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The home generally awoke to Aziraphale puttering about the kitchen.
Aziraphale himself didn’t really sleep. He typically lay in bed, his body relaxed, in a half asleep state. It was pleasant, he told Crowley. But it would take some getting used to. He rises before Crowley does. Aziraphale makes his morning tea, still in his pyjamas, fluffy night cap on. He loves the process. It is grounding, methodical.
And really, Crowley is getting used to this kind of domesticity. He remembers a time when he had dreamt of waking up beside Aziraphale, kissing him whenever he wished. He didn’t have to imagine it anymore.
Crowley would usually wake when he felt around the bed and realized Aziraphale wasn’t there. Only then would he follow him into the kitchen, blinking sleep out of his eyes, fondness creeping up his heart as he watches Aziraphale sip his tea as he looks out the kitchen window.
Now that they have all the time they could possibly have, Aziraphale tries his hand at cooking. He spends a while looking through his cookbooks, searching for recipes. He wants to try anything and everything. Lately, he’s been into Indian food. Crowley himself finds it a tad spicy for his taste but he enjoys it nonetheless.
Today, Aziraphale has decided to make chapattis, along with paneer gravy.
Crowley leans against the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, watching him. In the soft, buttery light of the morning, Aziraphale looks impossibly tender. He kneads the dough with his hands in a rhythmic motion. And well, Crowley isn’t sure what to do. He’s never really just let himself look, really.
The light filtering through the window illuminates Aziraphale. It elongates his shadow on the counter. It highlights the powder blue vest he usually wears. His curls are slightly ruffled; he mustn’t have combed them this morning.
Aziraphale had explained to him the making of chapattis the day before. After the dough was kneaded, it was flattened by a rolling pin. Then it was cooked over the pan. Gravy was usually made to go along with it. Aziraphale told him he would be mashing tomatoes and onions and coriander leaves, along with some spices after leaving the dough to rest. He liked making the trip down the lane to the grocery store to pick out all they needed to cook and eat. Crowley had offered to miracle them in but Aziraphale insisted he liked this way better. So Crowley didn’t mind.
Crowley likes watching him, the way his face lights up when he talks about his newest meal plan. Crowley isn’t really that interested in the learning the difference between chapattis and parathas but he is always happy to listen to Aziraphale. Moreover, it delights him when Crowley has a few bites of whatever he’s cooked that day. And Crowley has to admit, Aziraphale is quite a good cook. So he tries to hide his smile as Aziraphale prattles on. But the thing is, he knows Aziraphale knows Crowley is doing this all for him, because Crowley knows it makes him happy. And he appreciates it. Crowley knows that as well.
Now he kneads the dough, humming lightly to himself. Crowley sees the smile lines around his eyes as hums. He’s aware his own smile is slotting into place. He doesn’t care.
He takes in the outline of Aziraphale’s body. His foot is tapping along with the beat. His smile has grown wider. He is like his own sun, in his own solar system, lighting up everything he touches, making it all better with a brush of his fingers. He is radiant.
Crowley crosses the length of the room, sidestepping the dining table and comes up behind Aziraphale. His arms circle him. Aziraphale gives a little ‘oof’ of surprise but then relaxes. “Hello,” Aziraphale says. He laughs as Crowley nuzzles his neck. Crowley wants to hear that laugh every day. He grips him tighter.
He traces absent minded patterns on Aziraphale’s wrist. There is something huge and all-encompassing rising in his chest. It is directly proportional to how Crowley’s hand which rests on Aziraphale’s heart rises and falls, and more so to the contrast of Crowley’s black sleeve against Aziraphale’s white dress shirt.
I love him, Crowley thinks.
He kisses Aziraphale’s neck, taking his time. Aziraphale only sighs. He hasn’t been prone to this kind of affection, more than happy to simply sneak a fond glance at him when he fancied. But when it gets overwhelming, too much, the circle of Aziraphale’s arms is where Crowley wants to be.
Outside, the sparrows chirp. A horn sounds from an oncoming vehicle. A cat yowls. Life goes on. But both of them are content to stay here, not willing to let go just yet.