Chapter Text
Artwork by kiratastic
“Crowley, you’ll need some dance classes.”
Crowley looked at his friend across the table, taken by surprise by the abrupt change of topic— him and Eve had been talking about the upcoming Bond movie. That dance comment had come out of nowhere.
“Wot?” He cocked an eyebrow above the sunglasses, a movement not unlike a cartoon character.
“Dance classes!” Eve had a giddiness in her voice, an excitement that made Crowley slightly antsy. She chuckled before continuing, “You’ll have to learn a proper ball dance.”
Crowley tilted his head to the side, amber eyes narrowed. “What are you on about?”
Smirk barely tamed by pursed lips, Eve sat back in her chair. “Well, Crowley, you and I know you have two left feet,” Crowley opened his mouth but she soldiered on before he could protest, “not that I don’t find it endearing, but as my man of honour I want to have a special dance with you for everyone to see.”
“Man of hon—” He gasped, like he had choked on the words, and Eve looked at him with a coy smile.
“Adam popped the question. We already have a date for the ceremony,” she reached for his hand, squeezing it with affection, “I want you there with me, dear.”
Thank someone he was wearing sunglasses. Not cool of him to tear up in public.
Eve was right of course, as she often was.
After lunch, they went back to her place, where Eve attempted to teach him a very basic — according to her — quick waltz. Crowley gave his very best effort. It wasn’t long until his friend stepped back, barely concealing a wince as she rubbed the tips of her toes. It took her pained expression, as well as a frankly embarrassing stumble over the coffee table, for him to finally agree that yes, perhaps, there was a chance that he would need a few dance classes. But that was alright, he just needed to master that one wedding dance and vavoom, sorted. It shouldn’t be that difficult.
Crowley had looked at quite a few dance studios, and found none. In the end it had been Eve that took it upon her to locate one that was close to his home— and, most importantly, that also offered private classes. Crowley wasn’t enthusiastic about showing his skills to a group of people who already knew how to dance. He liked to dance, yes, but showing his moves at dance class in front of a bunch of strangers was totally different from waving his limbs in a club and having a good time. She booked a lesson without even checking with him, claiming she already knew his schedule inside and out.
When the day came, he stumbled out of the Bentley (Eve’s voice echoed two left feet in his mind and he smiled despite himself), and looked at the place. It was rather simple but very posh looking; the exterior was some older building painted white as a means to modernise it, making it stand out between the others. The flowers in the windowsills for sure needed some incentive, bloomed but dull to Crowley’s trained eyes. The sign above it simply read “Heaven” with smaller “dance studio & wellness” all in a metallic silver serif font.
This seemed to be the place, Crowley realised, holding back a breath. Alright, he wasn’t too excited about having some random person trying to teach him how to move his hips in a socially acceptable manner. There may have been a tiny part of him that hoped he had somehow entered the wrong address, or a bolt of lightning had fallen on the building late at night — when it was empty, Crowley wasn’t a lunatic —, and it had perished. A man could hope.
When he entered, an all too happy bell chimed, loudly declaring his arrival to all of two people in the room who had looked up before he even touched the door. The interior was much like the rest of the building, white and sparse and… frankly not as welcoming as he would have liked.
A young man, barely over than 25 years old was looking up at him from the front desk, eyes wide behind his enormous glasses. “Um, uh— hi.”
Clearing his throat, Crowley looked around before he gave him a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile. “I have an appointment for a dance class?”
“One moment, sir.” The man — Newton, Crowley read on his name tag — nodded and immediately shuffled through papers with trembling hands, his bottom lip between his teeth. Papers, when there looked to be a perfectly working computer there. “What’s your name?”
“Crowley, Anthony J. Crowley.” He smirked, winking at the attendant over his glasses.
The man smiled, amused, shoulders untensing. “Well, you’re in for a treat, Mister Fell is the best. He must be waiting for you in room number two. Down the hall and to your left.”
With another nod and a click of his lips, Crowley went down the long, extremely white hallway. His loud rap on the door was answered by a soft, melodic ‘come iiiin’, and so he pushed it open with a heavy sigh.
Oh. Now the name of the studio made sense, after all. It housed an angel.
Aziraphale was having rather a bothersome day. First it was that rude phonecall, demanding he sold one of the precious items of his collection. The woman on the phone had said such crass words upon his firm refusal, that he spilled all his morning cocoa on his brand new trousers. There had been no time to change, his students were a few minutes away. Then it was the meeting with Gabriel, which would be energy draining enough even on the best of days. But the infuriating man had chosen to go on about how dancing mustn't be a very efficient path to healthy lifestyle, considering how Aziraphale still hadn't been able to “lose his gut” in all his years of dancing. Thankfully, the dark stain on his right leg remained unnoted, save for a raised eyebrow and a judgemental shake of his head. It had taken all of Aziraphale’s willpower to control his nerves and not end the business partnership right then and there. As always, he bunched his palms into fists behind his back, tightened his jaw, and forced a smile on his face. Provoking Gabriel would only keep him there longer.
A tea always did wonders to calm him down. Before he had even picked a bag from his collection, Newt’s sheepish call from the front desk raised goosebumps on his neck. The young man had found a way to break the reception computer yet again. Aziraphale had to be the one to help him, no matter the only experience he had was sparsely using an antique Windows 95 he had at home, and his phone. To top it off, Anathema, the yoga and reiki instructor, had almost set the building on fire with the sheer amount of candles in her room (she was testing a new batch of homemade candles and incense Madame Tracy had delivered and got too excited).
All in all, Aziraphale was already pretty on edge, exhausted and in dire need of a nice cupperty — a loved inside joke between him and his sibling ever since they were little — and book on his favourite arm chair.
It was almost 2pm, surely the day couldn’t get more difficult. If only. He was getting his room ready for his next class, when the door opened and he was presented with the most stunning person he'd ever seen. Except… he had seen him before. His eyes widened as soon as the man extended a hand — broad palm, nimble fingers that once served him drinks with colourful umbrellas — to introduce himself.
“Uh— h— hi.” He seemed terribly uncomfortable, a faint red tinting his sharp cheekbones, dark eyebrows raised high above his dark sunglasses. “I’m… Crowley. Anthony. J. Just— Crowley.”
That was just Aziraphale’s luck. Of course he would meet his old crush on such a day. He had quietly suffered through his feelings for the man for all his university years — and a couple after he had dropped out, when he visited the Nice and Accurate Network café. He had sworn to himself he didn't even remember him anymore, it was all in the past. A silly, unrequited pash.
And now he would have to teach him how to dance. Aziraphale swallowed against the dryness in his throat, plastered a practised smile on his face and squeezed Crowley’s hand.
He had a type, he could admit that to himself, even if he didn’t like it. Despite himself, he did love someone who looked like trouble. That wasn’t what most people would expect of him; with his bookish energy and his beloved, worn-out waistcoat. But Aziraphale had always fancied himself a bit of dark horse (it’s always the quiet ones, you know) and he liked people who could stir that side of him. Crowley looked like that sort of person and much more. From his blood red hair and face tattoo down to the leather boots and too-tight jeans, he looked like sin on legs. It was his canine smile that did it, however; it made Aziraphale want to kiss it silly, and follow anywhere it went. It had been like this since university.
It is going to be fine. Aziraphale repeated to himself like a mantra, as he asked his new student — and strictly only student — about his objectives. Despite his best efforts, memories kept crawling back to the forefront of his mind.
Obviously Crowley didn’t even knew he existed before today. Aziraphale only had to do his job and help him.
It was going to be fine. A mere passing attraction he could — and would — deal with.
It was not going to be fine.
Crowley. Crowley had winked at him, he had weaponized that crooked sideways smile. He had made him laugh. He was a huge dork behind his cool facade, which made Aziraphale’s heart melt. The man — the infuriating, unbelievable man — made the choice to go to a dance class in tight jeans. Honestly.
Aziraphale’s breath stuttered seeing those slinky hips wobble in his effort to do the simplest of dance moves. He always seemed to have too much leg or too much arm, being unsure what to do with them. Crowley had charm and a certain adorableness that caught Aziraphale unguarded… He snorted when laughing, and gesticulated widely with his hands when his words failed him— which was rather often. He got deliciously flustered at the simplest of praises, when Aziraphale said he did the right step, dismissing Aziraphale’s words and getting vowels trapped in his throat. He thought if the man had a more fair complexion he would be looking like a goth tomato.
By the end of their first class, his heart was already beating faster than it should, and Aziraphale was worried. This was not a good thing to feel about someone he had to teach something so physical, and especially for someone who was going to get married.
Because yes, no damned rest for the wicked, apparently. Crowley was learning to dance for a wedding. To know how to lead the bride on the dance floor gracefully and make it her night.
“Very well Crowley, now you remember to practice the basic step I showed you at home, right? When you learn to do that everything else will fall into place. It would be ideal for the bride to take some classes or train with you…”
Crowley brushed him off with a weak wave of his hand, breathless even though they had barely danced. “Oh, well... Eve is so busy with everything, I don't want to bother her too much with this. Maybe when I can take two steps without falling over my arse I could ask her to come for a class or two? She is a very good dancer already.”
So Eve was her name. “Sure, that would be tickety-boo!” Aziraphale tried to hide the nervousness in his voice but still it had gotten a pitch higher. He cleared his throat.
“Crowley!”
A feminine voice echoed in the empty hall behind them, drawing both men’s attention. Crowley’s expression lit up instantly, then melted into something soft as she approached, and that was all Aziraphale needed to know who he was looking at.
Aziraphale turned as she approached, and offered his hand, lips stretching into a tight — yet still polite, he had manners — smile. “Eve, I presume?”
“Oh, yes, hi!” She shook his hand, and Aziraphale immediately understood why Crowley was marrying her.
She was beautiful. Stunning, really; her eyes gleamed with fierceness, carrying the strength and wit you’d expect in the portrayal of a goddess. Her big curly hair fell softly over her shoulders, her skin seemed to glow. But most beautiful than all was the warmth on her smile, the way the corner of her eyes crinkled and sparkled, and how much love there was when she looked at Crowley.
Arm wrapped around her tightly, Crowley smiled her. “Pomme, this is my dance instructor, Mr. Fell.” The pet name slipped easily out of his lips.
“Oh, please, you can call me Aziraphale.” He watched as a certain sparkle crossed her eyes, brows slightly furrowing.
“Aziraphale…?”
“Oh, I know, a bit of an odd one. It’s what you get when your family ran out of angelic names.” If he was to be honest with himself, he was already more than fed up with everything angelic.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Aziraphale.” There was a hint of mischievousness in her tone as she spoke. She looked at Crowley, who had his lips drawn in a tight line, eyebrows slightly raised; Eve paid him no mind and smiled, in a way that did look too knowing. “I hope his hips don’t give you too much trouble… they tend to sway like a burlesque dancer's, even if he lacks the talent.”
That decidedly didn’t help Aziraphale’s imagination— or maybe helped too much. With the tone of voice she used it was very easy to picture many other situations his hip-sway would be of great use, actually. Aziraphale worried the grit of his teeth would be audible to the couple.
“Eve…” Crowley croaked, and when Aziraphale looked at him he could see a blush creeping up his face. Ah. Yes, he could look like a hot, goth tomato.
She laughed in earnest, and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Sorry dear.”
Crowley’s coy smile was devastating, the red now reaching the tips of his ears.
The casual intimacy, the genuine connection they shared just made Aziraphale feel worse about himself. How dare he harbour such strong attraction so fast, and to an engaged man? His mood was soured, and he needed to get away from the couple, quickly. He’d do his job, help Crowley give the best dance he could, and that's it, he'd never see the man again. His heart better behave.
Once they were back in Crowley’s car, the man slumped in the driver’s seat, promptly banging his head on the steering wheel.
“Hey!” Eve yelped, banging the passenger door behind her. “What the fuck, what’s going on?” Crowley only groaned in response, knuckles white around the leather. “Are you okay?”
“Not. One. Bit,” he grumbled, shaking his head.
Laying a soothing arm on his back, Eve rubbed circles around the bones. “What happened?”
“Eve… Eve, the dance instructor…” Crowley sighed, finally lifting his head to look at her. “It’s Aziraphale!”
“Yes, it is!” she exclaimed, as thrilled as Crowley was terrified. She smiled in earnest. “Your uni crush! I knew it wasn’t another person with name like that. Oh, Crowley, that’s great!”
Crowley’s eyes widened. “Are you mental?” he croaked. “This is a disaster! Eve, we’ve got to find a different studio.”
“Are you mental?” She folded her arms in front of her chest. “This is the best thing that could’ve happened to you.”
“How the fuck so?”
“You finally have a good enough reason to talk to him, you utter pillock!” Her eyes softened, head cocked to the side. “And you’ve also got the confidence to do it. You’re not the same scared 20 year old you were when you first met who couldn’t even look him in the eyes.”
“Come on…”
“I’m serious! You’re smart, you’re a successful researcher, a good teacher.” She counted off with her fingers. “You’ve finally got some decent people skills, you know how to kiss—”
“Evelyn Rosa Freeman!”
“What?! You kissed at least two people!” She laughed, pulling a smile out of him too. “All I’m saying is that you’ve grown so much. He’d be a fool not to want you.”
Crowley sighed. Flexing his fingers around the steering wheel, he put the car into gear, quietly agreeing to consider his friend’s words.
A few years ago
“You should go out more, meet some people!”
Crowley looked up from his physics manual and arched an eyebrow at his friend.
“I swear to God, Crowley,” Eve kept going, “the school year started two months ago and you’ve spent all your time locked up in this flat! It's gonna be just like last year at this rate.”
The boy shrugged, and returned his attention to his book. “People are not interesting.”
His friend scoffed. “You think saying things like that makes you so cool, don’t you?”
A sly smile tugged at his lips, but he kept his eyes on the page he was trying to read. “Well yeah. I do, actually.”
As an answer, he received a potholder thrown from across the kitchen, hitting his head with a soft thump.
“What about me?” The young woman came pouting at the table. “Am I not interesting enough for the great Anthony J. Crowley?”
“Stop it Eve, you know I didn’t mean you.”
A glimmer of mischief appeared in her eyes. “Am I not people then?”
Crowley couldn’t refrain from chuckling. He reclined in his seat with a sigh and rolled his eyes. “You? You're the original people. And my best friend.”
“I’m your only friend,” Eve retorted.
“Ouch. Not nice.”
“The truth is rarely nice. Look, I know you study hard and don’t have much time, I get that but… these are our best years! You should be out, having fun!” Eve’s smile turned sly. “Maybe even meet someone.”
Crowley felt his cheeks turn a little hotter and shrugged again, looking away. “Why can’t you understand I don’t need to meet anyone? You’re the only friend I need.”
“I don’t mean a friend, idiot,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “I mean a boyfriend.”
His cheeks kept turning hotter and hotter, and his ears too, but he refused to look at her. “Who says I want a boyfriend?” he muttered.
Eve chuckled and rounded the table to wrap her arms around his shoulders from behind. “We all want a boyfriend. I want a boyfriend!”
Crowley snorted. “You already had a million of them!”
That earned him a swat on the arm.
“Oi! Don’t shame me!”
“I’m not!” he protested. He closed his book with a sigh and rubbed his eyes. “It just… it seems so easy when you talk about it. But I'm not like you, Eve. I can’t go out in a bar and walk up to a guy and just talk to him…”
“You know what? Come with me tonight. Come with me, be as cute as you ever are and maybe a nice guy will come and talk to you. And then it’s easy, you just have to be yourself.”
“Ngk… I dunno…”
“Come on! It's Halloween, you can't stay home. Children are gonna come knocking on the door and bothering you all night, you won’t even be able to study!”
Crowley raised his eyebrows briefly. His plans were more in the range of a spooky movie and a glass of wine, but the problem was the same.
“I don’t have a costume,” he complained, trying what he knew was already a loosing hand.
“You put on some cat ears and you’re fine!”
“I am not!” he almost chocked. “I am not going out with cat ears! I thought we established that the goal was to have people talk to me!”
“Then you trim them, and be a demon! You already dressed all in black, it doesn’t take much more to say you have a costume.”
Crowley sighed deeply, closing his eyes through it, before he finally gave up. “Alright, I guess…”
“Yeah!” Eve yelped, throwing her fist in the air and laughing. “Halloween, baby!”
*
Even trimmed, the demon’s horns still looked very much like cat ears, and three people had already asked Crowley if he was dressed as a black cat. The slitted, yellow contacts he had managed to find in such short notice didn’t help at all. At the moment, curled up on a couch in the corner of the room, all he could do was snarl at people trying to get too close. If he didn't have the looks, at least he could act the part. Sure, that was in complete contradiction to his first intentions for the night, but he was already well pass the idea of meeting people anyway. Eve could keep nagging him all she wanted, he just wasn't a people person, and he was doing great on his own. And on top of it, his mum had not sacrificed all of her savings to get him into a private university just so he would fail his classes by going out every other night.
His eyes wandered across the room, finding his friend already dancing and obviously flirting with a young man, and the sight only made him feel gloomier and more inadequate.
Crowley sighed and stood up abruptly. This wasn’t going to work. The place was too crowded, the music too loud, and he was too grumpy to let anyone come close anyway. He grabbed his coat from the back of the sofa and pushed his way through the crowd until he reached the front door.
He opened it and almost jumped back, standing face to face with an angel.
He blinked, feeling utterly stupid for even letting that thought cross his mind, unbridled as it was. The young man dressed as an angel — wings and halo and white toga complimenting a round cherubic face and curly blond hair — looked at him with a chuckle.
“Well, no need to knock, I suppose,” he said in a laugh. “Are you leaving already?”
“Uh…”
Crowley gaped at him, completely frozen. He didn’t know what to say, and he simply stood dumbstruck in front of the most handsome man he had ever seen in his life. Round, pink cheeks, blue eyes that looked like a storm-filled sky, lips as red and tempting as apples.
He had known he was gay from a fairly young age, but coming to his teenage years, he had also come to the realisation that he wasn't into other people all that much. He rarely looked at other men and found them attractive, let alone sexy. People were people. Sure, on some nights he closed his eyes and imagined himself kissing someone, or more, and in these indulgent moments, he took care of himself. But he usually didn’t picture anyone in particular, and when he did it was more likely to be Daniel Craig portraying James Bond than any people he had ever met in reality.
All he could think, looking at the angel smiling at him, revealing perfect white teeth and cheek dimples that were likely to kill someone, was that it was maybe about to change.
“Hey, kitty-cat! Get a move on!”
The voice came from behind the blond boy, from a taller man dressed in a sleek grey suit, his black hair slicked back like a businessman from the fifties.
“Am not a cat!” Crowley protested, scowling.
“No need to be rude Gabriel,” the angel said in another bright chuckle. “Do you mind letting us in, or are you guarding the door?”
“I ngk… was just going for a cigarette,” Crowley lied, patting his pockets as he stepped aside.
“Thank you, dear.”
Under his distraught gaze, the man took the hand of his friend, intertwining their fingers, and pulled him inside the house without another look toward Crowley.
The door closed behind Crowley with a defeated click. Toeing his shoes off at the side, his mind reeled with the events of the day.
Never in his entire life could he have guessed that Aziraphale, of all people, would be the one to teach him how to slow dance. A few days ago, having Eve take care of the details of the lesson sounded lucky, but now he wished he had taken care of it himself.
And then it was like a dam had broken. Every stupid thing he had thought about doing nearly a decade ago burst out of him. He flirted. He hadn’t seen the man in so long, had barely ever spoken to him about anything other than school work, and he flirted. Eve was right, he was far more confident and— well, more experienced, too. He had been in one or two relationships through the years, and even though they hadn’t lasted long, he was far from the skittish, shy boy he was in university.
An involuntary groan slipped out of him as he worked through the buttons of his shirt, wincing at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. Why was he such a disaster? Aziraphale hadn’t seemed that put out, had even timidly reciprocated once or twice, but that didn’t mean he was actually interested. He was just being polite, a professional. He obviously had no idea who Crowley was.
And why would he? Crowley had fought tooth and nail to make himself as invisible as possible every time the blond was in the vicinity— much to his best friend’s chagrin. She was the one he spoke to for hours and hours about his — obviously unrequited — crush on his classmate, over-analysing every polite smile, every random glance in his direction. She had actually threatened she would go over to Aziraphale herself and arrange a date for the two of them. A small part of Crowley was worried she might do it so he refrained from speaking about him as much as he could, claiming he had gotten over him.
What a stupid lie. Not that Eve had believed him for a second.
And now, he saw him again. Now, he was more experienced, confident, and a moderately successful astrophysicist who owned a flat in central London, for Someone’s sake! And — not to toot his own horn — but he knew that he had grown into an objectively attractive person.
All that, and he still immediately folded at the first words of praise tumbling out of the man’s lips. God, he ought to be locked up. Hidden far, far away in a tower guarded by massive snakes, a million miles away from the nearest human.
Pushing all thoughts of cherubic smiles away — there were a lot of them —, Crowley let himself get lost in the practised process of getting ready for bed. Shower, quick dinner in front of The Good Place reruns, and then aimless scrolling on his phone until it was far too late for a proper amount of sleep.
It was going to be fine. It was only a few classes, and then he would never have to see Aziraphale again.
But then again… what if he finally did what he had been wanting to for so long?
For the dance class the following week, Crowley had gone through half his wardrobe trying to find something to wear. He needed something stylish, but not too stiff so he wouldn’t be able to dance. But it certainly had to be something attractive, maybe also unintentionally revealing?
In the end, he went with a loose, dark purple shirt, whose neckline reached the middle of his sternum, paired with a pair of dark sweatpants that hugged his lean thighs nicely. Pulling two thin curls free from his low bun to frame his face, he gave himself a once-over in the mirror behind his door. He looked good. Effortlessly suave.
Aziraphale wasn’t going to know what hit him.
Crowley was right. He had no idea what had hit him, because he had barely spared him two glances. The read-head was fuming.
From the second Aziraphale had stepped into the room, he had looked at Crowley exactly 1.5 times1. Instead, he fiddled with the old tape player trying to find a song, took out his pocket watch twice and then when it was time to dance, he focused his entire attention on their feet. Crowley had thought he’d catch an interested trail of blue eyes down his body when the instructor stepped back to give him space to dance with his arms hovering in the air around an invisible partner— but to no avail.
Maybe the man was simply not interested.
Disappointment laced the realisation, but he didn’t let it linger much. It was okay, he couldn’t be everybody’s type. God knows the number of people he had found attractive were only a handful. He had been rejected once or twice before, and it always stung but he moved on. And so he would, again.
Of course, his life couldn’t be that easy. Even without looking at him, Aziraphale managed to drive Crowley up a wall. The way his warm hand curled around his shoulder, his thumb almost mindlessly tracing circles up and down his clavicle; his other hand wrapped loosely around Crowley’s own, palm broad and steady as he led them across the dance floor; his hot breath trickled down Crowley’s exposed sternum with every word of encouragement or even half-amused half-disappointed huff every time he messed up one of the steps. Everything pulled at the string within Crowley’s chest, little by little, winding him up tighter than a violin bow.
By the end of the lesson, Crowley was more than a little… frustrated. He was disoriented, stumbling over his own feet, wincing with every misstep that landed on the poor man’s toes.
“Alright,” the instructor announced, stepping away to a safe distance, “I think that’s enough for today. We have made some promising progress, but you’re obviously tired. We’ll pick up the choreography next week.”
“Cool, yeah, next week.” Crowley cleared his throat, thoughtlessly running his fingers over the tingling skin at the side of his neck, still warm from where Aziraphale’s hand had been. “Sorry about… y'know.” He gestured vaguely towards the tips of the man’s shoes, which had decidedly not been dark grey at the edges an hour ago.
“Nonsense,” Aziraphale dismissed him with a wave of his hand, “I am rather used to it by now.”
Chuckling, Crowley turned to his own bag, thrown carelessly just beside the door and retrieved his water bottle.
“I— I think we can arrange a rehearsal with your fiancée next week as well,” came the man’s voice from behind him, significantly less certain than before. “See what we’re working with, so to speak.”
His what?!
Cocking his head, Crowley frowned. “I don’t have a fiancée.”
Aziraphale actually took a step back, his eyes growing comically wide. “You— but— of course you do!”
“Thought I’d know if I were engaged, don’t ya think?” The edge of Crowley’s lips finally twitched into a smirk.
“Then what about… that woman that picked you up last week?” Aziraphale had gone as pale as his hair, looking between the red-head and the door as if someone was going to pop out and confirm his claim.
“That wo— Eve?!” Crowley cried, spluttering a startled laugh. “She’s not my fiancée, she’s my best friend! I’m the man of honour, that’s why I’m trying to learn how to dance so I won’t embarrass her on her wedding day.”
“Oh!” The man gasped, red now tinting the apples of his cheeks. Crowley ached to take a bite. “I— I see, how silly of me. It’s just— I saw the two of you together last week, and you were so… comfortable with each other, you even had pet names and I thought—”
“You sound jealous, angel.” The words were out of Crowley's mouth before he had the chance to stop them, but he managed to keep himself from backtracking.
Maybe Eve was right. It wouldn't hurt to try.
It was so worth it. Aziraphale’s eyes went wide again, darkening as his shoulder shook with an unsteady breath. A deep bordeaux colour reached down to his neckline, curled around the tips of his ears.
“I— certainly not,” the instructor stammered, hooking an index finger around his bow-tie. “It’s just— unfortunate how I assumed—”
“Unfortunate for whom?” A wide, predatory grin spread across Crowley’s face, widening upon the distracted state of the man in front of him.
“No— nobody, dear boy, I just— it was just an error, nothing more—”
Shaking his head, the red-head let out a soft chuckle. Aziraphale was almost panicking and as much as he enjoyed the flustered state he managed to get him into, he stopped.
“I’m just messing with you, Aziraphale,” he said at last, ignoring the fluttering in his chest at the immediate ease in the other’s features. He might have been the one to cause him such intense anxiety, but he had also been the one to take it away with a few words, and that sent a warmth down his spine like no other. “Eve's been my best friend since we were in uni. Great girl, but not really my… type. If you get what I mean.”
Jaw falling open in a small ‘o’, Aziraphale let out a soft chuckle. “Yes, I… quite. Yes. Tickety-boo.”
The mercifully still chilled water seemed delicious on Crowley’s tongue. Closing his eyes, he let out a sigh of satisfaction as he threw his head back to gather every last drop. When he looked back up, he could barely bite his smile back at Aziraphale’s obvious attempt to look away, dropping his keys with a loud clatter as he fumbled about for something to distract himself with.
Interesting.
1. Crowley was certain one of those was entirely accidental, hence it counting for only half a glance. Back to the story.