Pie: Milliways
Aziraphael laced his hands across his stomach, stretched his long legs out across the floor, and heaved a quite ridiculously satisfied sigh.
"I may never," he informed Bernard happily, "move again."
"That's for the best, angel." Bernard looked equally as undone, quite overcome by the excellent meal they'd just consumed. Literally undone in the trouser-button arena, if Aziraphael was any judge - Bernard had always, in his opinion, worn his trousers a little too tight. Nymphadora, no doubt, had no complaints.
"And why, might I ask, is that?"
"Dessert," and the grin on Bernard's face was quite inappropriate for discussion of foodstuffs.
Aziraphael moaned, faintly. "I don't know if I'll make it, Bernard. You might have to go on without me. Just - just leave me here. Don't worry, I'll be fine."
"Not a chance. You'll hurt their feelings."
"...they?"
Aziraphael's question was answered by a mutter of soprano voices which was immediately followed by Sunny, proudly bearing a dish in which a slightly uneven pie rested. Sunny's nose had a generous daub of flour across it, and her brother, trailing behind her with her t-shirt grasped firmly in one hand, was wearing an apron about a foot and a half too long for him.
"Goodness, Mug," Aziraphael said, as Bernard carefully served them both out slices. "This looks utterly wonderful."
He took a forkful, asking what was in it just before he took a bite.
"Charlotte," said Anthony solemnly.
Later, after they'd cleaned up the mess, and Bernard had stopped laughing, Aziraphael had a word with 'Dora over where he and Bernard disagreed as far as suitable viewing material went.
"I may never," he informed Bernard happily, "move again."
"That's for the best, angel." Bernard looked equally as undone, quite overcome by the excellent meal they'd just consumed. Literally undone in the trouser-button arena, if Aziraphael was any judge - Bernard had always, in his opinion, worn his trousers a little too tight. Nymphadora, no doubt, had no complaints.
"And why, might I ask, is that?"
"Dessert," and the grin on Bernard's face was quite inappropriate for discussion of foodstuffs.
Aziraphael moaned, faintly. "I don't know if I'll make it, Bernard. You might have to go on without me. Just - just leave me here. Don't worry, I'll be fine."
"Not a chance. You'll hurt their feelings."
"...they?"
Aziraphael's question was answered by a mutter of soprano voices which was immediately followed by Sunny, proudly bearing a dish in which a slightly uneven pie rested. Sunny's nose had a generous daub of flour across it, and her brother, trailing behind her with her t-shirt grasped firmly in one hand, was wearing an apron about a foot and a half too long for him.
"Goodness, Mug," Aziraphael said, as Bernard carefully served them both out slices. "This looks utterly wonderful."
He took a forkful, asking what was in it just before he took a bite.
"Charlotte," said Anthony solemnly.
Later, after they'd cleaned up the mess, and Bernard had stopped laughing, Aziraphael had a word with 'Dora over where he and Bernard disagreed as far as suitable viewing material went.