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“What’s this?” Crowley demands, stopping mid-pace in front of the shop window.
Aziraphale grimaces-– he should have known Crowley would notice the poor little plant. “It’s a type of violet,” he hedges.
“I know what an African violet is, thank you,” Crowley says, rolling his eyes. “I meant, what’s it doing sitting in your window looking pathetic?”
“I won’t have you shouting at it, the poor thing has enough troubles,” Aziraphale says, and then adds defensively, “But it’s getting better!”
Crowley looks at the plant skeptically. “How long has it been in this window?”
“Oh-– since Tuesday? I had it in the kitchen, but it was looking a little peaky, I thought more sunlight would do it some good.”
“And it’s getting better, is it?”
“Well,” Aziraphale says wretchedly, “it–- no. The leaves keep curling up. And it’s getting little spots, look.”
Crowley does look, and sighs heavily. “Angel,” he says, “of all the plants you could have tried keeping, why did you start with something this fussy?”
“It looked so sweet! And the leaves are so velvety-– what do you mean, ‘something this fussy’? Crowley, they wouldn’t sell them at the supermarket if they were so difficult to take care of, it would be cruel.”
“To the plant, or to your tender feelings?” Crowley says, and then, before Aziraphale can protest that of course he mostly means to the plant, “Never mind. Look, if you want a houseplant I’ll bring you something a bit more... your speed, all right? But I’m taking this.”
“Taking it where?”
“To give it a decent burial,” says Crowley, and sweeps out of the shop with the flowerpot cradled to his chest.
He comes back three days later with a larger pot, a bright leafy vine spilling from it. “Here,” he says, brandishing the pot at Aziraphale. “It’s unkillable.”
“You mean you’ve done something to it,” Aziraphale accuses, inspecting the plant. It doesn’t seem obviously miracled, but...
“No,” Crowley says in a tone of enormous patience, “I mean it’s a philodendron. Thrives on any sort of treatment. You could keep it alive in a winebottle in your dreary little kitchen for years, if you wanted.”
Aziraphale frowns and pats one of the heart-shaped leaves. “That’s no life for a plant.”
“I’m not recommending it, angel, I’m just making a point. Here.” He sets the flowerpot down in the window, in the spot left vacant by the departed African violet. “Water it when you notice it’s dry. That’s absolutely all you have to do. Perfect for the absent-minded bookseller.”
“I am not absent-minded,” Aziraphale protests.
“There are three half-full mugs of cocoa abandoned on your desk at this very moment,” Crowley points out.
“I just get very absorbed in my reading.”
“Right,” Crowley says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “My mistake. Anyway. Lunch?”
The plant settles in nicely. Aziraphale does forget about it pretty frequently, and then waters it while frantically apologizing when he remembers, but fortunately Crowley seems to have been right-– it thrives anyway.
He’s forgotten about it for a little over a week, and is guiltily rushing to water it before Crowley arrives for dinner, when he notices the glint of gold in the pot.
There’s a little stamped-metal cutout, shaped like a rosette prize ribbon, tied around one of the plant’s thicker stems. When he bends closer, he discovers it’s stamped still alive!, exclamation mark and all.
When Crowley turns up, Aziraphale is waiting at the door, arms folded across his chest.
“You are patronizing me,” he says, before Crowley can derail him with a cheerful where to, then, angel?
“Uh,” Crowley says. “Am I?”
Aziraphale presents the little brass rosette.
Crowley looks at it closely, and then back up at Aziraphale. Aziraphale can see him thinking, and says flatly, “If you say ‘I’ve never seen that before in my life,’ you’re banned from the shop.”
“It’s a compliment,” Crowley protests instead. “I am sincerely complimenting you. Look how much the thing’s grown! What’s the longest you’ve ever kept a plant alive, before this?”
“I spent eleven years working as–-”
“That was all miracles and you know it.”
Aziraphale deflates a little. “Well, yes,” he admits. “But I still wish you wouldn’t make fun.”
Crowley rolls his eyes and scoffs, but his tone is fond when he says, “Oh, all right.”
“I did feel terrible about what I did to that poor African violet, you know.”
“I know, angel,” Crowley says, and absolutely does not mention the matching encouraging new leaf! rosette hanging on the African violet’s pot back in his flat, far enough away from the other plants that none of them will hear the embarrassingly gentle way he talks to it.