Thus, my first attempt at Good Omens fanfiction. There really cannot be enough of the stuff. Anyway, the first in what hopefully will be a series of ficlet-y things in homage to the great and powerful Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. I own nothing, except possibly Aziraphale's "dress robes," and I don't particularly want those.


"Well, what do you think?" Aziraphale held out his arms, looking at Crowley hopefully. Only the tiny scrap of decency and the considerably larger soft spot for the angel in his heart kept Crowley from laughing until he cried (1). He settled for snorting loudly.

"You're joking," he said, smirking broadly. Aziraphale looked affronted.

"I most certainly am not! I want your honest opinion." He waved his arms a little to draw attention to his new wardrobe, though it didn't need any extra attention drawn to it in the first place.

"Honestly? I think you look like a pouf in a dress." Crowley folded his arms, his grin widening. Aziraphale glared, brushing non-existent dust from his sleeve.

"It is not a dress," he snapped, folding his own arms. "It's a ceremonial dress robe. Admittedly, it's a little out of the current fashion, but I think it looks quite nice."

"I didn't say it was a dress," Crowley said, examining his nails carefully. "I just said you looked like you were wearing one. Remind me where it is you're going?"

Aziraphale blushed, adjusting the white silk robe uncomfortably. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Office Christmas party." Crowley rolled his eyes.

"What on earth would possess you to go to that?" the demon said, sounding deeply disgusted. Aziraphale made a helpless gesture with his hands.

"I can't not go. I can't just ignore an order from Up There!"

"Well," mused Crowley conspiratorially, "I don't think they can blame you for skipping if you were, say, thwarting a demon by distracting him from his usual wiles. I could chalk it up to tempting an angel and we'd get off scot-free. Besides, I can think of a thousand better things to do than sit around on a cloud with some decrepit old saints." He patted the empty spot on the bed next to him, raising his eyebrows suggestively in case Aziraphale didn't get the hint.

He did.

---

"Well," Aziraphale sighed several hours later, curling a little closer to Crowley. "There's always next year's party."

(1) Not that demons cry. Ever.


Ta da! Whadidya think? Let me know in a lovely review, if you are so inclined! It's the only way I can make it better, so have at it! Hopefully I should have another short one up as soon as I can think of an ending for it.