Fish Pie

“What is that?” Crowley asked, staring at the dish.

“Oh, my favorite! Fish pie!” cried Aziraphale.

“You’re joking.” Crowley scowled at the dish down the length of his nose, pushing back a curl that had come loose and fallen across his forehead.

“I am most certainly not,” Aziraphale said, trying not to think about how fetching a look that was on Crowley.

“’Fish’ and ‘pie’ are two words that should never be combined,” Crowley pronounced, turning his head this way and that as he continued to glare at the pie.

“Oh ye of little faith. It is delightful. Here. You must try some.” Aziraphale deftly cut a slice and slid it onto a plate. “Here,” he repeated, pushing it towards Crowley.

“You first,” Crowley said, scowl transferred to Aziraphale now. He poked at the pie with a finger, making no move to pick up his fork.