faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

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From:

duckshaveears

Crowley has centuries of practice in picking himself up after moments like this, so doing it is not so very hard Except that it is, because it is difficult as hell not to try and interpret that song as a personal invitation even though he knows it probably wasn't. Probably. Almost certainly.

The only solution he can think of is more alcohol and more karaoke, so..."Yeah, sure, I'll have another try." He refills his cup again and passes the bottle over, trying to think of possibilities that will work but not give him away too horribly.

And then suddenly he grins with that look of utter bastard mischief. "Could have a go of 'I've Got You Under My Skin', if you're still in a Cole Porter mood. Not many can do that one and have it literally be a thing that's happened to them."

From:

sohoangel

His eyes widen at the suggestion. That's... a good point. A very, very good point. Who else but them can claim such a thing? He hasn't forgotten a moment of that day, switching appearances with Crowley and taking his place in Hell. It was one of the scariest, dangerous, bravest things that he'd ever done. And, despite all his fears, he had loved it. Loved being a hero to Crowley for once, for sticking it to his former boss, for... just taking advantage of the moment to be reckless and cool.

It's an incredibly liberating feeling, to know that you're capable of that.

He smiles hesitantly. Hopefully. "And we'd sing that... together?" Because the lyrics of that song fit his feelings perfectly, and not because of the body switching. If Crowley wants to sing it, too... well, that's a far less safe choice than singing about one's car.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley, having had this brilliant inspiration, is now being carried away by it, as so often happens. The irony of it, the wonderful inside joke shared bragging, and all the marvellous overtones and undertones of meaning...that's far too good to resist.

That or maybe the alcohol is starting to kick in. Either way, he'll take it. Aziraphale's rather sweet, hopeful smile is met by a one of Crowley's biggest grins. "'Course we'd do it together. 'S whole point of a duet, right? Here, I'll go book it--"

He does book it, half running over to sign them up, almost ripping pages in his enthusiasm to find the write number in the programme book. Fortunately the piece is one of the duet options. If it weren't, he'd have had to cheat to get it in there, he's not letting go of this idea now he's had it.

He saunters back more slowly, still grinning. "Got a while before we'll be up, though. Meantime let's get that waiter back, I have a sudden craving for popcorn shrimp. And another bottle."

Exhilaration is better than bottle courage, but having bottle courage as well is probably not a bad idea. Especially when it's also delicious.

Edited Date: 2019-09-04 03:09 pm (UTC)

From:

sohoangel

He watches Crowley rush off to book the song. Their song. The butterflies in his stomach, previously sated with sake and sushi, begin fluttering in earnest. It reminds him of the moment Crowley said that Aziraphale could stay at his place. The moment that they hit upon the brilliant plan of switching appearances. The moment that they walked off to the Ritz, side-by-side, no longer needing to hide their friendship from their superiors, or one another.

The moment that Crowley saved the books.

Oh. Oh, dear.

As Crowley returns, he tries to control that giddy look of anticipation on his face and mostly succeeds. This is fine, friends sing duets all the time. Perfectly fine. "Yes, brilliant idea," he says in response to the request for more sake and more food. With a wave of his hand, the waiter returns, and their order is promptly filled. Meanwhile, Aziraphale helps himself to the last of their current bottle, willing those stubborn butterflies into submission.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley puts any errant giddiness on Aziraphale's part down to excitement about performing. Why not? He's getting excited about it too. Fun to put on a bit of a show once in a while, he likes attention. And probably the sake is kicking in. Good, about time.

Speaking of time, they have some, and fill it with more food and drink and conversation about Cole Porter, whether or not it should be a mortal sin to eat sushi with a fork, and the curse on anyone who sings "My Way" by Sinatra during karaoke sessions, for which Crowley disclaims all responsibility (that there is a curse is evident, but blessed if he knows who's responsible for it).

By the time their turn comes around again he's feeling pretty mellow and merry, and when he stands up to saunter up to the stage is seems appropriate to offer the angel his arm, so he does, with a dashing grin and a flash of yellow irises over the top of his sunglasses. "Come on, angel. Looks like we're up."

From:

sohoangel

Aziraphale keeps up his end of the conversation, unaware of the karoake curse, but grateful to Crowley for hearing about it. On the subject of eating sushi with a fork, Aziraphale declares that it can't be a sin, because if Gabriel ever deigned to try it, he would surely use a fork, and that's a solid indivator that the angel is feeling the effects of the sake, too, especially his little snort-giggle that follows the implied insult against his former boss.

At least it's sake drunk, and not champagne bomb drunk, like last night.

But all the sake in the world can't quell those butterlies when Crowley offers his arm, but he takes it anyway, a charmed smile to go with it as Crowley escorts him to the stage. He lets go when the emcee hands them each a microphone, and a knowing smirk thrown Crowley's way that Aziraphale doesn't notice.

When the music starts, Aziraphale realizes that they never worked out who was singing which part. He takes the lead, gallantly, knowing that he feels more comfortable singing in front of an audience than Crowley, despite the demon's bravado. His singing is far sweeter than the rendition made popular by Sinatra, and aside from a glance to the screen now and then to check whose part is whose, he only has eyes for Crowley.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley catches the emcee's smirk, but fires back an eyebrow raised so high it almost leaps off his forehead and punches the emcee in the face for presumption. The poor man (boy, really) gulps and steps back. Crowley grins wickedly, though the disreputable edge of it fades into something lighter as he turns back to Aziraphale, microphone in hand.

They had forgotten to work out who was beginning, or in fact to plan how to do this at all. No matter. Crowley wings it, the way he wings most things. His singing is a bit more ironic than Aziraphale's, and clearly more amused, though no one else is in on the joke. Just him and Aziraphale. Which makes it all the better.

As the song rolls along, however, he can't help but feel how appropriate it is on another level, and gradually that faint ironic edge fades. That, or maybe the angel's beatific smile and obviously fond gaze get to him. Either way he can't help but smile back, more genuinely. By the end he's singing the lyrics as though he means them.

They sing the last line together, looking at each other's faces, and it's actually something of a shock when the applause breaks in on the moment. The only reason Crowley doesn't blush is because demons don't. It's just hot in here. Nothing else.

From:

sohoangel

The beauty of karaoke, the absolute brilliance of it, Aziraphale decides, is that he can be as heartfelt as he wants all under the guise of a performance, of the assumption that it's simply the way the song is meant to be sung. He takes advantage of that, allowing the lyrics to express his otherwise hidden feelings. His admittedly mixed feelings, for such a long time, fear of reprimand from Heaven (and Crowley's safety) preventing him from being honest with himself, and Crowley.

Of course, that doesn't explain the shift in the way Crowley sings, that touch of irony fading off into genuine affection. As they share that final line, Aziraphale gives him the fondest of looks. It's a bit like a musical, and Aziraphale has seen so many of those. It's tempting to... to say something. Do something. To let the moment continue naturally.

The applause jolts him out of that train of thought. He had clearly forgotten about the rest of the restaurant. Sheepishly, he hands the emcee his microphone. The emcee, wisely, does not make any sort of expression or remark on their performance, not wanting to get another one of those scary looks from Crowley.

Back at their table, Aziraphale finds his voice again. "That was rather wonderful," he tells Crowley sincerely. "Would you... that is, would you like to sing another duet? Or should we take a couple of solo turns again?" He'd like that, if only because getting up on stage again seems less scary than sitting at this intimate table for two, with no lyrics to hide behind.

From:

duckshaveears

The lucky thing, Crowley realizes, the really lucky thing, is that he can get away with seeming more goopy than he would normally be willing to be, because it's an act. The fact that it's not exactly an act is his own problem which can be safely ignored and not at all dealt with in any way whatsoever, or even acknowledged. The fact that he gets completely lost in Aziraphale's soft, affectionate gaze for a moment until applause snaps them out of it, likewise.

Doesn't mean anything, of course, Crowley knows that. The angel loves everyone, and he loves musicals, and all this in general is right up his alley. That's all. That's fine, that's better. It can be only that, and they can go back to sushi and ridiculous conversations and...and enjoying each other's company, yeah, call it that. They can just safely go on as they have been, without having to worry about having Heaven or Hell at their throats, and that's enough. It's more than they've ever had and Crowley knows to appreciate it.

But Aziraphale is still smiling at him, the same as he was on the stage.

...he is so fucked. So, so, so fucked. Death by karaoke, of all the incredibly utterly unstylish ways to go.

"Yeah," he says, and it comes out a little croaky, probably because the word has leapt out of him unexpectedly past a large ball of ohshitohshitohshitWHYDIDYOUSAYTHAT. He swallows. "Sure, we can have another go. You got anything in mind?" There is, fortunately, still some of their second bottle of sake left, which Crowley promptly uses to drown some of those inner, screaming doubts.

From:

sohoangel

His eyes light up when Crowley agrees to another duet. He had no idea how much he had been hoping Crowley would say yes until he did. "Oh, jolly good," he says with that same fond smile.

Of course, now there's the matter of finding another song to sing together. It's his turn to choose something, as Crowley had picked the last one. But then, suddenly, he has an epiphany. Crowley chose a... well, a romantic song, for lack of a better word. They sang it together without batting an eye. Which means so many more options are on the table. Aziraphale can choose just about whatever he wants to express to Crowley and get away with it, so long as it's in a song.

Oh, God bless whomever invented karaoke.

Eyes lighting up for an entirely different reason, Aziraphale pretends to consider the question longer than he needs to, hands folded primly in his lap. "Well, since we're already on a Cole Porter streak, how about something from Anything Goes?"

From:

duckshaveears

Aaaaaaaaand there's the reason why he said that, to see Aziraphale's face light up the way he does, and the worst part is it's entirely worth it. Utterly fucked, Crowley is. Strange how he doesn't really mind.

But Aziraphale has something in mind, clearly, because he only looks this sort of angelic when he's trying to pretend he's as completely innocent as Crowley knows full well he isn't. Crowley raises an eyebrow. "Even for you, I'm not going to sing 'Blow, Gabriel, Blow', just so we're clear on that from the outset. Does that wanker even have a trumpet? Tell me he doesn't have a trumpet."

From:

sohoangel

Aziraphale laughs. Of all the things for Crowley to say. "Oh, please. Like I'd waste a chance to sing with you on that." As for the rest of the question, he frowns in tipsy contemplation before shrugging and waving a hand. "Dunno. He blew something towards the end there." Heh. "Tell you what, I'll go put what I'm thinking in the queue and if you don't like it, I'll sing it by m'self."

And with that, he's up and heading over to the karaoke songbook, feeling eminently pleased with himself. Crowley does know the musical, but he doesn't suspect a thing. "You're the Top" is easy enough to find, which he selects with gusto. A chance to unabashedly compliment his best friend in song form. This is a brilliant idea.

...this is a terrible idea. A terrible, dangerous idea. A spanner thrown into a six thousand year old friendship that took a near Apocalypse for him to embrace. He should be happy with what he has with Crowley now, why does he feel compelled to mess with it? Does he want his friend to get embarrassed and make an excuse to run off, leaving him to sing torch songs for the rest of the night?

Oh, well. It's too late to turn back. He returns to their table and smiles meekly. "Should be our turn again, soon enough."

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley watches Aziraphale bounce (not really bounce) over to the sign-up board, with some trepidation, trying to remember songs from Anything Goes. "I Get a Kick Out of You"? That wouldn't be bad. He could admit to that much without it being hard. "So in Love", that'd be a disaster, no, wait, that's from the later one, whatchacallit, the Shakespeare one.

With a sudden sinking feeling he remembers "Let's Misbehave" is from Anything Goes and nearly discorporates on the spot. That...would be altogether too appropriate and too dangerous and oh, fuck.

So when it's their turn again, and "You're the Top" (which Crowley had completely forgotten about) shows up as the choice? He's much, much too relieved to be nervous or uncomfortable about it.

And honestly, it's easy to get into singing this one. It's not just compliments and a catchy melody, it's a long, long list of really fantastic things about the world they both freely admit they enjoy being in. Crowley even changes one or two of the lyrics, because why compare Aziraphale to the listed things when he can make inside jokes about crepes in Paris and the like?

In short, he has a ball. It shows.

From:

sohoangel

"Let's Misbehave" would require far more than the bottles of sake they've been sharing, although those lyrics are awfully appropriate, too. This is the trouble with musicals. They can be about all sorts of things, but the classics are always about love. Love that spills out between the lines of a well-crafted song.

In any event, Aziraphale is equally relieved to find that Crowley approves of the song choice. The angel proceeds to compliment his best friend with impunity. Ah, but he's not expecting the compliments to be returned so enthusiastically -- personalized, even! The crepe reference throws him off for a good half-second. Oh, Crowley is just messing around, he can't possibly mean all the things he's singing?

Can he?

They end the song to thunderous applause. Who knew that two middle-aged men singing Cole Porter would be so entertaining? The emcee can't hide his smile. Good for business, these two are. He signals the waiter to send another bottle of sake over to their table, on the house.

"So, ah..." Aziraphale feels a little at a loss for words, after that performance. He sits down and pours himself more sake without thinking, rosy-cheeked and soft-eyed. "Shall we go again? Would you like to pick the next song?"

From:

duckshaveears

It doesn't occur to Crowley to wonder if Aziraphale means all these sung praises, past the moment's fun of singing them. The angel likes things. That includes Crowley. It's safely a given. He even lets Crowley hang around in his bookshop, for Someone's sake. No one else has that permission. It's a song about friendship and fun things and 's all good. Easier than the first duet was, really.

Besides, Aziraphale is the top, as far as Crowley is concerned. It's not even a compliment, it's fact. He's an angel, except he's a blessed sight better than all the other ones up there because he's actually good, instead of theoretically hypocritically righteously Good. Crowley will stand by that opinion until his last breath whether Aziraphale ever agrees with it or not. He'd fling it at Gabriel if he had the chance. At the Almighty, even.

Not that this makes Aziraphale flawless, mind, but that's just as well. Perfection would be incredibly boring.

Crowley flings himself back into their booth, draping himself all over his side of it. "Maybe in a bit. Want a bit of a break first. Go on and do a solo, if you like." He has a look at the bottle of sake and looks impressed. "They've sent over the good stuff, angel. Maybe we both should be considering new careers."

From:

sohoangel

So far as Aziraphale is concerned, Crowley is the top, and they'd have a good bicker about it if either of them could admit their feelings about it to one another. The angel has been told in so many words over the years by his superiors that he's nothing special. An eccentric angel full of harmless but peculiar quirks who isn't worth anybody's time.

But Crowley. Crowley is clever and creative and charming and ridiculous in all the right ways. Aziraphale would likely still be under Heaven's heavy thumb, if not for Crowley. Of course he lets Crowley hang around his bookshop. His books make him happy, but it's Crowley who makes him feel like someone worth knowing.

His heart aches suddenly. How he wishes he could just say these things. He masks his turmoil with a soft laugh over Crowley's remark. "And here I was under the mistaken impression that Cole Porter had fallen out of fashion." He then takes a furtive look around the restaurant as a thought occurs to him. What if it isn't the Cole Porter? An angel's aura can seep into the minds of mortals if one isn't careful. But no one seems to be acting strangely otherwise, so he relaxes and has a little more sake.

He hadn't been considering a solo while they wait, but if this is his only chance to express his feelings, he supposes he should take it. "Okay... okay, sure. Excuse me." He heads back to the karaoke machine, and the emcee graciously lets him go next, once he's selected something.

"If I loved you" from Carousel is a bit of a thematic change, but the lyrics speak to him, in that moment. It's likely the good sake. Aziraphale always gets a bit in his own head when he's drunk.

From:

duckshaveears

"Some things are timeless. Cole Porter blessed well ought to be one of them." Crowley makes himself comfortable as he watches Aziraphale head back over towards the selection book, a little surprised that he gets another turn right away.

(it's not a surprise. Over half the bar is watching them now and wondering about the gentleman in the fantastic vintage outfit and the guy who looks like an older rock star. Bets are changing hands about if they're dating or not. One group that intended to leave half an hour ago is deliberately lingering just to watch, and a different group has just forcibly prevented a young man from going up to do a song because they want to see what the pair will do next. One girl is tweeting all of it. In another day or two the evening's events will have gone viral)

Crowley breaks open the new bottle and pours himself a cup, and takes a long drink while Aziraphale gets on the stage and nervously fidgets. He almost spits it out as the first notes begin, sitting bolt upright.

Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. This is so much worse than "Let's Misbehave." He's not sure he can think of anything that would be worse.

Crowley's not a big fan of musicals in general, aside from some of the funnier ones, but he knows Carousel. There's a whole room in Hell set aside just for people to listen to "This Was a Real Nice Clambake" on repeat, forever. Personaly, Crowley's always felt that was too cruel a punishment even for serial mass murderers or people who talk at the theatre, but even without the cursed clambake song, he's never cared much for Carousel.

And this...this is pretty much the biggest unrequited wistful love song ever, hands down. Perfect for karaoke Terrifying for a demon in love with his angelic best friend who doesn't know it or doesn't acknowledge it or might be trying to tell him something or might just like the pretty melody and oh, fuck fucking fuckbuckets.

Except he doesn't consciously think any of that, aside from deep, deep in his subconscious, because he's too busy listening. Crowley goes absolutely still, still as stone, still as a snake hiding from a predator. It's possible he forgets to breathe. Every note drips with longing and purity, and all he can do is listen and watch.

From:

sohoangel

There isn't a song so far that Aziraphale hasn't put his heart and soul into, and this is no exception. Some of the people who betted on the two gentlemen dating are having second thoughts. One of the servers, who had worked the night before, confides to the lingering group (in hopes for a better tip), that the songs the blond was singing the previous night were far more unrequited than this one. Les Miserables is mentioned, and even the most cynical member of that group lets out a soft little sigh at the news.

Aziraphale, of course, is obliviious to all this while he sings. Even the applause that follows is barely acknowledged. He only has eyes for Crowley. Which is why he knows immediately that something is wrong. Crowley is never this still, never this silent.

"Too sentimental?" he asks softly when he returns to their table, hoping to break whatever spell Crowley is under. A growing sense of dread fills him from within, freezes the butterflies and shatters their pretty wings. He's screwed this up somehow. "Not appropriate for karaoke?"

Edited Date: 2019-09-06 08:43 pm (UTC)

From:

duckshaveears

"No." It's more a croak than a word. Crowley's a little impressed he remembers how to talk at all. "No, that was..."

He swallows, still staring. But from behind his sunglasses. Which he's suddenly very, very relieved to have.

He has to say something. He has to do. Something. What?

Only one tool to hand, really. Death by karaoke. In for a penny, in for a pound. Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more, you only live once.

Crowley swallows again, stands up, suddenly a blur of motion and babbling. "My turn again. You won't like this one, probably. Too modern. If they even have it. Better go check."

He hesitates, and so quietly that only angel ears would catch it he adds, "I wouldn't ever, you know. Leave you," before more or less bolting for the karaoke machine, because that's given himself away good and proper even if the song he wants to do won't and it better be in there and the kid who's currently on stage singing Justin Bieber is in serious danger of getting teleported to Antarctica, and not just because of his poor music taste.

From:

sohoangel

That croaked out 'no' is not terribly reassuring, but at least it's something. More comforting is when he hops out of his seat like one of those prank snakes that pop out of a can of peanuts. All right then, he's off to pick his own song, likely something loud and screechy and safe. That's fine. He shouldn't have expected anything more than that.

But then Crowley murmurs those words and the butterflies in his stomach re-grow their wings and fly right up into his throat. What. Was that why Crowley was so silent? Afraid that Aziraphale thought that? Because he didn't, he never did, not even when Crowley swore that he was off to Alpha Centauri and he'd never think of Aziraphale again. Not even when Aziraphale hoped that he would, not because he wanted Crowley gone, no, never, but because if Crowley was up in the stars, maybe he'd be safe. Safe from the fighting, safe from whatever punishment Hell had in store for him.

Oh, but those words warm him, too, down to his very essense. He'd never leave Crowley, either.

He doesn't have time to say any of this, especially not in his addled state. He simply watches Crowley fumble through the songbook like a desparate man, until the emcee takes pity on him and simply asks for the song title, he'll punch it in, you can go next, sir, no need to wait.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley is twitchy as hell as he waits, which is probably half the reason the emcee took over. The emcee also looked much too happy when given the name of the song, and Crowley's eyebrow considered offering another oblique threat, but he's really too busy just now. Justin Bieber kid has no chance against all these combined forces and more or less melts off the stage when his turn is done.

Crowley manages to get the microphone. He manages to get on the stage. He is painfully aware this is probably the single most awkward and embarassing thing he has ever done in six thousand years of existence, not even excepting that one time in Nigeria with the tamarinds and the crocodile and the paint.

He takes a breath and does it anyway. Simple song, really, only a few notes in use. And most people agree Nick Cave can't sing either, just mumbles musically, so Crowley should be able to manage so long as he sounds melancholic and poetic and serious and all those other things Crowley usually isn't. He likes Nick Cave, though, the guy has all sorts of spooky numbers and murder ballads.

This isn't one of them. Crowley has to change some of the lyrics, can't very well sing about not believing in the existance of angels when you used to bloody be one and are serenading (don't think about that) someone who still is. Not believing in the goodness of angels, though, that works. He changes all God's pronouns to She (which earns him extra points from the feminist twitter afficiando). Referencing Christ isn't hard, the poor bugger always did deserve better than he got, in life or after it, and if more angels did follow Christ's example Heaven would be a different place and a fuck of a lot better than it is...

It's all religious and reverent and some of the lines hit far too close to home and that's why he picked it, because he doesn't have words for any of this so he'd better steal someone else's, and if the song is more a prayer than a love song...well. Even a demon can have one, right? One prayer, a small one, let me have this, please, let us have this, we saved the world and I'm pretty sure that's what You wanted all along You ineffable bloody puppeteer please just let us have this.

He doesn't look at Aziraphale at all, not even from behind his shades, just in case this goes horribly wrong. He looks at the floor. He's always facing the angel, though. Usually is, wherever they are and whatever they're doing, like some heliotropic plant looking for the sun.

It's not a hard song and it's not a long one. When it's done he doesn't even hear the room's reaction, he couldn't care less. He tosses the microphone back to the emcee without looking and slinks back to their table.

Edited (typos galore) Date: 2019-09-06 10:15 pm (UTC)

From:

sohoangel

Aziraphale's thoughts are still swirling around the words Crowley spoke to him, words not couched behind a pretty melody or a clever turn of phrase. He almost misses it when Crowley takes the stage, all quiet and subdued, looking down at his own shoes instead of anywhere else..

As he begins to sing, Aziraphale understands why. He doesn't recognize the song, but he knows that it isn't some throwaway bebop tune that anyone can sing and have it mean nothing. Crowley chose it to tell Aziraphale something. To leave himself open and vulnerable, to let Aziraphale look into the deepest part of him.

It's a prayer. It's a prayer that Aziraphale desperately wants to answer.

The song is over before he realizes it, Crowley slinking back to their table, not looking at him. Which is just as well, there are tears standing in the angel's eyes, and if the demon so much as lifted his head, he'd never have the courage to do the following:

He gets up, rounds the table, and slides into Crowley's side of the booth. He wraps his arms around Crowley and presses his face against the demon's temple. He takes a soft, selfish inhale of his best friend's scent, before pressing a kiss there, featherlight.

"You have me," he whispers into Crowley's ear. "You have me. Always."

From:

duckshaveears

He could have shrugged it off, if needed. He's never lied to Aziraphale, but he's good at bullshit. Wouldn't have been hard. It's just karaoke, right? Drunken singing shenanigans for a lark. The script for it is running in his head even as he sits down.

Except as soon as he has, sooner really, the booth is suddenly crowded with the (warm, welcome, wonderful) addition of angel, with arms circling him and heated breath against his face. Crowley closes his eyes, bowing his head so he can hide his face against Aziraphale's neck. Prayer answered, then? Been a long, long time since She did that...

Though he wasn't really asking Her, not ever. He was asking Aziraphale.

Crowley's arms wrap around Aziraphale in turn, holding him hard. "You sure about that, angel?" His voice is a little shaky. Only a little. He expected worse. "If you need to write this off as alcohol and music later I'll let you off the hook." An offer completely belied by the grip he has around Aziraphale's waist.

From:

sohoangel

As painfully oblivious as Aziraphale can be at times, there's no mistaking the way Crowley holds him in return, and the sound he gives in response is caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Not a chance," he whispers fiercely, even as he reaches up and gently cards a hand through Crowley's hair. It's so soft, just as he imagined. "We've both done just as Cole Porter instructed, like birds and bees and educated fleas. You're stuck with me and that's all there is to it."

Twitter Girl is typing furiously over by the bar. The one person who bet on a mutual pining scenario is generously buying a round of drinks with his winnings.

Aziraphale turns his head and presses a kiss to Crowley's hairline. The sake in his system is no match for the love coursing through him, pouring off of him in waves. "Do you want to go?" he asks softly. "Sing something else? There's so much I want to tell you, but I can do it in a song, too."

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley takes a long shuddering breath as Aziraphale caresses his hair, because fuck, that feels better than it has any right to. So do those kisses on his temple. "Think--we'd better stop on a high note," he says. Deep down he's aware of the irony. Can Nick Cave even hit any high notes? "We've got a bit too much audience here, in case you'd forgotten."

He can hear them chattering now, various happy squeals and omgs (curse whoever invented that bit of slang, oh, wait, that was him), and even one "Kiss him, you fool!" called out from the other side of the room. Someone else is making their way to the karaoke machine and very blatantly singing "At Last" and probably looking right at them. He doesn't lift his head to see. He's still snuggled against Aziraphale and honestly, that's just where he wants to stay.