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On the Thursday after the world didn't end, Crowley had brought him a present of hot cross buns.
He had seemed to find this particularly clever, a sly, secret amusement flickering over his face as he draped himself over the sofa, watching the angel open the box. Don't burn yourself, he’d observed. Can't tell whether they're still warm, or whether it's just the decorations working. Y'know, and he had gone through an elaborate pantomime, yanking his hand back, blowing on his fingertips as if they had been scorched. Keeping evil at bay.
Very funny, Aziraphale had said dryly, examining the pastries. You're a wit, as ever.
They had looked delicious, of course - round, soft, generously iced - but the bell had tinkled just as he had begun to reach for one, and he'd jerked his hand back guiltily, scattering sugar. It was only a customer, he had chided himself, irritated. His spike of sudden fear was only a reflex. Unwarranted. Vestigial.
Open for business? Crowley had said, not noticing his distress, as they both glanced towards the front room. Bit out of character for you, innit?
I should see what they want, Aziraphale had muttered. He could still feel his corporation’s heartbeat, thrumming at his pulse points. Just give me a moment.
Nah, s’fine. Crowley had already gotten to his feet, and was stretching, reaching his spindly fingers towards the ceiling. Wouldn't want to keep you. Just came to drop these off, say hello.
Well, Aziraphale had said, trying not to stare at the impossible arc of that slender body. His pulse was still too fast for comfort. It's appreciated.
The customer, as it turned out, had imagined that he wanted a first edition of Dorian Gray, and the angel had had a devil of a time convincing him that he didn’t. By the time their spat was over, he had wanted nothing more than to share an iced cognac, and perhaps a hot cross bun or two, with some better company - but the demon, unfortunately, had already slipped out.
A moment later, however, as he'd twitched aside the blinds to glare after the would-be Wilde enthusiast, he had discovered that Crowley hadn’t actually, well, left. He was standing on the pavement outside the shop, one lone motionless black figure among the passerby, apparently considering something as he gazed at the Bentley. From this viewpoint Aziraphale could see the set of his jaw, the abortive movement that he made, twice, as if to turn back.
But he didn’t.
When the car was finally gone, Aziraphale had gone back to the box of hot cross buns. He had selected one, and set it on a napkin, and kept it on his desk for the rest of the afternoon, next to the brick of a computer that had also once been a gift.
It was a little bit like having company, he had told himself.
Except that it wasn't.
*
The following weekend, they had gone to feed the ducks. They'd had a bit of pumpernickel between them, dark and pungent, and led a highly interested crowd of mallards along the length of the pond as they reminisced and needled each other. Distracted by Crowley's highly edited retelling of the Crusades, Aziraphale had squandered his allotment fairly quickly, but when he got to the end of it, he'd hesitated, flattening the last crumb between thumb and forefinger into a damp wafer, unwilling to let it go.
Beside him, Crowley had thrown his own final piece, and sighed, and dusted his hands off.
Well, he'd said. Shall we?
Not yet, Aziraphale had said. He'd held up that tiny final crumb, proof against their departure. There's a little bit left.
Go on then; and the demon had looked at him expectantly. Still, somehow, even with the weight of those yellow eyes on him, he hadn't been able to make himself toss it.
Waiting for something, are we? Crowley had said, with growing interest.
Oh, I don't know. Aziraphale had deliberately not looked down at the throng of waterfowl around them, their beaks canted upward expectantly. The right duck, perhaps.
Crowley had been visibly perplexed by this – and then the angel watched his bafflement fade, turning first into thoughtfulness and then flushing, slowly, into a shy pleasure.
Could waste a lot of time, waiting for the right duck, he had commented, tipping his face up as if to bask in the glorious sunshine.
Good thing we have so much of it, then.
The ghost of a smile had answered that, and then a surprise as well: for the first time ever, as they turned to walk back towards the heart of the park, Crowley offered him the crook of his arm.
Aziraphale had taken it, somewhat bashfully. They had strolled on for another hour and a half.
It was lovely. Of course it was. But it had made it rather more difficult than usual to say goodbye.
*
On the third Sunday after the world didn’t end, Aziraphale had bought the two of them tickets to something light: a production of Shakespeare in the park, one of the funny ones, with all the lovers pairing off in the end. Admittedly, it was blanket seating only, but it was also a matinee, so the arrangement was plausibly casual. Crowley had agreed to bring something snackish, in case they got hungry. Best of all, despite the strict alcohol policy, he had acquired a bottle of Le Pin that appeared, to the average observer, to be a waterbottle - which was not very pious of him, admittedly, but who was keeping track, these days?
But then everything had gone wrong. Upon his arrival in Mayfair, the demon had not answered the door. He had not responded to the angel’s calls. When Aziraphale, feeling slightly guilty, let himself into the flat, he had not been anywhere in sight.
Instead of a demon, there were only the remains of a demon, the foul, oily circle staining the floor of the entrance hall, impossible to bleach even with a miracle.
Aziraphale had stood and stared at it.
Crowley had told him about it, of course; the safe, the mister, the bucket, the bluff. But there was something about seeing the mark that made it all horribly real, and made his corporation feel as though it didn’t have functional knees.
Half an hour later, when Crowley had finally arrived back from an errand with his arms full of baguettes and Camembert, he had found the angel, sitting with his back against the wall, and plastered on the contents of what appeared to be a large waterbottle.
Aziraphale had looked up at him, almost serenely, and said it: the awful, naked truth that he was still trying to learn how to live with.
I can't bear not knowing where you are.
Crowley had studied Aziraphale's face, and then, without saying a word, he sprawled out on the floor next to him, and accepted the bottle.
They had missed the show, sitting like that. Neither of them spoke, although, eventually, the demon had reached for one of the baguettes. Breaking it in two, he had handed the bigger half to Aziraphale, who took it absently. The crusty feel of it against his palms had helped, a little, although he had found himself shredding pieces into his lap instead of eating it.
Around them, the room became rosy, and then shadowed, and then dark. At length Crowley had slept, presumably out of habit, tucked against the angel’s arm. Aziraphale had tilted his head back against the wall and watched the stars.
*
He was still trying to sort through all of these incidents in his own mind when, two weeks later, they went back to the Ritz, for the first time since that first Sunday, after what might have been the end of the world.
It was the fault of the cioppino, he told himself later. The savory seafood stew had come with a piece of grilled ciabatta, buttery, scented with rosemary. Its perfect crumb had drawn his eye, and as he looked at it, the emotions had come flooding in all at once. Thousands of years of human ingenuity crashed over his head, flatbread and rye and naan and challah, the artistry of every human culture set out on every table since the dawn of time, and interwoven with them all were memories of Crowley, always Crowley, on the other side of the table, watching him eat.
He sat helplessly. He couldn’t bring himself to move. Across from him, the demon set down his fork and said, warily, All right, then, what is it?
Aziraphale did not know how to tell him, which was silly, because humans told each other that they loved one another all the time. If not with words, then with little gifts. With walks in the park. With food.
He swallowed.
The thing about bread, he heard himself say.
This was, very clearly, not what Crowley had been expecting, but he said nothing.
Or well, perhaps not bread yet. I should start earlier. Flour and water. Two key ingredients that are fundamentally – different, on their own. Neither of them being superior to the other, obviously. Just, you know. Different properties and such. Um.
Still the demon was silent.
But if you – well, you probably know this already – but let’s say you added some sort of catalyst, a bit of yeast perhaps, and heat, you would start all sorts of – chain reactions, I don’t know the chemistry of it exactly, of course. But that’s not important. What’s important is that, when it was all over, you’re left with –
What I mean is, it’s not as if you could take the flour back out of it, it’s become – one single new thing, at the end of it. A loaf of bread. A life-giving sustenance. Indivisible - and much better that way, as the, the one new whole thing, as it were – and so if you consider the Apocalypse to be a kind of oven – oh, bollocks.
He stopped. He was making a tit of himself, and Crowley’s impassivity was not helping.
I think we should live together, he said.
*
Across from him, Crowley sat unmoving, as though he were replaying the entirety of Aziraphale’s terrible speech in his mind, perhaps to make sure he’d understood it correctly. Behind his glasses, his face was perfectly still. The angel longed to know what his eyes looked like.
I rather hoped you might have an opinion on the subject, he said anxiously.
It took the demon another full minute to respond. And then he stirred, and slid a hand into his jacket, as if seeking a pocket.
Well, then, he said, very quietly. It seems we have an accord.
He removed – Aziraphale’s heart stopped – a tiny box. Tipped the contents into his hand, set them on the table next to the bowl of soup.
Keys.
Aziraphale stared. Not understanding.
If we’re finally – said Crowley, and then he stopped, looking abashed for the first time that Aziraphale could remember. That is, when I thought you’d – look, it made me realize that I -
He stopped again, and took a deep breath.
I may have already bought us a cottage, he admitted.
What? said Aziraphale, stunned. When?
You know. When the world didn't end.
They gazed at each other for a long time, and then, suddenly, the demon’s face puckered with the force of not laughing outright at whatever he saw in the angel’s face. He took Aziraphale’s hands in his own, and leaning forward, he went on solemnly.
You see, angel, the thing about cheese –
Oh will you shut up, said Aziraphale furiously, reaching for his napkin, and as he mopped at his eyes he could hear the demon cackling.
It didn’t sound very demonic, though. It sounded awfully close to joy.
*
Some time after that, in a small southern cottage, on a wooden table that had clearly seen better days, a loaf of bread sat in the autumn sun.
Or, well: most of a loaf of bread. Someone had clearly already cut into it; a large chunk of it was missing from one end, the bisection revealing the shoddy and uneven crumb. Nearby laid the severed heel, forlorn and forgotten on its linen napkin, slathered liberally with jam. It seemed to have been abandoned just after the first bite, as if someone had been preparing a treat for himself and then been immediately distracted by something sweeter.
Standing in the doorway, holding a steaming mug of Darjeeling, Aziraphale evaluated the loaf with a critical eye. Its shortcomings were plain. Anyone could see that it had been inexpertly made. The crust was too dark, in fact nearly charred in a couple of places, and the shape of it was lopsided.
Whoever had made it clearly had not known what they were doing. It was even possible that they had not ever worked with a dough before.
Aziraphale looked at it, and thought about how the world had not ended. Life went on, and so did its attendant need for daily bread. There would be millions of loaves yet to come, bakers yet unborn, recipes that had probably not even been invented yet.
Even so, privately, he felt certain that this was the handsomest loaf of bread that he would ever see.
As he took a sip of his tea, he felt rather than saw Crowley insinuate himself in the space behind him: the hands slipping into his dressing-gown, the mouth on the sensitive shell of his ear, a flicker of forked tongue tickling the lobe. Hiding a smile, he set the mug down, and permitted the tie around his waist to be undone.
Penny for your thoughtsss, angel.
I was thinking about bread, Aziraphale said demurely, and he reveled in the answering huff of laughter against his throat.