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[He graces him with a faint smile, his version of an unspoken, You're welcome.]

I suppose. I've just always associated baked goods with happiness.

[Because he eats them and doesn't make them.]

I'm starting to remember why I didn't get too close to them on Earth. I don't have that luxury here. I'm not sure what I intend to do about it yet. I could always mend a broken bone or a split...what-have-you. One squishy bit inside is much like another squishy bit.

Hearts are trickier.

So do the rest of them, that's half why they choose to bake over anything else. Makes 'em feel better once they're done.

[Or at least that seems to be the case with Martin, he usually works out whatever happens to be stressing him during the process.

He regards Aziraphale quietly after that comment.]

You don't have to be their best friend or what have you. Not that I really intend to get much closer to them either and now I've had two of them living in my flat at some point or another. [He shrugs, takes a sip of his tea.] You'll be alright, most of the time they just need to feel like someone gives a shit about them, you know? They're not all that different than when they're children.

I didn't think of it that way. Of course. That makes sense.

[All of the bakers are so different, though. He ponders it a bit more, quietly thoughtful.]

Do you think Warlock misses us? He could be a trial, but he could also be a dear thing. I don't miss the family, per se. Dreadful Americans in the worst ways. Although I suppose that could be more because they were mixed up with Satanists than where they were from.

[He goes quiet a second time, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer.]

That's the rub of it. They're all children. Afraid they'll be rejected. Or seen. They expect it so hard that when they aren't, they can't process it. It's such a perversion, that cruelty should be easier to accept than love.

[Of course he didn't, but then, neither did Crowley until he met Martin.]

He might do, you could always write him, once you got back. And Mrs. Dowling was alright, too, doing the best she could with that husband of hers. Sometimes on Fridays if Warlock was over at a friend's place we'd have a drink together.

[It was hard for her, he knows, alone in a different country with only an absent husband and her child for company.

He turns Aziraphale's next comment over in his head, weighing up his next words carefully. Not because he's worried about saying the wrong thing, but there's an option here to admit some vulnerability, and he's not sure if he should take it.

But they're trying to be open with each other, so maybe he should.]

Could be why I've a bit of an easier time with them than you do.

[Because he relates, because he gets it.]

Would I think to, once I was back, I wonder? We were very means to an end with that business.

[Excusable to an extent. They were trying to prevent Armageddon. Maybe when they had some breathing room, they'd slow down, but he also knows himself. He has always been more abstract in his care than personal when it comes to them. He wasn't exaggerating when he compared them to mayflies to Anderson.

At Crowley's soft sideways admission, he nods. He has always had more in common with them, his role one that took him closer to them. He had to understand them to tempt them, and worst of all, he has been hurt the way so many of them hurt each other. Aziraphale has seen firsthand how difficult it is for him to accept acceptance. Love.

He brushes his knee with his fingers again without letting it linger. He suddenly very much feels his age and more than a little alone.]

You are loved. Not just by me. I'm sure you know this.

We had to be, but I dunno, you're a soft touch, it might occur to you.

[Crowley had kept a very careful distance from Warlock, because he'd known how easy it would be to come to care for the boy, and despite their best intentions, part of him had expected it might come down to eliminating him.

He offers a wry sort of smile, trying to take away the sting of that admission, and he catches Aziraphale's hand before it can get too far away, leaning forward enough to be able to kiss his knuckles.]

Mm, there's two people stupid enough to fall for my charms, apparently. [Which is double what he had at home, with just Aziraphale, and even that he'd never been entirely sure of.] S'weird, really, hearing it.

I have my moments.

[At times he wishes he had fewer of them. It would make so many things easier.

He squeezes his fingers lightly when he catches his hand. Hopes he never reaches a point such small gestures as lips to knuckles don't warm him, direct contradiction of his previous thought. He has never pretended not to be mercurial.]

That just means I need to say it more often. Desensitize you.

[He offers it lightly enough. Crowley seems to handle it better that way.]

[His smile warms a little as he turns Aziraphale's hand in his, kissing his palm, directing his next words to the soft skin there, rather than having to let them sit in the air.]

Suppose I wouldn't complain about that.

[Ignore the hint of color on his cheeks.

With another kiss, he releases Aziraphale's hand and goes back to his pleasantly spiked tea.]

[He won't say a word of it, just watching and taking in the details, the soft blush, the puff of warmth into his palm.]

I'll keep that in mind.

[He reaches for the bottle to pour some straight whiskey into his cup, not enough tea and milk in the bottom of it to worry about. Lifting it, he downs a warming swallow.]

[He realizes that in some point while trying to distract Aziraphale, he made himself feel better, which is a convenient side effect. Crowley finishes off his tea, then sets the cup back down on the tray so he can list sideways onto the sofa, stretching his legs out.]

We're good, yeah?

[It helps, to check, especially after heavier conversations. And it's easier to ask the question when his gaze is directed at the ceiling.]

Getting better by the moment.

[He mock toasts him with his tea cup and has another lazy swallow.

This time, the silence afterward isn't weighted or uncomfortable. It's just one of their usual lulls after a meandering round of conversation.

He kicks off his own shoes finally and rests back against the back of the sofa. If they just lounge and drink for the next couple of hours or so, he'll be content, and then he needs to get back to work.]

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