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The demon's day began when he managed to drag himself out of bed at around 2 p.m. (He didn't usually stay asleep for this long, but Armageddon had really taken it out of him.) Crowley checked his phone to find a message from his darling angel, reading, 'Good morning, my dearest. I do hope that you're sleeping well. Would you like to visit the bookshop later today? I have been missing you terribly.' He smiled as he read it, knowing that even though his respective head office didn't even consider him a demon anymore, at least he had Aziraphale, who had always accepted him for who he was and what he wished to do with his time residing on Earth without pushing him to do anything he didn't want to.
Crowley quickly responded, his fingers moving with expertise to the correct keys to tell Aziraphale that he would very much like that and would be over as soon as he could will himself to move.
Aziraphale was comfortably nestled in an armchair in his bookshop, reading a first edition of a book he had gotten his hands on some time ago, but considering the events of the recent weeks, he had forgiven himself (which was something he was very good at, of course) for not having read it sooner.
He glanced up from the book only a couple times to either check his phone for messages from Crowley or if he had heard something even slightly resembling the engine of Crowley's beloved Bentley, eager to see the demon once more. By the time the redhead had arrived at the shop, Aziraphale had managed to make a substantial amount of progress with his book and eventually had given up and gone to make himself a cup of tea.
Crowley immediately sprawled out across his favourite armchair, his serpentine habits still appearing even now, 6,000 years after he had tempted Eve to eat the apple in the Garden of Eden. This made a wave of nostalgia make its way over Aziraphale, remembering fondly the day that the two of them had met, with not even the slightest idea that millenia later, they would be living practically together at this point, Crowley only ever really leaving if he could physically not move (which would happen sometimes, considering how his corporation seemed to have a personal vendetta against him at times), or if he had a new plant that he needed to yell at privately. Aziraphale would certainly not stand for Crowley's poor plants being screamed at for small spots. And if the demon had asked, he most definitely wasn't giving them loving attention and care when the demon wasn't in the room (or the bookshop, for that matter).
"Angel!" Crowley called from his chair, noticing a spot was beginning to form on one of the plants he had been keeping in Aziraphale's bookshop. He knew all too well that the angel was being nice to the plant, even though he had agreed not to do so. "Yes, dear?" The angel responded, walking slowly back towards the room as to not accidentally spill his tea. He looked expectantly at Crowley, expecting him to say something rather silly. The redhead simply pointed towards the plant and spoke slowly, "What. Is. That."
A confused look appeared on the angel's face, seeing no issue with the plant Crowley was angrily pointing at. "My dear boy, I see no issue with anything that you are pointing at. I can only see a plant, a quite lovely one if I may add." The demon hissed, "There is quite clearly a bloody spot there, angel. We talked about this! No praising the plants, especially if there's spots."
Aziraphale laughed softly, "Oh, Crowley, it's just a spot. You are so terribly funny with your plants, dearest." The redhead definitely didn't lean into the angel's shoulder, and he definitely didn't stay like that as they made their way to the sofa.
And he definitely didn't stay like that until the following morning, hazy hues of comfort in the atmosphere of the bookshop, slight aromas of hot cocoa and the crinkling turn of pages as Aziraphale re-read one of his beloved hardbacks.