Disclaimer: I don't own Good Omens in any of its incarnations. Duh. It'd have 900% more angst otherwise. A. N. For the prompt "Land". I have stressed about this a lot, hope the result is enjoyable!
Observant
Aziraphale loves the Dowling's sprawling garden. Most of all, he loves that he's not supposed to guard it. Walls, elegant gates and cameras already do the job, and if some humans are trusted with it, they are experts at staying out of sight. He also loves the physicality of it. He does have a weakness for the concrete beauty of Her creation, and sometimes kneeling down and pressing a fingertip to the soil to judge if this one bush is in need of watering yet, or gently adding fertilizer to the smallest plants, is its own kind of pleasure. A thousand arguments with Crowley on the subject are themselves a treat that never gets boring.
She – at the moment, not that it matters; Crowley is always Crowley, and would be fascinating even as an actual aardvark – slips out of the house well after bedtime. The official reason is to analyse the situation. Consider if their protégé seems to be leaning too much this side or that. If they need an adjustment, if maybe one should have to back down for the moment. But once that's done, they stay. The gardens, bathed in moonlight, are a thing of beauty, no matter the season. The smell of tuberoses fills the air right now, their white petals almost shining.
Even without any complaint from the lady of the house (as far as a huffy Crowley is concerned, because she can't be bothered to check) Aziraphale's garden work is shoddy. So many plants have the odd hole – even in more than one leaf, sometimes! – or spot, or, or... "You have to put the fear of - something in them, angel! It's never going to work otherwise!" his demon almost growls, gesticulating in accusation.
"I much prefer 'fear not', my dear. Unless someone's threatening my books, I guess."
"That! Perfect! Make a point that anything that misbehaves is going to end as pulp for the next edition, or if they're not woody enough, ink, and you'll see how things will change around here." Golden eyes flare with an almost predatory gleam.
The angel just smiles. "I don't want it to, though. And I don't need perfection, anyway."
His beloved softens back in reaction, frowning. "What kind of angel are you? Ignoring all the...pests and..." Her voice dies down.
"The one who's trying to rein the Antichrist in. Better get him used to appreciate less than perfection, if we want to keep this world around. Besides, why destroy when you can just," he crouches down, deftly snatching a snail from a strawberry leaf and holding it gently in his palm, "move?"
He walks away, wandering in concentration, the other a shadow at his side, until the snail is hidden on a magnolia branch.
Crowley facepalms. "No wonder this garden is a tragedy – you're encouraging them!
"Nobody else notices, my dear. Certainly not every single leaf."
The arguments always end up with Crowley giving up, the angel's stubbornness too much to chip off still, and they often move onto more pleasant conversations before she has to sneak back in. More than once impromptu picnics have been involved.
Aziraphale is confident in his plan. His flaws going mostly unnoticed is what has kept him on Earth this long. And teaching Warlock to love and treasure even the odd vermin is surely worth it.
Then one evening the boy comes to seek him, walking with purpose till he almost corners Aziraphale against a boxwood hedge. The Apocalypse is set for next year, unless they'll manage to mellow him down by then – but at the moment, he doesn't look very kind.
"I have a question, Brother Francis." Warlock's voice is even, not eager or full of marvel like when he asks about some natural wonder that pricks his curiosity.
Aziraphale smiles, because that's his go-to when dealing with someone he has to keep up a relationship with – fawn. "Of course." His own voice is soft. He can still salvage the situation.
Warlock sighs deeply, sounding almost exhausted, and – maybe things are not dangerous. "Are you and nanny stuck in some backwater century, or do you think we're all so stupid?"
"What." Feigning confusion, but the word still takes effort to get out, no matter how breathy it ends up being.
"I know I always have my nose in my phone" Warlock says, waving it around, "that's the best way to make people think I'm not paying attention." The smug smirk will definitely have to be discussed tonight, Aziraphale thinks. "But still, it's bloody obvious you're a couple, and – there's no reason for the both of you to skulk around as if a medieval lord is going to yell at you for not asking his permission first or something." Warlock actually rolls his eyes at him.
The angel is this close to laughing hysterically, because – it's bad enough that the Antichrist has seen them, read them. The description is way too accurate for a clueless child. "Relationships are complicated," he starts, weakly.
"And whatever two consenting adults decide to do in their free time is not any business of yours. I don't criticise your choice of RPGs, you don't get nosy about mine. Do we have a deal?" Crowley. When did Crowley arrive? And what does any of that mean? No matter. He'll ask later.
"Oh." Warlock looks like he understands, instead, but surely, he can't? Not fully? The boy chuckles. "Deal. Have fun, nanny." He turns around, walking back to the house.
"See you soon?" His beloved's tone is hesitant, as if tempted to stay and comfort him right now.
Aziraphale nods too eagerly. "Sure." Night is close anyway.