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It was a dry summer. Only a garden circling the lone cottage in the valley beneath the South Downs cliffs dared grow deep, vivacious, viridian greenery, defying the dehydrated chartreuse fields of the surrounding undulating cliffs.
A window on the side of the cottage was ajar with a thin layer of condensation on one side. A passerby could deduce the direction of the kitchen from the fog on the glass. An angel and a demon were inside fussing over a disorder of pots and pans.
The demon looked ill-suited to the small cottage kitchen in his black-clad lankiness, yellow slitted eyes that couldn't appear homely if they tried, and unmistakable awkwardness in the cozy space. He wore a black apron already sullied with flour.
The Flour was much less evident on the muted tones of the angel's suit and waistcoat. Only his trousers and shoes revealed a sprinkling of flour, possibly batter. With careful attentiveness, one might not have noticed the flour even dusted the edges of his messy, white-blonde fringe. Far less incriminating than his demon partner with his black clothes incontestably doused in flour.
The batter in the humbly-sized mixing bowl was viscous and khaki. The demon tested its thickness by letting a spoonful drop into the pool of batter below.
"Certainly not, crepes have more substance than that. It will burn in an instant!"
"It needs to spread quickly and evenly, angel. Here, watch and then try it for yourself."
The large frying pan on the stovetop smelled slightly of burning already. The angel was suspicious. "I don't want to waste any batter," he argued.
"We'll just miracle ourselves some more."
"But it won't be the same!"
The demon Crowley rolled his golden eyes. “Watch,” he said.
He buttered the pan well, allowing the butter to melt for only a moment on the frying pan’s surface, then poured a small dollop of batter that looked insignificant in the center of the pan. Very swiftly and smoothly, Crowley took the crepe spreader from its resting place on the side of the stovetop by the frying pan and swung the batter around in a perfect circle. It was thin against the black frying pan’s heated surface, and the aroma wafted through this kitchen and out the small breach of the open window almost instantly.
“How could that possibly be enough?” Aziraphale, the angel, asked, still doubtful.
“Of course it is,” the demon hissed. He visibly reigned his impatience in. The slits of his eyes scarcely dilated as he exhaled. “Watch and wait. Which fillings, angel?”
The angel paused as his face lined with worry.
“Don’t tell me. All of them?! How can you hope to fit all of them, angel?”
“See I told you it was too thin, it will fall apart.”
“You can only have one kind at a time, be reasonable.” Crowley buttered the crepe while it cooked and he waited for a real answer.
Aziraphale’s face conveyed just how unreasonable it was to go to all this trouble only to settle for one type of topping. “Lemon curd and whipped cream, then,” he said unhappily.
Crowley restrained another eyeroll at his pouting as he used a long, flat baking spatula to fold the crepe evenly into a half-circle, then spread the lemon curd and whipped cream, in that order, acrost it, and finally folded the trifle into a triangle.
He then slid the crepe onto a simple white plate for Aziraphale as the angel hurried excitedly to get himself a fork and knife.
Crowley nodded to encourage the angel to eat and not wait for him, and mumbled something inaudible and clumsy as he motioned to his glass of red wine. “Uh, go on, then,” he finally said. “You can give it a go when you’re done.”
Aziraphale barely registered the words. As he took a bite, he looked positively indulgent. The demon allowed a small smile to touch his lips. The smile lit his eyes, though, as he stopped making crepes for a moment and watched the angel instead. The angel dabbed a canary yellow cloth napkin on either side of his mouth and set it down stiffly yet cheerfully.
“Alright, angel, you give it a go,” the demon shifted to the side of the range so Aziraphale could stand near the frying pan.
Aziraphale cleared his throat and dropped a too-large puddle of crepe batter onto the pan. Crowley awkwardly covered his mouth to preempt a smirk. Aziraphale glared at him out of the corner of his eye, wielded the crepe spreader, and utterly vandalised the surface of the would-be crepe. A wrinkle like the wrinkles in the crepe blighting the pan formed between his brows as he worried over the result and fiddled with the spreader, but the blemished crepe batter cooking in the pan refused to budge.
Crowley firmly held his smirk back with his hand until he couldn’t anymore, and let out a loud, ribbing laugh.
Aziraphale firmly set the crepe spreader on the counter next to the stovetop and all but plunged his hands into his hips.
“My dear.”
Aziraphale looked distressed when Crowley only kept laughing at his crepe attempt. Crowley wiped the mirth from the corner of his eye as he composed himself.
"Yes, alright, let's scrap it and give it another go."
"Scrap it?!"
"Oh, for somebody's sake. You can't be serious, angel. That's not edible."
"What a waste, Crowley."
Crowley raised one dark eyebrow as high as it could possibly go. "You would eat that?” he pointed an accusatory finger at the hodgepodge of batter, “Really?"
Aziraphale pursed his lips.
"I thought not. Sit down, Aziraphale."
The angel obliged, but pouted about it. Crowley lifted the pan above the bin and scraped the clumpy mess of cooking dough into it with a pronounced plunk.
Crowley spread butter over the frying pan's surface, dropped another dollop identical in size to the first crepe he made, and created another near-perfect circle with the crepe spreader. Aziraphale's shoulders relaxed, and Crowley again needed to restrain a laugh with his free hand. He wiped the amusement away and again asked, "What flavour, angel?"
“Chocolate, then,” the angel said, already perking up again at the promise of more food.
The gangly demon folded the crepe in on itself, spread a thin sheen of butter on it, and gave the three squares of chocolate the space and time they needed to melt before rationing the melted chocolate between the expanse of the papery dough. Aziraphale bounced in his seat impatiently while it cooked through, then Crowley finally lifted the crepe onto the already messy plate.
The demon's eyebrows knit together in confusion when Aziraphale didn't pick up his fork and knife. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"Nothing whatsoever," the angel said as he reached for Crowley's hand and held it. Crowley smiled.
Aziraphale could have said any number of things to express how sorry he was or how grateful he was or how much he loved his demon. By way of saying all of this at once, he brought the demon's hand to his lips and pressed a firm, long kiss onto it.
Cowley set an elbow on the kitchen counter, rested his head on one hand, drank in the look in his angel's eyes, and smiled.