A/N: Hola!

London, 1625

Crowley was aware he was being watched.

Really, he should have given the angel a heads up. Getting in close with the royal family would have set off alarm bells in Heaven, and they would have tasked Aziraphale with finding out what he was up to.

But honestly, Crowley had aimed no higher than the nobles of court. Certainly, it would impact the monarchy but not in any way the heavenly host need be concerned about. Crowley was more about mischief than destruction, no matter what the memos to the head office said.

He hadn't meant to catch the eye of the queen. He hadn't meant to charm her. In fact, he was pretty sure what he'd actually said was a very thinly veiled insult. But she'd laughed uproariously, and he'd found himself invited to a royal ball.

Crowley had first become aware of Aziraphale's presence during the first dance he took. Given the story he'd told to excuse his presence—he was meant to be the third son of a titled family—it was impossible for him to get away with not dancing. He'd chosen the obvious social pariah, knowing at best, it would up her prospects, and at worst, it would alleviate her boredom.

He was midstep—the young lady proved to be rather good—when an awareness settled over him like a second skin. He raised his head for the nearest moment and caught Aziraphale's eyes in the act of looking him up and down.

Aziraphale had always been bemused by Crowley's fashion choices. The angel wore the same style until it became too ridiculous, and he'd never changed his hair. Crowley, on the other hand, loved clothes. It was the only good thing about being made to go to this ball. He was dressed in his finest, his long hair braided and tied into a tail.

Or maybe, Aziraphale was worried what his intentions were for his human dance partner. The complexities of social stigma in humans could be staggering.

Either way, the angel didn't approach. He watched from a distance, moving among the nobles, doubtlessly trying to get the story about what Crowley had been up to.

It was after his third dance of the evening that Crowley looked up in time to see Aziraphale slip out the doors. He made his excuses and went looking for the angel.

The gardens were empty this time of year. It was far too cold for the humans to be out and about. He found Aziraphale's footprints easily enough in the frost-bitten grass and found him under a pergola. Crowley pulled to a stop. It was clear Aziraphale hadn't heard him. He was murmuring under his breath—humming, Crowley rather thought. He had his arms held aloft, and he stepped with purpose.

Dancing, Crowley realized. He was trying to dance. Now wasn't that just precious.

Taming his grin, Crowley stepped into the moonlight. "Suppose we found the reason angels don't dance, ay?"

Aziraphale spun around, dropping his hands, his cheeks turning a deep red despite the chill. "Crowley," he said, sounding breathless.

"You can't be shocked to see me. You've been watching me all night." He tilted his head. "If you had a question for me, angel, you could have just come over and asked directly."

"Yes, well …" He'd pressed a hand to his heated cheek. "I figured out what I needed to know quite quickly actually." He sighed, his features gone soft. "Then, I'm afraid I quite got swept up in it all. I've only read about those balls, you see, and it was all quite grand."

"Sure," Crowley said, amused. He found the grandness to be quite the farce and the politics of polite society even more so, but the angel had always been a romantic. "It must have been like stepping into one of your books."

"Quite." Aziraphale studied him a beat. "I didn't realize you knew how to dance. And so marvelously well."

Crowley crossed his arms and leaned up against the wood. "You do what it takes to fit in. I didn't realize you wanted to dance."

Again, Aziraphale's cheeks flushed. "No, I suppose I didn't either."

"It's not terribly hard to learn. There are dancing masters."

"Oh." Aziraphale ducked his head. "That would be quite unnecessary. It's just a fancy." He'd clasped his hands and seemed to be struggling not to fidget. "But, err. Well, mayhap you could show me … There was one step …" He stepped into Crowley's personal space, hand raised.

Crowley stepped to the side automatically, confused about what was happening. "What are you …"

Aziraphale's smile was just the slightest bit uncertain. "During that last dance. There was a part." He reached out and took Crowley's hand, lifting it above their heads and pressing their palms together. "I couldn't quite see what you were doing."

Frozen, Crowley stared at the angel. There was absolutely no reason his heart had started a quick pace. "You want me to teach you to dance? I can't … I have no patience for that kind of thing." And yet, he didn't drop Aziraphale's hand.

"I'm a quick study," Aziraphale said, his tone light. "And I'm not asking you to teach me. I saw most of the steps. If you'll just clarify." He looked into his eyes, and Crowley could read the plea there, could see it in the gentle pout of his lips.

This was exactly how he'd gotten Crowley to make Hamlet—morose Hamlet—a hit. With a look. With that look.

Crowley huffed. He had half a mind to laugh and walk away.

Instead, he took Aziraphale's other hand and put it on his waist. "Like this," he said, his voice rough. And he put his hand to mirror the pose. "And then to the side like this." He moved them both.

"Oh," Aziraphale said, nodding. "Yes."

They could hear the music from the hall from where they were. It was muffled, but it floated through the air in the quiet night. The sky was clear, and the moon shone down.

And they danced, Crowley murmuring a soft instruction here and there. Aziraphale had been right; he was a quick study, and he knew how to follow where Crowley led. He wound their arms together, moving them in a soft circle. Then back face to face, arm's length apart.

Once, when the footwork got just a little complicated, Aziraphale looked down. Crowley would never know why he did it, but his hand shot out to catch him by the chin. He cupped him gently, tilting his head up so he was looking right into Crowley's eyes. "Don't look at your feet. You'll only get tangled," he said. "Look at me."

And Aziraphale did.

And that was …

Well, Crowley didn't have words for what it was. He knew his heart was in his throat, and that if he had to stop to think about what was happening for even a fraction of a second, he would have to think about all the horrible things that could happen if anyone knew what they were doing. The last thing he wanted was those horrible things to happen.

So he didn't think about it.

He didn't think about anything except that every sonnet he'd ever heard about dancing and that look in your partner's eyes suddenly made perfect sense. If he could dance like this with Aziraphale, sweeping across a grand ballroom with the music filling the room, he just might agree the whole business was grand.

Aziraphale's eyes were such a pretty blue—alive and aware and full of some emotion that knocked Crowley breathless.

He didn't think about that either. The only part of his mind he let sharpen was the part that spoke softly. Left. Right. Your hand. Pivot. Bow.

And then, the music ended.

Crowley didn't let their hands drop. Neither did Aziraphale. They were standing an arm's length apart, and that was …

Well, it was unacceptable.

Crowley put a hand to the angel's waist and pulled him flush against him.

Aziraphale gasped and blinked. He looked as dazed as Crowley felt. "I'm quite sure I didn't see this in the ballroom," he said, and his voice too was low—scratchy.

"No," Crowley agreed.

There was no way he was going to do what he was about to do, what he very much wanted to do. There were many, many reasons he shouldn't, not the least of which was this angel—this angel of Heaven—might actually smite him for it.

But he could see the quick rise and fall of Aziraphale's chest. His slightly parted lips. And when he tilted his head just so, invitingly, Crowley stopped thinking at all. His breath shuddered, and he closed the distance between them.

It was an impossible shock to the system. He froze. Under his hands, he felt Aziraphale tense too. But it was only a fraction of a second before they both melted. Crowley's hand slid to the small of his back, pressing him closer. He could feel Aziraphale's hand on his back, and then cupped at the back of his neck.

And his lips.

He'd caught the angel's upper lip between both of his. He pressed, careful. Pulled back the slightest bit and pressed again. Each time he felt the slightest shock, a visceral bolt through his system both at the feel of it—how could he have guessed a kiss could feel like this—and the realization that Aziraphale wasn't pulling away.

No, he pressed back. It was such a subtle motion at first Crowley thought he might have imagined it. But when he pulled away, Aziraphale's mouth followed him, caught him, brought him back. His hands, at Crowley's neck, pulled, reinforcing the idea that, yes, he wanted him just there. And in the scant moments their lips did part, Aziraphale's shuddery breath was warm against his skin.

There was a voice in the back of his head—a voice that had had the volume turned all the way down from the moment Aziraphale had taken his hand—trying to break through the haze. Crowley was soaring. There was a giddy sensation building in his chest with each kiss, incredulous and full of something heady, and warm, and deep that had been a part of him for longer than he dared acknowledge.

But that voice was insistent. That voice was what Hell had made him.

There was no such thing as trust in Hell. No way something so pure and awesome, in the original, biblical sense of the word, could be real.

But Aziraphale's fingers stroking gently at the base of his neck, the shiver it sent through him, brought on a wave of memory. His mind's eye replayed a reel of many of the moments they'd shared. Aziraphale's smiles—so tender, now that Crowley looked on them with these eyes. His laugh. His open, easy expression. How he spoke to Crowley not like an angel speaking to a demon but like he was speaking to him. Seeing him. Aziraphale, vulnerable and scared and looking at him with trust in his eyes. His hand on top of Crowley's in a cave in Capri. The worry in his eyes when he thought Crowley might be hurt if the powers that be knew of their arrangement.

The paintings.

Crowley's knees had gone literally weak when he unwound those paintings. There were three of them—his corner of the universe, alive and moving.

And painted at the center of each, two angelic figures side by side. In one painting—the one with the vivid gold and red of a flaming, forming star, the red-haired figure on the left had one wing extended over the fair-haired angel on the right.

Tentatively, Crowley's fingers of his free hand lit first on Aziraphale's shoulder, resting lightly, like a bird ready to flutter off. He pressed his tongue to the seam of Aziraphale's mouth on pure instinct and again felt a thrill when the angel opened to him.

He could trust this.

This was his.

This was theirs.

This was them.

Crowley let his hand slide up Aziraphale's neck. He cupped his chin, marveling at the feel of him beneath his fingers, the taste of him, the way he responded and moved with him as though they were still locked in a dance. And the little noises. Quiet gasps he breathed into Crowley's mouth; little moans that vibrated under his skin, the way he sighed when Crowley switched his grip, pulling him closer.

Crowley was going to go out of his mind. It was good. Too good. He still remembered the divinity of Heaven, what it felt like coursing through him, and that …

That was nothing to this.

They didn't need to breathe; not really.

They could do this forever.

There was a bench under the pergola. Crowley sat, bringing Aziraphale down with him. He found there were suddenly a million ways he wanted to touch the angel, a thousand ways to move their mouths just so. Over five thousand years he'd walked the Earth, never knowing what pleasure there was to be had right here.

Oh, clever humans. Clever little beasts, figuring that one out. Who knew that this combination—mouths, lips, tongues, and greedy hands—could feel like this? Why hadn't anyone told him that those tiny noises could have his stomach and his heart twisted up in delicious knots while his head seared blank white with pure emotion.

As suddenly as it had begun, it ended. Aziraphale was there, wrapped up in his embrace, one moment and gone so suddenly, Crowley almost pitched forward. He blinked several times. And then, he looked to the side to find Aziraphale going quietly to pieces.

The angel had a hand clamped over his mouth, his eyes wide. Crowley had one disorienting moment of déjà vu before the sick twist of his stomach overode every other thought.

"No, I …" Aziraphale held a hand out, finger up. "I need …" He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. "It's a bit much. It's …"

And though it felt like he'd been punched in the stomach, Crowley forced the panic down.

The angel wasn't running. That felt important.

A bit much.

Yes.

It occurred to Crowley that Aziraphale must have his own voice in his head. That voice screaming at the top of its lungs that this could not possibly be a good idea. Crowley had never had the urge to kiss anyone, had never even thought about it when he was doing his tempting. Any rational being who knew anything about devils and angels knew there should be no feeling at all between them except contempt at the best; pure, righteous—or unrighteous—hatred at the worst.

There were a million reasons why this should not be happening.

And, as far as Aziraphale's little voice was concerned, it went against God herself.

Angels had been created to serve and obey God. They were both truly going against nature here.

But Aziraphale wasn't running. He wasn't yelling. His eyes were filled not with disgust but conflict.

Crowley let the reel of memories play through his mind's eye again, just checking. He considered whether Aziraphale had simply gotten caught up in a romantic fantasy. He did enjoy his fictions, and there was no possibility of him acting it out for himself with anyone except Crowley.

But no. What he'd felt pass between them, what he was beginning to realize was a deep longing and devotion, was anything but frivolous. And it occurred to him it wasn't a surprise either.

He'd known for a long time he felt this way, but he hadn't ever let himself acknowledge it.

The thing was now that he had, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out how he would cage this emotion again.

And as Aziraphale met his eyes, he thought just possibly they were on the same page.

Well.

Aziraphale had always needed gentle guidance when it came to going against everything that had been ingrained in him; everything he was supposed to be made of. But the thing Crowley had always enjoyed about Aziraphale was that, though often frightened and conflicted, he did come. He stepped forward when he could clutch Crowley's hand tightly as he did.

So, maybe …

Crowley stood slowly, trying not to acknowledge the way his knees shook. He took one step, and then another. Aziraphale only watched him, still as a stone. Crowley's heart—verging on the edge of heartbreak as it was—stuttered as he came to a stop with a good bit of distance between them. He had to take a deep breath before he could will himself to reach out and take Aziraphale's hand.

"All right there, angel?" he asked, his voice coming out strange and raw.

Aziraphale gasped as though he'd been holding a breath. "I don't … No? Yes. I'm not …"

And Crowley absolutely couldn't help himself. He had to smile.

Aziraphale was so sweet when he was flustered like this. Heartbreakingly sweet. Almost innocent.

"Don't think. Don't even think for a second," Crowley said. "Just answer." He breathed in through his nose and out again, steadying himself, squeezing Aziraphale's hand to remind himself he hadn't let go. "If you could, would you erase it?"

Aziraphale drew in a shaky breath. "No," he whispered, his head bowed.

"That's good. There's been a fair few things I could do with forgetting, but that wasn't one of them." He had no idea how he managed to keep his tone so light, teasing. Crowley reached out slowly and put his other hand to Aziraphale's waist. "Did you like it?"

Aziraphale sighed then, and though he was still looking down, Crowley could see him close his eyes. "Yes."

"I did too. Rather a lot. More than wine, I think." The tiny candle of hope burned bright and hot at the core of him. His words and the fact he still wasn't running gave Crowley the last bit of strength he needed. He reached shaking fingers out and gently pushed Aziraphale's head up. He waited and was rewarded when Aziraphale opened his eyes. "Would you like me to kiss you again, angel?"

Aziraphale's eyes went hooded and dark. He nodded, a sharp jerk of his head. "Yes. I think I would."

The heavy weight that had locked around Crowley's heart when Aziraphale darted away from him lifted. He grinned. It was such a foolish grin; he hid it promptly, ducking to catch Aziraphale's lips again. "That's good, because I wasn't done," he spoke against his mouth.

And then he got back to the business of kissing them both quite senseless.