Nice: A Good Omens Fanfic

Priorities

Crowley awoke to the delicious smell of frying bacon. He let the knowledge waft over him with the scent. Someone who was not him was in the flat, cooking him breakfast. It had literally never happened since he moved to Mayfair in 1861. He allowed himself a few minutes to forget about impeding doom and just grin like an idiot.

Then he followed the alluring smell. Aziraphale had produced an apron, apparently from the ether, and was bustling over the stove. "About time you got up, Crowley."

"Why? Do we have plans? The whole Antichrist thing was yesterday's news, surely?" The scene was so ludicrously domestic that Crowley resisted the ridiculous urge to slouch over and kiss the angel on the cheek.

"We're in the lull before the storm, but I don't know how long Adam will hold them off," Aziraphale said, matter of factly. "We would do well to have a good breakfast inside of us before we face the day."

"A last breakfast? And do I smell coffee? I don't, do I? If it's my last breakfast, at least let there be coffee. Please."

"I have no idea how to work that monster of a espresso machine. There's tea." Aziraphale moved the eggs and bacon to a warming plate. "And it won't be our last breakfast. I told you, I worked it out, and we'll discuss it after breakfast."

"Coffee," Crowley said, equally firmly, waving an empty cup under the huge, shining espresso machine. It filled with perfect coffee, rich and dark and fragrant. He mostly had the espresso machine because he felt someone with his kind of flat should have one, but he'd never felt the need to work out how to use it properly, clean it, service it or even refill it with coffee beans. He had paid good—or at least expensive—money for it to make excellent coffee, so it did. "Then breakfast. Then tea and answers. And possibly alcohol, depending on what the answers are."

"Go sit down and I'll bring it in. No, not here. You have a perfectly serviceable dining room." Aziraphale returned his attention to arranging plates on a tray, and added, very quietly, "Your Majesty."

"I hate you, angel."

"No, you don't." Aziraphale gave him a smile of pure sunshine. "Go sit down, dearest."

Crowley, rendered completely defenceless, went to sit down before his legs failed him. Bloody angel. That had to constitute an unfair verbal attack. Unfair smiling attack. Definitely something unfair. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and realised he had automatically thrown himself on the throne. Bless. He decided to make the best of it and sprawl demonically. At least he could try to look cool about it. Or sexy. Something.

Aziraphale glided into the room and served the food with as much graceful economy of movement as a waiter in the best of establishments. Crowley supposed he'd had plenty of chances to observe them. He didn't mention the throne, or the sprawl, but Crowley had his suspicions of a mocking twinkle in those blue eyes.

He couldn't help an anxious glance at the television, but the screen remained blank. Not broodingly blank, either, as if Hell was lurking behind it. Just switched off because he wasn't watching anything at the moment. Crowley relaxed and ate. Breakfast was really very, very good, bacon crisp, eggs with firm whites and perfectly runny yolks, bread fried to just the right decadent texture. Of course it was. Aziraphale was meticulous about these things.

He was glad Aziraphale saved his plan until afterwards, because it would have completely spoiled the meal.

"I don't like it." He leapt to his feet, arms swinging wildly, as if trying to escape him. "What if it doesn't work?"

"It worked before."

"But what if you're wrong?" He spun Aziraphale's chair towards him and grasped his shoulders, glaring down into his face, trying to communicate his desperation. "Aziraphale, you have no idea what it's like down there. I can't let you go there. Not you. Demons have no imagination, oh, no. Can't come up with creative tortures. Unless humans come up with them and then some stupid fucking idiot writes them down in memos and sends them to Hell! With illustrations by Hieronymus Bosch!"