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There was a little family owned bakery just down the street from his bookshop that made the most delectable apple-vanilla scones. Every Tuesday he’d make his way there for tea, helping himself to a paste sandwich (no crusts, of course), and an apple-vanilla scone or two. Or three. Maybe half a dozen.
But it wasn’t until just after the Not-pocalypse that he gave it much thought.
Crowley peered at him over his sunglasses, brow arched as he watched Aziraphale take a bite out of his third (fourth? fifth?) scone.
“You know, they make other kinds of scones here. Do you like apples that much?”
Aziraphale looked up, surprised by the question. He hadn’t really thought about it before. Unbidden, a flash of memory rose to the surface, of a tree in a sunlit garden with the same golden eyes looking out from the shade of the leaves. He smiled, looking fondly at the scone on his plate.
“Yes,” he murmured. “They’re my favourite.”