confoundthemighty: (Rather wonderful.)
Aziraphale can’t help laughing at the thought of Crowley instigating a properly operatic mad scene at dinner, tearing her hair and wailing like a banshee at her unfaithful lover. They might have to find some dreadful restaurant to try it at someday—a place where neither of them will miss the food or the clientele. Technically it’s probably a bad deed, but no one’s keeping score anymore, and Aziraphale is fonder than an angel ought to be of the melodramatic.

“You’ll simply have to suffer through being gazed at and spoiled for an evening, my dearest. Though I’m certain you can make all sorts of trouble on the way home.”

Knowing Crowley, that’ll probably entail someone discovering their Christmas lights have become a Gordian knot, or a shop’s ambient music getting stuck on Mariah Carey, or pipistrelle bats hiding in holly decorations. (Though he’s not sure he’d mind that last one, himself, as pipistrelles are quite cute.)

“The duck would certainly be appropriate for the evening,” he muses, eyes glittering with mischief. “And some champagne, I think.”
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