Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On the first day:

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"Angel?" called a familiar drawl over the shop bell.

"In the back, Crowley!" he replied, already filling a glass with wine. These evening visits had become something of a habit after what Aziraphale privately referred to as the Avertapocalypse. From seeing each other once a century perhaps, to a smattering of meetings over a decade, and finally to almost daily for the past eleven years, they had both found they couldn't go back into exile as it were. Daily visits had become the norm, and the best part of Aziraphale's day was the bell by the door tolling the demons arrival. That the bell tinkled merrily rather than tolled ominously was rather fitting, he thought, for such a demon as Crowley.

Usually Crowley arrived with a bottle of something sinfully delicious and alcoholic under a skinny arm, tasting all the more scrumptious for it's being shared with Aziraphale. Today however, the customary bottle was replaced by a large bouquet of flowers, their scent already permeating the shop, jostling with ancient paper for control of the upper olfactory notes. The flowers won hands down.

"Oh, Crowley!" exclaimed the angel, setting down two glasses of wine, "those are exquisite!"

The demon grunted in response and held them at arms length to Aziraphale, who started slightly.

"They're for me?" he quavered, taking them gently from him.

"Yep. Thought you'd like them. Is that alright?" Crowley stalked towards his couch, snatching up the glass of red and stretching out languidly. Aziraphale was still standing in the middle of the room, holding the bouquet rather stupidly. He looked at the flowers. They were hanging spires of white, with yellow middles that gave off the most intoxicatingly sweet smell. They cascaded over his hands like a fragrant waterfall.

Aware that the demon was watching him, lazily running a finger around the rim of his now half empty glass, he quickly pulled himself together and bustled into the tiny kitchen behind the shop to find a suitable vase for them. He was rather a long time finding one, but he returned with the flowers, their grateful stems now plunged in cool water, and placed them fussily on the table that stood by his own chair.

If Crowley noticed the angel glancing at them more often than was necessary that evening, he didn't mention it.

On the second day:

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Crowley did bring a bottle the next day, but it was stuffed into his jacket pocket, because his hands were full again.

This time the usual old book smell of the shop slunk back without a fight, retreating into the shelves as a divine scent burst into the door with Crowley. Aziraphale's surprised expression gave way to a grin as the scent washed over him.

"My dear, more flowers?"

Crowley shrugged as he handed them to the angel, " You seemed to like the first one, so I thought, why not?"

Aziraphale fetched a vase and arranged the flowers within it. They were pure white, five petals shaped like a star, almost glowing against the dark green foliage growing on the stems. The smell reminded him of something he couldn't quite place, something from long ago. He stood gazing at them until Crowley asked,

"Wine, angel?", waving the bottle he'd brought by it's neck.

On the third day:

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Aziraphale hesitated as he reached int the back of the dusty cupboard for the last vase he had. Perhaps Crowley wouldn't bring any flowers today, he thought, trying not to feel too disappointed at the errant thought. He withdrew his hand, leaving the vase at the back of the cupboard. He poured out two glasses of a fine white wine, losing himself in thought as he watched the light that shone through the cut crystal facets dance about as the liquid settled. The sound of the doorbell brought him to his senses, and he bustled from the back room, wine in hand, ready to welcome Crowley with or without flowers.

He had to bite back a laugh when he saw what was at the door. Two slim, black jeaned legs were protruding from the most enormous bouquet yet. Grumbled curses were being muttered behind the blooms until at last a voice said,

"I could use some help, angel!"

Aziraphale laughingly placed the wine down and hurried over to help him. These flowers suited the black clad demon. There were dozens of them, deep red and shaped like pompoms, their dense petals laid over each other like scales. Unlike the first two olfactory onslaughts, this arrangement simply smelled fresh and clean. Between the two of them, they managed to get Crowley over the threshold, and wrestle the flowers into a vase on a reading table.

Crowley collapsed on his couch, cradling his wine glass while glaring at Aziraphale over his glasses. The angel was still giggling to himself at Crowley's less than dignified entrance, looking very pink and happy as he took his seat.

"Last time I bring you flowers!" snapped Crowley, though the threat lost it's menace when he began to smile into his wineglass at the sight of the rosy angel now gazing at his new flowers.

On the fourth day:

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Aziraphale's opening hours were obtuse enough to confound the most avid bibliophile, but one or two of them had managed to navigate his idiosyncratic system and one even became something of a regular. Imagine his frustration then, when on this afternoon he tried the door, only to find it locked. The man swore loudly and stomped off to the next bookseller, vowing never to return to A Z Fell & Co. Aziraphale would have been most pleased had he known, but he was at that moment doing a spot of shopping himself.

Having ran out of vases to house Crowley's floral gifts, he's decided the time had come to buy some new ones. Even if Crowley didn't bring him so much as a daisy again, he reasoned, they would be sure to come in handy somehow. He had spent hours perusing various antique fairs, determined to find the perfect receptacles for the demon's beautiful floral contributions. He bought two cut crystal creations that fractured the light and shimmered like a newly created galaxy. Next, there was a centuries old German ceramic vase, it's glaze so dark as to look almost black, until it was held up to the light where it revealed it's colours, like oil on water. It reminded him of Crowley somehow. Lastly he'd found a regency era vase, more squat and round than the others, adorned with a pastoral scene rendered in a blue glaze. People promenaded and shaded under tall trees, and a river snaked through the landscape and dwindled into distance. That one reminded him of Crowley too.

Aziraphale returned in good time to his shop, stowing his new collection away just as he heard Crowley's voice call from the shop front. Compared with yesterday's floral monstrosity, today's was a modest one. Crowley held it out to Aziraphale gently, lingering slightly in the exchange. Their fingers brushed as the gift was given, and Aziraphale gazed down on soft clusters of flowers. They were mostly white, but tinged with pink at the edges, like they were blushing.

"They're lovely Crowley, dear" he said quietly to the demon, still standing before him. Crowley looked down at him for a moment before loping off to sit down, saying breezily,

"Reminded me of you angel".

Aziraphale felt the tell tale heat of a blush creeping over his face as he placed the flowers in one of his new vases. He chose the dark glazed one, and thought the soft pink contrasted beautifully with the black. Crowley thought so too, though neither of them dared say it aloud.

On the fifth day:

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Aziraphale had always looked forward to Crowley's visits. Even when they were few and far between, or surprises, some part of him was always on alert for the demon. Since Crowley had begun to inexplicably give him the most wonderful flowers, his anticipation reached new heights. The seconds passed slowly during the day, but he savoured each one as he would each bite of a rich but very tiny dessert.

Today's bouquet was tall and slender like the demon who pressed it into his hands. Long green stems were bound tightly, but above was an explosion of the most deep, romantic shade of red. Individual flowers, their petals soft and jagged at the edges, bunched together in unified colour, and were quickly placed into one of the tall crystal glasses the angel had bought the day before. There was something different in Crowley's face when he'd handed this bouquet to Aziraphale; a tightness in his features, as though he was trying to hold something back. He offered no explanation for these blooms, and Aziraphale forgot to ask for one this time, simply basking in the complacency of being given flowers daily by Crowley.

The angel selected a relatively young red wine to match the flowers, handing the silent demon a glass.

"Are you alright, dear boy?" he asked Crowley when he had sat down.

The demon drained his glass in one gulp.

"Course angel, always am".

He began to relax and chat, almost himself again, but Aziraphale couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong.

On the sixth day:

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When Crowley walked through the door that day, it looked as though the flowers were over. Aziraphale tried not to let any disappointment show on his expressive face, and was just summoning up a smile when Crowley reached out an empty hand. He took one of Aziraphale's and held it palm up, then gently laid a posy in it.

It was the smallest arrangement yet, but so exquisite in it's perfection. The tiny white heads of the flowers bobbed about with the smallest movement, releasing a sweet perfume. the smile Aziraphale had arranged to hide his disappointment was replaced by a very natural, very tender one as he took in the little bouquet, aware that Crowley's hand still held his.

Crowley was very quiet again that evening. They had sipped their way through two bottles of wine in companionable silence, until he had left with a quiet,

"Until tomorrow then, angel"

It had puzzled Aziraphale. He frowned into his cocoa and let his eyes wander to Crowley's usual chair. The demon was long gone, but the chair wasn't empty.

A book lay on the chair that he didn't recognise. He started and moved towards it eagerly. Picking it up and turning it in his hands , he knew it wasn't one his own; he knew his inventory by heart. it was a small thing, sitting easily in the palm of his hand, bound in a green cloth faded by time. There was a delicate spray of flowers embossed on the front cover, and on the spine in gold ink, Aziraphale read the words,

'The Language of Flowers'

He gasped with sudden understanding, sinking into Crowley's chair. He placed his cocoa carefully on the table next to him, glancing at the romantic red bouquet Crowley had given him the day before yesterday. His hands shook as he took his reading glasses from his pocket and placed them on his nose. He shut his eyes and took several steadying breathes before opening the book.

Yellowed pages, as frail and thin as butterfly wings, were turned gently under his delicate fingers. The printers information dated the book at 120 years old. An introduction page written in a copperplate hand detailed the once popular and now mostly forgotten language of flowers, their hidden symbolism and what it meant when someone gave you one. Aziraphale looked around at he Eden his shop had become, and realised an entire conversation was being had without him, one he didn't yet understand.

He turned the first page and found it dedicated to a single flower. It's name was written as a title, and it's image drawn in a faded illustration on the overleaf. He turned page after page of flowers, most of them unfamiliar until his eyes landed on one he recognised. He stopped that the page and looked over at the first bouquet Crowley had given him, still in it's pride of place by the angel's own chair. He hadn't known it's name, and now he did. Acacia. He let his eyes wander down to the meaning ascribed to the flower and read,

"Acacia - concealed love"

"Oh, my dear" he breathed tenderly as he read the words that gave meaning to the white, sweetly scented flowers cascading from it's vase. Acacia, concealed love.

His hands were shaking as he turned another page, until he paused on another familiar bloom. It's blushing flowers were rendered beautifully buy the artist's hand, but nothing compared to the beauty of the real thing nestled in their dark vase nearby.

"Arbutus - thee only do I love'

The fourth bouquet Crowley had given him, a message of love all along. Aziraphale remembered how Crowley had lingered close by when giving it to him, how he had said it reminded him of the angel. He had been speaking to Aziraphale from his heart the whole time. His own ignorance lay heavy on him as he continued through the book, but a smile began to light up his features.

Only a few more pages revealed the whispered secret behind the romantic red bouquet that stood on the table right by him,

"Carnation (red) - My heart aches for you"

A low groan escaped Aziraphale's lips and he had to momentarily close the book against his lap. He leaned back in Crowley's chair and closed his eyes, feeling so much sudden longing he thought he may burst from it. Reaching over on an impulse, he plucked a single red carnation from the vase, holding it to his lips briefly before fastening it in his lapel, temporarily giving it all the love he now knew how to express and wished to lavish on another.

He opened the book again, and began to leaf through the pages more quickly, eager to understand more of Crowley's heart. The second arrangement Crowley had brought into the shop was lighted on next, the one with the intense scent that still filled the bookshop.

"Orange blossom - eternal love and faithfulness"

Eternity had almost been snatched away from them both, and hadn't Crowley proved eternal in all those years they had had, the most faithful friend despite every obstacle; even when Aziraphale was himself the obstacle.

Impatient to understand all of Crowleys' gifts , he flicked through the book and it fell open near the back cover. After a few pages he saw the flower that had caused him so much mirth the day Crowley had staggered through the shop door, bent under the weight of hundreds of blooms of,

"Zinnia (scarlet) - Constancy"

Aziraphale padded across the room to the enormous bouquet. How many times had Crowley proved himself constant in all their years on earth? More times than there were flowers in this arrangement, he was sure of it. As he looked at the extravagant blooms, his attention was caught by a delicate scent, not unlike a perfume at the height of it's popularity at the time the book he held in his hands was first published.

Nestled by the huge display was Crowley's last gift, given to him just last night. He recalled Crowley's silence that evening, and leafed backwards through the book from zinnia, to find the last message. it didn't take long to find it, and when he read the meaning a choked sob burst from him,

"Violet (white) - Lets take a chance"

Aziraphale thought he might discorporate from the sheer euphoria that coursed through him. He knew at least his legs wouldn't support him, so he sank back into Crowleys chair, still holding the precious book. He began to place Crowley's bouquets in their right order in his mind, finally finding the words Crowley couldn't speak aloud:

Concealed love, thee only do I love, my heart aches for you, eternal love and faithfulness, constancy, and let's take a chance.

A new language, for their new world. Crowley had been fluent in it for a long time, but tonight he had finally caught up. He vowed to himself, never to leave the demon in doubt again. He had been asking him questions in the gorgeous flowers all week, and he would have his answer.

On the seventh day:

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Aziraphale was ready for Crowley's arrival that evening. He'd read the Language of Flowers front to back, new meanings falling on his heart like rose petals on green grass. He'd got the earliest train out of London to the leafier Surrey border, and found what he was looking for growing wild and abundant on a quiet lane. He gathered armfuls in the morning sunshine, cradling them with fingers stained green on the train back to central London, a content smile adorning his face as he watched the city flit by his window.

When Crowley walked into the shop as the sun was setting outside, Aziraphale waited. The demon walked towards him, almost warily, slightly disconcerted by the wide smile adorning the angel's face. One hand was behind his back, the other held a hot cup of cocoa almost protectively. Crowley was stopped in his tracks when Aziraphale brought his arm around with the flair of a magician, and held out a rather wilting bouquet of greenery to Crowley. The demon took it slowly, looking from the flowers to Aziraphale, and back again.

"Wh- what kind of flowers are these, angel?" asked Crowley, holding them out. They looked more like weeds pulled up from the hedgerow than the hot house confections Crowley had been gifting Aziraphale all week. There was more green foliage than flowers, quite ragged and overgrown. Delicate spires of yellow and white flowers so tiny you had to look hard for them, rose from the leaves in his fist, giving off a gentle sweet odour. A vine of honeysuckle was wrapped around the stems, keeping them in place.

"They're called Ambrosia, my dear" he said smilingly, " and there's a very interesting book at your elbow there, if you'd care to find the entry for them"

Crowley turned to the table besides him, gently placing his bouquet (his very first at that) by his side. "An interesting book eh, angel?" he drawled, a calculated look of innocence on his face as he refused to recognise the tiny tome he'd left in his place the day before.

Aziraphale padded over, trailing steam from his cocoa. He passed his usual chair and sat on the antique couch by Crowley, only the bunch of ambrosia between them. He took a sip of his cocoa and said,

"Mm, very interesting. Enlightening even". His blue eyes looked expectantly over the rim of his mug at Crowley, who slowly took the book from the table and opened it.

It fell open in his shaking hands at a bookmarked page. The words Ambrosia artemisiifolia accompanied a botanical illustration of the very flowers Aziraphale had handed him mere moments before. He didn't need a heart, but despite appearances he had one, and it was thumping audibly. Part of him wanted to snap the book shut, to never know the answer to the question he'd been asking in flowers all week, and asking in his actions for 6,000 years. It would be so easy to close the book, and continue on as they had always been, friends and allies - much to lose and all to gain.

But he couldn't. He couldn't go back now. They were on their own side now, and here was Aziraphale's answer, if only he the courage to look. His reptilian eyes slid down the page to the meaning of the unassuming plant between them.

"Ambrosia - your love is reciprocated'

Eyes closed behind dark glasses and the room span around him. He felt a gentle hand removing his glasses, heard the click of their arms folding and the soft sound of them being slid carefully into a jacket pocket. Aziraphale's hand found it's home on his cheek, turning his face towards him. He leaned towards his demon until only a few inches of space kept them apart. He let his hand trace the sharp cheekbone, trailing down under Crowley's jawline and under his chin, tilting it slightly upwards.

Crowley opened his eyes and saw Aziraphale's blue ones, creased at the corner from the tender smile on his lips. He had just enough time to whisper,

"...angel" before those lips met his.

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Much later...

Crowley's head was resting on Aziraphale's chest, the angel's hand idly combing through his unruly copper hair. His legs were tangled in the white sheets of Aziraphale's hitherto unused bed. He never wanted to move again, and he didn't really have to, but there was something in his pocket he felt he could finally give to the angel. Aziraphale grumbled slightly in his stupor when Crowley rolled off him to reach across to his jacket on the floor. He turned back to Aziraphale with a teasing smile, holding out a hand,

"Never got to give you your last flower, Aziraphale"

The angel took it from him with a tender smile. He already knew what this one was called.

"A dandelion Crowley? Really"

"I saw it growing in a gap between paving stones on the way here, angel" he said smilingly, "I should have know really".

"And what does this one mean my love?" asked Aziraphale, twirling the little yellow flower in his fingers.

Crowley shifted to lean over the angel, pressing a kiss to his lips before answering,

"Happiness, angel".

Chapter Text

Crowley couldn't walk into a church without feeling like he was treading on hot ash. A cathedral, doubly so. Any religious building, really, caused him to hop about like a marionette with cut strings.

Lucky for him then, that the nearest thing he had to a temple was a centuries old bookshop in Soho, and the closest thing to an idol was the fussy, curly haired angel who owned it.

In the weeks following the aborted apocalypse, Crowley had taken to spending most of his afternoons and evenings there. The mornings were spent either asleep, with his petrified plants, or roaming about London, waiting for it to be a civilised time to call on Aziraphale.

Had he known that the angel counted the seconds until Crowley stalked through the door, he would have been there at sunrise, stepping out late in the evening only to turn about and stride right back in again. But Crowley didnt know that, because Aziraphale would never tell him.

Guarded by eons of the habitual fear of discovery, it was proving difficult for the angel to loosen up in this bright new world they had helped win. There had been encouraging moments though, small touches and lingering gazes. Crowley memorised them all, calling them up to turn in his mind and warm his soul when he was alone.

He'd thought hard about how to tell the angel, finally and irrevocably, how he felt about him. Now that they were free to actually do something about it, he felt all the crushing reality of living in a world where Aziraphale had said 'no'. He pushed the doubt into the back of his mind, where it had made quite the home for itself, having lived within him almost since his creation. It wasnt quite a mansion yet, but it was definitely a maisonette. It was even building an extension over the garage.

If there was one thing he believed in, it was Aziraphale. Even an Aziraphale who said 'no' wouldn't cast him aside, surely? They'd been through too much together, forgave eachother after more arguments than he could count. They had centuries apart licking wounds and brooding over wrongs, but they always found their way back to one another.

Crowley shifted down further in his thronelike chair, arms folded across his thin chest, long legs crossed on the table in front of him, lower lip jutted out slightly in preoccupation. How to tell Aziraphale, he pondered, going through the various ways he'd tried in the last 6,000 years. He'd almost exhausted every avenue, so he did what most of us do when we don't have an answer and can't be bothered to let our miraculous brains get there in the end. He pulled out his phone, and googled it.

"How to tell someone you love them without scaring them off"

Seemed a good enough start. The answers all involved messaging the person rather than talking face to face to avoid any potential embarrassment. Useless, thought Crowley, Aziraphale doesn't have a phone like that, only an old dial one. He wasn't about to confess his feelings over the phone like a love sick teenager.

He clicked on the next website. It was a florist. Search engine ads were one of his so he wasn't surprised, but before he pressed back on his screen, the bursting bouquet on the webpage reminded him of something.

Having lived on earth since it's creation, he'd seen an awful lot and forgotten yet more. The memory of a laughing face under an ivory top hat swam in his mind, dextrous hands slipping a flower in his buttonhole, and a sweet scent that followed him about all day. The top hat and whiskers the angel wore placed him in the Victorian era. He was so full of mirth, gorgeously rosy from long candelit evenings in the best company, and glowing from the copious amounts of alcohol they'd been supping most of the night. Aziraphale had plucked a flower from a plant growing by the club they'd been in, laced it through Crowley's buttonhole with care, and waved goodbye into the night. He'd kept the flower Aziraphale had given him in its place until it wilted, thinking nothing of it until he was stopped by a woman selling flowers in the street one day.

"Oh dear, I am sorry for you, sir" she had said, a sympathetic look on her face.

Crowley had paused and turned to look at her, bare footed and poor.

"What are you sorry for?" He asked, almost politely.

She gestured to the wilted flower in his lapel,

"Rejected love, sir. Awful thing. Won't you buy a fresh one in its place?"

Crowley looked down at the flower in the buttonhole. It had been fresh and alive when Aziraphales warm hands had placed it there, but now it drooped forward dejectedly, only one petal clinging on to the stem. He suddenly felt very exposed.

"What do you mean, rejected love? It's just an old flower, forgot to take it off", he pulled it from the lapel and threw it down onto the street.

The woman looked at it for a moment,
"In flower language, sir, a wilted bloom means love rejected. I'm happy to hear that's not the case for you. A fresh blossom for you, sir?"

Crowley looked into the full basket, overflowing with flowers of every hue. The woman obviously hadn't sold many that day. He fished into his pocket, and a moment later the woman was walking happily for home, and Crowley was stalking towards his, a baskets worth of flowers under his arm.

The same demon, only 115 years older, suddenly realised what language to use to tell Aziraphale exactly what he meant to him. A quick search on a few online antique book dealers (that Aziraphale woukd certainly not approve of) was all it took to find a book that would help him whisper his heart to the angel.

'The Language of Flowers'

A few days later the book slid through his letterbox and thunked to the floor of his flat. Crowley didnt hear it, ensconced as he was in the cosy glow of Aziraphale's company at the bookshop, but it waited patiently for him to return. Old books are always patient, and this had existed for 120 years, in one hand or another.

It was scooped up by Crowley's hand late that night. He settled in on his chair and opened it, flicking idly through the pages without reading any. The sweet smell of old paper released with the turn of the pages. He closed his eyes, put his nose to it and breathed in deeply for a moment. It smelled like Aziraphale's shop, and for a while he just sat, his face buried in the book, lost in memories and an overwhelming sense of longing. He wanted to be this close to the angel, to be able to bury his face in his neck, or press a kiss to his cheek. He wanted to run his lithe fingers through soft hair, hear his heartbeat, hold him close.

When he pulled back his face some time later, he saw the page he had landed on was adorned with an illustration of a flower. It was fluffy and white, graceful and beautiful in its purity. It hung from it's stem, as near to a feather as a flower could be. He searched for the meaning that would go hand in hand with with the pretty bloom, and smiled a smile without any humour in it.

'Acacia - concealed love'

That's the one, he thought, closing the book with a spitefully sharp snap. He left it on his desk as he stalked off to bed, but returned a few minutes later for it. Opening it up on acacia, he put it on the pillow next to him, closing his eyes and letting the scent of an old bookshop, and an old friend, wash over him as he succumbed to sleep.

He was prowling outside of the nearest florists when it opened that morning. This was a fairly common occurrence, the florist thought sagely. An apology bouquet was their most popular morning sale, one they made quite a mark up on by stuffing more expensive roses in than usual, banking on the guilt of the buyer in loosening their purse strings.

This customer seemed different though. He strode in to the counter, placed a hand down on it and said just one word in quite an unnecessarily intimidating manner.

"Acacia"

The florist blinked, "You'd like to buy some acacia?"

Crowley shifted, "Yes. White acacia"

The florist found it hard to speak under this prickly customers gaze, despite it being concealed behind round sunglasses. She felt rooted to the spot as she stammered out,

"Er"

A sharp eyebrow jutted up over the dark lens, and the man's jaw clenched in impatience.

She tried again,

"Er...m. We haven't got any acacia. You'd need to pre-order something like that"

The man actually hissed in annoyance as he sauntered out of the door, muttering about time wasters.

Crowley tried every florist in a five mile radius of Aziraphale that day, finally giving up and scoring some ecological vandalism for his old side by picking the blooms himself from a laden tree in Kew Gardens.

He strode out past dozens of gardeners, carelessly flaunting the white flowers cascading over his hand. When they tried to say something to him, they all found their tongues appeared to have been glued to the roof of their mouths. He put an extra wiggle in his hips and gave each and every one a little wave, aware that each booted step was taking him closer to his angel.

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On the first day

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The invigorated confidence he'd felt as he left Kew with half a trees worth of blossoms began to dwindle as he sauntered through Soho. He felt very conspicuous now, in the busy built up part of the city. If he was honest with himself, he felt a bit of a prat, actually. Before he knew it, he was standing in front of Aziraphale's door, unable to go in, suddenly immobile with nerves.

Just reach out and open the door you idiot, thought Crowley. Don't worry about what the angel will say, just open the door. Open it!

With supreme effort, he opened the door, ready to blurt out some excuse to Aziraphale for the huge and frivolous bouquet in his shaking hands. He sauntered into blessed peace within and let the door shut behind him, it's bell's jingle music to his ears.

Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen, but Crowley instincitvely knew he wasn't far, felt the incessant pull of the celestial being he had been orbiting for six millenia. He swallowed drily and pulled himself together enough to call out to him.

"In the back, Crowley!" called a warm, merry voice from the back room of the shop, where Aziraphale had a tiny kitchen. A moment later the owner of the voice bustled out, holding a glass of wine in each hand. He was already chattering away about something or other as he placed the glasses down by their usual haunts. Crowley couldn't hear him over the ringing in his ears as blood he didn't technically need was punched through his body by his pounding heart.

Aziraphale at last glanced up at him with a smile, which turned to a gasp as he saw the flowers for the first time,

"Oh Crowley, those are exquisite!" he sighed, and bolstered by the positive reception, the demon managed to hold them out to him with an almost steady hand.

The angels eyes widened,

"They're for me?" he asked in disbelief. Crowley resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Aziraphale's pure pig headed obliviousness as the angel took them gently from his hands.

"Yep. Thought you'd like them" he said breezily, then noticed Aziraphale still looked quite stunned and added, "is that alright?"

Without waiting for an answer, he collected his wine glass from the table by his usual couch, and sank down into it while taking a hearty swig to calm himself.

Worryingly, Aziraphale was still standing where he'd left him, gazing down at the delicate, frothy blooms in his hands. They complimented him perfectly, thought Crowley. His soft white curls and penchant for frills (in times gone past) were mirrored in the acacia petals. Of course, Aziraphale's beauty outmatched them, but how could something as ephemeral as a flower really compare with the immortal marvel of the angel. He began to draw a long finger round the rim of his now half empty wine glass, completely lost in reverent contemplation of Aziraphale.

The spell was broken when the angel glanced up toward him. Something seemed to snap within him and he was back to normal, fussing about getting the flowers in water before they wilted.

Unknown to him, Crowley had expended a miracle on them, to ensure they would never wilt. The words of the flower seller all those years ago rang in his mind, and he vowed no flower he'd ever give Aziraphale would wither. The angel didnt need to know that though. Not yet anyway.

The rest of the evening was spent in pleasant chit chat and drinking. Crowley was thrilled to be able to steal more looks at Aziraphale than usual; the angel' s attention going to the white bouquet he'd placed right by his chair. The small smile on his face smote Crowley's soul in the best way, and made him determined to be the cause of it again. Tomorrow, he resolved, his angel would get more flowers. What would they mean this time?

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On the second day:

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Crowley flicked through the venerable little book of flowers, paying more attention to the meanings behind them than the blossoms themselves. Page after page was rejected by the demon for not being exactly right, or for being completely wrong (A hydrangea would mean heartlessness, and when Crowley looked at the angel he was certain he had a heart, as it seemed to expand in his thin chest and thump painfully). He wanted to tell Aziraphale not only that he loved him, but that he had felt that way for almost as long as he could remember. An eternity of love for the angel stretched ahead of him, he knew. He'd never be rid of it, and didn't want to be either, no matter the outcome of his floral confessions. His endless love for the angel was so much of who he was, he wasn't sure what would be left if it was gone.

The word 'eternal' caught his eye when he turned a page near the middle of the book, and he read,

"Eternal love, and faithfulness"

Aziraphale was the idol he worshipped, his happiness the faith he lived by. Perfect. He glanced at the name of the flower and this time, called a florist specialising in exotics to make sure they stocked it. The first one he tried had several branches at the shop, and in no time at all Crowley was in his Bentley and on the way, his mind lost in thought in the way that only a being with six millenia worth of memories can be.

When the florist handed him five branches wrapped in paper, a sweet smell lingered in the air and Crowley's memories gave a sudden lurch. He paid the smiling man and left as quickly as he could. Placing the bundle on the seat beside him (Aziraphale's seat, said his treacherous brain) he gripped the steering wheel and closed his eyes, breathing in the citrus scent of the flowers now filling the car.

Almost one thousand years ago, he remembered. He'd been sitting in a crowded bar, filled with an ennui that wasn't entirely shaken off even as he heard a cheerful, melodious voice say his name behind him. He hasn't seen Aziraphale for centuries, and there he was, all smiles and pink lips. He'd joined him for a drink, and Crowley felt the habitual loneliness of his existence begin to lift. It was further removed when Aziraphale tempted him into joining him for dinner too. Oysters.

Quite nasty, slimy things he recalled, but it wasn't the oysters that had pulled him back into this most blessed memory. Aziraphale had guided him to Petronius' restaurant, down corkscrew alleyways and up and down countless stairs. It had been crowded within, but when the host asked if they'd like to dine alfresco, Crowley had still scoffed,

"In this town? Might as well eat in a sewer"

Aziraphale's eyes had tinkled as he said, with a confiding smile, "Ah, you would be right my dear, for almost anywhere but here. Follow me"

He had weaved his way through the tables of happily mascerating people to a door at the back, where he stopped and beckoned Crowley through,

"They've made quite the Eden here, Crowley"

The demon found himself in a courtyard, lit by dozens of lanterns. It was entirely surrounded by orange trees growing from ceramic pots of various sizes, their white flowers almost glowing like stars in a night sky. The scent they breathed into the warm air was completely intoxicating, entirely fresh and alive. When Aziraphale breezed past to sit at a table for two and stirred the beautiful odour of angel and flowers together, Crowley had had to close his eyes to the sensory onslaught, letting his nose take the wheel.

He heard Aziraphale chuckle and came back to earth with a gentle bump. The angel, glowing in the light of the lanterns, was sitting at the table, a welcoming hand gesturing to the place beside him. Crowley took the seat, not knowing then that this would be the first of hundreds of dinners, the first of hundreds of chairs in hundreds of restaurants. He didn't know then that in another thousand years, he would be sitting in a car parked at the side of a busy road in a city not rven founded yet, completely overwhelmed by the memory of that night, the first of many with Aziraphale.

Half of his brain managed to return to the here and now, starting the car and letting it take itself towards Soho. It knew the way perfectly by now anyway. He let the rest of his mind live in that first night a while longer, and wondered what Aziraphale would remember, the orange blossoms, or the oysters?

"My dear, more flowers?" asked Aziraphale, a smile on his face as Crowley entered.

The demon handed them to the angel and turned his attention to extracting a bottle stuffed tightly in his jacket pocket, saying,

"You seemed to like the first ones, so I thought, why not?"

He continued struggling to remove the wine, pretending not to notice as Aziraphale brought the stems up to his nose. He took a deep breath in, and closed his eyes.

Crowley looked at him over his sunglasses for a long moment, before pulling him out of his reverie by waving the freed bottle in his hand,

"Wine, angel?"

Aziraphale had jumped at his words, looking as though he'd been caught in the act, and Crowley knew: he remembered.

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On the third day:

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Aziraphale's far away expression as his retrousse nose was buried in the orange blossom haunted Crowley's dreams that night. He knew the angel's face so well, every smile line, each tuft of hair that fell across his forehead .That face had been the only constant thing in his existence; as the world swirled and changed around them like a storm, they remained as they were. Outwardly styles may have altered, but Aziraphale, and Crowley's love for him, never really had. When morning came, the demon knew what he wanted to say to the angel next. He flipped to the little book's meticulous index page and found the flower that matched the word he was looking for. A scarlet Zinnia looked back at him, carefully drawn on the page, it's luxuriously red bloom large and showy. It meant constancy, and Crowley was determined to show Aziraphale just how constant he had been, just how constant he would always be. For that, one flower wouldn't be enough. Late next afternoon, when Crowley neared the bookshop, he was staggering under the weight of over a hundred flowers. He had been to every florist in the borough, adding to the bouquet flower by flower until his arms trembled beneath it. He could barely see over it as he strutted conspicuously through Soho, trying to look calm and collected while slipping off the path into the gutter several times. He gritted his teeth and hoped that wasn't a bad omen. The angel had received his flowers well all week, but they'd all been quite small and delicate arrangements. He wasn't sure how Aziraphale would handle a grand gesture. The familiar tug he felt when near the angel told him he was at the door of the bookshop. He shifted the weighty bouquet and nudged the door open with his booted foot. The bell jingled merrily, possibly more merrily than usual, and Crowley suspected perhaps it was at his own expense as he tried to wrestle the huge bouquet through the narrow doorway. In vain he squirmed and pushed behind the blooms, trying desperately to get in before Aziraphale, who must have heard the door bell, saw him struggling like a prat. A raucous giggle reached him from nearby. It would usually have been music to his ears, Aziraphale's laughter being a precious gift to Crowley, though not when it was at his own expense. Stuck between the busy world of curious onlookers outside, and the tittering angel within, Crowley felt his face reddening in embarrasment. The demon listened for a few more seconds, then grumbled out, "I could use some help here angel!" A moment later strong hands were lifting the flowers from his grasp, and Aziraphale's face came into view. A warm smile dimpled his soft cheeks, and his eyes were impossibly happy as he stifled more laughter and helped Crowley place the bouquet in a large vase on a side table. A glass of wine waited by his usual spot, and he sank down gratefully onto the couch, glad his ordeal was over. He could still hear the angel's suppressed laughter, and irritated that his big statement had been somewhat diminished by his less than graceful entrance, he muttered, "Last time I bring you flowers angel!" Aziraphale looked sharply at him, the ghost of alarm creeping over his face. Any anxiety was quickly smoothed away when he saw Crowley grinning into his wine glass, stealing glances at him. He thought of the demons skinny legs under the enormous bouquet and had to concentrate hard on not bursting into laughter again and wounding the dear man's feelings. He gazed at the scarlet riot of flowers, rosy and glowing with mirth, taking satisfying sips of fine wine and basking in complacency. Crowley had a sudden urge to press lips to that warm rosy skin, make it grow hotter and blush more deeply than ever. He closed his eyes behind his sunglasses and took a hearty swig of wine, pulling it between his teeth in a hiss to distract his traitorous lips from their true desire. Tomorrow, he decided, he would find a flower that blushed pink like his angel. ---------- tbc------------