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He slithers over to watch Aziraphale eat cake. Of course he does; it's a fair test of whether Aziraphale still thinks it's his job to thwart evil, or maybe a test of whether he still thinks Crowley is evil.
It's not very good science, but Crowley’s relationship with science is mostly incidental, anyway.
Aziraphale's relationship with cake, now, that one's deliberate. He hadn't been lying when he'd described the heaps of it he had baked. And no-baked, and fried, and possibly even microwaved, given the look of some of them.
And no matter how much cake Aziraphale eats, he never really seems to make a dent in the amount he prepared.
Maybe that's what tricks Crowley into thinking he can have his cake and eat it too.
Aziraphale comes back, after.
He comes back and he wraps Crowley in his soft, strong arms, and there's too much salt between them for it to feel as sweet as it briefly had.
But it feels like something, and that's more than enough for Crowley.
Aziraphale's tastes take a turn for the savory. Crowley thinks at first that he's punishing himself until he confesses, late one night with his head in Crowley's lap and Crowley's fingers combing through his hair—he can't believe he's allowed this, can't believe even months later—that sweet things always did make him crave coffee.
And Crowley savors him then. Holds him closer, trying on gratitude for size and setting aside the last of his mourning. It isn't what they had, and it never will be again, but neither of them has ever shied away from trying a new recipe.