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."

After some time he realized those words on the paper felt bare and cold. He got up and walked out into the lousy parlor area. There sat Aziraphale. He sat down next to him. "Why?"

Aziraphale looked up from the book he was reading. "Why, what?"

"Why do you care? Why'd you stop me this morning?"

Aziraphale glanced at the page number. He then closed his book with a soft thud. He sighed, "I stopped you because you're like me, and I think you're awful strong for living like this."

Oscar asked, "Do you believe in a God above?"

Aziraphale said, "I must say that I do."

"Do you think that we could be forgiven?"

"I do."

"Then it shall be."

Aziraphale nodded slowly. He mumbled, "It shall."

They sat in silence for a moment before Aziraphale asked, "Would you like to come to my room for tea? It's the nice kind."

It had been a while since Wilde had good tea. The thought of a warm, strong drink was tempting. What kind of a man would he be to deny some? No man at all. So, he accepted the offer and the two strolled back to Aziraphale's room.

Aziraphale poured two glasses of tea. They were mildly warm. While neither of them preferred their tea this way, it was better than nothing at all. They sip and spoke for almost an hour. At some point around three o'clock Aziraphale sighed, "I suppose the tea is far too cold at this point."

Wilde nodded and said, "It was nice though. It's been a long time since I've had tea."

"What about wine?" Aziraphale asked. The words slipped from his mouth. He didn't mean to ask that. He had never drank with anyone besides Crowley, much less a human. Oh well, what's the harm in doing such a thing? "I have wine! When was the last time you've had wine?"

Wilde raised an eyebrow. "Wine?"

"Chateauneuf de Pas!"

"Do you know how much money you could make selling just a bottle of that? Why ever would I let such wine touch my lips while I'm this unfortunate?"

Aziraphale got down on his knees. He pulled a bottle of wine out from under his bed. "I have more back at my book shop in Soho. I'd be delighted to share."

He then pulled out two glasses and smiled. "Please do have some."

Wilde's eyes were less focused on the wine and more so the opposite end of Aziraphale. "Uhm... Oh! I suppose I must if you're offering."

"My dear boy, my face is not down there."

With that statement the both of them turned red.

"I'm aware," Wilde chuckled. He crossed his legs and put his hand to his cheek.

Aziraphale got up and placed the wine glasses on the table. He then poured the wine, and handed one glass to the poet in front of him.

Wilde sipped at it generously. It was better than he expected, and he wanted to savor it. The strength of the alcohol did overtake him though and he drank it faster. Within minutes he was zozzled out of his mind, and Aziraphale was too.

"Oscar, dear boy, have~" Aziraphale burped softly, "Has anyone ever told you~ how pre~tty your eyes are?"

"Plenty of people~"

"Oh well they're smart people~" Aziraphale slurred. He leaned his head back and said, "I'm smart too."

"Obviously," Wilde chuckled. He stood up and walked over to Aziraphale. "How smart are you though~?"

"Quite brilliant."

"Then kiss me if you're that damn smart!" Wilde shouted.

Aziraphale stood up and faced him. While Oscar was taller than Aziraphale, they somehow still smashed lips. At some point Aziraphale pushed him back against the bed, and it's quite easy to figure out.

The next morning Oscar Wilde woke up in the arms of an angel.

"Mm~ Azira?" Wilde groaned. He slowly sat up and looked down at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale shifted around, realizing he had his arms draped over someone. His eyes fluttered open. This had been his first time sleeping, and he didn't even remember falling asleep. Must have been the alcohol. It was definitely the alcohol. "Mm~ Good morning, Oscar."

Wilde laid back down, resting his head on Aziraphale's shoulder. "We shouldn't be here. We could get caught."

He started to move his pointer finger in little circles on Aziraphale's chest. He didn't make much eye contact with Aziraphale.

"Nobody is going to catch us. Don't worry," Aziraphale hummed. Wilde nuzzled against his bare shoulder. "I suppose I'm just scared about going back to prison. I don't think I could live another two years like that," he sighed. His eyes darted up to meet Aziraphale's. "I wouldn't make you suffer such a fate either."

Aziraphale kissed his forehead softly. He then whispered, "I can assure you nothing as bad will ever come to you again. You've got an angel watching over you."

Wilde shook his head. "I don't know any an angel would ever care."

Aziraphale said, "The world works in mysterious ways, my dear boy."

Wilde sat back up and grabbed his clothing off the floor. He started to dress himself. The conversation was becoming too careless and hopeful for his taste. He figured he best not stick around, or otherwise he'd become optimistic.

"You're leaving?" Aziraphale asked.

Wilde nodded and said, "I must. I'm sure it's a later hour of the morning. I cannot trust anyone but myself to watch over me."

Aziraphale tilted his head. "Good luck then, poet. I have good faith in you."

Wilde walked to the door. "As I do you. Perhaps I'll be back."

He then left the room, leaving Aziraphale alone in silence.

"What a man," the angel whispered to himself, "What a man..."