A/N: This fic was inspired by the prompt "At the Ritz," from an Ineffable Inktober prompt list. Enjoy!

One Night at the Ritz

The staff working at the Ritz were trained to serve customers with the utmost grace and respect. They were not to argue with or talk back to the patrons, and they certainly were not to gossip about those they served. This was not a hard task, as most patrons only dined at the Ritz once for the experience, and those that were repeat customers did not necessarily come in often enough to warrant interest in their lives.

However, there is always an exception to the standard, and in this case it was a pair that dined at the Ritz so often they had a permanently reserved table, kept open every night on the assumption that they would most likely drop by. None of the staff knew how the pair could afford dining at the establishment so much, and their seemingly endless supply of cash was one of the hot topics of debate underneath the servers' politely disinterested façade.

In fact, the pair themselves were the cause of a great many discussions behind the scenes of the Ritz. They were complete opposites, physically- one tall and lanky, always dressed in black and dark greys, the other slightly shorter and round where the other was thin, dressed in cremes and light blues. Their demeanors matched their outfits, claimed the waiters who'd served them, and there would often be a small competition between staff members to see who would get to interact with them that evening to see if this was true.

The most prevalent discussion, though, was not the pair's fashion sense or what careers allowed them to dine at the Ritz so frequently. What everyone was most interested in was what the pair were to each other. While some employees claimed that they were friends- best friends, surely, but nothing more-, most people had other ideas. However, the lack of requests for anniversary specials, and the more concerning lack of wedding rings, left the waitstaff endlessly wondering just what these two meant to each other.

"I'm going to ask them," a young waiter said one crisp, October evening, instantly earning a chorus of gasps from his coworkers.

"Oliver, you can't just go asking people that sort of thing," one of the chefs said, glancing up from her prep station to give the boy a scathing look. Oliver was the one of the newest members of the Ritz waitstaff and his eagerness to learn anything and everything often irked his fellow coworkers.

"I'm going to be subtle about it!" Oliver replied, rolling his eyes. "It's not like I'd just walk up and ask them if they're a couple; I'm not an idiot."

The chef made a dissenting noise, indicating that she didn't quite believe that. She placed a ceramic dish of freshly-made crème brûlée onto a small plate and handed it to Oliver. "Well, this is for their table, so good luck; try not to get yourself fired."

Oliver stuck out his tongue and then flipped his mouth into a smile, plastering on the façade of kind civility that he was required to wear at all times when in view of the customers. Balancing the plate skillfully on his fingertips, he walked to the table where the familiar duo were involved in an animated discussion. Well, more specifically, the blonde was talking nonstop and gesturing wildly while his companion watched him with almost unnerving focus, nodding on occasion.

"Pardon me for interrupting, but I have the crème brûlée you ordered," Oliver said, gently setting the dish down in front of the one who'd been talking.

"Thank you, dear boy," the man said, flashing Oliver a beaming smile. His companion merely shifted to rest his chin on his hand, eyes unreadable behind the sunglasses he constantly wore. Oliver wondered, half-seriously, if the shades were glued to his face.

"You're most welcome," Oliver replied. He knew that he should turn on his heel, go back to the kitchen, and let the pair enjoy their dessert in peace. However, this was probably his only chance to find out the answer on everyone's mind; if he chickened out now, he knew he'd never be able to live it down. He cleared his throat and, still addressing the blonde, asked, "Would you or your husband like anything else?"

The redhead made a sort of choked-off noise and slammed back into his chair, as if the words had physically assaulted him. In tandem, the blonde's entire body jerked as if startled, the spoon he'd just picked up clattering onto his plate. The room seemed to freeze, all sounds lost into a void of uncertainty, and Oliver wondered what in the world he'd just done.

Then, a slow smile spread across the blonde's face. If Oliver hadn't been told that this man was as sweet as could be- an angel, his coworkers often said-, he would swear that it was more of a sly smirk.

"No, thank you; my husband and I are just fine for now," the blonde said, his tone smooth and level despite the furious blush creeping over his cheeks. The redhead made another noise, this one desperately confused, eyebrows creased together in astonishment.

Oliver gave a slight bow and hightailed it back to the kitchen. He stole one glance back just before the door closed behind him and saw the blonde gently grasp his partner's hand atop the table.

"Well?!" the chef asked once Oliver had turned around to find what seemed to be the entire waitstaff staring at him questioningly. He swept his gaze across the room, taking a dramatic pause before answering, reveling in the fact that in less than five minutes he'd gained the answer to a question everyone had been asking for god knows how long.

"They're married," he said triumphantly, and a cheer broke out so loudly that the chatter in the dining room momentarily ceased as the patrons shifted their focus to the closed kitchen doors.

"I wonder what the fuss is about," Aziraphale mused, lifting a bite of crème brûlée to his mouth. He hummed contentedly when the sweetness washed over his tongue, closing his eyes briefly. He opened them to find Crowley staring at him more intently than usual. "What is it, my dear?"

"You called me your…," the demon trailed off, gesturing wildly with the hand not clutched in Aziraphale's, and the angel couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped his lips. Crowley was absolutely adorable when flustered.

"My husband, yes." Aziraphale put down his spoon and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "Do you not like me calling you that?"

"No! I-I mean, yeah, I do! I like it!" Crowley stuttered, automatically squeezing Aziraphale's hand in affirmation. They both blushed at the gesture, still getting used to the physical closeness after 6,000 years of staying just out of each other's reach.

"Well then," Aziraphale said primly, his gaze flickering from Crowley's hidden eyes to their intertwined hands. "I suppose we should make it official."

Crowley's jaw dropped open, his glasses sliding down just enough for Aziraphale to get a tiny glimpse of serpent eyes that were completely yellow, indicating that whatever emotion the demon was feeling, he was feeling it a lot.

"Are you… are you proposing to me, Angel?" Crowley eventually asked, slowly. Aziraphale didn't answer for a moment, lost in Crowley's utterly vulnerable expression. For the thousandth time, Aziraphale couldn't believe he'd wasted so many years denying his feelings and, more importantly, Crowley's feelings as well. The angel gave his demon's hand another squeeze, his face lighting up in an utterly radiant smile.

"Yes, my dear, I believe I am."