Mulligatawny Soup

It had never once crossed Aziraphale’s mind that the spices were, well, rather spicy in this particular soup.

“Is something wrong, Crowley?” he asked, alarm beginning to stir in his chest as a flush began at the collar of Crowley’s shirt and traveled up his face.

He now looked rather like a tomato in hue and it clashed horribly with his hair. Crowley resembled, Aziraphale couldn’t help but think, one of those cartoon characters he’d seen from time to time on the televisions displayed in shop front windows.

“Crowley?” he asked again when he didn’t get a response.

Could smoke come out of a demon’s ears? He both did and didn’t want to find out. It was another two or three heartbeats before Crowley opened his mouth, but instead of issuing forth words he drew in a huge gasp of air, let it out with a hiss and then took in another.

“Oh, I do say!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

“HOT!” Crowley gasped out at last, fanning himself.