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They’ve fallen into a routine, quite unexpectedly, and a rather domestic one at that.
He wasn’t exactly sure when or even how it happened, but the realization slammed Crowley square in the chest one morning as he made a mess of his otherwise pristine kitchen by whisking crêpe batter of all things.
For the past month or so, Aziraphale would wait in bed for Crowley to wake up and ask him for something different for breakfast each morning. Yesterday he had asked for a fry-up, the day before that it had been for eggs and soldiers, and earlier this week he had wanted buttered crumpets with a side of jam– just to name a few.
And for that same month or so, Crowley had delivered on each request without so much as a grumble of protest. It was honestly kind of embarrassing, but his love for doing things for Aziraphale overpowered the humiliation of it all.
Today’s request was for crêpes.
And so, there he was, standing in the middle of his kitchen, clad in silk pyjamas with a serious case of bed-head, upholding the routine by making said crêpes.
He turned on the hob and set a pan over top to heat up, taking a leisurely sip of coffee while he waited.
Given the time to think on it, it became clear to see just how much this unnamed thing between them has changed since the apoca-whoops. For starters, they’d finally given it a name: Love. And with love, came change.
They practically lived with each other now, spending little to no time apart. When Crowley wanted to check in on his plants, Aziraphale would bring a few books over and read in bed all night long while Crowley slept. And when Aziraphale wanted to go back to the shop for some more books, Crowley easily tagged along and spent the night sleeping on the old settee in the backroom while Aziraphale read aloud to him.
Although it might have seemed like they were living in each other’s pocket since they first committed to being on their own side, they liked it that way.
It was a simple, easy type of intimacy that they’ve shared with each other for countless centuries at this point, but it all felt so different now that they were free to be openly fond and affectionate towards each other. It somehow felt so much softer, so much sweeter than it ever had been. It’d never been so easy to engage in, but this, this was as simple as breathing. Even the simplest, most mundane thing in the world could feel like the greatest act of love he has ever committed, and today that just so happened to be making a simple breakfast for the person he loved most in life.
A smile wormed its way onto his lips at the thought, though no one was around to see it.
He poured a generous amount of batter into the pan, perhaps a bit too much, and gave the delicate pastry a careful flip. It was thicker than it should have been in terms of it being authentic, but oh well. He would just put that one on his own plate and give Aziraphale the better-looking ones from the batch. That had only just been the first one, after all.
Without thinking about the logistics of it possibly being too hot for consumption, especially after coming straight off the pan, he ripped off a chunk and popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, evaluating the texture and subtle sweetness of the pastry, before swallowing with an appraising hum. The thickness was indeed a bit off off, but it still tasted pretty good to him.
And so, satisfied that he wouldn’t need to dump the batter and start from scratch, he moved on to pour the next round of batter in; careful to use less and spread it around a bit more this time.
The next one was better, much suppler and thinner, and cooked to a beautifully golden tan. He gingerly placed it on Aziraphale's plate and soon lost himself in the soothing repetition of pouring, flipping, and dishing up the homemade crêpes, only pausing to take a swig of his coffee every so often.
In the end, most of the crêpes had turned out perfect (or close enough to it, anyway) and had found their way onto the angel’s plate, giving him the lion's share, while Crowley happily kept a few of the ones that had turned out a bit on the wonky side.
With the crêpes sorted for the meantime, he then went about preparing a champagne poached pear filling. Oh, Aziraphale was going to love this.
In between reducing the champagne sauce and slicing up the softly poached pears, his eyes wandered around his flat. So much around here has changed with their strange new relationship, too.
The lounge, especially, had gained an air of ‘lived-in’ quality with Aziraphale choosing to hang around here more often. Gone were the days of only having his huge television, expensive sound system, chic glass-top coffee table, and white leather sofa only taking up about a quarter of the available space in the room.
The first change had been the addition of dark wood bookshelves (and therefore the plethora of books and other baubles displayed on them). Then came the collection of fluffy pillows and soft blankets making themselves at home on the sofa, as well as a cushy armchair (that could have easily been considered a loveseat) on the opposite side of the couch.
It was oddly nice, seeing Aziraphale’s things in his space. Their styles didn’t exactly mix, far from it actually, but it felt right to see a hideously garish looking tartan blanket draped lovingly over the back of his stylish couch.
He finished tucking the slices of pear into their bed of crêpes and drizzled the sweet sauce on top of them, heart so full it could burst. This meal had been prepared with so much love, and so much attention to detail, he was sure that Aziraphale would be able to taste it in his first bite.
Everything was placed on a neat little tray, including a nice cup of tea for his angel and a fresh cup of coffee for himself, but something seemed to be missing.
He looked around, seemingly for some kind of answer, before his eyes caught onto the bouquet of pink peonies sitting innocently on the counter. Aziraphale had brought them for him when he came over the night before. With a delicate hand, he plucked a stem from the vase and, only feeling a tiny bit sappy while doing it, nestled the pretty flower between their plates and mugs.
There, now it was perfect.
Impossibly chuffed with himself, he made his way back to the bedroom.
Aziraphale was lounging comfortably right in the middle of his spacious California king size bed, exactly where he’d been before Crowley left. He was even still reading with those adorably unnecessary reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, though the book appeared to be a different one from the one he’d had the night before.
“Room service,” Crowley called softly into the room, making sure that nothing fell off the tray while he shouldered the door open the rest of the way.
“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale beamed, looking up from his first edition of Love and Friendship, and Other Early Works. His brow furrowed when he noticed the tray, along with the spread laid upon it. “What’s the occasion?”
“Does there have to be one?” Crowley asked back, fumbling with one hand to arrange a few pillows against the headboard before settling in on his side of the bed. Placing the tray between them, he raised an eyebrow until Aziraphale moved his book.
“I don’t suppose so…” He accepted the tray onto his lap. “It’s just… this all seems so well thought out.” The flower, especially. He frowned slightly. “Are you sure I’m not forgetting something? One of our anniversaries, perhaps? Is today the one-thousandth time that you’ve woken up in my arms?”
Crowley scratched absentmindedly under his chin. “No, that was yesterday, actually, but thanks for noticing.” Aziraphale looked horrified.
“Yesterday!?” He squawked, very nearly knocking the tray over. He’d originally said it in jest but…oh dear, he must have miscounted. He could have sworn they were only in the seven-hundreds, give or take a few times. How could he have been so far off?
“I’m just kidding, angel.” Crowley righted the angel’s fork before it could topple off the edge of the tray. “Truth is, I haven’t really been keeping track of that sort of thing.”
“Seven-hundred and forty-nine.”
“Wot?”
“By my count, I’ve woken up to you in my arms seven-hundred and forty-nine times.”
Crowley’s eyebrows raised, a teasing smile playing at the corners of his lips, though his uncovered eyes were impossibly fond. “Oh. I’ll have to remember that so we can celebrate when we hit a thousand, then.”
“I’d like that.” Aziraphale smiled back softly before tucking into his breakfast. He moaned around the first bite and took pleasure in watching the tips of Crowley’s ears flush a fetching shade of red. It wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t hold back on letting Crowley know that they were absolutely marvelous. The rich, buttery sauce paired especially well with the delicate pastry and the subtle sweetness of the pear. “Oh, these are exquisite, darling. Where did you learn how to make these?”
“Paris,” Crowley said with a gulp, forcibly tearing his gaze away. He then attempted to spear a pear with his fork and missed, prompting him to try again with an annoyed frown. “It was during the revolution, the same place we got crêpes after we left the Bastille. The old woman who owned it had no children of her own, and she didn’t want her recipe to be forgotten, so… I tempted her into teaching me how to make them for you.”
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale bumped his shoulders lightly against Crowley’s, and snuggled up against him. Crowley’s arm snaked around his waist, pulling the angel closer. “How is it that, even after all these years, I’m still finding new things about you to fall in love with?”
Crowley shrugged, trying and failing to hide a growing giddy smile behind the guise of nibbling on a pear. But it didn’t fool Aziraphale for a second, he had seen the way Crowley’s eyes dilated at the question. “‘S just crêpes, angel. Nothin’ special.”
“It is, though,” he nuzzled his face against Crowley’s neck, “because you made them.”
“Ngk, yeah,” Crowley conceded, resting his chin against Aziraphale’s crown.
They lapsed into a comfortable silence after that, each focusing on breaking their fasts. Aziraphale cleaned his plate, using the rest of his crêpes to soak up every bit of sauce, while Crowley only indulged in a few more bites, ultimately setting aside his fork to instead drink his miraculously still warm coffee.
This, you see, was another part of their little routine.
“Would you like some more?” Crowley nudged his plate over, clinking it lightly against Aziraphale's emptied one. “They’re not as great as the ones I made specifically for you, mind, but they’re still pretty good.”
“Nonsense, dear boy!” Aziraphale pulled the plate the rest of the way over, putting it on top of his own. “I’m sure they’re just as lovely. Perfect, even, just like you.”
Crowley sputtered into his coffee. “‘M not perfect, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yeah you are, you’re an angel.”
“I was never really a perfect angel, though.”
“You were in my book.”
“You old charmer,” Aziraphale daintily cut through the too-thick crêpes and chewed thoughtfully for a moment. Crowley watched him intently. “Mmm… my dear?”
“Yeah?”
“I was right, these are perfect.”
Tomorrow, Aziraphale would let Crowley pick what they had for breakfast.