Good Omens Fic: Among the Lilies
Welp, I wrote another Good Omens one shot full of post-apocalyptic sappiness and ruminations. I also headcanoned so hard in the notes for this fic that I practically outlined a second fic lol. Presenting:
On the night after the Apocalypse, Aziraphale makes a discovery in Crowley’s garden. Unprepared for either Aziraphale’s curiosity or an Apocalypse averted, Crowley makes a few discoveries of his own.
***
I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine; he browses among the lilies.
Song of Songs 6:3
***
Aziraphale had loved the Victorian Era. He still wore waistcoats he’d acquired during the nineteenth century, still listened to the works of Gilbert and Sullivan on a (now antique) gramophone, and still collected editions of The Language of Flowers despite Crowley’s best efforts to clandestinely incinerate every copy.
At least the angel had moved past sending him flowers as messages. In the 1850s, Aziraphale had briefly tried to use floriography as a sort of code between them, sending bouquets of violets or daisies or baby’s breath that Crowley then had to identify and look up. He was certain Aziraphale had altered the particular copy of The Language of Flowers he’d gifted to him; the idea that daisies meant, “It’s a lovely day; meet me for tea,” or that violets meant, “Would you fancy some lunch?” was preposterous. Baby’s breath, in that miracled copy, was assigned the meaning, “St. James Park, our usual spot.”
There were some flower meanings that remained unaltered in Crowley’s copy of the book. He’d once done a brief comparison with an edition in Aziraphale’s collection and discovered that yellow roses did, in fact, mean friendship. Not that yellow roses had every been sent to his doorstep. Particularly not after 1862, when he and Aziraphale had quarreled and not spoken for nearly eighty years. Crowley had winced at the sight of flowers for several of those decades.
By the time they were on friendly terms again, the age of floriography was well and truly past. Aziraphale had even taken a few shaky steps into the new century, going so far as to acquire a telephone. Crowley called him regularly, of course, and delighted in hearing his own phone ring. But sometimes he answered his doorbell and felt strangely disappointed not to find a delivery of flowers. A fact which, when Crowley paused to consider it, was very odd given how much time and effort he’d spent on trying to rid the world of books on flowers meanings.
In any case, the point was rather moot some hundred and fifty-ish years later. In fact, the point no longer had anything to do with flowers, telephones, codes, or communication of any kind. The point was just this:
The Apocalypse had been averted and Aziraphale and Crowley had not only helped to accomplish said feat, they’d survived the accomplishment.
If you’d asked Crowley to describe a post-Apocalyptic scene only days earlier, he might have suggested (in a flat, humorless tone) something very like any of the Mad Max movies. If you were to ask him now, he’d be compelled to describe something very different. He’d detail passing a bottle of wine back and forth with an angel while waiting for a bus, a quiet and uneventful ride back to London, and finally, he would come the moment he was actually living through, the moment in which Aziraphale stepped into his darkened flat, took a curious look around (he’d seldom been there), and, catching a glimpse of greenery in the next room, drifted off to see Crowley’s indoor garden.
Crowley didn’t remember there was anything unusual among his plants until he heard Aziraphale’s sudden and conspicuous silence. He hadn’t prepared for this. Well, he had, technically, since he’d decided to cultivate that particular plant. But he hadn’t intended for Aziraphale to just walk in and see it. He’d been thinking…well, come to think of it, he didn’t know what he’d been thinking. Crowley ground his teeth through a wave of emotion he had no interest in dissecting.
Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I didn’t know you grew lilies,” he said quietly.
SO. SO. SO GOOD!
