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It was a nice day. All the days had been shit lately, so this was a welcome change of pace. The sky was clear, the breeze was warm, and to top it all off, there was no line at the cafe.
"One black coffee and, um..." Crowley glanced in the display case. "Two blueberry scones."
Nina gave him a half-smirk as she reached for the pastry tongs. "Mr. Fell already stopped by today. Picked up a chocolate muffin."
"And?" Crowley replied, raising an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware we were on rations.”
A smile flashed across Nina's face, there and gone. “Just wanted to confirm that they're for him. Mr. Fell, the man you buy pastries for so often. Your not-partner.”
A strained sound threatened to escape Crowley's throat, but he swallowed it down. Sort of.
Nina glanced at him as she bagged the scones, looking far too smug about it. Her jar of coffee beans also looked incredibly well roasted. Shame.
"Want a hot cocoa as well?" she teased.
Crowley tried for a flat, unaffected stare. He might've accomplished it. "No."
“Right.” The pastry bag crinkled as it settled onto the counter, and Nina reached for a hot cup. "Maybe next time, then."
Unimportant, meaningless scones in one hand and coffee in the other, Crowley elbowed open the bookshop door. Warmth immediately flooded his chest.
There he was. Stupidly gorgeous as always. Fully absorbed in whatever nonsense retired angels tend to get absorbed in on lazy Saturday mornings (this week's crossword, most likely), Aziraphale still had the audacity to look like that. He'd been wearing that stupid cardigan all week. It made him soft all over—soft cardigan, soft smile, that soft look in his eyes, and his soft, bichoodle hair. It wasn't quite poodle texture, but not entirely bichon, either. A perfect mix of the two. Crowley wanted to brush it with one of those dog brushes, the fancy kind with the plastic-tipped wire bristles they use for show dogs. Not that he'd ever get the opportunity.
Not-partner. Yeah, well. Demons don't have partners. This demon might've had a... work-related arrangement with romantic tension, but that was different.
Not really work-related anymore, though, was it? Or much of an arrangement. So that just left the—
Coffee. Desperately in need of a hot distraction (not that one), Crowley raised the cup to his lips and took several large gulps. It only took about three seconds to realize that it was burnt to hell, and three more to realize that it was burnt from Hell, because Crowley is an idiot who can't think more than five minutes past his own plans. He swallowed with a grimace. "Brilliant."
Aziraphale looked up. "Ah, there you are," he said, glancing back down to scribble something with his pen. "I've just about finished my crossword."
Tossing the coffee cup over his shoulder and into the fountain at Russell Square Gardens, Crowley strode over and dropped the pastry bag on Aziraphale's desk. "Brought you scones.”
Aziraphale hummed quietly, smiling to himself. He wrote in the c for—Crowley peered over his shoulder—esoteric, and set down the pen to open up the bag. "Oh, these look scrumptious. And... they're blueberry.”
“What does elliptical have to do with exercise?” Crowley asked, narrowing his eyes at the newspaper.
"Blueberry is my favourite."
“I know that,” Crowley replied absentmindedly. Do humans prefer to jog in an ellipse? No, they probably just jog in whatever shape is convenient to them. “300 odd years of scones, I should hope to know your favourite kind.” He looked up. He shouldn’t have.
In the morning light, Aziraphale's eyes were bright blue, the same colour as the dog brush Crowley definitely did not own, and his smile was softening like… Gosh. That smile was practically melting, sticky-sweet and dripping all over Crowley’s hypoglycemic heart.
It took effort to swallow, but he managed.
After a moment too long, Aziraphale cleared his throat and pushed his chair back to stand. "I'll go and, ah, fetch us some tea. The kettle will be whistling any second."
Crowley sniffed. “Sure.”
Aziraphale drew up beside him, and lingered there, fidgeting with his hands. Staring. He looked for all the world like he was holding his breath.
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “All right?”
Aziraphale’s gaze dropped to Crowley’s mouth. “Actually, I thought I might…”
Crowley blinked for the first time all day. Surely not.
The kettle started whistling.
“I thought, perhaps…” Their eyes met. The kettle whistled louder. Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice. His eyes flicked back down again, and he wet his lips, and Crowley’s stomach did a somersault. The kettle abruptly shut the fuck up to let the angel speak. “I thought we could…”
“Yeah,” Crowley rasped out. They could. “Okay.”
“Excellent,” Aziraphale agreed, and pulled him in by the lapels.
Soft lips. Crowley added it to the list.