Work Text:
Aziraphale Fell had been haunting Eden Hall since 1862, after the unfortunate incident in the Library with a rolling ladder had seen his sedentary life cut off at the tender age (he felt, in retrospect) of 45. The Library remained his main locus operandi, although he had been known to make his presence felt in the kitchens, frightening poor Cook out of her wits as she cooked his favourite crêpes.
The erstwhile bookworm enjoyed a contented non-corporeal existence until a sunny afternoon in 1928. Then his serenity was disturbed by the arrival of one Anthony J. Crowley, cut off in his prime (as he insisted) on a weekend visit for a house party by the entanglement of the fashionably long scarf he sported with the back wheel of his newly-purchased Bentley. Just like Isadora Duncan, Crowley viewed the means of his demise as stylish.
To say the manifestation of Mr Crowley was unwelcome to the resident wraith would have been an understatement. There was not a subject on earth that Crowley and Aziraphale failed to disagree upon. The querulous sound of their bickering drove away the most tenacious of souls who ventured to rent the property once the last scion of the Fell family had gone, heartily relieved, to meet his maker.
As a consequence, the forbidding Victorian pile remained empty until the 1980s, when US Cultural Attaché Thaddeus Dowling bought the place as a holiday home, arriving there with wife Harriet and teenaged son Warlock. With the enthusiasm of those with unlimited funds and no respect for original features, they set about modernising the ancient property.
The two ghosts were furious at the intrusion. Both schemed to see the back of the new inhabitants, rolling out their armoury of spooky effects to frighten them into leaving, as they had done to so many before them. They had not counted, however, on the imperviousness of the newcomers' constitutions. Only Warlock appeared to be able to see them, and he merely said ‘lame’ and continued playing with his Nintendo. The ongoing obliviousness of this very modern family left both spectres feeling horribly thwarted.
“They have bleached away my mouldy corner in the Library, Crowley!” complained Aziraphale, to the only person he felt might understand. “I spent years cultivating that as my reading nook!”
“Yeah,” responded Crowley, gloomily, “they’ve painted my room magnolia. I tried a few weeping bloodstains, but they just lined the room with foil, and painted it again.”
They looked at each other. The pair had cordially loathed each other for nigh-on sixty years, so long, in fact that what they had between them almost felt something like friendship.
“There’s only one thing for it,” said Crowley. “We’ll have to work together.”
“Together?” said Aziraphale.
“Yeah, I think if we join forces we can really get to them. We’ll be like, like…”
“Ghoulfathers,” said Aziraphale, smiling a nefarious smile.”
Crowley met that smile with a wicked one of his own.
“Ghoulfathers it is then.”
And they shook on it, and laughed.