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They eventually settled on a compact vinyl player.
Aziraphale refused to understand a modern sound system and Crowley wasn’t keen on transporting the gramophone from the bookshop to the estate – miracling here could damage it and Aziraphale would be undeniably upset – so a vinyl player it was.
Despite it being purchased from a second-hand store in the nearest village and thus having no ethereal or occult influence, the machine managed to have a mind of its own, switching records without instruction. Crowley had grown suspicious – reasonably, alright? – of the un-damned thing.
Now, as they were sitting and minding their own business, the player cackled to life, a slow melodic tune filling the living room. It was from the 90s – modern for Aziraphale’s tastes – and one Crowley recognised as one of Aziraphale's favourites.
Speaking of the angel, Crowley looked up from where he’d been sprawled on an armchair, mindlessly scrolling through his phone, to see Aziraphale's brow furrowed like he was considering something. It wouldn’t last too long, he tended to be more impulsive with his decisions these days. Crowley knew it was a testament to how far they’d come.
After a moment, as predicted, Aziraphale placed down the diary he'd been writing in, got up, and walked across the small space separating them. Crowley regarded him cooly, not quite putting his phone away but giving it less attention than it’d been getting all evening. Though he stiffened as Aziraphale held out his hand expectantly. It wasn’t because of the hand but rather the smoothed-over expression that contracted the mischievousness in his eyes.
"Angel," Crowley said, unsure what Aziraphale's intentions were. His eyes pinned him to the chair and he tried not to squirm.
"May I have this dance?"
"What?" Oh, the eyes were an invitation.
Aziraphale tutted. "You heard me, dear."
"Did I though? Because I heard something about dancing and I don't exactly dance. Terrible song to dance to, we should just return the player. Not getting much use out of it anyway."
"Yes, you do. We did. We still do." Aziraphale said, raising his eyebrows, amused, as Crowley tried to sink further into the seat, phone long forgotten about, attention replaced with the brief understanding he had of the song still playing.
Aziraphale’s fingers wiggled impatiently. When he continued to stare, Aziraphale teased, “Are you going to take my hand are you going to leave me hanging, dear?”
When it was evident that Aziraphale would not be backing down, he let out a long-suffering sigh but allowed the angel to pull him to his feet, stumbling a little before he was steadied by strong arms that wrapped themselves around his back
"There we go." Aziraphale was positively beaming.
"Uhm,” Crowley said, the epitome of eloquence. “So, I don't know the gavotte. Or whatever other old-timey dance you learned."
"A fox trot?" The saxophone swelled in response.
"Hnng,” he groaned. Bloody foxtrot. “Yeah, alright. Know that one."
Aziraphale pulled his arm back, settling only his hand on Crowley’s back, the other finding Crowley’s other hand and threading their fingers together, lifting it. He stared pointedly at Crowley’s lax arm until the demon groaned, placing it near Aziraphale’s shoulder. Benny – or something along those lines – continued to play the saxophone as Aziraphle started to lead, leaving Crowley grinning as inconspicuously as possible.
They moved in tandem, chests apart, but he refused to lean his head back for the traditional fox trot, their stance representing more of a waltz. A step, step, step, step, and a quick turn then another, then back to the slow steps.
The furniture arranged itself accordingly, moving aside and letting the two of them sweep across the floor. It was hardly a ballroom, but he was reminded of America in the twenties where he’d taken with the fashion – as he usually did – and dressed as a flapper, forced to learn the dance for an assignment. He'd felt like a bit of a fool – the dancing, not the outfit – but it had worked.
But he hadn’t danced it since then, so it was a miracle that he hadn’t crushed any of Aziraphale’s toes. Which, in turn, begged the question, "When did you learn this?"
Aziraphale hummed. "Well, in America of course."
"You were in America? In the 20s?” Crowley spluttered, almost missing their next turn. “During probation?"
"Only briefly! And it wasn’t willingly! I had to look over the birth of a priest. The lack of alcohol was dastardly.”
"Ha! Wonder if we ever crossed paths.”
“Ah, hm.” Aziraphale looked away, sheepish. “We might’ve.”
Crowley stared, his mouth open in a perpetual O, which allowed Aziraphale to place the lightest pressure on his back, making him reflexively arch his back, leaning his head towards the touch.
“What- don’t distract me! What do you mean we might’ve?”
Step, step, sweep, step. “As in, I saw you in your fanciful getup. From afar.”
The information took a bit to rearrange itself with his presumptions of what Aziraphale had been doing over the years when they hadn’t been spending hours visiting restaurants and thwarting each other. They were quick to make their presence known usually but the circumstances had been different. He latched onto a different part of Aziraphale’s answer, grip tightening and fingers dancing along the angel’s back.
“Pray tell, angel,” he started, trying to watch Aziraphale’s face but an unexpected twist forced him to keep his head still. It didn’t stop him from lowering his voice, whispering the next words into the otherwise empty room like a secret to be kept. “What did you think of it?”
“Must we do this?” The exasperation in Aziraphale’s tone was a poor mask for how the question caught him off-guard. Crowley smirked, taking the opportunity to turn the tables in a flurry of motion and interchanging limbs. Suddenly, Crowley was leading, the song was changing, and they were descending into a waltz.
“Liebstraum, number three,” Aziraphale noted with approval and if it weren’t for the mission he’d decided to undertake, Crowley would’ve preened.
“You’re not getting out of this one,” he tsked. “What did you think of it?”
The waltz allowed Crowley to watch all of Aziraphale because he still wasn’t one to follow rules. They were moving more intimately, much more than the waltz required; they both might as well have been embracing but their feet followed the routine and the three-step movement down to a T. The piano accompanied them, each step, step, and slide parallel to the beat, making up for the unconventional form.
Aziraphale pondered his answer – if it was an answer – and then, right before the music picked up speed, he said, with the slyest grin that had Crowley on guard far too late, “You looked far too tempting.”
The music stopped, or maybe it didn’t, because they were still dancing and he was no longer doing his short-lived attempt at leading but his ears were ringing ever so slightly. Aziraphale gracefully navigated his speechlessness, spinning him once and resetting where their arms were supposed to be placed as he brought him back, chest-to-chest. He clutched Aziraphale’s shoulder desperately, surely wrinkling the material, but the angel paid no mind as he slowed them back down.
“I met Liszt once,” Aziraphale said.
“Ngk.”
“He was quite a showman. He played like it was his final performance every time.”
“Ngk.”
“We should go to Hungary.”
“Ngk.”
Aziraphale laughed, cheeks flushed a spectacular pink, and Crowley buried his head in the angel’s shoulder. Step, step, slide.
“I hate Liszt,” he muttered, willing himself to calm down because that had been nothing compared to the years of unguarded affection they’d settled into. It was just a dance and a blasted compliment that he’d probably invented at some point! There was no reason for his body to be betraying him like this.
Aziraphale, ever graceful, let Crowley dig his hole of mortification and said, “Oh, but this one is so romantic, dear. I can see why you chose it.”
“The player plays itself!” It was supposed to sound declarative but it came out weak, even to his own ears. Screw him and his occult influence that had decided to extend beyond the Bentley’s radio.
“If you say so, dear.” Aziraphale’s smile was evident, even with Crowley’s vision obstructed. He squeezed their fingers reassuringly and Crowley rolled his eyes, glad his face was hidden.
“Whatever.”
Aziraphale managed to get one more spin out of him and, eventually, the song came to an end. They didn’t untangle from each other, standing in the middle of the living room with their foreheads resting together, taking in the silence. The South Downs was far quieter than Soho could ever be, and Crowley revelled in it. It was a calmness that he thought he’d never get; an evening of dancing for their own pleasure without danger nipping at their heels a concept so far-fetched that the reality of it made him feel heady.
“I need to sit down,” he eventually said, pulling them apart only enough to take in all of Aziraphale, a mirror image of Crowley’s contentment. It melted away a bit as he processed Crowley’s words, who watched the shift with barely concealed amusement.
“Oh! Are you tired? It is getting very late, I hadn’t even noticed,” Aziraphale fretted, almost pulling them apart completely if not for Crowley’s sudden iron-clad grip. “You can head to bed if-”
“Angel,” he groaned, cutting Aziraphale off and dragging them to the nearest settee that had moved itself back into position. “Shuddup. I’m going to kiss you senseless.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened as he stammered and Crowley grinned, this time in full view, absolutely delighted. “Well, that was easy. Snake got your tongue, angel?”
This seemed to snap Aziraphale out of his stupor with a huff. He gestured at the distance between them. “Clearly not.”
Crowley laughed and pulled him in for a kiss.