Chapter Text
Aziraphale woke with a start.
He always woke with a start. Whenever he woke, which was almost never, it was with a start.
He'd been dreaming about an exquisite apple tart, with just the subtlest hint of Cayenne pepper added. He made a mental note to try it some time, if he ever again had a kitchen. The prospect of the sweet and the spicy was one that had been tried in myriad ways all throughout culinary history, but never quite like in his dream.
But once he'd made that particular mental note, he looked about and realised two things.
The first was, he was not at home, but that wasn't anything particularly new.
The second was, his friend was right: sleep was excellent.
It was not his first time sleeping, of course. He'd been knocking about Earth for six thousand years, of course he'd nodded off here and there when it had suited him. He's slept, well, numerous times with varying degrees of success and enjoyment.
But since he began staying here… oh, the waking was dreadfully difficult, and the sleeping had been surpassingly dulcet. For the first time ever, his eyes desired to be shut, his body insisted on being prone and at rest, and his brain desired to continue giving him weird visions of things he ought to try. It was like a heavy, pleasant, creamy fog, and it rather surprised him.
Just as he slid back into slumber, it struck him as remarkable that only a couple of evenings before, Crowley had declared that for the first time, he was having a craving. He'd enjoyed food before, of course, felt hunger on occasion, had eaten things just to keep up appearances, but last night, Crowley wanted General Tso's chicken. He'd had a hankering for it. So they'd gone to Aziraphale's favourite Chinese restaurant, interestingly, in New York City.
It was no longer any secret that the Angel Aziraphale, and his adversary/friend/confidant/ineffable life-presence, Crowley the Demon, were great fans of being on Earth. Only two weeks before, they had saved it, against every Divine Plan, Satanic Wish, and Ineffable Effort. Not only were they fans of the Earth, they were fans of humanity and all (well, most) of its trappings. And when it came to the human experience, the "creature comforts" of mortals, as they say, Aziraphale had always embraced food with a passion, and the same could be said for Crowley and sleep.
Aziraphale had no idea how long he'd been in the throes of re-sleeping when he heard the door open, and a familiar voice say, "Come on, angel. Breakfast."
________________________________________
Yawning, and dressed in a fluffy tan bathrobe, Aziraphale wandered into the grey slate kitchen in Crowley's ultra-modern, semi-dark, very bizarre, very expensive, London flat.
"Have you made coffee?" he asked.
"Of course," Crowley muttered, sliding a spatula under a slice of French toast, and depositing it onto a plate. "What do you take me for, a barbarian? Sit, I'll get it."
Aziraphale sat down at the table, and watched his leather-trouser-clad friend pour black coffee into a white mug, and then smirk as he delivered it to the table. Something about this made Aziraphale shift in his chair, and break eye-contact, and it wasn't just Crowley's disturbing yellow, serpentine eyes… which Azirphale found not-at-all disturbing.
To distract himself, he took a sip of the coffee. It was hotter than he'd have made for himself, but the shock of it felt good. It was stronger than he'd have made for himself, but the bitterness took him by storm and made him feel alive. Aziraphale had been feeling groggy for the first time in his very, very long life, and with the coffee, it all seemed to fit. Caffeine infused his bloodstream, and he began to wake. It was as though the slumber and the beverage were all part of the same poignant sensory experience.
"Ooh, well," he cooed. "That's jolly bracing."
"It's Colombian," said Crowley, setting down a second cup of coffee on the table at the only other place-setting. "Tempted the bean harvesters myself. Got them to use illegal fertilisers."
"Was that when you were down there to…"
"…cover your drug-trafficker's change of heart? Yep."
"Nice work there, by the way."
"Shush," the demon admonished, then made his way across the room and back again, carrying two plates. He set one down in front of his angelic friend, and said, "I tried something new today, hope you like it."
"Apples!" Aziraphale exclaimed, delightedly. "You've added baked apples and a reduction syrup to French toast! Crowley, this is genius!"
"You haven't tasted it yet," Crowley lilted, sliding into his own chair.
Aziraphale was now excited, and he picked up his fork, and elegantly sampled the fare.
His eyes became as wide as saucers. "Is that… Cayenne pepper?"
"Why, yes, it is," Crowley said, smoothly, confidently, sitting back, draping one arm over his chair, and using the other to coolly sip his coffee. "No need to thank me… just tell me again that I'm a genius, and we'll leave it at that."
Aziraphale looked at him incredulously for so long, that the demon became uncomfortable.
"What?" he asked. "You don't like it? Bless it, I knew I should've left the culinary rubbish to you."
"No, no," Aziraphale assured his friend. "It's superb. It's…"
"Then eat it!"
There was a pause. "You know, you don't need to keep feeding me, Crowley," Aziraphale told him, again, for some reason, unable to make eye-contact.
"Of course I do," Crowley shrugged. "You're my guest. As long as you're crashing out in my spare room, I might as well make you comfy."
"Yes, well, I don't know how much longer I'll be, as you said, crashing out in your spare room," Aziraphale said. "My flat will be ready any day now."
"No it won't, but you can keep telling yourself that, if you like. Meantime, you do the sleeping, I'll do the cooking." Crowley had a way of being incredibly nice, while still sounding like a self-important, sardonic bastard.
Aziraphale tried again. "In any case, you don't have to sit and eat with me, if you don't feel like it. I know you have, you know…"
"Better things to do? Like what?"
"I'm sure I wouldn't know. You could have slept in."
"Bah. Eat your apples."
The two of them sat in silence for a few moments, and shared breakfast.
After a bit, Crowley asked, "So, speaking of crashing out in my spare room, did you sleep well?"
"Like a baby."
"It's good, isn't it?" Crowley asked, with a big smile.
"I'll admit, I may have previously underestimated its charms."
"You bloody love it, and you know it," Crowley spat, with a laugh. "Look, I'm not afraid to admit you were right about this food business. And look, here we are, sitting à table, together."
Aziraphale felt a frisson of something he could never quite identify when he felt it. Something about the way this conversation was going, something about continuing to follow Crowley's musings into the next phase… it was both a delicious Pandora's Box of sorts, but also terrifying.
The two faced each other now, the angel's expression rather stoic, the demon's one of whimsy and temptation.
"Yes, who knows? Perhaps one day, I'll be able to convince you to read a book," Aziraphale said, tightly, smiling in that charmingly uncomfortable way. "And you'll be able to give me that total makeover you've been banging on about for a hundred years."
"Two hundred. And yes, those are possibilities."
Suddenly, the angel sat up straight, and looked about. "Something's… happening."
"Besides the obvious?"
"There's a celestial intervention somewhere."
"Of course there is. It's you."
"No… it's this… beam. This beam of light that penetrates the Earth when the Divine powers are radiating their will. It's the way that the Higher-Ups get in touch with me. Only, they don't know where to find me!"
Crowley nearly spat out his coffee, laughing. "Oh, I reckon they do. They just can't penetrate here with their will, or whatever, 'cause it's all… demonic."
"I've got to go back to the book shop, Crowley."