Good Omens Crowley and Aziraphale shorts--Ineffable Husbands PWPs and fluff

Dress It Up and Call It Love 1: The Lure of a Well-Turned Ankle

KENT, 1519 CE

"Look, you agreed to do the temptation. I've been exhausting myself running around Italy curing syphilis on your behalf, you can spread some rumours around the English Court for me. Fair's fair."

Crowley took a long draught of wine and examined the clothes on the bed. He was beginning to feel a little in his cups, which was exactly right for the situation.

"I don't see why that requires an entirely new wardrobe," Aziraphale said stubbornly, helping himself to the sugared almonds Crowley had thoughtfully left accessible.

"You're not going to tempt anyone to sin in a houppelande all the way down to your ankles, angel." 

"I wasn't aware that I was going to do any tempting of that kind," Aziraphale said, frostily. "Gossip, you said. Truthful gossip. Besides, it's a very dignified and beautiful garment."

Crowley sighed. Aziraphale's robes were, in fact, exquisite in cut and fabric. They also looked rather like what he'd been wearing for centuries, which he supposed was the point. Aziraphale, once he found something he liked, tended to stick to it. "Just listen to me on this one. People will trust you more if you look less like a priest. You'll look majestic. You've got the figure for it." 

Aziraphale hummed a little under his breath, in a way that suggested he was considering falling to temptation, and Crowley pressed his advantage.

"Look, you'll like Court. Very virtuous and religious woman, the Queen. And Henry is extremely well read and educated, and a talented musician. You'll have so much to talk about. And the entertainments, and the feasts!"

"I'm not sure why you're so insistent on this, dear boy."

Crowley delicately bit his own lip with sharp eye teeth. Aziraphale had started to show a worrying tendency to withdraw into his books and theological treatises and religious debates, rarely coming out. Crowley wasn't seriously concerned that the angel would end up being discorporated for heresy, but there was a very real danger that he would retreat into his studies in a monastery for years. Out of reach. It would be just like him to forget that Crowley could hardly drop in on him for a chat and a few drinks on consecrated ground.

Or perhaps he wouldn't even care, or miss him. Crowley disliked that thought intensely. No, it was time to remind Aziraphale of the pleasures of the world. And there was no better place to do that than in the young King Henry's court.

"Just try them on. You'll like them." Crowley lost patience and clicked his fingers, stripping Aziraphale instantly down to his under tunic and braise. 

"Was that really necessary?" Aziraphale huffed.

"If we weren't going to stand here arguing all day, yes."

"Don't you have servants to do this kind of thing?" Crowley opened his mouth to start to jibe Aziraphale about the inappropriateness of an angel having human servants or slaves, a centuries old source of bickering. Aziraphale was in fact ridiculously indulgent towards his servants, all but apologising for requiring anything of them. They would have robbed him blind if it wasn't that they knew that his sinister friend who always wore black would occasionally slither around and make vague but very pointed threats about what would happen to them and all their families for eternity if they took advantage of that woolly-headed fopdoodle Master Fell. 

Then he snapped his mouth shut with sudden suspicion. He wouldn't put it past the angel to be deliberately provoking the argument in order to get out of having to try on the new clothes, which Crowley had so carefully and meticulously created out of the ether.