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The cushions were obscenely soft for so early in the night, far too inviting, but maybe that was more about his choice of company. As often as Crowley had slept in his own bed, he knew it was nowhere near as inviting in a warm atmosphere like this. It served its purpose--being as grand and accessorized as it was--it was a status symbol and it served to hold his body when he decided he would shut down for however long he felt relaxed him, but what it didn’t do was comfort him. Not like this. This was a category of warmth Crowley knew to be exclusively tied to his Angel.
The smooth piano swelled in the cool night air, and all he could see was his Angel grabbing another handful of biscuits off of the near-bare plate; only to clash with a resounding clatter as a cookie fell back down onto the plate and away from Aziraphale’s ravenous grasp, in time with the penultimate crescendo of the strings--magnifying the piano and haloing his Angel is a heavenly tune. Maybe calling it a “heavenly tune,” was doing it a disservice, but it was far too simple and pure an array of notes to qualify as a devilish one.
Ultimately, the way the song sounded was eclipsed in Crowley’s wine-addled mind by the slow beginnings of a trumpet and strings dancing together in the large sitting room. His earlier contemplation on the comfort of the sofa proved further justified when his human form began to meld as thoroughly with the plush seat as possible with two and a half bottles of vintage weighing him down. It wasn’t really his fault if he began to hum along to the raspy voice flowing like warm sap over the waltzing instruments--it was a conditioned response at this point, he really had no cognitive way to fight it. This is to say nothing of whether or not Crowley would even want to fight it.
“Love, what is this?” It was a slow query. Not urgent or even mildly confused, just curious and soft like Aziraphale so often was these days as Crowley showed him what going fast entailed.
Crowley’s eyes had been open the whole time, don’t let Aziraphale tell you otherwise, and they were most definitely open and attentive when the wispy and dream-like answer came, “My Angel song.”
It took a beat to realize his mistake. It took an eternity to come to terms with the outcome of his mistake. Crowley had said it. He’d heard the soothing balm of music flow over his biased soul, and he’d felt his mind relax into what had to be bliss. The bliss Crowley could only ever find in Aziraphale. He’d felt safe and airy, as if they had been floating above the world in this calm bubble of warmth and love together. It was the change in silence that turned the amicable silence into the sudden onslaught of ice it’d truly become.
Crowley’s diamond eyes opened to assess any possible escape, as he immediately tried to gage the severity of the situation at hand. At least, that was the intent. Unfortunately (or maybe so, very fortunately) as soon as amber met cerulean rational thought sped to a halt, as it so often did at times like these. Angel was just the teensiest, tiniest bit scarlet from the roots of his hair to what seemed to spread down below the neckline of his shirt. His Angel--who he’d been blatantly attempting to court for what felt like his whole goddamn life, and honestly was pretty much most of it-- was flushed a bright feverish color. From an offhand comment about a smooth jazz love song almost 80 years old at this point, which he’d apparently never heard of. A song that he immediately saw the significance of even when he hasn't seen the significance of the past six thousand years.
Fuck it, came the first real though Crowley could articulate to himslf before deciding to follow through on his childish wish to see this rare moment through to the end, why not let him bathe in it.
Extracting caution from his soul and his body from the couch in one fell swoop, Crowley swayed his way to his rediculously loving and caring stupid Angel, until the other man had really no option but to allow Crowley to pull him up an into a slow sway of a dance; both not really moving, but revolving around a point in the carpet together as Crowley kept the--albeit weak--lead.
Aziraphale was pliant, allowing himself to be “swept away,” in a manner of speaking. He could feel the constant thrum of Crowley’s life pulsing beneath the hands draped over his shoulders; the hands at his waist almost anxious in their disagreement over whether to bring Aziraphale closer or to hold him to his fixed distance. With the final blows of the trumpet guiding the pair after a fashion, Crowley leaned over, an almost confused scrunch in the determined look to his eyes, so as to rest his head on his shoulder. Just so that he was level with Aziraphale’s ear. It was more a hug at this point than any hold seen in a dance,“It’s my Angel song.”
It was nothing in particular, but all at once Crowley felt that calm crash back over him like a cresting wave sending wildlife sprawling on the rocks. His Angel was gripping him tighter and closer than he’d had dreamed to be allowed not even a moment ago. The wine was still heavy in his blood, but no longer did it drag him to the ground with its weight, instead it felt shared as he leaned on Aziraphale to the sounds of Freddie Mercury hazy in his ear.
“La vie en rose indeed.”