That’s Me

I mean picture it- the regency period, with all its absolutely ridiculous, overly dramatic, sickeningly codified romancing? Mr. A. 'forever-your-knight-in-shining-armour-my-perfect-angel-i'll-wait-6000-more-years-for-you' Crowley would have fit in society like a duck in a pond. In fact, I bet he would have WRITTEN the BIBLE of regency courtship--he friggin INVENTED unrequited impossible love, okay, and if someone asks his drunken, lovesick-self during some random ball in 1809 how to treat a lover correctly, he's gonna tell 'em, Go-Sat-frickin damn it- and that's how he accidentally starts an entire trend of overly tedious rules of courtship that will earn him a commendation Downstairs for how hair-pullingly madening he's made the whole process of seduction for an entire generation of young unfortunate people

Like, it was around the regency period that all those ideas of marrying for love and following your heart started really gaining ground, for starters, and you can't tell me Crowley wouldn't like that, you just can't. He sees all those high society kids who start asking themselves why they should marry their cousin they've never even met, when they really like that kid next-door who's from New money but is really really sweet, and he's like, Hell yeah Margaret, screw whatever your side says, love's never a crime, fix your bonnet and put on a third layer of clothes, I'm gonna throw a little miracle your way. That stupid demon cries like anything whenever he helps a young couple elope successfully and happily, and doesn't even realize how hard he's projecting

And talking about projecting, does he project hard when it comes to rules of courtship--Never go too fast for the object of your affections. Always ask for permission to take it a step further. Always dance around the subject, always give them room, always make sure they know how devoted you are--always be respectful and faithful, always be patient and proper, even if it means loving them from afar, for as long as they need, forever if it has to be- it doesn't matter how heartbroken and desperate you are, it's for them, all for them, nothing and no one else matters in the world. He goes full on Young Werther up in this bitch--except his Charlotte is a bit of a bastard and swats him in the nose with a dessert spoon everytime he tries to sneak a bite of a macaroon during their dates

Like, you can't tell me Crowley, hopeless romantic that he is, wouldn't secretly enjoy all the little gestures of that time ; starting with carrying a miniature portrait of your beloved everywhere you go like a talisman. Sometimes just a painting of their eyes or mouth, normally to tease at the mystery of who they are, here a necessity when the object of your affection's current gender would lend you in jail at the time, and their real angelic identity in the deepest pits of Hell. Crowley would probably offer his own painting of his eyes to Aziraphale, off handedly, as a joke, expecting a polite refusal, only to see it peeking out-of the angel's snuffbox a few times afterward, and he doesn't know if Aziraphale knows the whole meaning behind exchanging portraits like that, that it's a promise, that it hints at a very fond engagement indeed, but he'll very happily take the knowledge that he's secretly with him at all time after that anyway--especially when he catches the angel smiling fondly whenever he opens his ridiculous, useless, absolutely perfect little silver box

Steps it up a notch when during a particularly heated evening (they danced more than 2 dances and spent the entire night together, damnit, and if Aziraphale or himself were presenting as female right now they would be as good as engaged instead of just being seen as harmless eccentrics, and it makes his head swim thinking of it, thinking of the possibilities, if he'd just dare-) ; sitting together away from the crowd in a little parlor, talking in hushed and urgent tones, the angel staring at him and only at him with that damned happy smile, arms open and whole body turned and bending towards him, looking at his hands between them on the sofa like he's just waiting for-- and Crowley loses it a little- asks if he can have one lock of Aziraphale's hair, just one, just for his locket, he just, uh, wants to make his human acquaintances freak at his secret lover, fake lover, as a joke, and he knows it's stupid, it's stupid, it's really, really- forget it, Aziraphale, sorry, he doesn't know what he's saying. But the angel just laughs breathlessly, and turns around to offer his somewhat-too short hairdo to Crowley--who doesn't waste a second and cuts what he can, and tries not to ruin this and kiss him when Aziraphale picks something from the invisible ether around them and slips a single white feather into his hands, to 'keep his human friends really guessing now'

Talking about appearances and hairstyles--Crowley would absolutely have been the Beau Brummell of the time, would have spent 5 hours every morning dressing up, and then drive an entire fashion industry with his style and poise- all black, all elegance, all slim cuts and tall silhouettes. And his own preferences as a taste-maker would shine through- he would talk about his secret beloved constantly, about their pale skin, their blond curls, their delicate plumpness, and painters all over would scramble over their brushes trying to reproduce his vision, and a whole society of women would find it suddenly very fashionable to fill themselves up with cakes all day and never go out into the sun

And touching would be so codified and full of rules too- rules that wouldn't apply to two men-shaped beings, exactly, but Crowley would still abide by them with Aziraphale, because as far as he's concerned, he's courting, and courting rules apply- more so knowing how skittish the angel can be, how risky it is to even be seen with him, let alone touch him the way he wants to. Always wears gloves whatever happens, never touches Aziraphale's skin (that would be improper), never actually touches the back of his hand when he bends to kiss it (that would be VERY improper), and always allows the angel to make the first move, as the wooed should ; and it almost never happens, Aziraphale being so deathly scared of Heaven and Hell (their own version of social norms breathing down their necks), but sometimes when they're walking alone in the morning dawn, after a long night of talking and drinking, Aziraphale will look warily up for a second, as if checking for Gabriel coming down the sky like some irate chaperone, see nothing, and grab Crowley's arm to hold for a little while, his head almost resting on his shoulder, Crowley furiously grabbing the hand nestled in the curve of his elbow for the few precious minutes they have, walking on a cloud in absolute bliss, until the angel slips away from him, clears his throat, and says it's running late, and he should go back to his shop

And the letters, man, the letters. Granted, at the time, it would have been absolutely scandalous for an unmarried couple to send each other missives unsupervised, and it's far from gentlemanly from Crowley to send any--but Aziraphale is an absolute literary slut, and would fall over himself every time Crowley would send him a single note, would keep all his letters no matter how short (Crowley is no poet, shows love through acts of service rather than words, but he tries, because he knows how a well placed verse sends the angel into vapors), tied up in ribbons, stacks and stacks that he would read over and over and over until the paper turns brown. Sometimes it's just a note asking for his company at dinner, sometimes a poem he snatched from a new sonnets book, sometimes, rarely, a drunken, poorly written declaration of affection (which the modern equivalent would be a booty call) , that's half fervent, over excited compliments and praises, half guilty apologies, all love, thoroughly embarrassing for the both of them, and Aziraphale's absolute favorites

And you know what, Crowley wouldn't have been the only one to have thrived, because I'm pretty sure Aziraphale got a little too starry-eyed over the period's romance himself, and looks back on it overly fondly. Because, come on, seriously, Georgette Heyer's books? The books full of proper, caged innocent Christian heroines, swept off their feet by roggish, handsome men who dress too well, love too hard, and don't care for propriety? He canonically reads Those books? Enough to know them by heart? Really Mr Gaiman? Really?

Crowley sends him letters. There’s one now on his desk, opened and read. See Aziraphale here, a creature of sensation. He sniffs the letter, holds it to his nose and drinks in that lick of fire. That vetiver and cedar. That seared meat and hot metal and apple scent (he doesn’t know yet that it’s the smell of space, the scent of stars). He pours over them, fingers tracing each letter and line. His frowning mouth, his stiff upper lip. He commits each letter to memory until he can recite each one like a man might with a poem. (He’ll remember them always.)

Then turns to the candle and carefully burns it till it’s nothing but ash. Something that can never be found. Keeping them secret, keeping them safe. Until there’s a world for them and their letters too.

Straight guys and gay girls can enjoy gal gadot in armor.

Gay guys and straight girls can enjoy a mostly naked Chris pine

Bi/pan people get to enjoy both

There was the time a bride decided she didn’t want to go through with the wedding and tried to make her escape through the back kitchens of the venue and wound up sitting out back in the drizzling rain, bumming cigarettes from the delivery drivers, pristine white dress turning to mulch as she sat on an over turned catering crate. After a good half hour the groom came and found her and asked if she was okay. When she said she wasn’t sure if she wanted to go through with it he just nodded and said she should get out the rain because it was cold. The two of them ended up going back inside together, skipped the wedding part and basically had the most expensive party of their lives with all their friends and family.

There was another bride who could never decide on place settings, so in the end just turned to the coordinator and said “surprise me”. So we mismatched everything and called it “boho chic”. She loved it.

There was the groom who got caught in our supply closet during the late night reception…with the best man. And then there was also the father of the bride who absconded with the mother of the groom and had to be asked nicely to put their clothes back on and get out of the wine cellar.

At the same wedding.

There was the drunk best man who proposed to me using an umbrella cocktail and told me he was heartbroken when I told him I was flattered but married. He wore it behind his ear the rest of the night dancing like a mad man and telling anyone who would listen about “the one that got away”.

There was the Indian wedding with 800 guests. We rotated them in batches of 200 to fit them between spaces. All I can remember is never having enough drinks to hand out.

There was the arch bishop who only liked his coffee ground by hand because the effort of the worker “made it taste better”.

There was the time I took out the crystal drop of a chandelier with a champagne cork because the runners shook up the bottles for a joke.

There was the funeral party where the body couldn’t be delivered to the crematorium because the crematorium caught on fire.

There was the other funeral where a fist fight broke out over something our Jeanie said to our Mary 40 years ago, but then it turned out Mary was the one who said it.

There was the wedding where in a room of 200 people, the bride and groom only had eyes for each other.

There was the christening where the godmother kept crying to me over mocktails because she never thought she could love something as much as she loved “that bald little head”.

There was the old man at the wedding who came alone and smiled very kindly at everyone and always said please and thank you and who told myself and a coworker he’d been married to his wife for over 60 years and how she would have loved to see these two finally tie the not. She’d only passed the week before. He’d brought a picture of her so she could enjoy it in spirit.

There was the really tragic funeral where everyone kept hugging each other and saying “I love you” and us staff had to take frequent breaks to breathe because grief is tangible but so is love.

There were the times when nothing in particular happened at all, but they stand out so much because everyone there was happy.

Of course there was also the times when someone threw up on your shoes, or you got groped while serving the table, or someone was rude or snide because you were “the help”.

Like in Chamber of Secrets, when Harry is talking to Tom / Voldemort and is like, you Framed Hagrid, Tom is like, yeah he was always trying to raise monsters, 

he says that Hagrid tried to raise werewolf cubs under his bed like… 

Les sphinx au dictionnaire   -   Francine van Hove