#aziraphale is a bastard
Games Night at AZ Fell’s
“What do you think the stakes are?” Newt asked, peering over the piles of books.
Anathema followed his gaze. “No idea, but it’s getting pretty intense,” she said, squinting.
Crowley and Aziraphale sat either side of a rickety old table, refusing to break eye contact. It was hard to tell if that was part of the game, or the sexual tension. They had insisted that they carry out their usual games night, regardless of Newt and Anathema’s surprise visit, because there was apparently a score to settle.
The rules of their game were utterly incomprehensible to an outsider. Three decks of cards sat on the table, split into seven piles of equal height and three of differing heights. There were coins on all the cards, and half a jenga tower dangerously close to the edge of the wobbly old table. Four upturned cups sat over the top of a selection of jelly beans from a multipack (three liquorice, one watermelon). Every now and then, the angel would move a card and smirk triumphantly, or the demon would move a cup and wink. The jenga tower trembled with every motion.
“Is it best of three tonight?” Aziraphale asked, eyeing the table. He was apparently nervous about the progress of their ineffable game.
“Oh, no. All or nothing, angel,” he replied smugly. “Winner takes it all.”
He huffed, taking a poker chip from his breast pocket and trading it for a coin. Crowley hummed appreciatively of the move, nodding.
“Your move,” said the angel.
Anathema wondered what they were betting. Her best idea was human souls, but where would they be getting them from? Her next idea was just money, plain and simple, but it seemed so banal. Newt was more worried about trying to figure out the game. Every time he thought he’d started to understand, they’d introduce another bizarre manoeuvre, or a whole new game piece. Half a chess set had been involved at one point, though he had no idea what had happened to it at this stage.
Crowley was doing his best not to laugh. He turned over one of the stacks of playing cards, flipping the coin which had been sat on top.
“Tails!” he cried triumphantly.
Aziraphale whined. “Oh, bugger,” he said.
Games night had been a favourite pastime of theirs since the fifteenth century. They only had one once every few hundred years, and it was usually one of the highlights of any given century. It worked best in the modern day, with plenty of eclectic games to stitch together, but the rules had always been the same:
Rule 1: At least two humans must be present to witness the “game”; preferably mutual friends.
Rule 2: The “game” must be played using as many different game pieces as possible.
Rule 3: Be as cryptic as possible. Play along with what the other is doing (remember, it doesn’t matter who appears to be winning).
Rule 4: Bets must be placed before the game starts on how the humans will react to their absolute nonsense (because yes, there is no game, no rules and no real point to any of their antics). Closest guess wins, loser has to buy the next bottle of wine.
(Unspoken Rule 5: If any human dares to directly ask about the rules of their game, they must immediately collaborate to build the most incomprehensibly complicated, pointless, stupid and irritating list of rules known to man.)
(Inspired by this postby@worse0mens!)
“Ladies first,” Crowley said chivalrously.
Anathema rolled the die. “Five.”
“Hmm.” Aziraphale scanned the Tube map. “Not the best start, but we’ll catch up, my dear, don’t worry. Right. Newton, your roll.”
Newt looked at Crowley nervously, but Crowley and Aziraphale were pointing their fingers at each other, fingertips an inch apart.
“Go on, roll!” Crowley snapped. Aziraphale was frowning.
“Three.”
“Yes! Aha!” Newt and Anathema’s ears popped as Aziraphale groaned, and something snapped in the air between them. “Okay. We’re going to start at Archway.”
“Not allowed,” Aziraphale instantly countered. “You can’t start on the Northern Line, don’t be completely absurd.”
“Fine. Blackhorse Road.”
“You have to start at a station with wheelchair access.”
“Then you have to start at one of the inaccessible ones.”
“No.”
“Fair’s fair, angel. If I have to abide by Heaven’s rules you have to abide by Hell’s.”
“Fine,” Aziraphale gritted out. “We’ll take Cockfosters.”
“I fucking bet you will,” said Crowley with a sleazy grin. “Right. We’ll take Tottenham Hale.”
“What are the rules of this again?” Anathema asked.
Crowley sighed theatrically. “We start out at two different Tube stations at noon. You can only start when the BBC’s pips are over.”
“But Crowley’s not allowed to go through any station that has the letters s and t together in them.”
“Street? Or Saint?”
“Saint,” Crowley said. “But back in 1979 Aziraphale argued that one station was named after ‘St. Anmore’ and so now it’s any station with an ‘st’. And he’s not allowed to go on the Central line-”
“Because it’s red. And Crowley obviously can’t go through Angel.”
“While if Aziraphale goes through Angel or any station named after a Saint whom he met, Aziraphale, he can send me to a station of his choosing as long as it’s in the same zone I started in.”
“Now, Crowley can go through Blackfriars, because of his commendation.”
Anathema was trying to keep notes. “Commendation?”
“For the Spanish Inquisition. Blackfriars are Dominicans, and the Dominicans ran the Inquisition.”
Anathema was looking at Crowley with fury. “You did the Spanish Inquisition?”
“No!” Crowley looked offended. “I just got a commendation for it. So, yeah, if I go through Blackfriars, I’m allowed to send Aziraphale to the final stop of my choosing.”
“If we’re both on the Piccadilly Line at the same time we have to go to Knightsbridge and duel. Whoever loses has to go to Heathrow, round the Terminals, and then come back. Oh, and Crowley can’t go through Temple, obviously. Ditto Bow Church, Westminster, and Whitechapel.”
“And Aziraphale isn’t allowed to get on or off a train which doesn’t have wheelchair access, unless it’s marked on the map with a red cross, and unless he has to start under Hell’s Rules when the starting station only is exempt.”
“Oh, and Crowley has advantage at any station to do with the monarchy or money, like Bank or East India, so if he gets off in one of those stations and I’m on the same line, he can send me to a station on a connecting line, as long as he puts me down in the same zone.”
“What about Montague’s 2nd revision, eh?” Newt was grinning. “And, er, green rules, in light of the general election? Pedestrian precincts count double and bus lanes are wild?”
Crowley stared at him. “… what the fuck are you on about?”
“Oh, come on,” Newt said. “It’s Mornington Crescent. From I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue. Radio 4? Pretending you have to get to Mornington Crescent first, wind up the American by making up stupid rules.”
The angel and the demon were silent for a long moment. “Our rules aren’t stupid,” Aziraphale said. His voice was soft with hurt.
“Oh, great! Great, we invite you to Games Day, and you hurt the angel’s feelings!” Crowley shouted. “The aim’s to get back to the bookshop, youmoron!”
“Don’t, my dear, it’s all right. I suppose… I suppose when you say them all at once like that it does all sound a bit silly.”
“No, no,” Newt said. “No, shit, no, sorry! I thought it was- There’s a game on Radio 4, I thought you were- No, I mean, we’d love to play. It’s really kind of you. Sorry, right, let me write down all the rules and then we’ll set off for the starting points…”
Aziraphale sniffed and reached for a biscuit. Crowley rubbed his back, glaring daggers at Newt as he and Anathema tried to find a pen between them. “Beautifully done,” he whispered.
“Thankyou, darling.”
“Do you think you can stand up?”
“No. Not sure I have legs at the moment.”
“Not the ‘up’ I meant…” As Aziraphale ran a soft finger along the outside of Crowley’s thigh, Crowley became aware he did have legs and they were currently too sensitive for this. He twitched away. Aziraphale switched to firmly stroking his leg with a flat hand instead, working the tension out of his muscles until he was boneless again.
“I know I dozed off after, but not that long.” Crowley was considering doing so again. He wanted to bask in the warm glow of Aziraphale’s affection now that he could.
“It wasn’t. You just look so lovely, I was hoping for thirds.”
“Oh,seconds wasn’t enough.” Crowley wrapped an arm around Aziraphale, pulling him up to rest on Crowley’s chest. He was heavy, but it was a comfortable weight that made him feel safe.
“Not where you’re concerned. But I can be patient.” The half-hard cock against Crowley’s hip said that patience would only last so long.
“You’re a terror when you’re like this.” Crowley then dropped the teasing tone as he ran a hand through Aziraphale’s hair. “I’m not going anywhere. No more stolen time. No sneaking off after.”
“Just a hard habit to break. You’re quite irresistible.” Aziraphale nuzzled into Crowley’s neck and sighed, but it was a sound of contentment.
“I’d put my trousers on, but that would just encourage you to get them off again. Too sexy for my own good.”
Aziraphale chuckled into his shoulder. “Perhaps pajamas instead. Though you’re lovely any way.”
“So are you, you relentlessly horny bastard. I miiiiiiight be persuaded on thirds with some sweet talking.”
“Shall I tell you everything I want to do with your lovely cock?”
“What about the rest of me?”
“Oh the whole package is quite nice, but I am most interested in one particular part right now.” Aziraphale ran a teasing hand along Crowley’s hip bone, making it clear what he wanted to do next.
Crowley inhaled sharply. “Still sensitive. Words only, please.”
“Please. Oh, you are done in to be so polite. I shall use my tongueonly.”
Crowley flushed at that, but couldn’t deny the tone was effective.
“Just sweet talk you ‘til your little soldier is ready to stand at attention again.”
“Little soldier, really.”
“Perhaps something more old fashioned then? Gospel-pipe, perhaps?”
“I can’t believe you put that in a report!”
“You were well-thwarted by my playing.”
“A right menace you are. Give me your worst.”
He felt Aziraphale smile against his shoulder and then he whispered in his ear “Your… baloney pony?”
“That’s it, I am divorcing you.”
“We’re not married.”
“Might as well be. Putting up with this…”
“Would you like to be?” Aziraphale’s voice was so soft and shy suddenly that Crowley realized it wasn’t a joke.
“Gosh. Yeah. On one condition. Ask again when I have trousers on.”
Aziraphale snorted but snuggled into his shoulder.
“Deal.”
