Chapter Text
The pamphlet in Aziraphale’s hands was already worn and frayed at the folds. He’d folded and reopened it one too many times over the past hour, glancing over the evening’s programme as if he were trying to memorise it by heart. Then, he'd flip it over to the dance card on the back, which was, of course, empty.
It’d always be empty. He'd always be a spectator, basking in the joy of others instead of his own.
Once more, he regarded the folder with a wistful smile before folding it in half, and in half again, and tucked it away in his pocket - hopefully for good this time.
Directing his attention to the waltzing couples, he allowed himself to take pleasure in the sight, the beauty of its orchestrated flow.
Young lovers, who took the proximity of the dance as an opportunity to engage in conversation, emitted so much love that Aziraphale almost overlooked the looming dread present.
When he noticed it at last, his hope for a pleasant evening immediately shattered.
Something was terribly amiss.
He could sense an emerging darkness, an unholy influence overshadowing the charm of polished floors and chandeliers.
Could it be..? Surely not…
All the things Aziraphale had previously delighted in, now felt strange. Distorted. The aftertaste of wine turned bitter on his tongue. The music, while not quite being out of tune, sounded abominable, as if all the instruments were at war with one another.
Still, the party carried on.
Tension weighed down the atmosphere, and seemed to grow and branch out like climbing ivy, set out to conquer.
One wrong remark. One misstep. One spark to set the ballroom aflame, and engulf it in vicious, raging fire. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Although - Aziraphale did not rule out the possibility of a spontaneous conflagration in the literal sense either, with how strange this presence felt.
There was something wicked close by. He found proof of its influence everywhere he looked.
The butler, on his way to supply the refreshment room, looked like he'd had quite enough of parading silver plates around, and would much prefer to send them flying across the room.
Another man scowled at fellow attendees, hand clenching into a fist as if prepared to strike.
The young lady, who had been laughing politely at a potential suitor just moments before, now seemed to anticipate sticking her hat pin into his throat.
"Oh dear," Aziraphale whispered to himself. He closed his eyes, urging himself to focus. It was vital to find this source of evil before it escalated.
Then, his heart stopped. Had it been beating? Evidently it must have, but he hadn’t noticed it prior.
It would’ve been the first time in years since it had stirred at all.
The source of the chaos was discovered by following its familiarity, rather than the trail of frenzy that it had left in its wake. It was coming from the other end of the room, right across from him.
Aziraphale’s eyes shot open. Through the abundant crowd of dancing couples, he caught flashes of a man-shaped figure, revealing itself glimpse by glimpse.
Curls as red as copper. Sideburns that brought emphasis to the sharp face it bordered. A faint yellow glow that shone over the rim of his darkened spectacles as he looked down at his wine, watching the liquid as he swirled it around the glass.
Aziraphale failed to register the movement of his own lips until he heard the whisper that escaped them; “Crowley.”
The demon lifted his head, as if he had heard him. His eyes, despite being obscured, unmistakably met Aziraphale’s.
For a moment it felt as if they were the only beings here. Just the two of them and an ocean in between. The distance was just as uncrossable, couples of men and women flowing in rippling waves across the room.
Each time Aziraphale's vision got obscured by yet another dancing pair he grew more and more agitated, fearing he'd lose Crowley out of sight, just as he had done those many years before.
Fear didn't overtake Aziraphale often. But something inside him pulled him into motion and he couldn't stop. He began to make his way to his friend - directly through the waltzing crowd.
“Excuse me,” he said as clumsily squeezed himself through. “Yes, terribly sorry,” He nearly bumped right into a couple, and they glared at him with contempt. “Please, step aside. Yes, I know I shouldn’t be walking straight through - yes, if you'd excuse me. Thank you. I do hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."
When he reached the other side at last, Crowley was already moving away from the party.
Aziraphale followed him. He desperately wanted to pick up his pace, reach Crowley and pull him back by the shoulder, just to confirm if it was truly him, even if he knew for certain that it was.
Crowley was the most distinctive being Aziraphale had ever met, from the way he presented himself aesthetically to the way he moved like a serpent navigating the dilemma of two-legged trousers.
Then there was his essence, this unearthly energy that radiated from him, to which Aziraphale had inadvertently developed a sentimental attachment to over the years.
After treading up the grandiose marble stairs, they finally found their solitude in a closed-off hall that seemed to stretch on for longer than it had to. The pretty windows and baroque details that lined the walls left the gaping empty space in between much to be desired.
The music droned through the floorboards and echoed throughout the room. It no longer sounded as haunting as it had before, thank God.
Crowley was standing in front of one of the many windows, his back turned. He took a long sip from his wine as he looked out into the garden ahead.
Seconds passed by slowly.
Just when Aziraphale wondered if perhaps he was supposed to make the first move, to say anything at all, Crowley spun around. “Oh hello Aziraphale, old fellow!”
Against better judgement, Aziraphale felt a pang of hurt shoot through his chest. Crowley had greeted him as if they were old acquaintances passing each other on the street, as if their encounter meant nothing at all.
Had it not been mutual? Had he not felt the same indescribable ache to reconvene?
Aziraphale realised much he'd prefer to be treated like an arch enemy than a mere acquaintance. At least enemies stood on equal ground, possessing a strange, undeniable closeness, like two sides of the same coin.
"Do not ‘Hello-Aziraphale-old-fellow,’ me!” the angel sputtered. “What on earth were you thinking, causing a disturbance like that? And what happened to you?”
“Needed to draw your attention somehow, didn’t I?” Crowley said. He gave a tug at the lapel of his coat, which was just as black as the rest of his ensemble. “Ah - and er, new wardrobe, this."
"Crowley-"
"You disapprove? Eh. Wouldn't hold it against you, really. Can I just say that I am severely disappointed by the lack of innovation regarding men's wear? I mean, whatever happened to puffed sleeves? It’s all so flat now. And everyone insists you wear black and white together . Now they look like - what are those odd pigeons from the northern hemisphere called? The ones with strange arms, and no hands?”
“Crowley.”
“Not saying that birds tend to have hands, I know that they don’t. Ah! Pen-guins! Each and every gentleman here reminds me of a pen-guin.”
“Crowley, for heaven's sake!" Aziraphale cried out.
Crowley's body slightly slumped into himself, surrendering. “Yes,” he groaned, dragging out the word until it sizzled back down into his throat. “I do suppose we should talk. Not like this. Walls have ears, as they say."
"There isn't anybody here." Aziraphale pointed out.
"There are walls," said Crowley.
"Walls do not actually have ears, my dear boy. It is merely a figure of speech." Aziraphale said - although his eyes did happen to promptly glance suspiciously at the walls in question.
"Right." Crowley said. A curt 'right' that served as a dismissal, not an acknowledgement. He lifted a finger. “Hear that? That's our solution, right there.”
Aziraphale made an attempt at filtering out the 3/4 signature of a waltz that droned through the floor, but found himself unable to do so. It was prominent. Not loud, necessarily, but prominent enough to subdue the sound of ballroom chatter. “I hear the orchestra playing downstairs.”
“Exactly, Aziraphale! Well done, old fellow!” Crowley praised with uncharacteristic cheer. Then, stepping closer, he hissed; “Dance with me.”
“Sorry?"
“Easier to talk that way. Closer. More discreet."
"What is there to say of discretion if someone were to catch us dancing in an empty room?" Aziraphale asked. "We’d be - we’d be conspicuous! I must object!"
“Oh, so we wouldn’t be ‘conspicuous’ when dancing in a room full of people?” asked Crowley mockingly. "Is that what you think?"
According to ballroom etiquette, which Aziraphale knew by heart, two men should refrain from dancing with each other in the presence of ladies, and vice versa. And so, Aziraphale knew two male-shaped beings participating in a waltz in a crowded ballroom would certainly draw the eye from the other attendees.
"No." he sighed. "But, I was rather hoping we wouldn't have to dance at all. It is ill-advised."
"True,” Crowley said. “But you’d like it.”
Crowley was right, of course. Aziraphale very much would. He would love to.
Dancing had always been a part of human civilization, and throughout history, the two beings had been witness to plenty of celebrations together.
There had been ancient festivals, driven on prayers, harps and flutes; music to which dancers moved just as fluidly as the warm guzzle of honeyed wine.
Tavern gatherings, where red-cheeked townsfolk pressed their hands together and filled the air with laughter, drunkenly hopping and skipping to the strum of a lute.
Then there were the ballroom parties such as these, where from afar, synchronised dancing seemed as easy for its participants as breathing.
At every party they attended, Aziraphale would be swept away by the overwhelming joy. He lost count of the amount of times he’d almost forgotten himself. Times he’d almost turned to Crowley, saying the words that had laid dormant on his tongue; “Oh, but wouldn’t it be delightful if we could? Wouldn’t it be delightful if you and I could dance together?”
Aziraphale had never been envious. Envy would imply some sense of resentment.
Aziraphale just… wanted. He wanted more than he was supposed to want.
Who was he to yearn for the joy of mankind? He was not a man at all.
Aziraphale shortly cleared his throat. "It is of no importance whether I’d like it or not. I must decline, I am an angel.” To him, this statement seemed like quite a conclusive explanation in of itself, but when the demon raised his eyebrows, he elaborated; “Meaning, I don’t dance. You know I don’t!”
Crowley did not appear convinced. “Well, why not? Will you spontaneously combust into glittering, ethereal stardust if you do?”
“I’m certain we can find other ways to talk safely," said Aziraphale. "Dancing is simply not something we concern ourselves with. I’m afraid it is nothing but, well, a human pleasure, at best.”
“ Human pleasure, huh?” Amusement oozed from Crowley's voice like poison. “Yes. What would you possibly know of those?”
Aziraphale felt a scandalised warmth rise up to his cheeks, and slightly turned his head away in a hopeless attempt to hide it, though he doubted this was of great help. “I don’t understand what you are trying to imply here, but I assure you-”
“Me? Oh, no-no-no , I’m not implying anything,” Crowley said. Unfortunately, the wide grin that edged into his cheeks said something quite different. “I am merely emphasising your… angelic virtue , hm?” He began to swirl the wine around in his glass, slow, deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world. “ Noo , you wouldn’t indulge in futile human affairs, such as, well…” He pressed his lips together and hummed, as if to feign the process of thought. “Let’s suppose… dining, or wine. Those tongue-shaped fellows inside of shells; oysters. I’ve heard humans do such remarkable things to them. And crêpes! Oh, aren’t those to die for!”
Aziraphale’s jaw clenched as he forced his lips into a thin smile. “You have made your point quite-”
-“West End!” Crowley interjected. “Theatre, the most useless form of artistic expression. I’d say it hardly deserves to be called art at all. All they do is perform the same plays over and over and over again. What are they waiting for, Shakespeare himself to worm himself out of his grave? Can’t be that hard to find new playwrights in this day and age, can it?”
“You have made your point quite clear.” Aziraphale said, sharper this time.
"Are you sure?" Crowley questioned, with an exaggerated pucker of the lips. "Haven't even touched the topic of music yet. Antiques, books. Antique books."
"I refuse to be bullied into this!" Aziraphale cried out, the desperation that had been welling up inside overflowing at last. "And I certainly will not dance with you if you cannot muster the courage to ask me properly," he added. "I do have standards, thank you very much.”
Crowley scrunched up his nose. “What do you mean, ’ask you properly?"
Aziraphale realised his request did seem rather silly now. Not only had he left the implication that he would give in, if only Crowley were to ask - but he wanted to give in.
He wanted to be asked, and he wanted to say yes. Oh, how desperately he wanted to say yes.
"You must ask me properly," Aziraphale blurted out before he could change his mind. He almost expected Crowley to laugh at him, but he was met with silence instead.
For a moment Crowley did not say anything at all, and simply observed.
Then, he walked up to Aziraphale and smoothly offered his hand, his spindling fingers gracefully unfolding like a flower. “If you would do me the honour of dancing with me, I’d be much obliged.”
“If you’re mocking me, Crowley-”
“I’m not.” There was something vulnerable to Crowley’s voice, a quiet tremor that revealed something deep-rooted, and so, so genuine. "One dance, what do you say?”
Aziraphale's heart fluttered in his chest once more. This whole exchange almost made him feel human.
Just once, he told himself. He would allow himself to indulge just this once. Why wouldn’t he? He’d already broken the rules more times than he could count.
What harm could one more exception possibly do?
Suppressing the knowledge that the waltz was a Hellish invention, he gave in.
“Very well,” Aziraphale said, and with a lift of the chin that hopefully made him appear composed enough to conceal his inner excitement, he placed his hand in Crowley’s. “I suppose I can make an exception tonight, considering the circumstances.”
Crowley's fingers promptly enclosed Aziraphale’s hand, as if they both belonged to the same, secret mechanism. “Admit it. You find it delightful when I tempt you.”
“Not tempted, ” Aziraphale was quick to correct for the sake of self-preservation. He tried not to think about how he could feel the warmth of Crowley's hand through the thin layers of their gloves. “Merely encouraged.”
“Yes, whatever you wish to call it.” Crowley said.
Aziraphale, who didn’t quite pick up on Crowley’s dismissive tone, decided to give this a moment of genuine consideration. “Wheedle,” he then heartily decided. “That would be more suitable, yes?”
"...Wot?”
“I shall be referring to this as ‘wheedling’. That is to say, you wheedled me into it.”
“ Er - ehh -” Crowley said. “That’s not an actual word, is it?”
“Why, but of course it is! I don't possess the ingenuity to conjure words out of thin air, I'm afraid.”
"Must be outdated, then."
"Most certainly not," Aziraphale replied starkly. His vocabulary admittedly did happen to include many terms of the archaic variety - but to his defence, keeping up with slang of the modern world was rather difficult when one was predominantly confined to a bookshop, out of all places.
'Wheedle' was a perfectly sensible word however, and he bloody well told the foul demon as such.
Crowley gave a halfhearted grunt in response. “If you insist.”
“I insist.” the angel was happy to confirm. He placed his free hand on Crowley’s shoulder and in turn, Crowley settled his hand on Aziraphale’s waist.
The often-overlooked disadvantages of being in possession of a human body, were the human sensations that came with it. Human sensations that - despite being both unwelcome and unessential to angels, could feel very welcome in the moment. And as of now, Crowley’s touch felt… pleasant, despite its unfamiliarity.
They did not have a habit of touching. They had shaken hands before, Aziraphale supposed, on occasion - though those instances never struck him as particularly significant.
He’d always been more captivated by the times they’d stand side by side, close to each other, yet not being aware of the space between them that kept them apart. The moments where he’d be able to close his eyes and still know Crowley was there, without a sound, without anything tangible to give it away.
Aziraphale would know . Not necessarily through his angelic sense, but through the connection they shared.
Yet, this non-essential, physical reminder that Crowley was there was something Aziraphale found himself wanting to hold onto, even if holding on meant having to face his lack of expertise. This was only the starter position of the waltz, after all. The true horror lied in the dance itself.
He might as well have been back in France, 1793, awaiting his own decapitation, as well as the grotesque heaps of paperwork he’d have to sort out afterwards.
Admittedly, the idea of having to dance unsettled him more. This fear was unlike the usual discomfort that would befall Aziraphale in unknown situations.
This fear was personal, for it played with desires he was not supposed to have, and the limitations of his own nature.
“One, ” Crowley began to count, his foot nudging Aziraphale’s, who belatedly took a step back. “ Two, three, One, two, three.”
The result was disastrous, with ‘disastrous’ being somewhat of a generous term. Unfortunately his angelic grace failed to manifest in this dire moment of need. When he wasn’t tripping over Crowley’s feet, he was tripping over his own.
It was evident that Crowley was running out of patience and Aziraphale could not blame him, for Aziraphale was losing patience with himself. One can only fail miserably at dodging shoes so many times before losing compos mentis .
“Three steps,” Crowley instructed, “ Three steps! Step, step - No, to the left, left, other left - back - back, left - once again, not to the right, damn it Aziraphale-"
“I must say, this is all so terribly confusing!”
“Perhaps you ought to miracle yourself some better coordination.” Crowley tutted.
“Perhaps you ought to miracle yourself some better manners.” Aziraphale retorted. “And a better coat, once you’re at it.” he added, just to stab at him. He hoped it stung.
Crowley didn’t appear insulted. In fact, he sounded overwhelmingly fond when he said; “You can be so cruel.”
“I wouldn’t have to be cruel, if it weren’t for you.” It hadn’t been Aziraphale’s intention to have his tone resemble Crowley’s, but the affection he held towards the demon came through without his own volition.
The air felt heavy, as if to emphasise that, despite the unusual phrasing, they had exchanged words of affirmation. Of endearment and loyalty.
This shift in tone was likely what caused Crowley to be merciful, adjusting his tempo to accommodate the angel’s incompetence.
While Aziraphale very much appreciated this, it sent a twinge of embarrassment through his body. His hands trembled with it. He prayed this would go unnoticed.
He entertained the thought of performing a small miracle after all, only to make himself less prone to falling over, but Crowley would surely notice - and surely, he would tease, and Aziraphale rather fancied himself teased enough for one evening.
“You think too much.” Crowley said, having caught onto the angel’s sudden apprehension
“I do not,” Aziraphale said, solely for the sake of opposing him.
“Yes you do!” scoffed Crowley, “And I highly doubt your thoughts would be considered substantial enough to keep.”
Aziraphale’s response was as weak as he felt. “There is… substance to them.”
“Better to discard them at once, hm?" suggested Crowley. "And stop looking down! I am no expert, but I'm quite sure you’re supposed to look into my eyes."
“Dear fellow,” Aziraphale regretfully objected, “I am sorry but I must know where I’m stepping! And I don’t mean to criticise, but I’m afraid looking into your eyes is rather impossible, spectacles considered.”
“Er- yes,” Crowley’s voice croaked a little. “Just look into my glasses, hm? It’s not so much about dodging my steps. It’s about knowing mine, and knowing yours.”
“It’s about trust, then?” After the question had left Aziraphale’s mouth, he felt rather foolish. "The waltz? Knowing the other will move in exact compliance with you, and vice versa?”
His eyes caught his own, reflected in two pitch-black eyeglasses, and it dawned on him how desperately he longed to see Crowley's instead.
“Yes, that is precisely the message Hell wanted to convey when designing the waltz." Crowley said, his words nearly trembling with amusement. "The magnificence of trust.”
It took a while before Aziraphale registered the sarcasm. When he did, he frowned. “What did they design it for? Seems like a rather odd invention. Not very… evil, for a lack of a better word. ”
“Evil,” Crowley repeated, and his face convulsed as he said it. “Of course it isn’t evil! It’s just dancing, angel. We aren’t killing anyone.”
“Murder shouldn’t be the deciding factor of wrongdoing, Crowley."
“I didn’t mean to imply that it was.”
“Just answer my question, if you please.”
“I don't know. Wasn't involved. But, if I had to guess, I’d say it has to do with the indecent intimacy it promotes."
"There is nothing 'indecent' about it.” Aziraphale said, affronted.
Perhaps their personal circumstances made it so, considering they were from opposite sides - an angel and a demon, respectively - but to deem the dance itself indecent seemed wholly unreasonable to Aziraphale.
"Not sure if Heaven would agree with that, angel."
When Aziraphale considered this, his lips curled into a melancholic smile as he looked back down to their feet. “No,” he quietly agreed, "I suppose they wouldn't."
He quietly kept himself occupied by mirroring Crowley’s steps, until he became distracted by the sight of Crowley’s curls, and how they flawlessly jumped back into place after bouncing along to each step.
Aziraphale managed to fall into the rhythm, and soon they were moving in accordance. Each time he stepped forward, he felt as if he were stepping into the dark. And each time, Crowley was there to catch him, to guide him, to keep him from getting lost.
They were dancing, Aziraphale realised.
Granted, it was nothing of the elaborate sort. It lacked in all ways a dance could possibly lack. They did not have the same effortless flow as the couples in the ballroom had presented, nor did they take advantage of the space the room offered, their steps always returning to the confines of the place where they had started.
But this did not make it any less magical to Aziraphale.
They were dancing!
Something about the way they were moving in unison - as one - made him lightheaded.
Good Lord, perhaps there was a truth to Crowley’s jestful ‘exploding into glittering, ethereal stardust’ theory after all, because Aziraphale’s human form suddenly felt too small for all the feelings flowing through it.
The joy he felt was his own, yet it felt foreign, just as novel as this evening had been.
He never thought he’d learn to accommodate music. He loved how the faint echo of it left an ethereal impression, like hymns do in churches. He loved being able to hear the sounds he otherwise would have missed out on, had they not distanced themselves; the occasional squeaks of their shoes gliding over the floor, his own useless breathing, and the useless beating of his own heart, that seemingly still felt the need to announce its own presence.
Above all else, he loved the hum of Crowley counting their steps. That was the most ethereal sound of all.
He listened to it until it became a comforting background noise, like the familiar ticking of a clock.
Aziraphale had always been so very fond of Crowley’s hushed voice. More than once he had managed to convince Crowley to read to him for this reason alone, (although said reason would, of course, remain undisclosed.) Aziraphale’s eyes would feel too weary to distinguish the words from one another, or he’d misplaced his reading glasses. Simple, feeble excuses. Easily believable - or, not so easily believable, but never questioned.
“Are you ready?” Crowley asked, suddenly.
“Yes,” Aziraphale replied. Then, when fully snapped out of his thoughts, he asked; “Ah, ready for what, exactly?”
Before he knew what was happening, Crowley was leading the waltz into one that spun large, graceful circles around the hall.
The change did not frighten Aziraphale. Rather, he embraced it. He allowed himself to laugh, giddily, releasing the joy he’d kept within.
While Aziraphale had certainly not forgotten why they were dancing in the first place; to talk, he couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth and ask Crowley about his whereabouts. Aziraphale suspected that questioning him - albeit very much warranted - would undo the agreeable atmosphere that had grown between the two of them.
So, Aziraphale waited. Postponed the inevitable. He swallowed down his thirst for answers, he ignored the anticipating tingle that seemed intent on tingling down his spine.
It was nothing compared to the years he spent wondering whether he’d ever see his lifelong companion again.
Right now, having Crowley returned to him was all that mattered.
Right now, Aziraphale had everything he could possibly want, if only for a little while.