Knock, knock.
There came two sharp raps at the door, conveying the impatience of the person knocking.
Crowley shifted on his feet restlessly, balancing the large pot of plant on his left hand, and lifted his right hand for another knock.
The door opened inwards as his knuckles just touched it's frame, and a plump figure in pajamas appeared in the doorway.
Seeing Crowley at the door, Aziraphale seemed quite surprised. "What are you doing here so late?"
"Er..." Crowley faltered, he didn't notice it was almost midnight, "um...I brought you a present..." His voice faltered as he held out the half withered pot of flower: it looked quite ugly, no, very ugly in his standards, exactly the reason he brought it over...but...
He looked up at Aziraphale, who had a strange expression on his face. The angel seemed to be trying very hard to keep a scowl as he took over the pot, not forgetting to scold him, " Tsk tsk, you inhabitants of Hell don't understand the art of botany at all! Look here, look at this leaf, that patch of yellow must have resulted from malnutrition. And the white streak here must be..." Aziraphale went on and on criticizing the plant with the same amount of pride as he would present a prize-fighter rooster.
A grin enlarged to a splitting smile that stretched from ear to ear on Aziraphale's face. Crowley looked at that smile as the angel stroked the pot fondly, and felt even more guilty. He secretly decided in his mind that he would bring over the best pot next time.
When he went back to his flat, he strode around the room, inspecting each plant carefully. They quavered under his scrutiny. With a serious face, he took out his Blackberry and showed them a picture he had just taken of Aziraphale tending the withered pot with extensive care. He showed them each the picture, and announced that next time, the best pot will be tended with the best of care by the angel.
The next morning, he noted with satisfaction that the pots flourished with a new lushness.