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A month and a half after the world doesn't end, Aziraphale shows up at Crowley's flat with a small box. While Aziraphale nervously sips at a cup of tea, Crowley tears the package open. Inside is what looks like a small, dirty onion.
Crowley raises an eyebrow. "A single tulip bulb?"
Aziraphale blushes. "Just something I saved from my gardening days. To, um, commemorate the last 11 years."
Crowley's other eyebrow joins its companion. "We--we followed the wrong boy the whole time."
"That's...not what I mean." A pause, another anxious sip. "You should plant it and find out."
So Crowley does. He looks up how to grow a tulip on the internet and follows every direction to the letter, including controlling the temperature very, very carefully through a combination of technology and diabolical influence. And whenever Aziraphale comes to the flat (which is often, these days), he checks in on the little bulb.
"Patience is a virtue, angel," Crowley says after the thirteenth time. Aziraphale just tuts at him.
Finally, the day before the halfway mark of February, a bright red bloom peeks out from the long green stem that's been growing a few weeks. Crowley pulls out his phone, searches red tulip meaning1, and nearly bursts into flames. Once he's recovered enough put one foot in front of the other, he grabs the flower pot, and miracles himself directly into the bookshop.
"Hello dear," Aziraphale says, barely glancing up from the book he's reading.
Crowley nearly slams the pot down (although not hard enough to break it), pushes Aziraphale away from his desk, climbs into his lap, and kisses him, hard. When he pulls away, Aziraphale snakes his hand into his waistcoat pocket and pulls out his watch.
"It's a day early," the angel mutters, and grins coyly.
"You romantic bastard," Crowley says, trying to hide his fondness behind a wry laugh and failing, spectacularly.
Aziraphale grins even wider, and pulls him into another kiss.