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Aziraphale slammed the pot down as hard as he could allow himself, which is to say not very hard at all. His countertops were a lovely granite after all, no amount of frustration is worth that kind of needless destruction.
“This is just impossible, I have no idea how they do it.” He threw his hands up and then let them fall back against his hips.
“Hmmm.” Crowley didn't look up from the paper he was reading.
“Seriously, I don’t think I can do this. We will have to starve.” Aziraphale whined.
Still nothing from the demon. Aziraphale stomped his foot a couple times. And then a couple more, louder. Crowley turned the page over and started scanning the new headlines. The angel stalked over to him and knocked a cup of tea right into the demon's lap.
“Ye-ooouch what in the hel-”
“Oh whoops, clumsy me, here.” He threw a tea towel into his face and then walked back into the kitchen and spun around with his hands firmly back on his hips and a grumpy expression.
“Angel, you just spilled hot tea all over me! What are you bloody mad for?” Crowley slides back down into his chair after jumping straight up in the air like a spooked cat. With an annoyed flick of his hand he miracles his dark suit trousers dry. “You could have singed my bits off you absolute barking mad dongle!”
Aziraphale feels his mad face slip for a second but he quickly slams it back in place. He obviously hadn't meant to hurt Crowley, but well, ignoring someone is just plain rude. He had to take drastic measures.
“I am having a terrible time! I think this was a stupid idea and I don't want to do it anymore.” The words come out quieter towards the end of the sentence and Aziraphale finds himself aiming his words more at his loafers than at his demon.
Crowley took a closer look at what the angel had been doing in the kitchen and bloody hell terrible time was an understatement. There was egg dripping down between the elements of the stovetop, various vegetables in different states of mangled hanging about the place like vegan streamers. There was a strange black liquid in gloopy puddles on the floor and the oven looked like something Beelzebub would do to an insubordinates’ intestines.
His mouth opens to comment but one look from the angel has him clicking his teeth together instead.
He goes to say something again and is hit with a glare so powerful it was probably laced with something holy and maybe chilli peppers or a fucking bazooka.
Instead of risking the paperwork it would take to re-combobulate, he flicks his wrist again and sets the kitchen to rights.
“Look, you tried your hand at cooking, it was very funny, we all enjoyed ourselves.” He comes up and puts his hand on the angel's shoulder. “Let's go out to eat, hmm? You choose this time!”
“But that wasn’t the point!” Aziraphale shakes him off and stomps a little on the spot.
“What was the point? Inventing a new bio-nuclear weapon? Sorry sorry!” Crowley throws his hand in front of his face to protect his glasses from an untimely death.
“What I wanted was to create something… Well something special for just, you know. Just for us.” Aziraphale choked out.
Crowley found himself very interested in the angel's ears, and, strangely, different words for the colour red. Maroon, crimson, beetroot, blood and guts… Blush.
“Well that's pink, blush is pink. But pink is just light red isn’t it? Isn’t it funny that we say light blue or light green or what have you but we don't say light red? Pink is a fraud of a colour. Lovely colour, but a total lie. What are we talking about?” Crowley had to shake his head like a silly cartoon.
“Cooking?” Offers Aziraphale hesitantly.
“Cooking! Bloody good. Yes, cooking. Right!” He slaps his hands together. “Let's do this!”
“Together?” The angel beams.
Crowley thinks of nebulas, of stars and indescribable, stuff that's hard to describe. Beautiful stuff.
“Yeah, together. I’ve seen every season of hell's kitchen available on earth and three of the available six in actual hell. Hell’s Hell's Kitchen. It was horrendous but there was a marvellous jus that I am dying to recreate.” He strikes a pose and a black chef's hat appears on his head at a jaunty angle.
“Wonderful! I'll start on the marinade! Maybe while I do that we can think what we will marinade!” Aziraphale starts rifling through the pantry with renewed vigour.
“Nah, let's just surprise ourselves with whatever ends up in there. After all, it wouldn't be our dish without a little ineffability” Crowley winks as the angel turns back to smile shyly at him. And when he turns around again, he's unknowingly sporting a white chef's hat and a “french kiss the french chef” apron.
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