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"Black or white, my dear?"
"Black, obviously," Crowley grumbled, and Aziraphale smiled indulgently at him, nodding in agreement. The angel allowed his counterpart to pull the board closer to himself and assemble each of the pieces in neat rows, his brow furrowing tightly as if the task were monumental; Aziraphale attempted to reach for his own pieces, to line them up, but Crowley was having none of it, and scowled as he pushed the angel's hand away, placing the white pieces in neat order identical to his black ones. The demon didn't see it, what with how focused he was on the task at hand, but Aziraphale was still smiling at him — or perhaps beaming would be the correct word.
"You go first, dear boy!" Aziraphale prompted when the pieces had been set up and Crowley had propped his elbows up on his knees, sprawled out across the floor while Aziraphale sat primly leaned against his armchair. Crowley rolled his eyes heartily, exasperated but clearly fond.
"Aziraphale, the white pieces always go first," he reminded the angel, his voice edging dangerously on affection. They were just having a simple night in — it was devastatingly late into the second world war, and they both needed a moment of peace from their respective sides to breathe. They weren't drinking; only talking, and playing chess. It was . . . almost domestic in a way that could also be dangerous, should they let it.
"Oh, of course — apologies, my dear, I do always forget the rules of these things." Aziraphale smiled warmly, and Crowley's cheeks pinkened, his pupils going just a little crossed behind his dark-framed glasses. "Now, let's see here . . ." Aziraphale leaned over the board, humming to himself, and actually wriggled his fingers before picking up a pawn, moving it forward two spaces.
And thus, their game commenced, with Aziraphale further proving his ineptitude at the game while Crowley tried so very desperately to give him so many opportunities to take as many black pieces as possible. It was more of a game between who would let the other win first — Aziraphale, because he was bad at the game, and Crowley, because he wanted to see Aziraphale's smile when he impossibly beat the demon who was actually quite a good chess player. He had once played Emanuel Lasker, and won. Aziraphale, on the other hand, probably wouldn't have been able to beat a two-year-old child.
Eventually, after much grumbled, begrudging captures from Crowley and "Aw, shucks",'s from Aziraphale that made the demon want to slam his head into the table, only six pieces — the black King, Queen, knight, and rook, as well as the white King and singular pawn - remained on the board, and the black pieces had driven the white King into the corner of the board.
"Oh, dear," Aziraphale murmured to himself, steepling his fingers and sheepishly looking up at Crowley. "I do believe you have me stumped, dear boy."
Crowley frowned deeply, clearly very disturbed by this. He paused — the angel could almost see the cogs in his head turning — and then pointed at Aziraphale's remaining pawn with a slender finger.
"Nope," he said, matter-of-fact in his don't even try to argue with me because I'm right voice. "That pawn hasn't moved. You can turn it into a Queen. That's the rule."
"I truly doubt that that is a rule, darling." Aziraphale smiled exasperatedly but fondly at the stubborn demon, his eyes twinkling. They had played this before, and Crowley always came up with something ridiculous to keep himself from winning. Evil fiend, to be sure. "You've beat me, foul serpent." His voice was teasing. Crowley, however, still looked deeply disturbed and in thought.
"No, no. See?" Crowley snapped his fingers and the 'rule book' appeared in his hand. He pointed to the final line in the book, Rule #298. Pawns that have not moved once all game can be status-changed once the game reaches a near-checkmate was printed neatly beside the number.
Aziraphale could, of course, very easily sense the miracle, and could see the faintest outline of Crowley's chicken-scratch scrawl behind the primly printed font. But he could also see the stubbornness in Crowley's eyes, and he knew his demon, and this banter was fun, and so he gave in. Crowley would always smile so broadly whenever Aziraphale had him beat, after all.
"Well, then," he stated jovially, "it certainly looks like you are in checkmate, my dear."
"S'pose you've thwarted me, angel," Crowley responded, looking very pleased with himself, indeed. Aziraphale's eyes twinkled. He did so enjoy their nights in together. It was as if the rest of the world ceased to exist for the few precious moments that they had where it was just the two of them; no Heaven or Hell, not even humanity, only them. They laughed, and smiled, and joked, and made each other feel better about the states of themselves and of the world with a bit of banter or a well-placed smile.
"Crowley, you still have your knight," he pointed out, happy laughter bubbling up in his throat — proving his very point. "You can very easily just —,"
"Nuh, ngk, nope. Shut it, angel." Crowley swept a hand over the board, knocking over the remaining pieces, and slouched backwards on the floor.
"Oh, don't pout."
"M'not pouting," said Crowley, very clearly pouting.
"Very well, then; I've beaten you." Aziraphale gave in at last with an indulgent smile, and Crowley, just for a moment, had the most gleeful expression on his face, that it made it all worth it. "You're being silly," the angel sighed, and the demon scowled, but it was a happy scowl.
"Shut it, angel," he repeated, and then snapped his fingers, the pieces lining themselves back up. The 'rule book' was balanced atop the demon's knee, preparing to be befitted with Rule #299. "Up for another round?"