Thinking about how if Crowley and Aziraphale had actually gone to America like they were supposed to, they would be charmed by the classic American diner
I can see them so clearly: Crowley stumbling in all groggy and sleep-ruffled still, Aziraphale looking serenely refreshed and dressed to the nines no matter the ungodly hour.
The two of them would sink into cracking, brightly colored vinyl booths that would squeak with their every move, or they'd perch on padded chrome stools at the sprawling countertop. Ancient but spotless formica tables splattered with funny, retro mid century designs like pink and grey boomerangs or atomic and celestial motifs in gold and teal and silver and black lining the walls, the smell of fried potatoes and endless quantities of toast mingling with the buzz of scattered conversation between regulars and newcomers alike.
Aziraphale would be intrigued by the excessively large menus, studying them day after day with a wrinkled brow and utmost concentration as a grumpy demon languishes across the table, half awake and suffering from a severe lack of caffeine. He'd delight in things such as a Western omelette ("what makes it Western, I wonder? It certainly doesn't put me in mind of our little stint in the Old West" "Angel, 's too early for waxing philosophical over why Americans do things the way they do) and incomprehensibly placed sprigs of curly parsley adorning a piping hot plate no matter the dish; even pancakes, he’d note with a bemused smile, could not escape their savory herbal adornment.
He'd be tickled by the casual warmth of "what’ll it be, hon?"offered by a waitress who looked as if she'd been running the place for ages, her eyes only slightly curious as she glances at the two of them. ("what's "hon" mean? She keeps callin' everyone that" "I can't pretend to know, but I think it must be something nice, anyway; I quite like it") At first Aziraphale would be concerned that they might draw too much attention to themselves here, what with his arguably outdated if classic fashion sense and Crowley's sunglasses coupled with his complete inability to sit upright for longer than 30 seconds, but they wouldn’t be spared a second look after their first visit; they must be used to all sorts, here.
Even Crowley would fall victim to the seduction that is a bottomless cup of scorching, perfectly brewed hot diner coffee, hotter than Hellfire yet somehow devoid of the bitterness of burnt beans.
"How d'you think they do it, angel," he'd ask one morning, staring down into his chipped, thick-walled ceramic mug. "Usually y'need a miracle to make coffee this good." Before the thought of a top-off could even fully form in his mind, the waitress would be there, pouring from a glass and plastic coffee pot with the precision of a heart surgeon without a word.
"...d'you reckon she can read minds," he'd whisper so seriously that Aziraphale wouldn't be able to hold back a giggle.
The two of them walking through the door with the jingly, cheery bell that reminds them both of the bookshop early in the morning or all hours of the night. Celestial Nighthawks illuminated by the lemony-toned light of an old century as they plot to stop the imminent Second Coming over coffee and apple pie à la mode Crowley would sneak bites of while Aziraphale would pretend not to look. An angel and demon determined to secure all the time in the world, their world, our world.
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