Chapter Text
The 60s had been a rollercoaster for Crowley. The demon had loved it all, had taken the Soho scene in stride, had lost himself in the spirit of the decade. It was a good thing, really, that there had been an angel at his side, to pull him from the sensory overload that were concerts, festivals and sit-ins, into the quietness of a bookshop that hadn’t changed its stuffy atmosphere in years.
In the midst of it all, the demon had made the possibly ill-advised decision to invent trash television. Truthfully, it hadn’t taken much demonic interference. Just a whisper to the right people, a carefully dropped hint here and there. It hadn’t been one of his proudest deeds in the name of Satan.
In much the same manner, the angel Aziraphale had shown a severe lack of judgement when he had made the decision to survey the demon’s invention. Simply to assess the harm it could do for humanity. And subsequently, inevitably, really, he had gotten hooked on some particularly bad TV.
If anyone had asked the angel, he would have explained that he did have standards. Reality TV, for one, could burn in hell. He was an angelic being that had watched humanity for millenia. Enough time to know that humans did not act that way. At least, he hoped they didn’t. Certainly not the majority.
It wasn't even the cooking shows that had taken his fancy. Secretly - or not so secretly according to a certain demon - he simply loved following dating shows.
Over the years, the demon and angel had many a conversation about the truth of these shows. Aziraphale outright refused to believe that the contestants were given scripts and Crowley became increasingly exasperated attempting to show the angel the error of his ways.
“Angel, just look at the way they respond,” Crowley groaned one night, hand cupped around the bowl of his wine glass, gesturing towards the small television in the corner. “I’saaall staged!”
He’d draped himself on the comfortable sofa, leaving the armchair for Aziraphale, who had put on his pair of tiny glasses to follow the proceedings. The angel looked so cozy and soft, that, whenever Crowley sneaked a glance, he had to fight the urge to change into his serpentine body and curl up in the space on Aziraphale’s lap that was all trousers, woolen jumper and cardigan.
“Oh, that’s just like you. Of course, you wouldn’t see it. This pair was made for each other!”
It was infuriating. Aziraphale wasn’t usually so naive, but when it came to meaningful human connection, he was almost deliberately obtuse.
“Angel, I’ve basically invented the whole charade. The showrunners decide who looks good together and then they tell them what to say, t’s the truth!” He leaned forward, fixing his gaze on Aziraphale’s face, wishing he could drive his point home by crushing their mouths together. But alas, this was reality, not his mind. So he settled for saying: “They don’t just meet and fall in love on these shows!”
Aziraphale huffed and looked down into his own glass. “Of course, you wouldn’t see it.” The angel’s posture had become a little more rigid. Crowley had known the other long enough to expect some sort of snarky remark. “You don’t have a romantic bone in your body. You wouldn’t know love at first sight even if it hit you over the head.”
Crowley merely laughed. He was much, much too sober for a truthful answer. Even drunk Croley knew better than to touch that particular topic with a ten foot pole.
It was a little while later, with both of them blissfully drunk and the television long switched off, that Aziraphale slapped his outstretched hand on the arm of his chair rousing Crowley from a peaceful state between slumber and the contemplation whether Aziraphale’s curls would feel as soft to the touch as lamb’s wool.
“Ha!” The angel proclaimed. “I’m going to prove it to you.”
“Wot?” Crowley stifled a yawn, rearranging the shades on his face, before looking into Aziraphale’s eyes. He didn’t follow.
“I.” Aziraphale sounded gleeful. “am going to appear as a contestant on “The Dating Game”, and then you will eat your words."
The demon panicked. “Ohh, no, no, no. That's a baaaad idea, angel. For a number of reasons," he assured.
"Poppycock!"
Crowley had opened his mouth, but closed it again when he was treated to one of Aziraphale's genuine, happy smiles. The world could crumble around them and the demon wouldn't point it out if there was any danger the angel would stop looking at him like that.
Fuck. This was going to be bad.