The first rays of dawn filtered through the thick, velvet curtains of the bookshop's upstairs bedroom. Crowley stirred, the faint scent of freshly brewed tea and something delightfully buttery teasing his senses. He stretched lazily, letting the sheets slide down his bare chest, and peeked over his dark sunglasses, which he'd refused to remove even for sleep.
Standing in the doorway, bathed in the golden morning light, was Aziraphale, balancing a tray with the grace of someone who'd spent centuries perfecting the art of making things just so. The tray bore a pristine porcelain teapot, a plate of buttery scones, a small jar of raspberry jam, and a neatly folded napkin.
"What's this, then?" Crowley drawled, propping himself up on one elbow.
"Breakfast, dear boy," Aziraphale replied with a smile that rivaled the sun. "I thought it might be nice to start the day properly for once."
Crowley quirked an eyebrow behind his glasses. "What's the occasion? Did Heaven finally approve of tea parties in bed?"
Aziraphale tutted and made his way over to the bed, setting the tray carefully on Crowley's lap. "Must there always be an occasion? I simply thought you'd enjoy it."
Crowley eyed the tray suspiciously, though the aroma of the scones was quickly breaking down his resolve. "You didn't poison it, did you? I know how you feel about breakfast pastries being 'improperly appreciated.'"
"Don't be absurd," Aziraphale huffed, settling on the edge of the bed. "I made the scones myself this morning. They're perfectly safe."
Crowley smirked, picking up a scone and examining it like it might explode. "You made these? Didn't miracle them up, then?"
"Of course not!" Aziraphale replied, a hint of indignation in his voice. "There's something special about doing things the human way, you know. Rolling out the dough, shaping each one by hand..."
Crowley bit into the scone, and his smirk softened into something more genuine. "Not bad," he muttered around a mouthful of pastry.
"Not bad?" Aziraphale repeated, affronted. "They're excellent."
Crowley took another bite, savoring the perfect balance of buttery richness and sweet jam. "Alright, angel. Excellent. Happy now?"
"Immensely," Aziraphale said, his smile softening as he watched Crowley eat.
For a moment, the room was quiet save for the sound of the occasional sip of tea or the soft crunch of a scone. The chaotic world outside the bookshop seemed far away, as it often did when they were together.
"You didn't have to do this, you know," Crowley said after a while, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
"I know," Aziraphale replied, his gaze steady. "But I wanted to."
Crowley set his teacup down and reached for Aziraphale's hand. "Thanks, angel."
Aziraphale's cheeks pinkened, and he squeezed Crowley's hand in return. "You're very welcome, my dear."
And for the first time in what felt like centuries, Crowley let himself relax completely, sinking into the warmth of Aziraphale's care and the simple pleasure of a scone done just right.