Flowers

His strands of hair are like the flowers I send him.
His white locks are unnatural, like the light eggshell colour of roses. His perfect short hair, engraved in the fortress of my mind forever.
His icy eyes are like bluebells in the sun. Absolutely, frighteningly beautiful. For his loveliness truly does scare me. His strange likeness to flowers seems to cause me a form of pain. It hurts to experience the beauty that seems to encase him.

His perfect, flowing, white clothes like daisies and baby's breath consumed my whole being every time we met. I could not fix my eyes on him because I feared blindness.
And yet all I want is to see his flowery beauty again. His smile like pink tulips at mid morning and his hands like thin stalks of cacti. His prickly yet soft hands that I have not touched in so very long.

I send him flowers every day. Every day since I last saw that shimmering rose hair. Ever since I last saw those icy bluebell eyes. Since he last gave me that pink tulip smile.

Even if my flowers are nothing compared to Aziraphale's ethereal beauty, they might just give me a chance to touch those cactus hands one last time.

...

Flowers. So many bloody flowers. I hold the fifth bouquet that Muriel had given me this week. They are pink tulips. They are from him, like all the others. White roses, bluebells, daisies, baby's breath and now pink tulips. All given to me over the span of five days.
I hate to admit this they would all look lovely on display in my office but all four bouquets are hidden.
I look at them sometimes when no one can see and dream. I dream of the life I could have had with my fallen angel. I scold myself when I do. He could have joined me and become better but he chose a worldly life. It was his fault not mine.

You miss him, my mind mutters as I stare at the pale pink flowers in my hand. How can I miss him? I don't need him here. He obviously doesn't need me either.
That's a lie.
I curse at myself and groan desperately in my hands. I have to stop cursing.
I throw the flowers into the dark den underneath my desk.
I miss him.
I miss him.
I miss him.
I sigh deeply. Why did Crowley have to send me flowers.

...

"I received your... gifts." An angel and a demon stand beside a parked, vintage Bentley. Well you can't exactly call him a demon . He no longer lives in hell.
"Is that right?" The demon answers the angel with a blank voice and emotionless eyes. The angel gives off the usual unnatural glow that heaven gives to its inhabitants. The demon is almost blinded by it.
"I can't accept them." The angel holds five bouquets of flowers in his arms. White roses, bluebells, daisies, baby's breath and pink tulips. The colours match him quite well. "Take them back." The angel shoves the flowers into the demons hands. Petals fall at his feet. "They take up too much space in my office anyway." A pained expression seems to cross the demon's face but it disappears as quickly as it came into being. He nods his head behind the flowers that are almost covering his face.
The angel seems to give the demon a strange frown. As if two parts of his heart are fighting to dominate his decisions.
His face grows stern. The logical side of his heart most likely winning.
"Well, have a good life, Crowley." The angel's voice is blank. All emotion gone.
"And you, Aziraphale." Not angel, just Aziraphale.

...

Once he leaves I throw the flowers onto the ground. White roses, bluebells, daisies, baby's breath and pink tulips.
My hand fishes its way through my coat pocket and finds the miniature cactus. There was one white blossom on it and it was beautiful. It reminds me of the angel's hair.
I throw it into the pile of flowers and step on it.

Aziraphale is more beautiful than any of the flowers I sent him but that no longer matters. He is a real angel now and I will never see him again. He didn't except my flowers and he never will.