Everything is Tickety-Boo (Mostly)

Infernal

Aziraphale had watched his body retreat with an acute feeling of anxiety bubbling in Crowley's chest. He was so worried that things wouldn't go to plan, but he wouldn't voice that aloud to Crowley, as he didn't know how the demon would take it.

He refocused on the present as he ascended the stairwell to Crowley's flat. He glanced at the key in Crowley's hand and searched for the corresponding number beside flat doors. Soon, he found Crowley's flat, and he let himself in. He fumbled with the lock before he was able to get the door open. Of course, Crowley probably just miracled the door open every time he came in, but Aziraphale liked to do things the right way if he could, hence the lock fumbling.

Aziraphale closed and locked the door behind him before he turned and looked at the demon's flat.

"It's so dark," Crowley's voice breathed. There was an echo, Aziraphale noted. He wondered how he was going to find a light switch, when he suddenly remembered the presence of the sunglasses, and he hastily took them off and stuck them in a jacket pocket. There, that was better. It was at least bright enough to see his surroundings.

Aziraphale took in the room he was in. The walls were a slate gray, so were the floors... it was a little more than underwhelming, while it was also depressingly devoid of Crowley's personality. Aziraphale felt a pang of claustrophobia due to the dark walls and floors giving the rooms a smaller appearance, and he made his way from the foyer to the room just past the entryway. Same story, same appearance.

Aziraphale searched for something to break the sameness, and Crowley's eyes landed on a room filled with vibrant green plants.

Right, Aziraphale thought, plodding over and entering the plant room, Crowley has plants. He told me to water them.

The plants were beautiful and luxurious, maybe the most beautiful in all of London. Aziraphale miracled a watering can when he couldn't locate one out and ready, and he began with watering one of the plants nearest to him, doing his best to distract himself from the situation.

Recalling that Crowley had once mentioned something about talking to his plants, Aziraphale opened his mouth and started out with cheerful greetings and compliments, but soon his chatter devolved into venting as he moved down the line.

"...I'm just so worried," He said, watering a particularly small plant with as much gentleness as he could muster in Crowley's body, "What if things go wrong tomorrow? What if they know what we've done, and they go ahead with destroying us? What if the punishments aren't what we think they are, and they actually mean to throw Crowley into a deep pit and cast me from Heaven?" He shuddered at the thought of becoming a demon for real. It bothered him enough to halt him in his watering and make him sit on the edge of the raised platform where the plants stood, erect and tall and seeming, interestingly enough, as if they expected admonishment, which was clearly impossible, right?

"I mean, Crowley seems to flourish well enough as a demon, but me? I'd be eaten alive!" Aziraphale cried, summoning a strangled sob, which sounded oh-so-odd coming from Crowley's voice, "I don't know... I'm probably overly-fretting. It'll be fine. It has to be."

He sat up, slapping the side of the platform in finality- were Crowley's eyes deceiving him, or did that plant flinch?- and strode over to the final plant that he needed to water. As he leaned over, he caught sight of something at the end of the hallway adjacent to the plant room. What was that? Some sort of statue?

Aziraphale straightened and cocked his head, eyeing the statue at the end of the hallway. He knew it was a slight breach of privacy, and that it kind of counted as snooping, but Aziraphale was curious, so he made his way down the hallway to get a better look. Anyway, he reasoned, Crowley wouldn't have put the statue down there on display if he didn't want anyone looking, right?

Surprise flickered across Crowley's face once Aziraphale was able to make out what the statue was of.

"Oh," He stated, looking at it and reddening in a very un-Crowley sort of way, "It's some sort of... art piece."

Art piece indeed! Crowley would excuse it as a piece made to represent good and evil wrestling with evil ending triumphant, but Aziraphale wasn't quite sure that that was what wrestling looked like.

Not wanting to stare at it any longer due to the unwelcome feelings stirring inside of him, Aziraphale turned on his heels and shuffled out of the plant room and into the main room. There were a couple doors across the room from him, and Aziraphale guessed one might lead into the demon's bedroom. Not that he had any particular interest in the bedroom, he just needed a moment to lay down and recuperate after the week's events. It had been a roller coaster, and not quite the fun kind. However, Aziraphale didn't find most roller coasters the fun kind. Crowley had tempted him into riding one in 1939 during the World's Fair in England, and after a particularly harrowing ride, Aziraphale had said "never again!" to the offer of future ones.

Aziraphale crossed the room, briefly pausing to glance at Crowley's writing desk- which was barren save for a globe and a book of astronomy, which caused Aziraphale to exhale wistfully- and pushed a door open. He had guessed correctly, this was Crowley's bedroom. Just like the rest of the flat, it was that abhorrent slate color, very spartan,-

Not even a rug in your bedroom, Crowley? Aziraphale thought, looking around, When I see you next we're going to have a serious conversation on home design.

-and the only thing in the room was a bed. The bed was, of course, outfitted in black linens.

Indifferent to the lack of color or personality at this point, Aziraphale took off Crowley's shoes and stowed them neatly beneath the bed.

While he'd normally put on pajamas manually, Aziraphale held no knowledge of where Crowley kept his pajamas, if he had any, and he also didn't want to expose Crowley's body to himself. While Crowley had nothing to hide, Aziraphale respected his friend well enough to snap his fingers and miracle on a set of tartan pajamas to replace Crowley's outfit. The aforementioned outfit appeared folded at the end of Crowley's bed.

Aziraphale admired Crowley in the reflection of the large picture window that overlooked London. He would never admit it aloud, but he found Crowley rather attractive in tartan.

Aziraphale spent the next few hours practicing to be Crowley. He adopted the demon's resting bitch face and swagger, and he practiced possible snide remarks to insert into any conversations he might have with the demons of Hell. While he wanted to make it believable, he didn't want to overdo it, so many of his ideas didn't make it past quality control.

As the world below Crowley's flat began to awaken for early-shift jobs, Aziraphale patted himself on the back for a job well done and flopped back on Crowley's bed in his most demon-like fashion. He'd catch a few winks and then meet Crowley in the park that afternoon.

As dawn began to reach across London, Aziraphale let out a sigh, releasing all his anxieties. What was to come would come, and Aziraphale was finally confident enough in the plan that he could relax.