Old-Fashioned Loverboy: The Waltz
The wine warmed his stomach, buzzed pleasantly round his skull. Crowley blinked, blearily, through another sip, his gaze locked on the angel sitting across from him, oblivious to his presence. Watching Aziraphale eat was an arousing experience. His celestial partner was what some might call an Epicurean, or a "foodie," if you like—which was mildly hilarious—and the flavors on his tongue often consumed him, in turn. The way his eyes fluttered closed to help savor a particularly delectable bite, the moans that escaped his lips. . . . Crowley squirmed in his seat. He'd heard of bedroom eyes, of course, but what the Heaven was this, exactly, apart from ridiculous, and stupidly endearing?
A clink of cutlery snapped him back to attention. Aziraphale was mumbling appreciatively into a napkin, still paying the demon little mind.
"Mmm, all I can say is thank goodness for takeaway options." His pale eyes flicked to Crowley's. The room brightened. "If this pandemic takes a permanent toll on my beloved restaurants, I'm honestly not sure what I'll do."
"It won't come to that," Crowley assured, the usual gruffness in his voice mellowed by affection and alcohol—a dodgy mix, that. "Everything will go back to some new version of normal, and you'll keep on stuffing your face to your heart's content."
A tinge of color rose in Aziraphale's cheeks, his mouth twisting in that adorable way of his—half coy, half "come hither." Or maybe that was just Crowley's interpretation. Either way, he wanted to snog that grin off of Aziraphale's lips.
The needle on the turntable scratched the vinyl beneath it. The music crescendoed, as though indigent at being interrupted. A waltz of some sort, pleasant to the ear, if a bit haunting. Crowley had turned toward the sudden swell of sound, and was therefore surprised to see Aziraphale's hand, reaching toward him, his smile radiant.
"Would you do me the honor, Crowley dear?"
Amusement bubbled inside him.
"Well, look at you! And I thought angels didn't dance."
Aziraphale considered this.
"I was always a less-than-perfect angel," he chuckled.
Grinning, Crowley slid his hand into Aziraphale's waiting palm, and let himself be lifted to his feet. It thrilled him, a little, whenever Aziraphale was the one to assert himself. Of the two of them, he was naturally more docile and domestic, the softness to Crowley's edge. Seeing him so decisive, so confident—Satan, it was sexy.
Crowley shook his head. Down, boy! Maybe that fifth glass had been a mistake . . .
Aziraphale didn't seem to notice Crowley's palpable discomfort—classic angel—and drew him in, until Crowley could feel the warm press of Aziraphale's chest and belly against his svelte frame. He had a couple of centimeters on the angel, and incidentally lost himself in Aziraphale's doting expression.
They matched their steps to the tempo. Crowley spread greedy fingers across the small of Aziraphale's back, pulling him closer. This was nothing like the gavotte—just because it had been fun, didn't make it any less idiotic—nor the Soulja Boy, Dougie, or Kiki. This was more. Neither of them was particularly skilled, yet they were perfectly synced with one another. Neither led—they simply circled the room. Pivot left, forward and back, pivot right . . .
Crowley felt the heat of Aziraphale's breath on his cheek, and he was certain the angel could smell the wine on his. He wet his lips—they were parched, all the same. Something slammed against his ribs, frantic, hellbent on escape. Could Aziraphale feel it—his black heart straining toward the other that beat just out of reach?
He watched Aziraphale's face, once so jovial, harden into something brimming with promise. Their feet slowed to a stop, bodies still swaying. Arms lowered, encircled waists. Crowley's mouth was hot and earnest as every sliver of distance between them vanished.
Track after track sailed around the bookshop, until the grand finale—the pop and hiss of static.
Aziraphale laid his head on Crowley's shoulder, captive in his arms.
"Crowley?" he hedged, voice muffled by leather.
Crowley buried his nose in the angel's feather-soft hair.
"What is it, angel?"
"I-I-I think you know, already . . ."
N'aw, stuttering, back to be being nervous. Crowley kissed the top of his head.
"What is it I know?"
The hollow scratch of the vinyl record marked the passing seconds, then minutes.
A deep breath.
"That . . . that I . . ."
A smirk tugged at Crowley's lips.
Ah.
Yeah, he knew.
But it wasn't happening tonight.
And that was just fine.
"Ditto."
Aziraphale stiffened, clearly taken aback, until relief loosened his limbs. He sagged forward like a discarded marionette. A laugh deep in his throat, Crowley tightened his embrace.
The time would come.
There was an unfathomable number of late-night suppers and music-filled evenings before them. All the time in the world for his dearest Aziraphale to admit of what they were already painfully aware. Or not.
All that really mattered , Crowley knew, was that the angel who had gotten it wrong was fiercely, desperately loved by the demon who had gotten it right.