Disclaimer: I don't own Good Omens, (other than the paperback copy, but that's not the point.) This was written purely for entertainment purposes only and does not seek to make profit in any way, shape or form.

It certainly was a lively party. Ladies and gentlemen were paired together on the dancefloor, dancing until they could dance no more. He had been with them earlier that night, (despite his abysmal dancing skills.) But now he was tired and content with watching everyone else enjoy themselves and pick at the buffet offered to all the invited guests such as himself.

Currently sipping sparingly from the glass of wine in his hand, Aziraphale surveyed the lords and ladies mingling around him.

He was sure that they'd all be most handsome under those masks they wore, but he also had to admit that the masks made for a dashing presentation as well. They were just another accessory to add to their already elaborate outfits.

He'd already greeted the host and his wife, careful to dodge all talk of betrothal with the grace of a swan. He rather thought he was skilled at avoidance in as passive a way as possible, (such as to avert any possible offense.)

But despite being familiar with so many families attending, he was still alone. It left a hollow ache inside him when he looked upon the groups of guests chatting gayly and wished they would allow him to join in their merriment. But alas, people often found him boring, his interest in books lacking and provided little variation in conversation topics.

He supposed it bothered him, but he was happy with his books and the well-lit fireplace back at his manor.

He noticed that among the newer guest to arrive, it seemed one in particular was especially popular, being surrounded by young lords and ladies that hung off their every word, some trying to subtly shove their way into the inner circle to at least get a good look.

Aziraphale felt a flicker of curiosity and briefly contemplated joining the fray, but instead turned back to the banquet and hoped the crowd would thin as the night grew older.

After all, the party had only just begun.

One hour had turned to two and even his patience was wearing thin, his glass long empty and abandoned on some table. The crowd had indeed grown smaller, and he was now afforded the view of a lord he was most unfamiliar with. Gorgeous red locks were styled in long ringlets that framed his sharp features well. He had a very prominent nose that strangely added to his charm and brought attention to the black mask he wore with what looked like accents of red lace and silk, matching perfectly with his maroon frock coat and otherwise black ensemble.

His frame looked almost frail with his thin bones and tall stature, a complete opposite of most of the other members of the nobility, (including himself.)

He looked stunning from across the ballroom, and he looked bored.

Aziraphale felt a rush of excitement when he saw the stranger excuse himself, (presumably for fresh air, as he'd headed out towards one of the gardens.) And so began the slow meandering of the blond across the ballroom, his fight through the crowd unheeded thanks to his beaming smile and friendly, (though brief,) pleasantries.

His silken heels clicked along the stone pavement outside, different from the marble he'd just left with the loudness he hadn't quite expected, (as there was no chatter to drown out the minor noise.)

The night cast long shadows that hid the stranger in the immaculately trimmed hedges of Lord Dixen's garden, the full silver moon providing just enough light to spot him sitting upon the edge of the grandiose fountain at the very center. There was no one providing him company and Aziraphale hesitated a moment, wondering if he would be intruding.

He didn't wait long, though, before he made the decision to at least talk and get a name. He didn't come this far for nothing, after all.

The blond slowly wound his way towards the other, hoping against hope that he wasn't being too obvious, before he finally sat himself a few feet away from the redhead. He wasn't acknowledged, though he knew he was noticed. The air had gained an awkward silence and he fidgeted with his loose, lacy cravat and the matching cuffs of his shirt.

He glanced over at the masked man and cleared his throat. "I don't believe we've met before. My name is Aziraphale Fell. My parents had quite a sense of humor," he trailed off into an awkward laugh. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

He was starting to despair before the mysterious person offered his name in return: "Anthony Crowley, but I prefer Crowley if you please; though isn't the point of a masquerade to preserve one's identity?"

"Ah, yes, but most of the people gathered are already well acquainted, so I suppose the masks are. . . pretense?"

"Pompous, more like." Aziraphale's eyes widened at this, scandalized that he would say such a thing to a near-stranger.

"Perhaps," he said hesitantly, looking to his pale grey breeches and white stockings. "But I rather enjoy having the opportunity. It's not often I'm allowed to wear anything excessively ornate," he said. Crowley snorted in response.

"Right; because those shoes of yours aren't the very definition of 'ornate.'" Aziraphale flushed, eyeing the gaudy heels he'd chosen for the evening.

"I meant anything of the likes of jewelry," he pouted. "If you must know, I chose a rather luxurious pair to-night because this is a party. I'd wanted to enjoy myself."

"As did I," Crowley grumbled. Aziraphale bit his lip, unwilling to let on how much those barbed words hurt beyond that. The redhead sighed aggressively, running a hand through his locks and looked away. "Your shoes are fabulous, though," he grudgingly admitted. An apology.

Aziraphale's cheeks flushed as his spirits lifted. He didn't quite know what to do with himself, but he felt the incessant urge to do something.

Crowley seemed to have taken notice of his dilemma, as he stood up and offered a hand to the other, then directed him further into the garden. He thought it was quite lovely, (if a bit sparse and impersonal like its owner,) but the other didn't seem to agree, as he growled in aggravation when they came upon the large rose bushes.

"I swear, Lord Dixen is far too kind to these plants. Just look at the state of these petals! Some of them are wilted!"

Aziraphale wanted to laugh at the offense Crowley had taken, despite the roses not being his own.

"I doubt Lord Nixen does the work himself. If anything, it would be the gardener at fault."

"That doesn't make it better!" he spoke, comically enraged. "Some people are fine with surrounding themselves with mediocrity, but I will not allow that of any flower!"He took to rummaging through the plant's stalks, carefully inspecting each leaf and thorn as best he could in the negligible light and plucking the wilted or holey ones.

"Oh, do stop! You'll get your clothes dirty, and these aren't even your flowers!"

Aziraphale took to tugging at the back of the man's frock coat, not comprehending the low, (though angry and nearly unintelligible,) mutterings of his odd new acquaintance. For such a slight frame, the man was surprisingly sturdy.

The blond gave up his attempts and instead looked at the man with an odd mix of fondness and annoyance.

He was strange in that he flaunted almost all appearances and social boundaries, willing to show his true self rather than the societal expectation of one of their status. He was. . . intense compared to the impersonal coolness everyone took to effect, but he found he didn't quite dislike it. Not at all.

"Crowley, don't you think you've tormented those flowers quite enough?" The man in question stopped in what he was doing and quirked his head oddly. Aziraphale wondered what had caught his ire this time.

"You said my name."

"Was that not what you told me to call you?"

"No, no, it's just that I would've expected you to impose a title upon my name as well." The blond blanched at his mistake, wondering if he'd caused any sort of offense. He supposed he had gotten a bit too familiar.

"It won't happen again, Lord Crowley." A scoff met his declaration.

"Please make sure it does. I rather loathe the stuffy titles everyone insists on using. Crowley is just fine."

"Then. . . call me Aziraphale, if you please."

"Will do, angel," he said with a sly grin, rising from his crouched position on the ground.

"Wha- that's not what I said at all!" he squawked.

"That's weird; I could've sworn you said-"

"For heaven's sake, Crowley!" he laughed.

He found that they'd gotten quite close in their pretend tiff and he was surprised to have to look up to meet Crowley's eyes, (of which were a lovely amber, he noted.) At least he'd gotten the man away from the roses.

He took a small step back, suddenly unable to breathe. (He pretended to be oblivious to the hint of disappointment he saw in the other's eyes.) He felt a smidge of guilt and thought maybe this was the time to excuse himself. He'd already gotten far too involved with this man's affairs.

"Right," he cleared his throat awkwardly for the second time this night. "I think I might go and enjoy the festivities a bit more."

He turned to leave, but Crowley caught his frock's sleeve and stopped him before he got too far.

"Then might I tempt you to a dance?" They'd gotten just close enough to hear traces of music and conversation, but to do such a scandalous thing so close to the others! Anyone could see if they wandered the wrong way! (Nevermind the fleeting thought of 'oh, I didn't know he was of that sort.')

He flushed and felt stifled by all the reasons why he shouldn't, but none were said. Instead, he said, "oh, fine; just this once though."

He fought a smile at the brief scuffle of determining who would take on the male's role before graciously allowing himself to get swept away.

They didn't have any conversation, both focusing intently on their foot placement, (and simultaneously finding that both were horrid at dancing.) Their silence was now companionable and Aziraphale found guilty pleasure in the warmth of the other man.

He found he didn't mind being in what others would call the 'woman's position,' only the fear thrumming at the back of his mind of being discovered by a guest and being subjected to public humiliation. Already, he knew he was called a fop in other private circles. It wouldn't do to be known as a sodomite as well, (nor could he very well subject Crowley to that fate, knowing how popular he is already.)

His merriment had drained away with his thoughts and his partner noticed his disheartenment.

"Something wrong, angel?" They stopped dancing and Aziraphale couldn't help but lean his head on Crowley's shoulder and sigh sadly.

"I fear I have led you astray." The redhead stiffened subtly from below him.

"And. . . how have you come to such a conclusion?"

"To love a man is a sin, is it not?"

"To love a man is all the love I am able to do."

"But the church forbids sodomy, don't you know?! If I were to pursue a relationship with you, it would only end in a hanging for the both of us!" His heart trembled and he felt the urge to cry.

"But do you?"

"Do I what?" he wailed. He felt pitiful, dressed in finery yet unbearably upset. Unseemly and ugly, of that he was sure.

"Do you wish to start a relationship with me?" he asked insistently.

"Of all the things to focus on, it's that?!" He finally looked up and Crowley took the opportunity to wipe the tears from his face. He was sure his eyes had already begun to swell and he resisted the urge to sniff.

"I don't know about you, but I am of the opinion that my romantic life is none of their business. Stop worrying over such trivial things, and just answer me, angel! Would you like to start a relationship with me?" His eyes were bright and searching, drawing Aziraphale's own.

"Of course I do! Despite your odd quirks with the flowers and how we've only been acquainted for a night, I think that I'd like to know more about you."

"Then what more do you need other than that?" His tone was so soft and it made Aziraphale's heart soar.

"Well. . . some crêpes would be nice," he said coyly.

"Then how does crêpes at my place sound? Tomorrow afternoon?"

"That would be lovely."

And so they sat companionably once more at the edge of the fountain, doing their best to share body warmth in as decent a way possible, and talked some more. Aziraphale knew it was much too early to put a name to such feelings, but he was confident that he would grow to love this handsome yet eccentric man.

This was set in the 1700s, the outfits mostly true to that of the French Revolution scene, (with the exception of Crowley's fabulously long hair of the Noah's Ark scene.)

Also this was lowkey inspired by a minicomic by chrizwho on tumblr, (the one involving his shoes, obviously.)

I felt like they weren't enough of the dorks we all know and love, but that's all my fault for going in head-first with no game plan or character charts.