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

I Married an Angel

This was my Junior Prom Good Omens Exchange fic for Silver-Colour, who liked softness, musicals, historical ineffable husbands, and wings.

1942

They had been meeting at theatres and musical performances for centuries. Milling crowds, no reason to notice an angel and a demon chattering. There was no reason, Crowley had argued, not to do the same thing and meet at a cinematographic show.

"A film, angel," Crowley had said, with fraught patience that could become either indulgence or impatience at any point. "Time to get with the twentieth century. Look, it's a music—an operetta. You adore operetta. At one point, if you had dragged me to any more things with hilarious mixups and patter songs, I was going to go to Hell and help Dagon devise some really personal torments for Sullivan, involving sub-par baritones. I sat through four acts of The Student Prince for you. You can sit through one film for me."

"I didn't drag you to anything," Aziraphale said, stiffly. "It was simply a convenient meeting place."

"And convenient to eat a four-course meal afterwards. Look, angel, anyway, point made. The film is a convenient meeting place."

"I do know what a musical is, you know," Aziraphale said, returning to an earlier point.

"Oh, come on, be a pal. Look, it has Nelson Eddy and Jeanette McDonald, and they are the supposed to be the stars of silver screen operetta—yes, truly operetta, angel—and it's their last film together. You'll never get another chance."

That was another thing. Human life and culture were so ephemeral, slipping away like that. Cities and empires rising and falling. Films were a sign of it. They showed for a few scant weeks and then were gone, never to be heard of again. Only books endured. Books, and a certain demon.

"You know Hollywood was one of my greatest achievements, angel," Crowley wheedled.

"It's an American film?"

"You don't have to say it like that. Perfectly enjoyable place, the States."

"It's simply impossible to get a decent drink there."

"Great, reminds you of Heaven. Look, I think they've come along in that area in the last few decades since you visited, Aziraphale. And you could always get a drink if you knew where to look."

"I would hardly call bathtub gin a decent drink."

"How would you know?"

Aziraphale sighed, evading the question. "Well. If I must."

"It's a date," Crowley said gleefully and rang off.

Aziraphale stared at the handset. It's a date. Well, that was a thing humans said all the time. A date was just an arrangement, lower-case "a", and part of their Arrangement. Just because a year ago, when Aziraphale had thought they would always remain stiff and awkward and never regain their ease with each other, Crowley had saved him, handed him the books with that pleased self-conscious smirk, as if offering him his heart... Well. He was in love with a demon. Always a danger, really, when a creature of love spent so much time in the company of a (considerate, impossible, charming, impossible, frustrating, brave, beautiful) surprisingly amicable fellow immortal. Love was never a sin, and the thing to do was to swallow it and carry on, as usual, being glad that they were properly friends—friendly rivals again.

It wasn't a date. They weren't courting or anything. Crowley would laugh his skinny posterior off at the thought.

Perhaps he should buy a new tie.