#gavotte my beloved

[yourangle-yuordevil]

Aziraphale invited him in a discreet gentlemen's club in Portland Place 💃

[notalostcausejustyet]

Forgot to post my May 8th prompt for @blairamok s Ineffable May. Here we are!

Records

My Dearest Darling

Understated in its elegance, the perfect marriage of artistic sensibility and scientific engineering, the gramophone is entirely lovely. It has held pride of place in this particular storefront for the last 100 or so years. The brass of its horn gleams dully in the low light, and the hand crank shows signs of loving wear, worn to the point of being misshapen in places. The wooden case has been well cared for, oiled, and polished, the wood darkening where hands have touched it with reverence and love countless times. The tone arm and needle have been gently lifted and placed to fill the surrounding space with the bombastic strains of Liszt, the brooding fantasy of Sibelius, and the romance of Debussy, over and over again. Today, however, the gramophone is going to fulfill the purpose for which it was originally purchased in 1923. And it will not play Bach, or Rachmaninoff, it will not play Schubert or Chopin. It’s not be-bop, not quite anyway, and it isn’t jazz or swing.

A blunt and beautifully manicured finger runs softly down the length of the tone arm and gently lifts and swings it over the 45 so carefully placed over the spindle earlier that evening in breathless anticipation. There is a small, scratching sound as the needle softly settles into grooved vinyl. The swelling sound of violins, a soft rhythmic piano, and brushes on a snare drum fill the still air. The hesitant click, click of worn leather soles across the warm wooden floor offers a counterpoint to the sultry voice that floats through the bookshop. Even the dust motes seem to understand that this is something of an event and have paused in their usual aimless meandering.

A sinuous spine begins to unwind from its languorous slouch at the approaching sound of footsteps that are familiar in both their cadence and hesitancy.

“New music Angel? I’m not complaining, but s’not your usual sort. Didn’t peg you for such a party animal.”

Crowley starts as a broad palm settles on his shoulder. The steps had been hesitant, and the question softly asked, but the touch that comes with it is steady and sure.

“Dance with me, my dear?”

Crowley cranes his head back and studies a face he knows better than his own. It is unbearably fond and utterly soft and the most beloved thing in his world. His mouth quirks in a half-smile.

“Fancy a gavotte then?”

That wonderfully heavy hand slides over his shoulder, down the length of his arm, and comes to rest on his own where the strong, but oh, so gentle fingers intertwine with his. Crowley shivers and suddenly feels far too present in his own skin.

“No, darling. Not exactly.”

A gentle, but insistent tug pulls him to his feet and he finds himself with an armful of angel. One hand is wrapped around his waist, a thumb rests lightly above a sharp hipbone and those manicured fingers brush against the small of his back. Crowley swallows thickly and looks down into cerulean eyes that are holding a question, waiting for his answer, full of kindness and so much warmth and something he doesn’t dare but hope for. He nods and Aziraphale smiles beatifically and pulls him closer. An almost silent snap has the record starting again and this time Crowley recognizes the rich voice of Etta James floating around them as Aziraphale turns them into the opening steps of a slow waltz.

“And here we are in Heaven

For you are mine, at last…”

[droughtofapathy]

The Gilded Age's Broadway Divas: Susan Blane (Laura Benanti)

Newly widowed Susan Blane has one purpose on this show, and apparently it's to get railed by a younger man and then get chased off by his mother and have her heart broken. Again. And then we never see her again. The end. Justice for Susan.

Now, I will preface this by saying that Laura Benanti lands outside my scope of interest--she's a little young for my tastes. However, I've always been amused and delighted by her performances, and I appreciate how raunchy she is, even if the quirkyness can be a bit...much at times. Laura is a five-time Tony nominee who won in 2008 for her role as Louise in Gypsy alongside Patti LuPone.

Starting off young, Laura Benanti made her Broadway debut at eighteen as the understudy to the late great Rebecca Luker's Maria in The Sound of Music, and eventually replaced her. She's had roles as Cinderella in Into the Woods (2002), Candela in Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, and Eileen Sherwood in the Encores! Wonderful Town opposite Donna Murphy, our beloved Mrs. Astor.

#1: "Wouldn't it be Loverly?" My Fair Lady (2018)

Lincoln Center is soprano territory. As one of the classical soprano dying breeds, Laura took over the role of Eliza Doolittle from Lauren Ambrose in the recent Broadway Revival. Her Eliza was older than most (Laura was on the cusp of forty when the took the role), and a delight, I must say. This show is, of course, a classic, and as such is dated like a classic. The production did attempt to give Eliza more agency, and it seemed to go over fine.

As Susan Blane spends most of her time in the white clothing of Newport, I just kept thinking about the Ascot Gavotte the entire time. The ladies of Newport would fit right in at the racetrack.

Fellow soprano Kelli O'Hara has also played this role in a different Lincoln Center theater back in 2007.

#2: "Model Behavior," Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (2011)

A critical failure despite its stellar cast, this show closed in less than three months, but nevertheless earned Laura a Tony nomination and a Drama Desk. Watching this masterclass of a breakdown, you can see why. Set in 80s Spain, the show features Candela, played by Laura, who's freaking out because her romantic interest might be a terrorist. But other than that, he's perfect. She sure knows how to pick 'em...

Tension behind the scenes between leading lady Sherie Rene Scott and Diva Patti LuPone made things a little...well. Anyway.

#3: Laura Benanti & The Skivvies - Passion Massion (2014)

So, I'm gonna be honest, I was going to go with a different Skivvies video, but then I saw Sexy Fosca, and I am baffled, horrified, and delighted.

The Skivvies is a hilarious cabaret group that performs, as you can imagine, in their underwear, and they have guest singers come on, also dressed in lingerie and other underthings. Most of their guest singers are working theatre actors, but sometimes we get Laura Benanti. She was a Skivvies regular for a time, and has a collection of comedic clips you can all enjoy on your own time.

#4: "Vanilla Ice Cream," She Loves Me (2015)

Broadway sopranos pass around roles like hot potatoes. Kelli O'Hara played Amalia Balash in the 2001 concert, and while some members of the cast transferred to Broadway five years later, Kelli was already in The King and I, and since Broadway has like four sopranos of this age that they rotate around, enter Laura Benanti. Though the show and her role was largely overshadowed by a little show called Hamilton that season, the production has a PBS proshot I'd recommend watching.

She Loves Me is yet another adaptation of an early 30s Hungarian play that was also the inspiration for You've Got Mail, so if you've seen that, you know the plot of this. (Side note: Gilded Age's Katie Finneran had a small role as Maureen, the Nanny who runs off with the kids' mother(?) I've never seen it, and that plot wasn't in the musical.)

#5: "So Many People," Saturday Night (2010)

If you thought we were going to get through Laura Benanti without a Sondheim, guess again. While Audra McDonald and Donna Murphy were part of the Ladies in Red, Laura Benanti instead gave us the other oft-sung cabaret number of Saturday Night in the Joanna Gleason dress, only reversed in color. Look it up and you'll see what I mean.

Laura was the last person to perform before the Ladies in Red segment, and thus isn't often remembered. But I remember. (Incidentally, "I Remember" is the song she sang for the Sondheim 90th.)

LINK TO MASTERPOST

[victorluvsalice]

Valicer Polyship Week, Day Five: Dancing (Modern AU)

Day Five of Valicer Polyship Week, courtesy of @polyshipweek, and we’re back to the Modern AU Valicer Road Trip with the “Dancing” prompt! And just like the “Bed Sharing” prompt, my inspiration for this was a The Bastard Son And The Devil Himself gif (the exact one is in this post, but this one has the same moment in it):

Add in that I just love dancing for Valice and Valicer in general, and this was a shoo-in for a prompt. So here’s a rainy night maybe midway through the trip, with Victor watching some truly beautiful dancing:

---

Victor had seen a lot of very talented dancers over the course of his twenty-three years. He’d even been tutored by a couple, hired by his mother to turn him into someone who could be seen at a high-class ball and not draw too much derision for his footwork. Hans and Nigel had been patient teachers, fortunately, and willing to overlook a few stepped-on feet and awkward stumbles into midsections, and thanks to them, Victor felt that he was at least passable on the dance floor. But he’d seen true masters of the craft all across England – ballerinas leaping across stages, so light on their toes they seemed to defy gravity; professional ballroom dancers twirling across marble floors, elegance personified as they waltzed in perfect time to the music; lords and ladies and other rich folk stepping skillfully through a complicated quadrille or indulging in a rather more spirited gavotte, showing off the talents wealth had bought them. He’d seen lifts and spins and dips and a dozen other moves he’d never be able to name without a cheat sheet, all courtesy of his mother’s endless quest to mingle and be seen mingling with the elite. He’d seen the best of the best of the best.

And not a single one of them held a candle to Smiler and Alice right now. His two beloveds were dancing together in the rain, lit by the glow of the travel lanterns Smiler had set up around their portable grill before the storm had rolled over them, soaked to the bone and not caring a jot. Alice’s hair glimmered in the cool light, sending droplets everywhere as she grabbed Smiler’s hand and twirled herself, while Smiler’s bright yellow contacts and matching tank top stood out like beacons against the darkness as they pulled her close for a playful dunk. Victor watched them from his position leaning against the front of the caravan they’d rented for their little expedition, stripped down to t-shirt and trousers, unable to take his eyes off the pair (save for when he had to wipe the rain out of them). The way they moved, without any shame or embarrassment, fluid in their not-giving-a-fuckery; the way their damp clothes clung to them, outlining Alice’s delicate frame and Smiler’s yoga-toned muscles; the way their smiles seemed to shine brighter than the lanterns, punctuated by regular fits of giggles as one or both of them slid in the mud and nearly crashed into the other – it all added up to the most beautiful sight Victor had ever seen. And to think – those two amazing, wonderful people love me, he thought, blinking a much different kind of wet out of his eyes. How did I ever end up so lucky?

Smiler spun themselves away from Alice, arcing their neck and throwing their hands dramatically over their head – before catching sight of Victor watching them. Instantly they were on the move, squelching their way over to him as quick as they could. “I thought you were inside!” they said, grabbing his hand and pulling him forward. “Well, come on, don’t just stand there – plenty of room for one more!”

“You’re already wet – you may as well make the best of it!” Alice agreed, beckoning them towards her.

Victor laughed and allowed himself to be hauled into the middle of the impromptu dance floor, feet moving to a rhythm all their own as he joined their bacchanalia. Oh, they’d pay the price for this when it came time to go to bed – their wet clothes would take ages to peel off, the laundry bag he’d left on the floor would start to smell, and they’d have to play rock-paper-scissors for the tiny shower again – but that was a problem for the future. Right now, Victor just wanted to enjoy the best dance he’d ever had.

--

[larygosomens]

colorized version of gavotte dancing Aziraphale

[paroxsysdraw]

FINALLY got around to drawing my favourite derg. gavotte my beloved

[lumiereandcogsworth]

I'm legally obligated to send you hug prompt 29

thank you my dear 🥺💕

29. hugging while slow dancing (from here)

word count: 522

(on ao3!)

—

Belle took a few steps, arms up with bent elbows, then grumbled and started again. She twirled back to her starting point in her nightgown.

“What are you doing?” asked her husband, who had been collecting a book to fall asleep to.

“Trying to get the steps to the gavotte correct so I don’t make a fool of myself tomorrow.”

“I sincerely doubt you’d make a fool of yourself. Besides, you’re a wonderful dancer.”

She stopped and turned to him. “That’s only because I’m often dancing with you, my love. You’re a good lead.”

He grinned, quirking an eyebrow. “Be that as it may, you’ll be just fine with other partners.”

“But you’ll still help me now, won’t you?” She held out her hand with a smirk.

Adam sighed and left his book on the nightstand, going over to her and taking her hand. “The steps are rather simple, darling.” He began leading her, nice and easy, she never missed a beat as they danced about the room in their ghostly night attire. They looked as though they were floating with each twirl; step by step, hand meeting and then separating from hand.

Belle laughed, Adam loved hearing that. She held onto his arm when they came together, and she smiled when they fell apart in rhythm. Theirs was a bond quite unlike anything Adam had known before; a comfortable understanding, an ease, a beloved trust. Adam broke the pattern of the dance, taking her hand when she should have stepped away from him and pulled her closer.

“Hey! Those aren’t the steps.”

“I grow tired of the steps, they keep taking you away from me.”

She laughed again, letting her arms fall around his shoulders, feeling comforted by his hands so firmly wrapped around the small of her back. “Well, how am I ever going to learn, then?”

“You did perfectly, as I could have predicted. My love, you know better than to doubt yourself.”

“I don’t usually. But I find I’m quite out of my depths here.”

“Darling Belle, you were born to be queen.”

Belle did not reply, only smiled and rested her head against his chest. But then she said, “Regardless of any truth in that statement, I’m still not going to love dancing with anyone as much as I love dancing with you.”

He smiled at this, and they fell into an easy rhythm, rocking side to side like gentle ocean tides sigh against the shore. Adam hugged her close as they slowly turned to the beat of their own hearts. All that could be heard was the fire crackling under the mantle, but there was music between them; a comfortable and romantic feeling of notes dancing off the pages and into the air, swirling around them and wrapping them tighter against one another.

They relaxed into each other’s familiar warmth, a soft embrace leaving them never wishing to be apart. Certainly, they would have to. But it would never be for long, as fate would have it. They were quite destined to have fallen into each other’s arms, and nothing was ever to part them again.

[cannebady]

An obligatory Good Omens New Year’s Eve ficlet. Enjoy!

Here on AO3!

I realized that I need you, and I wondered if I could come home 

It ended up bring a surprise visit. With the lockdowns continuing through most of the year, Aziraphale had been stubbornly dedicated to leading by example and had refused Crowley on several occasions when he’d offered to keep him company. It was the right decision, Crowley supposed. While neither angel nor demon could get sick or transmit it to others, humans were always looking for a loophole to skirt the rules and, although Crowley would usually go out of his way to encourage them, this was starting to remind him all too much of his least favorite centuries so he didn’t push too hard.

The other benefit, was that the distance pushed Aziraphale to actually use the mobile Crowley had bought him months before all hell (side eye heavily implied) broke loose, which allowed them to communicate almost constantly. As it turns out, alcohol and texting really can be revealing and they’d continued to move, albeit at a glacial pace, towards something more.

This is all, however, a moot point because Crowley woke up on the 31st of December and immediately thought, “Ah, fuck it.” He donned his mask (not that he needs it, but it sets a good example and is a solid Look™) and drove on over to Soho to surprise an angel.

When he knocked at the bookshop door, he could already feel the air of displeasure coming from inside. He smirked, only visible by the crinkling at the corner of one eye. Lockdowns had allowed Aziraphale’s already shoddy business hours to become almost nonexistent, something the angel had nearly unbridled joy for.

When the door opened, he had to rein in actual tears of relief. He knew he missed Aziraphale something fierce, but actually seeing him made the wreck of Crowley’s heart swell and squeeze in a way he wasn’t used to.

Donning a pearlescent white mask that was very likely not of this world in origin, storm blue eyes connected with his and Crowley was warmed through to see the same, lovely, overwhelmed feeling mirrored back to him.

“My dear,” Aziraphale had whispered, looking Crowley over, “what are you doing here? It isn’t safe!”

Crowley, tired of waiting on the step while they goggled at each other, pushed inside while Aziraphale closed the door, locking it for good measure. “Well hello to you too, angel. Long time, no see.”

He snapped his fingers to place his mask in a pocket universe (he’s a bit embarrassed to admit that his earthly pockets wouldn’t exactly hold much more than his fingertips) and took care of Aziraphale’s as well.

“Crowley, we discussed this! I miss you terribly, of course I do, but we can’t just go breaking the rules willy-nilly!”

A year ago Crowley would’ve rolled his eyes at “willy-nilly”, but right now? Well, right now he’s so entranced he can’t breathe, never mind scoff.

“Angel-” He breaks off because there’s so much he wants to say, but Aziraphale is beautiful. He’s known it since Eden, but this is the longest they’ve gone without seeing each other in quite some time and he’s obsessing over the few extra inches of white blonde curls, not to mention the couple of extra inches on well-fed hips (courtesy of quarantine baking and fewer walks in parks, and for that Crowley would just like to say thank you), that are both likely to send Crowley into hysterics if he thinks about them too long.

“M’sorry angel, I just-” he sighs, “I know it’s wrong I just couldn’t wait longer. I can go, if you’d like.” He looks down, he’s not as sure that Aziraphale will kick him out as he once had been, but that doesn’t mean that he wants to watch it happen.

What he misses, is the very obvious once-over Aziraphale gives to his messy, much longer, curls and the longing look that speaks to ages of desire to cross those last few feet between them.

“Nonsense, my dear. You’re right, we cannot make this worse and you took precautions.” Crowley lifts his eyes to meet Aziraphale’s and is met with a brilliant smile. “And, of course, I am so happy to see you dearest.”

Dearest. Aziraphale called him that sometimes via text but this is the first time he’d heard it out loud. He was more attached to it than he’d like to examine.

“Well, in that case, I believe the humans have a tradition on this day that involves both day drinking and regular drinking.” He miracles a few choice vintages and a lovely bottle of Whispering Angel, because he’s still an arsehole sometimes, onto the table in the back room.

“If it’s tradition I suppose we must.” Aziraphale says with a smirk that’s not angelic at all.

Perhaps, Crowley thinks as Aziraphale leads him back to the squashy, infernally comfortable couch in the back room, this year may just end better than it started.

It’s been hours. They made it through Crowley’s initial bottles and have moved on decidedly to Aziraphale’s own, not inconsiderable, reserves. They’re encroaching on drunken territory they haven’t traversed since Armageddon first fell on their radar but this time, it’s so much better.

They’re laughing wildly while Aziraphale recounts, with requisite demonstrations, how he learned the gavotte and Crowley’s laughing so hard that his stomach hurts. He’s warm, and they’re safe together, and Aziraphale has a lovely blush high on his cheeks and Crowley’s sure he has the same, and he can’t remember being this happy for a long, long time.

“And, and-,” the angel trails off for a moment, “I couldn’t quite remember which way to turn,” he pantomimes turning in a graceless circle, “so I just, well, I rather tumbled directly into a bookshelf and realized I’d imbibed a bit too much.”

He looks at Crowley pointedly while he tries to smother a cackle. “You know, it’s not entirely dissimilar to now. I fear I’m quite completely rat-arsed.”

Crowley’s control breaks and he laughs loud and long while Aziraphale blushes more and then joins him, because they’re both completely arseholed and they have been during every century since the Beginning.

A glance at the clock shows it’s only a short time until the clock ticks over into the next year and a pit forms in Crowley’s stomach. He doesn’t want to lose this easy camaraderie and the soft love he’s feeling (it is love, he’s known it for a long time, and has accepted it for long enough) and he isn’t sure if he’ll be permitted to stay. There’s also a part of him that, for several decades now, has dreamed about employing another human tradition surrounding New Year’s Eve, but he’s even less sure of its welcome.

Aziraphale catches his eyeline and looks towards the old grandfather clock, obviously seeing the change is Crowley’s bright disposition.

“Not long now, it would seem.” He says quietly.

“Not long at all and we’ll be singing Auld Lang Syne and bidd-”, Crowley stops, his throat choking up.

“And what, dear?” Aziraphale thinks he knows where this was headed. Thinks he knows that the complicated string of emotions is on Crowley’s beloved face. He thinks he might just see everything he wants in arms reach of taking.

Crowley’s eyes are fully yellow, goldenrod and gorgeous, dark with drink or something more when he looks up to meet Aziraphale’s own. “I-, angel. Would I, ngk, what would you say if I stayed for a bit? Kept you company?”

He drops his head down again. Aziraphale hates that he looks like he’s bracing for bad news. Perhaps he has not done as well as he thought in letting Crowley know that the door was wide open now. Frankly off its hinges. Perhaps it’s time for extraordinary measures.He closes the distance between them, sitting next to the demon on the couch.

“Dearest, I think I’d like nothing more.” He reaches out and cups Crowley’s sharp jaw, tilting his head so that he can look into those stunning eyes again. He runs his thumb along his cheekbone and hears the sharp inhale.

This is the most skin-to-skin contact they’ve had since the Roman baths (there was an awkward side hug at one point that Crowley thought may actually discorporate him). But now, the simple contact of those soft, plump fingers on his jaw and his cheek are about to send him to his maker.

“Angel,” he reaches up and lays his hand over Aziraphale’s. Little to their knowledge, they’ve begun a countdown all their own. “are you sure?”

“I’m positive darling. Let me show you.” Aziraphale responds, allowing his thump to dip and run along Crowley’s luscious bottom lip. “Can I show you?”

“Please, angel”, Crowley nearly sobs and kind, giving, gracious Aziraphale takes a brief inhale of his own before laying his lips against the demon’s.

Crowley’s never really done this before. Sure there were humans here and there that thought to lay one on him, but he’s never taken the time to think about it. Why are lips so bloody sensitive? He thinks before he stops possessing higher order functioning and has only a mind to get Aziraphale closer, right the fuck now.

He reaches out and drags his hands down Aziraphale’s arms (both angelic hands now buried in his hair), delighting at the honest to God whimper he gets in response, and lets one hand tangle in ice blonde curls longer than he’s ever seen them, and lets the other drift from shoulder to waist, and finally to land on an ample hip that fits so perfectly into his hand that he thinks he might cry.

Their lips refuse to part and before long it’s gone from gently exploratory, to open and hot, tongues running along lips, tangling together, allowing them to taste each other for the first time.

They break apart briefly, speaking so close that each word is a sweet caress on the other’s lips; a placeholder while they work out their thoughts.

Aziraphale takes it upon himself to take the plunge here too, “I love you. I have loved you for so long that I don’t know what it is not to love you. I fear I was quiet for too long, but I will no longer abide. I will tell you I love you each time I think about how much I love you, until you’re sick to death of hearing it.”

While breathing is an option for both, Crowley is nearly hyperventilating. He thought, perhaps, Aziraphale may think of trying something with him. May even want to try out some more, erm, intimate, acts with him as the angel is always in such a rage for pleasure. But he never guessed that the haunting, creation-long devotion he felt would be reciprocated in the same way.

“Oh angel, I love you. I met you on the wall of Eden and thought ‘Oh, what’s that in my chest?’ and realized they didn’t take my heart when I Fell. I’m yours, if you’ll have me, if you’ll be mine as well.”

“Dearest, I’ve been yours for some time now.” And then words really aren’t important any more as Crowley lunges, pushing Aziraphale back into the squashy couch and running his hands over his coveted softness while angelic hands map his neck and his back and, Christ, his arse.

While the world nervously looks to a new year for peace and solice, two celestial beings have found it, at long last, right at home.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - Dodge and Parry (Rated NC17)

Summary: Crowley discovers that he is rather enamored of his angel's bruises ... especially the ones that go farther than skin deep. (2006 words)

Notes: I wrote this for Kinktober 2020, the prompt 'bruises'. So I was going to write a piece about bruise worship, which this sort of is, but it went much deeper. I will try to come up with something kinkier and more fun another time XD

Read on AO3.

“How does that feel, angel?” Crowley asks, soaking his washcloth completely, then wringing it out over Aziraphale’s scalp. “Too hot? Too cold?”

“Neither.” Aziraphale hums happily with eyes shut. “It’s perfect. Sublime, I should say. Like soaking in a nice, warm cup of tea.”

“We’ve added enough dried flowers and wot not that you could just be,” Crowley comments, swiping a hand through the water, swatting at a cluster of rose petals, lavender, sweet jasmine, and chamomile.

“Hmm. Then you could drink me,” Aziraphale says, sinking deeper into the steaming water.

“Ngk … I … I could …” Crowley stumbles, but he recovers, a triumph since that remark from his angel almost had him choking on his tongue. “But let’s save the sweet stuff for later, eh? We’ve gotta get you fixed up.”

“Yes … let’s. Then … I can do you …” Aziraphale mumbles, drifting off, his cheeks rosy from the warmth and the company. Crowley soaps up his cloth and runs it over Aziraphale’s arm, sliding past a mark that has blossomed considerably since he last saw it. He runs the cloth over it again and it seems to darken, the cream-colored suds rinsing into cloudy water and revealing a plethora of purples swirled together, related to one another by hues, tiny freckles sprouting along the fringe like shy violets.

A galaxy of them really.

Crowley isn’t normally fond of scars and bruises, especially on his angel. Aziraphale bears many types of blacks and blues, with varied stories behind them. Older scars on Aziraphale’s corporation - ones following mortal paths and having faded to silver - come by way of other angels who delight in his suffering. Crowley has seen every one of those, categorized their existence, set their placements to memory. A touch of his fingertips tells him when they were created … and by whom.

Crowley has gathered a list of enemies on his angel’s behalf, and that list is long.

Very long.

Not all of angel’s bruises are visible to the naked, mortal eye, but they’ve dimmed his aura considerably.

Crowley never thought the humans’ quarantine would get to Aziraphale. Being locked inside, forbidden to go out and socialize, leaving him heaps of time to read his books, seemed like a dream come true. With no one coming into his shop to browse, there was nothing keeping him from doing his crossword puzzles till his heart’s content. And it seemed that way for the first few months.

But it didn’t stay that way.

More and more, Crowley would catch his angel sitting in a chair by the window, staring up at the sky, sighing deeply as if for a long lost love, which seemed utterly preposterous to Crowley since every book Aziraphale could ever want lay in a stack beside him. Aside from that, he had his music. And cake! Why, they’d been baking cake every single day! So much cake, in fact, that any poor soul who so much as poked their head out of their door received a cardboard baker’s box packed to bursting with confections, passed along at a socially safe distance courtesy of a long, wooden shepherd’s crook.

And thanks to a wonderful service with a mildly vulgar name, whenever Aziraphale so desired, a delivery person dropped by with a box of his favorite sushi, which Crowley generously tipped for.

But Aziraphale still wasn’t happy. And he was becoming less happy by the day.

Something had changed.

He mentioned several times to Crowley that he felt hemmed in; that lately, being locked inside made it difficult for him to breathe. He longed to walk through the park, soak in the sunshine (when it made itself available), and feed the ducks again.

Crowley didn’t understand it. Aziraphale despised exercise to such a degree that if he sat at Crowley’s kitchen table, preparing to sup, and discovered that he’d left the butter in the fridge, he’d rather do without then to get up and fetch it.

It wasn’t until days later, when Crowley found a stack of newspaper clippings hiding underneath Aziraphale’s ledger, that he began to catch on:

Covid cases increase rapidly as next steps planned

'Tier Three' Covid restrictions in announcement on Monday

More than 80% of positive UK cases in study had no core symptoms

It wasn’t the toll quarantine was taking on Aziraphale. It was the toll this disease that caused the need for a quarantine was taking on the humans he was so fond of. That time spent staring at the sky, Aziraphale spent praying, wondering why the Almighty would let this continue, let so many of Her beloveds die and for what?

From the expression on his angel’s face after, Crowley assumed he got no answers.

It was like the Ark all over again, only without the refreshing rain, and with no rainbow in sight.

Determined to take his mind off of it, Crowley arranged a private movie marathon for his angel at his flat. They sat on his sofa with homemade snacks and watched some old Errol Flynn movies. And it worked! After a while, Crowley started watching Aziraphale more than the film, his angel that much more entertaining. Aziraphale had started the way he watched every movie - sitting primly upright, hands folded in his lap, eyes glued to the screen. But over time, he’d started to inch forward, lean in, muscles twitching to recreate the fight scenes - the swipes of a sword, the parries, his feet shuffling enthusiastically in place to mimic the steps of the actors’ retreats like they were performing a gavotte.

Encouraged that this was a way to break through Aziraphale’s melancholy, Crowley recommended they dig out the old fencing foils and have at it, sans protective gear in honor of old Errol. Besides, they didn’t need it.

“Oh! No, no, no!” Aziraphale argued at first, even with a smile on his lips. “I couldn’t! It’s been so long!”

“Nonsense!” Crowley retorted, heading for his closet. “You were an expert swordsman centuries ago. I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully now. It’s like riding a bicycle.”

“And how’s that, dear?”

“Once you fall off, you get right back on.” Crowley tossed Aziraphale a foil, which he caught without looking, and Crowley smirked knowingly.

Crowley didn’t give Aziraphale a chance to back out, didn’t salute him like at the beginning of an official duel. Crowley came at him like a buccaneer, crowing and catching Aziraphale off-guard. But Aziraphale fought back. He wasn’t upset by Crowley’s abrupt start. On the contrary. He laughed at Crowley’s antics, especially when he tried to evade by climbing over the sofa, and then onto an end table. His joy was infectious. It rang through Crowley’s flat, made the plants (which had initially recoiled at the sound of clashing metal) stand straighter, wave their leaves and cheer. It rose up inside Crowley as if the joy were his own, making him laugh, too.

Laugh till he snorted, which he hadn’t done in a long time.

But it didn’t last as long as Crowley had hoped.

Aziraphale got lost somewhere in the fight, lost in thinking, his mind drifting in all directions while he dodged and parried by rote. His face grew tense, his expression morphing from concentration to anger … to vengeance. He went after Crowley with clouded eyes, as if everything pent up inside him - the sadness and the anxiety - had found a weak spot in Aziraphale’s armor.

And now, it was starting to break through.

Crowley didn’t know who Aziraphale saw when he looked at him. Those world leaders who didn’t take this pandemic seriously, who didn’t act quick enough, who were greedy.

Beelzebub and the Dukes of Hell, whom Aziraphale credited for the speed in which this disease took hold, and the blind, stubborn stupidity of those who refused to do their part to stop it.

Gabriel, who has long since laughed off any correspondence Aziraphale has sent him regarding the matter, rejecting the last dozen with a very snarky ‘Return to sender!’ emblazoned in gold across the envelope.

Or the Almighty, who has the power to stop this but who has refused, and doesn’t have the decency to tell him why.

Or maybe he simply saw Crowley, who treated the whole thing like a joke, not only taking a nap for the first few months but then extending it, leaving Aziraphale alone when he might have needed him most.

Aziraphale attacked, closing in on Crowley fast, fighting with more fist than blade, and Crowley defended.

They struck one another at the same time - Aziraphale bringing his wrist down on the bridge of Crowley’s nose, Crowley’s guard-covered fist coming up to block and accidentally clocking Aziraphale on the jaw.

Both stumbled back, seeing stars.

Had they been human, Crowley’s nose would have broken, and Aziraphale’s jaw would have shattered. As was, Crowley’s nose ended up a bit crooked till a minute ago when Aziraphale snapped his fingers and set it straight. Aziraphale’s jaw still sported an indigo bruise reminiscent of a mum.

“Oh … oh my dear boy! I am so sorry!” Aziraphale apologized profusely when he saw Crowley’s nose, blood pooling underneath.

“Wot?” Crowley sniffed, wiping his Cupid’s bow with the back of his hand, examining the stain left behind with swimming eyes. “Oh, this? It’s nothing. Barely a scratch. Think nothing of it.”

“But … but …” Aziraphale stuttered, on the verge of tears. He dropped his sword, almost dropped to his knees, too, but Crowley hurried forward and gathered him up, wrapped him in his arms and held him.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, hugging Aziraphale tight. “It’s going to be all right, angel.”

“Do you … do you really think so?”

“Yes,” Crowley said with a sigh. Whether he did or not didn’t actually matter. But no one, angel or human, was going to get through today and on to the next if they didn���t believe it was at least possible. Crowley had to hold Aziraphale together, even if he did it with lies. He had to keep the one angel left on earth who still cared going. “I do.”

That’s when Aziraphale’s tears began to fall.

Crowley held him.

An hour went by, and Crowley held him.

Crowley declared Aziraphale the winner, and as a reward, offered to give him a bath and miracle him healed.

But when he got his angel naked and saw the bruises glowing on his skin, he hesitated. He shouldn’t be attracted to them. He shouldn’t find them appealing. On top of being physical damage to Aziraphale’s skin, some of them were bred out of despair. They should have repulsed Crowley, but they were actually glorious, like a small corner of impressionist art brought to life and tattooed on his skin.

Because not all of these new bruises, exploding with vibrant color and depth, were bad. They happened when Aziraphale was still smiling, still laughing. When his leg banged the corner of a table during a particularly rowdy retreat. When he tried to follow Crowley vaulting over the back of the sofa, misstepped, and landed on his knee. When their foils tangled together and Crowley accidentally kicked Aziraphale in the thigh in his effort to separate them. Aziraphale had watched Crowley fly backward, land on his heel, and spin three times like a ballerina, stopping in a perfect arabesque, just to then trip over air and land in a chair. Aziraphale threw his head back and laughed so hard, he walked right into Crowley’s (blunted) sword, the flat tip leaving its circular shadow behind.

Those bruises …

Those are bruises of pleasure.

They run deeper than skin.

And Crowley is quite satisfied by that.

Crowley almost regrets his promise to rid Aziraphale of them.

But being the one who gets to heal Aziraphale is an honor all its own.

However, he realizes with a grin, there is a way to get them back.

He’ll memorize these, too. Their exact locations.

And freshen them up later with his mouth.

[fataziraphale]

The Best and Wisest Man Whom I Have Ever Known (A Good Omens Secret Santa)

Happy holidays, @ditherwings!!! I was your Good Omens Secret Santa! I had oodles of fun writing this—I too adore literary history and Aziraphale being a dork. You have excellent taste! I hope your holidays are wonderful and you enjoy this offering from me.

When Aziraphale sent a letter to cancel their dinner plans, Crowley dropped a potted plant in shock, scattering ceramic shards all over his kitchen floor. Aziraphale never turned down the Café Royal. He relished in running into all those authors he was fond of, like the unsettlingly tall one who flirted a bit too much for Crowley’s taste. Plus—and this generally piqued Aziraphale’s interest even more—their French patisserie was to die for.

Perhaps more alarming, Aziraphale’s elegantly looped handwriting announced he was cancelling dinner because he was currently in mourning.

In mourning? For a human, then? It didn’t seem in-character. Among their other arrangements, Crowley and Aziraphale had made a pact, some drunken night in 1431, that they weren’t going to love any specific humans. Sure, it was all right for Aziraphale to go the salons and debate the merits of various magazine poems, or be on a first-name basis with his local baker. It was another matter entirely for him to become attached.

It all got too messy. They’d agreed on that. They’d practically emptied out a winery after Boccaccio died—Aziraphale because the man had made such incredible contributions to the literary canon, Crowley because he’d inspired a whole generation of women to take up masturbating, but both because Giovanni was a friend. They knew what happened to humans after they died, they knew the man’s soul would live on until at least Armageddon, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that they would miss him, and they couldn’t keep going on like this, becoming blubbery messes incapable of doing their duties every time a good drinking buddy got ill. So they’d decided not to. They’d promised.

So then who the dev—who was Aziraphale mourning now?

Miffed at Aziraphale going back on his word (and certainly not worried about the angel, don’t be daft), Crowley fetched his hat and coat and set off into the streets of London. Carriages crowded the road, humans weaving in and out of the foggy air. Crowley flagged a cab and rattled off Aziraphale’s address, tapping his foot against the carriage floor as it bumped against the cobblestones.

It was awfully inconvenient, relying on humans for transport, but he had never been particularly good with horses. He’d read in the paper about a German woman who’d traveled a great distance in some sort of horseless carriage. He’d been thinking of heading to the continent to see what the fuss was for himself. He wondered if Aziraphale would like to come along—they could go hear that new Brahms piano thing everyone and their mother raved about.

But no. Aziraphale was in mourning.

Not for the first time, Crowley wondered if it wasn’t simply a euphemism. If Aziraphale wasn’t angry with Crowley but too polite to say so. Sure, they’d had that tiff in the 60s over holy water, but Crowley had thought they’d patched things up. He’d bought Aziraphale his weight in apology chocolate. So what could be the matter now?

Yet as he exited the cab onto Aziraphale’s street, Crowley couldn’t help but notice a pattern: young men sporting black armbands. Yes, there were bucketloads of them—this one hurrying into his apartment, that one buying flowers from a stand on the roadside, those two comforting a weeping woman. Crowley remembered himself just enough to push one mourner into the street, making sure to do so when no carriages where heading his way.

The bookshop was closed, but that was normal for Tuesdays. Crowley rang the bell and, when no one answered, willed the knob to turn.

The angel Aziraphale sat his desk, sniffling over a copy of The Strand.

Crowley stared at him. Indeed, Aziraphale did appear to be mourning—he wore a black crêpe around his upper arm, and another adorned the hat hanging on his hat stand. He put down the magazine with a sigh that came from the very depths of his soul, if angels had that sort of thing (Crowley wasn’t entirely sure). He removed his spectacles from his nose, tucked them into his pocket, and caught eyes with Crowley across the room.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured. “You’ve read it, haven’t you? Do sit down. Would you like some tea? No, you’ll likely need something stronger.”

Mystified, Crowley lowered himself into a chair, stopping first to lift a heap of books off its seat and onto the floor. “Read what? I saw the men in the streets. Who died? Is it someone important?” His eyes widened. “They didn’t catch that friend of yours, did they? That author who wears all those gaudy green flowers?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Oscar is perfectly sound, though I’m not sure A Woman of No Importance was his tightest work. Perhaps he should stick with prose rather than drama.”

“Then what’s this about? Someone from your gentleman’s club? No, it’s got to be some famous bugger if everyone’s gutted about it.” Crowley cast his eyes around for inspiration. “It’s not the Queen. I would have heard if it were the bloody Queen.”

Aziraphale drew a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. Crowley had never known Aziraphale to be a crier, but now he was getting the disturbing impulse to start saying things like “There, there” and “It’ll all be all right in the end.”

“He was a great man,” said Aziraphale. “Perhaps Britain’s finest. Crowley, I simply don’t know how I will go on without him.”

Crowley had already reached across the desk for Aziraphale’s hand before he remembered he was supposed to be a demon. “I thought we said we weren’t going to do this. Not after Joan. We weren’t going to get close to humans.”

“Oh, he and I aren’t close. Goodness, though, I should think I’m going to write the man a very stern letter. You simply can’t go playing with people’s emotions like that!”

“It probably wasn’t his fault,” Crowley said. “You know, dying. Humans tend to do it whether they want to or not.”

“But humans can choose not to murder a beloved cultural figure!”

This caught Crowley’s attention. Murder wasn’t always the work of his side, but it was certainly more in his wheelhouse than the angel’s.

“Do you want revenge, angel?” Crowley tried his best to snarl, but his tone came out more like sympathy. “Because I can help you with that. I can turn the murderer’s… undergarments into ants. I don’t know, give me time to think of something really devious, I’m a bit rusty.”

“Perhaps you could write him a letter too,” said Aziraphale, and then his eyes lit up. Something inside him clicked, and a smile lifted his chubby cheeks to Heaven—just as it had when he’d first tried bread back in Mesopotamia, or last week when he’d showed off his charmingly bad gavotte.

“We could start a movement,” Aziraphale gushed. Crowley’s heart, despite not strictly needing to beat, threatened to give out altogether. “Yes, I believe we could! One letter might not sway the man, but twenty? Fifty? One hundred? We could rally the men in the streets! Tape up posters in Trafalgar Square! I could make a picket sign! I’ve always wanted to make a picket sign.” He stood up, raising a triumphant fist as he glared righteously at a stack of encyclopedias. “Why, if we put enough pressure on the man, he’ll have to cave! He’ll bring the dead back to life in no time at all!”

“Er,” said Crowley. “I’m not sure that’s how that works.”

“Don’t be silly, dear. If anyone can think of a way to bring back the world’s greatest detective, it’s Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Why would this Conan Doyle bloke kill a detective? Did he do a crime he wants covered up? Does the detective owe him money?”

“What? Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale chuckled. Crowley could feel his cheeks growing pink for at least three reasons. “Sherlock Holmes is fictional. He’s Doyle’s literary creation.” He frowned. “I gave you The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes last Christmas. Did you not read it?”

Crowley stared. “Do you mean to tell me, all this time, you’ve been planning to skip out on dinner because you’re mourning someone fictional?”

“He’s a very good detective.”

“I don’t believe this! Angel, I thought you were actually depressed!”

“I am depressed!” Aziraphale scoffed. “And it’s perfectly reasonable to be affected by literature! Why, just last year, I closed my bookshop for a month to recover from The Picture of Dorian Gray!”

“I thought you just didn’t fancy dealing with customers!”

“And you, my dear.” Aziraphale jabbed a finger in his direction. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you! 1806 BC! You cried after reading The Epic of Gilgamesh! At seeing the humans’ first attempt at truly great literature!”

“Angel, those were tears of laughter! That guy Enkidu had a hard-on for two bloody weeks! Could you keep a straight face reading that?”

“There’s no need to be crass.” Aziraphale coughed into his handkerchief, but Crowley could recognize those upturned lips anywhere. “Anyway, I’m hardly alone in this. Plenty of readers lived for the Holmes stories. It’s a true pity there won’t be any more.”

“Good. Oodles of angry humans. Doyle did my job for me.” Crowley was already mentally drafting a very threatening letter. Naming the man’s children should do the trick. In the off-chance he didn’t have any children, well, the replacing Doyle’s undergarments with ants idea was growing on him.

“But you see, this is why I mustn’t go to dinner with you.” Aziraphale assumed his most sincere expression. “It would be disrespectful to be seen lavishly dining and carrying on when such a tragedy has befallen the literary world. Why, none of my friends there would let me hear the end of it.” He gazed forlornly into an empty mug, rimmed around the top with cocoa stains.

“What about lunch?”

Aziraphale’s head snapped up. “Oh, excellent. I’m simply starving. And a man must eat. No one could blame me for that.”

Crowley’s mouth curled into a devilish grin. He held out his hand, and Aziraphale took it. “I won’t tell any of your author friends if you don’t bring up me and Gilgamesh.”

“Perhaps only in private.”

“It’s a funny poem! The bloke had sex for two weeks!”

“Ah, that reminds me. If you truly don’t want your first edition Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, may I have it back? It would make an excellent addition to my collection.”

“You devious bastard. You only bought me that bloody book because you wanted it.”

Crowley weaved between dusty stacks of hardbacks and emerged blinking onto the Soho street. Remembering the mourner with his arm around his compatriot, Crowley vaguely thought of putting an arm around Aziraphale.

But that wasn’t the way their love language worked. Crowley’s love was showing up. Was badgering Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle to a bloody pulp until he brought Sherlock Holmes back to life, logic be damned. Was giving Aziraphale an excuse to pig out on French pastry. Was hailing a cab and taking Aziraphale’s hand to pull him up inside.

As Aziraphale’s plushy hip pressed into Crowley’s, he thought of the new electric lights they’d shown off at the Paris Exposition. He could feel that current now, running through the angel’s body into his.

He realized Aziraphale had only broken his promise if their pact not to love humans extended to fictional ones. At any rate, if it included falling in love with angels, Crowley was in an awful lot of trouble, and he owed Aziraphale about £15.

Perhaps some promises were made to be broken.

[thefederalistfreestyle]

Hamilton’ Is Known For Its Music, but What Did Alexander Hamilton Listen To? (NYT):

[. . .] “When it goes there for the hip-hop feel, it really goes there,” Alex Lacamoire, the original music director and orchestrator of “Hamilton,” said in a phone interview about the show. “When it goes there for the musical theater sound, it really goes there as well. I don’t know that there’s any kind of music that really went to: ‘Oh, this is 1776.’”

And while rap aficionados and theater nerds have exhaustively cataloged the rich referential web of Mr. Miranda’s “Hamilton” score, little attention has been paid to the show’s engagement with the music that Alexander Hamilton would have known in his lifetime.

If the show’s creators had decided to “go there” to 1776, they might first have looked to the music of the American maverick composer William Billings. A clear parallel to the partisan braggadocio of Hamilton’s indelible Act I number “My Shot” is Billings’s hymn “Chester,” first published in 1770.

“Let tyrants shake their iron rod,” the hymn opens, with a stirring and catchy melody. “And slav’ry clank her galling chains. We fear them not; we trust in God. New England’s God forever reigns.” Conscripting God to the side of the patriots, it became an unofficial anthem of the Revolution, and is still frequently performed by choirs today.

A Boston tanner who had no formal musical training, Billings was an emblematic musical patriot: He developed an eccentric style marked by boisterous tunes and uncouth harmonies, and was a friend of agitators including Samuel Adams. His first book of hymns, “The New-England Psalm-Singer,” had a frontispiece engraved by Paul Revere.

Rather than riffs on Billings, the only sustained sonic reference to an 18th-century composer in “Hamilton” is to a European, Johann Sebastian Bach. In the Act I scene “Farmer Refuted,” the loyalist Samuel Seabury chastises the revolutionaries in an affected waltz accompanied by twinkling harpsichord, a gesture that Miranda describes in “Hamilton: The Revolution” as “getting my Bach on, essentially.” Mr. Lacamoire said of the song: “Bach died in 1750, so that’s not too far off from what was popular at the time. To me, the harpsichord was a really cool way to represent the Old World, to represent this tight, brittle, repressed kind of feeling.”

Aligning the classical sounds of Bach with the stuffiness of the Old World is a typical gesture in historical musicals, notes the musicologist Elissa Harbert, whose research focuses on musical dramatizations of American history. “It’s often in the music for British or British loyalist characters that we see the most signifiers of European music,” she said in an interview. “The patriot side very often will be represented by very up-to-date popular musical styles.”

Indeed, as Seabury continues to sing, the character of Hamilton intrudes and decimates his argument in a contrasting riposte, inspired not by Bach but by the rappers Joell Ortiz and Big Pun. “It casts the present-day audience in the role of the patriots,” Ms. Harbert added.

[. . .]

One of the most popular of these propagandistic reworkings was John Dickinson’s 1768 “Liberty Song.” A founding father, Dickinson took the tune of the beloved British naval anthem “Heart of Oak” and exchanged its original text (“Come, cheer up, my lads, ‘tis to glory we steer, to add something more to this wonderful year”) for a political provocation (“Come, join hand in hand, brave Americans all, and rouse your bold hearts to fair liberty’s call”).

Loyalists subsequently fired back with their own revamp, mocking the patriots: “Come shake your dull noddles, ye pumpkins and bawl, and own that you’re mad at fair liberty’s call.” Such dueling sets of political lyrics represent a kind of Colonial counterpart to the hip-hop battles of “Hamilton.”

And though it’s not emphasized in the show, several of the starring founding fathers were musicians themselves. Alexander Hamilton was fond of singing and performed duets at the piano with his daughter. (In “Hamilton,” this domestic music-making is transposed to Alexander’s son Philip and his wife Eliza.) The family piano was a gift from Angelica Schuyler Church, his sister-in-law and a key character in the musical.

[. . .]

As the orchestrator of Mr. Miranda’s songs, Mr. Lacamoire did seek to capture the sound of early America with a handful of subtle coloristic touches. He researched instruments that were prevalent in the Colonial era and subsequently incorporated snippets of strings, recorder, fortepiano, hammered dulcimer, field drum and even glass harmonica (an invention of Benjamin Franklin) throughout the score. And he cast a ball scene in Act I as a gavotte, a popular dance form in the colonies.

But Mr. Lacamoire intentionally avoided overplaying such references. “There’s a certain point where you feel like you might be trying to be clever for clever’s sake,” he said. “The songs guided me in enough of a direction that I didn’t need to go that deep into what was happening in the era.” [. . .]

[gorillazgal86]

Book of Love 2/3 -- Sing to Me

Also available at https://archiveofourown.org/works/19731313/chapters/46769932

"Ugh, I'm not sure I can keep this up angel.  Toddlers are impossible. All he does is cry and scream and throw things at me."  Crowley sank into Aziraphale's settee in the bookshop, unscrewed a bottle of wine and promptly inhaled half the bottle.  Some occasions called for a fine vintage; this was not one of those occasions.   A day like this demanded screw-top wine.  And lots of it.

Aziraphale laughed, taking a deep drink.  "You volunteered, dear, this is your own doing." Gardening was tiring enough, but he didn't envy Crowley's work as Nanny Ashtoerth, particularly as by all reports, young Warlock had become something of a threenager (his mother's words) and had developed a particular fondness for the word no.

"Only because I look better in a skirt than you do,"  he looked down realising he was still wearing said skirt, stained with pureed carrot.  He wrinkled his nose in disgust and snapped his fingers to miracle something more to his own tastes, dark jeans and an equally dark t-shirt.  "Give us that wine back,"  he held his hand out.

"You've never seen me in a skirt, may be just as lovely,"  Aziraphale passed the bottle back.

"Oh?  You think I look lovely in a skirt there angel?"  Crowley grinned wickedly.  

"That's. . . that's not what I meant,"  Aziraphale's cheeks went quite a bright colour of pink.  

Crowley just smirked and they continued to pass the bottle between them, comparing notes of their self-assigned godfather assignment.  

As a fourth bottle of wine was opened between, their conversation drifted from raising the Antichrist to more philosophical questions:

"So tell me, how many angels can actually dance on a head of a pin?" Crowley grinned cheekily.  

Aziraphale giggled, "I know the answer to this!  One!"  His nose scrunched in delight.  'It's me!"  He pointed proudly at himself.  

"That's right, I forgot about you and your beloved gavotte!  No one dances that anymore."

"I know," Aziraphale pouted, he had so enjoyed dancing.  

"C'mon then angel, I'll teach you a new one,"  Crowley stood up and wobbled for a moment, the wine rushing rather quickly to his head.  

"Um, alright then," Aziraphale followed him, also feeling a bit unsteady on his feet.  "Probably not going to be any good."

"Don't say that, this one's easy.  Here, stand behind me and follow my feet.  Right foot goes back, left foot goes next to it . . . shoulder-width apart.  And then close them,"  He glanced behind him, as the angel mimicked his feet.  "And then left foot forward," He stumbled forward, catching himself on a table.  "Don't do that bit."

Aziraphale laughed and waited to Crowley to right himself.  "Right, so left foot forward, right foot up next to it, shoulder-width again and then close.  Then you do it all over again."  

"And that's it?"  Aziraphale asked, following along with Crowley.

"Well, there's more to it than that, but that will do for now,"  Crowley turned around and stepped back, watching the angel continue to move in a box step and smiled approvingly.  "You're getting it now."

"And i just stand here like this?"  Aziraphale had to be honest, he didn't much see the point of this, it certainly did not measure up to the complexity and allure of the gavotte.

"No, you dance it with someone else, like this,"  He stepped forward, pulled the Aziraphale close to him with a hand on the small of his back, and took his other hand in his, raising them both to shoulder height.  "Your hand on my shoulder."

Aziraphale's breath caught in his throat from the firm touch and the sudden closeness between him and the demon. His heart began to thump insistently in his chest.  He looked up, feeling much more sober than he had just a moment ago.  He gulped as Crowley began to lead him in the box step again, moving awkwardly as he tried to force his brain and his feet to synchronise.

"Relax angel, just follow my lead,"  Crowley's voice was soft, his face inscrutable behind his dark glasses.  Aziraphale nodded.

"And would there be music to go with this?"  he asked as their steps fell in together.  He paused for a moment and found his hand reaching up on its own accord to Crowley's glasses.

"May I?"  His hand hovered a moment, shaking.  

"Sure,"  Crowley breath was a bit ragged as Aziraphale gently removed his sunglasses.  The angel smiled warmly as Crowley's amber eyes met his own.  Aziraphale had a faint blush on his cheeks, trying to pretend that this was all perfectly normal and his heart wasn't an inch from bursting from his chest.

Crowley took the moment his hand was free to snap lightly, a record materialising onto Aziraphale's ancient gramophone, the needle setting itself and the sound of a piano filled the bookshop.  After a moment, Crowley began to move them again, pulling Aziraphale close again.

"Just a perfect day, drink sangria in the park and then later, when it gets dark, we go home,"  Crowley began to softly sing along as their bodies found the rhythm and moved together slowly.

Aziraphale's head was spinning, his body felt like it was on fire.  His eyes were glued firmly to Crowley's, unable to tear himself away.  His snake-like eyes were wide and inviting and their bodies pressed closer with each step, closing any gap between them.  

Aziraphale had always felt an aura of affection from Crowley and had, at various times, wondered if it meant what he had suspected it might, but he had never allowed himself to dwell on it too long.  The consequences of an angel and demon . . . becoming close, were severe.  But it was in this moment he was certain beyond reasonable doubt and was too overwhelmed to care about what their respective head offices may think of this.  

Crowley's touch was firm and wanting, as if he were clinging on for his very existence.  As the demon sang to him, moving him effortlessly through this simple, but utterly enchanting set of steps, Aziraphale saw him as God's most perfect creation.

"Just a perfect day, you made me forget myself, I thought I was someone else, someone good,"  Crowley's voice was barely above a whisper, meeting Aziraphale's gaze, his fingers wrapping tightly against the angel's, his thumb idly making small circles around the top of his hand.

As the music faded away, Crowley looked down the floor, suddenly very aware of himself.  The bookshop was silent save for their breathing.  He opened his mouth to speak, but Aziraphale put a finger to his lips, stilling his voice. He lingered a moment there, studying the demon's face and then pressed their lips together.  

Crowley's eyes opened wide in surprise.  "Aziraphale . . . ." he said breathlessly, cupped his face and returned the kiss, hungry but tender.  The angel melted into the kiss, winding his arms around Crowley's neck, his fingers playing with the soft hair at the back of his neck.

After what could have been seconds, minutes or hours, they parted, lips swollen and wet, eyes glowing in the dim light.

"Aziraphale, I . . ." Crowley began, wanting desperately to say the words he had held back for six thousand years.  

"I know my dear,"  Aziraphale craved hearing them as much as Crowley wished to speak them, but knew it couldn't be now.  Once spoken aloud, there was no going back, no plausible deniability if they were found out.  

"Me too,"  He pressed the words to Crowley's ear and hoped he'd understand.