Work Text:
Salzburg, 1775
Aziraphale tried to look entertained as he made half-hearted chatter with nobles attending the garden party. He had attempted to wriggle his way out of this one, like all others, but apparently, when one stayed indoors for too long and still had enough money to stay well-dressed and support multiple artists, people started to get suspicious.
“….particularly nice. Don’t you think so, Mr Fell?”
What? “Er…sure! Erm, jolly well yes,” Aziraphale managed, trying with his best efforts to not look like a deer caught under headlights. (It wasn’t working.) Desperate to return to his first-edition copy of Blumauer's satire, he began devising a plan to slip away.
Or at least, as much of a plan as he could form before a familiar voice said behind him, “Ah, Mr Fell! Long time no see!”
Crowley. He heaved a sigh of relief as he turned around without so much as an excuse. (If he had been more self-conscious, he would’ve known he had been smiling, too.)
“Come to watch Mozart’s latest violin concerto, I imagine?” Crowley teased.
Aziraphale made sure all his previous acquaintances had a sudden urge to turn around (and leave) before complaining with a frown on his face. “As if I would give up Blumauer for this,”—he gestured to the crowd—“kind of company.”
Crowley grinned. He was probably happy to see Aziraphale suffer, the bugger. “Oh come now, it isn’t all that bad.”
“I’d rather spend all my time on books, thank you very much.”
“Well, you’ve got to admit, now that you’ve got me, the company’s improved,” Crowley said, his tone clearly betraying how much he wanted Aziraphale to stay. He still had his casual swing, but it was exactly the swagger he kept showing, his weight unnecessarily switching from side to side, that showed just how much he was faking nonchalance.
“And the wine’s not bad, and there’s nice music…and...”
As if on cue (maybe it was), the small ensemble on the side of the party began playing a minuet. The other guests, Aziraphale noticed, though mildly surprised, were very much delighted by the additional livelihood. They began moving in pairs onto the dance floor, a space seamlessly created as the crowd parted by intuition.
“Care to have a dance, sir?” Crowley bowed to Aziraphale.
If dictionaries and the phrase oh, you smooth motherfucker had been invented back then, Aziraphale’s face would’ve been printed right where the meaning should be. Really, Crowley is quite over the top sometimes.
Just one problem, though. “Crowley, don't be ridiculous,” Aziraphale said, trying to resist his every urge to take Crowley’s hand. “We can’t be seen dancing publicly."
"Why not?'
"People would stare!"
Crowley heaved an exasperated sigh, but he did not seem discouraged in the least bit. “Fine,” he said.
Suddenly, (miraculously,) for a moment, no one in the crowd was looking their way. Ah. Crowley always knows exactly what I need. Aziraphale took the opportunity to change his appearance, and-- realised that they both had made the effort.
“Oh!” Aziraphale couldn’t help the little exclamation that escaped when she looked Crowley up and down, their miscommunication temporarily forgotten. “You look absolutely stunning!”
Crowley was dressed in lavish black petticoats, red velvet lining the front of her dress. She had a lovely rose decoration on her hair, a dark contrast to make her hair look even more auburn. A veil, instead of her usual pair of glasses, covered her eyes just enough to make them look normal to outsiders. Aziraphale found the veil particularly attractive; though it was not the least because she could finally see Crowley's eyes.
She, being an angel, (of course) had a white dress, and had conjured up some flower hairpins to distract people from the fact that her hair was abnormally white. She didn't care too much about detail, given that the dress was intended for just a while, so she basically copied what most other women at the party were wearing. She had no idea why Crowley was looking rather aghast at her transformation, and was beginning to worry if she had made her neckline go too low.
(It was because of the neckline, but Crowley would never admit to it.)
“Ahhhhh errrrmmm I look just fine, Aziraphale,” Crowley managed, when she finally tore her eyes away from Aziraphale.
There was a slightly embarrassing silence.
"Well, one of us have got to change back, haven’t we?” Aziraphale made her best attempt at faux-pas-in-disguise. (Don’t ask me what that is.) She didn't exactly fancy the idea of attracting attention.
But as soon as she prompted this, a gentleman from across the terrace caught sight of them both, and began making his way towards them.
Oh, bugger. Aziraphale groaned in her mind. The last thing she or Crowley needed right now was some stupid suitor present to burst their bubble.
It came as no surprise when the man suddenly turned and looked behind his shoulder. Oh. Thank God Crowley’s noticed him.
Aziraphale used this chance to change her corporeal appearance back to his usual: white suit, short hair, and white shoes.
Just as he was going to turn around and talk to his companion, he noticed that Crowley had turned back into a man as well.
They both groaned in exasperation as they took in the other’s appearance. Now one of them had to change into a woman again, before they could go do something as simple as dancing. Honestly quite unnecessary, these social rules. Exactly why Aziraphale would rather have stayed with his books.
The man from across the garden stopped dead in his tracks.
Aziraphale felt his shoulders loosen. “Ah," he said. "Well, at least one of our problems are solved. Now—“ he snapped his finger, so that the man would find that he really wanted to look behind himself again, and then Aziraphale would change his appearance and he and Crowley would go on to have their dance—
And both herself and Crowley were women again.
“Oh, for Satan’s sake,” Crowley said irritably.
The man’s face turned for the second time.
…This continued for quite a few more times.
While the sheer number of miracles was almost certainly pointing to a likely future of extra paperwork, it was worth noting that in the present, the poor man from across the garden was looking increasingly like he kept getting slapped in the face by air.
Yet, despite all this confusion, the man had determination of admirable quality, as he turned a final time to (finally) arrive in front of Aziraphale and Crowley, who both happened to be female at that time.
“Pardon me, ladies- “ he began, but Crowley, ever the demon, interrupted before he could even finish.
“This one’s not available,” she drawled, the authoritative way only certain attractive women could.
However, even with her head held high and her eyes glaring from behind her veil, the man was not the least put off.
“Well, if I may,” he bowed deep to Aziraphale…and she began to reconsider her previous judgements… "Would you care to dance with me, dear lady?"
Well, he does seem perfectly sincere. And certainly he wouldn’t mean any harm…plus, it would seem terribly rude to decline-
“Ahem,” a hand quickly grabbed Aziraphale’s before she could accept the man’s offer. “What exactly do you think you’re doing, young man? Can’t you see that she’s mine?”
Aziraphale’s head snapped up within a second.
Oh.
It seemed that while she had been busy with the suitor's invitation, Crowley had taken the risky move (social-wise) to transform into a man once more. And he was dressed in all white too, to Aziraphale’s secret delight: he had a white coat, waistcoat, and white breeches...even his coat buttons were ivory-coloured pearls. He had basically changed his entire appearance from black to white, except for his glasses, and his russet hair. In fact, his transformation was so consummate that when Aziraphale looked at him, he could've almost sworn the demon was an angel.
(Also, “mine”? The word sent a tiny shiver down Aziraphale’s back, though she had yet to figure out why.)
“My dear wife,” Crowley emphasised, with an (in Aziraphale’s opinion) entirely unnecessary glare for the intruder to back the fuck off, “May I have this dance?”
And the ensemble on the side suddenly found its music being transformed into a courante (despite it beginning to go out of fashion by this point). Within a thought, Aziraphale cleared the space in front of them, and took Crowley's hand.
“Why, of course, dear,” she smiled, and let Crowley lead her out to the dance floor.
(And if she had noticed, she’d have seen the glow in her eyes, the proud grin on Crowley’s flushed cheeks; and the suitor's smile to himself, genuinely wishing the couple well, even if he didn’t get to court that beautiful lady in the end.)