Loosely Ballroom - Chapter 10 - marginalia_device, mortifyingideal - Good Omens (2024)

Logic, temporal mechanics and the magazine Cosmopolitan will tell you that once kissed, a person cannot be un-kissed. This is technically true, time working in the direction that it does—forward, unrelentingly—but in certain circ*mstances a kiss can be rendered null and void. Crowley would opine that this required two things: mutual co-operation, and a forgettable enough experience.

Being kissed stupid by Aziraphale had not been a forgettable experience, let’s put it like that.

Come Monday, Crowley was having a little trouble figuring out the best way to address someone who was simultaneously coworker, dance partner, potential S/O and leading man in every fantasy he’d had for the past two months. There should be a sort of honorific for it, Crowley mused. Or a grammatical change, like the informal tu in French. He considered the problem while he showered, while he drove to the studios, while he collected their usual order from the coffee cart, and was still pondering it even as he approached the security gates. He’d gone back and forth, and currently the lead approach was the good-old-fashioned “hey, angel”—lean in the doorway looking insouciant, jut out a hip, cheeky bit of smoulder—although gaining ground was the idea of heading in for a cheek kiss, which he thought was very forward and European. It seemed the sort of thing Aziraphale would go in for. He liked French food, at any rate. French dance terms. Other French things, if his behaviour last Friday was anything to go by.

Of course, none of this would be so bloody complex if the show wasn’t determined to get in the way at every turn. If Saturdays didn’t take so much out of them both—if they had any room to breathe during a live show, let alone talk—he wouldn’t be having to pack all this significance into a Monday morning hello. Aziraphale turned down Sunday brunch by simply sending him a screenshot of his To Do list, which meant Crowley got to lie in bed all day, feeling decadently lazy and replaying Friday night over and over again in his mind until he’d polished it to perfection. A little bit of casual editing here, airbrush Anathema out of the picture there, and it had been a very fruitful Sunday for Anthony J Crowley.

“Oi, Tony!”

Crowley was abruptly brought back down to earth by Geoff, the only man alive who could call him Tony and get away with it, by virtue of being literally unable to do any wrong.

“Hm?”

“You coming in or what?” Geoff was smirking at him, and rightfully so. Crowley realised he’d been standing next to the security gates with what he could only imagine was a besotted look on his face for the last three minutes. Didn’t matter. He was still riding the highs of Friday, embarrassment couldn’t catch him. He laughed at himself as he tapped the pass at his hip against the gate.

“My god, must’ve been some weekend. You stepping out on me, Tony?”

“Well, I waited for you long enough, Geoff. I’ve just had to make do.” Crowley winked, and Geoff flashed his gold fillings in a laugh, and then Crowley was out of time to debate his options as he reached the rehearsal studio. He nudged the door open, and went for the lean.

“H—”

“For goodness’ sake!” shouted Aziraphale, and Crowley’s smile vanished.

Aziraphale had the Alexa in one hand and a remote in the other, an arm looped through the backs of two chairs. Crowley was not the target of his ire, by the looks of it, but he had definitely wandered into the splash zone. Aziraphale was unusually disheveled, and the hems of his trousers were wet.

“Good morning. You look a state,” said Crowley, and winced. This was not how he had intended to open proceedings. “What’s ruffled your feathers? She—” he inclined his head towards the Alexa “—been misbehaving?”

Briefly, Aziraphale’s face cleared, as if Crowley was the missing conduit that closed a circuit inside him and lit up that thousand-watt smile; Crowley felt that current move through him. Then Aziraphale flickered off again.

“Alexa is innocent in all this,” he seethed. “But the chair-wielding interlopers that used our space on Friday are not. In a few short hours they managed to scatter furniture about, leave the windows open, and foul up the Bluetooth partnership between Alexa and the speakers! I disconnected both in an attempt to regain control, like Google said, but now neither will turn on again, and I cannot figure out how to fix it. In addition,” he stabbed the remote with a finger, frowning when this didn’t magically fix everything, “ten minutes ago one of the runners—the scowly one, Pepper—came by to tell me they mismeasured our set for the Blackpool Tower Ballroom and are having to do emergency changes. At this late stage! And then of course there’s this debacle with Eve—”

“Angel.” Crowley was growing worried for the remote.

“—which is an utter hack job, I mean a complete farce, and on top of all that a taxi splashed me on the way into work, look, I have puddle-water in my turn-ups, and I didn’t get a very good night’s sleep either so I am quite simply—”

“Hey, okay, alright,” said Crowley, gently removing it from his grasp, “just. Put the brakes on, yeah? What thing with Eve?”

“There was an article,” began Aziraphale, but Crowley was already pulling out his phone. He had an unholy number of notifications, but within thirty seconds of scrolling he got the gist. He felt a brief flare of anger that faded, all too quickly, into resignation. Of course they’d go after Eve. She was smart, and beautiful, and savvy, and brilliant. That was the thing about the British press; nothing brilliant could thrive. No Fun Allowed. So what, they’d gotten a bit tipsy on the sacred ground of the BBC compound. Crowley had done far worse, and what he liked most about Eve was that he was fairly sure she had, too.

“Not much mention of me,” noted Crowley.

Aziraphale looked affronted. “You’re worrying about your notoriety at a time like this? Crowley, for—”

“Ehh, a bit, yeah, but I mostly mean you’d think she was alone, the way this tells it,” Crowley scowled, wondering if Anathema would let him subtweet The Daily Mail. “Whoever leaked this wasn’t interested in smearing me, just Eve.”

“Well that’s—” Aziraphale paused, wrinkling his nose. Even with his blood boiling, Crowley still took a second to appreciate how offensively cute it was. “Very distasteful. I was under the impression that Alex was handling things. Gabriel certainly won’t be best pleased, if it’s an inside job.”

“Ugh, now I have to sit with the knowledge that there’s something out there I’d happily agree with Gabriel about,” Crowley said, grimly.

Aziraphale rubbed a hand down his face, heaving out a sigh. Crowley heard a quiet rasping sound, and realised it was possible Aziraphale hadn’t shaved, which was. Interesting. Now that his righteous indignation on Eve’s behalf seemed to have waned a bit, Crowley could see that Aziraphale’s Sunday had probably not been as restful—or enjoyable—as his own.

“It’s Blackpool Week,” Aziraphale said, picking up on the look of concern Crowley must have subconsciously been radiating at him. “There’s just— there’s just so much to do. It’s a very important phase of the show, and we’ll be working in a different space with a set that now seems to be entirely wrong, and there might not be time to fix it all and—”

Aziraphale gestured, when he was upset. And when he was excited. And when he was angry. Apparently today he was a dizzying combination of all three, as Crowley snagged an errant hand before it had a chance to do some real damage to his nose and pressed one of the takeaway cups into it. Aziraphale slumped back wearily, perching on the edge of the table. Crowley set about pairing Alexa and the speakers together again, a job that took all of thirty seconds and required absolutely no Googling whatsoever, but he wasn’t about to go telling Aziraphale that when he was in this state. He then tried to lift two chairs in one hand as Aziraphale had done and instantly regretted it. Like any sane person confronted with their hubris in plain sight of the object of their affections, he was forced to struggle bravely on until the chairs were, if not completely out of the way, slightly to the left of being in the way. He took a fortifying breath and sauntered back over to the table, crossing his arms and trying to be as casual as possible.

“Any other services I can provide?”

“Look, I’ve been thinking...” started Aziraphale, who was looking down at his hands and so missing all the effort Crowley was putting into looking nonplussed and sexy. “So much else has gone wrong this week, and we’re only a day in. There’s always, always issues when it comes to Blackpool, and I can tell that you— what I mean to say is, perhaps we should… talk. Properly. About when we— about Friday.”

Apprehension ballooned in Crowley’s chest. This was what he had wanted, to a certain extent. Talking meant actually acknowledging this out loud, which meant hashing out all the practicalities of what this was, and how serious, and how long for, and what were they going to do with it all, and as soon as all that theory was out of the way they could get to—

“Nah,” Crowley said, much to the surprise of his internal monologue. “It can wait.”

Somehow, this had been the exact right thing to say. Aziraphale visibly sagged in relief. “Thank you, my dear,” he said. “Are you certain that’s alright with you?”

“Yeah, ‘course. We’ve both got a lot on. Put a pin in it, yeah?” He mimed putting a pin in the conversation not-yet-had, and mentally shelved all expectation of mouth-to-anywhere contact for the foreseeable. There was no rush, after all. Although there was a part of Crowley that was telling him to lean in and say something corny like “oh angel, let me help you relax,” there was a much, much larger part telling him to read the bloody room. The room, and all the mess inside it, was saying in no uncertain terms that Aziraphale needed him to behave, at least for the next seven days. Crowley’s track record of good behaviour had, up until this point, never made it past the “five days since our last workplace incident” marker, but he was willing to try, this time. He was willing to do a lot, Crowley had come to terms with, if it would make Aziraphale smile at him like that.

“So, what’s on the menu this week, then?”

“Crowley, you should know by now—”

“I do, but remind me.”

“The rumba— or, well, technically it should be rhumba, with an h, to distinguish the ballroom style from the Cuban rumba from which it derives. All the issues that I have with samba apply here, but if I may be honest, I care slightly less, for the simple selfish reason that I like it much more…”

Aziraphale slowly perked back up again as he talked. Maybe it was a bit of an unfair distraction tactic on his part, but Crowley knew that talking through the dances and their history and all the other sh*t that would normally put Crowley to sleep helped Aziraphale centre himself. It was like the man was his own self-generating white noise machine. As an added bonus, if Crowley remembered something from one of these tangents to parrot back to him later, it earned him a very particular sort of look. Mutually beneficial, that’s what it was.

“Right, ah-hah,” he said, after an appropriate amount of time had passed and Aziraphale had moved on from explaining how the rumba was a dance not typically done at Blackpool—“it benefits from minimal staging, and Blackpool is all about hyperbolic setting, so we’ll be able to meet in the middle and make an unexpectedly perfect match”—and started butchering the Spanish language with gusto. “And what’s our soundtrack?”

Aziraphale hesitated.

Oh, Crowley thought, hello. What could that possibly be about?

“Let me teach you the basic steps,” Aziraphale said, dodging the question entirely.

Crowley tried not to seem too eager as he stepped into Aziraphale’s space. The main problem was that the rumba, to Crowley’s untrained eye, wasn’t a dance that let you forget something like necking in the doorway of your flat several days previous. Even as Aziraphale took his time explaining in unnecessarily technical detail each step, each extension of the arm, each placement of the foot, even with the slow and deliberate pace of the dance, Crowley couldn’t help but think about the wild, almost frenzied way Aziraphale had kissed him. He pulled back a little, hand sliding up from its position on Aziraphale’s chest to pat him on the shoulder, before he could do something that would set the workplace incident counter right back to “0”.

“So come on, then. What’s Big Ted getting some poor soul to belt out this week? Lady in Red? 2 Become 1? Ooh, Fleetwood Mac’s The Chain?”

“Not, ah, not quite. Now, the thing to remember about the rumba is that although it is characterised by hip action, the movement is not generated by the hips, but rather by the feet, ankles, legs—”

“You’re being cagey,” said Crowley.

“Am I? No, I’m not. You are,” said Aziraphale. Crowley deliberately fouled up a step, feigning innocence when Aziraphale glared at him.

“Might not have missed that if I had a beat behind me. Why won’t you tell me what we’re dancing to?”

Aziraphale sniffed.

“Because I can already tell you’re going to kick up a fuss, and I don’t have the energy to deal with it this week, Crowley.”

“When have I ever kicked up a fuss?”

“Besides from this very moment, you mean?”

Crowley grinned.

“Well tell me what it is, then, and I’ll leave off.”

Aziraphale, with the cadence of a thousand martyrs, requested that Alexa strike up the Blackpool Playlist. Crowley was about to tease him on the absurdity of making playlists for each week of the competition when they’d only have one bloody song on them, but the instant the single song in question started the grin slid off his face. They didn’t move from their position for over a minute, Aziraphale’s hand tight on Crowley’s waist, Crowley’s eyebrows gradually climbing to his hairline

Finally, Aziraphale broke the tension. “Alexa, stop.”

In the silence of the studio, Crowley took a moment to reflect on the fact that in future, whenever someone used the phrase ‘mixed messages’, this moment would appear before him in perfect Technicolour, emblazoned across his consciousness for the rest of eternity.

“I knew you couldn’t be an adult about this,” said Aziraphale, apparently now a mindreader. His voice cracked a little at the end.

Crowley snorted. “How, and don’t take this the wrong way, but how did you even hear this song?”

Aziraphale puffed up in indignation. “I’m not entirely devoid of knowledge of popular culture,” he said, severely. “It’s a very good song, by one of the world’s most deservedly celebrated living artists, and it will make a cracking rumba. Yes, I may have heard it for the first time whilst being forced to sit through Forty Shades with Tracy—”

“I think you might’ve dropped a few shades there—”

“—but I’d hoped my partner would be mature enough to set all that aside and commit to the dance no matter what. Besides, I put in the request several weeks ago when I didn’t think I’d— we’d get this far.” They still hadn’t moved. Crowley felt no need to pull away if Aziraphale didn’t. He watched Aziraphale swallow. “Look. I can count the number of times I’ve gotten to Blackpool on one hand, and every time I’ve gone for a traditional piece. I wanted to do something this year that would leave a mark, as it were. Something to set myself apart from my past performances.”

Crowley hummed, flexing his fingers around Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“It'll leave a mark, alright. Leave a bloody hickey,” he said, smirking.

“Look, if you’re not— not comfortable, or if you think it’s just too silly for us to do, I’ll change it,” Aziraphale said, biting his lip. Completely illegal tactics, but Crowley had always been a fan of rulebreakers.

“Don’t you dare,” Crowley said, finally pulling away from him. “But I’m telling you now, angel, if either of our costumes this week feature dom jeans in any way, shape, or form, I’ll walk.”

Aziraphale laughed, for the first time that morning, and a sly smile found its way onto his face.

“I can guarantee that those would never be a part of your costume, dear boy.”

The resulting involuntary full-body stutter that this inspired in Crowley meant his hip bumped the small table holding Alexa, their water bottles, and other sundry objects. Something crashed to the floor with a noise that was sharper and louder than their water bottles had any right to be.

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale.

Broken on the floor was a large pink crystal, obelisk-shaped and tapering to a point. It had cracked right in half across the middle like a snapped pencil. Crowley had never noticed it before. Aziraphale picked up a chunk, and Crowley felt a pricking of his thumbs.

“This,” he said, “looks suspiciously like Anathema ephemera.”

“That will be because it is,” said Aziraphale. “Or was. She gave it to me as a— well, a gift, I think. Told me to put it in the studio for luck.”

Crowley suspected that there was a little more to Anathema’s motives than just good vibes, but he had worked hard, in his long acquaintance with his manager, to remain completely ignorant of all charms, chakras, crystals, astrology, numerology, cryptozoology, essential oils, non-essential oils, or magick of any spelling. He filed the cracked crystal under “witch stuff”, but pocketed the pointy half to wave at her later.

“Hope that wasn’t an omen, then. Which I’m sure it wasn’t,” he amended, when he noticed Aziraphale looking stricken. “Honestly, it’s fine. We’re fine.”

It was then that Michael stuck her head round the door.

“Meeting in the ballroom in five. Mandatory. Don’t dawdle,” she said, with that tight, puckered smile, and then disappeared.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley accusingly.

“We’ll be fine,” he insisted, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt.

Any show that goes on for long enough acquires its own set of physics, which is why no-one names The Scottish Play in theatres. Aziraphale, erstwhile luvvie that he was, had noticed several laws in play during his tenure on Strictly Come Dancing. The Curse was one, and Fell’s Law, named after himself, was another.

Fell’s Law was similar to Murphy’s Law, though more narrowly applicable, and it went thus: Anything that can go wrong in Blackpool Week will go wrong. The cast knew it, the crew knew it, goodness, even the viewers knew it, as it was the same pileup of catastrophes year on year. Aziraphale was usually unphased, if not immune. Kept his head down, his eyes front, his feet on the ground (when appropriate) and just got on with it, adjusting course to dodge disaster and gritting his teeth when it couldn’t be avoided. All around him, his colleagues and co-stars were outed for trysts, bust-ups and—on one memorable occasion—a secret career as an infamous romance novelist. Meanwhile Aziraphale, faux pas excepting, never made the tabloid press for anything remotely to do with his personal life, because. Well. He didn’t have one.

Until this year, of course.

They were the last to arrive in the ballroom. It was a little perverse, Aziraphale always thought, to see the old girl in broad daylight. No glitz, no glamour— just overhead lighting and the faint hum of a vacuum cleaner somewhere amongst the back rows of seats. It was especially potent this week, with half the gear packed up and ready for transportation, and yet the ballroom seemed unusually crowded. As Aziraphale ducked under a ladder to get by a technician attempting to wrestle a disco ball down from its spot in the rafters, he realised that all of the back-up dancers were present, as well as all the stagehands, the stand-ins— almost the entire complement of staff. Whatever this was, it was serious.

“What’s got management’s knickers in a twist, d’you reckon?” Crowley asked, looking around with interest as they made their way towards their gathered colleagues. “Surprise addition to the cast? Murder most foul? Claudine’s cut her fringe, and they want to make sure we’re emotionally prepared?”

“Don’t quote me on this,” Aziraphale said, trying not to give Crowley the satisfaction of his laughter, “but I think it might have something to do with your notoriety. Or, rather, lack thereof.”

“Oh, what, it’s my fault now?” Crowley said, holding a hand to his chest in mock-affront. Any scenery nearby suddenly found itself in terrible danger of being chewed to pieces. “I’m to blame for this? Aziraphale, I’m appalled you could even suggest such a thing.”

“Do you know, just a few short days ago I was thinking about what a marvellous actor you are.”

“You were?”

“Yes. And while I’m not usually one for admitting I’m wrong, there’s certainly a first time for everything.”

Crowley laughed at that, quick and sharp and as lovely as the rest of him. Aziraphale turned away in an effort not to show the pleased smile on his face, and looked over the remaining cast. He considered his theory from a few short weeks ago— that this infatuation was perhaps nothing more than a press of bodies, an accident of proximity, something brought on by the competition. If Launch Week had bound him to a different partner, would he still have been stricken with such depth of feeling? After all, he’d barely bothered to learn the others’ names this year. Sable was handsome, Aziraphale supposed, and looked very well in a suit. He could imagine himself once upon a time developing something of an aesthetic appreciation for the man— but then there was the unfortunate and rather large stumbling block of his personality. What if it had been someone else entirely? That handsome weatherman from Channel 4, for instance? What then?

Aziraphale let his gaze fall back to where it naturally wanted to be, on Crowley. Crowley, who had waltzed in that morning and delivered unto him the perfect cup of tea, had listened to his ramblings and rantings about the week, who had fixed his technical issues with fast, clever hands. Crowley, who had said “it can wait”. Who had said “we’ll be fine”. No, this thing that had taken root in his chest couldn’t be blamed on the competition, and he was a fool for having thought any differently.

Still, the issue was settled. No use getting mawkish about it now.

“Shame, huh?” Carmine said, appearing silently at Aziraphale’s side and taking a year off his life. “The gutter press are ruthless this side of the pond.”

“Yes, quite,” Aziraphale replied tightly. He was not a fool. Whatever ended up in the gutter was most likely run-off from Carmine herself. There had been several anonymous quotes on how difficult Eve was to work with, and they’d all had her trademark supervillain phrasing. “Her emotions are her weakness” indeed.

“The way things are going now, there won’t be much competition for a spot in the final. Everyone’s dropping like flies.” If she was trying to project concern and sympathy, it wasn’t working. She looked pleased as punch. “I wouldn’t blame Eve if she wanted to bow out, and Pam won’t be making a reappearance, poor thing. She really wanted to get to Blackpool, but that injury— I mean, that’s not something you come back from, y’know? Looked real painful.”

“What exactly happened to Pam?” Aziraphale asked, feeling his pulse quicken a little as he remembered Carmine’s unfriendly approach to friendly rivalry. He had a sudden image of her dropping a grand piano on poor, defenseless Pam, cackling all the while. Which was ridiculous, he reminded himself, as the studio didn’t even have a grand piano, just an upright.

“And then of course, we’ve got Hollywood over here,” Carmine grinned, continuing as if Aziraphale hadn’t asked a question. She poked a terribly sharp fingernail into Crowley’s chest.

“Hollywood?” Crowley eyed her over the top of his glasses. “That supposed to mean something to me?”

“Come on, don’t play coy. It doesn’t suit you,” Carmine said. Crowley continued to look blankly at her, and she continued to look at him like he was a particularly interesting specimen under her boot, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel thoroughly ignored.

“What, exactly, is he meant to be playing coy about?” Aziraphale crossed his arms and tried not to wince as the little chunk of quartz poked him in the chest through his breast pocket.

“That any day now he’s gonna go waltzing right out that door and onto a plane,” Carmine said, a delighted smile slowly colonising her face. “I only know the vague details, of course, but I hear things. Specifically, I hear things from my agent, who used to be his agent,” she jerked her thumb at Crowley, “and sometimes offers meant for AJ here still cross their desk.”

Aziraphale waited for Crowley to scoff. Rattle off a witty barb or two, perhaps.

All he came out with was an unconvincing, “huh.”

Aziraphale crossed his arms a little tighter. From the looks of things, this was news to Crowley. It must be. Crowley wouldn’t keep this from him; couldn’t, most likely, god knew how he loved to gloat. Unease began to sour Aziraphale’s stomach.

“Of course,” Carmine continued, “it’s not until recently that I’ve started paying attention when Beez passes those offers along to the proper channels. Big names, big money— lotta zeroes, is what I’m saying.” She clapped Crowley on the back, and he lurched like a rear-ended Skoda. “Congrats, Anthony. You won without even having to play the full game. I’m impressed.”

Aziraphale tried, with all the force of his not-inconsiderable will, to nudge Crowley into laughing this off, to assure them that he had no plans on leaving the show until his time was up, no matter how many zeroes trailed him. With every second of silence that ticked by, it became clearer that he wasn’t going to do anything of the sort.

“Huh,” Crowley said again. He’d drifted off into a world of his own, dazed and thoughtful, and Aziraphale felt a sickening lurch within him, as if he had been grabbed by the ankle and swung full circle, back to the start of a ten-year loop. He rounded on Carmine with more anger than he’d normally permit.

“Ms. Zugiber, I am not entirely sure—”

“Hey, Aziraphale? Are we all gonna have to wait for you to be finished with whatever you’re doing here, or do you wanna share with the class?”

Gabriel loomed from the balcony like Eva Perón with broader shoulders. Aziraphale’s jaw snapped shut, cheeks colouring as the entire assembly turned to stare at him.

“That’s what I thought,” Gabriel said, seemingly satisfied with this little head teacher routine. “Okay troops! Listen up—”

He launched into a monologue that began with thanking them all for coming so promptly and quickly segued into a refresher course on Leaks and How To Stop Them. He wasn’t pointing fingers, he insisted, pointing a finger at them; but he liked to run a tight ship, and loose lips, as the saying went, sank yachts. That’s why leaks were called leaks. Aziraphale knew he should be paying more attention—even if he privately suspected that this could have been an email—but he couldn’t keep his thoughts from drifting as Gabriel began to talk about What It Means To Be Part of A Crew. Crowley had certainly seemed shocked by Carmine’s little announcement, but then, Crowley was an actor. If Carmine had been telling the truth and this Beez character was passing offers along to Anathema, then there was simply no way she would keep such lucrative opportunities from her client. Either Crowley was turning down some very impressive jobs or, more likely, Crowley was— was considering them. Perhaps the only reason he hadn’t left already was because none of the offers were attractive enough.

You’re being ridiculous, Aziraphale thought. You’re getting het up over nothing.

Only, Crowley had said that he missed it, hadn’t he? There, on the South Bank. And what was his appearance on Strictly if not an attempt to reinvigorate his career? If that was proving fruitful before they’d even come within grasping distance of the final, why should Crowley stick around? What benefit was it to him?

Get through this week, he urged himself. Get through this week, and then we shall deal with it. All of it. Concentrate on what’s in front of you, one step at a time.

“—so when this big, beautiful, tight ship sails into Blackpool on Wednesday, d’you know what I wanna see? I wanna see class. I wanna see grace. I wanna see nobody out there on the boardwalk making an ass of themselves and I wanna see nobody tattling to the press about it.” Gabriel clapped his hands. “Have I made myself clear? Sandalphon, do you think I made myself clear?”

Sandalphon, from some dark, unseen corner where he was probably most at home, said “Crystal, sir.”

“Dismissed, then! Good hustle, team!” Gabriel waved a cheery salute at the room, who burst into chatter the second he turned his back to leave.

“Can you believe this absolute bollocks?” Crowley said.

“Hm? Oh, yes, terrible, terrible,” Aziraphale replied, not knowing which indignity he was referring to but sure this was the appropriate response, going by Crowley’s tone. They started heading for the door, swept along in the throng of departing dancers and technicians.

“I mean, I didn’t even get a mention!” Crowley was working himself up into a proper rant now, hands waving all over the shop. “Obviously this is all thanks to me, and yeah, alright, I’m not looking proud of myself anything—completely out-of-proportion response to a few gossip mags sticking their nebs in—but you’d think I’d warrant at least a small mention. You got told off, and you didn’t even do anything! It’s ridiculous. I should sue. Do you think I could sue?”

What if that was what Crowley meant, by “we’ve both got a lot on”? What if he was reluctant to get into talking about last Friday, not as a service to Aziraphale, but because he was off doing— things. Making calls. Schmoozing.

“I reckon I could. Or write a letter to the editor, make sure they include my name in all future publications. ”

That would be quite distracting, Aziraphale allowed. Maybe that's why he’d not pressed about brunch on Sunday. Not that Aziraphale had been ready, mind you, to go for brunch with him. The purpose of brunch was to relax and get a little tipsy, not navigate an emotional minefield. Alright, he’d been relieved when Crowley let it lie so easily after his initial rejection, but he had hoped that Crowley might at least give it a second go. That was what he did. He nudged, and he cajoled, and he teased. Like a child tonguing at a loose tooth, knowing that they shouldn’t but excited just to see what would happen, when there would be some give.

“And then once I’m done with that I could sprout a massive tail, real big bastard of a thing, and we can incorporate it into our next dance.”

Would Anathema tell him, if he asked? He didn’t want to pry, Crowley’s life was his own, of course. But surely she would do Aziraphale the professional courtesy of warning him before his life was turned upside-down.

Not life, Aziraphale reminded himself. Career.

“Jesus died for our sins.”

Aziraphale blinked, then stared outright at Crowley. Somehow, they were back outside the door to the studio.

“I’m sorry?”

Crowley smirked, leaning against the wall. “I knew you weren’t paying attention.”

“I was! I—” Aziraphale blushed, then started fiddling with his pinky ring. “Oh, you’re right. Apologies, dear boy, I was rather off in my own head. What were you saying?”

“Load of old rubbish, really,” Crowley shrugged. “Although, I am surprised you haven’t kicked off more about these new security measures. Not for us, the sights and smells of Blackpool. Not for us, the unsampled restaurants of a new city, the crowded clubs and beachfront bars. Only house red and hotel fare for the bad kids.”

“What?” Aziraphale balked. Oh dear, the events of this morning really had gotten away from him. “What on earth are you… oh. That’s what Gabriel was talking about, wasn’t it? We’re being sequestered.”

“Sounds painful.”

“It’s fairly standard, as far as reality television goes,” Aziraphale said, “but feels completely demoralising and patronising nonetheless.”

“Explains why Gabriel was so keen on it,” Crowley said, pushing open the door to the studio and holding it for Aziraphale.

“Well, we’ll just have to make the most of it,” Aziraphale sighed, not feeling quite as put out as he was feigning. At the very least, Crowley would have a hard time hatching career plans with his manager from Blackpool boot camp. Selfish as that was, Aziraphale was glad for it. For the next few days, at least, he had his partner’s undivided attention.

“So, this is the fabled spare room, is it? S’nice, I suppose. Got a desk there and everything. Got your, your pen tray with elephants on, and your bedspread which… also seems to feature elephants, got your crystals, your standard elephant-shaped oil burner. This is a startling amount of elephant-themed paraphernalia. Are you some sort of Elephantidae enthusiast?”

“I’m working,” said Anathema.

“Is that so? Because that sounds like Monster Factory.”

Anathema scowled at him and closed the tab. Crowley leaned further around the doorway to Anathema’s room, careful not to put a toe over the threshold, as he had the strongest feeling that something unpleasant would happen if he did. Anathema’s room was nice, and it was also starkly different to the rest of Crowley’s pretty stark flat. It was like someone had picked up a room from another home and dropped it wholesale into his own; a room from a house with dark oak beams and rich, beautifully woven rugs, a house with a lot of cushions and woven throws and a kitchen someone actually cooked in. It smelled good, not at all like the patchouli fug of a Mind, Body and Spirit shop, which was what he had been dreading, and there was not a shred of paisley to be seen. That wasn’t really her style anyway, on reflection. Anathema’s personality was as organised as it was witchy, which was why she didn’t have any dreamcatchers or Himalayan salt lamps, but did have a series of arch-lever folders on her bookshelf helpfully labelled Contracts, Receipts, and ‘Recipes’.

Crowley didn't know for sure why ‘Recipes’ was in scare quotes, but he had an idea.

“So I had a chat with Carmine today—or, y’know, she had a chat with me—and she dropped an interesting bit of info,” he began, figuring the direct approach was best.

“Mm?”

“Mm. Did you know Beez is her manager?”

Anathema opened a new tab and started clicking about— shiftily, Crowley thought. “I did, yes.”

“And you didn’t say because…?”

“Because I didn’t think it was relevant, and because I know you don’t like them.” She typed something, frowned, then hit backspace.

“Carmine also said that you sometimes get emails from them,” he went on. “With offers for me that get sent their way by mistake.”

“I do,” said Anathema.

Crowley waited for her to expand on that. She did not. “I just think it’s interesting, how she seemed to know so much about me, and my future prospects, when I didn’t have a clue. ‘Cause I mean, you told me we’d started to get job offers, but nothing decent. Only Carmine seemed to think—”

Anathema finally turned in her expensive, Scandinavian-looking office chair. “Carmine seemed to think what?” she asked, impatience creasing her very smooth, very well-moisturised forehead. “What’s this about, Crowley?”

Crowley fidgeted. He didn't know what it was about, not really. He only knew that he felt a bit prickly about the whole thing. “Fine. Carmine made a fuss about me getting job offers at assembly today—”

“Assembly?”

“Don’t ask, and she hinted, with all the subtlety of a charging rhino, that big things were heading my way. Fortune, fame, a part with more than three lines— she didn’t name any names, but it was heavily implied that they were the sort of offers that’d be worth pegging it across the North Atlantic for ASAP. Only I distinctly remember you telling me everything so far had been pretty naff.”

“That’s because it has been,” said Anathema.

“Right,” said Crowley. “Okay then.”

He slid out of the doorway, walked three steps, and then turned back.

“I want to hear what they were, actually. They are for me, after all, naff or not. It isn’t that I don’t trust you to vet them effectively,” and whoops, wow, he’d just jammed his foot right in there, hadn’t he? “but more for my own... “ he waved a hand, searching for the word on the tip of his tongue. Anathema watched him flatly, her working glasses perched on the edge of her nose.

“Edification?” she provided, finally.

“Y—”

“Sure, Crowley.” She turned back to the laptop and started clicking about. “Now that you’ve asked, I can tell you all about the amazing roles I’ve been hiding from you. I keep them all in a little folder, here.”

“Well, hang on, I didn’t suggest you were hiding—”

“Let’s see, let’s see.” She squinted at the screen. “Okay, so here we’ve got one for something called The Great British Celebrity Sewing Bee— how’s your needlework, again? Remind me?”

Crowley leant his head against the doorframe, already knowing how this was going to end. “Bad,” he said.

“Bad, okay. I’ve got one here from a dental care company, wanting to know if you’d like to be the new face of their teeth-whitening toothpaste, though they are very insistent that you get your teeth professionally whitened first before you start peddling lies for them. A town in Wales would like to know if you’d turn on their Christmas lights this year. Ooh, there’s a part here in a movie! You’re right, Crowley, should have shared this with you straight away. It’s called Curse of the Snake-Men, and they want to know if you, Anthony J Crowley, would play the prestigious role of the High Snorcerer— presumably that’s Snake Sorcerer—”

“Alright, alright, I get your point,” he groaned.

Anathema leaned back in her chair. “There have been some okay ones,” she allowed, “and they’re getting better all the time. But nothing currently worth breaking your concentration—or your contract—on the show for, okay? And you know that if there was—”

“You’d tell me, yeah, I know.”

“Right. And to answer your question, I do like elephants, though not as much as my mom seems to believe. Pretty sure there’s a big one in the room right now, though. Wanna talk about it?”

Crowley made a face at the segue, taking the crystal out of his pocket and idly throwing and catching it. “Nah,” he said. “It’s fine.” It was fine. He could wait. It was fine. Glancing over, he saw that Anathema’s eyes had widened.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Oh, this?” He turned the crystal so it caught the light, pretending he hadn’t really noticed he was holding it. “I dunno. Looks like a crystal, doesn’t it. Why don’t you tell me, Anathema?”

“Why is it broken?”

“How curious, I thought, how strange, to find a crystal in my dance studio. Now, who do I know who has a mania for minerals, I asked myself—”

“Why is it broken?”

“I— we knocked it off the table during rehearsal. Why? It’s just a rock, right?” Anathema looked grim. Crowley suddenly had the absurd fear that she’d hidden a bug inside it. She shook her head.

“It channels energy, it’s supposed to be healing and calming and— yes, it’s just a rock,” she said at the pained expression on Crowley’s face. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not,” he said. But that prickly feeling still hadn't gone away.

He wandered off to the kitchen to clatter some pans about until Anathema offered to order them food, then paused. He did a loop of the coffee table and came back.

“Do me a favour, just— will you send the offers through anyway? The good, bad, and the ugly,” he said. “I don’t like Carmine knowing things I don’t. It gives her the advantage.”

“In… the competition?” asked Anathema. “In life?”

“Over me.”

“Huh,” Anathema said, in the tone that communicated I am peering into your very depths and, gotta tell you mate, it’s actually more of a rock pool down there. “This really got to you, didn’t it?”

“I just want to know where I stand from now on,” Crowley said, trying not to think too hard about the way Aziraphale had looked at him when Carmine was talking. “Even if where I stand is somewhere between skit shows and Sports Relief.”

Once upon a time, Aziraphale considered glumly, the journey to Blackpool was a joyful one. As long as they were safely within the hotel by the middle of the week, how they arrived was their own business. Some drove themselves, some opted for air travel, some hired limousines and got into all sorts of trouble before they had even reached the outskirts of Luton. Aziraphale and Tracy had been taking the journey together for years, mainly via first class carriage from Euston train station, and as such had developed little rituals to help pass the time and soothe the nerves that came with the imminent chaos that awaited them once they reached their destination.

In some cultures, these rituals were called drinking games.

It came as something of a disappointment when, a few years ago, Uriel had suddenly become concerned about optics. Couldn’t give them too much free rein, considering they would be dragging the good name of the studio behind them. Much better to have everybody caged into one vehicle where they couldn’t get up to any trouble or, heaven forfend, fun. Shadwell helpfully suggested the name of an acquaintance who ran a coach service, and the rest was history. Aziraphale wasn’t sure which was the bigger surprise— that the Longtail Buses driver was actually quite charming, or that Shadwell had a friend.

Still, not ones to be easily deterred—old and set in their ways as they were—Aziraphale and Tracy had continued observing their pre-Blackpool traditions with bloody-minded determination. Tracy, demonstrating this, bravely attempted to pour herself a shot and ended up with the entire thing in her lap when Maurice found another pothole to drive over.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she hissed, and took a quick swig from the bottle instead. “Why they make us go through this every year, I’ll never understand! How is this any better for the image! I mean, imagine if the press could see the inside of this tin can!”

Aziraphale could imagine it all too well. The cramped conditions, the obvious tribalism on display when it came to seating arrangements, the aroma of bodily musk slowly filling the vestibule thanks to the lack of functioning aircon and sealed windows; plus, Aziraphale was certain he’d seen a rat scurrying by his feet not five minutes ago. They’d have a field day with all this.

“Me and Harry don’t understand the rules of this game,” Eve said, popping up over the back of the seats in front of them, where she was sat with Harriet Dowling— or Harry, as Eve insisted on referring to her by. The two had apparently gotten incredibly raucous together after Aziraphale and Crowley had left the Halloween party, and had been fast friends ever since, despite the tabloids constant attempts to drive a wedge between them. Nothing like overcoming a spot of orchestrated misogyny to strengthen the bonds of female friendship— if Aziraphale had learned nothing else from Legally Blonde, he’d learned that much.

“Well, it’s really rather simple,” Aziraphale said, topping up the travel mug she held out for him. “Every time you feel like having a drink, you have one.”

Tracy nodded along, sagely. “We used to have proper rules, only we’d get so pickled we’d end up forgetting ‘em halfway through. Always ended up having a right barney about it, didn’t we, Adam?”

“I am begging you, stop talking to me,” Adam said, from across the aisle. Eve’s paramour had his own ritual for their journey. He got on the bus, took up two seats all by himself, snapped on some sort of brightly coloured acupuncture wristbands, popped on a sleep mask and did his best to slip into a coma until their time aboard was up. The dear boy did get so horribly travel sick. He’d made several requests to be allowed to travel by train over the years as the bilious exception to the rule, but with no luck— if we do it for one, we’d have to do it for all, and then where would we be? Sandalphon had explained, with that soulless grin. Aziraphale was privately grateful that Adam was so focussed on keeping his breakfast down that he hadn’t yet noticed Crowley’s absence.

There was something to be said, after all, for seeking forgiveness rather than permission. Although, in Aziraphale’s opinion, Crowley was about as likely to seek forgiveness as he was to willingly sit on a coach for five hours.

“Ooh, another magpie!” Tracy cooed, leaving a fingerprint smudge on the glass. “That’s the fourth one I’ve seen today! Always thought they were very smart chaps, you know—”

Eve, without warning, leapt up from her seat and raised a hand to her head in salute. She called out “good day, Mister Magpie, how’s your wife?” and then settled back, smiling at them as though she hadn’t just done… whatever it was that she had just done. Aziraphale, Tracy and Harriet all looked to each other to confirm that yes, that was odd, and no, they didn’t want to be the one asking for clarification. Eve, of course, missed nothing about this exchange and laughed boldly at all three of them.

“Didn’t your mums ever tell you— no, what am I saying, course they didn’t,” Eve said, wiping away a tear. “A single magpie’s bad luck. One for sorrow, y’know? Gotta salute, an’ say what I just said, an’ then they’ll leave you alone. God’s truth.”

“S’at so?” Tracy squinted at her. “What if the magpie’s not married?”

“Or not of that persuasion? Or gender, come to think of it?” Aziraphale said, taking a drink. “How can we be certain we aren’t inviting more bad luck onto ourselves? One never knows, these days. Doesn’t do to assume.”

“Makes an ass out of you and me,” Harriet agreed, with all the sage wisdom of one who is completely blottoed.

“Adam,” Eve pouted, nudging him across the aisle with her foot. “Tell them about the magpies, babe. Tell them I’m smart and right and to listen to me! Babe, Adam, babe.”

Adam sat up like a shot, and for a moment Aziraphale was convinced they were all about to get a rousing lecture on respecting the mad superstitions of his sweetheart, before the boy ripped off his sleep mask and tore his way to the back of the bus.

“Did, uh— did he forget the bathroom’s out of order?” asked Harriet, and was swiftly answered by the unmistakable sound of retching. Aziraphale resolved then and there to salute every damn magpie he saw for the rest of the journey, and hoped that Tracy’s very potent perfume would be enough to ward off evidence of Adam’s terrible folly.

Crowley barrelled along the M40 with his music turned loud, a little bubble of sound and fury. The fury in this case was directed towards the grey-faced man in a BMW in front, who didn’t seem to realise he was in a race with Crowley but was winning nonetheless. The impact of his rude hand gestures were somewhat softened by the involuntary grin he’d worn since Wembley. When he had told Aziraphale he was driving, his partner had looked gravely concerned. “You realise it’s a five-hour drive,” he had warned, as if Crowley couldn’t work a SatNav. He’d only shrugged. He so rarely had a chance to take the Bentley out, let her really stretch her legs— er, tires. Half the time driving in London felt like playing What’s The Time, Mr Wolf? with the traffic lights, stopping and starting and crawling along inch by inch. A five-hour drive wasn’t much of a hardship when you were driving 2500lb of automotive monarchy.

Plus, with Crowley at the wheel, it was really more like a four-hour drive.

It was a bright, clear day. He was frolicking down the M40 with plans to buy a pack of cigarettes at the first petrol station he came to. Transformer was fading into Station to Station. In a few hours he’d see Aziraphale, and in a few days they would talk, and in a few weeks this whole Strictly ordeal would be over and they could go on a proper date. Crowley had been mentally compiling a list of places to take him all week, and while at first he’d been racking his brains for flashy and exciting locales, his motivation soon softened. Aziraphale wouldn’t be impressed by him throwing his money and weight about. He possibly—complete shocker—wanted to get to know Crowley. As a person. Even more shockingly, Crowley wanted Aziraphale to get to know him, which was so far from his usual territory re: relationships that he was going to need a compass to get around. There was a Dora Maar exhibition at the Tate he’d wanted to see, and it was on at the same time as William Blake, if Aziraphale was more of a traditionalist. God, what if he was a proper traditionalist? Crowley liked Da Vinci as much as the next bloke but if Aziraphale wanted him to be titillated by Titian he might have a difficult time.

These were good worries to have, Crowley mused, staring out the window at the last few glimpses of Oxfordshire. Low-stakes worries. He could forgive Aziraphale his Raphaels and Michelangelos—hell, all his Ninja Turtles and beyond—if Aziraphale would just stand in a room with him and hold his hand while his chest seized up at a Hockney.

As he whistled towards Birmingham, the music cut out. He glanced at his phone, nestled in a period-inaccurate hands-free set on his dashboard, which informed him he had an incoming call from The Wicked Witch of the West Coast.

“Answer,” he said, then, “Anathema! Be with you in a sec, just spotted an opportunity.” He moved to the inside lane and shot past Beemer, laughing at the man’s outraged beep.

“You sound happy. Communing with the road?”

“You’ve got your trees and wallows, I’ve got this.”

Anathema tutted. “You’d pave paradise and put up a gas station.”

“I would and all. To what do I owe this honour? I thought you’d be celebrating my absence by now. Doing a Risky Business in my poor, unsuspecting living room.”

“A what?”

“You know, dancing like a fool in your underwear.”

“Oh, you mean a Love, Actually.”

“D’you know they offered me a part in Love, Actually? Something to do with my status as a National Treasure?”

“Really? Why’d you turn it down?”

“Because it’s sh*t, actually.”

“Ha ha. Speaking of your career and it’s missed opportunities,” said Anathema, and Crowley heard papers being shuffled somewhere in the background, “you know how you said to only call you this weekend if anything good came up?”

Crowley drummed his fingers on the wheel. His heartbeat picked up. He started to get that tingle, that feeling that was part premonition and all excitement.

“Yeah?”

“Well,” Anathema paused, “I think something good might have come up.”

By the time Crowley got off the phone with Anathema, he was on the M6 past Stoke-on-Trent. He’d long left Beemer in the dust. He pulled in at the next service station, bought some Softmints and a pack of cigarettes, and squinted through his shades at a bright future, long overdue.