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On an out-of-the-way street corner in London, two man-shaped beings stood and stared at a man-shaped biscuit.
“Well?” Aziraphale repeated, sounding impatient. “I said, it’s for you.”
Obediently, Crowley accepted the object from the angel’s outstretched hand, lifted it, and cautiously licked it — scenting the treat like the snake he had once been. His brows drew together. “Is that… ginger?”
“Among other things. It’s gingerbread.” Aziraphale shifted his feet, face falling. “You don’t like it.”
“Never said that.” He licked it again. “Smells good.”
“Oh.” The angel beamed. “I’m glad.”
“And you know me, demon and such, all in favor of promoting cannibalism—”
“Crowley!”
“What?”
“There is nothing whatsoever cannibalistic about gingerbread men, I’ll have you know! They are perfectly morally acceptable. Entirely unobjectionable. In fact, Queen Elizabeth herself serves them at her own table—”
“The queen is practicing cannibalism these days? I have to put that on my next report. Hastur’ll love it.”
Aziraphale glared, then apparently gave the argument up as a lost cause. “Are you going to eat that or not?”
“Sure.” Still chuckling, Crowley started to lift the biscuit back to his lips, then paused. “Where’d you get it?”
“Oh. Er…”
“One of the local bakeries? Or did you buy it off one of those street vendors? Or—”
“If you must know,” Aziraphale said, cheeks slightly pinker than usual, “I made it myself.”
That, for the first time that evening, caught Crowley off guard. “You what?” he asked, voice echoing a much earlier iteration of those same words.
“I made it,” Aziraphale repeated. “I’ve been experimenting with baking recently.”
“Why?”
“Um. Because. It… it seemed like the thing to do.”
“‘The thing . To do.”
“Well. Yes. Yes, exactly.” Aziraphale lifted his chin. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“Problem? Nope, nope. No problems, me.” He hesitated. “You made a gingerbread man. For me.”
“Yes, I did.” The angel was starting to sound irritated. “If you don’t want it, you can just tell me and be done with it. You needn’t try to spare my feelings. I’m well aware I am hardly the most expert of bakers, but—”
Crowley interrupted by popping the biscuit into his mouth.
The gingerbread was good, rich and sweet with a strong hint of spice. He chewed slowly, appreciating the texture and making the flavors last as long as he could. It wasn’t every day he got an angel-made dessert, after all.
“Sure beats the dust of the earth,” he announced when he was done, and was rewarded by the confounded look on Aziraphale’s face.
“Is that meant to be a compliment?”
Crowley laughed.
And carefully, as they bantered on, he didn’t ask if Aziraphale was aware of the folk tradition which stated that he who ate a gingerbread man — specifically, he who ate a gingerbread man prepared personally for him — was bound to fall in love with the treat’s giver.
It was far too late for a love potion in the form of baked goods to make any difference, anyway.