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It had happened in the 90's, like so many peculiar and, in retrospect, seemingly unexplainable things.
Aziraphale had thought it a bit of a gag, the first time Crowley told him about it. In truth, it had taken him walking into the shop to be certain Crowley had been serious, though truth be told a small part of Aziraphale still thought it might be some sort of long game prank. It was Crowley, after all.
And, well. It was a flower shop.
A very lovely flower shop, actually, not right next to Aziraphale’s own bookshop, but not dreadfully far either. It was, in fact, only two streets over, and smack dab in the middle of the walk Aziraphale took daily to go to his favourite bakery. It stood in place of what been, for the past decade, a derelict looking empty building. Overnight, it had turned into a rather posh looking flower shop, vibrant red and purple flowers artfully arranged in the shop window, a sign proclaiming it Belladona’s Luxury Flowers in Crowley’s flowing calligraphy [1] .
Crowley had explained the idea behind it, true enough - not fulfilling an order for a bouquet on a wedding anniversary, sending the flowers meant for the mistress to the wife, racy card included, misspellings on a funeral wreath, slight but poignant wording alterations to the note on a birthday present, turning well wishes into needling. Endless possibilities for endless irritation and worse, all in Crowley’s preferred flavour of demonic work.
And he was good with plants. And his shop’s proximity to Aziraphale's worked out nicely for regular evening tea and biscuits. But still.
A flower shop .
Crowley did look rather dashing in his shopkeeper uniform, truth be told. It wasn't usual by any chance - what florist wore a tie and long hair? - but the incongruity worked in his favor, and it did contribute to the exclusive and trendy air of the shop, attracting the rich and the snobs, Crowley’s favorite targets for mischief.
And the flowers... Well, the flowers were breathtaking.
Aziraphale would know, too. Every few days a new arrangement would appear on the counter of his shop, always in the same spot, next to the ancient till. He had thought they might be leftovers, at first, or flowers about to wilt that Crowley had to get rid of, so he might as well give them to Aziraphale - nevermind that they never wilted, but remained verdant and glossy until they were replaced by a new arrangement[2]. Or maybe unsold arrangements also destined for the compost bin. But, soon enough, he knew better. There was something decidedly non commercial about the bouquets. They were beautiful, but in a wild sort of way, not fitting in the shop’s aesthetics one bit. Or sometimes they were perfectly tame, and the flowers also perfectly clashed, in a way that shouldn't have worked, but did, for Aziraphale’s tastes at least.
It took him a few weeks to place the strangeness of the flowers, the familiarity.
Oh Crowley , he thought, as he did.
These flowers, they could never be sold. Never left in human hands. Were a botanist get their hands on them - well, there'd be a lot of fanfare, if restricted to plant enthusiasts, and confusion.
He understood then why, the first time he walked into the shop, it reminded him, ever so slightly, of the Garden[3].
Many of these flowers, the thing was, were, or should be, extinct. Many by time, but a few, he realises, never made it out of the Garden. He's not sure how Crowley could do it - a miracle, certainly, but how did he recall all the details? And why ?
Crowley closed the shop before Aziraphale could get up the nerve to ask him.
In the end, the flower shop lasted longer than Aziraphale would have expected, but it did, eventually, come to an end. Crowley probably grew restless with dedicating his time to any one thing for so long, Aziraphale supposed. One day Aziraphale left the bookshop to get his morning croissant at the nearby bakery, and the flower shop was back to being an abandoned building, no sign there was ever anything else there.
It’s a while before he sees Crowley again, a few months at least, and it’s jarring after having him so close, even if for only some time. He wanted to ask about what happened to the shop, why he closed it, what happened to all the plants, but it felt too late to revisit the topic, and Crowley didn’t volunteer anything. He wanted to ask about the flowers Crowley gifted him, about what it meant, but this, too, he didn’t have the nerve to ask. It had been months but the space next to the till still felt notably empty, there’s still that sting of disappointment that no new flowers ever materialized there.
It will be years - decades, really, but only a couple of them - before Aziraphale gathers the courage to ask about them, but with a failed Armageddon behind them and Crowley’s head resting on his chest, he feels invincible.
The next day, there are flowers on the counter of the bookshop. This time, they don’t stop coming.
[1] A while, and several bottles of wine, later, Aziraphale had teased him for the name, asking who the beautiful lady was supposed to be. Crowley had simply raised an eyebrow and gestured down himself, and Aziraphale had had to concede, if only to himself, that he had a point.
[2] The original one, albeit a very organized version of it, and not the one in Soho Square where they sometimes met for tea drank out of a thermos, that eventually always became whisky out of a thermos, somehow.
[3] Aziraphale had felt oddly bereft when the first arrangement had been taken, even though a new one had appeared in it’s place. He was glad he had already chosen his favourite of the flowers, and separated it for pressing. He had continued to take a single flower from each arrangement, and carefully pressed them all. Aziraphale wasn’t so crass as to use a book for this, since the moisture would be certainly damaging, but once the flowers were properly dried, he’d kept them hidden in his favourite poetry books - though not the first editions, of course. Decades later, when the bookshop burned down, he’d mourned their loss as much as the books that had held them.