Crowley sat at his desk making a list on a sheet of paper. He did not, as a rule, enjoy writing. Writing was the angel’s thing – writing and reading and filling pages with intricate copperplate handwriting. Crowley was more of the doodling sort, really, when absolutely forced to pick up a pen. Snakes both venomous and poisonous, planet-destroying comets, stick figures of murderous intent, deadly explosions -- he could doodle with the best of them. But, he thought with a sigh, needs must.
Fred Astaire, he wrote down carefully. Then he clicked the top of his pen on and off compulsively for approximately one hundred and twelve times, before leaning down to laboriously add to his list.
George Balanchine, he wrote.
A few hundred more clicks.
He scribbled that one out.
“What’re you doing, dear?” Aziraphale said, wandering rather suddenly into the room.
“Nothing!” Crowley snapped, crumpling the paper up and pocketing the pen as quickly as he could. He considered, for a brief moment, whether to just eat the offending paper and remove it from the universe entirely, but he settled for subtly dropping it on the floor and kicking it under the table, while giving Aziraphale a big, distracting grin.
Unfortunately, it didn’t work.
Aziraphale, always something of a bastard at the most inopportune moment, followed the path of the paper with his eyes, then leaned in to give Crowley a rather large kiss that left him momentarily muzzy and distracted. And then, sensing his opportunity, he dove for the paper and crowed happily when he came away with it before the demon could even react.
“So, what have we here, love?” he asked teasingly. He ignored Crowley’s protests and smoothed out the paper on the table. “It’s – “ he paused, confused. “It’s a list of dancers?”
Crowley glared. “Yeah, so? Anything wrong with that?”
Aziraphale blinked and gave him an extra patient smile. “Any reason you’re making a list of dancers?”
Crowley mumbled something incoherent and studied his fingernails intently.
Aziraphale sat down on the table right in front of him. “What was that again?”
Crowley blushed about four shades of red at once. “I was going to do some research. On, you know, how to dance. Not like – not like I dance now, not like a snake who’s only recently been issued legs. Just, you know, more dapper.”
“Wantedtotakeyoudancingwhyisthataproblem?” Crowley said all in one breath. He looked, Aziraphale thought, small and brittle and like being laughed at at this moment might literally discorporate him. Not that he had any desire to laugh. Not with the current swell of warmth that was drifting up from his toes to his chest. Not with the immense wave of love that was about to knock him, literally, off the table.
“Mmmmm, my dear,” he said, “you don’t need lessons for that. You’re a wonderful dancer.”
Aziraphale held a hand out to Crowley, who took it hesitantly, and then pulled the recalcitrant demon to his feet. One firm snap of his fingers later and a soft, slow ballad from the 1930s started to drift through Crowley’s nonexistent speakers and fill the room with warm sounds. The angel pulled Crowley towards him and wrapped his arms around his neck.
“You see, dear?” he said with a warm smile. “You just put them here – “ he positioned both of Crowley’s hands on his waist – “and then you pull me close –” Crowley did so, compliant and still a little stunned-looking – “and then we, well we just sort of move to the music.”
“Ngk – “ Crowley said, before shaking his head as if to dislodge the consonants from his throat. “It’s nice, I mean.” he croaked out.
Aziraphale let out a soft chuckle and pulled him closer, leaning his head on Crowley’s shoulder.
“It’s perfect,” he agreed.