You'll Never Get To Heaven (if you're scared of getting high)

My suspicions lead me to the lie

The bakery was also Suffolk pink, with sweet little white shutters. He never should have ceded such a huge area to Aziraphale.

Crowley had been hoping that it would have little cosy intimate tables where he could watch Aziraphale eat brunch in peace. Instead there was only a big communal table. Like the Soho restaurant. It was almost as if Aziraphale was avoiding eating alone together. No, that was a stupid thought. They were living alone together. Aziraphale just liked being around people—and good food.

It was good food, better than Crowley expected in a tourist trap like this. There was a huge homemade marshmallow in Aziraphale's hot chocolate, and the coffee was drinkable. Even not being alone couldn't detract too much from the sheer pleasure of watching Aziraphale suck a half-melted marshmallow through his lips and then try to reduce it to a size that fit properly in his mouth, although it was harder to watch semi-discreetly when they were sitting side by side. Crowley drank his coffee and ate a salmon sandwich and watched Aziraphale devour french toast with maple syrup, bananas and bacon. It seemed like an utterly vile Americanised combination from where he was sitting, but watching Aziraphale swirl the bacon and sliced banana around in the syrup, eyes incandescent with anticipation, he put a note on his phone to learn how to make it.

Aziraphale knew everybody. Crowley allowed himself to be introduced around, not being able to remember which had been at the party last night. He looked suspiciously at them, trying not to stick his tongue out to test for brimstone. The roaring fire was confusing his sense a little.

He carefully guided Aziraphale to the end of the table and wedged himself between him and the other customers, hoping turning his back on them would create a kind of barrier. Aziraphale just smiled and leaned past him to talk to the brunchers and well, there was an expression in his face that was probably just acting, and it was silly to feel melted and nervous at Aziraphale's apparent pride in saying "My husband, Anthony." Of course, Crowley was a catch. Anyone would be proud to be associated with him.

"Zira is my favourite customer," said the owner, Max. "I feel like he turns everything we serve into poetry."

The table turned as one to Aziraphale, who was taking a first delicate bite into a buttery eccles cake shining with sugar crystals, and he opened his eyes wide, as if surprised by the attention. A crumb of pastry fell to his chin, and Crowley brushed it off with his thumb.

"Zira," Crowley said, "is poetry," and then turned scarlet and stared hard at his plate. What the Heaven had possessed him to say that? Of course, Zira had been the muse to many a poet who had a sudden impulse to write about sunshine and the inherent goodness of the universe, but... seriously, a demon couldn't go around saying things like that. It was so uncool as to be lukewarm.

"Oh, you are adorable, Anthony," said one of the ladies from the party last night. Lilith. He was almost sure she wasn't a demon, despite the name. Crowley wished he could check the air. Anything rather than giving into the temptation to look at Aziraphale to see his reaction. There was less movement from beside him than there usually was when Aziraphale was eating, and Crowley's overactive imagination populated his friend's face with everything from outrage to starry-eyed blushing. "Isn't Zira lucky to have a romantic husband like that, Tristan?"

Crowley had vaguely registered the shop bell ringing in the back of his head. To him old fashioned shop bells were mostly things that caused a Pavlovian response of "We're closed!" from the angel, so he tended to shut them out. Now he looked up in horror to see Tristan and Nell, and that his masterful manoeuvring to get between Aziraphale and he earlier customers meant that one of the two only open seats was next to Aziraphale.