edgy-fluffball asked:
lineffability answered:
“This is… where you live?”
Aziraphale stood in the doorway with absolute horror in his eyes, a kind of horror that not even the reign of terror had been able to produce, perhaps because back then the promise of crêpes had cancelled out most of his brain functions. Reluctantly, he took a small step into the flat. Or warehouse. Bunker. Whatever this was.
“Nope! Never seen this place before, actually. Just broke in for the fun of it; who needs permanent housing anyway? Where’s the fun in that?” When the expression of horror on the angel’s face only deepened, Crowley rolled his eyes behind his dark glasses. “Yes, angel, I live here.”
“But… it’s dreadful!” Aziraphale cried, genuinely scandalized.
Crowley grinned. “Why, thank you.”
“That’s, that’s not–oh, Crowley.” He sighed.
Crowley snaked out of Aziraphale’s way as the angel cautiously foraged into the flat, as if treading on unholy ground. In a way he supposed he was, though the aesthetics of the place evoked not Hell, but another unearthly place, one he was all too familiar with. One he had tried very much to shut out of his own living space.
The style, he believed, was called ‘minimalistic’: minimal decoration, minimal furniture, minimal love. Lots of empty space.
As Aziraphale walked along a narrow, grey corridor, he peeked through a half-open door to his right and caught a glimpse of green: a little houseplant, sitting forlornly on a table. He furrowed his brows, but walked on.
chequerootlurks
