#ineffablehusbands bingo

[tisfan]

Good Omens bingo

Title: Control-Alt-Delete Written by: @tisfan Square: N4 - Failure to Save Rating: teen and up Triggers/warnings: none Tags: computer nonsense Created for: @ineffablehusbandsbingo

Word count: 316

“Oh, devil take you, you wretched thing,” Aziraphale declared, tapping impatiently on the computer’s keyboard. He didn’t really like this computer; after the Apoca-could-ya-not, and his bookshop returned to perfectly unburned status, the computer was… well, uncooperative.

“What am I hauling to the dumpster for you tonight, angel?” Crowley swaggered in like he owned the place and everything in it, which was just preposterous. “I’ve got a really good bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild Pauillac to try.” He dangled a bottle between two fingers and two glasses in the other hand, all the while, his hips moving like two cats that didn’t get along very well. Or perhaps, got along a little too well.

“This infernal device,” Aziraphale said. “I never had any problems with my old computer.”

“Love computers, I do. Don’t actually own any myself, but I usually manage to get some lower level underlings to do a bit of work for me. And everyone loves to blame the computer for everything,” Crowley said. “All the big computer guys couldn’t be tempted at all. Didn’t need to be, either. They were just naturally evil. Jobs, Gates… no sense of morality at all. Which, as you know, I can’t do a thing with. Now that Turing guy, he was pretty good. Shame what happened to him, though, terrible thing, really.”

“All that is dreadfully fascinating,” Aziraphale said in that fussy voice that meant he was not fascinated at all. “But fails to resolve the problem that I saved the file, and that damned machine says that I did not.”

“Oh, well,” Crowley said. “If it’s a damned machine, maybe let me talk to it. Pretty good with the damned, myself.” He gave Aziraphale a wink. “Well, look at you, pretty. Tell you what, give my friend his file back, and I won’t load Windows ME as your main operating system. Ah, look, angel… your file.”

[tisfan]

Title: All Creatures, Great and Small Written by: @tisfan Square: N2 - Fluff Rating: General Triggers/warnings: none Tags: Pet Shop AU Created for: @ineffablehusbandsbingo Word count:  555

Aziraphale listened quietly to the older woman’s list of issues her dog had -- arthritis, blind in one eye, prone to biting when scared, and what scared the dog most was water -- with a patient smile. 

“Yes, ma’am, I’m quite sure I can handle giving him a bath and grooming him,” Aziraphale said.

“Well, you be a good puppers for the nice man,” the woman told him. She signed the credit slip right where he marked. Despite the sign that he’d made behind the register In God we trust, all others pay cash, he’d had to start accepting credit cards, or he was never going to have any customers.

Not that he particularly wanted customers, but he did own a pet shop and boutique, so it was necessary from time to time to actually appear to have clients.

And he had a reputation to maintain.

Miracle Worker.

He took the dog’s leash. “I’ll have him back to you in a jiffy.”

“How long is a jiffy, exactly?” That wasn’t the older woman; she’d had her dog to All Creatures, Great and Small before. That was a younger woman with her brown hair pulled up in a messy half bun, wearing a seriously fashion-deprived sweater jacket, round spectacles, and carrying a sizable picnic basket under one arm.

“I’ll get him settled and be right with you, Miss?”

“Device,” she said. “My name is Anathema Device.”

“Miss Device, yes, right away.” Aziraphale led the dog back into the back room, where he indicated a very pleasant cushion. “Have a seat there, old boy, we’ll be right back before you can say tickety boo.” 

The dog trotted obediently over to the cushion and flopped down for a nap, soothed, as all animals tended to be, by the shop and its curious owner.

“And Miss Device, what can I do for you?”

She grunted and managed to get the basket up onto the counter. “I’m told you rehome animals.”

“Sometimes,” Aziraphale said. “If their home life is particularly troublesome, or an owner passed away. Frequently, I’m able to provide behavior lessons to aid--” He didn’t mention that these lessons were more for the humans than the animals. Animals were lovely, most of the time. Humans, not so much.

“Well, I have no idea where he came from, but he must have belonged to someone,” Miss Device said. “And I don’t want him, but he keeps coming in my garden and hanging out in my apple tree.” She opened the lid to show off an enormous snake.

Really, too large for its own good. 

With brilliant orange eyes and a smug look on its snaky face.

“Oh, well, Miss Device,” Aziraphale said, pushing the snake’s head back into the basket and closing it. “I shall look after him and see if we can’t find an owner.”

“You’re an angel,” Miss Device said.

Aziraphale waited until she’d left the store before he sighed. “Crowley, come out of there this instant.”

“What, angel?” Crowley said, and nudged the basket open with his snout. He flowed out of the basket and onto the floor before changing back into his customary shape.

“Are you bothering that woman?”

“Not at all,” the demon said. “She just has a really nice apple tree.” He held up a shiny red fruit in one hand. “Care for a bite?” 

[tisfan]

Rapture

Title: Rapture Written by: @tisfan Square: O5 - Witchfinders Rating: general Triggers/warnings: none Tags: Witchfinder, names, babies, godfathers Created for: @ineffablehusbandsbingo

Word count: 318

“Shadwell,” Crowley said, eyebrows going up. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell,” the man corrected. That hadn’t changed since Crowley had first encountered him, back in the seventies. Always harping on about his title. 

“And Mrs. Shadwell,” Aziraphale said, reaching around Crowley to shake the woman’s hand. “Delightful, delightful.”

“Well, everyone’s here, then,” Newt Pulsifer commented. “Come inside, come inside. It looks like it’s going to rain any second now.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Anathema muttered. “He’s not a professional descendant, he couldn’t predict the weather if he was out standing in it.” She was huge, roundly pregnant, and looking like she was ready to throw a cushion at her husband. Or maybe something harder. 

Pregnant women were very unpredictable, Crowley had noticed. Right from the very beginning of men, women, and pregnancy.

“Well, I’m rubbish with the weather, have been since the whole--”

Aziraphale nudged him, hard, in the ribs. “Hush, now Crowley. So, you wanted to see us?”

Anathema put her hands over her belly. “Yes,” she said. “We’d like to ask you if you’d like to be godfathers. For the baby, obviously.”

“Well, that’s good,” Crowley drawled. “I don’t think I’d make a very good godfather for your cat.”

“I don’t have a cat--”

“What kind of a witch are you, don’t have a cat?” Shadwell exclaimed. “Next you’ll be telling me you’ve only got two nipples.”

Newt blushed. “Sargent Shadwell, we’ve been over this before, I am not letting you verify the number of nipples my wife has. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“You should get a cat, dearie,” Mrs. Shadwell said. “Our cat’s had kittens recently, let me pick one out for you.”

“Have you picked out names,” Aziraphale asked.

“For the cat? We just found out we were getting a cat.”

“No, for the baby,” Aziraphale fluttered.

“Oh. Yes. Serenity Rapture Pulsifer.”

“That… sounds lovely.”

[tisfan]

Tisfan Master Post

Title: Proximity Square: B2 - Star Gazing Rating: general Triggers/warnings: none Tags: star-gazing, Crowley’s Nebula, Wings Word count: 310

Title: The Power of Positive Thinking Square: B4 - Library AU Rating: G Triggers/warnings: none Tags: rude patrons, customer service, angel!librarian Word count: 688

Title: Til I see Me Again Square: B5 - Body Swap Rating: General Triggers/warnings: none Tags: body swap, housecleaning, Crowley is a neat freak Word count: 471

Title: Fish and Chips Square: I5 - Autumn Rating: General Triggers/warnings: Tags: fast food, domestic husbands Word count: 368

Title: All Creatures, Great and Small Square: N2 - Fluff Rating: General Triggers/warnings: none Tags: Pet Shop AU Word count:  555

Title: Control-Alt-Delete Square: N4 - Failure to Save Rating: teen and up Triggers/warnings: none Tags: computer nonsense Word count: 316

Title: Infernal Machines and Demonic Pigeons Written by: @tisfan​ & @27dragons​ Square: G5 - Lawn Mower Accident Rating: General Triggers/warnings: blood, accidental maiming of small garden animals, Crowley is disappointed with the lawn mower Tags: tadfield, post apocalypse, the Them, gardening Word count: 1,874

Title: Learning to Work Together (Opposites Attract) Written by: @tisfan​ & @27dragons​ Square: O3 - Food Fight Rating: Teen and Up Triggers/warnings: none Tags: College AU, Book Burning, Group Project, Food Fight Word count: 4681

Title: Rapture Square: O5 - Witchfinders Rating: general Triggers/warnings: none Tags: Witchfinder, names, babies, godfathers Word count: 318

Created for: @ineffablehusbandsbingo​

[tisfan]

Title: Learning to Work Together (Opposites Attract) Rating: T Triggers/warnings: None Word count: 4681 Tags: Alternate Universe: College/University, Alternate Universe: No Powers, Summary: When Professor Nutter assigns a partnered project for her Theories of Personality class, Aziraphale finds himself tracking down the mysterious and elusive Crowley. Posted for the @ineffablehusbandsbingo - square “Destruction of Books” ( @27dragons) / square “Food Fight” ( @tisfan) Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20579354

Professor Nutter stood up behind her podium, smiling in that vicious little way of hers that meant she was about to unleash something terrible. The collective mood of the students dropped as she held up a piece of paper. “There is a copy of this handout on the back table,” she said, gleeful. “I’ve matched you up for a group project, based on your questionnaires at the start of term. There will be no swapping partners, you will learn to work together, or you will not pass my class--” the group let out a groan, as one, like a forest of dying trees. “And complete the assignment. You will turn this in the last day of class before exams for thirty percent of your final grade. It was in the syllabus!”

Theories of Personality, psychology 405, had been billed as an easy A class. Be present, participate, pass.

The teacher last semester, Pulsifer, had given out sixty A’s, the highest percentage of any upper level class on campus.

That was last semester, apparently.

Nutter was… well, a Nutter.

(more below the cut)

Aziraphale stayed in his seat as the rest of the class made their way to the back of the class. Surely, whoever’d been assigned to work with him would make themselves known. And he really wanted to finish reading the chapter he’d started. Fascinating stuff, really, even if some of it was a bit, well, medieval in thinking.

He jotted a few notes as he read -- things to look up or cross-reference, things to specifically ask about during class, in case they were part of the exam, possible starting points for the project...

Speaking of which-- Aziraphale looked around. The class had emptied. No one had come up to him to introduce themselves as his partner. Sighing, Aziraphale tucked a marker into his textbook, gathered up his things, and went to look at the pairing sheet. He scanned down the list and found his name, right beside... A. J. Crowley.

Who in Hell was that?

He looked over the list again. He recognized all the names on it. Everyone had spoken up in class discussions, or asked questions, or (on a few occasions) been chided by Professor Nutter for being late. He could swear he’d never heard the name Crowley before.

“Er, Professor,” Aziraphale said cautiously. “Are you quite certain you didn’t mix someone from one of your other classes in here? Because--” He turned around to find that Professor Nutter was gone.

Blast. He was going to have to track this Crowley fellow down.

“Why I always gotta work wiff you?” someone demanded, just outside the door. Ligur was scowling at the sheet, and his apparent partner, Hastur, was smirking. “Always make me do all th’ work, you do.”

Well. At least Aziraphale hadn’t been partnered with Hastur. Aziraphale didn’t like to complain, but Hastur smelled. “Excuse me, gents,” he said, edging past them into the hallway. “Neither of you would happen to know who A. J. Crowley is, would you?”

“Uff, Crowley,” Hastur said. “I hate that flash bastard. Don’t trust him.”

“Yeah,” Ligur said. “He’s inna Hell-dorm. Cross th’ hall from Beez. You know Beez, right? Everyone knows Beez.”

Hell-dorm wasn’t actually called that, officially; the building was named after whichever alum had donated the most money in the last few years or so, which meant it had been rechristened about a dozen times, and no one bothered to remember what it was actually called. Everyone called it Hell because the air conditioning didn’t work in the summer, and worked all too well in the winter.

And, unfortunately, Aziraphale did know Beez, though luckily, by reputation only. Still, he imagined it wouldn’t be too hard to find. “Thank you,” he said, though he wasn’t sure they heard it -- they were already back to bickering about the project.

Aziraphale checked the time and decided there was no time like the present. He straightened his clothes and made his way across the campus to Hell-dorm, where a few inquiries of increasingly surly residents got him the direction to the floor where Beez lived.

Once there, it wasn’t hard to spot the door with “BEEZ” written on it -- not on a whiteboard or tacked-up sign, but directly on the door itself, in what Aziraphale was fairly certain was permanent marker. Below that, in a startlingly elegant hand, someone had written, Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

The opposite door was unmarred. And unlabeled. No board, no notes, no posted schedule, no name, no decor, no posters in questionable taste. Nothing, no hint as to the character of the person within. Just a door.

Well. There was nothing for it, really. Aziraphale brushed a few wrinkles out of his sweater and knocked smartly.

For a long moment, there was no sound at all, and then-- thud, whump -- someone rolled off the bed and hit the floor like a load of wet laundry. A groan. And then more silence.

“Hello?” Aziraphale said. He rapped on the door again. “I’m looking for someone named A. J. Crowley?”

Another groan, then someone yelled, somewhat slurred, “go away, Beez, tol’ you I’m not lending you any money.” 

The door opened suddenly and Aziraphale blinked at what was a very… green room behind the man. “You’re not Beez,” he said. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen anyone quite so very un-Beezlike in my entire life. What do you want, angel?”

“What?” Aziraphale looked around, but the hallway behind him was entirely deserted. “Are you Crowley?”

“Who’s asking?” Crowley, if that was Crowley, was tall and lanky, dressed all in black except for a shock of red hair. He wore sunglasses, little round, deeply black ones that didn’t show a hint of his eyes, and he had cheekbones sharp enough to cut paper. He stood in a way that reminded Aziraphale -- in no way that he could actually put words to -- of a snake.

“Oh, yes, quite,” Aziraphale stammered. He shuffled the books in his arms around until he could offer a hand. “Aziraphale. I’m your partner for the project for Professor Nutter’s class.”

Crowley actually lowered his sunglasses to peer at Aziraphale over the rims. His eyes were a shade of brown so pale they could be deemed yellow instead. “What? Agnes gave us partners for a project?” He said this in a deeply aggrieved voice. “What project, oh, bother, you’d better come in then.”

Aziraphale was not, perhaps, the most fastidious student on campus, but his room was at least clean.

Crowley’s room, on the other hand, was spotless. Pristine. Dustless. And filled from the floor to the rafters with thick, luxurious plant-life, living in beautiful, matching pots. There were custom lighting tracks set up to give the plants everything they needed in the way of sunlight, and the whole room smelled of sweet earth and green, growing things.

Crowley grabbed an apple from a fruit bowl on a side table and took a bite. “Apple?” he offered the bowl to Aziraphale.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale said, pleased. Breakfast seemed like a distant memory by this point in the morning. A little nosh would be just the thing. He picked out one of the fruits, heavy with juice and lusciously dark red. “This really is something,” he said, gesturing at all the plants. “Simply lovely. Quite the green thumb you must have.” He bent close to examine the flower buds on the nearest specimen.

“I talk to them,” Crowley said. “They don’t like to disappoint me. What’s this nonsense, then, about a project? Agnes really gave me a project? She loves me, why would she do that?”

“I can’t see how she’d have any opinion about you at all,” Aziraphale said, rather tartly, “as I’m quite certain you’ve not been to a single class all semester.” He certainly would have remembered seeing someone as striking as Crowley before. “Have you even cracked the book?”

“Which one?” Crowley asked. He was slinking around the room, examining all his plants and checking the moisture levels of the soil. “Hand me my mister, would you, angel?”

Aziraphale looked around and spotted the mister, though he had to put his stack of books down in order to have a hand free for it. He dropped them on what he presumed was Crowley’s bed, then handed over the mister. “Prophecy of Personality,” he said, waving at it where it was on top of his stack. “The textbook. For the class you haven’t been attending!”

“Oh, that book,” Crowley said. “Yeah, uh, I think I might have burned it.”

“You what?” Aziraphale screeched. He snatched his books back up off Crowley’s bed, dropping the apple to clutch them close lest this apparent demon start setting fire to them, too.

“It was, you know, a dorm-thing,” Crowley said. “Beez’s idea. We had a big bonfire and, well, there was quite a lot of wine involved. Truly, epic amounts of wine.” Crowley waved his hand around aimlessly, like someone had replaced all the bones in his wrist with overcooked pasta. “I don’t really remember.”

“Your dorm had a book burning and you don’t really remember?” Azirpahale demanded. He looked around, somewhat wildly. He couldn’t stay in this place, in this hell, for one second longer. He pulled the project handout out of the book and shoved it at Crowley. “Here. This is the project. Read it. And then come to my room -- I’m in Heaven dorm -- this afternoon, at four.”

“Of course you are,” Crowley drawled. “Am I allowed… I mean, inviting me to your room, that’s very forward.”

“To work on the project,” Aziraphale snapped, feeling heat climbing up under his collar. “Unless you’d rather meet at the library.”

“No, no, the library is for people who are worried about their grades,” Crowley said. “I wouldn’t be caught dead at the library. Your room. Four o’clock. I’ll bring take away. Unless I fall asleep.”

Aziraphale scowled and gathered his things back up. “Don’t,” he said icily, “fall asleep.”

                                                           ***

Crowley watched, somewhat stunned, as the ethereal figure scrambled for the door, leaving the room in a cloud of stern disapproval.

“Well, that went over like a lead balloon,” he said, rubbing at his face. He flipped the project assignment sheet over a few times and read it. Nothing on the hand out indicated that Professor Nutter was a complete lunatic, brought in at the last minute to replace Professor Pulsifer, who had, indeed, been cheating on his wife, the Dean of Student Affairs, and who had made a hasty escape from the collegiate life and his marital strife by moving with his mistress to Surrey. Or that Nutter had made it her personal goal to make Crowley have to actually do some work. 

Didn’t make either of those things less true, mind.

What it did say was that they’d have to do several sets of interviews with student volunteers, to test their hypothesis about personality cues. And then write up a monograph for it. Ug. 

The apple that Aziraphale hadn’t eaten was laying on the floor, bright and shiny, and bruised on one side from where he’d dropped it. Crowley bent to pick it up. “What are you lookin’ at?” he accused his plants.

He eyed the apple for a long moment, the very faint imprints of Aziraphale’s teeth where they’d just started to pierce the skin.

Crowley took a bite, right there. Guess he’d go up to Heaven ‘round four and see what all the fuss was about.

But first. Nap. Mornings were, he decided, some sort of Divinely inspired curse, and should be outlawed almost immediately, if not sooner. He fell back into bed and got up a few hours later, much more coherent and refreshed.

Contrary to Aziraphale’s belief, Crowley had attended every single one of Agnes Nutter’s classes. He just did it in the afternoon instead. She taught the same material at both classes, and it wasn’t difficult to slouch around in the back and catch up on the notes. He’d sit the test at the proper time, but the less Crowley had to be awake in the morning, the happier everyone was going to be.

He placed an order by telephone with the curry-shop just off campus, gathered his notes from class -- he did not, however, grab his copy of the book, which was not burned, but then he couldn’t remember which of his class texts had been deposited on the blaze, but there was no point in giving Aziraphale the satisfaction -- and headed over to Heaven.

There was something more than a little sterile and creepy about Heaven dorm, with its white paint and chrome accents. It looked like a hospital. Or a morgue. Cold and crisp and utterly devoid of sentiment.

“Oi,” Crowley barked at one of the students in the front lounge. “Where’s Aziraphale?”

They looked up, patted perfectly coiffed hair as if to smooth fly aways that weren’t there. Michael. Great. Crowley had swimming class with Michael. Fastidious git. “Down the hall.”

“Thanks. Michael. Dude,” Crowley said, giving Michael finger guns. Michael hated being called dude.

Crowley shifted his burdens, getting the curry out front. A peace offering, of sorts. Walked down the hall and, after frowning at the door, kicked it a few times.

The door opened a moment later to reveal Aziraphale, scowling. A scowl shouldn’t look so adorable on anyone, but there it was. Utterly adorable. “You needn’t bang when a simple knock would-- Oh.” He hesitated, seeing how full Crowley’s arms were. “Well, I suppose it couldn’t have been helped.” He stepped aside, waving Crowley in.

Aziraphale’s room wasn’t empty and sterile like the halls of Heaven. It was filled, top to bottom and side to side, with books. Every sort of book, at every possible age. Crowley wouldn’t have been surprised to find a set of scrolls in there, somewhere, tucked behind the dimestore paperbacks, perhaps. Even the bed was covered with books.

Aziraphale took the containers of curry from Crowley’s hands and then looked around, frowning slightly as he tried to figure out where to set it down. He finally shuffled a few stacks around to make a space on what was, probably, a table or a desk of some sort. “There we are.”

Crowley twitched as Aziraphale came closer. “Are you wearing cologne?” What sort of student was this guy, dressed in pristine, cream colored slacks, wingtip shoes, an embroidered vest, with a blessed pocket watch chain curving neatly across a soft belly. 

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said, in a tone that suggested Crowley was the odd one for even asking. “It’s new, actually. My barber recommended it.”

He couldn’t quite resist, most students smelled like stale food and forgotten antiperspirant and cheap scented spritzers. He leaned in, nose going a few inches from Aziraphale’s throat. “Nice,” he growled. “I’ll take two.” He wasn’t even quite sure if he meant two bottles of cologne, or two of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale backed up half a step, eyes widening a little. “Ah, yes, well,” he stammered, a faint blush rising out of his collar. “Perhaps we’d better get on with the project.”

“Food first,” Crowley countered, “dont’ want to get sauce on your books. Read through th’ notes today--” He opened the take away box, looked down at his bowl of curry and rice and sauce and shoveled a mouthful before going on to suggest a handful of potential project topics.

Aziraphale huffed a little and produced from somewhere a pair of napkins. Not the paper napkins that had come with the takeaway, but actual cloth napkins. He handed one to Crowley with a somewhat stern look, then spread the other across his lap before picking up the second box.

“Oh!” he said, suddenly delighted, a smile blooming on his face that was as bright as the sun. “My favorite! How did you guess?” He picked up the fork and scooped up a bite, somehow managing to avoid dripping curry sauce anywhere and putting it into his mouth without getting any on his lips. It was a damned miracle, that was. He still picked up his napkin and blotted his mouth as he chewed. “This is quite good,” he said. “Where did you get it?”

There were words out there. Words, nouns, verbs, adjectives. Punctuation, sometimes, even. All of them vacated Crowley’s head and went swirling off to Alpha Centauri. He couldn’t have put a coherent sentence together if someone’d held a sword to his throat. He could only stare and watch and deal with a squirmy, heated knot of something in his belly, rather lower than his navel, and might not even count as his stomach at all.

The flittering little shy glances, the way Aziraphale’s whole face radiated joy and pleasure and appreciation.

All for a bowl of take away curry.

“Uh…” Crowley managed. He gestured, hand spread, out there somewhere.

Aziraphale’s smile dimmed just a little, just enough to no longer be blinding. “Oh, yes, sorry, I shouldn’t ask questions while you’re trying to eat.” He took another dainty bite of his own. “So, for our project, I was thinking we--”

“Card! On th’ bag,” Crowley burst, struggling to find a few words. “The curry cart. Good place, my favorite.” He cupped one hand under his bowl, balancing it neatly while he bent backward from his chair to snag the paper bag from the trash.

“Do be careful,” Aziraphale said. “I’d hate for you to fall and hurt yourself.” He took the bag as Crowley handed it over, though, and examined the card stapled to the top. “Lovely,” he pronounced it. “We’ll have to try it again, find out what’s best.”

Crowley sat up, brushing rice off his shirt. “I don’t fall, I just sort of… saunter vaguely downward.” That something in his belly was twisting itself up in knots. We. Again. He didn’t think there were more lovely words in the entire universe. “Whatever you like, angel. Anywhere you want to go.” 

Aziraphale shifted a little in his seat. “Yes, well. As I was saying, about the project--”

Someone knocked on the door and then it opened to reveal a slightly older student, immaculately groomed and wearing -- was that a bespoke jacket? “Just a routine check,” he said. “I heard voices.”

“Ah, Gabriel,” Aziraphale said. “Yes, this is Crowley, my partner for Professor Nutter’s class. I imagine he’ll be around quite a bit for the rest of the semester.” He gave Crowley a tight, thin-lipped smile. “Gabriel is our R.A.”

Crowley could almost feel all the synapses in his brain going off at once. “You’re Gabriel? Oh, that’s… heard about you, mate. All good things.” Of course. Literally anyone who lived on Hell’s third circle knew about Gabriel. Beez had… well, Crowley couldn’t decide if it was a thing for Gabriel romantically, or a thing for Gabriel like wanting to cut his head off and stick it on a pig pole. Somehow, Crowley had pictured someone who was… less of a prissy little bastard, though.

“Well of course they’re all good things,” Gabriel said with a self-assured smile. He looked them over. “Is that curry? From off campus?”

“Nothing against the rules in that,” Aziraphale said.

“Perhaps not, but I wouldn’t want to soil my vessel with it,” Gabriel said disapprovingly.

“Your body is a temple, we can tell,” Crowley said, insincere and dripping with it. “Shoo, bzzz. We have work to do.” He waved one hand around, nearly knocking over a book. “We’re all fine here, surely you have the whole rest of the dorm to watch over.”

“Yes, quite,” Gabriel said, entirely missing Crowley’s sarcasm. “I’ll look in again later!” He waved and backed out of the room again.

Aziraphale sighed. “He means well, I’m sure.”

Means well? Means well? That was utter bollocks. “No, he means to be flaunting his authority.” He stretched the word out obscenely. Author-a-taaaaai.

“Well, better Gabriel than getting Her involved,” Aziraphale said, pointing upwards with a meaningful lift of the eyebrows. “You know. The dorm monitor.”

“I’m not entirely certain She exists,” Crowley muttered. “So, angel. Project. Let’s do this.” He scraped the last bit of his curry out of his bowl, tossed the bowl in the trash, and then his jacket in the other direction, landing neatly on a pile of books -- there was nowhere else for things to go, why on earth did Aziraphale need so many books. Surely he couldn’t possibly have read them all.

“Yes, let’s,” Aziraphale said, looking pleased again. He reached into a pile of books and brought out the class textbook, from which he withdrew a folded copy of the syllabus. “We’ll need to choose our subject group, and then our set of cues to interview for. Or perhaps we should do them in the other order.”

Crowley discovered another good side effect to having no text; he was constantly having to read over Aziraphale’s shoulder, or nudge him into pushing the book across both of their laps. He didn’t think he’d ever been quite so pleased to be part of a group project before. Aziraphale had really gorgeous handwriting, too, taking notes on their project so that Crowley didn’t have to.

His phone alarm chirped somewhat after seven and he hadn’t even realized that he’d been there for three hours. “Need t’ grab a bite to eat before my last class,” Crowley apologized. Then, as if it had just occurred to him, “want to have dinner with me?”

“Oh, that would be simply divine,” Aziraphale agreed brightly. “Where shall we go?”

“Just the commons,” Crowley said, trying not to wince as Aziraphale’s smile flattened a bit. “Can’t eat off campus all the time, otherwise, what’s a meal plan for? Besides, I have t’ run to astronomy, right after.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Aziraphael allowed. “Astronomy sounds interesting, at least.” He packed up his books. There was an ink smudge on the side of his face that was entirely too cute. “Very well, let us go and see what’s on offer that’s least likely to give us indigestion.”

They made an odd pair, strolling across campus. At least Crowley noticed more than half the student body turned to watch them pass. He wondered how he’d never seen Aziraphale before, the man had an aura about him that was like a gravity well made of light.

Crowley was not a gourmand of any sort; he liked fizzy drinks and greasy take-away, when he remembered to eat at all and not just talk through the entire meal to whoever happened to sit at his table.

And it was his table. He barely raised an eyebrow when the chattering female students who’d clumped there scattered like startled ducks. “Mister Crowley,” one of them exclaimed as he dumped his tray in front of where she’d been sitting and then waited until she vacated the spot.

“Sit down, angel, take a load off, those books look like they weigh as much as you do,” Crowley teased.

“Oh, hardly that much,” Aziraphale said, but he set his books down. “You didn’t have to run them off; we could have found somewhere else to sit.”

“Well, I didn’t have to, no, but it’s so much fun. And this is my spot,” Crowley said, sprawling on the bench. “Right here, my initials…” He traced his thumb over the groove in the wood, the pale color against the dark patina of age on the bench. “A. J. Crowley.”

Aziraphale looked slightly scandalized, but he reached over to rub the carving thoughtfully. “What does the A. J. stand for?”

“Anthony,” Crowley said. “The J’s… just a J. You know, it’s a thing.”

Crowley picked at his food, eating the tips off his chips, leaving the mushy middles on the plate. Took the crust off the top of his steak and kidney pie and sorted through the resulting mess trying to figure out if there was anything in there that had once even vaguely been near a cow.

Aziraphale picked at his dinner just as listlessly, though he’d managed to snag some fruit that looked half-decent, and he made consideringly pleased hums around his pudding. “So, astronomy, then? Is that your major?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “I like the stars. Beautiful nebulas. Makes all this--” he waved a hand around, indicating the commons, the college, the country, the whole miserable planet. “--seem a little unimportant. Which is the only thing that gets me through conversations with my mother.”

“Stars are nice,” Aziraphale said, somewhat diffidently. “I prefer literature, myself. All the different ways we have to express an idea or a feeling -- it’s fascinating!”

Crowley was just getting ready to launch into his favorite topic, how the entire universe had formed and that, however unlikely, it had made such a delightful person as the one sitting across the table from him, when-- ooff, something hit him, nearly knocking him out of his chair, more from surprise than anything else.

Another squishy thud and Aziraphale’s cream coloured jacket suddenly had a big, blue stain on it.

He looked over his shoulder at the stain in swiftly increasing dismay. “That’s not coming out,” he said, pouting. “My favorite coat! It’s ruined!”

Crowley reached over and ran a finger through the stain. “Blueberry pie,” he confirmed, then glanced around the room. He loaded a mushroom, some gravy and a bit of pie crust onto his fork and-- there. Davis, the economics major, talking in a low, conspiratorial voice with some of his fellows. “This is about to get nasty,” he predicted, and then launched the forkful of pie directly at Davis’s hair. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. He picked up his tray and held it up like a shield. “This is so juvenile, really!”

“That’s what makes it fun,” Crowley said, ducking a poorly aimed bit of baked cod. “Oh, look, it’s your R.A.” 

“What, where?” Aziraphale peeked over the rim of the tray. He spotted Gabriel just as the R.A. took an entire soft-serve ice cream cone to the face. Aziraphale coughed out a laugh and then quickly covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes still dancing.

A quick scan of the room, and he found Beez and their group of hangers-on. “Get ready to run, angel,” Crowley said. He moved, quick, lithe, and stealthy, snuck the bowl of treacle pudding from Beez’s table while they were occupied looking at something else and launched it at Gabriel, before flattening himself on the floor to crawl back over to Aziraphale.

“This way!” Aziraphale said, pointing. “We can sneak out the staff entrance!” He gestured for Crowley to go first and followed, holding that tray over Crowley’s head for protection.

They made it to the door, dodged around a confused caretaker, and found themselves outside in the courtyard, Crowley laughing so hard it was difficult to stay upright. “Well, that was exciting,” Crowley said, practically hanging off Aziraphale like a scarf.

Aziraphale was laughing, too, in that restrained sort of way that meant he was trying not to. “The looks on their faces,” he gasped. “Oh, that was wicked. We shouldn’t have done that.” He didn’t try to distance himself from Crowley, however.

“Of course we shouldn’t’ve,” Crowley said. “That’s what makes it delightful. Here, give me that--” He held out his hand. “Your coat. I’ll get it cleaned.” If nothing else, it would give him another excuse to visit, something not schoolwork-related.

“Really?” Aziraphale beamed up at him. “Thank you.” He shucked the coat and carefully folded it stain-inward before handing it carefully over. “Well. Delightful as that was, I believe you have class. And I have homework to attend to.”

“Sure,” Crowley said. “I’ll… see you around.” He watched as Aziraphale walked away, looking somehow even more delicious in his light blue shirt and the silken back of his vest displayed. It was… charming and adorable and… “Bugger,” Crowley said. “I’m in trouble.” He brought the jacket up to his nose, inhaling the scent of Aziraphale’s cologne. He was… desperately in trouble. And not just because he was going to be late for class.

[tisfan]

Title: The Power of Positive Thinking Written by: @tisfan Square: B4 - Library AU Rating: G Triggers/warnings: none Tags: rude patrons, customer service, angel!librarian, customer service is hell Created for: @ineffablehusbandsbingo Word count: 688 

Aziraphale, more commonly known to his human friends as Ezra Fell, and Mr. Fell to the library clientele, was binding a book back together. It wasn’t the delicate task, the way restoring an antique might be. This was a circulation copy that someone had gotten a little too enthusiastic about, but a simple bind and tape job. Some of Aziraphale’s colleagues were just as apt to slap duct tape on the back and re-affix the circulation sticker and call it a win.

Aziraphale was a little more particular than that, preferring to make sure the book was a well kept as possible. Bent pages and broken spines might indicate love for a book that resided on one’s own shelf, but the library copy shouldn’t look like someone dragged it through the mud. Why, the front cover was barely hanging on by a thread!

Fortunately, he owned an exacto knife, and while flaming swords were what he’d trained in, he knew his way around a pen blade or two.

“Excuse me,” someone said from behind him. More polite in words than tone. “I’m looking for a book.”

Aziraphale put on his best smile. “How fortunate for you that you happen to be in a library.” He carefully removed the spine, preserving it for the rebinding. It was a little cracked here and there, but an extra dab of glue would do the trick.

“The er… person at the front desk said you would help me,” the man continued on. “Mr. Bub?”

Beelzebub. Well, they were all but useless in the stacks anyway. “They did, did they? Well, if you’ll wait just two shakes of a lamb’s tail, this is a tricky bit of--”

“I’m looking for a specific book,” the man said, talking over Aziraphale. He no longer wondered that Beelzebub had sent the gentleman back to Aziraphale. He only marveled that they hadn’t bitten his head off and spat it down the stairs. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

“Oh, perhaps I can be of some assistance,” Aziraphale said. “Wonderful thing, card catalogs. What’s the title?”

“Don’t know,” the guy said. “It had a green cover.”

“That extends to an extraordinary number of books. I’m afraid you’ll have to be rather more specific. Author?”

“Who cares? It’s not like he was important.”

“Well, what was it about?”

“I haven’t read it,” the man said, sounding offended. “That’s why I’m looking for it. Friend recommended it.”

“Astonishing that they didn’t offer to lend it to you,” Aziraphale said. “Do you, in fact, remember anything about it that might assist in locating the book?”

“It was green. Think the first word of the title was The. Michael recommended it to me.”

“You’re too kind,” Aziraphale said. Right. Minor miracle time. He took a breath, touched his temple. “Ah… I think I have it for you, sir. The Power of Positive Thinking. This way.” He patted the book being repaired. You stay right there, please.   

He led the man into the self-help section and pulled the book down from the shelf, offering it to him. It was not, Aziraphale noted, green. In fact, it was quite a disturbing shade of orange, with yellow swirls.

The man in the white suit glanced at the book. “Oh, well, yes, that’s…” He whipped out his phone and took a picture of the cover, turned around as if to walk away.

“Sir, your book?”

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” the man said. “I’m Gabriel, I don’t read books. I certainly don’t borrow them from dingy little libraries. I’ll order it on Amazon and put it on the shelf.”

And he left without saying thank you or anything.

“Well, he doesn’t need you, does he, dear?” Aziraphale said to the book and put it back on the shelf. “I’m quite positive that he was an arsehole.”

Well, if nothing else, it would make a fine story to tell Crowley when he got home from work. No doubt, Crowley, who worked in the nursery just down the block, would have several grand stories of his own. Customer service might not have been Hell, exactly, but sometimes, it was close. 

[tisfan]

Til I See Me Again

Title: Til I see Me Again Written by: @tisfan Square: B5 - Body Swap Rating: General Triggers/warnings: none Tags: body swap, housecleaning, Crowley is a neat freak Created for: @ineffablehusbandsbingo Word count: 471 Link: A03

Of course it was going to happen. After the Apoca-could-ya-not, how could it not happen? 

The Apocalypse hadn’t occurred. Millions of demons had been riled up and then told to stand down. Guardian angels and cherubim and seraphim had been pulled from their various duties and drafted to fight. 

Perhaps not all the hosts of Heaven and Hordes of Hell had wanted to fight, but Crowley had to admit that he and Aziraphale were a depressingly small minority. In fact, Crowley hadn’t gotten any support whatsoever from any of his demonic acquaintances. Aziraphale had gone even worse, when he hadn’t been, in fact, directly assaulted, he’d been belittled, mocked, and ignored.

Which meant that they had to be prepared. If could happen any time.

They swapped their bodies before they even left Tadfield, blurring for just a moment behind a copse of trees, and then heading out to go to the bus stop.

Which meant that Crowley was, in fact, now disguised as Aziraphale, looking around Aziraphale’s little flat above his shop.

Which was a mess.

He reached over and picked up Aziraphale’s phone and called his own cellular. He loved cell phones. Aziraphale hated them. So he was already grinning widely when Aziraphale said, in his most testy tone using Crowley’s voice, “What?”

“Crowley!” Crowley said, “you old devil, how are you?”

“Well, if you must know,” Aziraphale said, still pretending to be Crowley, although he wasn’t necessarily doing a very good job of it, but that was all right. As far as Crowley could tell, his own lot wouldn’t know an angel in disguise if it bit them. Not that, mind you, Aziraphale was likely to bite anyone. 

“Perhaps you could help me with a tiny little problem,” Crowley said, pretending to be Aziraphale. “I could put in a good word upstairs, if you might be so kind--”

“I am unforgivable, Angel,” Aziraphale said, throwing himself into the role. “There’s nothing you, or anybody, could say that would get me back into Heaven.”

Well, as a matter of fact, Crowley thought he’d be seeing Heaven again for the first time in thousands of years, rather soon. But no need to mention that.

“Do you, in fact, have any bloody idea where I might have left my pocket watch? I’m afraid I can’t find it in this clutter.”

“Clutter!” Aziraphale huffed. “It’s not clutter, it’s just… lived in. Unlike my own, spartan, perfectly sterile living environment.”

Crowley picked up an old teapot. “Does this spark joy?”

“Don’t you dare throw anything away, or so help me--”

“Get thee behind me, foul fiend,” Crowley said. “Tell you what, why don’t we go have a bit of lunch, crepes, perhaps? And I won’t have to look at this disaster any longer.”

“Very well, but only because you asked so nicely.”

“Please.”

[tisfan]

Proximity

Title: Proximity Written by: @tisfan Square: B2 - Star Gazing Rating: general Triggers/warnings: none Tags: star-gazing, Crowley’s Nebula, Wings Created for: @ineffablehusbandsbingo Word count: 310 Link: A03

  The earth might have been just over six thousand years old, but the stars were much, much older. Before She had declared the first official day, there really wasn’t much to the whole idea of time.

Crowley stretched out on the hill, and when Crowley stretched, he seemed to get even longer and stringier and snake-like than he was on other, less stretchy occasions. He lay flat on his back, one hand tucked at the back of his neck and looked up at the stars.

“It’s a very lovely nebula, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, leaning his head against Crowley’s hip. It was sort of a bony hip, all protruding edges and not very comfortable, but Aziraphale didn’t mind. Crowley was patting through the tangle of pale, baby soft hair on Aziraphale’s head, and that made it worth the while.

“It is, isn’t it?” Crowley said.

“Have you been… well, back?”

Crowley shook his head, which Aziraphale couldn’t see, but could feel as a regretful shudder along Crowley’s leg. “Nah, demons don’t really fly anymore, you know. Still have wings, but--”

“How were you planning to get to Alpha Centauri, then? If you’d decided to go.”

“Honestly?”

“Aren’t we always honest with each other, my dear Crowley?”

“Angel, I’ve been lying to you since the very first day, when what I said was ‘that went over like a lead balloon’ and what I wanted to say was ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come home with me and be my very own?’”

“Oh, good lord,” Aziraphale said, nudging Crowley’s thigh. “You are too much, sometimes.”

“I like to think I’m just enough,” Crowley said. “But, to answer your question, I was hoping you’d come with me, and teach me how to fly again.”

Aziraphale sat up. “Would you like to go for a little flight, then, my dear?”

“Anywhere you want to go.” 

[tisfan]

Ineffable Husbands Bingo

Title: Infernal Machines and Demonic Pigeons Written by: @tisfan & @27dragons Square: G5 - Lawn Mower Accident Rating: General Triggers/warnings: blood, accidental maiming of small garden animals, Crowley is disappointed with the lawn mower Tags: tadfield, post apocalypse, the Them, gardening Link https://archiveofourown.org/works/20338366 Created for: @ineffablehusbandsbingo Word count: 1,874

 God, it was said, did not play dice with the Universe. She did, rather more frequently than strictly necessary, give people exactly what they wanted in such a way that they didn’t want it any longer.

Crowley was just staring up at the ceiling of the little cottage in Tadfield that he and Aziraphale had moved into following the Apoca-could-ya-not. Just to keep a closer eye on Adam. And maybe to avoid some of their fellow angels and demons who stood out like sore thumbs in even larger cities and therefore would be quite easily spotted in a little village like Tadfield. He was staring at the ceiling, trying to decide if the crack in the plaster looked more like a duck or a cow, thinking he was blessedly bored and what he wouldn’t do for a little bit of action, when Aziraphale shrieked from out in the garden.

It was the sort of shriek that meant something was very, dreadfully wrong.

“Crowley! Crowley, I need you right now!” His voice was rather higher-pitched than usual, full of panic and distress.

(more below the cut)

“I see you up there, having a laugh at me,” Crowley said to God as he rolled off the sofa in an awkward lump of too many bones and not enough muscle before bolting out of the house.

The scene was--

Bloody awful, and he meant that in every literal meaning of the words bloody and awful.

The grass, fresh cut and quivering with the need to please, was coated with blood. And feathers.

White feathers.

“Angel!” Crowley practically exploded into panic, arriving at Aziraphale’s side in seconds, looking him over for some sort of celestial wound. Angels and demons weren’t entirely able to be killed, but they could be destroyed. And Aziraphale could certainly be discorporated. Who knew what would happen to him, if he ended up going back upstairs now.

“Oh, Crowley, it’s just dreadful!” Aziraphale wailed. “Do something!” His hands were flailing, waving helplessly in the direction of the lawn mower, which had spatters of blood all around its edges, and a few mangled feathers trapped under the front wheels.

“You!” Crowley turned on the mower fiercely. Unlike Aziraphale, he had not been issued a flaming sword, but he could make do with a pair of summoned garden hedge trimmers. He didn’t exactly borrow any hellfire to make the blades drip with infernal glee, but there were a few volcanoes in the south Pacific that wouldn’t miss a bit of lava. “You had one job! One! Cut the grass! And you manage to bollox it all up? I am very disappointed in you.”

One might think that something like a yard tool, like the Flymo Easi Glide 330 wouldn’t be able to be terrified of a demon. It’s as if one might expect a computer to be nervous, or a camera to want to take a better picture. But anyone who’s ever cursed or yelled at or pleaded with one of their electrical devices can tell you; machines think. And they’re rather diabolical, at that.

What this particular machine was thinking was that the grass was much greener. Somewhere else. Anywhere else.

The mower started itself with a rumble and fled, spewing feathers and blood and grass clippings as it went.

“Where does it hurt, Angel?” Crowley, having dealt with the bad machine, turned a tender hand on his Angel, looking for the wounds.

“What? No, no, I’m fine, but look at this poor thing!” He bent and scooped up a pile of feathers from the lawn, holding it tenderly in his hands, and extended it for Crowley’s examination.

Upon closer look, it wasn’t a pile of feathers at all, but a bird, rather severely mangled, cut nearly in half by the mower’s blades.

“It’s a pigeon,” Crowley said, both of his eyebrows going up so high that he could rather feel them arguing with his hair. “Rather a lot of them around these parts, aye? Seen ‘em at the park, the kiddies feed them. Blasted waste of bread if you ask me.”

“I don’t know what it was doing in the grass,” Aziraphale said. Crowley got the impression that if his hands weren’t full of dead bird, he’d be wringing them. “I was just going along and suddenly...” He tipped his head and gave Crowley a faint little smile. “Can’t you fix it? I never meant it any harm.”

“That’s more your thing than mine,” Crowley said, vaguely annoyed now that there was no need to panic about that fact that Aziraphale’s wing hadn’t been torn off by the lawn mower. Speaking of which, the Easi Glide was all the way down in Hogsback wood by now, and they’d like to never see it again. Pity that. On the other hand, Crowley had obtained rather a lot of enjoyment from the act of purchasing it, and now he’d get to do that again. “I’m not supposed to go around bringing things back to life. Could get in a load of trouble that way.” 

To be fair, Crowley didn’t really know what he was supposed to be doing any longer. He wasn’t, technically speaking, employed by Hell any longer. But on one had yet stopped by with a manual. Or a new job offer. He and Aziraphale were keeping an eye on the boy, a familiar occupation, for lack of something else, and concentrating very hard on being Left Alone by the Forces of both Light and Darkness.

Aziraphale pouted at him, petulant and maybe just a touch disappointed.

“Miracle it up, Angel,” Crowley scolded. “For Sata-- for Heav-- for someone’s sake, stop being a wimp about a little blood.”

“I’m not being a wimp about the blood,” Aziraphale said primly. “It was just so awful, darling. I’m never going to be able to get the image out of my mind. And if I can’t picture her whole, then you know I can’t make it work.” He turned up the intensity of the pout. “Won’t you? For me?”

“Very well,” Crowley said, because he never could resist that pout. Or, not even so much the pout, but the beaming smile that happened afterward, the one that said Crowley had done something right. When God spoke, and said Let there be Light, Crowley liked to imagine that that was the moment that Aziraphale came into existence. The embodiment of that very first sunrise. “But you know, she’s going to take after me,” he said. He cupped the dead thing in his hands, little broken bones and mangled feathers. He imagined this pigeon shitting on the mayor’s car, right after he washed it. Of stealing the candle off some poor child’s birthday cake and leaving bird tracks in the frosting. This particular pigeon would be the very worst sort of bird, annoyingly loud, waking up people who worked the night shift by singing joyfully outside their window at sunrise.

And she would have babies. Dozens of eggs in a nest, hundreds of terrible, wretched pigeons. Smart, too. The sort that would figure up a way to take down anti-pigeon devices and leave them in the yards of the people who voted such measures into place.

A demon bird.

Or, to be more succinct: A pigeon. 

It wiggled all over, flapped its wings and Crowley turned it loose. It shit on his jacket as he did so. “Ug! That’s gratitude for you!”

“Oh!” Aziraphale clapped his hands and smiled like the first dawn, and everything seemed just a little brighter and better, even the pigeon shit on his jacket. “Thank you, my dear.” He kissed Crowley’s cheek, blushing a little over it being such a public display. “Well. I think we’d best take a trip into town this afternoon, hadn’t we? I’ll need a new mower -- you didn’t need to frighten the poor thing so badly! -- and of course we’ll need a little roost for our new friend.”

“The mower upset you,” Crowley told him, trying to remember not to brush at the bird poo, since that would only smear it around more. The things you learned, living in Hell. Poo was sticky and smeary and the more you tried to clean it up, the worse it got. Crowley took the jacket off instead, folding it inside out and slung it over his shoulder. He could get a new jacket. “It obviously doesn’t belong here.”

Aziraphale gave him a look that was trying to be stern, but was far too fond and pleased to come anywhere near the mark. “Be that as it may,” he said, “try not to traumatize the next one so much, or folks will wonder why we need a new one every other week.”

“I’ll just tell them their mowers are rubbish,” Crowley said, taking Aziraphale’s arm and leading him back into the house where they could have tea and whatever little nibbly things Aziraphale had gotten to go with the tea. “And I’ll do it in that same sort of loud, complainish voice as if I were an upstanding member of the Tadfield Neighborhood Watch and they’ll jump to it.”

“Yes, dear, as much as you like,” Aziraphale said, patting Crowley’s hand before breaking off into the kitchen to put the kettle on and arrange a tray. “You’ll want to change before we go into town, I expect.”

Crowley didn’t much care for tea, or crackers, or little dainty chocolates. He liked fizzy drinks and terrible biscuits from corner petrol stations. He never needed to buy petrol, but he did like to stop at the stations. But Crowley did enjoy watching Aziraphale have his tea and his chocolate biscuits.

The doorbell rang, and Crowley sauntered off to answer it. It was tea-time and he was going to give the neighbor who rang the bell what for, because no one interrupted Aziraphale’s tea-time, and someone was going to have to learn the rules around here.

“Hi, Mr. Crowley!” The Them were clustered on the stoop, beaming up at him. Behind them, tied to what Crowley suspected was Dog’s lead, was the Easi Glide, motor sputtering somewhat resentfully.

“Your mower escaped into the woods,” Adam told him.

“My mower never does anything exciting like that,” Wensley added.

Pepper rolled her eyes, and Brian leaned to one side to peer past Crowley into the cottage. “I say, is that tea?”

“Indeed it is,” Crowley said. He glared at the mower, which promptly sprouted a petrol leak, soaking the sidewalk. “Mr. Fell might be willing to share some biscuits with you, if you all ask nicely.” He liked children, and the Them were top on his list of favorites. Of course, it wasn’t always a good thing to be the favored child of a demon.

On the other hand, they were also favorites of Aziraphale’s, and having a guardian angel sort of equaled things out.

“Tie the mower up outside, Adam,” Crowley said. “I’ll take care of it later.” That was a little more threatening. “Well, go on then, in you get, have some tea.” He stood in the doorway a moment longer, watching the mower shiver and shake. “Infernal machine. You get one more chance, and consider it a miracle. I’ve gone soft.”

That was all right, then. Aziraphale liked soft. 

[tisfan]

Title: Fish and Chips Written by: @tisfan Square: I5 - Autumn Rating: General Triggers/warnings: none Tags: fast food, domestic husbands Created for: @ineffablehusbandsbingo Word count: 368 

Also, Bingo! the 5 Row is complete

Tadfield was delightful. Open skies, expansive gardens, cosy neighbors. Just what everyone wanted, after retiring from the city. After the Apoca-could-ya-not, the demon Crowley and his angel, Aziraphale, had retired to Tadfield, at least for a few years. Just to keep an eye on Adam, and things, in general. What sort of things, neither of them had any idea. Just things.

That needed an eye kept on them.

So far, it was a lovely autumn, the trees were shedding their leaves, the birds were migrating south, the children were going back to school. The apples were ripe and ready for picking.

“I miss my bookshop,” Aziraphale complained. 

“I don’t know why,” Crowley remarked, looking up from the chair where he was lounging, because Crowley never actually sat in chairs, he draped himself all over them like he either had not quite enough bones in his body, or maybe a few too many, but in either case, he looked like a skinny, slinky, ginger cat that found itself twisted up on the settee cushions. “Looks like you brought the lot with you, as it is. Wasn’t like you ever sold a blessed book if you could possibly manage to avoid it.”

“I miss all the little teashops and corner bistros,” Aziraphale said. “There are exactly two resturants in Tadfield, if one doesn’t count all the blasted so-called fast food.”

“What’s wrong with fast food? I invented it, after all,” Crowley said. Crowley liked fizzy drinks and burgers with enough calories to count as three normal meals. He liked bacon that had never, in fact, seen the inside of a pig, and chips that had been boiled in a combination of oil and meat fat, and then served to both kosher-keeping people and vegetarians alike without them knowing.

“Why am I not surprised?” Aziraphale said. “It’s demented. They take perfectly good products and make rubbish from it.”

“Aw, angel, you just haven’t had a decent fish an’ chips,” Crowley said. “Come on, let me tempt you. Nothing like a nice hot fried fish on a cold night.”

Aziraphale pretended to consider it; there was that certain gleam in his eyes, like Crowley had done something right. “Oh, all right, then.”