Ineffable ~ Good Omens One Shots

The Angel and The Playwright (Aziraphale x Oscar Wilde) -idk probs fluff-

A/N: it's me again and I've come with more shit I haven't watched Good Omens since I've seen my girlfriend last also look at Catboy Oscar Wilde also this features my struggling French skills which is fabulous (I'm sorry I worked seven hours on an Oscar Wilde PowerPoint)

It was sometime in the late nineteenth century, Aziraphale wasn't too sure as of when, when he met the most charming, dazzling, handsome man. Oh how he adored him! France, was it not? Yes, it must have been France. Aziraphale was there for crepes. Why he was puttering around a rather run down hotel he's also unsure of as to why. Perhaps it was the aesthetic. It was much like the condition of his book shop, which he was becoming homesick for. Or maybe it was the feeling of hope in the face of nothing. Whatever it was, he loved it. It put a gay smile to his face.

In the very same hotel was a man who was not having a very good day, for he was recently released from prison and penniless. Not much could be said for him. He was at his highest point just two years ago. On top of the world! The people adored him and his spoken art! Why'd it all have to fall apart? Why? Why couldn't he just love a man such as Bosie? Why'd the world have to be upon his shoulders and then crumble at his very fingertips? It wasn't fair! It wasn't. The pain and the suffering after long days of labor. He sat in a cell for what felt like ages, waiting to mail a letter. How he hoped that letter reached his dearest Bosie, the man his heart stayed beating for -and his best sense of trouble, or perhaps his worst.

Aziraphale could sense the sad man, and it was a familiar sense. It was his basic angel nature after all. And what kind of angel would he be to not see what was wrong? Well he wasn't much of a good angel on Heaven's terms, but this time he could be. For once he would be.

He caught this man in the hallway and was stunned by his charming looks and engulfing aura. Those eyes were perhaps the most beautiful human eyes he had ever seen.

"Bonjour, Monsieur. Je... J'ai..." Aziraphale stuttered. He was still rusty in French. It's a language better read than spoke.

"You're an Englishman."

Aziraphale wiggled a little. "Perhaps I am."

The man in front of him sighed, "I speak English."

"Oh, that's just tickity boo! I'm Azira Phale."

"I hesitate to speak my name."

"Oh no, I know who you are; Oscar Wilde. I must say I highly admire your work."

Wilde said, "Well I wouldn't expect much more from me. My reputation is crumbled."

Aziraphale pressed his palms together as if he were in prayer. "You must! You're so good! So talented!"

"Azira Phale, I'm flattered by your admiration but now I'm nothing but a convict and a sodomite. Nobody would want anything to do with me. You shouldn't want anything to do with me."

Wilde turned away and continued to walk.

"Wait!" Aziraphale called out, "I am too!"

Wilde cocked an eyebrow. He hummed, "Hmm?"

"I've committed the same sexual crimes as you, and I'd commit them again if given the chance."

"I'm not interested."

"I just want to talk!"

Wilde pointed his chin up and continued to walk out of the hallway. Aziraphale was left alone.

Throughout the day Oscar Wilde's wide mine bugged him about Aziraphale.

"What an odd man," he muttered as he scribbled words at his desk, "So very odd."