1.
It was uncharacteristically sunny on Thursday, March twentieth. The sky was blue, and the clouds were puffy and white – not a grey sheet over the sky of London, or all of Great Britain for that matter. And some of the English men and women in the city were so frightened of the change that they instead chose to take the day to stay home. The children (whose parents allowed them outside on this strange day) went to school with glee, but the general population of the workforce stayed inside, making business slow and the whole day one fitting for a good nap. Around 11 am, the adults began to realise wat a silly thing this was, and now chose to take advantage of their day off and go outside for a pleasant stroll or a day to mingle with the tourists.
The Fallen Leaves Flower Shop – a terribly long name, but delightfully ironic in the owner's opinion – had seen its regular business despite the day. The clientele was generally not afraid of nature, although there were far more mothers present today than confused middle aged businessmen trying to spruce up the décor for a bland dinner. There were currently two customers present, a mother and her young daughter. They were admiring the lilacs in the outdoor patio, the little girl exclaiming something like excitement in her pre-toddler language that by some maternal link, the mother understood. It sounded something like "eegyah!", but to the mother, it meant, "Oh mother! These lilacs smell so wonderful, I wonder how it is that they are so fragrant compared to the ones in our garden. Can we go look at the tulips too, please?"
From inside the shop, the demon Crowley was keeping a sharp eye on the pair. Yes, he respected his customers, but he'd had too many an incident of young children plucking his flowers from their pots or traipsing through the beds to be able to rest easy when they went into the patio. But the interior of the shop was humid and hot, and he kept getting distracted by a particularly persistent chunk of hair that got too close to sticking to his forehead. Recently he'd decided to start growing it out again, and it was nearly to his chin now. Unfortunately, growing out a quiff meant dealing with particularly persistent, fluffy bangs that the barber insisted were necessary to keep.
Someone had entered the shop a few moments ago, but they were alone and seemed lost and confused amidst the flora, so Crowley elected to wait the obligatory few moments before asking if the customer needed assistance to avoid calling them out on their out-of-placeness. Best to not seem too helpful, but prove to be enough to keep up the reputation of the finest flowers and houseplants in all of London. Instead, Crowley glared at a snapdragon that seemed a tad wilted. The plant straightened on the spot, reaching its little leaves out as far as it could to appear flourishing.
Crowley was just looking up to give an only slightly peppy, "Can I help you with anything?" when the soothing hum of the humidifiers was interrupted by a CRASH! from the far end of the shop. This was followed by the slightly less audible gasps of the surrounding plants.
His gaze was drawn first to the small, innocent pansy on the ground. Its pot had shattered, and it was leaning so close to the ground that it felt trampled already. Crowley let out a sigh and went to the poor plant's aid. It hadn't deserved this, and he refrained from scolding it since the pansies always did work so hard.
"Don't worry about it. You can go pick another one, just please be more careful next… time." Crowley had scooped the pansy into his hands when he noticed the dirt on the man's shoe in front of him. It was a shoe that was not supposed to have dirt on it, even on the bottom. It was an expensive dress shoe, slightly lighter than mahogany brown, and instantly Crowley knew the size and model of said shoe. Also, that the foot that he was looking at was nearly – only nearly – half a size smaller than the other. He suddenly had the feeling that one has when they had a word on the tip of their tongue for an entire day and only remembered it when no one was around to care. The familiar feeling he'd sensed now had a face – or a foot, as at the moment he was still looking down – an all at once he wanted to sigh in relief and groan in frustration. So instead as a compromise, he rolled his eyes and looked up.
"Aziraphale?"
The angel's expression could have been the picture in the dictionary next to the word "bewilderment". He looked lost, and Crowley watched with a mix of pleasure and confusion as he stumbled over his words. "I… I… Oh dear. I'm sorry." He apology was directed first at Crowley, then repeated to the plant in his hands. As he stood, the demon simply waved his hand and the pot was restored, the pansy inside almost as bewildered as the angel. It was set down in its original spot, and the pansy drooped in relief. No one bothered to learn that it was now terrified of heights.
"What are you doing here? Isn't this – this has got to be at least the opposite side of London for you." Crowley brushed his hair back from his forehead as he spoke as if he didn't know the exact address of Aziraphale's new book shop and flat.
In turn, Aziraphale continued to stammer over his words before taking a steadying breath, saying, "Yes, but… well, I heard that here were the best flowers in London. In Britain, actually. I… I had no idea that you'd be here. I truly didn't. Oh, this is all just a terrible coincidence, I… I'm only here for the flowers. Not you." He felt the need to strongly reiterate that last point.
Crowley blinked at Aziraphale, although his eyes were obscured by the staple dark, circular shades. He was only mildly confused at the cluster of words that had been thrown at him. "Well, of course they're the best, I grew them. Now what on earth could be so important for you that you need the best? You've always been picky but this is… across the city. Inconvenient."
"I…" Aziraphale blushed and fidgeted, "… have an appointment."
"You're bringing flowers… to an appointment?"
"Oh, it shouldn't matter, Crowley! It shouldn't matter what it is, just – just do your job and help me get what I need! You're the florist!" Aziraphale's tone was pleading. In another instance, Crowley might have given in, but he was stubborn and this was nearly irritating.
"Well, I can't help you if I don't know what it is!" He huffed indignantly. "Do you know how many people bring lilies to an anniversary just because they 'look pretty'? I can't have you embarrassing yourself by bringing flowers that represent death to your appointment. Unless it's a funeral. Then it would be quite fitting, rather."
"No, no its not a funeral, it's just…" Aziraphale looked tentatively around the shop. "Nevermind. Perhaps I should just be on my way."
Crowley spat desperately, "Oh, so the best in London isn't good enough for you? No surprise there, nothing I do is ever really good enough for you."
Aziraphale tossed his hands down in defeat. "That's not what I meant! I just… I have… I have a date, alright? And I wanted to bring flowers. Is that so wrong?"
Crowley's head pounded suddenly. "You – you what?"
The angel looked down. "I have a date. And he's very nice, but wants to lead things, I think. Can you help me now?" His cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
"Um… Er – yeah." Crowley turned away to hide how his own cheeks were ablaze. He began arranging a bouquet from the selections on the wall; simple and understated, but sweet. And he may have gotten a tad carried away, because the entire thing was in the angel's basic colour pallet. He turned around and handed it to Aziraphale, trying to ignore the swell of pride he felt when the angel's expression softened as he took it.
"What's his name?" Crowley prodded, trying to act casual.
Aziraphale caught himself and gulped, worried of what Crowley might do if he knew the name of the human Aziraphale would be meeting. "It's – it's none of your business."
"It's a little suspicious," Crowley then tested, raising an eyebrow. "You know, you going on a date with a fine gent knowing completely well that it won't last. You couldn't possibly be thinking of lying to him long enough to keep a real relationship."
Aziraphale glanced away again, as the thought had crossed his mind too many times. "I'm not truly planning for it to go anywhere. It's just for… for experience. And plus, he asked so nicely, I couldn't turn it down…" He frowned it what was almost a pout. "There's no harm if it just doesn't work out. It'd be natural. Free will and… you know."
"Ineffability and whatnot, yeah right." Crowley tilted his head. "'Just doesn't work out', eh?"
The angel flushed and glared at him. "You know that's not what I mean."
The demon put his hands in his pockets. "Right, right, sorry." He rocked back on his heels and looked at him.
They stared at each other for a moment.
Aziraphale cleared his throat. "I should um… pay you for these."
Crowley held up a hand. "Don't. You don't have to."
"But –"
"Special case, okay? And um…" His next words came out stiff and slightly choked. "Good luck on your date."
Aziraphale bit his lip and looked down at the flowers. Something shifted behind his eyes, but Crowley didn't get the chance to see what it was. Oh, if only the angel would look back up at him. "Um… thank you. You have a lovely shop."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
"… Are you going to go?"
"Yes, yes, sorry. I'm… on my way now. Thank you again."
"Good day."
"Good day."
'Good day' is such a strange phrase. It is the phrase used among acquaintances – often European – or strangers to translate to, "Thank you politely for this encounter, but I have other more important places to go, or things I'd rather be doing. So, I'm going to end this conversation quickly and with good manners." But in the instance of the angel and the demon, it meant, "Thank you politely for this encounter, but I have other things that may not be as important to do to pretend that this said encounter did not stir up emotions and memories that have been stewing for quite some time now and I was electing to ignore and bury. I'm very uncomfortable and would like time to process this, please and thank you. I'm going to end this conversation quickly and with good manners."
It is a very European phrase, so if you are not European or are and do not use the phrase as often as one may, and do not pick up on the intricacies, you can ignore the last paragraph or so and tell yourself that the chapter ended with the 'Good day's and Aziraphale leaving the shop. Which did happen, followed by Crowley checking to see that the other two customers outside were gone, turning the sign on the shop to "Closed", and proceeding to rant very loudly with very adamant hand gestures to the very frightened and confused flora.