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The rose, Crowley thought, was as symbolic of the earth as anything else was.
The plant had always had thorns, despite what St. Ambrose claimed—which, by the way, he hadn't even come up with that story on his own. If Heaven hadn't insisted on elevating the man, he would have found himself in a dimly lit room copying disgusting and nonsensical sentences for all of time with the rest of the plagiarists... No, the roses in the Garden were thorny and slightly more humble, but even then, when everything was fresh and new, they had a draw to them, soft petals, gradients of sunrise and starlight, bright suns at the center. They quickly escaped the Garden.
The early roses were rugged, wild things, rooting and blooming, devil-may-care, on rocky mountain sides and ocean bluffs. Humanity took an interest in them almost immediately, but it took a few thousand years before they really started tending them, molding them. In man's chaotic hands, what began as a few ancient varieties quickly grew. The Gallicas, the Damasks, the Noisettes... and then the ubiquitous hybrid tea roses. More petals, tighter or looser, plants taller or shorter, color after color. Crowley was half convinced one day some hapless cross would produce a blue rose and complete the rainbow. A few times, humans even managed to cross out the thorns.
Crowley didn't do roses. The delicate modern varieties wilted in terror within days, refusing to produce a single blossom. The hardier species bloomed wherever and whenever they felt like it, and no matter how often Crowley ranted, raved, and occasionally burned one to the ground, they would inevitably jab him in the thumb in a fit of pique whenever he dared to harvest a flower.
But one fine day after the Nonpocalypse, as he trailed Aziraphale through the botanical gardens, the angel had paused, thoughtfully holding his cup of raspberry sorbet with full spoon hovering an inch above its surface, and sighed in front of a cluster of Rosa 'Port Sunlight'.
"Now, don't you think," he ventured after a moment, murmuring over the drip of melting sorbet, "that roses are just the most beautiful flowers?"
Crowley had teased him about choosing favorites and made approving commentary on thorns, all while giving 'Port Sunlight' a side eye that had its leaves quivering in a nonexistent breeze.
And, long story short, spent the last two years lording over a small bed of soil in a section of St. James Park adjacent to a pond that absolutely was not supposed to have roses. It had taken holding his temper, gritting his teeth, and speaking encouragement, as well as a few misdirections of overzealous groundskeepers, but finally, FINALLY , Crowley was about to reap the rewards.
At least, he would as soon as Aziraphale noticed.
The bushes were in flower. He'd gotten the angel to the park bench. But now Aziraphale was chatting about the weather and a possible early afternoon tea, pale curls glowing with morning sunlight, and Crowley swore, if he didn't glance their way before leaving, he would raze the thicket to the ground that very night.
Aziraphale stood, glancing down to scan around his feet, as though he might have forgotten his keys. "Well, shall we?"
Crowley stretched his legs out to full length, frowning, before shambling up from the bench with a huff. "Might as well, angel." There will be flames...
A few steps down the path, Aziraphale wrinkled his nose and sniffed before turning his head. He stopped and straightened his lapels, breathing in deeply through flared nostrils. "Ah… When did they put in roses? At least, I'm fairly certain those weren't here last season."
The roses, to their credit, held their faces proudly over spotless green leaves, posing for their celestial admirer.
"Huh, strange spot for them." Crowley flattened the corners of his mouth as he peered over the angel's head, reigning in his glee.
"You know, they really are most wonderful. Smell that...? Just like the tea at Fortnum's."
After another soft smile at the blossom-laden bushes, the angel gave a little bracing sniff and continued on his way.
As Crowley followed, he spared his 'Port Sunlight' cluster a stern but approving glance. Roses were finicky or contrary, had both perfume and thorns… but they were overall, worth tending.