Work Text:
April 21st, 1960
Anthony Crowley would say he was solidly neutral about garden parties. They were…nice enough, all things considered. Oftentimes good people, and even more oftentimes good food as well. It really was a matter of whether or not he was in the mood. In 1799, he had not been in the mood, and so that particular one had not gone as well as he thought the English royal family would have liked. It was also the last one he had been to since then.
Crowley had only come to this particular affair because a certain angel had been harping on him about it for hell knows how long and, between that plus the fact that the weather was actually quite nice on this particular day, he had felt more inclined to oblige. Aziraphale had been so excited when Crowley had not immediately thrown the invitation into his wastepaper bin and had, instead, taken it to the bulletin board behind his counter to pin up with all his other reminders. It almost made the decision worth it. Almost. He would wait until the actual day for that to be fully determined.
So far, Crowley had been only mildly impressed. It wasn’t raining, nor had it rained any time in the last week, which was both a wonder in and of itself (Crowley suspected Aziraphale might have had something to do with it) and a benefit, because it meant that Crowley did not have to worry about getting mud on the new faux leather boots he had just bought in Soho that weekend. The chap he'd bought them from said his employers had acquired the brand from a certain Klaus Maertens some five or six years ago, and that they were supposed to be both comfortable and military-grade durable. It almost made Crowley want to stomp in some mud just to find out, but then of course he would have to clean them afterward so he didn’t track earth through Aziraphale's shop and it would be a whole hassle that Crowley did not want to have to deal with.
Instead, he stood just outside the little villa in the park that Aziraphale had set up, a cool drink of some kind in his hand, and scanned the crowd for the only person at the whole event who mattered.
It didn’t take long. Aziraphale was at the edge of the dance floor, looking lovely in a cream and blue outfit ensemble that Crowley had already seen but loved seeing again anyway. He moved among the other people on the floor with the precise grace that came from doing these dances since they were invented decades ago, and a bright smile that came simply from the joy of doing them. Aziraphale loved dancing, possibly even more than Crowley did despite their individual dance preferences being vastly different. Aziraphale preferred the predictability of the mazurkas and tarantellas, and that Gavotte dance he learned in France, while he leaned more towards freer styles like the lindy hop and jitterbug swing that had become so popular recently. He loved those. By his account, the evolution of music and the dance styles that came with them were the best parts of living through every decade since The Beginning.
This was not to say he didn’t make exceptions. He was, at the end of the day, a weak demon with an impressionable not-soul. So when he noticed the song ending and Aziraphale waving him over for a slightly more lively polka, there was not much hesitation that went into Crowley setting down his drink and heading across the way to join him.
It was one of the fast tempo, spinny sort of ones Crowley preferred if he had to take part in older dance styles, which he highly suspected was why Aziraphale had invited him, and that small show of consideration made him all sorts of warm on the inside.
He took Aziraphale hand in his own and easily fell into the swaying steps, stepping forwards and back, then side to side in their own little section of the floor. It was in doing so that he realised Aziraphale had said something while they were dancing that he had not heard.
He did not have time to ask about it right away, spinning the angel away and then tugging him back again before he was finally able to lean in, “Hm?”
Aziraphale gave him a knowing look as their arms looped together again, “You weren’t listening.”
“Not even a little bit.”
That made Aziraphale laugh, which was good. Crowley began to lead them in a small circle, his right palm pressed against Aziraphale left.
“I said,” Aziraphale tried again, “what has you moping in the corner like that?”
“Wasn’t moping,” this time it was Crowley who was spun in a quick circle before they were facing each other again, “I was brooding. It’s cooler.”
“I see,” Aziraphale was clearly humouring him as he nodded, but Crowley did not have enough attention to spare telling him off about it, “Then why, my dear, were you brooding like that?”
Crowley felt his heartbeat stutter a bit as one of Aziraphale's hands fell on his waist and the other on his shoulder, but he managed a nonchalant shrug, “Nothing much else to do is there? Not when you’re already being so social and what have you. Didn’t want to interrupt.”
Aziraphale frowned with a sympathetic nod and, oh, that face. Crowley knew what that face meant.
“You poor man,” Aziraphale said, just as Crowley thought he would.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“You’re doing the thing again. It’s demeaning. For both of us, but mostly me.”
Aziraphale, the scoundrel, only looked up at him with eyes raised, looking the very picture of innocence, “Oh, my darling Mr. Crowley, I was just offering my condolences. It must have been terribly lonely over there, I’m sure.”
Crowley huffed as he continued to meet Aziraphale step for step in their dance, “You’re having a jab at me.”
“Nothing of the sort.”
He was, and Crowley would know. He had done the exact same thing at Marie Antoinette’s birthday soiree in 1772, and a few times at the gentleman’s club they found themselves frequenting in the 70s, and many other times before and after that. Crowley had known Aziraphale long enough to know when he was being jabbed at.
“Yes, something of the sort,” Crowley retorted with one raised eyebrow.
“Well…” Aziraphale replied sheepishly. He picked up the dance with a new enthusiasm, most likely attempting to get Crowley to forget about the conversation by directing his attention elsewhere. It was mostly working.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I can persuade you to finish this dance with me? And then we can have a step aside and go for some drinks.”
That sounded alright to Crowley, “I feel very persuaded,” he replied.
Aziraphale beamed, “Oh, wonderful! There was a new cocktail someone recommended to me and I was thinking the two of us ought to try it.”
Crowley suddenly felt distinctly less persuaded. Cocktails were Aziraphale's thing, not his.
“No. Absolutely not, I didn’t agree to-”
But he was too late to shut anything down now. The song had ended, and Aziraphale was already leading him away to the table of drinks just at the edge of the villa.
Well, alright then. Crowley sighed, and looked over at his companion who was talking animatedly with the bartender. He did look very excited, the sort of excitement that had a 100% chance of making him much more agreeable than he might have been otherwise. He supposed one cocktail would not be the fount of his demise.
Aziraphale was happy to oversee ordering their drinks, which meant Crowley had some time to glance around at the party that had mellowed down as the band began to play a slower tune. Elvis, he recognised. The one where he sang about how he couldn’t help but fall in love with you. It made Crowley smile, and he cast a quick glance back at the angel still making animated conversation with the person behind the drink counter before turning back around. Crowley had met the man once or twice - Elvis, not the barkeep - just in passing at events and things. He seemed a respectable fellow, and his music was some of the best.
He found himself nodding along to the swaying beat until Aziraphale returned with two glasses in hand, one of which he handed over for Crowley to take.
“Cheers,” Aziraphale smiled, lifting his glass, “to a fine afternoon.”
Crowley inclined his head in a nod and likewise tapped his glass against Aziraphale's, “To a fine afternoon.”
They drank, and Crowley was pleasantly surprised to find that he did not completely hate the sweet mix of pineapple, orange, and coconut that he had been given. That wasn’t to say he would try it again of his own free will, but it was among the less miserable ones he had tried before.
The two of them stood there together with their drinks, shoulders just barely touching as they watched people come and go. It was a casual sort of affection that the two of them were long used to by now, and one that Crowley thought they both preferred. Just existing by each other’s side.
Until, that is, the music picked back up and Crowley could hear the sound of the band’s rendition of ‘Something’s Got A Hold On Me’. He grinned, turning to Aziraphale.
He held out a hand for him to take, “Alright, angel, my turn to pick a dance.”
Aziraphale glanced at the dance floor, to the people already swarming to dance along, and then back at Crowley. Then, he sighed and slid his hand into Crowley's, “Yes, alright then.”
“C’mon angel!”
“Yes, I’m coming,” Aziraphale replied.
Anthony Crowley would still say he was solidly neutral about garden parties. He still would say they were more of a hassle than they were worth, and that he had to be in a particular mood to enjoy them as a general rule.
This garden party, he was slowly coming to admit, would be the one and only exception.