#i might try my hand at a little courtroom drama sort of fic?

[themalhambird]

Setting aside the inherent grossness of suing for damages over someone else having sex with your wife for a moment, I'm wondering what amount of money a jury might have decided Mr. Crawford owed Mr. Rushworth for his affair with Maria...

[thebibliosphere]

Okay but, like, now I need Wedding!Fic for Good Omens, Joy. Joy, why did you do this to me. White and black color themed (of course), the Them arguing over who's the ring bearer, Anathema as a Best Man because someone couldn't think of anyone else (Look, I'm imagining her in a white tux and trying not to drool). They can't figure out who to preform the ceremony, it's not like they have legal identities, and just the DRAMA of it, it'd be so good. Crowley smashes cake into Zira's face. Please.

Hmmm see the way I see it in my head, they don’t actually get married in the legal sense. For one thing neither of them much wants to see the inside of a church again any time soon (and Crowely’s not sure he’d be able to find thick enough shoes, never mind flame proof underwear) but also they don’t have legal names, there’s no official paperwork they can walk into a courtroom with that doesn’t immediately draw attention to all their human personas and even though they’re no longer covert ops like they were before, it’s still not a good idea to create more of a paper trail than is necessary.

But they do have cake, possibly at the Ritz—or somewhere else Aziraphale has always wanted to try the food at.

“There was always that delightful little patisserie in—”

“Paris, yes Angel, unfortunately I think that was about 3 or 4 revolutions ago…”

(they might still wind up spending some time there, call it a honeymoon if you will. Eating crepes for breakfast on a rooftop garden overlooking the city as they reminisces about what it used to be like before the Eiffel Tower invaded the skyline and modern traffic took over the streets below and it became absolutely mental. The Them even get a post card in Uncle Zira’s florid handwriting, though there’s no stamp attached.)

But mostly the biggest thing they stop doing it pretending not to know each other, they let people catch glimpses of them sitting together, in fact they stop hiding from people all together. The words “my husband and I” leave Aziraphale’s mouth first, and Crowley honestly didn’t think it would affect him as much as it does, but the words go right to the place in the cavern of his chest where his soul ought to be and something he’d always feared long since dead flutters faint wings of giddy joy in the darkness.

Husband. Hussssband. He can’t stop rolling the word over on his tongue, drawing out the sibilant hiss and saying it with near malevolent glee at every given opportunity. Gone are the days where he has to say “my associate and I” not when he can say “my hussssssband and I” while the angel smiles indulgently across the table at him, openly smitten.

He’s always been smitten, he’s willing to admit that now. Even if he hadn’t realized it at the time, standing in the Garden.

“I always thought you were all right,” Crowley admits one night, sitting out under the stars sharing swigs from a bottle of wine as the summer night cools into twilight, a pleasant autumn breeze beginning to make itself known in the faint chill of the air. “For an Angel.”

And Aziraphale chuckles, plucking faintly at the grass on the green and letting the strands drift away in the wind. “Damning me with faint praise indeed, my dear.”

“No I mean that,” Crowley insists, passing the bottle back, “that first day in the garden, when you gave them your sword. I thought now there’s an Angel with his heart in the right place.”

“If not his head,” he jokes, and Crowley merely shrugs.

“Sometimes that’s more important.”

“Well, you’d know all about that,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley turns his head at the prim little quirk in his angel’s voice. “I always thought that for being a demon you have a remarkable capacity compassion.”

“Nah,” Crowley dismisses, taking the bottle back and taking a long swig from it before flopping down onto his back in the tall grass. “That’s all just common sense that stuff. You don’t need to feel love to know when something is wrong. You just…” he gestured vaguely, “know.”

“Do you indeed?” he asks lightly, “and what about when it’s right?”

“Oh, you know that too,” Crowley says, turning onto his side to look at the angel, the distant starlight twinkling around his blonde curls like a fractured halo. “Some things you just always know.”

The rings take a while longer to procure, and honestly it’s not something they’d really thought about until one day they’re sitting in St James’s park watching the world go by and two young people (they’re all young, they’re all so young and fragile and so wonderfully human) get engaged, the young lady kneeling down in front of her companion and radiating such love that Aziraphale feels it like a beacon and turns toward it like a hound, gripping Crowley’s arm and compelling him to look as well, thinking at first they must be in danger, only to see the two young women crying and embracing, holding onto each other for all they’re worth, and Aziraphale watching them with all the love he has for humanity welling up in his kind, blue eyes.

“How would you feel about rings?” he asks one night, after the idea has had time to turn over in his head.

“I think they’re expensive worldly things with no more meaning than what we ascribe them,“ Aziraphale answers, steadfastly working through his taxes.

“So no diamonds then,” Crowley nods along from his spot on the couch, his long legs hanging over the side of the armrest as he reclines at a languid sprawl. “Gotcha. What if we made our own? Something…unique.”

“Unique how?” the angel asks, intrigued despite himself.

“I dunno…there’s iron in stars. Silver too…”

“You seem to have a thing for stars,” the angel says, twisting round to look at his demonic husband, and Crowley shrugs, his eyes fixed on some distant horizon only he can see.

“I suppose that’s what happens when you spend all your time looking up.”

And suddenly this just isn’t about something immaterial and shiny, it’s something else entirely and Aziraphale doesn’t quite know if he has the words or even the emotions to describe it but he suddenly knows what kind of ring he wants.

“Wow an ouroboros,“ Pepper exclaims excitedly, peering at the new ring on Uncle Zira’s hand.

“What’s an ouro…oreo…what’s that?” Brian asks, leaning in to get a closer look at the carved head of the snake biting its own tail, the yellow citrine eyes winking in the light. “Looks like a snake to me.”

“That’s what an ouroborosis” Adam replies. “It’s a serpent that eats its own tail to signify the end of the world.”

“And the rebirth of a new one,” Zira adds, claiming his hand back and reaching over the table to claim a piece of lemon cake before it’s all gone. “It’s an omen of sorts. A good one.”

“Sort of,” Crowley waves his hand ambiguously, absently twisting his own ring around on his finger until the engraved design of an eight pointed star was the right side up, a minuscule diamond twinkling at the center. Only Aziraphale knew it was really a shard of starlight captured on the tip of an angel’s feather.

“Well I do wish you had invited us,” Mrs. Young says as she bustles around the kitchen, shooing Dog out from under her feet at she puts a plate of biscuits down on the table. “Honestly, sneaking off and eloping like that.”

“Oh, it was a spur of the moment kind of thing,” Aziraphale answers, giving Crowley a secret little smile over the table, reaching around the cake in between them to take his hand in his own. “Sometimes you just know.”

But…….y’know, if you want me to go full wedding!crack, I can absolutely go Full Wedding!Crack. Just load me up full of maple syrup and crank Queen up to an 11 and we’ll be good to go!