He Made Them Every One

Crowley placed the pot at the very edge of his desk, as though daring it to fall off. It smelled. Its delicate fronds stretching toward him like the arms of an errant child.

"Bastard," he muttered.

As with so many things, it was Aziraphale's fault. The angel had brought him the wretched thing with a look of abject dejection, sighing oh, you're so good with plants! Which was true, but not for the reasons Aziraphale thought.

The pot of ASDA branded dill weed seemed to stare at him. Crowley glared back.

Dammit. He would have to be nice to it.