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Aziraphale had a ridiculous number of cups. Not because he liked them, not exactly.
It wasn't an obsession or anything... there was just something about cups.
He loved drinking tea and hot chocolate, and he seemed to have made it his mission to find the right cup for every hot beverage.
Now, although he was quite happy with his tea cups, he seemed to struggle to find a satisfactory cup for hot chocolate.
Crowley didn't understand it.
"Give it a rest, they are cups! One is just as good as the other." He would say.
"The right cup for the right drink contributes to the right level of comfort!" Aziraphale would argue.
Crowley would roll his eyes and change the subject.
He just didn't get it.
One winter's day in the early 1990s, Crowley was walking through the streets of London, thinking about what his next demonic act was going to be (a new kind of little sauce packets that wouldn't open properly seemed like a good idea), when something in the window of a small shop in Covent Garden caught his eye.
He stopped, considering for a few moments, then walked in.
When he went to the bookshop that evening, he deftly and nonchalantly snuck into the back room and made a small addition to the angel's collection of cups.
Aziraphale didn't notice; he retrieved his coat and they went out for a lovely dinner at the Ritz.
It was only a couple of days later that the angel noticed the new item on his shelf. It was a mug. An all-white mug with a handle in the shape of an angel's wings. Aziraphale stared at it for a few seconds, confused, flabbergasted. Where did it come from?
He picked it up and examined it carefully, then a soft smile appeared on his face.
There was only one explanation... Crowley.
The angel smiled more and held the mug closer to his chest, blushing a little, his eyes sparkling with joy.
That same night, Crowley went to the bookshop.
He was sprawled out on the sofa, lazily reading the entertainment section in the newspaper, when Aziraphale came out of the back room and sat down in his armchair, right in front of him. He was holding a steaming mug; not just any mug. It was The Mug.
The angel smiled to himself and took a sip, almost theatrically, letting out a soft but very deliberate moan of delight that immediately caught Crowley's attention.
The demon noticed the mug and stiffened for a moment, then went back to his usual nonchalance and looked back at the newspaper.
"New mug?" He asked, casually.
The smile on Aziraphale's face widened. He decided to play along.
"Yes... do you like it?"
Crowley flipped through the pages, continuing to act uninterested.
"I told you, angel... to me one is just as good as the other."
A pause, then the demon swallowed a little, suddenly looking slightly nervous.
"Do you... like it?" He asked, his eyes still fixed on the newspaper.
Aziraphale couldn't help but feel a warm feeling spreading through his chest.
"Yes..." he said. "I like it very much. In fact, I think it might be my favourite mug."
Crowley flipped through the pages.
"Good..." he said, his voice more feeble than he intended. He cleared his throat.
"Then hopefully I will never have to listen to your endless monologues about cups again." Continued the demon.
Aziraphale smiled affectionately.
"No... I guess you won't."
"Great."
Aziraphale just looked at him with infinite love, continuing to smile like a fool.
Crowley shot him a quick glance.
"What?" He said, forcing himself to sound annoyed.
Aziraphale smiled more.
"Thank you."
Crowley stiffened again and shifted a little on the sofa, looking uncomfortable.
"Ngk... just drink your stupid hot chocolate..."
Aziraphale chuckled lightly to himslef and took another sip.
Crowley, hidden behind the newspaper, allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.