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“I don’t do the dance.”
“I did the ‘I was wrong’ dance in 1650, in 1793, 1941…“
“Fine!”
The only reason Crowley accepts is because he doesn’t like being reminded of 1941.
“You know, Crowley, we really should do it again someday. Oh, it was magnificent!”
It’s long past midnight, and the magical calm they had while they sat at the table, candle-lit and at ease because Aziraphale managed to ‘get it right the time that mattered’, is dissipated and gone, and Crowley is a skein of nerves, spread out unwound across the sofa. Simply put, he’s just a fucking mess.
He doesn’t want to say anything that would give him away, but he fesses up anyway because he’s drunk far too much wine trying to calm himself down and only made it significantly worse.
“No, in fact we shouldn’t!” he snaps when he realises he can’t hold it in. “I could’ve blown your brains out, angel!”
Aziraphale is as cheerful as ever and doesn’t immediately pick up on the tone in which the demon says that. Well, the man is also drunk, to be fair. Not drunk-drunk, like Crowley, but pretty drunk.
“Oh, but you didn’t! You were superb, Crowley. You are a natural.”
Superb, huh? Suuure. I nearly had a front-row seat to your insides being on the outside, and then on top of that, we nearly got found out, and I thought I was going to— shit.
I thought I was going to lose you.
Crowley cranes his head back against the sofa when something wet and warm threatens to run away from under the rim of his dark glasses. Is that a fucking tear? A whole load of bullshit is what that is.
That’s when Aziraphale finally notices.
“Crowley?”
His voice is so soft and worried. Why can’t Crowley make his voice do that? Why can’t he just show how upset he is that his best friend’s head could’ve been pulverised had he been just a tad less careful?
Obviously Aziraphale wouldn’t have been destroyed for real; it was just a bullet. But it didn’t make it any better. Crowley would’ve still been the agent of his friend’s first discorporation—and a brutal one at that. Aziraphale would’ve died in agony if Crowley flinched and the bullet had passed close enough to hit the side of his head, or he would’ve become an exploded bucket of red paint if Crowley did actually aim for his mouth like he was instructed but didn’t manage to shoot past his ear.
And the people in the audience? Sure, there’d be a commotion; the women backstage would scream and pick up a racket. But the men in the audience? They were soldiers. It was almost a given that they’d seen a man’s brain matter explode out of his head and spray everything in a fine mist of red before. It’s probably how they expected the show to end when Aziraphale got the rifle out, anyway. Crowley would have been completely alone in his genuine horror.
Look at him. YOU did that.
He imagines what he would’ve done to explain to the Dark Council why he was with Aziraphale in the first place and why Furfur had the picture of him kneeling beside his angelic friend’s body, cradling it in his arms before it faded, for that’s what he would’ve done had it gone wrong. He would’ve been in so much trouble, but probably not nearly as much trouble as Aziraphale. That part of the prospect was even more difficult to imagine. He could’ve ended up never being able to see him again. In a way, it would’ve been very human and final—you never expect a person to come back once you see their corpse. He could’ve lost him forever.
Crowley doesn’t know what to say, so Crowley doesn’t say anything. He lets his throbbing head lie on the backrest of the sofa and breathes. He does his best to chase the gory thoughts away. That’s when Aziraphale gets up from his seat in the armchair and walks over to him.
“I’m… I’m so sorry.” And Crowley can sense just in that short sentence that Aziraphale is all up in his head already. Aziraphale knows. He feels. He can probably taste the dread that Crowley is contending with on his own tongue, like a bitter black smoke that fills the air when you burn something toxic. "I didn’t know that it would have such an impact on you. I shouldn’t have insisted."
“Forget it. ‘S nothing,” he rasps and flips his sunglasses up to wipe his face with his hand. “We didn’t know that that stupid miracle blocker would be there. It’s fine.”
“Please. I realise now that I had gone too far.”
Another thought burrows into Crowley’s mind. Would you feel the same if you were on the other end of that gun and it was me looking down the barrel, angel?
“Let me make it up to you. I’ll do the dance this time.”
Crowley sighs and finally lets his head fall forward again. He looks up at the angel before him. You know what? Fine. That’s a trade he’ll accept.
“Alright. Go on then.”
Aziraphale breathes out and looks relieved.
“Ahem. So.” The angel straightens up and smoothes down his coat. He begins in a singsongy voice.
“I was wrong,”
His dance is a drunken approximation of a gavotte, because of course it is.
“I was wrong,”
He twirls around an axis, nearly losing his balance. Crowley scoffs at the ridiculousness of it, but it does make him feel a little warm inside. It’s oddly therapeutic.
“Sorry, dear,”
He does a silly little flourish with his hands, and Crowley’s body sinks deeper into the sofa cushions. Dear. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a word. Figure of speech. Crowley still gets those pesky butterflies in his stomach, though.
“I was wrong.” Aziraphale concludes with a curtsy and a low bow and looks up. Crowley knows he’s trying to gauge his mood again, waiting to see if the dance has helped. To the demon’s own surprise, it has. He can’t quite hold in the small affectionate smile that creeps up on him.
And Aziraphale smiles back. What Crowley wouldn’t do to always see him smiling and in one piece.
He will even babysit Archangel Fucking Gabriel if he has to.
“Now, we need to keep him here and hide him.”
Because I’m NOT losing you, Aziraphale. Not ever.