Work Text:
The thing about dandelions is. It is: the sunshine-yellow heads, spinning out to their haloes of pale-to-white seeds. Ready to fly at any moment. The thing is: their roots. So deep they cannot be fully removed from the in-earth dark; there’s always some left. And on the ground, the leaves: toothed, and bitter, as only connection can be bitter and toothed.
‘They’re weeds, angel,’ Crowley says, with more than a hint of a hiss. ‘Just weeds—that’s all!’
(That’s all.)
‘Not just weeds,’ Aziraphale answers; he counts the number of breaths it takes to send the seeds on their way. The setting sun catches their edges, and they light like tiny sparks. Aziraphale’s eyes light, too. ‘Six o’clock,’ he says; happily.
‘It’s eight-fucking-forty-five,’ growls Crowley. From behind the dark glasses he can’t help watching until the seeds vanish from sight. ‘And now some poor sod’s going to have his perennial border filled with useless dandelions.’
Aziraphale’s raised brows express: language; with the faintest of smiles he twirls the empty stem between his hands. ‘Oh, they’re not useless,’ he says, dreamy-earnest in the way that Crowley loves best. ‘Why, did you know dandelion flowers are some of the first to bloom in spring? They’re absolutely full of nectar. So important for the bees, you see.’
He picks another: a flowerhead this time, closed for the night. It opens for Aziraphale. ‘Look,’ he says, holding it out to Crowley, brushing a finger over a golden petal. ‘Each of these is a whole flower. But it takes dozens of them together to be a dandelion.’
Crowley plucks a floret from the underlying disc, places it on his tongue. There’s sweetness there; it tastes like Aziraphale’s smile.