Of Books and Roses

"You didn't complain when I showed up in it to save you, though."
"I didn't need any saving. I was doing just fine."
"Crowley, I'm afraid you're getting old. Perhaps you need someone to refresh your mind."
The demon gasped. "I am NOT old. Maybe you are." He turned around until his face pressed against Aziraphale's thigh. His hot breath tickled him, and he couldn't stop himself from caressing his short red hair.
The roses were beautiful, but not as much as Crowley.
"But maybe I do want to hear your version," he mumbled.

April 23rd. Roses and books. A day to celebrate them, and exchange them with the people you care about. Aziraphale and Crowley are celebrating it like every year, but a demon needs to recall how exactly started it. Because, as always, his plans don't work as he expects them to.