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Sunflowers are terrible things.
Sunflowers are enthralling things.
Sunflowers are damned things.
Sunflowers are tragic things.
They are resilient, terrifying things that grow in the warmest of places. They can withstand acidic soil and extreme temperatures. Sunflowers do not die easily. They will kill the other plants growing around them, strangling them with their roots until they are all that remains. Even the seeds will kill; poisoning the grass with toxins laced within their casing. Yet for all the tragic, enthralling things that make a sunflower a sunflower, something even more heartbreaking lies just beneath the surface. Perhaps what sets the sunflower apart from other flowers is how they follow the sun.
Like a devout worshiper, they rise with the morning, straining their golden petals up against the sky as they reach desperate for the sun’s warmth. It’s an addiction they cannot shake, and it’s something that follows them from beginning to end. They cry out for salvation as they grow, desperately wishing for the sun’s rays to come down and gently caress each petal until they are filled wholly and fully with the sun’s grace and love.
What they get, in the end, is not that.
What they get is damnation. You see, sunflowers can grow up to sixteen feet tall, stretching their bodies as far as possible with the hope of receiving something that will never come. In the end, the sunflower’s heads grow too big. Weighed down by false promises; full of hopes never to be fulfilled, they inevitably droop over; their heads too heavy to follow the path of the sun. In the end, their devotion and love to the thing that created them is too much; they fall and they wilt.
In the end, the sunflower falls and dies.
Maybe that’s what drew Aziraphale to them, all those years ago when the first sunflowers began sprouting up through dry, cracked ground outside of Eden. It may have been the steady passage of time watching them grow from the smallest of seeds into one of the largest plants he’d ever seen. Maybe it was simply the tragic ending that befell them in the end. Whatever it was- whatever force drove him to stop and admire them, Aziraphale knew exactly who they reminded him of.
They became a sort of a staple in his everyday life, which was weird considering how rarely he looked for them. Perhaps that was fate. Or, perhaps that was simply London; always throwing out silent reminders of things locked up in the Forgotten Places of one’s brain. Like the blaring horn of a cab as you tried to cross the street without looking both ways, or a sign posted with an arrow saying, “DON’T FORGET TO STOP AT THIS AMAZING SHOP FOR AMAZING DEALS,” it was something that one would have at the forefront of their brain until...well, until they didn’t anymore. Until it simply became background noise lost in a sea of more background noise.
Perhaps if it had been any other day, like most days, Aziraphale wouldn’t have noticed. He would have simply passed by this particular market on South street and kept steadfast on his way to his shop. Unfortunately, as fate, ineffability, destiny- whatever you wish to call it, happened, today was not like the rest of those days. Today he stopped. Just outside of a tube station on South Street, on a warmer than usual July afternoon.
They sat there, wrapped in a thin layer of plastic and paper, at attention in a large black bin. There were other flowers too; a plethora of choices for people to stop and pick up for that special someone on their way home.
“Oi, mate,” came the gruff voice of the vendor who was not as pleased as Aziraphale had been moments ago staring at the brilliance of golden petals and dark brown center of the flower, “you gon’ buy somefin’ or you gonna sit ‘ere an’ ogle me plants?”
He was quite easily twice the size of Aziraphale in both height and weight and seemed rather displeased at the lack of business.
“Oh, oh I’m terribly sorry,” Aziraphale said with a smile, blue eyes wandering fondly back towards the bucket of sunflowers, “ I just couldn’t help but marvel at such beauty .”
“Yeah well, marvelin’ ain’t bringin’ in me money, now is it?” the vendor sneered. Aziraphale simply smiled brighter than before, hands plummeting into his waistcoat.
“I’ll take all of them, then! No need for...no need to let them sit out here.”
That’s how it had all started.
First came the bouquet from the man at the tube station. Then, from an elderly lady at a local market. Slowly, Aziraphale’s bookshop began to fill with bright golden flowers; sets of three in vases that had been ever so slightly miracled to keep them alive.
“Wh--I--What is... is this ?” Crowley had asked on his first return to the shop since the switch.
“They’re sunflowers! They’re nice.” Aziraphale beamed as bright as the flowers suffocating the first floor.
“Hnngk-- Y, yes I can see that, angel. I know what sunflowers are. Why do you have so many? ”
“Oh, well,” Aziraphale began, his arms folding behind his back, “well, I rather think they brighten the place up. Don’t you?”
Crowley only shrugged in supposed agreement, looking around the room once more and taking in the ungodly amount of gold and yellow filling the otherwise dark, stuffy bookshop.
“Yeah. Sure. Makes everything look...stuffier.”
Aziraphale frowned, his face puffing out slightly as he took a step forward and looked around. “Now that’s quite enough, dear.”
“Are they...did you miracle them ?” Crowley balked in astonishment as he sauntered over to a small vase sitting atop a pile of books. “Jesus Christ, you did.”
“Don’t use his name in vain,” Aziraphale chided as he walked towards Crowley, “but yes. Yes, I did. I’m not...well, I’m not particularly good at growing things, you see.”
“There’s no way they’re going to last and look real if you keep miracling them,” Crowley finally managed. His fingers ran across several petals of one of the smaller flowers. “If you want them to last, you’re going to need to learn proper plant care. ”
“Oh, and you’re the expert?”
“I’d like to think so, yeah,” Crowley said with a smirk.
It shouldn’t have been much of a surprise to either party that Crowley’s knowledge of plants stretched about as long as the Great Wall of China, if the Great Wall of China was extended about four to six times in length than it currently was. He prided himself on his knowledge of plant care; he’d been at it for almost three centuries before he read that article that suggested talking to your plants was beneficial to their growth.
Crowley had grown the stars and planets; plants were nothing in comparison, merely a beginner’s course.
“Oh. Well, then. Yes, yes, that would be very helpful.” Aziraphale gave a wide smile, the hopeful tone of his voice coming through like waves crashing against the shore right before a storm. He’d done much in his six thousand years on Earth, but growing something from nothing was not one of those things. Aziraphale had been lucky; his job was merely to thwart evil at every turn and watch humanity. He’d never gotten his hands properly dirty, but the idea of gardening properly seemed enticing. It was a tempting proposition, and Aziraphale found himself falling right into it.
“Oh, this sounds like it will be an absolute blast, dear!” His smile grew, hands clasped together in front of him as he stared at Crowley who’s expression had fallen into what could have only been described as constipated. “Thank you, thank you!”
“Sure. Yeah. No problem, angel.”
That was how it all started, two weeks later with an angel and a demon in the middle of a barren garden that had mysteriously come about on the roof of Aziraphale’s bookshop.
It had been Aziraphale’s idea to keep their new project under wraps while also keeping it very close to home. “ It will be easier to maintain and keep a watchful eye on ,” he had said a few days before they got started, “ if I simply have a garden on my roof. There will be no outside variables except for whatever decide to do.”
It had seemed like a perfect plan in the beginning. Aziraphale had miracled up a large box of dirt and set it directly in the sun's path. Aziraphale had made sure that the box was deep enough for seeds to grow and wide enough for them to have space. It seemed foolproof, if he was being honest with himself.
That was until the first obstacle hit three days later: a storm. Storms aren’t usually an issue for things on the ground- trees, grass, plants, they’re all quite capable of withstanding strong winds and heavy rain. A large box on the top of a building with little to no support on the top of a roof is not the same as the actual ground. Heavy rains pounded the soil, drowning the seeds and lifting them to the top of the soil.
When Aziraphale came to check on them the next morning, he was devastated to see a flock of pigeons cooing loudly and pecking at the over saturated earth he had magicked up on his roof.
“Oh,” he sighed softly as he watched his brand new creation deflate right before his eyes. “Oh, that’s not good at all.”
It would have been a lie if Aziraphale had said that he didn’t need Crowley’s help. It would have been an even bigger lie if he had admitted to Crowley that he was ever so capable of growing flowers on his own, with the only merit he had to show was being angelic.
“Angels are beings of light. They can grow anything without the need of Divine help. This will be a cake-walk, my dear boy. You’ll see.”
“Yes, hello there dear, it’s me,” Aziraphale sighed into his phone receiver.
“What do you need, angel?” Crowley sounded tired. Aziraphale’s heart sank a little at the thought of having bothered Crowley.
“Ahh, yes. So sorry to trouble you. It seems as though--”
“--Pigeons?”
“Yes…How did you--”
“Oohh, had a hunch.”
Aziraphale shifted on his feet, fingers curled into the wire of his old fashioned phone. He could hear the smirk on Crowley’s face as he spoke. Something in Aziraphale’s gut twisted, and he would have sworn he’d been stabbed if not for the lack of wound or discorporation.
“Yes, well,” Aziraphale began again after a long pause, “perhaps you could--”
“--Come over there and help?” Again, the smirk rang through the phone and Aziraphale’s pride drained from his ethereal body.
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.” Aziraphale’s voice had gone soft, blue eyes shifting from looking out his large window to his shoes. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the idea of asking for help, especially asking for help from Crowley; it was more like six thousand years of conditioning not to ask for help that left him stuck there on the phone in silence. There was a sigh on the other end of the line before it made a clicking noise.
It never should have come as a surprise to Aziraphale that Crowley was one who was serious about his flora and gardening. He’d been to Crowley’s flat before and had seen the overabundance of plants and flowers living within the otherwise minimalistic confines of the flat. The way he tended to them, the way he kept them in pristine condition. They were, after all, the most perfect and beautiful plants in all of London. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Aziraphale that Crowley had a naturally green thumb for being a demon, and yet, somehow it still did.
“Right. Don’t think this was a good idea to begin with, but,” Crowley mused as he hunched over the box of dirt, “you wanted to keep it close. Told you they’d do better in a park or somethin’.”
“Yes, but there aren’t many parks where you can just wander in and start planting flowers. It’s...suspicious.”
“It’s only suspicious if you get caught, angel.” Crowley hummed as he poked a finger through the mud.
Things like that were always easier said than done, and Aziraphale was about to find out exactly how easier said than done the whole situation was going to be.
Crowley has suggested they meet at the third usual rendezvous site under the cover of darkness to do their little deed. It was met with the confused look of Aziraphale who had wondered why they couldn’t just simply pause time to get their business done if it was something that absolutely needed to happen at night. Why not simply just do it together instead of being secretive?
“Not the same,” Crowley had hummed with a glass of wine in hand once they were back inside, “told you. No miracles. We do this the right way.
“I highly doubt this is right,” Aziraphale quipped as he took a generous sip of his wine.
“Mmmmm you asked for m’help, angel. S’all im doing. But I’m doing it proper. “
In the end, after several more glasses of wine, they decided they would go together and not preform any miracles.
And that was that.
There was no argument, no debate on the ethics of right versus wrong. There were simply the facts of the matter which Aziraphale wasn’t willing to deny. He had asked for help, and in doing so, he would need to do them on Crowley’s terms.
So they waited until midnight, gathering their things into the Bentley and heading for the one place Crowley knew the flowers would grow best; St. James Park.
“So what’s the obsession with these damn things anyway?”
The question poised to Aziraphale hung in the air for a moment as crowley drove through the streets of London.
“Ahh, well, they remind me of someone.”
“Oh? That Wilde fellow? Thought you’d gotten over him.”
“It is not Oscar, no.”
He has done his best to put Oscar Wilde to the back of his head, after all these years. Aziraphale has grieved; had mourned the loss of a human that he was never supposed to get to know, but he would have been lying if he had said he was well and truly over it. Besides, Oscar was not a sunflower. If anything, the author and playwright was a pond lilly at best.
“Oh. Right.” Crowley hummed as he weaved through the streets and the thinning traffic.
“Oh, please drive more carefully . We don’t need to be discorporated on our way to— where are we off to?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? St. James Park. Perfect place for ‘em, angel. We can keep a good eye on ‘em if we put them in the right spot.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale could feel his face flushing; reddening cheeks at the thought of it. Crowley, it seemed, had put a lot of thought into where they should properly set these flowers down. It left something warm and tingling right where Aziraphale’s human heart should have lived, if he had one.
The thing about night is that it can feel endless. Dark corners just behind your eyes giving way to ghost stories and the fears of what monsters lurk just behind the veil of shadows. There’s a taboo about the night and it’s darkness; good folk don’t go out at night. Good folk stay home, tucked in bed and asleep while the monsters roam the earth.
That’s the theory anyway.
Stories humans created thousands of years ago when they had only just learned of fire. Stories created by humans when the darkness was darker than it is today. Of course, there were no monsters crawling through St. James Park this evening. Just an angel and a demon on a rather obscure mission.
“Riiigght! Here’s a good spot!”
Crowley beamed at the plot of land he’d chosen for Aziraphale’s pet project. It was a decent size of grass and dirt unobscured by trees. It was also quite close to the duck pond and the meeting place, which made the location terribly convenient. Ithelped that Crowley had already begun some of the dirty work. Several lines of freshly churned dirt awaited them, along with some tools Crowley had left behind.
“Seems like good a spot as any. What do you think angel?”
“It looks simply perfect!” There was a touch of awe in Aziraphale’s voice as he stared out over the small plot of land Crowley had commandeered for him.
They spent the rest of the night quietly working and planting each individual seed, doing well to make sure each plant had enough room for their roots to grow without attacking the other plants. By dawn, half a field had accidentally been planted and covered up with Crowley and Aziraphale on either ends of their work watering the freshly planted flowers.
“Helps if you talk to ‘em,” Crowley said as they packed their things back into the Bentley, “helps them grow or something.”
“You must talk to your plants a lot then,” Aziraphale smiled, “they’re simply magnificent plants.”
“Hnngk—yeah. S’right.”
—————————————
Sunflowers are marvelous things.
They are wonderful things.
They are stunning things.
The sunflowers that grew in St. James Park were some of the most beautiful flowers to ever grow on the grounds. Their petals and stems were pristine; they all stood at full height each and every morning, even as they grew taller and taller, full of love and kindness. Aziraphale had kept his promise about not using any miracles; instead he opted to visit the park every day and talk to his flowers for hours. He’d started the very next morning after they had planted them.
“Good morning, Isabella,” he said one particular morning. The flowers had risen to about four feet in height. Aziraphale was meant to be having a meeting with Crowley; they were supposed to meet at the bandstand, and Aziraphale was running late.
“Hello, Isaac. Good morning, Emily. Ahh, a very good morning to you, Crowley junior.”
“You named them ?” came Crowley’s voice from behind Aziraphale as he stared, slack jawed at him and the sunflowers.
“Oh! Hello, dear! I was just on my way to see you.”
“Mmmm. Except you’re late.”
“Oh, oh I’m sorry. I was just quickly checking in on—“
“—why did you name them?” Crowley lifted an eyebrow as he stared past Aziraphale at the rows of flowers behind them.
“Well...well, you said I should talk to them. It seemed only fitting that they all received names as well.”
“Okay,” Crowley began, “why did you name one ‘Crowley Jr.’?”
“Because he looks like you!”
“ It looks like a flower, angel.”
It hadn’t occurred to Aziraphale, until this moment, that he hadn’t truly explained anything. It was very easy to sit and buy flowers, or grow them, when you knew exactly who they were for; what they truly represented. He had spent so much time marveling at them over the years, cultivating and comparing these wondrous flowers to Crowley that he hadn’t stopped to truly examine why. Now, with the question poised in the air, it seemed to sort of fall into place.
Aziraphale took a step forward, gingerly taking Crowley’s hand in his.
“Oh, but don’t you see?” Aziraphale gasped, smiling brightly. Of course Crowley didn’t see; Aziraphale hadn’t shown him, but he would correct that error right now.
“They’re all you. Every one of them.”
Confusion swarmed across Crowley’s face. How was he a sunflower? Aziraphale merely smiled and patted his hand, pulling him in to get a better look.
“They’re beautiful, Crowley. They grow from the ground and they spring forth with love and kindness. They’re strong, too. I’ve been researching since we planted them to make sure they would survive living in the park. And they’re thriving!”
Crowley frowned, shifting uncomfortably. “Not following, angel. If you’re about to say I’m...nice...or kind, I swear—“
“No, no, oh you silly old serpent don’t you see?” There was desperation in Aziraphale’s voice as he gestured to the plant he had named Crowley Jr.
Finding the right words to describe someone who sees nothing in themselves is like attempting to talk to a brick wall. Trying to show them the inner beauty of themselves without spelling it out would be even harder.
“You,” Aziraphale began, his voice stern though soft, “are like a sunflower. You came to Earth through the ground as a serpent, and you grew into something magnificent. You might not see it dear, but it is there. You are the strongest being I know, next to The Almighty. You may not think yourself kind, or good, but you are strong in your devotion to what is in your heart. That, my dear, is as good as it gets. You follow your gut, like the sunflower follows the sun.”
Aziraphale could feel something in his heart flutter as he smiled. Crowley simply stared, mouth open; face flushed.
“You keep going, even when the weight of the world is pulling you down. Like how sunflowers still follow the path of the sun even when their heads become too big for their bodies; they keep pressing on and follow their hearts.”
There’s nowhere to run when one puts their heart on the table. It's either an all or nothing score, and Aziraphale had gone and set the match. It would be easier to write prose like Shakespeare, or a heart to heart play like Wilde had done all those years ago; even song lyrics were easier to decipher than this.
There would never be words in Crowley’s word bank that could have accurately described what he felt as Aziraphale unfurled him like a piece of parchment, setting a sunflower right in the core of his being, and pressing him together again as if to save the flower for the rest of eternity.
And yet…
Aziraphale only smiled, holding onto Crowley’s hand as he turned and looked at the flowers. He could see it, even if Crowley couldn’t. He could see the parallels that bonded them together- could see every last intertwining vine and leaf that cling to Crowley’s essence.
Sure, Crowley created the Heavens, but Aziraphale could see the Heavens and Earth in Crowley’s eyes just as he could see them in his little garden of sunflowers.
“I-I- hnngk,” was all Crowley could manage as Aziraphale pulled him in gently for a kiss. Nothing deep, or dramatic; just soft, and tender, like a sunflower.
“I know,” Aziraphale finally said as their lips parted. He smiled, his hand rising to gently cup Crowley’s face. “And thank you.
“Hnnnnngk uh….for what, angel?” Crowley swallowed, his serpent eyes wide; pupils dilated as he stared at Aziraphale.
“For teaching me how to garden.”