"What," Crowley said, eyeing the contents of the table, "precisely is this?"
"It's a cake," Aziraphale said, a little anxiously. "I don't think I properly said thank you, for, you know, the other night in the church - " His voice died away under Crowley's (presumably) amused gaze.
"Must have been some other demon," Crowley grinned. "It'd take a lot to get me into a church." There was a moment's silence; he looked down and examined the cake. "Angel," he said, "there are carrots in this."
"There's a war on," Aziraphale said. "They're for sweetness."
"It's like the blessed Middle Ages all over again," Crowley sighed and picked up his attaché case.
"Black market sugar," he said, taking out a bag and tossing it on the table. "Black market butter." Another packet landed on the table. "Black market whisky." A bottle was put down carefully.
"I can't support the black market!"
"I can get you more. You can't tell me you like margarine. You take those now, no strings. Why don't you bake a better cake for another time?"
"You don't want to stay for any cake now?" Aziraphale said, squirreling away the gifts and trying to sound off-hand. "Should I get your hat?"
Crowley raised an eye-brow.
"I'm told wasting food's a sin these days. Seems to me I should do that, but tonight's my night off. Let's see what your ridiculous carrot cake tastes like. It'll never catch on in the modern world, you know."
Aziraphale cut a large slice in relief.
"Smaller! No, smaller. And open that whisky."
"Thank you, Crowley," Aziraphale said, putting a plate and glass in front of him.
Crowley said nothing, just toasted him with a little forkful of cake. It was, Aziraphale felt right through himself, better than an entire speech by anyone else.