Work Text:
Dear Crowley,
I realize I’m the one who insisted that we cease written communication for fear of interception by our respective sides, but I find myself out of sorts this evening and searching for something to steady my hand and mind. The humans currently under my care are celebrating their holiday downstairs - I can hear their merriment now. Jane may've been literally baking for a week, the dear thing.
Though I tried my utmost to engage in the happenings, I ultimately excused myself after a brief time, saying I felt poorly. In truth, I could not stop thinking about our time in Rome, for a similar celebration, though that was over a millennium hence. Do you remember? You wore some elaborate hairdo. Are you celebrating now, as I write? Are you dancing, as the humans do downstairs? Your idea of dancing, anyway.
It’s been over a century since we last met, after I returned from Edinburgh. Do you still have that funny goatee? I’m not certain it suited you, dearest, though I doubt you could make anything look bad. Well, not bad, but you understand. Un-stylish.
Oh goodness, I nearly spilled my inkpot just then. I fear I may have overindulged in drink tonight, which isn’t much fun without your company. I hope you haven’t tired of me, wherever you may be, off causing mayhem as I sit here in an empty room.
Forgive me. I suppose you mustn’t know how maudlin I become, this many bottles deep, if you aren’t around to cheer me up.
Nevertheless, I hope you are well.
Sincerely,
Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate
***
Crowley put the letter down, the page yellow with time and worn with handling, and looked to his friend with wide eyes. “You never sent it.”
“No,” Aziraphale agreed softly. “I was too...embarrassed, when I reread it come morning.”
Crowley patted the spot beside him on the bed, and Aziraphale obligingly sat.
“I got a letter around this time, though,” Crowley murmured, automatically leaning against the angel’s shoulder. “You told me you were opening a bookshop. Then we saw each other in France some decades later.”
Aziraphale hummed, reminiscing.
After a pause, Crowley said, “I was, by the way.”
“Pardon?”
“Dancing,” he clarified, indicating the old, faded letter again. “I liked it. Felt good to move. I was in Ireland a lot before...but it always made me think of you, you know.”
“It did?” Aziraphale asked softly. Not doubting, just curious.
Crowley nodded, running careful fingertips over the inked cursive. “I remembered Rome, too. How you watched me so carefully. I hoped you would…dance with me, though I knew you wouldn’t.”
Aziraphale let this knowledge sink in. Then, suddenly, they pressed a kiss to Crowley’s temple, stood, and offered a hand. “May I have this dance?”
Crowley laughed. “You don’t have a clue how!”
A shy smile. “So, teach me.”
Crowley grinned and allowed his love to pull him to his feet, the lonely moments apart forgotten.