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“Red roses?” Aziraphale took the bouquet and breathed the scent in deeply.
“Always liked them,” Crowley said. “I tried to bring you some when you opened the bookshop, but, you know—invasion of Heavenly wankers.”
“Crowley.”
“It’s true, you know it’s true. Anyway, I thought, the two of us moving into a new place—and they’d look nice on the table in the cottage—”
“They would,” Aziraphale said. “It’s very considerate of you, and I won’t have any argument on the subject.”
Crowley muttered something that might or might not contain the word considerate in scathing tones.
“It’s a pity,” Aziraphale said, as he led the way through to the dining room, “that yellow roses have such unpleasant associations in flower language. I appreciate the red ones, of course, but yellow is such a lovely color.”
“I don’t actually know a thing about flower language,” Crowley confessed.
Aziraphale turned around, roses in hand. “You don’t?”
“I think I slept through the bits when it was really popular.”
“So you don’t know . . .” Aziraphale gestured vaguely with the roses.
“What those say?” Crowley finished. “Nope. No idea.” Anxiety welled up. “Are they saying something bad? Because—you know I wouldn’t—I don’t want to—”
Aziraphale put the roses aside and stepped forward to soothe him. “No. No, they aren’t saying anything bad. In fact, they’re saying what I think—what I think we both struggle to say. After all that time not saying it.”
“Oh,” Crowley said quietly, and vowed to shower Aziraphale in red roses.