"He loves me…he loves me not, he loves me…" Aziraphale felt silly doing it, but humans in his books did it all the time and they never seemed to feel silly. "He loves me…not. Drat."
This one was probably just defunct, he decided; best to try a few of them and see what the majority ended on.
He threw down the now petal-less stem. It landed in the pond below, sending ripples blossoming across the water. Aziraphale reached down and pulled another weed from the base of the bridge.
"Aw, what'd you do that for?"
He turned, seeking the source of the high clear voice that sounded so reproving.
"Ah, hello, child," Aziraphale said to the little girl gazing up at him. Her dark hair resisted the messy pony-tail at the back of her head, and her jumper was composed more of grass-and-mud stains than wool. "Er, why'd I do what?"
"Pick that flower." She pointed accusingly at the plant in his hand. "Mummy says it's better to admire flowers where they grow than to pick 'em, cuz then they die an' that's cruel."
"Oh, well, you see," Aziraphale stammered, at a loss — it wasn't every day he found himself being reprimanded by a small child— "this is only a weed, after all."
"Says who?" the girl demanded, hands on her hips and brown eyes scrunching as she peered up at him. "It's as pretty as the other flowers in the park, I don't see why it's gotta be called a weed."
"Sammie!" called a voice from across the pond. "Stop bothering that man and come here!"
"Bye," Sammie said, and hurried away.
"Goodbye," Aziraphale answered mechanically, still bewildered by the whole conversation. Remembering his angelic duties at the last minute, he called after her, "You be a good girl now! And no more talking to strangers!"
He peered down at the weed in his hand. Dainty green stem with even green leaves, merry yellow petals, a fuzz of soil-specked roots that he'd accidentally pulled out with the rest of it…the child had a point. It looked much like the other flowers in the park.
And there had been a time when he had never heard the word "weed" before — humans hadn't invented it yet. They were all just "flowers," in their thrilling riots of red and purple and gold. How he had marveled at them then, every single one, from the stateliest scarlet rose to the tiniest white blossom, no bigger than his pinky nail.
When was the last time he had truly appreciated the beauty of flowers? Why…it had certainly been a while. Centuries, even. He shook his head at himself — forgetting to admire the splendor of Creation? That was certainly a failing in an angel.
"Dear, I'm home!" Aziraphale bustled into the flat he shared with a certain demon. "I got you something!"
"Ooh, what?" Crowley asked eagerly, emerging from the kitchen area with pasta sauce splashed across his apron. There was a dash of the red sauce across his hairline, as well, Aziraphale noted fondly.
"This!" the angel proclaimed, holding forth a small pot inhabited by one small flower with merry yellow petals.
"…A weed?" Crowley eyed it, bemused. "Is there a joke here I'm not getting?"
"It isn't a weed my dear boy, it's a flower!" he beamed. "Well, all right, it is a weed, technically, but that's just a silly term humans came up with to make us believe some flowers are better than others, right?"
Crowley's lips twitched in that way they did when he was trying not to show his amusement. "Sure, angel," he said, moving forward to press a kiss onto Aziraphale's cheek. He took the proffered pot and examined the little flower. "I love it," he declared, and moved to set it on the windowsill, where various other plants were thriving in the sunlight shining in.
"Hey, Aziraphale." The demon made space among the other pots to give this tiny blossom prime access to the sunlight.
"Yes, dear?"
"I love you."
Aziraphale's stomach swelled; he could well be one of those flowers on the sill himself as a golden warmth submerged his limbs. "I love you, too," he answered.
"Now come to the table already," Crowley said, "I don't want this pasta getting cold before you can tell me what an amazing chef I am."
"Did you get that good bread from that bakery down the street?"
"Of course, Angel. Wouldn't be good pasta without good bread."
He loves me…he loves me not…he loves me.
"Wonderful. I'll pour the wine."