duckshaveears: (Default)
The sheer glow on Aziraphale's face (even by angelic standards) catches Crowley by surprise, and it's that more than the compliment that makes him grin the way he does. When he sits down with the sake bottle in his hand he's thinking that maybe this wasn't such a mad idea after all.

And then Cole Porter starts playing.

Oh. Shit.

Aziraphale's performance is terrific, there's no question about that. It's the perfect mix of enthusiastic and coaxing and sweet, without being cloying. Cole Porter was good at that, Crowley remembers vaguely. Clever, clever lyrics to dance across the emotions. So very clever. So very convincing.

Shit, shit, shit, this was a bad idea, he knew it was going to be a bad idea but now he's here and the angel is singing Let's Do It as though--fuck, does Aziraphale knows the unwritten rules of karaoke, or is he just picking things he knows and loves? It seems as though Aziraphale glances his way more often than might be vaguely considered normal, but how to tell? What if it means something? What if it doesn't mean anything?

Crowley feels a bit like he's been kicked in the chest by a mule (a thing that happened once, millennia ago but not an experience to forget). But behind those sunglasses his eyes are riveted on Aziraphale, and he drinks in every note, and when the song end he claps as loudly as anyone. "Excellent work," he says in a low voice as the angel rejoins him at the table. "You've missed your calling, running a bookshop; you should be treading the boards with a voice like that."
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musebox for Ashfae's minions

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