sauntered_downward | for salutosinedelectat

"What if you do?" Not to be a stickler for details, but Aziraphale certainly doesn't even consider hiding out anywhere without him at this point, so he worries this plan might not work. Although, really, it wouldn't be much of a change from how things are right now.

Their hands, still held, lie on the table between them.He can pretend he forgot. He can pretend a lot of things.

"Well, then I'll---I'll----" He'll what, exactly? It's not as if he can rest when he feels like he's on hot sand all of the time. "Work something out. Look, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, angel. Let's just assume it'll work until we get there."

He considers saying something else, when someone arrives with two drinks for them. Something in a margarita glass with a little umbrella in it for each of them. Crowley doesn't move his hand away from Aziraphale's. After all, they don't----well, they don't have anything to hide, now, do they? Whatever they're not talking about, they're not talking about it in public.

Likewise, Aziraphale is ready to say something else, most probably to continue fussing about the ways how the so-called plan might not work, about the details of different holy grounds, but he stops when the waiter delivers them their drinks. All that does end up coming out of him is a slight polite smile and a muttered thank you.

He looks at the drinks in front of them, eyes only glancing over at their hands for a fraction of a second. He's not looking, he's not, because he might have to pull away if he gives it too much thought.

Things are different. They've been different since that night. Since the world didn't end. But he's still learning what to make of it all, what to say, what to do. He's trying. He's learning.

He picks out the tiny paper umbrella with his free hand, giving it a once over. That smile doesn't quite look relaxed, but it's the best he can achieve right now. "How quaint."

Crowley takes a sip of his drink. It's extremely sweet and fruity, not his style at all. But it's also very alcoholic, which he imagines the establishment uses to their benefit. Can't complain that much. If only he could keep himself from wanting to pull away and hide. He'd be comfortable just being by Aziraphale's side forever, wondering if anything would change, wondering if he'd ever be worthy of----

Someone new steps up to the microphone, singing a pretty butchered version of Killer Queen, which brings a smile to Crowley's face. Anywhere in the world, anywhere you go, and there's Queen. Not just because all CDs left in a car for too long turn into their best-of album.

"So what's your song, angel?" he asks, nodding his head in the direction of the microphone. "Angels sing, right? You must have a karaoke song."

Aziraphale is busying himself with tasting his drink, finding the glass a bit too big for just one hand, but the drink itself very sweet, and very strong. He raises his brows in a fairly impressed look. Not the best he's had, but he can come to like it.

His attention is called, and he looks towards the small stage. He makes a bit of a face over the bad singing, but he can commend their effort.

"Oh, I don't--" Hymns come to mind, but he hasn't partaken in that in centuries. Otherwise, he's not much for modern music... "Don't think I do."

"Oh, there must be something," Crowley says. "They have plenty of the classics on there. Must be something you would love."

He looks around them, at the people dancing, singing, and being generally just happy around them. Not what they expected to see in Japan, but he'll take it. It's all the parts of Earth he likes.

"If angels can sing and demons can dance, we basically have a party," Crowley says. He considers Aziraphale and narrows his eyes in thought. "Though you did dance, back when. Some sort of complicated dance."

Edited 2019-08-06 00:29 (UTC)

A party. Now, that's a very odd picture, a party full of singing angels and dancing demons. Downright ridiculous in it's infeasibility. But he thinks about how parties are a bonding activity for mortals, has been for centuries - with changing definitions of 'party', of course, but mass social gatherings anyway - and how, should both sides manage to keep themselves from breaking into a chaotic, massively destructive war, they'd maybe learn about their similarities and, who knows, maybe get along?

--But that's absolutely ridiculous and impossible. Angels don't dance. Demons don't sing. And they all want to destroy each other. Wouldn't make for much of a party.

He perks, though, at Crowley's question. Something he hasn't thought about in decades.

"Oh, yes." He sets his drink back down. "The Gavotte. Back in the last 19th century." He fondly remembers the club. Made quite a few acquaintances there.Lovely people, the lot of them.

The drink is definitely unweildy, but once Crowley has it in his hand, he manages to make it look like he's at ease holding it and giving it a sip. He certainly can't make it look cool, but that's something not even a really decent sized miracle could allow, to be honest. It's not so bad, and he hasn't eaten anything apart from the sushi and green blobby stuff, so that makes it even better.

"Yeah, I remember it, peasant dance. I used to love those," Crowley says. He gives a sniff. "Never very good at them. Too many steps. Dances nowadays, they're better. You just sort of move to the music." He sways a little, to explain.

He tries to imagine Aziraphale dancing to one of these dances, Killer Queen or whatever, and decides it is far too fantastic an image not to attempt to tempt him into it.

He better plan that temptation thoroughly, because Aziraphale's not about to make it easy for him.

"Oh, but there's no-- artistry to it that way. No organization." He turns to watch a few mortals absolutely having a blast, dancing to bad live covers of songs. " Well, as long as everyone's having fun, I suppose."

Tempting Aziraphale into anything has never been easy (except maybe to lunch). But it wouldn't be any fun tempting him if it were easy, now would it?

"Sure there is," Crowley says, using his drink to gesture at the man shaking his hips. "You have to move all of your body in a synchronized manner, while still looking loose and relaxed. It's a matter of looking like you're not trying at all."

Demons, it should be noted, are terrible dancers. Crowley is especially terrible, though he'll never think it or admit it to anyone. He especially loved the disco era, because that was a time he could mostly pose on the dancefloor and get applause. Breakdancing involved too much laying on the ground and that would mess up his clothes.

Aziraphale watches the man, pulling a face. Granted he doesn't have much knowledge about modern popular dances, but that's also because a lot of them, to him, looks like a moderately good actor pretending to be possessed by an evil spirit.

" Well, it looks like it does take quite a bit of effort." And none of it all quite worth it. Not that he should be a connoisseur of such things.

Crowley takes another drink and puts his drink down. He gives Aziraphale a devilish smile. Aziraphale is not buying this. If this were a proper temptation, Crowley would be failing miserably. He would be heading back with his proverbial tail between his legs. All the same, it is a holiday, and he's more about succeeding than failing.

He gives the dance floor a nod. "I will if you do."

Crowley has no fear of dancing, especially with a little alcohol to loosen the mood.

Aziraphale blinks at him, entirely too confused, before he looks towards the dancefloor, and back at Crowley. The realization hits him, and he's quick to say - " Oh, no."

There was a time and place he would have danced, certainly. And maybe some specific kinds of dances in very specific scenarios even now. But this? Oh, this is...oh, lord.

Crowley considers dancing, just to prove to Aziraphale that there's nothing to fear, but that would mean letting go of Aziraphale's hand, and he's not certain he wants to do that right now. He does what Aziraphale did on the plane, and runs a knuckle across the top of Aziraphale's fingers.

He looks down at their hands, at how different they are, and yet how similar. They're very alike, he said once to Aziraphale in the park, when he first approached him about holy water. How right he was. They were alike, and their sides were very alike. It would be very, very bad for Aziraphale and Crowley if they started working together to find them.

"Can't find a karaoke bar on Alpha Centurai," he says. "Of course, they probably couldn't find us. If you want another option for escape."

When Crowley runs his thumb across his knuckles, that's when Aziraphale finally looks at their hands. When he's finally forced to face what's happening, under the idle conversations, under the drinking, the bad music. There, in the dark, in the hidden booth, on the table. Their hands, and everything it means.

Crowley brings up Alpha Centauri, and there's a twinge somewhere in Aziraphale's mind. Images of the bandstand, the street in Soho. Of Crowley offering, scolding, begging him to go. Of Crowley leaving every time he pushed him away, but always coming back to him.

He meets Crowley's eyes, and there's something besides uncertainty there, in Aziraphale's. There's something, but even Aziraphale couldn't say what it was.

"Alpha Centauri." He repeats, quietly. He has to break the gaze at a point, glancing off somewhere, maybe his drink, maybe at someone passing by. He smiles, but it's faint. There's...heaviness. There's some guilt from moments past. "Quite a bit far."

Crowley meets Aziraphale's gaze behind his sunglasses, questioning. How does this work? What do we do next? How do I get permission? After all, they have been by each other's side for so long it cannot possibly be this hard to gain permission to---to---to step beyond this?

It has, after all, always been Aziraphale. In Crowley's black heart, the only thing he's ever loved has been the angel. He's given everything up, and he would do it again, to be by his side. Granted, he never quite thought they'd end up somewhere like this, but that was never guaranteed. And now here they are, holding hands, and there needs to be some way to ask for the next step forward.

"Aren't any restaurants there," he says. "But there aren't any angels or demons, either. It would just be us."

Who knows how far they'd be chased, though.

Just them.

Run away together.

They could. They could just go. As far as they know, the world wouldn't be destroyed, this time. And they'd have each other. Crowley's proven, time and time again, they'd have each other.

...but he doesn't really want to leave this place. He doesn't want to leave this planet. He doesn't want to live what effectively has become their...well, their home.

He doesn't say it's ridiculous, this time. He doesn't say there's no 'their side'. He doesn't shoot it down as a terrible idea, because there isn't something outside of them threatening that still has its grip on Aziraphale.

He's out of excuses. The only thing stopping him is himself, and he doesn't know how to deal with that.

" Us and the stars." And it sounds so peaceful. So beautiful.

So why doesn't he want it?

Aziraphale doesn't say no. Which, by Crowley's standard, is a leap. There's not a no, not an of course not, and he's not pretending anything anymore. Maybe that's the permission Crowley has been looking for? Maybe that's all he needs, is just to know that Aziraphale would, even if there's no way they could.

After all, Alpha Centurai doesn't have wine or bookshops or parks for them to stroll around in. No cars, no televisions. Maybe one day they'll tire of the running and make the decision to leave for there, but they can't now. Not with all of their comforts still here. Not when they're in the only place they've ever belonged---not that Crowley has ever really belonged anywhere. If they can ever enjoy them with a moment to breathe.

But it is on the table for later.

"Doesn't sound so bad," Crowley says. A pause. A breath. "Romantic, even."

Aziraphale definitely meets the demon's gaze over that last part. Something that shouldn't be surprising or startling in any way, but, again, he's still learning, still finding his feet, and their place. But he can't actually see Crowley's eyes, only a faint reflection of himself in his sunglasses. It makes him feel somewhat exposed, in this.

He lingers. Then drops his gaze. But there's a faint, very sheepish smile to him when he does.

"...it does, doesn't it?" Quiet, but enough for his companion to hear him. A permission, an admission, or just another something without a name.

Aziraphale catches his gaze, and Crowley searches it, trying to see if he's reading it correctly. Is this---does that mean---? And then he's looking away, but he's smiling. It's always been there, something between them. Friendship, more, whatever it is, Crowley refuses to think he's the only one in this pairing who has felt this way. Too many times they've sat for too long together, bonded over the most ridiculous things together, and it's always felt right.

The song ends, and someone else steps up to sing another Queen song---Crowley wonders, idly, if the number of Queen songs is strictly due to the fact that he's entered the karaoke bar. Love of My Life. Classic.

"Oh, come on," Crowley says. "This one? It's easier to dance to the slow ones."

He glances at the stage and dance-floor again, snapped mostly out of his too-deep thinking, and he listens. The song sounds familiar to him. The singer sure seems to have a better grasp of the language and vocal skills than the previous entertainer.

"Oh, I couldn't." Now, the 'why' might be a bit harder to explain.

"I'll lead," Crowley says. Not that it's always the best to follow Crowley. Into danger, into dancing, into basically anything involving using brain cells at all. All the same, he's wiling to lead here. At least give it an attempt.

He slips out of the booth, keeping his hand in Aziraphale's, giving it a gentle tug.

"You'll do great. It's a great song," he pleads.

Aziraphale looks up at him, considering it all for a moment. He's still thinking No, still thinking this is...something he wouldn't do, but looking at Crowley's face, hearing how he asks. Considering how he wouldn't expect the demon to want to do something like this.

...who would ever know, but the strangers that aren't aware a demon and an angel are dancing in a karaoke bar somewhere in Japan?

He smiles fondly, remembering ball-dances from centuries ago. "Oh, fine." He stands.

He honestly thought Aziraphale might put up a bit more of a fight, but now that he has the angel standing with him, he feels less confident than he did a moment ago. After all, now he has to lead, and Aziraphale is trusting him to do just that. And now, well, now he has a moment to do something about this, and permission.

He takes a step towards the dance floor and turns towards Aziraphale. Crowley isn't much of is a slow-dancer, apart from in the occasional temptations, but he knows how. He's never done it for just himself before.

"Ready?" he asks. He puts a hand down to Aziraphale's waist.

Well, maybe he's just tired. Tired in a way that isn't quite physical, maybe emotionally, who knows, but maybe he's tired. Of running, of letting things go, of not making the right choices.

When they move to the dance floor, he's nervous. Preemptively embarrassed. Feels a bit unbecoming, but, oh, why not? Why not-- and then Crowley's hand is on his waist, and he's putting his arm on the demon's shoulder. And he's looking up at him, still unable to see his eyes, but he's looking, and this is a thing that's happening.

He lingers for a second too much, catches himself, clears his throat. "Yes. Ready."

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