(A/N: A friend challenged me to write purely fluff. This is the result.)
The demon was gardening. Yes, I know, it's a strange sentence. Demons aren't known for their gardening. To this day, there are only three demons who have been known to dabble in the occasional gardening. This demon just so happens to be one of them. How convenient for us.
If we're being honest, this demon is more of a houseplant kind of guy, but hey. Gardening is tolerable. The sun feels nice, even though he pretends not to like it and hisses whenever it gets in his eyes. The dirt feels good between his toes too. He's been told this sorta thing is good for him. This being outside, nature, shit like that. Looking over at his companion, the demon finds he agrees.
"What are you smiling at?" his companion asks, pausing his weeding to glare at the demon.
" 'snothing, angel," replies the demon with a shrug.
The angel smiles at him. He truly is an angel, in all senses of the word. The personification of angelic grace. Or, uhh, that's what the demon would tell you within minutes of interrogation.
Back to weeding for the both of them. Earlier, without so much as a word, both had decided the garden needed to be the paradigm of beauty. It was a competition now, of course. The ultimate battle of good and evil, of which the fate of the world rested on. Or, at least, the decision of who will be making dinner tonight.
The demon's pile of weeds is growing. Up and up it goes. A natural skyscraper. A dead plant still growing up and up. The demon won't lie; he is quite proud of it. Each weed pulled is tossed into the pile. Sometimes it tumbles from the top, but as long as it is out of the garden, the demon is happy.
But don't look over. The angel's pile of weeds is growing too. Carefully he pulls each weed and sets it on his pile. No, it's not a pile. It is a castle, carefully, lovingly constructed. And it is bigger, stronger, than the demon's tottering stack. The angel is winning. There is no question of this.
Though the sun is still warm, smiling on both the demon and the angel equally, it is fading fast. Disappearing. Setting. It is getting late. Too late for gardening, unless they want to wait for the moon to join them.
"Angel?" The demon stops.
"Yes, dear?" The angel stops too.
"You've won."
"Oh?" The angel's smile is far more calculated than a sweet angel's smile should be. "Yes, it appears I have."
"It appears so," the demon hisses back. He stands, his joints clicking. It has been a long day on his hands and knees in the garden. The angel must feel the same way when he goes to stand too. The demon offers a hand for him to take. No, not for him. For something behind him.
The angel huffs as he gets up all by himself. "Rude."
Then the demon straightens. In his hands... What's in his hands? He holds it out for the angel. A flower? Yes. A flower, full bloom and gorgeous.
"Oh..." He tucks it behind the blushing angel's ear. "Pretty."
"You're pretty," retorts the demon, likewise blushing a bright red.
"And you're making dinner." The angel wraps his arms around the demon.
The demon grumbles something that might be a "yes" or might be a "conniving angel" or somewhere in between. Maybe both. Maybe neither.
Underneath the sinking sunset, the angel and the demon walk arm in arm back to their South Downs Cottage. At the door, they pause to share a kiss.
"Pretty demon, what are you making me?"
The demon smiles a cartoonish grin. "Wait and see,"
With a laugh, the two step inside.
It is fitting for such stories as this to end where they began. In a garden, with a demon and an angel. But they have stepped out of the garden and into the house, away from our story. We could follow them, sure, but the two of them deserve some privacy as they share a nice dinner. Well, nice as a demon can make it anyway. Nice enough for his angel, that's for sure.
So here we are, stuck in alone the garden. And that's where it will end. With the bugs and the dirt and the blooming flowers and the abandoned piles of weeds. As the sun dies, perhaps if you strain you can hear laughter coming from inside the lovely little cottage. The cooking's going well. Perhaps the angel decides to be generous and help. Or maybe he's sitting back in his chair and criticizing the demon's every move. Perhaps they're both smiling, maybe they're still in each other's arms.
Musings aside, I doubt you'll ever know the truth, as we are stuck in the garden, and our story has come to a close.
