HAPPY HOLIDAYS, DEMONSADVOCATE!
Dec. 1st, 2018 09:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeTitle: Dancing Around It
Recipient: Demonsadvocate
Characters/Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley (technically pre-slash)
Rating: M (SFW, but suggestive)
Word Count: 2,830
Notes: Hey, Demonsadvocate! Your prompt about Aziraphale and Crowley realizing they have feelings for each other, but proving inept in courting attempts, is the one I chose. It manifested differently than I imagined, by which I mean there’s a past moment paired with a parallel moment in the present. Thanks for the opportunity to approach this trope a bit differently.
Summary: “Az—ah, Mr. Fell says this place is discreet,” [Crowley] said curtly. “How discreet we talking?”
“Such as you might meet the occasional backgammon player, sir,” said the steward, pointedly.
Crowley ran that statement through his dusty catalogue of human slang. It pinged accordingly.
London, 23 September 1888
Crowley fiddled with his silk tie and upturned collar, nearly smacking into a passer-by coming from the opposite direction. His tinted glasses, a gift from Aziraphale slightly over a century ago, creaked when he adjusted them. He tightened the wayward screws with a thought.
Daylight was harsh even filtered through those lenses, what when he’d spent so much time recently asleep. He’d awakened intermittently, but never for long; whatever frivolities Aziraphale was frittering his time on, he’d adamantly wanted no part.
Why he’d wanted no part was certainly at issue, but it wasn’t up for casual discussion.
Pushing through the front door of Aziraphale’s townhouse without regard for either knocker or lock wasn’t the rudest unannounced entrance he’d ever sprung on the angel, but it was up there. He was groggy, and the darkened foyer was easier on his light-starved eyes. He removed his glasses, stuck them in the breast pocket of his wide-lapelled black silk jacket, and did a double-take.
There were books everywhere, stacks upon stacks, ones that weren’t Aziraphale’s prized Bibles.
“You might have given me fair warning,” Aziraphale tutted from the parlor. “I’d begun to fear you fancied yourself some princess in a fairytale. Nobody waits forever, Crowley.”
Nobody except you, Crowley thought, lips quirking into a half-smile. “Hallo, angel.”
“Please pardon the riff-raff,” said Aziraphale, fussily, revealing himself to be over-dressed for all that it was early on a Sunday evening. “I intend to sell most of this lot. See how it goes.”
“Time you re-entered the book trade,” Crowley ventured, remaining where he was as Aziraphale navigated the books in order to reach him, “but through sales rather than the print-shop end?”
“Dear boy, let me look at you,” Aziraphale said, his soft, precise hands coming to rest on Crowley’s elbows. “Well-rested indeed,” he concluded, patting Crowley in approval. “How shall we celebrate your re-entry into public life?”
“With whatever alcohol you’ve got on hand, I had hoped,” Crowley admitted, loosening his tie.
Aziraphale clucked his tongue and materialized a bowler that was, at least, something of an improvement on the top hat Crowley had last seen him wear. The angel’s checked trousers and velvet waistcoat were distracting, right down to the inclusion of a rose gold watch-fob.
There was something visible in Aziraphale’s other waistcoat pocket, but Crowley didn’t ask.
“Come now,” Aziraphale said, taking hold of Crowley’s arm, guiding him back toward the door. “It won’t do to just sit inside, not when the weather’s been so agreeable of late.”
“It’s hell out there,” Crowley said with distaste. “Just this side of sweltering, take it from me.”
“There’s someplace I’d like to take you, if you’d be willing,” Aziraphale cajoled. “My treat.”
“As long as there’s plenty to drink, fine,” Crowley said, pushing through the door, holding it for Aziraphale. “I can’t imagine your idea of a good time these days is taxing.”
“Oh, indubitably,” said Aziraphale, entirely too pleased for Crowley’s liking. “Food and drink in spades. Oodles and pots. Anything you should fancy, and if they haven’t got it, why…”
Crowley tuned Aziraphale’s wittering out, replacing his glasses before the humans across the street got within range. Wherever they were going, they were clearly remaining on foot.
Aziraphale abandoned his chatter after a few blocks, tucking Crowley’s arm back over his own.
“This is Portland Place,” Crowley observed when Aziraphale towed him around the next corner.
“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, patting Crowley’s arm as he steered him up the first townhouse’s low concrete stairs. “And you’re about to be my guest for an evening at the Stratford.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Crowley said nervously as Aziraphale laid insistently on the brass knocker, “but you had better explain it before I decide to leave.”
“The Stratford Club is very discreet,” Aziraphale reassured. “Cards, mostly whist and bridge.”
Crowley couldn’t suppress a grin. “You’ve taken up gambling? Whatever would Heaven say?”
“It’s not my fault they haven’t got dancing,” said Aziraphale, tartly, as the door swung inward.
“Wait, I…” Crowley goggled at him as the steward let them inside. “Did you say dancing?”
“That comes much later,” Aziraphale said placatingly, handing over his hat and jacket, indicating that Crowley ought to do the same. “After the cards and drinking, you understand.”
Crowley swatted at the steward’s hands when the man made a grab for his glasses. “They stay.”
“Fine, sir,” deferred the steward, wearily, appealing to Aziraphale once more. “This way, sir.”
It was a bridge night, which was just as well, because Crowley didn’t have the foggiest notion of how to play whist. The other two gentlemen at their table greeted Aziraphale like an old friend, and the one with a carnation that hadn’t quite drunk up its green dye in his buttonhole had a glass of port at the ready. He made apologies to Crowley and shuffled to the bar.
“That’s William,” Aziraphale explained, pulling Crowley’s chair out for him. “Silversmith.”
“Sure, and you’re a bookseller,” Crowley scoffed, leaning over to greet the other gentleman.
While Crowley chatted to Ben, William returned with a glass of tokay and set it in front of him.
“Your friend has often spoken of your preferences in the weeks since he joined,” William said.
Crowley blinked stupidly at the glass while William took his seat. He glanced up just in time to notice that Aziraphale was guiltily busy drawing something from his non-watch pocket.
The gleaming snuffbox snapped shut almost as soon as Aziraphale had opened it and partaken.
“Didn’t know you actually used those,” Crowley said, picking up the tokay as William’s expression turned to confusion. “He collects them,” Crowley explained. “Just for show.”
“I wouldn’t have assumed as much,” William admitted, obviously eager for Crowley to try the wine, “given he’s made use of this one since I finished it not a month past.”
Nearly choking on the too-large swallow he’d taken, Crowley reached across the table and flexed his fingers at Aziraphale, indicating he’d like to see the object. Aziraphale pocketed it stiffly.
“Plain in comparison to the rest,” said the angel, brushing his nose fastidiously. “Functional.”
Crowley swallowed more tokay, shocked to find he was wounded by the uncharacteristic rebuff.
“Good taste,” he said to William, setting down his glass, reaching for the cards. “Shall I deal?”
It was bad enough that Crowley spent the next two hours of halfhearted gameplay brooding over William’s carnation and the implications of Aziraphale’s newfound company. Infuriating, too, to be denied access to Aziraphale’s latest shiny acquisition, only to endure saccharine encouragement from two overly-attentive humans.
What they wanted from Aziraphale was obvious, but they seemed to know they couldn’t have it.
As if sorry for rebuffing their advances at every turn, Aziraphale sabotaged Crowley’s half of their joint game and let the humans win all three matches. Disgusted, Crowley threw down his cards and went over to the bar. The steward, it seemed, was also the one tending.
“More of whatever I’ve been drinking all night,” Crowley said, slapping down too many coins.
“Take it back, sir,” said the tender, pouring a fourth glass of the tokay. “Your way’s paid.”
Crowley glanced over his shoulder at Aziraphale and ran his tongue over the backs of his teeth, vexed. He gathered up the coins, stuffed them back in his pocket, and snatched the glass.
“Az—ah, Mr. Fell says this place is discreet,” he said curtly. “How discreet we talking?”
“Such as you might meet the occasional backgammon player, sir,” said the steward, pointedly.
Crowley ran that statement through his dusty catalogue of human slang. It pinged accordingly.
“Right,” Crowley said, aware that the assemblage of string-quartet players had come off break and resumed their seats in the corner. “And enjoy some scrutiny-free dancing, yeah?”
“I fear you’ve missed your chance at the gavotte,” interjected Aziraphale, from behind him, “as we wrapped up those lessons last week. Every fourth week’s your casual waltz night.”
“Waltzing?” Crowley echoed, dizzily draining off his glass while that sank in. “Casual?”
“He’s rather a stick in the mud, one fears,” Aziraphale said to the steward, taking Crowley’s glass away from him. He set it on the bar with a resounding clink and took Crowley by the shoulders. “Won’t you loosen up long enough to spare me partnering with, er—?”
Crowley took a moment to look at Aziraphale, to really scrutinize him by the low-hung gaslight. Aziraphale’s cheeks were invitingly pink, no doubt because he’d drunk more port than Crowley had drunk tokay, and somehow those infuriating trousers were fetching.
“Angel,” Crowley said as nonchalantly as he could manage, “are you asking me to dance?”
Aziraphale nodded, biting his lip in an unexpected show of contrition. “Only if you’d like.”
On the far side of the room, the quartet struck up something oddly pensive for three-four time.
Tipping his head back on a strangled laugh, Crowley closed his eyes in a desperate attempt to compose himself. If he’d like. If he’d like. Oh, the things he’d love, let alone like.
“Sssure,” he said, snapping back to attention, losing control of his tongue, “but you’re leading.”
“That was quite the point,” Aziraphale reassured him, breath hitching as Crowley set his left hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I don’t know if you’ve spent much time observing—”
“I know what a box step is,” said Crowley, aggravated, in one-sided demonstration. “Keep up.”
Where Crowley was just shy of negligibly competent, Aziraphale was somehow halfway decent.
Crowley found it easy to tune out the murmurs of interest from the other unlikely pairs as they whirled by. Aziraphale’s eyes were fixed steadfastly on his glasses, as if seeking, so Crowley removed his hand from Aziraphale’s shoulder on the next turn they took and pushed them into his hair. Aziraphale’s tipsily sincere smile hit Crowley square in the chest.
“There you are,” Aziraphale said, inclining his head toward Crowley’s ear. “Welcome back.”
Whether it was the feel of Aziraphale’s warm breath or the low, grateful resonance in those words that caused Crowley to stumble backward was unclear. He hit the drape-covered windowpane hard enough to rattle it, cushioned by the burgundy velvet, and Aziraphale caught him even tighter about the waist, dragged forward into Crowley by the momentum.
How easy it would be, Crowley thought, letting his eyes flick over Aziraphale’s lips.
Aziraphale swallowed, regaining his footing, tugging Crowley away from the drapes. They were pressed flush, a position that surely would have scandalized a crowd less discreet.
“Are you all right, my dear?” he asked, his breath now decisively warming Crowley’s cheek.
Losing his nerve, Crowley bowed his head and inhaled against Aziraphale’s immaculate collar.
“Cologne, angel?” he deflected, relieved that Aziraphale had begun to move again. “Really?”
London, 25 September 1988
Aziraphale scarcely looked up from his pricing when the front-door, which he had most decisively locked several hours earlier, jangled. There was only one person it could be.
“Thought you might want to give old Skindle the slip,” Crowley said, striding into the back room with a sense of purpose, “and give this new distraction a try. With wine, of course.”
Aziraphale squinted mistrustfully at the portable television Crowley had set down on the table.
“Looks like a brick with a screen,” he said, flipping the price-guide shut and closing the volume in which he’d been about to pencil a hefty figure. “If bricks were made of plastic.”
“I could say the same about your computer, but do you see me complaining?” Crowley said, patting the television’s dusty top. “Found this in your friendly neighborhood Oxfam.”
Aziraphale waved it on, not even bothering to miracle the plug into the wall. “Black and white?”
Crowley shrugged, pulling out the chair next to Aziraphale’s, situating himself in it. “Classic.”
On the screen, some manner of ballroom dancing competition was in progress. The sound wasn’t working, so Aziraphale had to guess at the music. Box-stepping meant a waltz.
“Your notion of wine was on the mark,” Aziraphale said, snapping his fingers. Several bottles of Côtes du Rhône and two glasses appeared on the table in front of them, blocking their view.
“Bit heavy for a spot of mockery, don’t you think?” Crowley asked, vanishing all three corks.
“I could ask you the same,” Aziraphale parroted, an uneasy memory prickling at the back of his neck. The one time he’d made a heavily-hinted pass at Crowley and failed was intolerable.
Crowley let out a whistle and grabbed one of the bottles, vanishing the glasses while he was at it.
“I’m fine with sharing the third one as long as you are,” he said, drinking deep. “S’bad form.”
“What is?” Aziraphale asked vaguely, glad to just grab one of the other bottles and have at it.
“These amateurs,” Crowley clarified, chugging too fast for anybody’s good. “No flair, eh?”
Aziraphale took a pull so extended from his bottle that he almost choked on the bitter edge.
“Does this taste corked to you?” he coughed. “I could’ve sworn this vintage was at its peak.”
Crowley had fixed his eyes on the static-laced screen, entranced. His sunglasses were off, too.
“We weren’t so bad,” he said distantly, polishing off the bottle. “I mean, we’d never even tried.”
“You’d never even tried,” replied Aziraphale, bitterly, finishing his own with a hiccup.
“What’s that s’posed to mean?” Crowley demanded, swiping the bottle they were meant to share.
“I’d been putting in the hard work for when you decided to get out of bed,” Aziraphale admitted.
Sputtering outright, Crowley lowered the bottle and dribbled red down his chin. Before he could lift his arm to wipe at it with his sleeve, Aziraphale withdrew his handkerchief, feeling his pocket’s other contents shift disconcertingly, and dabbed at it for him.
Crowley tipped his face into the linen-padded touch like he’d been longing for it, everything in slow motion now given how much they’d already drunk. He let slip a hitching sigh.
“Wanna try again?” Crowley slurred, so unexpectedly that Aziraphale dropped the handkerchief.
The weight of what was behind them, the words Crowley had used in that century-ago moment, made Aziraphale laugh aloud. His turn to struggle for composure, his turn to say the line.
“Dear boy,” Aziraphale wheezed, unsuccessfully stifling a hiccup, “are you asking me…”
Crowley was nodding with intoxicated emphasis, already getting to his feet. He hauled Aziraphale out of his chair and waved at the television. Its absent sound blared, as if startled to find itself restored. The first waltz had ended, and the next contestants’ turn had begun.
“I’m leading,” he said, taking Aziraphale’s right hand in his left. “We’ll see who remembers.”
I remember, Aziraphale wanted to say as Crowley worked his free arm around Aziraphale’s waist and spun them into action. Every last step.
There was more laughter than precision in the mix, and they knocked into the chairs more than once. Aziraphale stopped them in the middle of it to shove the offending furniture back under the table where it belonged, and then Crowley pulled him back in.
They danced their stumbling way out of the back room, past the untidy desk and the till.
Crowley clipped a nearby shelf and apologized to it, which was so endearing that Aziraphale lost the count of their steps. He staggered into the shelves behind him, yanking Crowley along.
If there was any earthly thing closer to Heaven than the drag of alcohol in Aziraphale’s veins and Crowley’s wide, luminous eyes less than a head-tilt away, then Aziraphale didn’t want to know.
“Bless it,” Crowley mumbled, seemingly too far gone to overthink meeting Aziraphale halfway.
The press of Crowley’s lips, his damp and startled breath, lasted only as long as it took for something to fall from Aziraphale’s pocket. It hit the floor with a metallic clink.
Crowley disengaged from Aziraphale unsteadily, bent down, and retrieved the jostled-open silver snuffbox. He held it flat on his palm, working the lid a few times, knitting his eyebrows in irritation when it wouldn’t stay shut. He ran his fingers over the scrollwork engraving, squinting at the initials well-hidden in the pattern’s complexity. His jaw tightened as he handed it back.
“Empty,” Crowley remarked while Aziraphale pocketed it in shame. “Off the sauce a while?”
Aziraphale nodded, unable to meet Crowley’s eyes. “It fell out of fashion, like most vices do.”
“Like most vices,” Crowley said, the statement almost a sneer. “Like, let’s say, backgammon?”
Aziraphale squared his shoulders and looked Crowley in the eye, but he had no desire to deny that he’d been soundly found out. Let Crowley think what he would; the damage was done.
“If you’re not ready for this thing we’ve been…dancing around for so long,” he said quietly, leaning wearily into the book-spines behind him, “then I would understand.”
The gleam in Crowley’s hazy eyes—not sober enough for this, never certain—was hopeful.
“Give it more time,” he sighed, turning on his heel. “Lots can happen, I promise you that.”
Recipient: Demonsadvocate
Characters/Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley (technically pre-slash)
Rating: M (SFW, but suggestive)
Word Count: 2,830
Notes: Hey, Demonsadvocate! Your prompt about Aziraphale and Crowley realizing they have feelings for each other, but proving inept in courting attempts, is the one I chose. It manifested differently than I imagined, by which I mean there’s a past moment paired with a parallel moment in the present. Thanks for the opportunity to approach this trope a bit differently.
Summary: “Az—ah, Mr. Fell says this place is discreet,” [Crowley] said curtly. “How discreet we talking?”
“Such as you might meet the occasional backgammon player, sir,” said the steward, pointedly.
Crowley ran that statement through his dusty catalogue of human slang. It pinged accordingly.
London, 23 September 1888
Crowley fiddled with his silk tie and upturned collar, nearly smacking into a passer-by coming from the opposite direction. His tinted glasses, a gift from Aziraphale slightly over a century ago, creaked when he adjusted them. He tightened the wayward screws with a thought.
Daylight was harsh even filtered through those lenses, what when he’d spent so much time recently asleep. He’d awakened intermittently, but never for long; whatever frivolities Aziraphale was frittering his time on, he’d adamantly wanted no part.
Why he’d wanted no part was certainly at issue, but it wasn’t up for casual discussion.
Pushing through the front door of Aziraphale’s townhouse without regard for either knocker or lock wasn’t the rudest unannounced entrance he’d ever sprung on the angel, but it was up there. He was groggy, and the darkened foyer was easier on his light-starved eyes. He removed his glasses, stuck them in the breast pocket of his wide-lapelled black silk jacket, and did a double-take.
There were books everywhere, stacks upon stacks, ones that weren’t Aziraphale’s prized Bibles.
“You might have given me fair warning,” Aziraphale tutted from the parlor. “I’d begun to fear you fancied yourself some princess in a fairytale. Nobody waits forever, Crowley.”
Nobody except you, Crowley thought, lips quirking into a half-smile. “Hallo, angel.”
“Please pardon the riff-raff,” said Aziraphale, fussily, revealing himself to be over-dressed for all that it was early on a Sunday evening. “I intend to sell most of this lot. See how it goes.”
“Time you re-entered the book trade,” Crowley ventured, remaining where he was as Aziraphale navigated the books in order to reach him, “but through sales rather than the print-shop end?”
“Dear boy, let me look at you,” Aziraphale said, his soft, precise hands coming to rest on Crowley’s elbows. “Well-rested indeed,” he concluded, patting Crowley in approval. “How shall we celebrate your re-entry into public life?”
“With whatever alcohol you’ve got on hand, I had hoped,” Crowley admitted, loosening his tie.
Aziraphale clucked his tongue and materialized a bowler that was, at least, something of an improvement on the top hat Crowley had last seen him wear. The angel’s checked trousers and velvet waistcoat were distracting, right down to the inclusion of a rose gold watch-fob.
There was something visible in Aziraphale’s other waistcoat pocket, but Crowley didn’t ask.
“Come now,” Aziraphale said, taking hold of Crowley’s arm, guiding him back toward the door. “It won’t do to just sit inside, not when the weather’s been so agreeable of late.”
“It’s hell out there,” Crowley said with distaste. “Just this side of sweltering, take it from me.”
“There’s someplace I’d like to take you, if you’d be willing,” Aziraphale cajoled. “My treat.”
“As long as there’s plenty to drink, fine,” Crowley said, pushing through the door, holding it for Aziraphale. “I can’t imagine your idea of a good time these days is taxing.”
“Oh, indubitably,” said Aziraphale, entirely too pleased for Crowley’s liking. “Food and drink in spades. Oodles and pots. Anything you should fancy, and if they haven’t got it, why…”
Crowley tuned Aziraphale’s wittering out, replacing his glasses before the humans across the street got within range. Wherever they were going, they were clearly remaining on foot.
Aziraphale abandoned his chatter after a few blocks, tucking Crowley’s arm back over his own.
“This is Portland Place,” Crowley observed when Aziraphale towed him around the next corner.
“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, patting Crowley’s arm as he steered him up the first townhouse’s low concrete stairs. “And you’re about to be my guest for an evening at the Stratford.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Crowley said nervously as Aziraphale laid insistently on the brass knocker, “but you had better explain it before I decide to leave.”
“The Stratford Club is very discreet,” Aziraphale reassured. “Cards, mostly whist and bridge.”
Crowley couldn’t suppress a grin. “You’ve taken up gambling? Whatever would Heaven say?”
“It’s not my fault they haven’t got dancing,” said Aziraphale, tartly, as the door swung inward.
“Wait, I…” Crowley goggled at him as the steward let them inside. “Did you say dancing?”
“That comes much later,” Aziraphale said placatingly, handing over his hat and jacket, indicating that Crowley ought to do the same. “After the cards and drinking, you understand.”
Crowley swatted at the steward’s hands when the man made a grab for his glasses. “They stay.”
“Fine, sir,” deferred the steward, wearily, appealing to Aziraphale once more. “This way, sir.”
It was a bridge night, which was just as well, because Crowley didn’t have the foggiest notion of how to play whist. The other two gentlemen at their table greeted Aziraphale like an old friend, and the one with a carnation that hadn’t quite drunk up its green dye in his buttonhole had a glass of port at the ready. He made apologies to Crowley and shuffled to the bar.
“That’s William,” Aziraphale explained, pulling Crowley’s chair out for him. “Silversmith.”
“Sure, and you’re a bookseller,” Crowley scoffed, leaning over to greet the other gentleman.
While Crowley chatted to Ben, William returned with a glass of tokay and set it in front of him.
“Your friend has often spoken of your preferences in the weeks since he joined,” William said.
Crowley blinked stupidly at the glass while William took his seat. He glanced up just in time to notice that Aziraphale was guiltily busy drawing something from his non-watch pocket.
The gleaming snuffbox snapped shut almost as soon as Aziraphale had opened it and partaken.
“Didn’t know you actually used those,” Crowley said, picking up the tokay as William’s expression turned to confusion. “He collects them,” Crowley explained. “Just for show.”
“I wouldn’t have assumed as much,” William admitted, obviously eager for Crowley to try the wine, “given he’s made use of this one since I finished it not a month past.”
Nearly choking on the too-large swallow he’d taken, Crowley reached across the table and flexed his fingers at Aziraphale, indicating he’d like to see the object. Aziraphale pocketed it stiffly.
“Plain in comparison to the rest,” said the angel, brushing his nose fastidiously. “Functional.”
Crowley swallowed more tokay, shocked to find he was wounded by the uncharacteristic rebuff.
“Good taste,” he said to William, setting down his glass, reaching for the cards. “Shall I deal?”
It was bad enough that Crowley spent the next two hours of halfhearted gameplay brooding over William’s carnation and the implications of Aziraphale’s newfound company. Infuriating, too, to be denied access to Aziraphale’s latest shiny acquisition, only to endure saccharine encouragement from two overly-attentive humans.
What they wanted from Aziraphale was obvious, but they seemed to know they couldn’t have it.
As if sorry for rebuffing their advances at every turn, Aziraphale sabotaged Crowley’s half of their joint game and let the humans win all three matches. Disgusted, Crowley threw down his cards and went over to the bar. The steward, it seemed, was also the one tending.
“More of whatever I’ve been drinking all night,” Crowley said, slapping down too many coins.
“Take it back, sir,” said the tender, pouring a fourth glass of the tokay. “Your way’s paid.”
Crowley glanced over his shoulder at Aziraphale and ran his tongue over the backs of his teeth, vexed. He gathered up the coins, stuffed them back in his pocket, and snatched the glass.
“Az—ah, Mr. Fell says this place is discreet,” he said curtly. “How discreet we talking?”
“Such as you might meet the occasional backgammon player, sir,” said the steward, pointedly.
Crowley ran that statement through his dusty catalogue of human slang. It pinged accordingly.
“Right,” Crowley said, aware that the assemblage of string-quartet players had come off break and resumed their seats in the corner. “And enjoy some scrutiny-free dancing, yeah?”
“I fear you’ve missed your chance at the gavotte,” interjected Aziraphale, from behind him, “as we wrapped up those lessons last week. Every fourth week’s your casual waltz night.”
“Waltzing?” Crowley echoed, dizzily draining off his glass while that sank in. “Casual?”
“He’s rather a stick in the mud, one fears,” Aziraphale said to the steward, taking Crowley’s glass away from him. He set it on the bar with a resounding clink and took Crowley by the shoulders. “Won’t you loosen up long enough to spare me partnering with, er—?”
Crowley took a moment to look at Aziraphale, to really scrutinize him by the low-hung gaslight. Aziraphale’s cheeks were invitingly pink, no doubt because he’d drunk more port than Crowley had drunk tokay, and somehow those infuriating trousers were fetching.
“Angel,” Crowley said as nonchalantly as he could manage, “are you asking me to dance?”
Aziraphale nodded, biting his lip in an unexpected show of contrition. “Only if you’d like.”
On the far side of the room, the quartet struck up something oddly pensive for three-four time.
Tipping his head back on a strangled laugh, Crowley closed his eyes in a desperate attempt to compose himself. If he’d like. If he’d like. Oh, the things he’d love, let alone like.
“Sssure,” he said, snapping back to attention, losing control of his tongue, “but you’re leading.”
“That was quite the point,” Aziraphale reassured him, breath hitching as Crowley set his left hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I don’t know if you’ve spent much time observing—”
“I know what a box step is,” said Crowley, aggravated, in one-sided demonstration. “Keep up.”
Where Crowley was just shy of negligibly competent, Aziraphale was somehow halfway decent.
Crowley found it easy to tune out the murmurs of interest from the other unlikely pairs as they whirled by. Aziraphale’s eyes were fixed steadfastly on his glasses, as if seeking, so Crowley removed his hand from Aziraphale’s shoulder on the next turn they took and pushed them into his hair. Aziraphale’s tipsily sincere smile hit Crowley square in the chest.
“There you are,” Aziraphale said, inclining his head toward Crowley’s ear. “Welcome back.”
Whether it was the feel of Aziraphale’s warm breath or the low, grateful resonance in those words that caused Crowley to stumble backward was unclear. He hit the drape-covered windowpane hard enough to rattle it, cushioned by the burgundy velvet, and Aziraphale caught him even tighter about the waist, dragged forward into Crowley by the momentum.
How easy it would be, Crowley thought, letting his eyes flick over Aziraphale’s lips.
Aziraphale swallowed, regaining his footing, tugging Crowley away from the drapes. They were pressed flush, a position that surely would have scandalized a crowd less discreet.
“Are you all right, my dear?” he asked, his breath now decisively warming Crowley’s cheek.
Losing his nerve, Crowley bowed his head and inhaled against Aziraphale’s immaculate collar.
“Cologne, angel?” he deflected, relieved that Aziraphale had begun to move again. “Really?”
London, 25 September 1988
Aziraphale scarcely looked up from his pricing when the front-door, which he had most decisively locked several hours earlier, jangled. There was only one person it could be.
“Thought you might want to give old Skindle the slip,” Crowley said, striding into the back room with a sense of purpose, “and give this new distraction a try. With wine, of course.”
Aziraphale squinted mistrustfully at the portable television Crowley had set down on the table.
“Looks like a brick with a screen,” he said, flipping the price-guide shut and closing the volume in which he’d been about to pencil a hefty figure. “If bricks were made of plastic.”
“I could say the same about your computer, but do you see me complaining?” Crowley said, patting the television’s dusty top. “Found this in your friendly neighborhood Oxfam.”
Aziraphale waved it on, not even bothering to miracle the plug into the wall. “Black and white?”
Crowley shrugged, pulling out the chair next to Aziraphale’s, situating himself in it. “Classic.”
On the screen, some manner of ballroom dancing competition was in progress. The sound wasn’t working, so Aziraphale had to guess at the music. Box-stepping meant a waltz.
“Your notion of wine was on the mark,” Aziraphale said, snapping his fingers. Several bottles of Côtes du Rhône and two glasses appeared on the table in front of them, blocking their view.
“Bit heavy for a spot of mockery, don’t you think?” Crowley asked, vanishing all three corks.
“I could ask you the same,” Aziraphale parroted, an uneasy memory prickling at the back of his neck. The one time he’d made a heavily-hinted pass at Crowley and failed was intolerable.
Crowley let out a whistle and grabbed one of the bottles, vanishing the glasses while he was at it.
“I’m fine with sharing the third one as long as you are,” he said, drinking deep. “S’bad form.”
“What is?” Aziraphale asked vaguely, glad to just grab one of the other bottles and have at it.
“These amateurs,” Crowley clarified, chugging too fast for anybody’s good. “No flair, eh?”
Aziraphale took a pull so extended from his bottle that he almost choked on the bitter edge.
“Does this taste corked to you?” he coughed. “I could’ve sworn this vintage was at its peak.”
Crowley had fixed his eyes on the static-laced screen, entranced. His sunglasses were off, too.
“We weren’t so bad,” he said distantly, polishing off the bottle. “I mean, we’d never even tried.”
“You’d never even tried,” replied Aziraphale, bitterly, finishing his own with a hiccup.
“What’s that s’posed to mean?” Crowley demanded, swiping the bottle they were meant to share.
“I’d been putting in the hard work for when you decided to get out of bed,” Aziraphale admitted.
Sputtering outright, Crowley lowered the bottle and dribbled red down his chin. Before he could lift his arm to wipe at it with his sleeve, Aziraphale withdrew his handkerchief, feeling his pocket’s other contents shift disconcertingly, and dabbed at it for him.
Crowley tipped his face into the linen-padded touch like he’d been longing for it, everything in slow motion now given how much they’d already drunk. He let slip a hitching sigh.
“Wanna try again?” Crowley slurred, so unexpectedly that Aziraphale dropped the handkerchief.
The weight of what was behind them, the words Crowley had used in that century-ago moment, made Aziraphale laugh aloud. His turn to struggle for composure, his turn to say the line.
“Dear boy,” Aziraphale wheezed, unsuccessfully stifling a hiccup, “are you asking me…”
Crowley was nodding with intoxicated emphasis, already getting to his feet. He hauled Aziraphale out of his chair and waved at the television. Its absent sound blared, as if startled to find itself restored. The first waltz had ended, and the next contestants’ turn had begun.
“I’m leading,” he said, taking Aziraphale’s right hand in his left. “We’ll see who remembers.”
I remember, Aziraphale wanted to say as Crowley worked his free arm around Aziraphale’s waist and spun them into action. Every last step.
There was more laughter than precision in the mix, and they knocked into the chairs more than once. Aziraphale stopped them in the middle of it to shove the offending furniture back under the table where it belonged, and then Crowley pulled him back in.
They danced their stumbling way out of the back room, past the untidy desk and the till.
Crowley clipped a nearby shelf and apologized to it, which was so endearing that Aziraphale lost the count of their steps. He staggered into the shelves behind him, yanking Crowley along.
If there was any earthly thing closer to Heaven than the drag of alcohol in Aziraphale’s veins and Crowley’s wide, luminous eyes less than a head-tilt away, then Aziraphale didn’t want to know.
“Bless it,” Crowley mumbled, seemingly too far gone to overthink meeting Aziraphale halfway.
The press of Crowley’s lips, his damp and startled breath, lasted only as long as it took for something to fall from Aziraphale’s pocket. It hit the floor with a metallic clink.
Crowley disengaged from Aziraphale unsteadily, bent down, and retrieved the jostled-open silver snuffbox. He held it flat on his palm, working the lid a few times, knitting his eyebrows in irritation when it wouldn’t stay shut. He ran his fingers over the scrollwork engraving, squinting at the initials well-hidden in the pattern’s complexity. His jaw tightened as he handed it back.
“Empty,” Crowley remarked while Aziraphale pocketed it in shame. “Off the sauce a while?”
Aziraphale nodded, unable to meet Crowley’s eyes. “It fell out of fashion, like most vices do.”
“Like most vices,” Crowley said, the statement almost a sneer. “Like, let’s say, backgammon?”
Aziraphale squared his shoulders and looked Crowley in the eye, but he had no desire to deny that he’d been soundly found out. Let Crowley think what he would; the damage was done.
“If you’re not ready for this thing we’ve been…dancing around for so long,” he said quietly, leaning wearily into the book-spines behind him, “then I would understand.”
The gleam in Crowley’s hazy eyes—not sober enough for this, never certain—was hopeful.
“Give it more time,” he sighed, turning on his heel. “Lots can happen, I promise you that.”
