fred-erick-frankenstein reblogged
If at first you don’t succeed
Aziraphale hung up the phone and looked at the piles of cake on his table. He really hadn’t expected Crowley to give up so easily. He decided to bake a dark chocolate torte and call Crowley back when it was done.
When the torte was finally cooling and the dishes miracled clean, he picked up the receiver of the Bakelite phone once more.
“Yes?” Crowley snapped down the line. “What now?”
“I was just calling to ask if you … ah… have watched any good shows on the television lately.”
“What?”
“Well I was thinking if you were so transcendentally bored you could tell me about one of them.”
And so they spent a relaxing two hours talking about Tiger King, which Aziraphale could barely follow at all, but at least it kept Crowley chatting.
“Why don’t I come over and we can catch it together?” Crowley finally said.
“Oh no, my dear boy, that would be most against the rules,” Aziraphale said, setting out a second plate with a cake fork.
“Fine,” Crowley grumbled. “See you in August then, angel.”
And he hung up once more.
Aziraphale pinched his nose. Crowley was being excessively dense. Perhaps isolation was eroding his mental facilities?
He decided to wait a whole 24 hours to call him again, during which time he baked an entire croquembouche and re-shelved his collection of magical realism from Borges to Carpentier to Murakami. (He wasn’t entirely sure if the Murakami belonged, but he talked himself into it.)
fred-erick-frankenstein reblogged
If at first you don’t succeed
Aziraphale hung up the phone and looked at the piles of cake on his table. He really hadn’t expected Crowley to give up so easily. He decided to bake a dark chocolate torte and call Crowley back when it was done.
When the torte was finally cooling and the dishes miracled clean, he picked up the receiver of the Bakelite phone once more.
“Yes?” Crowley snapped down the line. “What now?”
“I was just calling to ask if you … ah… have watched any good shows on the television lately.”
“What?”
“Well I was thinking if you were so transcendentally bored you could tell me about one of them.”
And so they spent a relaxing two hours talking about Tiger King, which Aziraphale could barely follow at all, but at least it kept Crowley chatting.
“Why don’t I come over and we can catch it together?” Crowley finally said.
“Oh no, my dear boy, that would be most against the rules,” Aziraphale said, setting out a second plate with a cake fork.
“Fine,” Crowley grumbled. “See you in August then, angel.”
And he hung up once more.
Aziraphale pinched his nose. Crowley was being excessively dense. Perhaps isolation was eroding his mental facilities?
He decided to wait a whole 24 hours to call him again, during which time he baked an entire croquembouche and re-shelved his collection of magical realism from Borges to Carpentier to Murakami. (He wasn’t entirely sure if the Murakami belonged, but he talked himself into it.)
