Chapter Text
“Classic Aziraphale Fell, elegant with machine-like technical precision.”
“A whirlwind on the ice, his movements are the embodiment of pure elegance.”
“Right you are, Adam. Pure raw strength but such delicate artistry.”
“Couldn’t agree more, Brian. Such mesmerising fluidity, it’ll certainly be a hit with the judges.”
Aziraphale couldn’t hear the commentators over the air rushing past his ears as he glided towards his mark and performed a perfect toe loop. Then a brief zigzag across the ice, turning his back towards the judges as he prepared for a triple salchow.
The audience let out rapturous applause as he landed. Aziraphale’s performance-ready smile grew; he had this in the bag. As the last notes of Con Te Partirò rang out across the ice, he bent low into a bow, signalling the end of what he was certain had been a flawless performance.
The crowd erupted into cheers; roses and other tributes rained down from the more enthusiastic fans. Aziraphale skated casually towards the nearest teddy bear and scooped it up as he made his way off the ice, holding it aloft in thanks.
“That went well, I think!” Aziraphale said, releasing a gush of air. He stepped off the rink and was immediately clapped on the back by the large hand of his coach.
“Yes. A little wobbly on that sit spin, but I suppose nobody can be perfect. Although it would be nice to be,” Gabriel said with a broad grin, brushing some imaginary dust off Aziraphale’s spandex-clad shoulders.
Aziraphale’s coach wore his usual white suit, which he kept covered beneath a thick white coat, the collar and cuffs ringed with fur. A passing assistant draped an identical coat over Aziraphale, also removing the teddy and pushing a chilled bottle of water into his hand.
“Congratulations, Aziraphale,” the assistant said hurriedly before zipping off onto the ice to help sweep up the gifts still strewn across the surface.
“Aziraphale! Aziraphale!” an unsettling voice called out from the stands, and Aziraphale glanced over to see a familiar bald, heavy-set man trying to elbow his way to the front of the crowd cheering from the sidelines.
The man grabbed the railing and hauled himself up and over the barrier, coming to a crash on the floor. With a pained gasp, he dragged himself up and limped towards the skater. “Aziraphale! Did you get my letter? Aziraphale!”
“Oh, God,” Gabriel muttered, clicking his fingers impatiently. “Security, security over here, please.” He placed an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and steered him to face away as two security guards descended. “Ignore him,” Gabriel said even as the man continued to squawk Aziraphale’s name. “The price of success.”
Aziraphale nodded. “Right. I do wish they wouldn’t crush his head like that, though,” he said, glancing back at Sandalphon’s face reddening in a chokehold.
Gabriel waved a hand. “Forget about that. They’re about to announce your scores.”
Gabriel steered Aziraphale to the bench where they sat waiting for the official announcement. At some point, someone came and untied and removed Aziraphale’s skates for him, but he hardly noticed. He could only stare at the judges' table across the ice as they muttered together and exchanged scorecards.
Gabriel clutched his hands together, thumbs sliding back and forth. Aziraphale held the water battle against his chest, his knees bouncing up and down anxiously.
After a few more agonising minutes, the melodic female voice of the score announcer sounded on the loudspeaker.
“Nine point nine. Nine point eight. Nine point seven. Nine point eight. Nine point seven. Eight point nine.”
The crowd erupted into applause. Aziraphale let out a breathy laugh and gave a cheerful wave as the cameras turned towards him.
Gabriel cleared his throat and muttered under his breath. “Right, okay. Hopefully that eight point nine doesn’t bite us in the ass but…good job, sport.” He clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder.
“Hey angel, was that your routine? Because it looked to me like a lot of swanning about on the ice with a few pirouettes thrown in.”
The mocking drawl came from the figure making his way towards Aziraphale on a pair of sharp blades. Clad in skintight black velvet trousers and a black turtleneck adorned with glittering red crystals—to match the striking red curls that stopped at his shoulders—Aziraphale’s skating rival Crowley, beamed down at him with a malicious grin.
“Also, you’re a bit late. They handed out the women’s medals earlier today.” He pulled down the dark shades he always wore to give Aziraphale a wink.
Aziraphale bristled and sat up straighter. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. That was textbook precision, and I think you’ll find it was the same scores I beat you with last year in Oslo.”
“The hotel had a free bar, I don’t even remember Oslo,” Crowley said dismissively as he approached the entrance to the rink. He turned back and gave Aziraphale a grin. “But I do remember Boston, and that victory was almost as sweet as the look on your face when you botched that triple loop.”
Crowley let out a laugh at the scandalised look Aziraphale gave him. The loudspeakers started up with the first booming notes of a rock song, and Crowley hopped up onto the ice and skated away from him before Aziraphale had the chance to reply.
“Don’t rise to it,” Gabriel told him, a worried look creasing his brow. “Showboater. Why does he always wear those stupid glasses?”
Aziraphale sat seething inside the large coat about his shoulders as he watched the red-haired fiend start his routine. It was loud and crass, everything Aziraphale wasn’t. Crowley gyrated across the ice, moving his hips to the beat, throwing out winks and blowing kisses to the screaming young women surging at the barriers to get closer.
But there was no denying the talent was there. The jumps, the spins, the lands, it all looked so effortless. Though that was hardly surprising. The man was skinny as a rake, not exactly an effort getting up off the ground, Aziraphale thought, feeling his spandex body shirt straining against his larger girth.
Crowley went soaring past the judges' table, one leg elevated behind him, before twisting into an impressive flip. The crowd roared their approval.
Brian’s voice sounded over the ice. “He uses everything at his disposal, the movement, the music…”
Crowley skated by a set of barriers, and the women jostled for the front position. He reached out a hand towards them, briefly cupping one of the women by the chin and giving a wink as he skated off. She let out a hysterical scream.
Adam laughed into the mic. “He’s certainly getting this crowd riled up, Brian.”
“Well Adam, you know what they say about Crowley, he truly is sex on ice”
Crowley’s routine had no grace or precision like Aziraphale’s, but there was technique and drama. He moved fluidly around the rink like his body was boneless. His skates slammed down from jumps on the heaviest rock beats and at one point he skidded on his knees and played air guitar.
Aziraphale gritted his teeth, knowing that the judges would be eating it up. Just wishy-washy showmanship, that’s all it was.
As the song came to a climax, Crowley finished with a corkscrew spin and thrust his arm up, sending a jet of flame into the air.
“You’re welcome, Stockholm,” Crowley breathed with a grin.
The crowd went wild. Some of the women at the barriers around the rink had to be physically restrained by security. As well as flowers and teddies, bras and panties also rained across the ice. Crowley grabbed a pink thong in midair and skated casually to the rink side.
“I hope you brought your silver polish, angel,” he said, slightly out of breath as he stepped off the ice. “Because that was pure gold.” He flung the thong into Aziraphale’s lap. “Here you go, probably the closest you’ll ever get to a pair of these.”
Aziraphale batted the offending garment onto the floor “Do not throw those disgusting things at me,” he snapped, glaring up at him. “Gimmicky pyrotechnics does not a gold medal-winning skater make.”
“Mr Crowley,” an assistant gingerly approached, “could you and your coach please move over to the bench to await your scores?”
“Hey, pipsqueak,” Crowley snapped; the young man jumped and clutched his clipboard. “Let’s get one thing clear, I don’t have a coach. I don’t need one,” he added with a direct glance at Aziraphale. “I work alone.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes and shuffled over as Crowley swaggered over to the bench. He plonked himself down and ran a hand through his hair, raising his other in a wave to the women still screaming for him behind the barriers.
Aziraphale folded his arms, his knees bouncing anxiously again. He looked to Gabriel for reassurance but his coach was staring intently at the judges, his brows pinched together.
The voice on the loudspeaker cleared her throat.
“Nine point nine. Nine point eight. Nine point eight. Nine point seven. Nine point seven. Eight point nine.”
Aziraphale stared in disbelief.
“Yes!” Crowley jumped to his feet and punched the air in triumph. “Suck on that, angel.”
“We got the same score, you idiot,” Aziraphale snapped, deflating against the wall. “We tied.”
“Tied?” Crowley echoed, staring up at the screen displaying his and Aziraphale’s identical scores. “The fuck?”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Adam spoke into the mic, his excited voice ringing out across the ice. “We have a tie for first place! From Great Britain, Aziraphale Fell, and from Great Britain, Anthony J. Crowley!”
The other skaters and personnel rushed up to Aziraphale to shake his hand and congratulate him. He slowly got to his feet and tried to be as gracious as possible, but his skin felt like it was on fire, hot with anger. Somehow, tying with Crowley felt worse than losing.
“Those judges have got to be high,” Gabriel muttered in Aziraphale’s ear as he stood beside him, his beaming plastic grin plastered in place as he shook hands with the other coaches.
“Aziraphale, Crowley,” the assistant scurried up to them. “We need you out on the ice for the medal ceremony.”
Aziraphale shoved his feet into some white trainers and walked across the ice to the podiums that had been brought out. He kept a bright smile on his face and waved to the crowds and the cameras. He stepped up onto the highest, central podium—where he belonged—but all too soon Crowley joined him, shunting him to one side to make space.
“This is complete bullshit,” Crowley grunted through a toothy grin.
Aziraphale kept his mouth shut, making his smile wider, waving more and more frantically to the crowds. The medal presenter placed the bronze medal first, then moved on to the silver. Finally, she placed one gold medal around Crowley’s neck and one around Aziraphale’s.
“It’s raining gold here in the men’s singles,” Brian said into the mic as the British national anthem started up.
“That it is, Brain,” Adam agreed. “And Aziraphale and Crowley join Great Britain’s other gold medallists, the pairs team of Newton Pulsifer and Anathema Device.”
Brian nodded. “It really has been a fantastic day for Great Britain out on the rink.”
“I tell you, Brian, the only thing better than winning a gold medal has got to be sharing that honour with your fellow countryman.”
“So true, Adam.”
Aziraphale winced, trying not to let the disgust show on his face as Crowley lifted his arm to wave, and his armpit was jammed almost right up against Aziraphale’s nose.
“Ugh, you smell foul,” he muttered, turning his head away.
“Damn right I do, I smell like a winner,” Crowley said. He nudged into Aziraphale’s side. “Move over.”
“Don’t touch me,” Aziraphale hissed, nudging him back. There was barely enough room on the podium for the two of them.
“Just scoot over,” Crowley growled, jostling Aziraphale even more so that he wobbled noticeably.
“Oop, looks like that podium might not quite be big enough for our two winners,” Adam’s voice rang out light-heartedly.
Aziraphale gritted his teeth, jamming his hip against Crowley’s side. “You scoot over.”
The edge of Crowley’s foot slipped over the edge of the podium, and he went down, falling flat on his back on the ice. There was a chorus of gasps from the crowd.
“Oh, God!” Aziraphale said in a sudden panic.
Crowley heaved himself up on his elbows and shot Aziraphale a venomous look.
“How dare you,” he breathed. One of his skinny legs kicked up into Aziraphale’s shin, knocking him backwards so he fell off the podium and rolled onto the ice. Crowley threw himself at Aziraphale, grabbing him around the neck of his shirt.
Aziraphale let out a grunt and kicked up, rolling them both over so he was pinning Crowley down. The two of them grappled on the ice, flinging out hits while the crowd screamed and shouted.
“I have never in all my years seen such a disgraceful display on the world stage,” Brian’s voice chimed out.
Aziraphale’s veins flooded with rage. He shoved Crowley off him and got to his feet, bringing his fists up in a fighting stance. Crowley jumped up and stared at him, his eyes blazing behind his glasses, which now had a cracked lens. He removed them, glanced down at the crack spidering from the centre, then punched Aziraphale across the jaw.
The crowd let out a deafening shriek as Aziraphale flew backwards, knocking into one of the large torches that framed the podiums. It went down, almost crushing the podium assistant who moved out of the way just in time.
Aziraphel staggered to his feet and swung out at Crowley, grabbing him around the neck with a thick arm. Crowley choked out, and his fingers scrambled against Aziraphale’s arm, trying to loosen his grip.
Beneath Crowley’s gasps for breath, Aziraphale realised how quiet it was all of a sudden. He released Crowley, who stumbled forward on his knees with a sharp inhale.
The rink was silent. The crowd were on their feet, staring down at them in complete dismay. The other medalists had backed far away and were staring at them with a mixture of shock and outrage. In the stands, a child started to sob.
Aziraphale turned to look at Gabriel behind the barrier, he had his hands threaded into the hair at the back of his neck.
Gabriel let out a slow, shuddering breath.
“Well, that could have gone better.”
***
Aziraphale sat hunched in the back seat of Gabriel's car opposite him. His coach took a slow sip of whiskey and sighed, watching the ice cubes clink together in his glass.
“Banned for life,” he said, echoing the words of the National Skating Federation. “That certainly is a long time.”
Aziraphale said nothing, chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip. He had been certain his impassioned speech to the panel was going to be enough to absolve him of his unhinged behaviour last month at the medal ceremony.
Aziraphale winced as the commissioner banged his gavel to call the procession to order. He tried to ignore Crowley sitting beside him, one of his legs hanging casually over the corner of their table like he couldn’t care less. The old man behind the bench cleared his throat and spoke into a microphone in front of him.
“If either one of you would like to make a statement before the commission passes judgement, you may do so at this time.”
Aziraphale got to his feet. “Friends, fans, esteemed members of the committee. I don’t really know what I can say to excuse my abhorrent behaviour. But I pray that you can all forgive me. But more than that, I pray the children can forgive me—”
Crowley retched in his seat. “Jesus Christ.”
Aziraphale ignored him. “It’s their trust in me that I am most distraught to have lost. And I am so, so very sorry for what happened. God bless you, God bless you all. Thank you.”
He sat down, casting an anxious glance at Gabriel sitting behind him in the gallery. He gave Aziraphale a subtle thumbs up.
Crowley yanked his leg off the table and got to his feet. He pulled a crumpled-up magazine out of the pocket of his black skinny jeans and held it aloft for the room to see.
“Anthony J. Crowley, voted the sexiest athlete alive for the fourth year running.” He slammed the magazine down on the table and pointed a finger directly at the commissioner. “Figure skating needs me.”
He threw himself down in his seat as several of Crowley’s devoted female fans started to whoop and applaud. The commissioner banged his gavel aggressively to quieten them. After a few exchanged words with the committee members sitting beside him, he turned back to the microphone.
“Very well. Per the rules of the International Skating Federation, Aziraphale Fell and Anthony J. Crowley, you are to be stripped of your medals—”
The gallery riled up in protest. Crowley let out a spluttering stream of expletives.
“—and banned from men’s figure skating for the remainder of your lives.”
The gavel came down. Aziraphale sat in stunned silence while, beside him, Crowley started screaming threats.
Gabriel sighed, rubbing the inner corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Look, I really hate to do this, Aziraphale, it feels a bit like I’m kicking you while you’re down.”
Aziraphale looked up at him. “Do what?”
“Driver,” Gabriel called up the front of the car, “Aziraphale’s flat, please.”
“Are we not headed to the rink? We always do routine training on Wednesdays,” Aziraphale said, his heart starting to drum in his chest.
Gabriel looked at him, his forehead creasing with pity. “Aziraphale, you’re banned. I’m not your coach anymore.”
“But you’ve been my coach for the last twenty-five years,” Aziraphale said, not able to help the note of pleading that found its way into his voice.
“And now you can’t skate competitively. I’m sorry, Aziraphale. It’s probably best if we just go our separate ways. Better not to drag it out.”
Aziraphale could only stare at him, the man who had been his constant support since he was a child, telling him that this was it. The car soon pulled up outside the flat Aziraphale lived in above a bookshop. The driver got out and opened the passenger side door for him.
“It’s like a band-aid,” Gabriel said, taking another sip of whiskey. “Just rip it off, we’ll both feel better.”
Aziraphale waited a moment, trying to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind. He carefully pushed himself up and out of the car to stand outside on the wet, gritty pavement. The driver closed the door and got back in the driver’s seat. Aziraphale watched as the car pulled away, and Gabriel barely gave him a second glance through the window.