Every morning Crowley wakes up around eleven (except for Saturdays, when he gets up at noon, and on Sundays, when he hides until he is sure all the church goers have probably gone home) and makes himself a cup of coffee with the sleek, shiny black thing that hisses and sputters at him on his counter (the bloke at the store said it was the latest technology in cappuccino makers, but really, he thinks it might be an imp in disguise) and then grabs the morning paper. He skims it for anything important, and when he finds nothing goes to mist his plants. (Once a month he walks around wearing white kid gloves, and drags a finger over leaves, checking for dust and leafmold. If plants had posture, these ones' spines would be so straight, chiropractors would weep.) Then, if he's in the mood, he'll have some sort of brunch before leaving his flat. First, he'll stop in the lobby and pet the little dog that keeps the doorman company (If you'll ask why he does it he'll say its because of the way the dog chases his neighbor's cat, Fluffums, who got into his flat and destroyed several of his plants. They were terrified, but not of him, which was a problem.) Then, he'll take a stroll down the block to the garage where he keeps the Bentley, and go to visit his angel.
Demons are Creatures of Habit.
So are Angels.
Everyday, Aziraphale gets dressed bright and early (It would be wrong to say he wakes up, because he rarely sleeps, purposefully at least.) at eight o'clock, sharp. (Except on Saturdays, when he allows himself a little extra time, and Sundays, when he prepares at seven thirty.) Then he promptly marches to the kitchette, and puts the kettle on (Occasionally, he may have to give the stove a good thump to get it working properly, but that's okay.) when the water boils he sets to making himself a good cup of cocoa. Then, after a bowl of cereal, or maybe a croissant, he goes to tidy the bookshop (as in rearranging books and dislodging a warren of dust bunnies) and opens the curtains to let the sunlight in. He seriously considers flipping the sign to open, does it, forgets it is that way, and then shoos away a would be customer ("Did that silly sign flip again? So sorry dear, really. We're cleaning right now, my apologizes.") And goes back to puttering until his demon arrives.
And then, they talk. The time varies, from a few minutes to a few hours, but it is part of a ritual neither of them really totally understands. It is an old ritual, comfortable like a favorite leather armchair, smooth in all the right places, but with plenty of interesting wrinkles and patterns elsewhere. And then they eat, carry out, or dine in, the Ritz or some tiny café where their names are known. And then, sometimes, more often than not they drink. And talk some more. And finally, they part ways, ready to do it all over again.
Of course there are anomalies in this pattern, sometimes they feed the ducks in the park. Occasionally, they take a break, or go on business trips. But they always return, gravitating towards each other.
Just Creatures of Habit.