Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: SAFE
Fandom: Good Omens
Relationship: Aziraphale/Crowley
Tags: Mutual Pining, Smoking, Slow Dancing, Coping Mechanisms, Light Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Denial, Pre-Slash, Historically Inaccurate Vintage Party
Wordcount: 2740
Notes: Listen to the song

Summary:
Aziraphale impulsively goes to a 1920s-inspired party hoping to dance again, is disappointed, sulks about the old times, and gets swept off his feet by Crowley.

Excerpt:

“Parties wear me out so quickly, it’s so crowded in there I swear it feels like being back in Hell,” Crowley complained, shaking the ash off his cigarette in the street below. He glanced at Aziraphale. “I don't think I've ever seen you wear black before. New suit?” Aziraphale chuckled. “I wouldn't call it new, it was made in 1924. A gift, from a friend.” He reached for the ashtray on the nearest table. “I’m not the most knowledgeable in regards of fashion, but I think your dress would be too short for the period.”

{ read on AO3 | read here }

As a rule, Aziraphale didn’t get out much. The bookshop kept him terribly busy: there were new arrivals to catalogue, first editions to locate and order, shelves to re-arrange, manuscripts that had been misplaced by accident to re-discover and delight in, favourite novels to re-read in a bout of nostalgia and heartfelt remembrance, customers to be shooed away or, if they really had to insist, let in and even sold books to. He wasn’t the type of person who just went out of their way to entertain themselves, unlike a certain demon; unless theatre was involved, of course. Or food. Or—well. There were exceptions. There were exceptions to every rule. That was a rule in itself. At any rate, if he did get out, it was to do his angelic job, usually. He certainly couldn’t give his blessings and thwart infernal wiles from his favourite armchair, after all.

The point was, Aziraphale generally didn't do parties. He never cared about parties—not in a long time. And even then, they weren't exactly parties and he wouldn't have called ‘going to parties’ what he used to do back then, when the gavotte had gone out of fashion twenty years before and he spent evenings sitting on overstuffed chintz loveseats by himself as his friends danced on—

Anyway, he was at that party only because he was going back to the shop, and there was a girl handing out flyers right out front, and he had taken one, just to be polite; he had just read it, to see what it was about, to be polite; he didn’t mean to read the words ‘vintage party’ and to feel nostalgic, and to remember when vintage had first become a thing, when the boys had started showing up to the club with their grandparents’ old furs and weird hats—the air had been thick with the playful pretentiousness that children give off while playing dress-up with the utmost seriousness, something that Aziraphale had come to associate to new fashion trends; the club was a pocket of laughter and music and light while the world outside tried to piece itself back together, while Aziraphale tried to keep himself together, and generations changed shape and form and addictions, writing and drinking and dancing. He had never quite mastered the new steps. He didn't have a partner to practice them, besides.

Honestly he didn’t know why he showed up to the damned thing. He was already regretting it while paying the entrance fee, because after all he never really found anyone to dance with at these things, not even when it was really 1924, not even when he actually knew the people who attended; but when he really saw the full extent of it—well. He should've forgotten about the whole thing, should’ve saved himself the disappointment. Aziraphale’s problem was that he had too much—he hesitated calling it faith, or hope, this time. It was delusion, pure and simple.

He knew that he was being unfair now—the location was lovely, the mood was nice and lively, the other guests were having such a grand time he felt his wings tingling a little from where they were tucked away on their own plane of existence, and the liquor selection that he had generously taken advantage of was nothing to sneeze at—but he was somewhat drunk, and he was somewhat mad at himself, and his shoes were somewhat uncomfortable, and he was trying to figure out how to open the balcony door so he could get away from the noise these people insisted on calling music, and he didn't care.

“You okay there, love?” a familiar voice said from over his shoulder, just as he resolved to sober up and open the damn thing. “The handle sticks a little, you need to pull up and then—”

Aziraphale gasped and turned around. “Crowley?”

“Oh,” Crowley said, slightly taken aback. His black lenses slipped down his nose a little, letting wide golden eyes show for a moment, before he pushed them back with a hurried finger. “Aziraphale! What are you doing here? Since when Heaven has business at parties?”

There was a slight teasing in his tone, and as usual Aziraphale's mouth felt an irresistible pull upwards. He coughed, composing himself. “I could ask you the same thing,” he said, automatically.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “First of all, I asked you first. Secondly, Hell invented parties, angel. I’m working!” He did half a twirl, showing off his outfit. The black, backless fringed dress he was wearing reached barely mid-thigh. “Lots of temptation going on here, as you can see. So, what’s your excuse?”

Aziraphale swallowed, eyes quickly flitting around the crowded room. “Well—”

“You’ll tell me outside. I need a smoke and some fresh air. Do you mind?” He checked him on the hip, effectively shoving him aside.

The balcony was quite spacious and thankfully deserted, lit by candles and low lights shaped like old-fashioned miniature street lamps. There were small tables and high stools here and there, but Crowley ignored them all and elected to lean against the concrete railing instead, crossing his legs at the ankle.

He plucked a cigarette out of firmament and held it out between his fingers.

“Do you have a light?”

Aziraphale did. He pulled the silver cigarette case out of his pocket, picked a cigarette for himself as well, and then lit both the sticks with a match. He couldn't really see Crowley's eyes behind the smoked lenses in the dim light, but he could tell he was staring, maybe a little taken aback, or maybe a little impressed.

“Thanks, angel.”

They smoked in companionable silence for a few moments, elbows brushing as they leaned against the railing, watching the people that bustled around on the streets, coming and going from the pubs.

“Parties wear me out so quickly, it’s so crowded in there I swear it feels like being back in Hell,” Crowley complained, shaking the ash off his cigarette in the street below. He glanced at Aziraphale. “I don't think I've ever seen you wear black before. New suit?”

Aziraphale chuckled. “I wouldn't call it new, it was made in 1924. A gift, from a friend.” He reached for the ashtray on the nearest table. “I’m not the most knowledgeable in regards of fashion, but I think your dress would be too short for the period.”

“Is it? I wouldn't know, I slept right through the decade.” Crowley cackled. “I’m kidding. I know, that’s why I’m wearing it! There’s a ton of people who bitch about historical accuracy at these things—ugh, please. It’s a party. Nobody’s going to notice if you’re historically accurate when they’re pissed out of their minds.”

Piqued, Aziraphale sniffed. “Well—”

“Oh, come on. It doesn't count if it comes from you. You were there, you actually have the right to be righteous about it.” Crowley shook his head. His hair, appropriately bobbed and finger-curled despite the speech he had just given, looked more vibrant than usual, but maybe it was just because of the way it matched his lipstick. “Those pretentious assholes just do it because they want to be annoying about it, and none of them looks half as good as you do. Seriously, it’s a great suit. Tuxedo's a touch too formal for this kind of trash but—yeah. Whoever gave it to you had taste.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale couldn't help but smile a little at the genuine, ramble-y awe in Crowley's voice, even as a spike of sadness pierced him. Crowley was truly kind, sometimes, although he hated hearing it from Aziraphale.

“You still haven’t told me what you're doing here. This isn't exactly your scene.”

Aziraphale put the cigarette out in the ashtray and looked away.

Truth be told, it was quite a good question. He wasn't entirely sure of the answer, himself, although he had thought about it earlier, somewhere in the middle of his fifth drink. He wasn't sure he liked the conclusions he had come to.

He blamed it on the fact that he had been in such a gloomy mood, lately. Angels were supposed to be love, to be virtue, to be joy; there was no place for despair, in Heaven. It had happened before; he had gone looking for joyful places among humans when it had happened—humans were so good at that, at finding joy in the face of catastrophe and misery. That’s how he had found the restaurants, and the books, and the clubs, and the gavotte.

He still couldn't explain to himself what he had hoped to find at a vintage party.

“It’s sort of silly when you think about it, but I think I was feeling...well. Nostalgic, for lack of a better word,” Aziraphale said. “I think since I missed dancing—”

Crowley’s mouth slackened. “You dance? I thought angels didn't dance.”

“Well, you know how it is,” Aziraphale started, and then stopped, uncertain on how to keep going.

He didn't want to tell Crowley that he had started dancing because he had felt guilty, and scared, and resentful, and lonely, after he refused to acquire holy water for him. Exactly because angels weren't made for it, dancing was hard enough to deserve his whole and undivided attention. He couldn't picture Crowley putting himself in danger if he was dancing; he couldn't count fifteen, twenty, forty years of Crowley not showing up anywhere if he was dancing. He couldn't mourn Crowley if he was dancing.

He stopped going to the parties in the late Twenties because he couldn't stop thinking about missing him, after all.

“Everyone did it, back then,” he croaked. He could feel Crowley’s eyes on him. “I used to love the gavotte. I’m not really good at it, but it was fun.”

“I thought the gavotte went out of style in like, 1898 or something,” Crowley said, not unkindly. His shades had slipped down again. He didn't seem to remember that he was supposed to blink from time to time. “You knew this is supposed to be a Roaring Twenties party, right?”

“Oh, I know. I hoped—well. The music in the Twenties was quite nice, and I’m not a master by any means but I hoped that maybe a few of the slower dances—” He regretted putting out that cigarette. “But anyway, clearly this is not the right kind of music. I really don't know how to dance to any of—” he gestured to the room behind them, where people moved all around the dancefloor in a confused way, so different from the organized, coupled chaos Aziraphale remembered from his club days. “—that.”

“Well. Yeah. Remixes are really trendy these days,” Crowley mumbled, uneasily, killing his smoke against the railing.

Aziraphale cleared his voice. “Oh I’m sorry, I didn't mean to complain—”

“You know, I know of parties where they play that kind of music. The right kind, I mean. They are meant to be historically accurate and everything—for educational purposes, I think, I’m not actually sure. I've been to a few and—I mean, I don't know if they're actually accurate but they seem—you know. People seem to know what they're doing, it's kind of boring, but in a good way. And there’s dancing, too. I could bring you, sometimes. If you want.”

“That would be—” Aziraphale interrupted himself. For a demon, Crowley was so nice, so kind, so thoughtful. “It would be very interesting, for accuracy's sake if nothing else, but maybe better not. I really need to get on with the times—”

“And you will, I’m sure. In forty years, or so.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Oh, do shut up.”

Crowley grinned. “In the meanwhile—do you know how to waltz?”

Aziraphale blinked. “I do, a little. Why?”

“I know a song,” Crowley said. He was suddenly very close, right inside his personal space, clasping Aziraphale’s hand in his and pulling the other around his back. “You dressed up and everything, it would be a shame if you didn't get to dance at least one song, wouldn't it? You’ll have to lead though, because I suck at it. It goes a little bit like—one, two, three....”

Love is just a little bit of Heaven since I fell in love with you

Love can make a home a little Heaven whenever two hearts are true

Love can light the world and keep it glowing

Love can plant a rose and keep it growing

Love is just a little bit of Heaven and Heaven is just a little bit of love

Aziraphale hadn't known that Crowley could sing. Demons didn’t sing. Their voices weren't made for it—not anymore.

He listened to Crowley's slightly scratchy voice carry the tune effortlessly, and felt warmth, the same joy that he felt whenever he opened a new book, whenever he found a new dessert to try, whenever he—

Oh. He had been so star-struck that for a moment he hadn't realized they were dancing.

They were pressed so close together, Aziraphale could feel the song vibrate where their fronts touched; the night air was crisp and cold, but Crowley's cool skin was quickly warming up where Aziraphale had his arm wrapped around his waist; in the corner of his eye, Aziraphale saw a small crease appear on Crowley's forehead, right between his eyebrows, as he frowned in concentration; his glasses were once again sliding down his nose, and Aziraphale watched his golden eyes go slightly unfocused somewhere over his shoulder. It was a little awkward, barely more than off-beat shuffling in triple time while slowly rotating in place, but Aziraphale had never been happier to be dancing.

Couple dancing had always felt so uncomfortable when he had tried to learn at the club—maybe it was the vague awareness that the closeness might have invited inappropriate groping, or maybe it was that humans always felt so delicate whenever he touched them, like baby birds ready to take flight, young and carefree—and there he was, enjoying Crowley's hand weighting on his shoulder, his smooth back under his palm, the essence of him strong and intense against his own.

He could've spent eternity like that.

Eventually Crowley ran out of words, or maybe of patience, and he ended the song on a long, wavering note. Aziraphale slowed them down and dipped Crowley slightly, a laughter bubbling up on their lips at the sudden silliness of it all.

“That was so lovely, dear,” Aziraphale complimented him, feeling a little breathless. He was maybe a little out of shape, but it had been so worthy. “Thank you so much. I didn’t know you had such a nice voice.”

“For a demon, sure,” Crowley laughed, a bitter note under it. He pushed his glasses back where they belonged. “I could never just stop singing, so—yeah. It stayed like that. The Bentley appreciates it.”

“Well. I sure appreciated it, too.” Aziraphale still had his arm around Crowley, and he found that he couldn't quite let him go just yet. “Where did you learn the song?”

“Ah, it was one of those parties I was telling you about. The ones made right. Blessed earworm, couldn't get it out of my head for a whole month.” A suggestion of a smile. “Good thing it was still there though, eh?”

They kept sort of dancing with no music for no reason for a while still, until Crowley stepped back, smoothing his dress out.

“As much as I would rather spend the evening out here smoking and dancing with you, angel, I’m afraid I’m needed back inside,” Crowley gritted out, walking towards the balcony door. “Duty calls, you know how it is.”

Aziraphale cleared his voice and smoothed out his own clothes. “Yes. Well, I’ll just stay out of the way, then. Probably miracle myself home in a jiffy. Wouldn't want to accidentally interfere—will you nip down at the shop in the next week or so? I recently acquired a 1997 Brunello di Montalcino that I really wanted to try.”

“Italian wine? It’s a date,” Crowley said with a slight smile, and slipped back inside.

Aziraphale lingered on the balcony a little longer, sitting on one of the tall stools with a fresh smoke in his hand. He caught himself smiling and humming Crowley’s song from earlier, and felt silly.

He closed his eyes, finished his cigarette, and miracled himself back to the bookshop.