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Crowley wasn't paying much attention at all as he leaned against the nearest table, absentmindedly listening to Aziraphale order his signature Earl Grey tea (his favorite) as well as warmed blueberry scones, from the local coffee shop that they had so often begun to frequent since finding their home with each other and their cottage in the South Downs.
Crowley, instead of giving his own order to the barista, was starting fights on Twitter, as demons were often prone to do, grinning to himself at the flood of notifications from people who were baffled by his (entirely correct, actually) opinions on the universe and its infinite stars.
He wasn't paying attention — but his head jerked up when Aziraphale's hand suddenly came to rest on his arm, serpentine eyes fluttering up towards the angel, who was beaming at the barista taking his order.
". . . so I shall just have those, and then my lovely partner here will have six shots of espresso." Aziraphale's voice was chirpy and warm; it was the kind of voice that made you want to bury yourself in the speaker's arms, and never allow yourself to be pried away. "Mhm, yes. In a big cup, if you would be so kind. Thank you so very much, my dear!"
The barista — who looked more than a little dazed at the twenty-pound note that Aziraphale had slipped into the tip jar — nodded, and pointed them towards the spot where they were to pick up their orders. Aziraphale led Crowley (who was more than a little dazed, himself) with a gentle hand on his arm, and plucked the demon's phone from his hands with deft fingers, tutting in gentle reprimand.
"Darling, leave the poor children alone," he scolded, not unkindly.
"Angel, most people who use that app are fully over the age of forty," Crowley grunted in response.
His freckled cheeks had gone pink, he could feel it, and in his chest, his heart was pounding almost to an uncomfortable degree, sending an ache through the curvature of his ribcage with the utter devastation that was his love for Aziraphale. It was odd, he thought vaguely; but the angel remembering such a simple thing as his coffee order felt — it felt . . .
It felt like hearing him say I love you for the first time, all over again.
"Even still, I — oh, my dear."
Aziraphale's words broke off into a fond murmur as Crowley (in one fluid movement, as if moving quickly would spare him of any embarrassment at his vulnerability) ducked his head to bury his face in the crook of the angel's neck, wrapping one slender hand around his waist and hooking his fingers through the loop of Aziraphale's trousers.
The angel huffed fondly, and turned his head to press a kiss just beside Crowley's ear, his lips brushing against the coiled serpent tattoo; his hand came to rest over Crowley's, squeezing gently as he wove his fingers through the demon's.
"My silly demon," Aziraphale whispered, tilting his head enough that his cheek rested against Crowley's forehead, the two of them perfectly conjoined. "I do believe you're going soft on me, my love."
"N'ver," Crowley mumbled, even as he snuggled himself impossibly closer to Aziraphale, not caring a single bit about the patrons bustling around them; he had endured human public displays of affection for six thousand years while pining helplessly for something he had thought he could never have, so they could endure this for a few moments. Besides — this moment was theirs, that they were sharing, and nothing would take that moment from them.
"Earl Grey tea, two orders of blueberry scones, warmed, and six shots of espresso . . .?"
Well. Nothing besides coffee, maybe.
The barista's voice pulled Crowley briefly from his reverie, but not completely, as Aziraphale led him over to a small table with a vase and a single peony inside balanced in the middle. He placed their drinks between them, one of his hands still intertwined with Crowley's; with the other, he handed him his coffee with a murmured here you go, my darling. Crowley drank, and he smiled.
"Tastes amazing," he murmured, lifting his gaze up to meet Aziraphale's — feeling wonderfully, familiarly (for the first time in six thousand years), utterly and entirely at peace. "Thank you, angel."
"Anything for you, my love," Aziraphale whispered back — and though Crowley would never deign himself to admit it aloud, the little squeeze that the angel gave to his hand proved just how much Aziraphale knew how something as simple as remembering his drink order could mean the absolute world to the demon who, despite God's claims of it, had never experienced real, true, unconditional love until he had met his angel.
And nothing would take that away. Not anymore. Because they were for forever.