[Aziraphale smiles up at him, content to remain nestled in their pile of pillows, one hand drawing lazy shapes across his narrow chest.]

Sounds lovely.

[There's no café in London that could possibly top breakfast in bed with Crowley. A convenient miracle can take care of any crumbs. Speaking of which, a rather thoughtful expression appears on the angel's face as Crowley lists their options.]

You know what would be a nice treat? Pancakes. The fluffy kind that the Americans like. I haven't had any since we worked for the Dowlings.