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Aziraphale isn’t looking at the demon in the center of the dance floor.
He isn’t looking at the V-cut on the back of her dress, framing her bony shoulders and defined spine. He isn’t looking at the diamond encrusted neckline, hanging low under her collar bones. He certainly isn’t trying to catch a glimpse of the yellow eyes, peering out of the dark smudges of makeup, because he doesn’t care about the intensity of them, or how they flash when the chandelier light hits them right.
He isn’t looking at her.
But everyone else is looking at her.
Crowley sits on the piano, her legs crossed, her laugh subtle and practiced. When they get a chance, the men around her slide fingers through the short curls gathered near her chin. They lean in close, liberal hands on shoulders, on knees, on thighs. They smell her perfume, dark and smokey, mixed with the rebellious bite of tobacco. Her dress is black, beaded in vertical geometric patterns, she wears a string of black beads that hang all the way down to her thighs, boots unlaced and flapping.
Crowley makes little effort to change her form from masculine to feminine. Her brows are thick, jaw strong, her calves are well defined under her stockings. The men look, the women look, none of them know why they want her, none of them know what it is that makes her so very tempting.
Aziraphale knows.
So he doesn’t look.
He drinks a virgin cocktail, absorbs the champagne soaked atmosphere, watches the glitter on the women’s hats cast dancing specks of light on the walls, and his hands shake.
He hates the music in these places. He tries not to hate it, he knows there’s a revolution happening in music, beyond what the greats could have done. But Aziraphale moves slowly, he always has, and he isn’t ready for the 20th century. Even a few decades into it, he feels shaky on his feet. He isn’t ready for the music, he wasn’t ready for the war, for the neon signs, he is not ready for the way people dress now, he isn’t ready for — a hand on his shoulder. Long black gloves, spindly fingers pinching a jeweled cigarette holder. The smell of smoke all around him. Yellow eyes, under thick lashes.
“ Hell- o, Aziraphale.”
It’s always the same cadence, ever since the garden.
Aziraphale doesn’t look up from his drink, shifts to let the velvety hand drop from his shoulder.
“Crowley.”
Flat, monotonous. Displeased, if anything.
It makes his lungs ache, everytime Crowley gets close. Even now. Even after years of the Arrangement. Aziraphale will guard his heart for as long as he can and he knows in his joints that this flimsy barricade won’t hold forever. Not against her. Not when she looks like this.
“What brings you to a place like this?”
Crowley has taken a seat next to Aziraphale at the bar. “Bourbon,” she murmurs to the bartender, and Aziraphale sees the server shiver as Crowley makes eye contact, sees the blush rise in his cheeks.
Aziraphale tightens his jaw.
“Fermenting peace and goodwill, of course,” he says. “This place seemed like it needed it.”
In the corner of his eye, Crowley nods. Worse, worse, in the corner of his eye, Crowley shrugs, the neckline shifts and her sleeve falls off of her shoulder. Aziraphale’s nails dig into his palm as she whips out a hand held mirror and a tube of dark lipstick.
Aziraphale can’t help it. He doesn’t turn to look at Crowley, but he looks in the mirror, watches the cosmetic slide across Crowley’s lips, watches her dab it carefully, leaving a little blood red mark on the tip of her finger.
A yellow eye meets his in the mirror, and flashes.
Aziraphale looks away and tries to breathe normally.
“Well, it's a pleasure to have you here in the den of sin.”
Crowley reaches over, across Aziraphale’s body, and takes a sip of his drink, leaving a little lipstick on the rim. The sight of it makes Aziraphale dizzy.
“Sorry, looked good. Non-alcoholic, huh? Hoping to make good decisions tonight, angel?”
That’s all that Aziraphale can take. He rises quickly, meets Crowley’s gaze for the first time, and focuses all his celestial energy on not blushing. He dabs his face with a napkin. Crowley’s lips are slightly parted, waiting to say something, and Aziraphale won’t let her.
“I was just going, actually.”
Crowley frowns. In earnest, Aziraphale thinks. “Something I said?”
“No, I — no, not at all. I have a prior engagement. I’ll see you around,” he lowers his voice. “Dear boy.”
It’s an indulgence and Aziraphale knows it. Something in Crowley’s eyes deepens and Aziraphale feels the street outside calling to him more urgently than ever.
Crowley grabs his sleeve as he’s leaving, and Aziraphale clenches his fist.
She speaks in a whisper. “Angel, don’t let me stop you from having a good time. It’s not like I’m gonna tell anyone.”
Aziraphale feels the blush creep in. “It isn’t that. I really have to go, Crowley. Goodbye.”
He pulls his arm away, wades through the crowd, and steps out into the night.
The first time Aziraphale went into the dance hall, it was only for a quick drink to end the night. He caught sight of Crowley in a dark corner, lounged across a cushioned chair. A tall gentleman leaned over her body then, lighting her cigarette with the tip of his cigar. His hands were pressed on either side of her torso, and his eyes burned into hers.
Aziraphale left immediately.
He went back a week later, and he would not admit the reason why.
There’s a knock on the door of Aziraphale’s bookshop, around 11pm on a Sunday night. Not even the most persistent customers would come knocking at this hour, and so Aziraphale knows it’s him. After hours, Crowley knocks, though he knows the door is always unlocked to him. Another of Aziraphale’s indulgences.
Aziraphale leaves his coco and book, opens the door.
Crowley is leaning against the doorframe, dark glasses over his eyes. He’s got on suspenders over a dark shirt, with a suit jacket thrown over one arm.
They haven’t seen each other since the dance hall the previous week.
“Hi,” Crowley says. Slow drawl.
“What is it?”
Aziraphale surprises himself with such a sharp tone, but he’s remembering the lipstick on his glass and he can’t quite focus.
“Uh —” Crowley stutters, straightens his spine. “Can I come in?”
Aziraphale steadies himself, allows a brief glance down at Crowley’s body. This is routine. “Of course. I’ll pour you a glass, I was about to have one.”
He’s not sure why the thrill of Crowley doesn’t ever seem to fade. It might just be something about being an angel with a demon's eyes on your back as you walk across the threshold of your sanctuary. It might be the thrill of sin, since Aziraphale knows how wrong it is even to let the demon through the door. It might just be the stupid movement of stupid Crowley’s hips, his casual but persistent stare as Aziraphale pours the wine.
He hands Crowley a glass.
Crowley nods. “Cheers,” he says, and downs it in a gulp. Aziraphale already has the bottle ready to pour him another, which will be drunk with more patience. Crowley takes a seat on a chair, and, contrary to habit, seems to make himself smaller.
Aziraphale sits and leans towards him on instinct.
“Listen, uh,” Crowley says. “Wanted to...apologize. For the other night. At the dance hall.”
Aziraphale swallows. Crowley’s eyes are on the carpet.
“I go there for easy temptings, was in a tempting mood, you know. I think — feel like I made you uncomfortable, and I didn’t mean to do that. Sorry.”
Crowley slides his glasses off his nose, and peers up at Aziraphale, eyes wide and glowing. Questioning.
Aziraphale feels his whole body soften, and imagines the world that Crowley lives in. One where Aziraphale is capable of being angry at Crowley, really angry. In Crowley’s world, when Aziraphale snaps, it's because Crowley has done something wrong.
It isn’t ever that. It’s a burning rod inside of Aziraphale that presses against the sides of his stomach when he wants Crowley too much, loves him too tightly. That’s what makes him snap.
Crowley looks up at him like he’s a suppliant at Aziraphale’s altar and it makes him sick.
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable, dear boy,” Aziraphale says, throat tight, looking away. “It just wasn’t my arena, so to speak.”
Crowley slides his glasses back over his eyes, sits back in his chair, crosses his legs. “Right.”
There’s a long silence, as Aziraphale finishes his first glass and pours another.
“Were you here...only to apologize?” Aziraphale says eventually.
Crowley shrugs. “No. Was also bored. Wanted to see what you had on for the evening. Is that allowed?”
“Certainly not,” Aziraphale responds, and refills Crowley’s wine.
The sun is rising when Crowley stumbles out the door and Aziraphale slumps over his desk, glasses slipping off his face, drunkenly reciting love sonnets under his breath.
Aziraphale goes again to the dance hall the following night. Crowley isn’t there, and he leaves quickly.
He goes again, a week after, and this time Crowley is there, but doesn’t seem to notice Aziraphale.
Her arms are around the neck of a bulky man. She’s in a forest green dress this time, the hem just above her knees in fringes. There’s lace around her shoulders and bust in an illusion neckline, oversized pearls slung around her neck. She sways delicately, light on her toes, and looks up into the man’s eyes, meeting his gaze carefully, smiling intermittently. Not her big grin, something delicate as an ember which leaves you wanting more.
Aziraphale's knees go weak when he spots her, and he orders something stronger this time, sits in a dark corner and hides his face, watching Crowley.
If this doesn’t make him Fall, he doesn’t know what will. He’s burning on the inside, sipping his drink until his limbs go loose, and Crowley doesn’t so much as glance at him, which is a blessing and he thinks it’ll drive him insane.
One look in my direction and I’ll be down on my knees in front of her.
The thought knocks the wind out of him and he spills his drink. He’s covered head to toe in blasphemy, his skin stings.
“She’s quite a sight, isn’t she?”
The bartender’s voice is soft, like they’re sharing something private. Aziraphale turns to him. He’s younger, probably in his 20s, pale skin and shrapnel scars around his eyes. The same one who had been there the night before, when Crowley spoke to him. He cleans out a glass with a rag, his eyes past Aziraphale’s shoulder.
“She is,” Aziraphale says without thinking, and it’s a relief at least to be able to say it to anyone. Oh, Lord, she was a sight. Always had been.
“Ask her to dance,” the bartender says, and uses his cloth to mop up the drink Aziraphale spilled. “She’s not shy.”
Aziraphale feels his lips twinge into a smile. The bartender's eyes are warm and kind, and Aziraphale feels the urge to bless him, so he does and watches his shoulders fall down from his ears.
“We have a history, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale says quietly.
“Yeah, you and every other bloke in here,” the bartender responds, and Aziraphale feels a spark of envy which he quickly stamps out. “Though, between us, I think she means a lot more to them than they do to her. Did she break your heart? Seems the type.”
Aziraphale’s eyes sting a little but he wants to laugh. It’s a funny question, coming from a mortal. So sweet and simplifying.
“No,” Aziraphale says. “No, we’re just old friends.”
“You broke her heart then? Gotta say, I’m surprised.”
That hits a little too close to home, and Aziraphale stands, swaying on his feet. “Thank you for the drink, young man,” he says, slurring his words. “May you have a blessed evening, and in the coming days find a friend who softens your heart. Amen.”
The man looks confused, but Aziraphale is already on his way out, stumbling out the door.
It’s raining.
Aziraphale walks home in the cold, feeling sick and sinful. He locks the door to the bookshop as he closes it.
Crowley opens the door at one in the morning, which is strange because Aziraphale did actually lock it. It just didn’t seem to hold.
She’s still in her dress, though it's bunched up at the edges, and she’s missing a glove.
She is drunk beyond belief, and Aziraphale practically catches her as she falls into the bookshop.
“Crowley, what —”
“So what’s your game then, huh, ‘ngel?”
Aziraphale chokes on the alcohol in her breath. “Pardon?”
“Y’just come to the club, huh, ‘n you don’t say hi? Said you didn’t like the club. Music’ssssss too loud. You said.”
Aziraphale’s heart beats quickly in response, but he reminds himself that Crowley is drunk. She says all sorts of things when she’s drunk.
“Dear, come lie down on the couch,” Aziraphale mutters, and leads her by the elbow. They fall onto a little loveseat together, and Crowley immediately slumps to rest her head in the angel’s lap. It’s a position they find themselves in fairly regularly, when one or both of them are drunk, and Aziraphale gave up resisting it a long time ago. He allows his fingers to brush the hair out of her face, ignoring their slight tremor.
Crowley murmurs something into Aziraphale’s thigh.
“Speak up, Crowley,” he says. She turns her head to look up at him, eyes out of focus.
“I didn’t make you uncomfortable? Last week.”
Aziraphale lets out a groan. “Are we still on this? No, you didn’t make me uncomfortable.”
Crowley flings an arm over her face dramatically. “Not even a little bit?”
Crowley never makes a lick of sense when she’s this drunk and it can be very aggravating. “No.”
She shoots up suddenly, grabbing Aziraphale by the collar, and suddenly their noses are close, suddenly Aziraphale can feel her breath on his cheeks and is frozen still.
Her voice drops an octave.
“I had my tempting cranked up to a thousand , angel. You didn’t feel anything ?”
The ache Aziraphale feels towards her, the magnetic pull of her voice, the inviting warmth of her eyes, it’s too much. Aziraphale looks away. He wants to taste her lips. If he keeps looking, he will.
“No,” he whispers. “I didn’t feel a thing.”
Crowley falls back into his lap. “Why’d you come to the stupid club, ‘Ziraphale?”
Aziraphale doesn’t respond, and soon Crowley is drooling onto Aziraphale’s khakis, snoring softly.
He lifts up her small body and lays it down on the couch, covers her with a tartan blanket.
He lets himself smooth it over her shoulders. One day all these little allowances will break the dam inside him, and then he’ll love her recklessly, entirely. He only hopes that the universe will be ready when it does.
It’s a month before he goes to the dance hall again, and in that time, Crowley is distant. He looks at Aziraphale warily, measures his words with precision. Aziraphale knows this mood well. Crowley thinks he’s shown too much of his hand, and is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Aziraphale to burn him up with righteous fury. It tears Aziraphale’s heart to shreds, every time it gets to be like this.
I’m sorry that I’m not like you, he wants to say. I can’t jump headfirst into hellfire, I can’t take your hand just because I want to, I can’t love you without a plan.
If everything was right in the world, Crowley would know how adored he was, how desired he was.
As it is, Crowley sometimes suspects, but almost always, he doubts. And it’s like swallowing hot lead, for Aziraphale, to watch him doubt.
He goes to the dance hall again. He wants to fix it somehow, soothe the wound he opened.
Her dress this evening is red. It’s a bold color, considering the vibrancy of her hair, and it deviates just slightly from the style of the time. It’s a ballgown which brushes the floor when she moves, beaded and embellished, corseted ever so slightly so it hugs her hips. Her shoulders and arms are bare above the sweetheart neckline, and as she sways on the dance floor, she moves a red, ethereal silk shawl in little flutters around her body. She’s hung another long string of white pearls around her neck, ending with a strange looking, bulky ornament, which somehow only adds to the elegance of the outfit and modernizes it.
It’s breathtaking. She’s breathtaking.
She catches Aziraphale’s gaze before he’s able to slip into a corner, and squints at him. It’s almost a glare. She turns away from him, and Aziraphale stumbles to the bar.
“Sherry, please,” he mutters.
“You are not going to sit here again and leave without talking to her.”
Aziraphale looks up. The bartender with the shrapnel scars around his eyes stares at him, an eyebrow raised.
Aziraphale sighs. “Hello again.”
The bartender pours sherry into a copita and slides it over to him. “Hi. You know last time she came over to me, when you left? Asked me to tell her everything you’d said to me. Extremely persistent, she was. Left as soon as I’d told her.”
“Told her what?”
“I don’t share secrets that don’t belong to me. I told her you fancied her dress, but didn’t want to dance.”
Aziraphale sips the sherry shakily, tapping the bar with his forefinger.
“Sir, she’s got every gentleman in the room drooling over her, and she doesn’t ask after any of them. She asks after you, and looks at you when your back is turned. She’s doing it right now.”
Aziraphale starts to turn quickly and the bartender grabs his shoulder.
“Don’t look now, what, are you dense? She’ll know we’re talking about her. Geez. Just finish your drink and ask her to dance.”
Aziraphale feels his face heat up. He can do this. To ease the ache. For the both of them.
But: “I don’t know how to dance to...bebop,” he mutters awkwardly and takes another gulp of his drink. The bartender shrugs.
“Alright. Go talk to Benny then.”
He nods his head to the corner where the band is playing, and Aziraphale follows his gaze. At the center of the raised stage is a tuxedoed man standing with a saxophone. He’s tall, with dark skin, and he wipes the mouthpiece of his instrument between songs.
“He’s a bit rough around the edges,” the bartender says. “But a big romantic. Reckon you could get him to play something you like.”
Aziraphale hesitates for a moment, looking at the musician.
“Well go on, old man, before they start another set.”
Aziraphale downs his sherry and walks across the room. Benny eyes him suspiciously as he approaches.
“What?” Benny says, once Aziraphale is within hearing distance. He has an American accent, his voice low and even.
“Ah, hello there,” Aziraphale starts. “Listen, I — you are a spectacular musician. Truly, truly exceptional. The scale you play in — it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before. I am quite sure that you will be at the forefront of your field in just a few years time.”
He sneaks in a little blessing at the end there, and sees it settle into the musician’s body.
“It’s only that I’m a bit of an old dog, myself. I’d rather like to ask someone to dance, but I don’t know how to dance to this new music. Would you consider playing something a tad more old school? Just for one song.”
Benny’s eyes are impenetrable. He flicks his gaze over to the bartender, and Aziraphale follows it, watches the bartender give him a slight nod. Aziraphale’s chest swells. Oh, he does love humans very, very much.
Benny looks back at him and nods. “Yeah, alright. Night’s ending anyway. Time for a slow song. How’s a waltz suit you, old dog?”
Aziraphale smiles wide. “Oh, very well. Thank you.”
Benny turns back to his pianist, a scrawny looking young man with brown skin and tousled hair. “Debussy, Valse romantique. Jazz it up a little, I don’t want people falling asleep. Good luck,” he says, jutting his chin out at Aziraphale.
The pianist begins as Aziraphale steps carefully across the dance floor, towards Crowley. Her back is turned, she flicks a cigarette over her shoulder. She’s speaking to a crowd of four men in matching tuxedos in various states of dishevelment. They see Aziraphale’s approach before she does, and their distraction makes Crowley turn around. She grimaces at him.
“Mm, this really isn’t your arena, is it?” she says sharply.
Aziraphale wishes he could soothe the poison on her tongue. “I’m getting used to it,” he says, and holds out his hand. “I was wondering — if you would...?”
His hand hangs in the air for a moment while Crowley considers it. It’s a familiar feeling. Loving Crowley is like holding meat over the jaws of a wounded, starving animal.
Take it. Don’t bite.
She takes his hand.
Aziraphale leads her to the dance floor. Her eyes are terribly wary, and so Aziraphale pulls her closer. He places a hand on her hip delicately, she places her own on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale takes her other hand tightly.
“Angel, what the fuck are you doing?” Her voice is a low hiss and Aziraphale flinches at it.
“It’s a waltz. You do know how to waltz?”
She glares at him. “Yeah, no shit. That isn’t what I meant.”
“It’s my ‘I was wrong dance,’” Aziraphale responds, and turns her in a slow circle. “I hope it will suffice.”
“And what were you wrong about?”
Aziraphale heart rate speeds up more than he likes and he falters. “I — forgive me, but can we talk about something else first? I —”
“Sure, angel,” Crowley interrupts, her voice finally softening a little. “Sure.”
Aziraphale knows his anxiety is obvious in his eyes, and he looks down at the ground. “Have you been coming here long?” he says.
Crowley nods. “Yep.”
“Do you like it?”
Crowley snorts. “It’s work, angel. There isn’t anything particularly exciting about spending every night getting a bunch of repressed men so worked up that they have to go wank one out in the bathroom and sell a little bit of their soul to Satan.”
“You don’t go home with them, then?” It’s out before Aziraphale can stop it, and he feels himself blush immediately. Crowley looks up at him, her eyes half annoyance and half intrigue.
“Not your business.”
“No,” Aziraphale stammers. “No, I don’t suppose it is. My apologies.”
They dance in silence for a few moments. Benny improvises over the piano on his saxophone, and Aziraphale is surprised how much he likes it. He feels more comfortable in this place than he has before.
“No, I don’t. Go home with them,” Crowley says eventually. “Not really my style.”
Aziraphale nods, and takes a deep breath. “I’m sure — I’m sure you’re plenty tempting without having to actually — um — complete the task.”
Aziraphale meets Crowley’s eyes and finds them burning. Bright, yellow, and serpentine. Her lips twitch.
“I mean,” Aziraphale continues. “You should see the way the men in here look at you.”
Crowley tightens her jaw, twists her mouth. “And how do they look at me?”
“Like you fell straight from heaven.”
Crowley rolls her eyes. “Funny, angel.”
Aziraphale feels the strangeness of a waltz in a place like this, and tries to focus on Crowley, not wanting to let the shift in atmosphere startle him.
“I hear it doesn’t really work on everyone, though,” Crowley says suddenly, flicking her eyes up, meeting Aziraphale’s face again. “Some people find me pretty damn unremarkable.”
Aziraphale’s breath catches in his throat, his hand tightens in hers and she grips his back in response. She keeps him steady, sure, but at the same time, she does not let him go.
Aziraphale can’t hold her gaze. He pulls her closer, tucks her hand against his chest, hears her breathing shudder as she ducks her head into his shoulder.
“On the contrary,” Aziraphale says quietly, into her ear. Her breath quickens against his neck and it makes him weak. “I find you quite damningly remarkable.”
Crowley’s hand tightens in the fabric on Aziraphale’s shoulder.
“Azi,” she says, her voice muffled. It’s a nickname only for close quarters, only ever whispered between the two of them. “You’re fucking killing me.”
Her voice is thick, raw. Aziraphale blinks tears out of his eyes, glad to have his face hidden from her.
“I know,” he says, quick and sharp. “I know. I’m sorry.”
The music is chaotic, as only Debussy knows how to make it, all aching emptiness and fractured images, music that feels like lungs filling up with water. Music that burns, that gasps for air, music that floats and sinks. It is a romantic waltz, aptly named.
Not romantic like a candlelit dinner. Romantic like a house on fire.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley says. “I —”
“Shh.” Aziraphale wraps his arm all the way around her waist, holds her whole body in his, and she seems to crumple into him.
“Don’t say it,” he says, because even with her in his arms he can feel the fire licking his toes, he can feel wide, heavenly eyes on his neck. “Darling, don’t say it.”
They dance until the building closes.