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Summary
"Well," Crowley said. "Either you make me fall in love with you, or you die."
"Oh, well, that's quite all right then," snapped Aziraphale, then stopped to clear his throat and coughed out some more petals. "I'll just seduce Satan while I'm at it. Is Belphegor a bit lonely lately?"
"Don't be peevish with me. I'm the one having flowers and blood coughed all over my flat just because you had to be a bloody forgiving angel and go around falling in love with a demon. These carpets are white, you know."
"Oh, look, this one's a narcissus. What's that in flower language again? Selfishness?"
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Aziraphale has a problem. Crowley wants to help him out. There's an obvious solution.
