Work Text:
London, 1941
An angel and a demon were safely tucked away in the bookshop, sharing a lovely bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape and basking in each other’s company after having been deprived of it for nearly a century. But while Aziraphale hadn’t made any polite, albeit pointed, comments about how the demon was staying later than usual, Crowley couldn’t help but feel that he was pushing his luck by hanging around long after the bottle had run dry.
And so, after draining the last drop of wine from his glass, he regretfully stood from the comfortable sprawl he’d fallen into and made a few murmured musings about not wanting to impose any further and, for propriety’s sake, that he should be leaving.
“What?” Aziraphale hurried to sit up, banishing the alcohol from his bloodstream quick enough to leave a slight headache. “My dear fellow, you can’t possibly be thinking of driving!”
“Why not?”
“Wh—why not?” he repeated, taken aback by the demon’s absurdity. “Because there’s such a thing as blackout regulations, Crowley! You’d be putting yourself at risk if you turned your vehicle’s headlamps on.”
“S’alright,” Crowley grinned, showing off a cheeky hint of fang, and started working on the buttons of his jacket. “I can see perfectly fine without ‘em. Demon, remember?”
“Yes, but…” Aziraphale’s eyes darted away, brows furrowing, before he turned back with a sigh. “We’ve already been through two near misses in less than forty-eight hours, and I’d hate to think that a third could be the charm.”
That seemed to be enough to make Crowley pause in taking his hat off the coat rack. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But what are you suggesting I do then, leave my car here until tomorrow and walk home?”
“Heavens, no.” Aziraphale laughed, earning him an eyebrow raise. “I wouldn’t mind if you spent the night here, you know. We could open another bottle of this, or you could have a look through my cupboards if you’d prefer a different vintage. Um, I should mention that I don’t have a bed, though, so you’ll be on the sofa if you want to sleep.”
When he received no response besides a dumbstruck stare from the demon now standing frozen before him, Aziraphale began to worry that he’d misunderstood the meaning behind ‘shades of grey’.
“O-oh dear, how silly of me, um, it’s perfectly fine if—”
But before he could physically trip over himself with the force of his backpedaling, a garbled noise escaped from Crowley’s throat, halting the flow of apologies that threatened to spill from the angel’s wobbling lip.
“Are you sure it’d be alright if I stayed?” Crowley asked, still sounding a bit choked.
“Of course,” Aziraphale said, though he wasn’t actually certain after coming so close to being caught. That being said, he wanted to keep Crowley close—even if it was just for tonight. “Now then, shall I fetch us another bottle?”
“Uh, sure. But first, would you—um, there’s something I’d like to try before that.” Crowley turned to hang his hat, swallowing a sudden burst of nerves. “So long as you’re amenable, of course.”
“Oh? What did you have in mind?”
In lieu of an actual answer, Crowley snapped. The gramophone grumbled to life, dropping its needle onto a record that hadn’t been there a moment ago, and soon the opening chords of A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square warbled out of the brass horn.
And though Crowley would have denied it, his hand shook when he held it out. “Dance with me, angel?”
“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s eyes softened, and he took the offered hand without hesitation. “I’d be happy to, but I’m afraid my waltz is a touch rusty.”
“Don’t worry about it, just follow my lead.” Crowley pulled Aziraphale close, resting his hand above the angel’s hip, and spared another miracle to make more room to move.
Together, they swayed to the rhythm, not at all concerned with keeping to the beat. As they rocked from side to side, Aziraphale was pleased to find the tightness that had plagued his chest since he stood in the middle of a bombed-out church loosened in the secure hold of Crowley’s arms. And, as he briefly caught Crowley’s eye through the veil of smoked glass, he was sure it was having the same effect on the demon.
In that moment, nothing else seemed to matter except the love and connection they shared. Later, they would need to lock these dangerous feelings into the deepest chambers of their hearts. But for now, they deserved to indulge.
Tentatively, Aziraphale rested his head against Crowley’s shoulder, and they continued to hold each other long after the song had drawn to a close, hearts racing in tandem against the other’s chest.
When they finally parted ways, a nightingale sang outside.