Work Text:
LONDON, 1941
"Maybe there is something to be said for…shades of gray?" Aziraphale suggested, holding out a wine glass to Crowley over the candlelit table, as they sat in the very back of his otherwise dark bookshop.
Crowley extended his glass in return, the sound of their glasses together ringing throughout the shop. He tilted his head as he thought of a response, before raising the glass of wine to his lips. "Shades of…dark gray."
"Shades of very light gray, I rather fancy," Aziraphale countered quickly, taking a sip of his as well.
Quietly, Aziraphale looked out at the rest of the bookshop, only very dimly lit by lamps here and there, so as to not risk tripping over an errant stack of books when he would later lead Crowley to the door. For now, though, they sat happily in each others' company, the many events of the evening still running through Aziraphale's mind at record speed.
He subtly grinned into his glass as he continued to drink, reeling at just how much they had pulled off in a single night. And with no paperwork to fill out or impending scoldings from Gabriel, at that!
They had narrowly escaped discorporation thanks to a well-timed miracle, and then he had managed to impress an entire audience with a perhaps not-very-well-thought-out trick onstage with a gun, the success of which could only be owed to the trust he placed in Crowley. As if that wasn't enough, his final clever trick of the night had saved them both from any consequences, as he had replaced Furfur's only evidence against them with a mere flyer.
Of course, none of this would have happened had Crowley not rescued him from the church in the first place. Aziraphale also knew he certainly wouldn't be in as good a mood if Crowley's quick thinking hadn't saved his very valuable books from under the rubble.
Though their circumstances were a bit…unfortunate, to say the least, Aziraphale was truly very lucky to have him, he knew. It was an affection he believed he had always held for Crowley, deep down, but this night in particular had only solidified those feelings.
He made quick but admiring glances over his glass at Crowley as they drank in silence, and his eyes seemed to hold all the stars in the sky, if Crowley had bothered to look. He would know. After all, he had helped to create most of them. However, he was much more focused on the wine than anything else, taking larger gulps compared to Aziraphale's more dignified sips.
As the night continued, the two visibly let their guards down a bit more, as it became more and more obvious that no one from above or below intended to ruin this. Tomorrow could very well be a different story, but they had already had a much more eventful evening than most, and this night in was needed on both sides, as a quiet moment of celebration if nothing else.
As Crowley relaxed in his seat, his posture becoming a bit more slouched than usual, Aziraphale suddenly set his glass down and stood up, leaving the table and abandoning the glass with Crowley.
It was possibly the last of quite a few glasses he drank that night, and he left it half-empty as he wandered off through the shelves in a somewhat tipsy delight. Crowley watched him carefully, curious as to what his plans were, and eyed the wine left in his glass as he wondered if Aziraphale would come back for it or not.
Humming to himself, Aziraphale approached his record player and picked out a favorite of his to play, which he listened to only when he was in a good mood. He knew it wasn't quite the kind of music Crowley enjoyed, and so he rarely ever played his records in front of him, not wanting to run the risk of his precious vinyls turning into bebop. However, something was different about that night in particular. He felt that he could truly relax, and so he could care less as to what music he played for the two of them. He supposed he could always miracle the record back to the way it was, after all.
Unbeknownst to Aziraphale, Crowley began to nod his head to the music from where he sat. Did he genuinely enjoy this, or was it simply because he was under the influence of alcohol and happy they had succeeded? He wasn't quite sure, but what he was sure of was that he had downed the rest of his and Aziraphale's drinks once he knew he wasn't coming back for it, and he now steadily approached Aziraphale where he stood, leaving his glasses, hat, and suit jacket behind him on the table.
Meanwhile, Aziraphale had been consumed in reorganizing his records, having displaced one to play the other. There was some rearranging to do if he wanted to keep his collection as perfect as it usually was. He hummed along to the music as he did this, these orchestral recordings being much quicker and more upbeat than most of the ones he kept.
He sensed movement somewhere behind him, and knew it was Crowley, but did not bother to look. By this point, Crowley lived here nearly as much as Aziraphale did, and so whatever he chose to do was fine by Aziraphale, so long as he did not sell any books.
Soon, Crowley was right behind him, still nodding to the beat and thinking of what to do. This music was much more…danceable than what Aziraphale typically enjoyed, and he couldn't quite keep himself from moving along to it. Of course, that could very well be explained by the many drinks they had both had, but he enjoyed the atmosphere nonetheless.
As he watched over Aziraphale's shoulder, boldness seemed to take over, and this time Crowley knew it was him, not the alcohol, speaking. He held out his hand to Aziraphale, willing to go through with the idea he had given himself.
"Care to dance, angel?"
His sudden request startled Aziraphale, and he turned to face him, taking note of his outstretched hand and the eager expression on his face, his bright yellow eyes a stark contrast to the dim shelves of the bookshop.
Heat rose to his face. Was it alcohol, or was it something else, the fluttery feeling he'd been having since they met in the church that evening, the feeling he was just on the tip of giving a proper name to?
"Angels don't dance, Crowley," he teased, smiling and setting down a stack of records. Reorganization could wait. There was something, or rather someone, much more important right in front of him.
"Right, it's like I said. Dark shades of gray."
"Fine, dark. Just this once, then back to light," Aziraphale said, gently placing his hand in Crowley's. Crowley pulled him forward, a bit closer, and then dropped his hand (somewhat to his dismay), beginning something that was clumsy and a bit awkward, but undeniably dancing.
The touch, however, only intensified whatever it was Aziraphale had been feeling, and he decided a reality check was in order: he should have been grateful Crowley had let go. They were still on opposite sides in the grand scheme of things, after all. There was no use in wanting something he could never have. There was no reason not to enjoy dancing with a good friend, though…
"I don't think we've ever danced together before," Aziraphale marvelled, remembering his days learning the gavotte at that gentleman's club. He had thought about teaching it to Crowley at some point, but it had already gone out of style, and it didn't seem like something he would have enjoyed anyway.
"No. Don't think we have," Crowley confirmed, taking Aziraphale's hand briefly once again and attempting to twirl him. The maneuver only resulted in Aziraphale tripping on Crowley's feet, nearly crashing into him, but they continued without missing another beat once he had steadied himself, and the two laughed all the way through the next song.
Song after song after song went by, and they must have been on the second or third repeat of the record by now, the music itself beginning to matter less and less after their short pause in the middle for a few more drinks. By now, they had taken to wandering the shelves of the shop as part of their little dance, making jokes and drunkenly laughing with each other as the music seemed to fade in volume.
Aziraphale seemed to have released any previous inhibitions, becoming a bit touchier than usual with Crowley, who didn't mind in the slightest. Hands brushed against each other but didn't quite grab on, and on more than one occasion Aziraphale had used Crowley's chest or shoulder to "keep his balance".
Their conversations would not have made any sense to anyone but them. They tended to devolve into their own imitation of the English language when they were both drunk, only understandable by the two of them and absolutely no one else. It was the most fun either of them had had in quite a while, especially after the stress and high stakes of the evening, and for a time, they forgot their respective positions entirely.
Their dancing soon took them into the narrower shelves of the bookshop, to much closer quarters than before. The music was now barely audible, half because they were far from the record player and half because they were simply ignoring it, but it certainly felt slower than usual, more heartfelt. An emboldened, slightly drunk Aziraphale reached forward and took both of Crowley's hands into his own, taking note of the roughness of his skin compared to his own. Possible consequences were the furthest thing from his mind. All he knew, in that given moment, was that he was spending a lovely night with someone he loved, someone who likely loved him back. Nothing else mattered more than that.
They began to sway, somewhat off-beat, but it was truly the best the two of them could do for their current state. By the next song, Crowley had taken his own initiative, letting go of Aziraphale's hands and sliding his own around his torso, gently pulling him closer. Time seemed to stop as their eyes met, and they communicated telepathically in questions with every advance.
Aziraphale's lean-in in return nearly pushed Crowley up against the bookshelves, but not suddenly enough to knock anything over, thankfully. Taking the hint, Crowley inched his face closer as well, glancing between Aziraphale's lips and eyes, wondering to himself how much of this was real and how much was a hallucination.
Aziraphale's heart pounded in his chest. Obviously, Crowley was receptive to…whatever this was. That meant something, didn't it? He slid his hands up to Crowley's shoulders and leaned in further, his eyes half-shut as he prepared to close the gap.
Just then, the music stopped, meaning the record player had likely given up. It was an old, finicky thing, so it wasn't quite unexpected, but the sudden stop brought Aziraphale back to reality, mere centimeters away from Crowley's face.
The beating in his chest was replaced by a cold, almost disgusted feeling deep in his stomach.
What was this?
He stopped suddenly, lips still pursed as he considered what they were about to do.
They shouldn't do this. They couldn't. What if someone were to find out?
They were an angel and a demon! Never to mix, never to fraternize, never to do…whatever it was they had just been about to do.
What if, once they started this, they wouldn't be able to stop?
They would certainly both be executed if found out, that was for sure. And after all the trouble they had gone through, too…
A pang of regret hit Aziraphale hard as he backed away, and looked up into Crowley's gorgeously confused eyes.
"…What are we doing?" he whispered, his tone almost joking, as if everything had been one large facade, as if he had never meant for it to go this far. Crowley didn't respond, only looking more confused (and a bit hurt) by the second.
"Crowley, I…" Aziraphale spoke up now, glancing at Crowley's lips and back up to his eyes in regret. "I think we should sober up," he stated, breaking eye contact, pulling away from him entirely, and dusting himself off, as if nothing had happened.
"…Right. Right, I suppose we should." The painful message now fully received on Crowley's end caused him to leave Aziraphale alone and wander back out through the shelves, to the table they had previously been sitting at. The candles were now nearly burnt out, and his sunglasses waited loyally for him as the amount of wine in the glass bottle steadily increased.
Aziraphale could only watch him wistfully, wondering if he had really made the right decision. Of course, it was never a good idea for an angel to get himself involved with a demon in any way that wasn't thwarting his wiles, but they had been past that for quite a while now. Crowley's arms around him, and the pleasure of his company all these years, no matter how badly they fought, made Aziraphale wonder how much that particular part of his job really mattered to him. He wondered if he was really prepared to risk it all for the sake of love.
It was a terrible predicament to be caught in. On one hand, it was all incredibly dangerous, and all routes seemed to lead to one place: execution of one or both of them, whether it was by holy water or by hellfire. On the other hand, Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to know what would have happened had he inched any closer.
Clearing his throat, he straightened out his shirt and followed Crowley to the table, cleaning up their glasses as Crowley donned his glasses and hat once again, the two refusing to look directly at each other.
"I'm sorry," Aziraphale muttered without thinking, watching Crowley throw on his jacket as he made his way towards the door.
"Hm?" Crowley, lost in his own thoughts and visibly in a bit of a daze, wasn't sure of what he had heard.
"Drive safely," Aziraphale corrected quickly. Crowley paused and watched him carefully for a second, before returning to his usual self.
"Can't promise that, angel," he said, flashing a grin to give the illusion of being fine, when both knew that really, nothing was.
Before Aziraphale knew it, the door shut behind Crowley, and both of their faces immediately fell. Crowley sighed as he returned to his Bentley, taking a minute to start the engine and drive away, whereas Aziraphale stood in front of the closed door and stared at it blankly, hoping, listening for any confirmation that he had, in fact, done the right thing.