Meet Me At The Coda

The café buzzes with early-morning energy, busy humans in search of caffeine and butter-laden pastries, all bustling around the cranky demon standing in line and struggling to fully wake up.

He’s just emerged from a week-long nap - something of a well-deserved celebration after the world didn’t end last month - but he promised Aziraphale he wouldn’t sleep through his alarm.

The angel seemed touchingly bereft to lose his company for too long.

(And Crowley can’t pretend that doesn’t make him extra eager to get to the bookshop.)

But first, espresso.

Automatically shuffling forward as the line swiftly advances toward the counter, Crowley suddenly realizes he’s the next unfortunate customer and has absolutely no idea what he’s getting. Fighting to shove a hand into his tiny trouser pocket, Crowley scrambles for his mobile and quickly types out a text to Aziraphale, updating him in the briefest possible terms - awake, on my way, at café, need coffee, pastries? - and pressing send.

But, as Crowley very well knows, Aziraphale is horrendously slow at texting, always insisting on proper grammar and punctuation, and there’s simply no way he’ll respond to him in time -

“Next!” the barista barks, far too loudly.

“Erm…” Crowley shuffles up to the counter, squinting in the bright, morning sunlight shining through the window and managing to hurt his sensitive eyes behind his dark glasses.

He looks desperately at his unhelpful phone.

“What’ll it be, mate? Haven’t got all day, you know…”

The people around him are chattering too loudly, the waiting customers in line behind him won’t stop heaving heavy sighs, and the young barista is waiting impatiently for his order.

This is ridiculous.

With a growl and a vicious snap, time suddenly slows to a barely perceptible crawl around him, with cups of coffee held suspended halfway to waiting mouths all around the café.

Crowley sighs in relief at the abrupt silence. 

Much better.

Now more at ease, Crowley ambles over to the shiny display case, cocking a hip and leaning forward to plant his palms squarely on the polished case with a demonic sense of satisfaction. He hopes the rude barista with the purple hair & nose ring is in charge of polishing.

Now…what should he get?

He hasn’t seen Aziraphale in a week and he’d like to treat the angel to his favorites…and maybe something special. 

Sweeping his gaze over the case, Crowley surveys his options. There are sugar-topped muffins, frosted cinnamon rolls, and buttery golden scones. Crowley hums to himself, stepping around a frozen patron, and approaches the other side of the case where the more promising options reside, his eyebrows raising as he considers what he sees.

Shall he get baklava, full of nuts and drenched in honey, so he gets to watch Aziraphale lick his fingers clean with a happy little wiggle?

(Honey…sticky like whatever it is that draws him back to Aziraphale time and time again, slowly but surely keeping them joined together in one another’s orbit, like lines of golden syrup stretching between them that just won’t snap.)

Shall he purchase a croissant, buttery and layered, just so he can witness Aziraphale delicately dampen a fingertip and gather the little flakes no doubt scattered across his waistcoat like fallen snow, concentrating with single-minded focus until he has them all, only to the pop the digit into his waiting mouth with a pleased hum?

(A croissant…layered and complex just like their history, woven in a tapestry worthy of Arachne over the many centuries they’ve passed on Earth, made all the more rich and satisfying by the multitudes it contains.)

And then…

Crowley’s gaze falls on the perfect treat and his thin mouth hitches up in a lazy grin.

Shall he select an apple danish, with puffy pastry and a decadent fruit filling, so his sharp snake eyes can hone in on the glob of apple that will no doubt teeter precariously at the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, where Crowley can wait with bated breath for his pink, angelic tongue to dart out and rescue it?

(Apple…tart, sharp, and sometimes bordering on sour, his oldest trick and somehow bitterly reminiscent of all the loneliness of his decades-old, hopeless, yearning love -)

Well, Crowley reasons with a shrug, might as well stick to the classics.

And probably everything else as well…just for good measure.

Hard decisions finally made, Crowley reclaims his place at the counter and snaps once more, unfreezing time with a demonic flourish.

“Right,” he drawls, before listing his order in rapid-fire succession. “An apple Danish, two croissants, piece of baklava, two scones, a cinnamon roll, and the biggest muffin you’ve got.”

The barista blinks at him.

“Oh…” adds Crowley, as anything but an afterthought. “And six shots of espresso…in a big cup.”

He pops the ‘p’ and shows his teeth in a disarming grin.

“S-sure,” stutters the barista. “It’ll be, uh…just a moment.”

Crowley pays with a flash of his sleek, black, Hell-issued credit card and the barista stumbles off to fill his order, still looking a little dazed. He moves away from the counter and lingers in front of the pastry case while he waits, pleased to be obscuring the view for other customers. He happily passes the time by watching a baby wail for a sip of caffeine he’s far too young to ingest, a man accidentally dip his tie into his newly purchased drink, and a woman leave the restroom with toilet paper stuck to her high heel.

(Some days, it’s good to be a demon.)

By the time he collects his large box of pastries and cup of sorely needed espresso and clambers into the front seat of the Bentley, his mobile dings with a message from Aziraphale. Placing the pastry box on the seat where the Bentley won’t dare let it fall, Crowley digs his phone out of his pocket once again to read the predictably proper response, somehow still conveying Aziraphale’s excitement at Crowley’s imminent arrival.

(As if Crowley hasn’t completed this exact routine more mornings than not since they stopped the end of the world.) 

In answer to Crowley’s pastry query, Aziraphale has a simple response:

Surprise me. After all, you know what I like best, my dear.

Crowley huffs a rueful little laugh to himself, tossing his phone to land obediently on the seat next to the pastry box, before throwing the Bentley into gear and peeling away from the curb at top speed.

Don’t I just, angel, he thinks, with a shake of his head, before running a red light with gusto.

(And, perhaps even moreso, what he doesn’t.)