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1691 AD | The Forbidden City, during the reign of the fourth Emperor of the Great Qing
Aziraphale was on assignment in China, accompanying a group of Jesuit priests who served the Kangxi Emperor as astronomers, translators, musicians and inventors. The angel, for his part, was tasked with guiding the Portuguese missionary, Thomas Pereira, in his efforts to persuade the emperor to pass an Edict of Tolerance for the practice of Christianity in China. Aziraphale had been living in the court for three years and found that while he missed England, the Forbidden City was a marvel. The emperor was a good man, diligent, conscientious and wise, and a gifted player of the harpsichord. He was fond of the missionaries – because they were respectful and unobtrusive, and they spoke Chinese. Aziraphale’s mediocre command of the language aside, he cultivated a reputation as an excellent translator of text. And his calligraphy was improving. He practiced every day on scrolls of silken paper.
Crowley arrived on a Portuguese merchant ship two days ago, tempting his way into some sort of diplomatic position. Aziraphale saw him for the first time over dinner, dressed in black and red silk robes. His long red hair tumbled past his shoulders in curls he remembered from Golgotha – no longer the soft waves he'd worn at the Globe Theater - and he had shaved his goatee. The two did not have the opportunity to speak, though Crowley raised a cup to him in greeting. Aziraphale was not sure where the demon was staying – or with whom. The next afternoon, he found Crowley dancing with the emperor’s favorite consort in the outer courtyard. He was teaching her how to waltz “in the style of the Hapsburg court,” under the careful supervision of half a dozen maids and eunuchs. Aziraphale was only passing by when he overheard her laughter, and exclamations of delight at the talents of ‘Ambassador Crowley.’ With a bow to her guards, who recognized him, he joined the audience.
Her maids were dressed in pink robes with flowers artfully woven into their dark hair. The consort wore a delicate jade green garment, embroidered with porcelain vases and flowers, and she moved effortlessly on her satin chopine sandals. Her golden earrings glittered in the fading light of the afternoon. The waltz was designed to complement her grace, Crowley’s tapered fingers against the small of her back, their hands clasped gently, moving to music only the demon could hear. Throughout the dance, the two of them were chatting and Aziraphale only caught every few words – much to his frustration – and Crowley caught his eye with a careful spin of the consort. He smirked at Aziraphale, who did his best to look disapproving, an expression he smoothed over once the young woman noticed him. He greeted her with a bow and apologized for interrupting.
Crowley did him the small mercy of intervening, speaking over his stilted tones to draft an excuse out of thin air: that he had a meeting scheduled with the missionaries and so would have to cut their lesson for the day short. The consort dismissed him with only a modicum of disappointment, beckoning her maids to accompany her back to the Inner Court, where the emperor’s family resided. Crowley sauntered over to Aziraphale, revealing the red silken insets in his robes, and upon closer inspection he noticed the serpents embroidered into the hemline of the fabric.
Standing side by side, they formed a natural counterpoint. Aziraphale was dressed in a blue tunic piped in white thread, with trousers and leather boots embroidered with silk. He did miss his stockings and neck ruff edged in gold thread, but he wouldn’t have gotten away with that as a missionary. He was dressed as modestly as he could be while respecting the court and its expectations for dress.
“Hullo, angel.”
“Crowley.” Aziraphale did his very best to look stern, turning stiffly and inviting the demon with a very unsubtle head tilt to follow him out of the courtyard and away from prying eyes. Only after they found themselves alone – more or less – on the path leading to Aziraphale’s own accommodations did the angel break the tense silence between them, blurting out the words, “Are you trying to seduce that poor girl?”
Crowley canted his head to the side, eyebrows visible over the rim of his sunglasses. “What?”
Aziraphale was beside himself. “Do you know what would happen to her? The emperor would kill her family, her entire clan, if she was discovered to be unfaithful,” the fate of an imperial concubine’s people depended on the emperor’s favor. She was a lovely girl. “I am very fond of her, Crowley,” he would thwart the demon’s wiles regardless, but he had a personal stake in this, and he gave his friend a beseeching look.
“I’m not seducing her,” Crowley replied flatly, “Stop with the face.”
Aziraphale widened his eyes. “What face?” Crowley’s lips twisted wryly and Aziraphale looked away to hide his smile, hands clasped behind his back and fiddling with the long sleeves of his robes. A companionable beat of silence passed between them before the angel murmured, “You know, when I left London three years ago, they were still showing Hamlet.”
“Just holding up my end of the bargain,” Crowley replied with a shrug, “How was Edinburgh?”
Aziraphale scrunched his nose. “Wet.”
“Sounds about right.” There was a soft whistling – like the strumming of a zither – carrying in the air and Aziraphale tilted his head up with a smile. Crowley looked around, bemused. “What is that?”
“Kongming Lanterns,” Aziraphale replied, “With metal reeds inside. When they are lit and released into the air, the wind brushes against the reed and produces music.” Affection bloomed undisguised in the angel’s voice at the ingenuity of it. Humans were capable of marvelous things. “It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”
Crowley grunted a wordless sound, and the angel tutted at him. “I should have a nice view from the gardens,” it was one thing to listen to the lanterns, quite another to see them, “Would you like to come over?”
The demon smirked at him. “What do you have on tap?”
“It is called choujin,” Aziraphale informed him with a wiggle of delight, “A fermented alcoholic beverage distilled from glutinous rice. It was a favorite drink of the poet, Li Bai,” in the seventh century, and one thousand years later it was still a popular drink. The missionaries brought wine from Portugal, but it was designated for communion. The angel couldn’t in good conscience give that to a demon. And truth be told, Aziraphale did look forward to introducing Crowley to the local food and drink whenever they met.
“Stumbling drunk, each staggers off alone,” the demon mused, reciting from memory the closing lines of a favorite poem, “Bound forever, relentless we roam: reunited at last on the distant river of stars.”
Aziraphale hummed in wordless assent, leading Crowley to the luxurious accommodations afforded to the missionaries, a palace with a private bedchamber for each visitor. The palace was a marvel, with painted wood columns and eves, the intricate interlocking roof brackets, or dougong, Aziraphale had come to admire, liuli glazed tile and marble, a sumptuous display of the wealth and artistry of the Qing Dynasty. Aziraphale made use of a minor miracle to escort Crowley to the garden undetected, and a small enclosed pavilion by the water a fair distance from the palace to afford a visitor privacy for self-reflection. The pavilion included both a red silken sofa, decorated with engraved railings, and a round table and chairs. Aziraphale had spent more than one night here, playing chess against himself or reading by lanterns until dawn rose over the horizon.
Leaving Crowley to admire the floating lanterns gliding over the walls of the Inner Court, Aziraphale fetched the wine and cups from the palace. When he rejoined the demon, he found Crowley circling his unfinished chess game with interest, the black and white pieces checkering the board, his head cocked to the side.
“Who’s winning?” he asked, to which Aziraphale laughed.
“Me, I suppose,” or no one, “Do you play?”
“Sometimes,” Crowley replied, running his fingers over the edge of the board before collapsing into the sofa with a sigh. Aziraphale followed suit, sitting primly on the other end, and leaning forward to pour two cups of wine. He offered one to the demon, who raised it with a mumbled, “Cheers.” For a few minutes, they sat in comfortable silence and drank. The wine was heady and warmed Aziraphale down to his toes. Gazing into his cup, he fancied the wine – which had a milky tint – looked like white jade. Or moonlight. A river of stars, as the poem went.
“My dear,” Aziraphale was the first to broach the silence, “What are you doing in the Forbidden City?” Aziraphale had mentioned that he’d be leaving for Beijing, but this wasn’t part of the Arrangement.
“Temptation,” Crowley replied lazily, “This emperor’s getting a reputation for sagesse. I’m here to remind him that he has an inner court full of beautiful women he could be occupying himself with instead.”
“So you are seducing someone…”
Crowley made a disgruntled sound before settling on comprehensible words, “I gave the consort free, no strings attached advice,” he corrected the angel, “She’s the one doing the seducing, not me.”
Aziraphale was not impressed. “The waltz is your advice?” The consort was a nice young woman and she shouldn’t be used to lure the emperor away from his responsibilities, “Is it considered a seductive dance?”
“It is if you’re doing it right,” Crowley replied.
“I’ve never done it,” Aziraphale admitted as he reached for the wine, “Angels don’t dance.”
“They don’t dance, or they can’t dance?” Crowley asked, head tilted towards Aziraphale in a way that exposed his lovely throat to the soft light of a dusk settling into night, “-cause demons-”
“-they don’t dance-”
“-can’t dance but they do and it’s… myungh…” Crowley shifted, draining his wine with a noisy gulp.
“Present company excluded, I presume?” Aziraphale refilled their respective cups, then set the jug aside.
“Hm?”
“You seem to know how to dance,” admittedly, the angel had little basis for comparison.
“I do,” Crowley gave him a long look, “You could too.”
Aziraphale recognized that voice. He had heard it before, the last time he persuaded Aziraphale to flip for Edinburgh, and dozens of times before. “No,” the angel shook his head, “I couldn’t.”
Crowley shifted on the sofa, facing Aziraphale properly. He was smiling. “Why not?”
Aziraphale’s throat bobbed. “I… I already told you. Angels don’t dance.”
Crowley’s smile widened and he put down his cup. “You do a lot of things other angels don’t do.”
Aziraphale frowned. “Not a lot,” he protested, looking everywhere but at the demon because he didn’t particularly enjoy thinking about what Gabriel might say… about his… er… well, he wouldn’t approve. Still, Aziraphale thought he was a good angel and that in the grand scheme of God’s ineffable plan, eating oysters was not so unusual.
“It’s a dance, angel,” Crowley’s voice lost its lower pitch, edging into exasperation which Aziraphale was much more comfortable with. “If you want to pass for English, you ought to know how to do it.” And that was that. Crowley unfolded himself from the sofa and stood up, extending a hand to Aziraphale and wiggling his fingers at the angel’s hesitation.
Aziraphale eventually decided that it was, in fact, permissible to ‘dance with a devil’ as it were, for research purposes. If he was to thwart Crowley, he ought to understand what it was he was thwarting, and dance was a popular form of entertainment for humans. It would be a good skill for him to acquire while stationed on Earth.
Taking Crowley’s hand, the demon’s skin warm against his own, Aziraphale followed him out of the pavilion and onto the garden path where they might have more space to dance. Crowley turned to face him and took off his sunglasses without Aziraphale having to ask. The demon positioned him correctly – head, shoulders, rib cage, and hips upright, aligned – palms connected, gently clasped, Crowley’s hand on his lower back and Aziraphale’s fingers curled around his right shoulder, adjusting to form the lines with his arms as his friend nudged him into place.
“This is very close,” the angel murmured, fingers tightening on Crowley’s own.
“It’s a closed position dance,” the demon replied matter of fact, “Don’t be shy, angel. Look at me.”
Ah yes. Crowley had told him it was important to keep his head up, chin tilted just so, and Aziraphale obeyed. His face felt warm from the unexpected intimacy. He was breath-takingly close to the demon’s familiar yellow eyes, which were as lovely as he remembered. Aziraphale hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on the twinge of missing Crowley, or London, during this assignment. Now he longed for St. James Park and what he had left behind.
The requirements of the dance did not permit Aziraphale to wallow in his homesickness, because it was quite complicated. Crowley claimed there were only two turns and a step he needed to master, but for an angel who had never moved his body in this way – and certainly not in concert with another – it was a slow and clumsy process. Crowley led him through the sliding steps and careful turns, the pressure of his fingertips guiding Aziraphale’s torso into each movement. The dance started with a natural turn on the right foot, sliding the left foot forward, then bringing the right foot alongside it. Then Crowley stepped back on the left foot and slid his right foot to the side, Aziraphale mirroring the step. In this way, the angel and the demon moved in slow circles.
An hour passed before Aziraphale relaxed into the steps. The half turns and body leads smoothed out and with Crowley’s encouragement, the angel grew comfortable in his new role of waltzer.
“Enjoying yourself?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale beamed, flush with the unadulterated joy of having mastered a new skill, “I do wish there was music.” He could only imagine how lovely it would be to dance to the sound of a string quartet.
“That’s all?” Crowley lifted the hand from his lower back and snapped his fingers, summoning a Chinese zither to the garden. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and, to his utter delight, the strings began to vibrate.
“Oh Crowley…” The angel stumbled slightly in surprise, bumping into his friend before steadying himself.
The demon looked pleased. He was almost smiling when he said, “Ask and ye shall receive.”
Aziraphale tutted in response – quoting the Bible at him, knowing full well that musical accompaniment was not what Jesus Christ had in mind when he said those words – but found it difficult to marshal a reprimand when Crowley looked at him with soft and guileless eyes, mouth upturned into the loveliest expression. Aziraphale was tipsy on the taste of rice wine and the touch of Crowley’s hands, the line of his body through layers of silk.
“Is that so?” he replied, dipping his chin with a considering look. Crowley made a questioning sound in response, fingers squeezing the silk of Aziraphale’s tunic, “What could I ask for that you would give me?”
“Anything.”
Aziraphale smiled, a trembling, soft thing that scarcely captured the warmth in his chest. Words came to him unbidden that were not his own and yet- “Hear my soul speak: the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service.”
Crowley blinked at him, looking for all intents and purposes as if Aziraphale had struck him between the eyes. His boots scraped against the stone and he swayed to a stop. “Angel…”
“I have missed you, my dear demon.” Ninety years was barely a human lifetime and yet, these past three years Aziraphale had longed for Crowley’s company. Why else would he have told the demon where he was going? At the time he had come up with sort of excuse, but the truth was that he hoped to see him again.
“Asssk me.” The command was raspy and low, more of a hiss than a word, and Aziraphale flushed. He felt that flush crawl from his face and his neck to his chest, spreading a different sort of warmth.
Crowley waited for him. The moonlight cast his red hair in silver, bathed his skin until it looked as inviting as rice wine, and Aziraphale swayed into the demon, pressed chest to chest, noses close to touching.
“Crowley…” There was a plea in the soft intonation of the demon’s name.
“Close enough,” Crowley muttered, and Aziraphale sighed into the kiss. The demon’s mouth tasted like wine, and the texture of his thin lips, the flick of a tongue grazing his skin, unwound the desire in the pit of his stomach. Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered shut as Crowley caught his bottom lip between his clever, sharp teeth, rolling his tongue over it in such a way that the angel shuddered, pressing into the sensation wordlessly. Aziraphale’s hands glided eagerly along Crowley’s shoulders and into long red hair, soft curls sliding between his fingers.
Crowley tipped his face with two fingers, thumb resting in the hollow of his throat, and Aziraphale whimpered as the demon kissed his chin, along his jaw and below his ear, teeth tugging at the lobe. The angel’s knees trembled, silk sliding between them like spun water. An unspoken miracle – he couldn’t be sure whose it was – pressed his back into the soft red sofa which had lengthened and widened inexplicably to better serve them both. Crowley knelt over him in a wash of red hair, breathless and bright-eyed, with a hand splayed out on his belly like a fan.
“Aziraphale.”
His voice was soft, questioning and it reminded Aziraphale of the first time they had met, the first time Crowley had comforted him – you’re an angel. I don’t think you can do the wrong thing – and he felt it now. The demon was uncertain, unwilling to press his advantage, and the angel loved him dearly. He reached up to stroke a tender line along Crowley’s jaw, tracing the shape of that face he hadn’t seen in nearly a century, the sleeve of his tunic sliding down his forearm. The demon leaned into the touch slightly, an angling of his face, an unconscious baring of his throat in a gesture of vulnerability as old as man. Aziraphale cupped the demon’s cheek to draw him forward and into a softer, gentler kiss. He smiled against Crowley’s mouth and kissed his lips, the corners of his mouth, coaxing the demon into opening for him. Aziraphale pressed the words into each brush of skin and tongue, delicate strokes of calligraphy on his body, touches revealing his affection, his desire, his longing for Crowley.
The demon draped himself over Aziraphale’s body with a strangled sound, breathing in the arousal between them with the sway of his serpentine body. Crowley kissed him, fingers deft and puzzling through the fastenings of the angel’s tunic, each touch as unguarded and enthralled as the first time. Aziraphale reveled in the pleasing lines of the demon’s body, the creases of his skin and the shift of bones and muscle beneath, the curve of his narrow shoulders, the pressure of his thigh between his legs, brushing the firm, insistent heat of his effort. Aziraphale moved his mouth against Crowley’s, a movement gentle but underscored with something less controlled, and when the demon’s forked tongue pushed against his own, fingers tightening in his hair, he felt stars streak across his thoughts, a swirling, golden sensation bathing him in light, in warmth and desire. I love you.
Heat funneled down his spine and Aziraphale lost all sense of where he was in this wonderful world, save that Crowley was here, kissing him, touching him. With a thought, the angel banished his clothes to the chess table, the black and white stones scattering on the floor of the pavilion. Crowley dragged his fingertips along bared skin with a growl, settling into the softness of the angel’s hips, a low hum in his throat, and suddenly, his black and red tunic vanished, fluttering to the ground next to the scattered chess pieces. Aziraphale traced his fingers along Crowley’s spine, sliding over the slight curve of his arse, as the demon’s hand snaked between them, wrapping warm and slick around his cock. The angel cried out in surprise, hips twitching as Crowley stroked him, the pad of his thumb smearing precum along the slit.
Gasping the demon’s name, Aziraphale drew him close, curling his hands over narrow shoulders. Crowley braced his hands on either side of the angel and rutted against him, nuzzling his face into the hollow of Aziraphale’s throat. A soft litany of yes, oh, Crowley, please urged him on and the demon grew impatient. He pressed the sweetest kiss to Aziraphale’s neck, eyelashes fluttering against the skin of his cheek, and sank onto his cock. Crowley was slick and tight, his rim giving way to Aziraphale’s cock in the most intimate and profane of miracles. Aziraphale panted into the juncture of Crowley’s neck and shoulder, vision blurring around the edges and heat coiled low in his belly. The demon groaned, a grinding bone-deep sound the reverberated in Aziraphale’s body, eliciting a trembling echo from the angel. Thighs pressed to the angel’s, muscles tight and strummed, Crowley found a beautiful rhythm, his body rising and falling like the plucked strings of a zither. Aziraphale dug his fingers into the demon’s hips, thrusting up to meet each rising note of his body. Pleasure clouded the angel’s thoughts, voice hitching on a whimper, as Crowley moved above him, braced him, made love to him.
Aziraphale’s hands slipped to cradle the demon’s neck and jaw, drawing him closer, the space between them measured by days at sea and stretches of desert, now a mere breath apart and even this distance was unbearable. Aziraphale kissed him, a ragged exchange of breath and unspoken verses. Crowley rocked against his body, his spine curling, lean body coiling around him as their pleasure peaked. Aziraphale cried out as he came into the demon, sharp bursts of pleasure igniting like lanterns, and Crowley’s body tightened around him. His release washed hot and wet across the angel’s belly and chest, and he collapsed with a shudder. Aziraphale’s mind was shivering, bright and cold and hot and sparkling, overcome by the marvelous sensation of corporeality.
Aziraphale pressed a kiss to the crown of Crowley’s head and stroked along his shoulders with two fingers, the demon’s hands squeezing his hips, breath warm against his nipple, curls sliding against his neck.
“You are the loveliest thing,” he whispered fondly, “My dear Crowley.”
“Angel.” The demon lifted his head with a slow drag of his hair and his lips along the damp skin of Aziraphale’s chest, his sharp chin sinking into the soft flesh of his sternum. His face was so soft.
Aziraphale adored him. “Thank you for teaching me how to waltz,” I’ve missed you, I love you, please stay with me, “I really must insist you do not instruct the emperor’s harem in this dance.”
“No?” Crowley grinned, his white teeth glinting in the moonlight, “Are you offering to be my partner?”
Aziraphale smiled. “I thought I already was.”
The demon made a clicking sound in the back of his throat, leaned down and kissed him soundly. And there was no more talk of dancing.