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“Yeah, I just don’t have space for it, really,” Crowley said in a way that he probably thought was convincing. “Doesn’t need a ton of sun, and it’s pretty dark in here, so I thought it could just sit in the back room-”
Crowley had appeared at Aziraphale’s door that day carrying a plant in a white pot, and for about three minutes had been making excuses for why he couldn’t keep it in his dreary flat. Aziraphale huffed in a way that was probably also not convincing and glanced at their pocket watch again. Four minutes, now. It should have been more annoying than endearing, but. Well.
“Crowley, I’ve already told you that’s fine,” the angel repeated. To better make their point, they turned away and walked deeper into the shop, prompting Crowley to follow. “Put it wherever you think is best.”
“I’ll come by to take care of it, of course,” Crowley continued as he placed the plant carefully on a small table by Aziraphale’s desk – more accurately, atop the dozen-odd books that were already there. It was almost like he’d already known exactly where he wanted to put it. “That should do.”
“I won’t have you misting it, my dear. The moisture would da-“
“Damage your books, duh,” Crowley filled in, folding himself onto the sofa. “Don’t worry, I won’t. So long as you don’t go talking too sweet to it.”
“We’ll see.” Aziraphale had been planning to spend the afternoon reorganizing their memoirs, but, without complaint, they sat in their chair across from Crowley instead and asked, “So, what kind of plant is it?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m afraid botany has rather slipped me by over the millennia,” Aziraphale lamented. “I’m sure I’ve got a lovely little medicinal plant compendium from the 1500s somewhere in here, but…”
Crowley shrugged awkwardly. “Maranta leuconeura. ‘S a, well, prayer plant.”
Aziraphale raised their eyebrows. “You bought a prayer plant.”
He shrugged again.
“And is there a reason you bought a white pot for it?”
Crowley made a few sounds that contained no vowels. “’S just how it came. Hey, what’d’you say to a play on Friday? Think they’re doing one of Shakespeare’s Henry ones.”
After Crowley left some hours later, Aziraphale studied the plant again. It didn’t tremble the way Crowley’s plants usually did, and above the striped oval leaves, two small, white flowers budded. Crowley never kept flowers. And what Aziraphale had learned, over six thousand years, was that there was always a secondary meaning.
They got up and searched the shop for their book on plant symbolism. They knew they’d gotten one sometime in the 60s – the 1860s, that is.
“Oh my,” Aziraphale breathed when they read the entry. The prayer plant was symbolic of devotion and gratitude. Smiling privately, Aziraphale looked to the little plant where it contentedly drank up its sunbeam. Aziraphale closed the book and stroked a finger down one of the banded leaves.
“Dear old thing,” they murmured. “How lucky we are to have him.”
