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Crowley flung his tea towel over one shoulder, set down the freshly cleaned pint glass and peered over the rims of his darkly tinted glasses. Shocking yellow eyes flickered over the few patrons scattered around the regal club lounge and narrowed at the disturbing quiet he found, on what should have been a bustling Saturday afternoon.
With nothing left to clean and no one that needed serving, he leaned onto his hands and stared unblinking at the rich raff from the safety of his shades. There wasn’t much more for him to discover that he didn’t already know, but he may as well use the time to study his few measly targets.
The club was so disturbingly quiet that the opening of the front doors may as well have been the sound of a cannon firing into the glittering chandeliers. Crowley, as well as a few curious heads previously engaged in murmured conversation, turned to watch a small cluster of similarly dressed gentlemen stroll into the lounge, already deep in the throes of conversation. They held the attention of the room as they wandered through to find a place for themselves, whilst the angel in their midst held Crowley’s.
The demon perked up, both delighted and amused to find that flash of white and beige sauntering in with them. Aziraphale seemed to spot him just as quickly, when a casual gaze around the impressive hall landed on the thin dark duke standing behind the bar. Crowley didn’t miss the way the angel’s features brightened considerably, wearing Crowley’s joy right there on his face.
So, then. Even if this whole assignment ended up a write-off, at least he’d get a pleasant social out of it.
As the angel drew nearer, his polite smile curled into something mischievous while his eyes flickered surreptitiously over Crowley’s getup. The demon straightened his posture and ran a proud hand down the sharp column of his tie, smoothing down the narrow front of his black waistcoat. He practically melted into the backdrop of polished ebony and corked bottles with his black-on-black-on-black bartending uniform, but his neatly swept auburn hair always seemed to grab Aziraphale’s attention from even the thickest of crowds.
“My good fellow.” Aziraphale’s tone remained light and cordial, but one quirked brow kept his smile closer to the realm of a smirk as he hovered a hand over the bar top.
“Welcome to Dalrymple’s,” Crowley greeted, all teeth. “First time?”
He knew it was. Crowley was always there, and he’d never seen such clean brogues step over the threshold.
“Quite,” Aziraphale confirmed as he primly sat upon a barstool. “Just had my membership confirmed today. I’m here for work, I must confess.”
Crowley raised a sceptical eyebrow and turned to find something as top-shelf as he could reach. He scooped two whiskey glasses in front of the angel without bothering to ask, and poured a generous finger into each.
Aziraphale plucked one up and let his gaze wander again, exploring the architecture surrounding them. Crowley studied Aziraphale, while Aziraphale studied the dramatic arches of woodwork overhead, until suddenly the angel’s eye was back on him with the speed and elegance of a needle swinging back to north.
“And you?” He prompted, almost impatiently.
“Work as well,” Crowley parroted, dotting his sentence with a greedy sip of whiskey. “I must say, angel, I’m surprised.”
“Whatever for?”
He couldn’t tell right away if Aziraphale was bluffing. His eyes were bright and wide, his smile was too kind to be daring, and though one hand fluttered over his waistcoat to straighten the fabric, the movement lacked nerves. Instead he twisted the chain of his pocket watch languidly (pocket watch, Crowley noted — he was still wearing it, even though the very fashionable wrist watch had well and truly swept the nation. In fact, most of his outfit was at least 50 years out of date. Crowley was sure he’d update soon enough), his signet ring glinting against the gold loops that disappeared into his left pocket.
Deciding to give Aziraphale the benefit of the doubt, Crowley leaned an elbow on the bar to bridge some of the gap between them. The angel mirrored his lean.
“You do know what sort of club this is, don’t you angel?”
Aziraphale’s eyebrows peaked curiously before settling into a confused frown. Crowley only had to nod his head once aside to get the angel twisting on his stool and scanning his gaze over the patrons of the club, rather than the club itself.
For what Dalrymple’s was — a safe haven, a secret cove, a shield between its members and the watchful eyes of the public — the few patrons present that Saturday afternoon were being bizarrely coy. At first glance, the gentleman's club was just like any other, filled (a generous statement) with polite, upper class, outgoing young men. Even still, there was an undeniable closeness between some of the gents; hands lingered on shoulders, feet tapped rhythmically at the end of tightly crossed legs, and the occasional hip swung with a debonaire confidence that was rarely welcomed of their sex.
Crowley was happy to spell it out, but Aziraphale seemed fine to get there on his own. He turned back to the demon with a roll of his eyes, his whole body slackening with the movement.
“Crowley, you cannot possibly tell me you believe all this new age drivel about the ‘sin’ of homosexuality."
Crowley didn’t blink. “Certainly not,” he replied coolly. “The sin of adultery, on the other hand…”
Aziraphale paused with his tumbler to his lips.
“Oh,” he breathed. “Ah.”
Aziraphale stared into the middle distance as a thoughtful frown set on his features again, like he hadn’t considered the prospect of a closeted groom.
The demon set down his emptied glass and reached for Aziraphale’s, pulling it out of his grip with ease. The angel’s empty hand hovered in place, clasped around an invisible drink, before he suddenly shook himself out of it and placed both palms down on the bar top.
“It’s quite alright,” Aziraphale said decisively, beaming again. “That’s what I’m here for. Two birds with one stone, and all. These are the kinds of chaps who need some help finding self love and community, and I've already become quite fond of several of them. I’m certain my good-doings will cancel out your foul temptations.”
Crowley snorted down at the liquor that slowly poured from his bottle to refill their glasses. He slid Aziraphale’s back to him.
“If you’re convinced of that, we might as well pack it in early. Go for a beach day.”
Aziraphale gasped, scandalised.
“Nonsense!” He objected, then deflated slightly. “I’ve so been looking forward to joining one of these lovely clubs. Did you know one can even learn to dance at such a place? It’s been on my mind quite a lot recently—”
Crowley’s face contorted. “Since when have you—?”
“Oh, only the last century or so,” Aziraphale flapped a hand to wave his curiosity away. “I’d love to learn more from the young gentlemen of this era, but I can’t promise that I wouldn’t be able to withhold myself from a blessing or two in their presence. And that would hardly be fair to you.”
Aziraphale looked at him pointedly. Crowley sipped. It didn’t need to be said, they both knew Crowley would be equally tempted to tempt.
“Besides.” Aziraphale seemed to remember himself then, having the wherewithal to look sheepish as he ran a finger around the rim of his glass and lowered his voice. “Our agreement revolves around the basis that the work gets done, no matter how. I’m not negotiating shirking my duties—”
“Not negotiating anything, angel,” Crowley waved a hand to cut him off and finished his second glass with a confident clonk on the bar top. “Was just a suggestion.”
“Right. Well.” Aziraphale set down his glass untouched, flapping his hands and straightening his waistcoat to reset himself. He returned to the safety of a polite smile and folded his hands neatly against the edge of the bar.
The demon eyed the over-poured glass that sat between them, unable to help but scowl behind his shades. The conversation seemed all but finished, and Crowley had nothing left to rope him back in.
But then Aziraphale was wiggling in his seat in that self-satisfied way he did, and his smile grew into something dastardly again.
“I will win, of course,” he declared, somehow gentle and haughty all at once.
Crowley’s grin smeared onto his face like warmed butter.
Nothing like a little friendly competition to get his blood pumping, to get him enthused about this boring sodding job again. There really was nothing like a tempt-off, of actually trying to garner souls for his Dark Lord with a much more interesting motivation than Because He Had To. To take Aziraphale down a peg, despite knowing they always ended up squarely even in the end. It wasn’t his fault they were both equally tremendous and rubbish at their jobs in all the same ways.
But then the thought settled beyond the surface and he realised what he was imagining for them — to see Aziraphale across the club every day for the next few weeks, to needle all the malleable minds he could get to pass through the halls in a secretly frantic determination to keep up with his rival — it wasn’t at all realistic. Deep down he knew that, before long, there wouldn’t be a club for them to compete over.
Crowley barely managed to wrangle his sigh as he scooped up Aziraphale’s untouched whiskey and finished it for himself.
“Probably,” he muttered, his forfeit enrapturing Aziraphale’s attention immediately. “I’ve done all I can here, and at the rate we’re going, the club will be closed next week.”
The angel across from him swelled with a sudden inhale, his bright eyes suddenly wide and regretful.
“Closed?”
Crowley nodded.
“Whatever for? It’s such a delightful place. The young sir that sponsored my membership was just saying—”
“It will be if it doesn’t start bringing in more members,” Crowley explained quickly, before the angel could get distracted by another tangent about the loveliness of his dreary human companions. “Apparently it’s barely been hanging on, they’re downright reliant on membership money now. Shame, really.” He found that he meant it, too. When the place wasn’t near-empty, it had been quite entertaining.
Aziraphale huffed, apparently less deflated and more indignant, now.
“Not to worry, dear boy. I’ll see what I can do.”
Crowley barked out a laugh, not quite believing Aziraphale’s sentiment but enjoying it all the same. It brightened him enough that he felt inspired to get back to their usual jesting, but all too suddenly there was another body joining them at the bar with a hand delicately clasping the angel’s shoulder.
Crowley whipped back to his friendly-bartender-you-can-impart-your-worries-onto-and-hopefully-take-devilishly-unsound-advice-from mask, slipping all too easily into a charismatic smile as he poured them a table of drinks and waved the pair off with a coy wink. Aziraphale put on a fluster and waved him away, but Crowley delighted in the second glance he got from the angel’s human friend.
Apparently, Aziraphale was serious.
It began slowly at first, one or two new faces trickling in each day, until suddenly they came in droves and Crowley found himself pulling more pints than he could whisper temptations.
He spotted Aziraphale here and there, introducing shy gents to tight-knit circles and showing fresh faces around the amenities of the club, despite being so new there himself. Crowley tried to communicate as best he could with nothing but expressive eyebrows from across the hall, but Aziraphale only ever offered him a finger waggling wave and a frustratingly cryptic smile before he was swept away elsewhere.
Six days after his promise that Crowley didn’t realise had been a promise, they finally sat face to face again.
The hour was late and the world outside was quiet, leaving Crowley alone to wipe down the bar top and flip the barstools onto the counter. He would have miracled the messes away, but from experience he’d learned there was always someone lurking around corners, either catching a clandestine kiss from another patron in the dark or sleeping off their happy hour specials in an armchair by the billiards table.
He’d nearly finished the last of his menial tasks and was readying to go lurk in some shadowy hallway when he caught sight of a pale sliver of beige in the corner of his eye. He turned and Aziraphale was suddenly standing at his side, hands clasped neatly in front of him with a delighted smile on his face.
With Crowley’s attention on him, he opened his arms out in a grand, proud gesture.
“What did I say?” he cooed.
“The hell did you do?” Crowley whispered incredulously.
Aziraphale’s smile was radiating smugness.
Half an hour later, they slouched over a bottle of single-malt in the darkest corner of the club, positive that no one would dare stumble upon them. They had found two high back armchairs and dragged them to be closely facing each other, each with their own space and yet somehow knocking knees as they traded the exorbitantly expensive bottle back and forth. A tiny end table was nestled between their chairs, but the scotch never left their hands long enough to be set down upon it.
“You didn’t use your miracles on this,” Crowley jeered, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed with uncertainty. His glasses had gradually jostled and slipped their way down his nose, and from where his head sat heavily in the palm of his hand, he could have easily nudged them back into place. But it was nice to look upon Aziraphale unfiltered for the first time in such a while.
“What was that?” Aziraphale blinked slowly from behind a greedy swig.
“You couldn’t waste a miracle getting folks in ‘ere. You’re on probation, or summin. France. Frivolous.” Crowley gestured vaguely with the fingers pinned under his chin, hoping some select keywords would warble through the air and somehow land as a fully fledged thought in Aziraphale’s ears.
“Oh, it’s been a good while since I was reprimanded,” the angel assured him.
He handed the scotch back, leaning all the way out of his seat to place it into Crowley’s spare awaiting hand for him. Crowley tipped it awkwardly by the neck so he could sip without leaving the comfort of his half-horizontal slouch against the armrest.
Aziraphale continued, “But no, I thought I’d better not. Bit too complex, a place like this. It would be difficult to explain giving potential adulterers a place to socialise and fornicate.” He nodded sagely.
“So how the hell did you do it?” Crowley asked for the second time.
The angel laughed, a joyful hymn filling the empty halls and high ceilings. He pointed a smile at Crowley. Crowley pointed his frown right back at him.
“My dear boy,” Aziraphale laughed again, softer and riddled with disbelief as he pried the scotch out of Crowley's grip. “I talked to them.”
Crowley finally sat up at that, huffing incredulities as he wriggled into a new position. He didn’t miss the roll of Aziraphale’s eyes as he hooked a knee over the arm rest and slung an arm over the back of the chair, but simply chose to ignore it.
“You just pinpointed the entire homosexual community of London and asked them pretty please, did you?”
“It’s a little more subtle than that, but not as difficult as you’re insinuating.”
Crowley huffed again.
“You used your miracles on this,” he decided, tune confidently changed. Aziraphale was tutting immediately. “You did. Prove it.”
He reached out to take the bottle back, but Aziraphale yanked it away and left the demon snatching thin air. Then he handed it over anyway.
“I will,” Aziraphale preened. Then, more quietly, “If anyone’s to appreciate the art of these things, it’s you.”
“Ngk,” Crowley drank, not sure how to agree with him.
Aziraphale had spent a good deal of time and breath describing to Crowley the aura and the indescribable character of a man who liked other men. By the time he’d exhausted every thesaurological variation of je ne sais quoi, Crowley was pretty convinced he was just killing time until his angelic grace picked up on something.
After all, he could have done the same thing using demonic wiles. It was difficult to put into words, but when he looked at humans, he simply knew things about them. If he were to concentrate, he could dig and prod and poke until someone’s insecurities presented themselves to him in a neat manilla folder in his mind. It was the easiest way to find adequate targets for temptations, and the only way to know whether his whispers had worked.
But no matter how he found them in the end, it was still impressive to watch Aziraphale slide into conversation with strangers and laugh their way to an al fresco cafe table for three.
Crowley didn’t want to admit it, but there really was something about this man that the demon found impossible to describe. He still suspected it was plain old demonic omniscience, though.
“Oh, you would love dear old Biffy. Do you know Biffy?” Aziraphale glowed.
“What, Charles Biffen? My yes, I haven’t seen that old fool since…”
Crowley was awestruck from his place at Aziraphale’s side, watching his angel flirt with this total stranger and create a sense of calm at that table which had the unyielding young gentleman smiling thoughtlessly and slouching into his chair. Aziraphale was his same prudish self, poising a coffee to his lips while his other hand held the saucer beneath it — but there was something in his natural movements that the humans seemed to pick up on, some mannerism that set off what must have been a human equivalent of grace and wiles.
Aziraphale had introduced Crowley as his companion, but Crowley had stayed silent during their entire exchange. Instead he watched with unblinking concentration from behind his shades, studying both the angel and the human before him. The man’s eyes had roamed whenever Aziraphale spoke, flitting about nervously at first, then wandering down the angel’s form and cataloguing what he found. They landed on Aziraphale’s hands a lot, then they’d dart back up whenever the angel uttered some turn of phrase or exclamation Crowley would’ve thought anachronistic. But instead of ridicule or suspicion, the human seemed to flower before him, carefully opening up to Aziraphale’s je ne sais quoi and leaning toward him like a fern aching for sunlight.
Crowley knew he should have been paying attention to what, exactly, Aziraphale had been saying to him. What magic words and gestures he was making that had this man so relaxed in his presence. It was more fun to simply watch it unfold, to witness the angel’s immeasurable charisma at work.
What he did notice was when Aziraphale touched the other man. It was always so fleeting, but he soon discovered the angel’s careful rhythm. When they’d first introduced themselves to him, Aziraphale had made the offer of coffee with a well timed brush of fingers upon his shoulder. Easily dismissed, if needed. But when they’d found their seats, Aziraphale passed him with a palm pressed to the back of the man’s elbow. From that point, the human’s attention was piqued, and Crowley could see him cataloguing each of their touches just as intently as Crowley was.
Whenever Aziraphale joked or lowered his voice enough in a way that warranted a lean over the table, he would clasp the man’s wrist, and always gave it a second chaste pat before pulling away. The most daring of his movements was when there had been a ravine of distance between them, when Aziraphale had to lean in his chair in order to touch him, and laid an intentional palm onto the man’s knuckles to weigh over his words. Crowley barely managed to fight off his smile as he watched the man’s pupils blow in real time, and the uptick of his breath that would be invisible to the other mortals around them. Aziraphale was a genius; it was like watching Da Vinci at work.
He’d lost himself watching the angel’s show, but noticed the atmosphere shift as the conversation drew to a close. Heads were nodding, cups and saucers were collected, and he realised they were about to leave. He tuned back in to whatever this human had been blathering on about, whatever sweet nothings Aziraphale had been feeding him, and swept back his chair to stand.
As they said their goodbyes, Aziraphale paused intentionally, and Crowley instinctively turned to study his face as they bid this man adieu.
“It was simply wonderful talking to you today,” he said earnestly, shaking the stranger’s hand with both his own clasped around it. “Your company was ever so appreciated.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” the man replied. Crowley just managed to note how much lighter his voice sounded compared to the gruff stoicism they’d first introduced themselves to. “Thank you for your recommendations. This club of yours seems, uh. Well. It sounds intriguing.”
“Oh, not at all. We—”
Aziraphale was looking at Crowley then. A hand made a slow show of rising and falling onto his shoulder, landing with splayed fingers before clasping him with a gentle, affectionate squeeze. Then Aziraphale was looking back at the man, his smile tinged with that familiar mischievous glint.
“—would so love to see you there.”
Not expecting to have been a pawn in Aziraphale’s little showcase of queerness, Crowley had just about forgotten to breathe. It was only for a second, split even, with eyes blown wide behind his glasses and unnecessary heartbeat banging in his ears. Then he turned as well, rushing to follow the angel’s lead and finally break the stone veneer he’d unintentionally cultivated throughout the entire conversation. He busted out his most debauched smile and aimed it right at the gentleman, while shifting his weight in a way that leaned subtly into the angel’s hand.
Aziraphale was far too proud of himself, he practically glowed with it.
After the man excused himself from their impromptu lunch, the two beings decided to return to their seats and order something a little more substantial than coffee, to celebrate another sure fire membership for the Dalrymple club. Crowley’s silence stretched on as Aziraphale kindly requested some kind of exquisite pastry from a waitress, and an earl grey for the demon he now sat opposite.
Once they were alone, he shifted in his seat to get comfortable, though his movements look suspiciously like one of his joyful little wiggles. Crowley scowled at the sight of it, screwing up his lips so his expression would be obvious despite the shades.
“Don’t be such a wet blanket. You wanted to know how I talked to them, so we talked to them. It’s really not that — oh, thank you dear.”
He beamed at the plate set in front of him, and Crowley all but snatched his teacup before it could hit the table.
“Fine,” he drawled. “I admit it. You’re quite good at this.”
His reluctance was for show, and they both knew it. Aziraphale beamed again, this time at Crowley.
“I know. I told you I’d sort it. Though I admit, It was certainly easier with you here, giving me something to work off. So thank you.” He paused, his smile softening to make way for a more heartfelt tone. “Do you think it’s been enough to keep the club open?”
Crowley absently twisted the string of the teabag around his finger, watching the way his skin bulged around the taut lines.
“I don’t handle the books, but you’ve practically tripled last month’s intake in a single week. I daresay they’ll be fine.”
He then dared to look up, dared to lower his guard enough to give Aziraphale a carefully controlled smile — couldn’t give too much away, or the angel would let it go to his head. He failed miserably and broke into an unabashedly crooked grin.
“I cannot wait to settle down and actually enjoy some time at this club,” Aziraphale declared, as he raised his first forkful of strudel to his lips. Crowley paused before his next sip, giving his full attention to the bite. The angel had earned this, and his delight was palpable.
He let Aziraphale savour the taste for a moment longer, meanwhile savouring the ghost of a handprint he still felt upon his shoulder. Right. Back to brass tacks.
“I do have to point out, of course, that I’ve now got plenty more fodder for temptation. Whole club swimming with lusting youths and potential adulterers.”
Aziraphale paused with a fork halfway to his mouth. He stared at Crowley intently, but decided to take the bite before deigning him with a reply.
“On the contrary, darling. I’ve got plenty more souls to bless with love and fortitude,” he retorted with an intently carved brow.
Crowley couldn’t help but snort, warmed by the familiarity of their game.
He shouldn’t have been surprised at what the angel was capable of, he knew that. He should have always remembered that Aziraphale could do whatever he set his mind to, and that he was lucky whenever he got to witness it in action. It still felt a bit like standing too close to the sun, though.
“Right. I suppose we’ve got our work cut out for us, then.”
“Perhaps you do,” Aziraphale tittered. “I have complete faith in those boys.”
Crowley glowered and reached over to jab a finger into his strudel, ignoring the angel’s appalled gasp as he pinched a hunk of the pastry and stuffed it into his mouth. That’d show him.
It did take some time for Crowley to readjust to a busy schedule, but barely a nanosecond for him to remember how much he enjoyed working under the keen appraisal of the Dalrymple patrons. It was too easy to preen at their attention, to let his corporation lean into it when he shook their martinis and leaned over their pints.
There was a pleasant distance between them, after all. He got to enjoy their fiery glances and generous tips, while knowing that, at most, he was simply cultivating enough camaraderie for them to trust him, to listen to his advice and take his murmured suggestions. They would heed him when he slathered weight on the gaze of a man across the room, believe him when he assured them they were good enough to steal the attention from a gold wedding band around an offered drink. He was one of them, as far as they were concerned. And if his pride got a little stroking in the process, that was neither here nor there.
Crowley was deep in the flow of it, mentally working his way down a short list of drink requests that had come one after another for a gaggle of thespians leaning by the bar taps. Martini, dry, then two lagers, a Guinness, a quick yes you should definitely offer that young man a drink, his ring can’t mean much if he’s in a place like this, then a double bourbon—
A head of cotton wool hair blurred through the crowd and Crowley nearly dropped his cocktail shaker trying to pinpoint it. Not to worry, Aziraphale suddenly flung himself through the crowd to lean his weight against the bar, cheeks pink with laughter and the glass of red he’d already drunk far too quickly.
“Oh, Crowley! I’m having the most wonderful time!” He chattered right at him, leaning halfway over the bar and ignoring the nearby cluster of patrons waiting ahead of him. “Do you remember that delightful single malt we were—”
“Yes yes, coming right up.” Crowley grunted as he wrenched open the cocktail shaker. Finger of Dalmore, then two lagers, a Guinness…
He slid the martini across the bar, sent Aziraphale back into the thrum with an over-poured whiskey, then began presenting the thespians with their pints.
Crowley paused with an arm outstretched, reaching for some mid-shelf bourbon, when he heard the theatre boys chatting amongst themselves.
“Sorry,” he interjected himself into the conversation by sliding his forearms over the taps, not sorry at all, “Did you say the gavotte is a dance?”
The human wielding the Guinness blanched at the interruption, but softened when he took in Crowley’s… everything. The man glanced at his friends, then shucked off all shyness with the shrug of a shoulder.
“Yes, I’ve been teaching the lads. They’ve just about gotten the hang of it now,” he remarked proudly.
Crowley threw a glance across the crowded hall, crossing the clattering billiard tables and lounges of densely overlapping conversation. Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen, but Crowley knew he was there somewhere.
He looked back at the Guinness drinker and leaned a little further over the bar. The man instinctively leaned in as well.
Yes you should definitely offer that young man a drink, his ring can’t mean much if he’s in a place like this
“I bet you’re a good teacher. Good place, this is, to show off how well you can move. I’m sure there’d be some amenable lads looking for a lesson.”
The man brightened and excited glances were thrown around the group. Crowley grinned his most charming grin and, just for good measure, wet his lips.
He’d only just sent off the bourbon when furniture began to scrap over polished hardwood floors to make room for an impromptu club-wide dance lesson. The Guinness man was waving his hands animatedly, drumming up interest and beckoning over gents who leapt up from their seats with eagerness for a dance, or a lark, whichever they wanted. The gramophone in the corner was already being commandeered for a more suitable record, and anyone not interested in the revelry were happily sitting back and watching the carousers with amusement.
To Crowley’s delight and relief, Aziraphale reappeared in the midst of the excitement, eagerly sipping down his drink to free his hands. Crowley was already grinning when he caught the angel’s eye across the room, but it nearly split his face in two when Aziraphale beamed at him and began to wildly gesture with his hands — mostly waving and nonsensical swaying back and forth, supposedly to mime the act of dance about to take place.
Crowley nodded at the centre of the room, encouraging Aziraphale’s participation. The angel clapped his hands together in delight (suddenly without his glass, though Crowley knew he wouldn't have it in him to chastise Aziraphale for the very public miracle) and finally tore his eyes away from the demon to join the proceedings.
No longer trying to mime his encouragement across the room, Crowley let his smile soften into something less face-pinching. He adjusted his glasses and swiped his tea towel off the counter, but even as he relaxed against the bar for a half-hearted cleaning session, he kept his eyes on the centre of the room. Arms were already linked, feet were already tripping over each other, and laughter rang off every surface of the hall. Aziraphale had certainly earned it.