Good Omens One-shots

My Kingdom for a Slice of Cake (Rated PG)

Summary:

Cuddling in bed while Aziraphale reads, the angel decides he would like a snack. Only it's too cold to get out of bed, and Aziraphale and Crowley are both too comfortable. So how is an angel to get something to eat when neither he nor his demon husband feels like moving?

Notes:

Written for the prompt - Staying in bed, huddled together to keep the cold away. Just a note - this is not animeangelriku's present. This is a prelude to the present, which is running behind, but still written for them <3

***

A conflicted hum passes through Aziraphale's lips, and Crowley opens one heavy eyelid. He peeks up at his angel as he lays on his side, arms wrapped around Aziraphale's middle, hugging him while he napped.

While they napped, originally. But for Aziraphale, the allure lasted barely three-and-a-half minutes before he carefully slid to a sitting position within his husband's embrace and got lost in the pages of a Gustav Freytag novel. But now, he's staring longingly at the door, making Crowley wonder if he'd rather be reading at his bookshop instead of here in the Mayfair flat's master bedroom.

"Wot is it?" Crowley asks, not moving a hair, wound comfortably around his angel's body, prepared to employ every manner of persuasion to keep Aziraphale put.

"Oh, nothing really. Only I am a bit on the peckish side," Aziraphale admits with a woeful sigh.

"I suppose I could slither into the kitchen. Fetch you a bite to eat," Crowley offers as he curls tighter around Aziraphale's body, in no hurry to move, even on his angel's behalf. It's so bloody frigid in his flat today; the floors cold as ice.

And Aziraphale is so, so warm.

"I appreciate that," Aziraphale says. "But I would rather not have you move. Me neither, for that matter. I'm far too comfortable."

"I know what you mean," Crowley murmurs into Aziraphale's stomach. "It's tempting to stay right here, for a decade or two at least."

"Quite."

"Shall I miracle you something up then?"

Aziraphale tuts. "You know how I feel about miracled food."

"I know, I know," Crowley mutters, rolling his eyes over Aziraphale's continuing assertion that miracled food doesn't taste as good as the bought and cooked variety. Even food miracled to the bedroom from the kitchen has a peculiar aftertaste, or so Aziraphale claims, believing it might be a reminder from Gabriel that not only should he not infect his corporeal form with vile foodstuffs, but that wasting a miracle to do so is paramount to blasphemy. "You know, I should install a fridge in here. By the bed, for such emergencies."

"What a spectacular idea!" Aziraphale gushes, and Crowley wiggles in glee at the praise. But too soon after, Aziraphale sighs again - another long, defeated exhalation. "But that doesn't help us at the moment."

"No, it doesn't." Crowley pauses to think. "We could order takeaway."

Aziraphale looks at his husband, brow scrunched. "And how would that work exactly?"

"It works like this... " Crowley clears his throat as if preparing to give a presentation "... we call the restaurant, order the food, and then some plucky teenager driving a Vespa delivers it. I figured you'd know that by now, angel."

"We'd have to open the door for the delivery person once they arrived! You don't want to snap them in and give them leave to wander the flat, now, do you? And if we're getting out of bed to do that, we may as well get some food out of the fridge right now and cut out the middle man!"

"Not necessarily. I could perform a minor... "

"No more possessing humans!" Aziraphale snaps, jumping to conclusions. "Not after what happened last time!"

"Wot?" Crowley's eyes widen with surprise. "But I thought you were fond of Madame Tracy!"

Aziraphale's forehead wrinkles in confusion. "I am! But what does she have to do with anything?"

"Isn't that how the two of you met?"

"Not that last time! The other last time!"

Crowley stares at his husband, perplexed, tired brain working sluggishly behind yellow eyes to decipher Aziraphale's meaning. Then it hits him like a tonne of bricks, and he snorts. "Oh! Oh, yeah! You meant when I... "

"Yes, Crowley," Aziraphale says, cutting his husband off before he can recount the fateful day in excruciating detail. He hates to admit it, but it is an amusing story, even if he did almost lose one of his favorite teapots in the process. " That's what I meant."

"Ahhh. Okay. Noted." Crowley chuckles nervously. "Not doing that again."

Angel and demon cuddle quietly, deep in thought, trying to find a solution to their current snack dilemma. Aziraphale's blue eyes brighten. "Of course!" he declares, landing on a solution. "Madame Tracy!"

"Wot about her?"

"We'll call Madame Tracy! We trust her enough to miracle her in! I'm sure she wouldn't mind bringing us some lunch as long as we invite her to join us."

Crowley frowns. "Join us... in bed?"

"For a nosh!"

"Brilliant! Sounds like a plan." Crowley gives his clever husband a kiss on the tummy, too comfy to move much further than that. "We'll call Madame Tracy and ask her to bring us some lunch. Maybe a whole cake."

Aziraphale nods. "Absolutely! Let's get right on that, shall we?" He looks around, searching for the one thing that will help him accomplish this task. Ensnared in the threads of another conundrum, he sighs.

"Ooo. That sounded heavy. Wot is it?"

"I don't have my cellular phone. Do you have yours?"

"I... " Crowley takes stock of himself, then the room, trying to remember when he last saw his phone. He removes a hand from around his husband's waist and reaches beneath the pillows, sweeping underneath. When he doesn't find the damned thing, he groans.

"Sausage roll sound all right to you?" Crowley asks, popping out of bed and racing towards the door before his feet can hit the freezing floor.

"Sounds lovely. Thank you," Aziraphale replies, going back to his book. "And don't forget the cake."