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Would've been if I'd known it was from you.

[And not like, potentially a random crazy person who was sending him very specific gifts.

For all that Jon looks surly, Crowley is just amused. He lets out a little huff of a laugh, tipping his head as he regards Jon.]

Want to come in for a cuppa?

You weren't meant to know. [It's grumbled as he continues to look away from the demon. But he's hard-pressed to turn down tea most of the time.]

Fine. One cup. [As if he's the one being put out here. Jon turns to bend down and pick up the package, cheeks coloring with embarrassment again.] You might as well just take this now.

Thank you for the present, Jonathan.

[Crowley is trying very hard not to laugh as he takes the package, holding it against his chest as if he's very touched by the gesture.

It's at this point he realizes he's still wearing his pyjamas.]

Oh — that's embarrassing. One sec. [A little flick of his fingers and he's dressed properly, an apparently necessary step before he opens the door of his flat to head inside, leaving it open for Jon to follow.] I've got assam, earl grey, darjeeling, or gyokuro. Pick your poison.

[Crowley doesn't actually like earl grey, but it's Aziraphale's favourite, so he's bought some just in case the angel ever shows up.]

Darjeeling. And would you just- [He's more than a little flustered as he steps into Crowley's abode.] The only people who call me Jonathan are my grandmother and my ex-boss. Could you not?

[Very little has changed in the apartment since Jon was last in it, aside from the addition of a rather fancy glass set up for the four colourful mice.]

Sure. [It might seem like that's a bit too easy, but if anyone's going to get the name thing, it's Crowley.] What would you prefer?

Just Jon. Or Archivist. That's what most people at home call me when they don't work at the Institute. [Muttered:] And what LIEs seems to prefer.

[He goes over to investigate the set-up.]

You, er... you didn't eat the mice?

[A couple of weeks ago, he might have baulked slightly at Jon, it would've felt a bit too familiar. But Crowley's opinion of the man has shifted enough that he's willing to give it a go.]

Not much for eating, really, in either shape. [Crowley keeps talking as he wanders over to the kitchen, setting the kettle to boil, his voice carrying easily through the apartment.] They've been useful, though, turns out the plants are a bit scared of them, mice make a mess of their roots if they get digging in there, so they're a good threat.

[It's been long enough that his plants have learned Fear.]

Oh. Er... okay. Sorry. [Well, that's a bit awkward.] Wait. The plants are scared?

[He looks to the nearest potted plant in confusion.] Are they alive here?

S'alright, you weren't to know.

[Isn't that an inherent risk of gift giving? And it's not as if he's particularly bothered by the new additions to his life, there's some novelty in having pets.]

All plants are alive. [Like... this is an obvious fact, Jon. Maybe more obvious by the fact the plant seems to almost straighten up under the sudden scrutiny.] If you've only ever had dead plants, you're not a very good gardener.

That's not- [Jon huffs.] I mean... thinking. Plants don't have emotions.

[There's an idle hum and the click of a kettle, Crowley falling quiet for a moment as he pours the tea.]

You're supposed to talk to them, though, must be part of them that's able to understand. [He skipped the biology lectures in Heaven.] D'you take milk or sugar?

[Jon is doubtful. Maybe Crowley's particular plants are sentient due to... demonic energy, or something. For the briefest moment, Jon wonders if he could take a Statement from a plant. No. No, that would be ridiculous.] Both, please. Is there a reason you want your plants to be afraid?

[Rather than make an executive decision about how Jon takes his tea, Crowley brings out a tray with the filled pot, a mug, tea and sugar, and sets it all down on the coffee table for Jon to do with as he will.

There's a mug for himself, but it's full of coffee.]

Makes 'em grow better. [The real answer, if he was better at self reflection, would be that he's reframing the trauma of being cast out of Heaven, but that's neither here nor there.] It's a waste of time to coddle them, I've got to make sure they know what the consequences are if they let me down.

[Cue a pointed glance at some of the plants, who all shudder and do their best to look more lush and verdant.]

[This is... This is patently ridiculous. Jon can see the plants shaking. He flavors the tea to his liking and continues to eye Crowley dubiously as he takes a sip. This, as least is familiar and perfectly fine.]

What exactly do you do to them if they let you down? Toss them in a woodchopper, or something? [He thinks he's being facetious.]

[Crowley, on the other hand, is 100% sincere when he answers:]

Garbage disposal for the smaller ones, anything too large for that, well...

[Fire isn't his preferred magic, but Crowley gestures with his left hand, setting the tips of his fingers alight for a moment before another gesture puts out the fire.]

They've learned not to disappoint me.

[...]

Right.

[What do you honestly even say to that?]

Can they, er... can they speak at all? [Maybe a Statement isn't so farfetched an idea?] I mean, obviously they don't have mouths. But... I don't know. Telepathy? [It sounds so stupid as soon as he says it that Jon has to resist the urge to grimace at himself.]

Edited 2019-11-15 14:41 (UTC)

[Now it's Crowley's turn to make a face, as if Jon is the ridiculous one here.]

Maybe if you speak plant, but I didn't think anything on Earth had telepathy figured out. Or maybe they have. Can't say I paid much attention when they gave us the overview of that part of creation, I was, you know, busy.

[With the stars, which is... weird, that Jon knows this fact about him.]

[Jon scoffs and takes a sip of his tea, muttering:] Yes, well. Thank you for the stars, they're lovely. Even if you weren't bothering to pay attention to anything else.

[He goes still, brows furrowing.] We've... we've talked about that, right? What you did as an angel. [The Archivist can't remember the conversation, and that typically bodes ill.]

How was I supposed to know it'd end up being important?

[Back then, Crowley had thought Earth was just some little pet project of the Almighty, that it would end up the equivalent of a kid who plays with a new toy for a few days before getting bored. He might've paid more attention, had he known he'd end up there for six thousand years.

But also, probably not. He wasn't a very good angel.]

Mm, you mentioned it. [Crowley wasn't really in the mood to hear it at the time, but — it is what it is. And there is a little part of him that doesn't hate having someone that knows.] Shame I got that witch's bloody prophecy book instead of any of my astronomy books, could've pointed out some of my work.

[Okay, forget the stars.]

You have a prophecy book? Can I see it? What's it prophesizing?

Four hundred years of human history, give or take. Should've known that'd spark your interest, I'll go get it.

[It lives on the bookshelf in his bedroom, so it's only a quick trip up the flight of stairs that lead up to the mezzanine level, before he's returning with the leather bound book.

It's lightly burned, the same state it was in when Crowley rescued it from the burning bookshop, which explains the wariness in his expression as he hands it over.]

Be careful with it, that's the only thing I've got from home.

[From Aziraphale is what he means, but he's not saying that out loud.]

Your sunglasses are from home. [Just pointing it out. But Jon sets down the tea and takes the book with something akin to reverence. Books are some of the most notable objects the Institute collects, after all. He'll find the nearest place to sit down and carefully examine the cover before opening it up, fingers tracing the binding.]

Are there any effects from reading it?

They're not real.

[It's different, the things that he creates out of firmament compared to something made the hard way. Crowley's glasses are all indistinguishable from each other, he has a half dozen pairs scattered around the flat, all of them drawn into existence from the ether.

His phone is from home, he supposes, and it was made properly, but that's not the point.]

Nah, there's nothing magic about the book, s'just words on paper now. All the magic was in the witch and she's long dead, I'd think, being from the sixteen hundreds as she was.

[Jon's all but giddy at that. He nods, moving to open the book to a random page.]

'When Orient's chariot inverted be , four wheles in the sky, a man with bruises be upon Youre Bedde, achinge his Hedde for willow fine, a manne who testeth with a pyn yette his hart be clene, yette seed of myne own undoing, take the means of flame from himme for to mayk ryght certain, together ye sharle be, untyl the Ende that is to come.'

[Jon squints at the page.] The means of flame. Is it... some sort of willow tree arsonist? [Understanding cryptic prophecies isn't one of Jon's secret skills, unfortunately. Not without a little assistance from the Watcher.]

[Crowley's had a chance to properly read through the book without Hastur or the apocalypse interrupting in the past few weeks, and he's spent some of that time deciphering them just for the fun of it. Some of the prophecies are obvious, he picked out the ones that he was mentioned in quickly enough, and ones about the general state of the world were easy enough. The more specific ones are trickier.]

Willow bark's an analgesic, good for headaches before humans figured out aspirin. And the woman who owned the book last, she was at the airbase during the whole Armageddon business, had some lad with her wearing a witch hunter coat, that'd explain the pin and the flames.

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