Work Text:
Aziraphale shuffles his feet shyly as the pair of them walk arm-in-arm down the snowy sidewalk. “You really don’t have to do this, my dear,” he assures the demon for what must be the final time of a hundred. Their footfalls crunch through layers of encrusted snow, slush and ice, and Aziraphale fidgets with the rim of his Victorian bowler-cap. “And I doubt they shall truly send me away, if I don’t bring a date!”
“I know, angel, I know. " Anthony J. Crowley gives Aziraphale’s jacket-sheathed arm a squeeze. “Stop worrying.”
The angel opens his mouth to argue, but he flicks his pointer finger upwards to silence him. “Shall I remind you what the invitation said? Dear Mr. Fell," he recites, "You are most cordially invited to the Annual Christmas Party of the Hundred Guineas Club. Please wear your very best black-tie attire for our cocktail hour and hors d'oeuvres; and do not neglect to bring along your special someone!”
“And I know that much," Aziraphale huffs.
His cheeks appear flushed pink from the cold. “You don’t have to rub it in. While it is true that most who attend this gathering often bring their gentleman caller, it is not, after all, required . It's hardly fair to expect someone like me with heavenly duties --" Crowley squeezes his arm reassuringly, giving him a roguish wink behind his dark glasses.
"Oh, just relax , Angel! I’m not making fun of you. I would never ." He smiles far too kindly for a demon. "And don't you worry that pretty head of yours any longer. Like we always say to one another: I've got your back. So, that settles it."
Aziraphale sighs.
He smiles up at the demon gratefully. Yes: he doesn't know what he'd do without his best friend here beside him. “Thank Heavens for our Arrangement! I simply don’t know where else I would have found myself a date at this late hour without your assistance.”
Crowley smirks. “Red-light district, probably.”
“Crowley!”
“Yeah, yeah. Alright.”
Their feet crunch loudly through the icy slush of the street. London had received an onslaught of dreary weather this week, and no amount of carols drifting over the radio could make it look any more bearable. As they walk up the steps of Portland Place, Aziraphale mindfully brushes the lingering snowflakes and crumbs off his dark slacks. He hopes that their brief walk from the bakery--where Crowley had insisted on treating him to tea croissants before their walk ( “It’s cold out, Angel!”)-- had not dirtied his outfit too much. “What do you think, Crowley?” He asks suddenly, reaching the top step and twirling around. “Have I horribly messed up my trousers?”
There is a long silence, and Aziraphale is momentarily horrified. “Oh, I have gone and ruined them?!”
“Wha--? No, no!” Crowley says, as if from a dream. He reaches the top step alongside Aziraphale.“It’s all good. Great. Your bum looks perfect.”
Aziraphale beams. He holds the door open for Crowley, who seems to have also flushed from the cold. “Thank you, dear boy.” He sighs. “I was worried !”
They walk into the sounds of clinking china, carols, and bells, with Crowley unusually quiet beside him. I do hope he enjoys the Club, Aziraphale thinks, looking around him at the familiar, luxurious sighs. And I hope that nobody gives him any kind of trouble...
The party is dull, to Crowley’s estimation.
Everyone is overstuffed and flirtatious and too-posh and talking. Load of pansies, the lot of them, he thinks to himself. Just then, Aziraphale breezes by. His black dinner jacket flutters behind him gracefully, and--as he brushes by--he gives Crowley just the barest squeeze of his shoulder. As he engages in conversation with a newcomer, Crowley’s stomach turns over.
But my pansy, he thinks, that one’s just fine. Relaxing, he sinks back into his leather chair.
If Aziraphale was paying Crowley anything close to his regular attention, he would’ve snapped at the demon, and told him to ‘ sit up straight, why don’t you!’ or scold his ‘damned snake-hips!” But as it is, Aziraphale is busy in his element: chatting up strangers, spreading good cheer, tasting appetizers...flirting shamelessly with every man under 70 …
Crowley grinds his teeth, fighting back his feelings of possessive protection.
If he wasn’t mad for Aziraphale, he would never have set foot in this blessed Christmas party in the first place. It was bad enough to see people passing by the angel’s new bookshop daily, making eyes and sweet gestures at him. But it was a whole different level of torture to play his calm, cool, collected date. A date who should not, of course not, react to the many soft touches and gestures made at Aziraphale by other men, as their relationship was unquestionably stable and ongoing...
“Bacon-wrapped scallop for you, sir?” A handsome young man in white gloves has appeared before Crowley and is balancing a silver tray.
“Sure, thanks,” Crowley grumbles. He holds up his plate and allows the waiter to transfer several of the items onto the flat surface. As the butter from the scallops mingle with the spinach-cheese dip and pinwheels on his plate, he remembers dining in Rome with the angel. Introducing him to oysters for the first time.
Our first date, he smiles. Sort-of.
“So!” A rich, alluring voice says from behind him. Crowley looks up from his memories to see a rather dashing man smiling back at him. Mid-40’s, he has long, brown hair and a soft, round kindness to his face. For a fleeting moment, Crowley is reminded of Aziraphale--but nobody can hold a candle to Aziraphale, and so it quickly passes.
“Er. Hullo? ” he replies uncertainly.
“Hello!” The man sits down in the clawed, green armchair across from him. “ You must be the infamous Anthony J. Crowley!” He sets two glasses of mulled wine on the table between them. “Good sir, I am so very delighted to finally meet you.”
Crowley lifts his eyebrows. “That’s me,” he offers shortly.
He’s not sure who this chap is, but he strikes him as an artist-type. (Not the crowd he’s been hanging around with these days , to be honest.) From the lack of calluses on his hands, and by the soft cut of his generous shirt and trousers, Crowley guesses he might be a poet or author.
“Well then, it’s a pleasure .” The other man says. “I’ve heard so much about you from our dear Azzy.”
Crowley’s expression of darkness. Our. Dear. AZZY? Pushing down his growing sense of dislike and forcing his voice to sound less to the proximity of spitting hellfire than his current status, he musters: “Not to be rude or anything, but who the hell are you?”
Unaffected, the other man laughs. “Oscar!” he says warmly, extending a hand. “Oscar Wilde. No doubt you’ve heard about me from our mutual beau?”
Crowley’s stomach writhes and flares. THIS guy! He thinks acidly. Indeed, he has heard Mr. Wilde’s name before. He can remember particularly well, because of the way Aziraphale’s eyes had always sparkled whenever he mentioned his books, or their long talks over literature. The way that he’d wax poetic talking about his works, or stare out the window longingly after mentioning his name.
Long ago, he’d decided he hates Oscar Wilde.
“No-pe,” he replies, popping the syllable at the end of the word. “Never even heard of ya.” He leaves the pair of them dangling in uncomfortable silence, the glasses of wine untouched on the elegant, wooden table between them.
Now it’s Wilde’s turn to raise his eyebrows. Appearing quite calm, he reaches out for his glass of mulled wine.
“Oh, is that so?” he asks politely. “Really, I feel quite daft right now!” He laughs good-naturedly and takes a sip of the wine. Crowley doesn't join him. “Funny thing, though," Wilde adds, "he’s certainly mentioned you countless times. ”
Crowley’s attention sharpens. “Yeah?” Aziraphale has been talking about me? To this guy? While at the gentlemen’s club?
“Oh, goodness yes!” Wilde folds his hands, observing Crowley with a knowing smile. “I had wondered how long it would take him to ask you to join him. It’s been anguish, watching him pine over you! There’s something very satisfying about finally laying eyes upon the man my friend is so clearly enamored with.”
Crowley feels his mouth hanging open slightly. His heart begins to race, his pale cheekbones flooding with warmth. “Ah? En-namored, you’d say?”
He asks the question hungrily, quite forgetting that he is currently playing Aziraphale’s date. And yet, if this gives up the game, Wilde doesn’t seem to notice; he merely sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Yes, I would say,” the writer replies. He shakes his head, smiling and sighing fondly. “And quite regrettably, too, I would add.”
“Oh?” Crowley decides to pick up his own wine glass.
“Well, yes, my dear. At least, a regrettable circumstance for an interested man such as myself.” Oscar Wilde smacks his lips, tasting the tannins of the dark-red, mulled wine. “For, you see, f our dear Mr. Fell had not been otherwise occupied, I most certainly would have asked him myself. ”
He levels Crowley with a striking gaze.
Inside of Crowley’s head are a whirlwind of thoughts. First: that Aziraphale has mentioned him before! Second that Aziraphale has mentioned him favorably--and to his handsome, writer-friends, nonetheless! Third--that there is a potential rival in the room. And, fourth--and perhaps, most astoundingly--while this rival is clearly quite keen, he’s just admitted to conceding this game. To him. To Anthony J. Crowley, Aziraphale’s party date.
“Ah, ” he finally manages.
Awahs with feelings, Crowley wonders how his face presently looks. Probably, it is not the convincing look of someone who has long been dating Aziraphale. Feeling insecure, the demon shuffles through his brain for something more to say, but comes up empty-handed.
“Er. Well then: thanks .”
To his great surprise, Wilde winks at him. Mild and friendly as ever, the human man prattles on about the weather, of Christmas, and of the evening’s hors d'oeuvres. However, throughout all of this, Crowley hardly even hears a word of his charming tales. Rather, his focus is on Aziraphale: Aziraphale. And the fact that his angle could feel that way about him.
Crowely feels as though he is floating several feet off the ground.
When Wilde finally excuses himself and rises to standing, Crowley finds himself jumping to standing too. The author extends one hand to shake for departure, and he grasps it, truthfully and warmly now.
“It’s been nice to meet you, Mr Wilde,” Crowley says. He finds that he means it.
“And you, Mr. Crowley,” the author replies. With one more wistful sigh, he looks over his shoulder at Aziraphale. The man is absolutely in his element: surrounded by fashion, high-manners and decadence, he’s ruling the party, chatting away. The other man glances back at Crowley. “Take good care of him, won’t you?” he asks.
Crowley nods firmly. “I will.”
Aziraphale is chattering animatedly, swinging the arm that links himself to Crowley.
He’s had several drinks, and his face is flush from the cold and the buzz of it. The demon can tell that he’s had a good time, because he is recounting each and every interaction with as much zest and appeal as only he can do. He says something that makes himself laugh, but Crowley doesn’t hear it. He gives Aziraphale’s arm a squeeze.
“Oh, and that very last poem was just delightful!” he says, bumping his head against Crowley’s shoulder. “Oscar’s such a tease . I can’t believe that he gets away with some of those things!”
Crowley smiles, and he finds that it’s genuine. For the first time since this unexpectedly charming evening, hearing the writer’s name does not send chills of dread and possessiveness through his stomach. “It was a good time,” he admits to Aziraphale. “ Very good time, actually. Rather enjoyed it.”
Aziraphale beams at him.
The streetlights are flickering in the light snowfall. A fresh set of flakes have fallen now, and this time as they walk through the street, their footsteps are hushed. Crowley feels as though it suits the mood well. When they reach A.Z. Fell & Co. now, they bookshop looks cozy warm, and Aziraphale's eyes are heavy with sleep. The angel turns to face him unsteadily. “I can’t thank you enough for tonight, darling boy,” he hiccups.
Very aware of the way Aziraphale’s hands are entwined around his, Crowley smiles softly.
“It’s nothing, Angel,” he replies gently. “I’m glad that I helped, and I’d do it again. I’ll always be there...” he pauses as notices that the angel is looking up at him through his long, blonde eyelashes. A snowflake or two sparkles there, resting on the edge of his lashes and the tip of his nose. His lips are so lush, so beautiful. He looks positively glorious.
“...for you,” he finishes.
Aziraphale leans closer, still holding Crowley’s hands. “Everyone was murderous with jealousy tonight,” he whispers. The tone has changed now: it is lower, somewhere in-between conspiracy and confession. He gives Crowley’s interlaced fingers a squeeze.
Crowley's chest clenches. “Murder?" he awkwardly laughs. "Now that would have been a fun dinner party!” He purposefully drops Aziraphale’s hands, coughing gently into one of his.
“Everyone said that I’d brought the most handsome date at the party,” Aziraphale breathes into the night air. The steamy clouds of his breath smells like mulled wine and cocktails. It makes Crowley's head spin. “They asked me what I’d done to catch the most beautiful man in all of London. I told them that I could hardly believe it myself.”
Crowley feels as though his heart might burst out from his chest. He doesn’t trust himself to speak; not at the moment, when Aziraphale is so close, and so beautiful.
The angel wraps his arms around Crowley. “Thank you for coming with me tonight, dear heart,” he sighs. Aziraphale wraps the demon tightly against his warm body, tugging him close against his soft chest. “You were simply marvelous. I don’t know what I’d ever do without you.”
Feeling breathless with joy, Crowley waits until Aziraphale draws back to answer. "And you'll never have to," he whispers. “Like I said: I’ve always got your back.”
Aziraphale smiles. He gives Crowley one more long and lingering look, then he turns towards his illuminated bookshop. The demon waves as he disappears inside, surrounded by signs of Christmas and general softness. Resisting the urge to press his nose against the frosted glass for yet another look, Crowley pulls his scarf tighter around his neck.
And, as he turns and walks away into the coldness of the winter night, he feels as though he carries the radiant warmth of Aziraphale’s affection with him.