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The smell of sugar filled the bookshop, lingering in their noses as the two bustled around the mess they called, “progress”. Aziraphale felt it’d be a fun afternoon activity to bake their own tea biscuits, and he did have a rather persistent craving for them today, so it’d be two birds with one stone. Crowley wasn’t really one to eat, but if it meant pleasing his angel, he didn’t mind a little labor.
The state of the little kitchen, however, would like to argue any day. Various powders had puffed their own concoctions onto the counter, and undoubtedly made their way to the clothes of the angel and demon. Suddenly, Crowley was silently grateful Aziraphale was ever-so persistent about wearing aprons, although they didn’t spare his sleeves.
Some sort of old, 20th century jazz was playing from the record player. It was slow, and rather romantic, but so was a very large chunk of music. Humans were awfully creatively driven by their love lives. Considering Aziraphale’s adamant hatred for bebop, part of Crowley found it amusing he still enjoyed certain subgenres of jazz. The angel tended to lump most jazz into the ‘bebop’ group. Nevertheless, Crowley didn’t bring it up. He was quite fond of some jazz himself.
The two of them had a slight habit of getting distracted. Safe to say, the music did not exactly help. They’d been especially giddy this morning, so there wasn’t much stopping their need to keep a move on. In fact, there was an awful lot encouraging that need.
Aziraphale slid the tray into the vintage oven, shutting the door behind the pastries. He tossed the little granny square he used to assist his grip (although it was a tad extra) to the side, granting himself a stretch of his arms. Finally, after taking the time it’d take for a fly’s entire generation to die out, they were done with the tedious part. All they had to do was wait. How hard could that be?
…
Apparently, very, very hard. After only five minutes of standing in silence, the average passerby would most likely get a glance, and then speed up.
Perhaps that’s an exaggeration. Regardless, the boredom was definitely setting in, and two supernatural beings would not last very long without resorting to more questionable, spontaneous forms of entertainment.
“How long do they have to bake for?” Crowley started to gripe. The relief of nearly being done had only carried him through the first three minutes. The next two were just awkward.
Aziraphale turned his head to glance at the oven, as if it had a timer. To clarify, it did not.
“Only about 15 minutes, I believe.”
“Ah.” The counters, as well as the two figures, remained floured. That was something to do, yet they were determined to ignore it.
Silence fell again, and seconds felt like hours. At least, they had found it to be less cumbersome this time– most likely because they let themselves listen moreso to the music, opposed to their thoughts.
That was something to do.
Aziraphale pushed himself off the counter, outstretching a dusty hand in pursuit for the other’s, equally dusty hand.
“What?”
“Care for a dance?”
Crowley made a bit of a face, standing up a little straighter despite his attempted aversion.
“I don’t dance.”
“Oh, of course not.”
“Neither do you.”
“Mhm,” Aziraphale grinned as he grabbed the demon’s hand, carefully coaxing him into the middle of the open space so they had enough room. Crowley didn’t fight it. Also, he was very right. They didn’t have even a fraction of any idea what they were doing, but that was the beauty of it, he supposed. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.
They intertwined fingers, Aziraphale’s other hand going to rest on Crowley’s upper arm in an attempt to sway him to the music. Crowley’s free hand looped around to hold the angel’s shoulder. Neither of them knew much more about ballroom dances than proper hand placements– although they weren’t exactly doing much of that either.
“We look completely ridiculous.”
“We already looked ridiculous.”
“Blame the flour.”
The comment elicited a fond smile from Aziraphale.
“Very well, then.” Crowley had tipped the bag of flour earlier. It had a domino effect.
As Aziraphale started to gain more trust in the demon’s involvement, his hand dropped down to his side. They swayed to the music, keeping in time with each other. It was still rather quiet, but it did manage to keep them properly occupied.
“Does this even count as dancing?” Crowley adjusted his stance, sliding his foot back slightly to gain better anchorage.
“What do you mean?” Aziraphale took the movement as an invitation to step a little closer, holding onto the other a bit tighter. God be damned if the demon tripped; pardon his blasphemy.
“We’re just swinging around.”
“To music.”
Crowley shrugged a little, not bothering much to back up his point. This moment was nice, regardless of what it was. He didn’t mind the semantics. That much.
“Dancing looks like an awful lot of swinging around. We aren’t far off.”
“Not wrong there.”
Aziraphale looked the other over as they moved, wincing to himself as he spotted a little mishap.
“Might’ve gotten a bit of flour on you.”
“Oh really? Just a bit?” The demon raised an eyebrow in mock exasperation.
“No, I mean there is most definitely a handprint.”
“Well, you’ll have one too.”
“I wear lighter clothing.”
Crowley opened his mouth to retort, but wound up falling short. Flour wasn’t exactly a staining substance, at least. Wasn’t like he planned to step foot outside anytime soon anyway.
“You have some on your face.”
“Dear, it’s on everything. I truly wouldn’t be surprised if it somehow managed the next room.”
Crowley reached to try and wipe the smudge of powder off the angel’s face, only to make it exponentially worse. His hand was also covered in flour. All he did was add more.
“Oh.”
“What?”
Crowley snorted a little, trying not to let himself laugh about it. No words could describe how much worse it got. He didn’t even know that much flour was there.
“Please, do tell me”
“Yep. It’s just, uhm,” Crowley gestured generally, making a rather unpleasant face. He truly didn’t know where to go from there. Probably full-body cleanse.
“Yeah, there’s no fixing that. Give up.”
“Give up?” Aziraphale sounded mildly offended at the proposition.
“Mm. Yeah,” He looked it over one more time, which it was hard not to look at, but nonetheless he fought to ignore it. For both of their sakes.
They swayed in comfortable silence for just a moment longer. They’d gotten used to the proximity, at that point. It was much easier when they had an excuse. Hence, why they made a lot of them.
They were basically leaned into each other at that point, their heads rested on each other as they couldn’t help but inch closer.
It was practically a hug. But again, who were they to debate semantics?
The moment was suddenly accompanied with the faintest scent of smoke in the air.
… The damn biscuits.
Almost in unison, they both pushed away from each other, eyes wide. The. Damned. Biscuits.
Aziraphale scrambled for the oven mitts, Crowley meanwhile bolting to the oven to lean over it and shut it off. He opened the oven door and– oh god why did he OPEN IT. A hot, dark grey plume enveloped his face and he stumbled back, trying to shake off the disorientation the initial puff brought. Aziraphale shoved himself in front of the oven and snatched the… logs … out, tossing it on the stovetop as it smoked pungently. Crowley’s nose scrunched from the odor.
All they could do was stare.
“Holy crap.”
“You can say that again.”
“When did you put it in?”
Aziraphale twiddled with his thumbs through the oven mitts, looking around as if anything would tell him the time. He, still, did not have the baking time written anywhere.
“1:15, pardon me if not.” He sighed a little, unable to take his eyes off the failed delicacy. It felt wrong to call it that now.
Crowley could look away, however. He stared at his watch, tracing the hands.
“...It’s five past two.”
“Oh.”
“Fifteen minutes, ey?”
Aziraphale stared, disappointed, at the tray. He had no idea how time flew by him like that. His internal clock must’ve been on the fritz.
Perhaps they’d have to drop by the shops.