Chapter Text
“I hate it here so I will go to secret gardens in my mind”
- Taylor Swift, I Hate It Here
...
Early June, 2023
He is lost.
Not in the geographical sense, of course. Crowley has known London since it was a poxy riverside settlement* inhabited by peasants with poor hygiene† and he knows its streets like the back of his hand. He’s checked in on its progress over the centuries (in much the same way that a curious child might observe a science project) before eventually making it his home. That and the fact that he’s a demon, blessed (or should that be cursed?) with occult powers that have bestowed upon him a wickedly accurate internal GPS. He’s like a large homing pigeon with designer sunglasses and a scowl.
Yet he is unmoored. Drifting.
It’s been three weeks and three days since Aziraphale left. Three weeks and three days since he took a metaphorical dagger to his own chest, cracked opened his rib cage and offered his wildly beating heart to his angel, only to be swiftly and utterly rejected.
He’d spent the first fortnight slumped in the backseat of the Bentley in a lay-by just off the M25 somewhere in Kent, pissed out of his skull on Châteauneuf-du-Pape and subjecting the assembled houseplants to either sobbing or swearing in equal measure‡. On the fifteenth day, having awoken to find the Monstera Deliciosa turning a worrying shade of brown, he begrudgingly miracled himself sober and drove to the nearest garden centre to buy a mister.
It was the styrofoam cup of black sludge masquerading as coffee, purchased from the greasy food truck in the garden centre car park, that made him realise he needed to get back to London, if only for the quality of the caffeinated beverages. After a brief pause to give the plants a much needed water and a half-hearted talking to he fired up the Bentley and gunned the engine back to London, parking up near his former residence in Mayfair.
...
* Some critics might argue that this description could still be applied to modern-day London.
† See above note.
‡ Despite Crowley’s previous behaviour the Monstera Deliciosa is actually very sympathetic. The Calathea Lancifolia thinks that Crowley should sober up and sort himself out.
He’s taken to spending his days walking the streets of London, wandering aimlessly while subconsciously avoiding places that remind him of happier times. He walks until his legs start to ache, at which point he limps back to the Bentley, collapsing on the backseat and allowing sleep to drag him into oblivion, before starting afresh in the morning.
On this particular Monday, the sharp blast of a car horn jolts him from his zombie-like shuffle and momentarily lifts the fog from his mind. It’s with a sudden start that he realises that his feet have brought him to Soho, to Whickber Street, and he is standing across from the burgundy door of A.Z. Fell And Co.
Panic immediately sets in. His next inhale catches in his throat and his lungs feel utterly devoid of oxygen. His limbs are simultaneously too light and heavy as lead. The periphery of his vision starts to blur and he hears a tinny ringing in his ears. Leaning against the nearest wall he tries to regain control of his treacherous nervous system, eyes screwed shut, sucking in shaky, heaving breaths.
"C’mon, just breathe. That’s what humans do.”
He’s willing himself to concentrate on the rough texture of the red brick against his palms when a nearby door opens and a new, comforting scent cuts through the heavy London air.
When he’s confident that he can walk without risk of face-planting on the pavement it only takes him a few minutes to locate the new shop. A florist stands a few doors down from the bookshop, its facade painted a deep charcoal grey. Luscious greenery and tasteful floral arrangements make up the artistic window display. The name ‘Asphodel’ is written above the door in a modern, minimalist font.
The melodic tinkling of a bell announces his arrival as he steps over the threshold and is immediately enveloped in a blanket of fragrant, humid air. The bijou shop is full to the brim with beautifully maintained plants. He can hear music playing from a back room, a woman from a 90s band singing about how she’s only happy when it rains.
“Pour your misery down on me...§”
Crowley pauses to admire a vivid African violet, running a careful finger over a velvety petal.
“Hi there. Is there anything I can help you with?”
A woman leans against the shop counter, gardening shears in hand, an oversized apron covering a dark grey t-shirt and faded black jeans. Her face is fresh and youthful but her dark hair, cut in a razor-sharp bob straight from the 1920s, is streaked with silver, making it difficult to guess her age. Her bright hazel eyes are fixed on him, appraising.
Crowley bites back a bitter laugh.
“No.” Realising he’s being rude and strangely finding in him to care, he adds, “Just browsing.”
The woman grins at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly.
“Not to worry, I’ll be over here if you need anything.”
Crowley had once ventured into the Lush shop in Covent Garden - he’d had a hand in inventing those infernal bath bombs that have you finding glitter everywhere for weeks and he wanted to admire his work. He only lasted a few minutes before having to escape, finding himself unable to shake off the aggressively perky sales assistants who were extremely determined to revolutionise his skincare routine (he’d actually wondered whether one of his colleagues had been involved in the company’s training programme). He’s relieved when the florist doesn’t press further and goes back to her work, a simple but stunning arrangement of puffy peonies in vibrant hues of bold scarlet, rich fuchsia and hot magenta. He loses track of time, admiring the verdant treasures on display, before picking up the African violet and walking to the counter.
“Didn’t recognise the shop.”
“Oh!” the woman responds, looking up from the bouquet and moving towards the till. “I’ve only been open for a couple of weeks. Everyone has been so welcoming. Do you live around here?”
“No, um, my...” Crowley’s mouth is bone dry. “My friend does. Did. Owns the bookshop.” He nods his head in vaguely the right direction.
“In that case I should introduce myself.” She retrieves a business card from a pile stacked neatly on the counter, sliding it towards him over the warm wooden surface. “I’m Annabel.”
Crowley hesitates. It doesn’t feel right to give her his real name. It’s too familiar, too intimate.
“Name’s Anthony.”
Annabel tilts her head, considering.
“Anthony, like the patron saint of lost things. Well, I’m happy you found your way here.”
It’s nearly been a month since Crowley has interacted with anything that didn’t photosynthesise. He feels a sudden urge to get out of this shop and back to his own (miserable) company. Pulling his wallet from his back pocket he fishes out his sleek black credit card, but Annabel waves it away.
“This first one is on me, think of it like a reverse housewarming gift. Hopefully I’ll see you again soon?”
Crowley shrugs.
“Ngk. Yeah, maybe. Thank you.”
The smile that lights up Annabel’s face is momentarily blinding.
"You’re very welcome. Have a good evening.”
Exiting the shop, Crowley is surprised to find that the sun has started to set, the sky above him a wash of orange, peach and candy floss pink. He inspects the card that’s still in his hand. The card stock is heavy, the same charcoal grey as the shopfront. On one side the name Asphodel is embossed in a chalky white. The other side gives the owner’s name, Annabel Mortimer, along with a link to an Instagram account. Crowley slips the card into his jacket pocket and starts walking towards Mayfair.
...
§ Garbage, I’m Only Happy When It Rains