"I'm in a bit of a pickle, my dear," Aziraphale said over the telephone.
Crowley was seized by immediate fury. Not even a decade, and they're at it again, he thought viciously. You'd think they'd be embarrassed enough to stay out of things for a few centuries at least, after botching the apocalypse like that.
"Who's done something to you?" hissed Crowley.
"Ah," said Aziraphale, in the quiet tone of someone who didn't mean to learn someone else's secrets and was mildly sheepish about it. "This crossword clue -- I'm stuck -- 1980s French fencer, thought you might know. It's eight letters and has a Q in it."
"Trinquet," Crowley snapped, in the tone of someone who had revealed one of his secrets and was annoyed about it.
An account pertaining to the cultivation of figs, the ecstasy of St. Theresa of Avila, the ontological uncertainty of mammoths, the nature of temptation, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and the ten years following the end of the world.
Words: 19,728
Status: Complete
Rating: Mature
By @isozyme
Art Credit: Figs by Alyona Masterkova
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
