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[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.

... Right.

[If you say so, Crowley. Jon will skim through the rest of the book quietly unless the demon prompts him. He does bring out his recorder and start muttering some of the more interesting prophecies into it, especially the ones he thinks he can decipher. He's very intent and focused.]

Could be something about Apple computers. Fascinating that a woman from the 1600s could have predicted that tech boom.

[Crowley, used to Aziraphale disappearing into books quite often, is more than happy to drink his coffee and mess around on his phone while he waits for Jon to do some reading. An alternative would be to let Jon take the book to read at his own pace, but — he'd rather keep an eye on it, honestly.

He does feel the need to pipe up when he hears Jon mention Apple.]

She called it on betamax tapes, too, I'd heard that one earlier. It was good luck, too, ended up investing a bit in VHS when that whole thing kicked off, made a lot of money in the seventies.

[Aziraphale had mentioned the prophecy in the 40s, after Crowley rescued him from the Nazis.]

Betamax...?

[Jon was born in 1987, and Martin is the one into retro technology. Although, Jon is the one holding an analog cassette recorder up to his mouth and chattering away into it. VHS sort of clarifies.]

Oh. That's what they had before... right. Where did her prophecies come from? God?

Not a clue, never met the woman before, I tried to steer clear of all that witch hunting business.

[Oh, sure, he had Shadwell and his people on the back burner if he ever needed them, but that was well into the 60s, when no one was actually burning women alive anymore. At least not in England.]

You'd have to ask God, and She doesn't take calls.

Well, it clearly wasn't from the devil. Are there any other godlike powers in your world?

Christ, the Antichrist, but neither of those are going around giving out prophecies.

[What is Jesus up to these days? Crowley should ask Aziraphale.]

In all honesty, I'm not even sure God does have that much precise knowledge.

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