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It was the smell that Crowley noticed first, before his eyes had opened: a buttery pastry scent, rich and warm, luxury in olfactory form. It was accompanied by the even more appealing (to his mind) scent of coffee. Together they made a potent combination, not just in their own right but for what they implied.
Crowley rolled over in the bed and stretched, releasing a prolonged, indulgent sigh. The sheets were soft against his bare skin, the entire bed a monument to temptation. He should know, he’d chosen every element of it with utmost care, mattress and linens and blankets all designed to entice a being not only to come to bed but to stay there. Once, he would have arranged all of it solely with himself and his own comfort in mind, but these days there was an even more important factor to consider.
He slid out of bed–somewhat literally, his snakey instincts were always stronger right after waking–and got to his feet, stretching again, spreading his arms up towards the ceiling and then relaxing back down. He briefly considered dressing, but decided against it. His bathrobe was hanging on the back of the door; that would do. He walked over and put it on. It wasn’t the sort of thing he used to have, something sleek and slinky to match his pyjamas. Instead it was thick and fluffy and soft and he would never admit out loud how much he liked it.
Still black, though. He had standards.
He crept silently down the stairs so as not to interrupt the cheerful humming noises coming from the kitchen. Mendelssohn, if he were to guess; one of the concertos, or something from the Lieder Ohne Worte. Small dummm, dum dum da de dum da da daaaa tidbits of melody overlaying more ordinary sounds of refrigerator doors opening and closing, a kettle on the boil, the scrape of a knife on bread.
Crowley paused in the doorway, leaning on the frame as he took in the scene to match the sound effects.
Aziraphale, warmly wrapped in his own pale blue dressing gown, was idly waving one hand, half-conducting his own singing, while the other hand busily spread blackcurrant jam on a thick piece of cottage loaf he’d baked the previous day. On the table in front of him were assorted trays, one loaded with assorted pastries, another with cuts of cheese and cold meat, a third with grapes and other fruit. He heard the kettle whistling on the hob and chuckled silently. An electric kettle was perfectly fine by Crowley, but Aziraphale preferred to do things ‘properly’. And thoroughly, as evidenced by the spread.
Crowley walked on silent feet until he was behind Aziraphale, then wrapped his arms around his waist from behind. Aziraphale jumped, but just as immediately relaxed into the embrace. “Oh! Good morning, my dear. I didn’t expect you for another half-hour yet, at least.”
Crowley, languid with sleep and domesticity, nuzzled at Aziraphale’s cheek and then kissed it. “Mm…was tempted by the siren call of coffee. Among other things.” Another kiss, this one lingering. “Quite a spread you’ve set out here, angel. What’s the occasion?”
Aziraphale wiggled happily. One of Crowley’s favourite aspects of this new life of theirs was that he not only got to see Aziraphale wiggle on a regular basis, he quite often could feel it happen, up close and personal. It was even more delightful that way. “No occasion in particular. I just felt rather celebratory this morning. Can’t imagine why.”
The undercurrent of laughter in his voice gave him away. Crowley smiled and pressed his lips against Aziraphale’s throat again, less a kiss and more a brush of his mouth combined with an excuse to inhale. Baked goods, paper and ink, the electric tang that meant angel. Aziraphale. Crowley buried his face in his angel’s neck and drank him in. “Come back to bed,” he murmured.
“After all going through all this effort?” Aziraphale sounded affronted. “Without even eating it?” But he’d automatically tilted his head to make it easier for Crowley to access his skin, and Crowley knew how to listen to body language, how to tease out the unspoken desires from beneath words of denial, none better. Particularly when it came to Aziraphale.
Crowley let his teeth graze along the area just behind Aziraphale’s earlobe and hummed. “I’ll give you something to eat,” he said, letting a hot thread of temptation lace through the words. His arms tightened around Aziraphale’s waist, gently tugging them both backwards.
But Aziraphale resisted, laughing gently. “Perhaps later, my dear. Breakfast first.” When Crowley grumbled in protest, Aziraphale merely raised a hand and patted the back of his head. “And coffee, since you insist on it. Perhaps we should get a cezve? Do it with style, as you say?”
“Didn’t mean that to apply to my morning caffeine fix, angel.” Though the idea had appeal. Crowley released Aziraphale (with a last press of fingers to hips) in order to attend to the French press, which would miraculously produce a remarkably un-gritty brew if it knew what was good for it, which it did. “Not a bad idea, though. Turkish coffee would be a nice change now and then.”
“As black as hell, strong as death, and sweet as love,” Aziraphale quoted, smiling benevolently at him.
“Oi.” Crowley pointed a finger. “No using the l-word after you’ve refused to let me drag you back to bed to do unspeakable things.”
“I didn’t refuse,” Aziraphale said, taking a seat at the table. “I merely said, not yet.”
Crowley waved this off as a technicality. Once he’d achieved coffee, which might not be as black, strong, or sweet as the Turkish proverb demanded but at least was dark, well-pressed, and sweetened with a few teaspoons of sugar, he took his own seat near Aziraphale. Their chairs were turned more towards each other than towards the middle of the table, and he almost absently let his right hand rest where Aziraphale could reach it. Which Aziraphale did, enfolding their fingers together in a gesture that had become wonderfully second nature to them both.
They ate and drank in comfortable silence, interrupted by an occasional Pass the ham, would you? or Toss us a croissant then intermingled with the usual noises Aziraphale made to show his appreciation for good food, simple as it was. In their time they’d shared meals at any number of brilliant eateries, from Michelin-starred restaurants to the sorts of hole-in-the-wall places that only locals and particularly savvy tourists knew contained hidden culinary gems. Neither of them would have changed this meal for even the finest of those.
“Oh!” Aziraphale’s voice was lit with pleasure, and he squeezed Crowley’s fingers. “It’s snowing, look.”
Crowley obediently looked out the window, where soft fluffy flakes lazily fell from the sky. He considered being annoyed about it–he had plans for the week, and icy roads were no part of them–but was so content he couldn’t be arsed.
Aziraphale beamed so brightly on the view that it was a wonder the flakes didn’t melt in mid-air. “We haven’t seen the cottage under a blanket of snow yet. Perhaps we could take a walk later, after it’s had time to gather a bit.”
Crowley made a face, though he didn’t really mean it. “You want me to go out in that cold wet stuff? On purpose?”
“I’m sure I could make it with your while, you old serpent.” The look Aziraphale shot him was as laden with heated promise as the enticement Crowley had wafted his way earlier. Crowley shivered, pleasantly reminded that Aziraphale had a good deal of experience crafting temptations himself, and not only because they’d been doing each other’s jobs for centuries. Though Crowley had always been an easy mark for Aziraphale’s wiles, as the angel well knew. “I’d be only too willing to warm you up again afterwards, if you’ll indulge me.”
“I could probably be persuaded,” Crowley said lightly. He stroked Aziraphale’s wrist lightly with his thumb. “I do like indulging you.”
“I know.” Two simple words, but weighed with a wealth of knowledge and affection and understanding. Aziraphale smiled and lifted their hands so he could kiss Crowley’s fingers. “As sweet as love,” he quoted again.
Something bright and warm flared in Crowley’s chest. He imitated Aziraphale’s gesture, bringing their joined hands to his mouth and kissing their entwined fingers, then nipped delicately at them. “Come back to bed?” No temptation this time, just the simple joy of asking.
“Oh, very well. You’ve convinced me.” Aziraphale stood and tugged Crowley into standing, then pulled him into an embrace; Crowley came willingly. “We have world enough and time, after all. Nor would I love at lower rate.”
“Enough with the poetry, angel.” Crowley kissed him, slow and thorough, stopping his mouth. “You said I could drag you back upstairs to do unspeakable things, and that's what we'll do. Except we'll also speak about them as we do them. In detail.”
“Yes, dear.”