptly with a sigh and turning the page, leaving Crowley blasting his eyes open and gawking.
“What?” He gawped. “Oh, Hell’s sake, angel, no way you think you’re getting away with that, now.”
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