#the tea I'm drinking rn is 'paris' from Harney & Sons and it's so good

[bowtiepastabitch]

Here have a ficlet

Aziraphale is at his desk with one of his beloved books downstairs, and Crowley is standing awkwardly in the shop’s little kitchen debating the merits of using the well-loved vintage kettle on the stove and simply miracling it himself. Aziraphale would probably be horrified at the prospect, perhaps even as scandalized as when he learned Americans heat their water in the microwave, but what he doesn’t know surely can’t hurt him. With a sigh, the demon fills the kettle and lights the stove, but under his glare the water knows better than to dilly dally and boils in seconds. He can practically feel the angel perking up from across the building at the whistle of the kettle, and he’s rewarded with a glowing smile as he descends the steps carefully balancing the tray.

“Doin’ alright, angel?”

“Oh, just splendid my dear. Is that my Paris blend?”

“Err, I just grabbed something out of the cabinet.”

The angel closes his eyes contentedly and breathes in the fragrant steam, scented with vanilla and currant and of course good, strong tea. There’s no need for him to know how long Crowley spent smelling different blends agonizing over what he might find the most soothing, carefully rearranging them back exactly how he found them in the cupboard, measuring it out in little scoops, counting sugar cubes.

“It smells wonderful, may I?”

“Thassss what it’s here for.”

He gently lifts the delicate teacup from the tray with a grateful glance up and takes a long, slow sip. The angel’s eyes flutter closed with a soft moan of pleasure that makes the surface of the tea ripple lazily. It’s unfair how gorgeous he is, Crowley thinks, fighting the urge to lean down and kiss him.

“Thank you, Crowley. That was very kind of you.”

Oh, this is entirely selfish, angel.

“Ngh, just thought you might appreciate… a drink.”

Real smooth.

“I do, I really do.”

The angel’s smile is infectious, and Crowley fights not to grin idiotically. He quickly loses the battle, going weak at the knees as Aziraphale licks his bottom lip contentedly before taking another sip.