Chapter Text
Had anyone asked Aziraphale to describe his perfect partner, he would have had a very comprehensive answer. He’d had a long time to think about it, after all. They would be intuitive, he’d say. Imaginative. Bold. They would have grace, and flair, and magnetism— his opposite, in many respects.
They would surprise him, because what was the point of a partner who followed your lead with no flourishes of their own? They would challenge him whenever they were together, push him to be the very best version of himself, and he would do the same in return.
They would be responsive. Able to read the cues of his body. And passionate, too, passion is important.
Above all, they should have a strong core, straight arms, and for god’s sake they would keep their frame tight during turns.
Unfortunately, Aziraphale didn’t get any input as to his partner. That was up to the Powers that Be, or God, or Auntie Beeb, however you like. Sometimes Aziraphale thought that he would kill to see the divine mathematics that assigned the Strictly contestants their partners, and other times he assured himself that he didn’t want to know; that whatever value that was applied to him behind the scenes was bound to be unflattering.
Ours is not to reason why, he thought, as he applied jam to his toast.
He was due at the studio around three, and would meet his new student-slash-teammate around five. There was nothing to do until then but sit in his flat, and twiddle his thumbs, and try to quash the rising unease that had been following him around since last season. It could very possibly be his last, he knew. He was getting on, as his knees informed him every day, and he wasn’t naive enough to pretend that the allure of the show for many wasn’t in watching very beautiful, taut people dance very well and in very revealing clothing. He had a dedicated fanbase amongst women of a certain age, as he was informed every time he ventured online, and he had the luxury of having been around for a long while. People liked to tune in and see a familiar face. He was the human equivalent of a comfortable old armchair, one that the homeowners knew they should throw out but couldn’t bear to part with all the same.
He took a bite of his toast.
He was just sitting down to watch This Morning when his mobile rang. He stifled a groan at the name, and considered tossing the wretched little brick into the bin. Instead he tapped the screen with a sticky finger.
“Aziraphale!” Gabriel’s voice was jovial. Aziraphale’s stomach sank. In the background, Aziraphale could hear voices, traffic, the background noise of a busy street. Gabriel liked to walk and talk, like a Sorkin character, and tended to take his conversations outside. He strode around the outskirts of the studio with a Bluetooth headset in his ear, hollering.
“Good morning, Gabriel,” he said, politely. “Well, I trust?”
“Sure! Sure, well as I can be, today. You sound a little muffled, are you eating?”
“No,” said Aziraphale, swallowing.
“Good, good. Well, I’m just doing the rounds, having a chat with the professionals, that sort of thing. Touching base.”
“Mhmm,” said Aziraphale noncommittally, knowing this was just preamble.
“And of course I wanted to have a talk with you, make sure you weren’t feeling nervous—anxious?—after last year.”
“Not at all,” said Aziraphale, and then immediately realised that was the wrong thing to say.
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t be surprised if you were. That was a pretty close call, you know.”
“I know.” He knew. Of course he knew. He had been present at the meeting, same as Gabriel.
What had rattled him wasn’t his own faux pas, or the disciplinary. What had rattled him was the scolding he got, like a child who had smeared paint on the dining room wall. He apologised to the general public, of course. He had accepted his mistake, and Aziraphale was not a man to shirk responsibility. But he had also had to sit through a two-hour flogging as Gabriel and his cohorts showed him endless Facebook posts and tweets from people with names like “@fatbottomgrl69” and “@beanslutt”, and frankly Aziraphale could have happily gone his whole life without seeing the specific cruelties levelled at him. His employers had dragged him through the gutters of social media not because it would do them any good, but because they wanted him thoroughly chastened.
It had worked.
But Gabriel never lost an opportunity to put the boot in.
“You’ve been part of the family for a long time, Aziraphale, so I’m telling you this as a courtesy. Another—what did you call it?—another faux pas like last season and we’re gonna have to re-evaluate our options.”
“I understand.” The cast of a mobster, this man. The subtlety of a hammer.
“Do you? Good. It’s all out of my hands, obviously.” It wasn’t. “If it were up to me, I’d keep you around forever.” He wouldn’t. “It’s just with the outside pressure, the budget shake-ups, et cetera— but you understand, so let’s say no more about it.”
“Yes. Quite. Well, I won’t keep you,” said Aziraphale pointedly.
“Yeah, gotta fly. Lots of phone calls to make, lots of sorting out to do. But I’m glad we had this little chat.”
“Me too.”
“I’ll leave you to your— what is that, toast? Cheat day, I hope. Ta-ta! Keep dancing!”
Gabriel hung up. Aziraphale stared at the screen for a moment. He threw the rest of his toast in the bin.
“Bit harsh, don’t you think? I mean the part about the ‘tache is right, absolutely no idea what I was thinking with that one. Couldn’t even lie and say it was for a role. Hadn’t got anything on then, just grew it for a lark.”
“Crowley.”
“Although, I think if I’d had a different haircut maybe it would’ve worked. Do you think I should get a haircut before the show? You do, don’t you. I knew it was getting too long. What if I try to spin my partner and end up twatting her in the face with a ponytail. Blinded, broken bones, really onto a winner here. Wait, if I’m the one spinning her, aren’t I in danger of being twatted by her hair? Do you reckon they’ll let me wear my shades if I’m like, ‘oh, these are my emotional support shades’?”
“Crowley.”
“Anyway, listen to this rubbish, ‘a few broken toes’. I’m not actually going to end up breaking some poor girl’s foot, am I? Shit, am I? They won’t let that happen, right? This isn’t ITV, nobody gets hurt live on air on the Beeb, I— OI!”
Where there had been a phone in Crowley’s hand, open on the article he hadn’t stopped obsessively reading through since publication (and, unfortunately for those around him, he had not skipped the comment section), there was suddenly a distinct lack of phone. Said phone was unsurprised to find itself hurled halfway across the room towards the bin. This had been happening on a semi-regular basis for almost a week now, more than enough time for it to become used to such rough treatment. Its owner, on the other hand, reacted as though this was a new offense being done unto him every single time.
“What was that for!” Crowley said, attempting to get up. He’d like to think of himself as something of an unstoppable force, but the legs currently sprawled across his lap were regularly subject to very intensive and weird yoga sessions, and so had developed the firmness of two well-toned immovable objects.
“I can’t listen to your neuroses anymore, I just can’t. It’s been almost two weeks of this, Crowley.” Anathema didn’t even have the decency to look up at him from her own tablet while she told him off with all the haughty boredom of a governess who has been having this particular argument with her ward for just a bit too long.
“Well, what do you expect me to do? We’re recording the launch tonight, everyone on the internet thinks I’m an absolute joke, nobody is gonna vote for me— I’m almost definitely fucked and you’ve almost definitely just broken my phone. This is so far from being my thing and we both know it.”
“As your agent-slash-manager-slash-best-slash-only friend, I respectfully disagree. Your thing is what I tell you your thing is. That’s how this works.”
Crowley grumbled and sprawled back against the sofa. It was how it worked between them, though he’d never willingly admit to it. Anathema Device (of Device & Descendants Management LTD) had just shown up at the door to his moderately expensive Mayfair flat one day, insisting he hire her. This was strange for two reasons. The first was that Crowley’s moderately expensive Mayfair flat came with moderately expensive Mayfair security— there were door staff, codes for the gate and lobby, a keycard needed to work the lift and nary a mention of his flat number anywhere, especially not anywhere accessible to the general public. Anathema had apparently managed to circumvent every single one of these security measures and delivered herself directly to his front door.
The second reason was that the morning she broke into his life, Crowley had been contemplating that maybe it was time to get back out there and find himself a new agent, the kind that wouldn’t snippily say “It’s your funeral, Crowley” and purposefully not intervene when their client announced their intention to get a face tattoo. In retrospect, given their taste for loopholes, Crowley should have foreseen that Beez would use the opportunity to drop him for breach of contract, but as it was he hadn’t, and he’d been licking his wounds over the betrayal for five bloody years.
It was at this rare moment of personal growth that Anathema had rang his doorbell and shoved a contract in his face. He’d fully intended to make use of his moderately expensive Mayfair security to get rid of her, but it was all just such a weird coincidence, and he’d only had one cup of coffee so far that day, and he found himself so utterly charmed by the fresh-faced twenty-something’s cryptic insistence that the fates cared very much about who he hired to represent him that he had signed on the spot. That had been almost four years ago now. Strictly was, to date, the biggest thing she’d booked him for in all that time, therapy notwithstanding, and this wasn’t a comment on Anathema’s skills as an agent-slash-manager-slash-whatever so much as it was a comment on Crowley’s appeal as a client.
“You signed up for my neuroses. What would we even talk about without them? The weather?”
Anathema sighed, finally meeting his gaze. “Look, you’re nervous. I get it, I do, but you have to trust me. Have I steered you wrong before?”
“Anathema, no offence, but you’ve never really steered me anywhere before.”
“That’s because we were waiting.”
“... for?”
“For the right moment, of course.”
Crowley tried not to let his scorn show on his face. Unfortunately, a recurring theme of his life was that Crowley didn’t like to try very hard if he didn’t absolutely have to. Anathema swatted his arm.
“This is the right moment, asshole. This is the thing that’s gonna change the path you’ve been on, I can feel it. Something big is gonna come out of this.”
“Yes, something big. Absolutely. You’re right. I can see the headlines now. Anthony J. Crowley, washed up gay actor, gets big break when his spine collapses attempting to lift his partner. Then at least everyone’ll have a much more convenient excuse for not hiring me.”
For once Anathema held back from teasing in response, which was worse than anything she could have possibly said. After all this time he was fine with making jokes about his blacklisting (a little too fine, according to his therapist) but Anathema acutely suffered the affliction of youth, which meant she still had the energy to feel deeply and care wholly about the injustices suffered by others. It bothered her, when he poked fun at what he just knew she was thinking of as his 'coming-out trauma'. Couldn’t imagine why. There were countless other wrongs in the world, and he’d always thought Anathema was the sort of kid with the spark in her to make them right. What she was doing with him he’d never understand.
Didn’t stop him from being selfishly grateful for it, though, in a very quiet, internal, tell-her-about-this-and-I’ll-kill-you sort of way. Crowley rolled his head towards her, poking her in the knee in an attempt to diffuse the mood.
“Go on then, I know you’re dying to tell me who else is gonna be on the show and what their star signs are and how their birth charts align with mine and all that shite. Get it over with.”
“I’m not going to tell you anyone’s birth charts right now, Crowley, don’t be ridiculous.” She wrinkled her nose, but there was a smile at the corner of her mouth. “I’m still finding out what time of day some of them were born.”
She proceeded to list off several names Crowley allowed to go in one ear and then quickly out the other. It’s not like he wasn’t aware he was a gimmick hire for this season. He knew what kind of dancer he was, thank you. Everyone else had only watched the video of his disco phase currently circulating the Twittersphere. He’d lived it. It wasn’t necessary for him to pay attention to who any of these other desperate sods were as he was pretty sure (bar any sudden miracles) he’d be out in Week Two. He just had to get his face out there again, even for a bit, not make a complete tit of himself and maybe—
“... and, of course, the dancer who’s been on the show longest is Aziraphale Fell—”
“Hang on, sorry?”
Anathema huffed.
“I knew it, I knew you weren’t listening to—”
“No, no no, no, shut up. Say that again, because it sounded like you just said that—”
“Aziraphale Fell is on this show,” they both said in unison. Silence ruled for as long as it possibly could between the pair.
Which was about six seconds.
“Okay, putting aside the fact you obviously didn’t read the email I sent you with all those carefully put-together video links showing who could potentially be your partner and who your competition will be and what kind of dancing style they all prefer—which took ages, by the way, so don’t think I’m letting you off the hook for that one—I’m taking it you know him?”
“I, well, know him is— we were sort of. In a thing. A play. Together. Cast mates. Years ago now.”
“So you remember him, then?” She busied herself with typing on her tablet screen. “What play was it, I’ll have to look it up.”
“Oh it, uh. It never happened. Something came up. Didn’t do it, in the end. Don’t think Fell liked me much, but is that a surprise? Can’t really remember all the details.”
This, of course, was a lie. Crowley remembered the production well, and he remembered him vividly. Sort of hard to forget the thing that made you quit the business entirely and the person who watched you go. It had ended up being less of a swan song and more of a swan dive into total obscurity.
“It doesn’t matter if he’s one of the legions of people who somehow manage to not like you despite your countless charms. He’s gonna be the competition.”
Crowley snorted.
“Hardly much of a competition, surely? Granted it’s been a while since I last saw the man but he didn’t exactly strike me as the kind to be light on his feet.”
Anathema levelled him with a look that would have killed a lesser man on the spot.
“You’ve never seen Aziraphale Fell dance?”
“I told you, this isn’t my thing,” Crowley said. “They tried it, when I first came out, all that dancing and musical theatre shite and oh of course it’s not because you’re gay, Crowley, this is just the perfect role for someone like you, your lot just love The Sound of Music don’t they and oh no, Anathema, no, please don’t make me watch him, no, you’ve got me trapped here, you know I hate it when people make me watch bloody Youtube—” it was too late, though, despite his attempts to slither out from under her. The tablet had swung round to face him and Crowley was helpless to do anything but watch as a miniature version of the man he once shared a stage with expertly spun his way around the Strictly ballroom, partner in tow, to— oh god, he actually was dancing to The Sound of Music. Costumes and all. He was older, yeah, but in many ways he hadn’t aged a day. That’s because he always looked like an annoying, middle-aged eccentric trapped in the body of an annoying, younger eccentric, he’s just grown into it, Crowley reasoned with himself, and yet he couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. Fell looked as happy with the choice of music as Crowley would have been, but even an amateur could tell that despite all that his technique was near-flawless. The stick Fell had wedged up his arse must’ve been what was helping keep his posture so stiff. Fucking hell, was he going to have to stand like that? He'd never hear the end of it from his spine.
“He hasn't ever won,” Anathema’s voice roused him from his internal monologue, “but that doesn’t mean he’s not brilliant at what he does. He is a professional, after all. You two are the oldest men on the show this year, so yeah, Crowley. He’s your competition.”
Crowley ran a hand back through his hair. If he didn’t think so before, he definitely thought so now.
I’m fucked.
"You should have heard him, Tracy, it was absolutely dreadful. I felt about three inches tall the rest of the morning," Aziraphale huffed, leaning into his favourite mirror and checking for the fifth time that his braces were laying straight across the shoulders.
"You’ve said, dear." Madame Tracy’s voice floated to him from behind one of the clothing racks.
"And my breakfast! Ruined entirely! A complete waste of time— mine and his. It’s not like I needed the reminder of what’s at stake this year."
"You’ve said that too, Aziraphale. You’re going to be late if you keep up this fuss."
Aziraphale restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Even if she couldn’t see him from where she’d sequestered herself amongst the sequins, he felt it would still be rude.
"However shall I cope," he grumbled softly to himself, leaning away from the mirror, finally pleased with his presentation. "Are you certain I can borrow these for the show?"
A flurry of orange hair popped over the top of a voluminous amount of fabric.
"Which ones have you got again? Oh! Yes, yes, of course, take ‘em. I think you donated those to the department anyway, and lord knows nobody but you is ever going to request them for an outfit."
"Oh, thank you." Aziraphale smiled at her before gathering up the Pendleton blazer that would complete the look and sliding it on over his shoulders. It would suffice. "May as well look my best, this will probably be the last of these I’m ever allowed to attend if Gabriel gets his way. He’s trying to get rid of me, Tracy, I just know he is."
"That great big trouser-press can’t get rid of you! You’re the only one that keeps me sane around here. I won’t let him, I’m telling you right now, I’m not having it— I’ll march myself right down to his office and threaten to walk, you watch me!"
Aziraphale, not for the first time, felt himself thoroughly warmed by the strength of her regard. Tracy was, after all these years, his closest friend—a complete whirlwind of a woman, and mad as two hatters of course—so whilst he had no doubts she was true to her word on this matter, he wouldn’t hear of it. He’d never ask her to leave, even just as a threat, even for his own sake.
"You’re the heart and soul of this place, my dear lady. They’d never survive without you."
Me, on the other hand, he thought, clear as a death knell.
"That’s exactly what I mean, Aziraphale! It’s just not going to happen is it, so no need to worry about it. Can’t cry over milk that’s never been spilt. Now, not that I don’t love to see you but you have a party to attend—"
"It can hardly be called a party, Tracy, it is work after all."
"Oh yes, right you are, poor lamb. And while you’re off working your way through all that lovely free bubbly, I’ll be in here trying to get three more costumes finished by midnight. So out you pop, there’s a love."
Aziraphale gave himself a last once-over before bidding her adieu and making his way out into the veritable rabbit warren that was the Strictly studio backstage corridors. The professionals were spared Shadwell’s annual presentation on 'Vigilance and Diligence'—as though Strictly were some sort of militarised state secret that required guarding from forces both earthly and occult—because four years ago Aziraphale had organised a small but successful coup in which none of the cast turned up. Instead they had made their way directly to the Green Room buffet, and since nobody had stopped or questioned them, they resolved never to mention it to any of the Higher Ups— who notably didn’t attend said safety briefings anyway. The celebrities were not so lucky. They were trapped by contractual Health and Safety obligations and by The Sergeant himself, who would be in full flow right around this moment. Aziraphale would have pitied them had he not been otherwise occupied pre-emptively mourning the death of his own career.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
Aziraphale jumped slightly at the voice in his ear, before wrestling the best smile he could muster onto his face. It still felt like a rather poor effort.
"Adam! I, well, I wasn’t thinking much worth anything, so you may as well keep a hold of that penny. Just, I suppose— here we are again."
"Here we are again, my friend," Adam clapped him on the back, returning the smile jovially. Of his fellow professionals, Adam Goddard was Aziraphale’s favourite and the only one he bothered with on most occasions. He’d joined the show the year after Aziraphale had, making him the longest running cast member besides himself. He was much younger, much taller, much more lithe, and much more popular with the 18-25 crowd. And the 25-30 crowd. And, well, most of the crowds. The press liked to call him ‘God’s gift to women’ when doing write-ups on the show, which may seem hyperbolic but— well, he really was very handsome. The only thing Aziraphale potentially had on him was being in possession of a full head of hair, but even that was a treacherously feeble victory, considering how well Adam’s face suited the shorn-and-sexy look. Aziraphale tried not to hold it against him and found that he managed well enough most of the time. They shared a common trait, however, in that neither of them had ever won the show, and it endeared Adam to Aziraphale more than he would like to examine without a therapist present.
They were friendly enough, in the way that coworkers could be, but they lacked rapport. No point in letting Adam in on his troubles with Gabriel. Aziraphale didn’t think him the sort, but he’d rather avoid potentially becoming the topic of scandalous workplace gossip.
Again.
"Have you seen them, the celebs?" Adam asked, falling out of step with Aziraphale as they drifted into the Green Room and towards the buffet table. The pre-show party had all the glamour and charm of a call centre’s regional office Christmas do, as the cameras weren’t on them yet and the BBC only very reluctantly agreed every year to spring for a few nibbles and a terrible vintage that was never chilled properly. Aziraphale dubiously plucked a glass of champagne from the table and gave an exploratory sip.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, he thought, we may as well be drinking crémant.
"I can’t say I have. I’m assuming you’ve had a peek, though. Anyone take your fancy?"
Adam’s grin, already threatening to split his face, somehow managed an extra few millimetres.
"I don’t wanna jinx it, mate, but I’ve got a feeling this year she’s in there. The Perfect Partner."
Aziraphale made a polite noise of interest, drifting away from the drinks table to the opposite end of the room to join the rest of the dancers, but really didn’t want to get embroiled in this conversation again. Adam’s Perfect Partner theory was nothing like Aziraphale’s quiet contemplation of his own perfect partner, which didn’t require any capital letters at all. No, this was along the lines of a destined, star-crossed lovers sort of affair where a professional comes together with their randomly-assigned celebrity on the dancefloor for the first time and something just clicks. The judges and audience then have no choice but to recognise such an obvious intervention by fate, and they are carried to victory on a tide of public opinion. Adam was convinced, and had opined to Aziraphale on the subject during several commiseration sessions, that the reason neither of them had won a single season was because they hadn’t yet had their Perfect Partners.
For Aziraphale’s money, it was just good old fashioned bigotry.
The celebrities began to filter in, wearing that haunted soldier look any living soul inevitably took on after spending more than five minutes in the company of Mr Shadwell. Aziraphale studiously ignored them, chatting about absolutely nothing at all with his colleagues. This bit was rather reminiscent of an awkward school-organised disco. Celebrities on one side of the room, professionals on the other. A workplace mixer is unwelcome at the best of times and here all it served to do was fill everyone up with second-rate champagne before they had to go out there and act as though they weren’t terrified at the prospect of being partnered with a dud, all with a stomach held hostage by acrid bubbles. Thankfully the dancing bit of the Launch Show had been filmed the week before, as it was only the professionals who needed to show off any sort of competency at the onset of the programme. This was a much simpler affair. Nothing at all to worry about, just locking eyes for the first time with the person who may help carry you to the top or drag you into the bottom two, all while being recorded by at least twenty different high tech video-cameras from around the ballroom to catch every potential micro-expression of displeasure that might flit its way across your face.
No pressure whatsoever.
"Aziraphale." Adam’s voice caught his ear once again, low and measured, and he desperately tried to recall the last ten minutes of conversation. What had he missed? Had Adam still been rhapsodising about the Perfect Partner? Was he about to be alerted to her presence?
"Don’t look now, mate," Adam continued. "Just keep cool, keep looking at me, but I think tall, pale and skinny in the corner over there is glaring at you."
Aziraphale, naturally, immediately whipped his head to the other end of the room and locked eyes with—
Oh, he thought, Good Lord.
Crowley fidgeted.
He fidgeted through the cab ride Anathema forced him to take instead of the Bentley. He fidgeted through the brief meet-and-greet with the Head of Security, a crusty little man called Shadwell who said some pretty ominous stuff about 'the unseen threats that lurk among us'. He fidgeted through the welcome talk and the fire safety talk and the defile-not-our-airwaves-with-your-foul-language talk. Strictly’s status as a national treasure was repeatedly emphasised. By the end of it, Crowley felt like he’d been conscripted, and as soon they were released into the Green Room for a spot of awkward mingling he dove towards the drinks with palpable relief.
He took his characteristic position in a corner, back against the wall, and checked out the competition. Anathema’s drilling had done him no good, he still couldn’t name half of them. Him off that one thing. Her what was in the papers. If they were anything like the other industry people he’d met over the years they’d be vapid, and boring, and politely condescending, and he’d long decided to adopt a pre-emptive strategy of not giving a single solitary shit about any of them.
He necked a glass of champagne. Wherever Strictly’s budget went, it wasn’t towards refreshments. He necked another.
He didn’t see Fell.
“Anthony Crowley, yeah?”
Crowley steeled himself. Here goes, he thought.
He turned and found himself facing a young woman who was naggingly familiar in the way TV presenters are naggingly familiar when encountered in the wild.
“Yup. That’s me. Hi.”
“Well, Anthony Crowley, what d’you reckon this is? I can’t work it out.” She held a canapé between thumb and forefinger, and frowned at it intently.
Crowley squinted. Whatever it was, it looked lukewarm and dodgy. “Crab?” he guessed.
“Shit. I’m vegan,” she said, in a tone often used when informing someone of the death of a cherished relative.
“Condolences. Try one of the apple things, they look safe.”
She eyed a nearby plate, and popped one of the apple things in her mouth.
“Sound. Eve Gardener.” She then pointed to herself, to clarify that it was an introduction. “What’re you doing here, Anthony Crowley?” Her warm brown eyes looked him shrewdly up and down, and Crowley, who had always been fond of women that bossed him around, warmed to her immediately.
“Shameless self-promotion, I’m afraid.” he admitted. “What’re you doing here, Eve Gardener?”
“Donating my appearance fee to charity. I’m doing a load of stuff for wildlife conservation.”
“Ugh, that’s noble of you.”
She laughed, and Crowley, who had been expecting something soft and tinkling, was surprised at how full-throated and kind of dirty it was. He decided he liked Eve. There was something down-to-earth about her.
“Not really. Fits with the brand, y’know? I do nature telly.”
“So you’re the heir apparent, then? When Attenborough snuffs it?”
“A contender, I hope.” She eyed the buffet table again.
“Go on,” said Crowley, nudging her with his foot. “They’ll have us on a diet after this. Once we leave this room it’s no more fun little apple things for the likes of you and me.”
Eve considered this.
“Well, in that case.” After a quick scan of the room, she tipped the entire plate into her handbag.
Crowley, with the instincts of a natural lookout, glanced about for possible holier-than-thou, ‘the sign says only one per customer’ sorts, and that’s when he spotted Aziraphale Fell, and that’s when he stopped paying attention to anything else.
Fell looked relaxed, chatting with a bunch of other professionals at the other end of the room. Crowley studied him. It had been years since he’d last seen the man in person, and he’d tried to avoid anything he was in, though that had gotten easier and easier as time went on. Fell was older, slightly thicker about the arms and middle, in a way that—and Crowley would only have admitted this if really pushed—made him look good, made his body look lived-in.
They’d never been friendly. Hell, they’d barely exchanged words with each other. And yet in Crowley’s mind Fell loomed large, not because of the person he was, but because he had occupied a space and time in Crowley’s life that was stamped into him like a burning brand. As if picking up on Crowley’s attention—or his vibes, maybe, god he’d been hanging about with Anathema too long—Fell glanced away from his coworkers, and looked directly into Crowley’s eyes. Crowley experienced a moment of pants-shitting terror before remembering his sunglasses, and that Fell couldn’t actually tell Crowley was looking right back. He didn’t move. He tried to look as still and bored as possible, like he was staring anywhere but at Fell and his grandad keks and his— were those braces? He felt like the world’s biggest tit, using T.Rex survival tactics on a man in a sweater vest that he last saw a decade ago.
Fell’s gaze moved on, and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief. Next to him Eve was saying something about partners and numbers not adding up, but Crowley was absolutely not listening. As far as he was concerned, he’d weathered the worst thing this shitstorm could have thrown his way and was out the other side. He’d stared into the blandly polite face of his past and it had admitted defeat— or, rather, it had wandered off in search of canapés. Either way, Crowley was calling it a victory. Maybe he’d get partnered with someone brilliant and out-score Fell before he got booted off. Not that he cared, of course. Just fun to think about.
All possible avenues of small talk had been exhausted and all bottles of champagne drunk by the time Gabriel appeared. The sound of his hands coming together was like a clap of thunder.
“Showtime!” he bellowed, and then the contestants were ushered out onto the stage floor, fizzing with nerves and bad bubbly, and the professionals were herded backstage to wait for their cue, and it was all so familiar that Aziraphale felt something like despair. I am here again, he thought, and it was a mixture of victory and horror so potent that it made his stomach cramp— although, possibly, that was the canapés. The ballroom looked much the same, though with a fresh coat of paint and a slightly different lighting rig. The audience’s seats had been reupholstered, and about time, although they were all currently vacant save one or two members of the sound crew and some fanatically supportive friends and family. Aziraphale also noted that they still had not done away with the disco ball. It was all so garish and tacky and yet, in his own way, he loved it. If he could have snapped his fingers and appeared before his twenty-two-year-old self, fresh from Guildhall and sporting a truly unfortunate haircut, what would he say in his own defense? Look, old fellow, we made a good go of it. Our face is out there. We are arguably beloved. Be unafraid.
They clustered around the monitor backstage as the hosts went through their scripted repartee, fluffed it, and went through it again. The celebrities were all doing an admirable job of standing still— all except Anthony Crowley, who was fidgeting. One of the runners darted up between takes to whisper in his ear, and after that he kept his hands clasped behind his back— except then his knee started to jiggle, instead. Aziraphale felt sorry for whichever dancer was saddled with him, as he clearly had no awareness of his own body.
The general idea for this bit of the programme was that each celebrity would have their partner revealed one at a time, to draw out the spectacle as long as possible and eke out the half-hour time slot they had been allotted. This would be broadcast in three weeks’ time, padded out with interviews and vox pops to help the public get to know the roster of celebrities they were already supposed to know anyway. Tonight, Eve Gardener was up first. Aziraphale recognised her from a documentary on lions. She stepped forward with practised charm, and flirted with the hosts, and when Adam Goddard was announced as her partner Aziraphale couldn’t even pretend to be surprised. Adam, bless him, actually punched the air beside Aziraphale’s ear, shooting him a glance of such delight that Aziraphale was compelled to punch the air alongside him— though with considerably more restraint. Adam darted out the door to the stage and reappeared on the monitor much smaller but with enthusiasm undimmed, bounding down one of the curved staircases to the woman Aziraphale already suspected would be his Perfect Partner.
He also suspected he knew who’d fall victim to the Strictly curse, this year.
It all passed quickly after that. One by one his coworkers disappeared from sight and reappeared onscreen, walking out under the arcing lights of the Strictly stage like animals to the Ark, paired off two by two by two. It was a magic trick, of sorts; one moment, they were real people, standing next to Aziraphale, taking up physical space and bothering him slightly with their verbal tics and lack of personal boundaries. The next, they were flattened, shrunken, transformed into the selves they had to be in order to appear on television. Those selves didn’t swear, or make lewd comments. They drank only mineral water and expressed only optimism. As Aziraphale prepared to let the same thing happen to him, he had never felt more disillusioned.
Gabriel edged his way in the door in an attempt to be discreet that was terribly optimistic for such a large man. Aziraphale let him take up space in the corner of his eye only—he did not wish to be drawn into an unpleasant conversation when he would have to smile very convincingly in a few short moments—but Gabriel had never been one for tact, and he clapped a meaty hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder.
“You good, buddy?”
“Yes— yes, quite.”
“We’ve got a good team this year,” Gabriel remarked. “A good lineup.” As if this was American football, rather than a dance competition.
“I think so, too,” said Aziraphale.
“And I think this was a good idea,” said Gabriel. “Innovative. Moving with the times, you know.”
“Mmm,” said Aziraphale, who didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about.
There was a moment of silence.
“I hope you know this isn’t personal,” said Gabriel, in a tone which implied that whatever it was, it was very much personal. “We’ve gotta have something every year, to keep the audience coming back. A gimmick, sorta.”
Aziraphale glanced at him. The light from the monitor flickered in his eyes. He scanned the screen with a focus and attention that felt unnatural.
“I was under the impression that our numbers were satisfactory,” Aziraphale said. This wasn’t really his department. He felt delicate broaching it, as if it was a bill someone else had offered to pay.
“Oh, they are. They are. But satisfactory is, well, satisfactory. We’re the BBC’s biggest earner, we can’t afford to rest on our laurels.” He paused. “If we were all happy with satisfactory, Az, where would we be?”
Aziraphale felt a mounting unease. There were only two professionals left in the room, besides himself. There were three celebrities left onstage; a contestant from something called Love Island, which Aziraphale assumed was a soap, a member of a fractured girl band, and Crowley.
“Anyway, thanks for being such a good sport about this. I know you’re gonna knock ‘em dead! Just try to stay in til about week three, give or take, and as they say, job’s a good one.”
It’s good’un, thought Aziraphale reflexively, staring at the celebrities. Two men, one woman. He glanced at the other professionals again.
Two men, one woman.
Aziraphale had two main deficiencies in skill: observation, and mathematics. As a result, it took him several seconds to realise what Gabriel meant by gimmick, and in that time another team was partnered up, leaving Aziraphale with a pit in his stomach that was definitely not the canapés and was instead deep and utter dread.
Something’s wrong.
By this time in his life, Crowley and the little niggling voice in the back of his head were on good terms. Not take you down the pub and buy you a round good, more I’ll acknowledge you with a slight nod in the street when we pass each other good. It had been a long, complex road getting to that point and Aubrey had congratulated him on it to an embarrassing degree at the end of one of their sessions, emphasising how important it was he have a good, working relationship with the panicked little thing that lived inside him and recognising when it was trying to trick him versus when it was trying to help him. And all it had taken to undo those months of hard work was half an hour stood constantly clapping like a prick amongst his so-called peers, an oversized disco ball that kept reflecting glare off his glasses, and what felt like about a hundred spotlights all shining directly into his eyes.
Something’s wrong.
Of course, it could just be nothing. It could just be that he was here, on a set, for the first time in he didn’t want to think about how long, and that was making him nervous. Being nervous was okay! Being nervous was okay, wasn’t it? This was a big step for him, outside of the comfort zone and all that. Anathema wouldn’t steer him wrong; she’d said so, and he believed in her. Well, no, he trusted her, which was worth a lot more in Crowley’s books than something as flimsy and changeable as belief. It was just that the lights were too bright, and he was sweating buckets under them cause he’d forgotten how roasting wearing all-black could be in a fully lit studio, and one of the other contestants—a chatty so-and-so, apparently an ex-nun who was now a Gogglebox regular—kept ruining takes because she wouldn’t stop squealing in excitement every single time the hosts started talking.
"Oh dear, oh no, I’m so so sorry, it’s just that I’m so happy to be here, you see! Who would’ve thought, me, here, on the telly! I mean, I know I’ve been on the telly before otherwise I wouldn’t be here but normally I’m just on the telly for eating biscuits and watching telly, real actual telly with famous people in it, like you lot, and—"
And so on and so forth.
At least some of us are excited, Crowley thought, glancing over at Eve. When her partner had been announced out the gate her eyes had grown to the size of dinner plates, and from where Crowley was standing Eve considered Adam Goddard the whole meal. He’d come bounding down the stairs like an overexcited puppy and swept her into a massive hug, with Eve biting her lip and scrunching her nose happily at Crowley from over his broad shoulders. Crowley couldn’t help but laugh, saluting her with a tiny thumbs up— he gave it a week before they started shagging. As the show had progressed though, and more and more partners were announced, Eve’s wide eyes began to take on a troubled look. She kept trying to get Crowley’s attention without attracting the ire of the producers or causing a retake, but he couldn’t figure out what she was trying to say. When the hosts started up yet another very unfunny spiel with a load of terrible dancing puns in it, ensuring the attention of the cameras would be off them for the interminable length of time these skits usually lasted, she turned fully to Crowley and mouthed something he didn’t catch. She held up two fingers, widened her eyes even further, jerked her chin up to the top of the stairs. Crowley would normally have had no trouble figuring out frantic symbols thrown his way by exasperated women—both from being something of a gesticulater himself, and knowing Anathema as a human and colleague—but was only able to mouth 'You what?' at her in reply. He wasn’t trying to be thick, it was only that any signs of intelligent life that once resided in his head were now being drowned out by the voice that had graduated from quiet nagging into an ear-splitting howl.
SOMETHING’S WRONG.
"Uh, pardon me Mr Crowley, sir, sorry but—"
"Oh, for— what now?!"
Another bloody runner. This was the third one that had bothered him, he was sure a fourth would be along any minute now. Whole gang of them, out to get him. They all looked about twelve years old and wouldn’t stop telling him off. It was doing nothing for his nerves or patience.
"Uh, it’s just that, your knee."
"What about it?"
"Well, actually, sir, it’s jiggling quite a bit."
"... jiggling."
"Yes. Jiggling."
The two of them looked down at the offending limb. It was jiggling away like anything.
"Huh."
"It’s just that I’ve been informed your partner is going to be announced soon and we can’t do a retake once that happens because it’ll be the end of the show, actually, so, if you could stop jiggling your knee until we’ve finished filming that would be much appreciated."
Crowley shot him the nastiest grin he could muster in an effort to get him to piss off.
"Will do."
The runner dashed off, past the endless empty chairs surrounding the dancefloor. Apparently the Beeb had decided that this season they were clamping down on leaks, and for that reason there wasn’t a live audience at the Launch Show. The Corporate Ken Doll running this thing who had walked them through the proceedings had given some weird excuses about it, explaining that they needed to 'protect the show at all costs' which was just a wild thing to say in Crowley’s opinion. He said they were filming from such angles that it wouldn’t be obvious no audience had been present, and they’d add in all the appropriate clapping and cheering later, so could you champs all just pretend like there was an audience there? It all seemed extremely micro-managerly to Crowley (did people care that much about Strictly Come Dancing? ) but he hadn’t really dwelled on it until this very moment. Another professional’s name was shouted by the hosts, and she came down the stairs, shimmying her shoulders and kissing the cheek of the last man but Crowley. He was the only one left without a partner.
It felt as if he were on trial. Everyone else on the stage seemed to take two steps back, leaving him entirely alone in the middle of the floor. The two hosts began to approach him, which they hadn’t done to any of the others. Crowley was trying not to lose himself to the panic, because he knew there was a very, very obvious Question he wasn’t asking himself, and the only thing keeping the Question at bay was the last threads of his survival instincts. Panic wasn’t an option.
"So, here we are at last. Our final celeb standing is none other than Anthony J Crowley!" The host who was more fringe than face linked her arm with his, and he suddenly felt a little more moored in his physical body, bless this woman. "How are we feeling this fine evening?"
Was he going to have to do unscripted banter in the middle of this complete and utter exercise in humiliation?
"Oh, you know how it is. Normal Saturday night for me, making a tit of myself under a giant disco ball."
There was a millisecond pause where the hosts waited to hear in their earpieces if he’d ruined the take by saying ‘tit’. To be fair to Crowley, he was trying to ruin the take by saying ‘tit’. They both burst into peals of laughter, though, clearly getting the green light to carry on.
"Yes, we’ve all been very excited to see you bust out those moves here on Strictly," said the one who always wore asymmetrical off-the-shoulder dresses and was, Crowley theorised, some sort of wooden puppet brought to life by a wish if the amount of charm and charisma she usually displayed was anything to go by. "But we’ve got a surprise up our sleeves for you, Anthony."
Crowley grimaced at the use of his first name.
"Must be a very small surprise, Jess, you’ve only got one sleeve on that thing to hide it up."
She made a sort of unimpressed, barking impression of laughter, and the one with the fringe hid a snort behind her hand.
"It’s quite a big surprise actually. You see, we here at Strictly Come Dancing are always looking for ways to bring the ballroom scene into the modern world."
"That’s right, Claudine. Over the years we’ve added new dances, such as jazz, contemporary and, ever popular with the judges, street."
"Just as popular as a wobbly leg on a tight turn!"
They both laughed. Crowley would have made a mocking go of joining in, but he was attempting to not be sick. He’d let himself think about the Question. It could no longer be avoided, because Crowley knew The Answer. He was fit to burst with it (or he’d just overindulged on the champagne back there). There had been something wrong this whole time and he had been too distracted with just getting through it to take a step back and examine exactly what it was he was trying to get through. The one time he hadn’t asked all the uncomfortable questions beforehand, the one time he tucked his hands behind his back and was on his best behaviour and tried his hardest just to play nice for once, and look where it had left him. The Question was here, it would not be ignored, and it was this:
If everyone else is already partnered up, then where the hell is Aziraphale?
"So when Jess and I got told about what the producers had planned for this season, we couldn’t have been more excited. I’m sure you’ve already guessed at what we have in store, considering you’re the only one left standing here and, well, everyone else has their partner! Though I remember your character in Shakespearean wasn’t very good at maths so maybe you've not quite noticed that something here doesn’t add up!"
"Please don’t do this, you don’t have to do this," Crowley hissed softly, but he knew it was going to be edited out in post when Jess and Claudine both shot him faux-sympathetic, consummate professional smiles and carried right on, turning to walk away from him and address the central camera.
"This year, Strictly Come Dancing is making history once again. We’ve broken world records, caused surges in the National Power Grid when everyone makes their cuppa at the end of the show, and now—"
"Anthony Crowley, please meet your partner—"
"In a Strictly Come Dancing same-sex couple first—"
"Aziraphale Fell!"
The music must’ve been blaring because it had for every other announcement, but Crowley couldn’t hear it over the relentless pounding of his heartbeat, which had somehow climbed out of his chest and made its way to the general vicinity of his ears. He stood stock still, stage left, unable to turn and face the stairs to see who was coming down them. Maybe, if he didn’t look, it wouldn’t be real. Like Schröedinger’s Cat, only not at all like that because Crowley knew what he would find when he looked in the chamber, and it was very much alive and wearing pale blue wingtips. A dead cat would have been preferable. The other professionals and the celebrities around him were clapping, but it was slow, muted. They all looked shocked, mouths silently open (except the nun, who was squealing away like anything, and they still weren’t stopping the take). Eventually, Crowley registered a presence to his right. He turned on instinct, raising an eyebrow.
Fell’s smile looked genuine enough, like he was simply delighted to be there, like he couldn’t be happier with this absolute cock up. His eyes, which Crowley found himself close enough to see properly, told a different story. They were the eyes of a man who wanted to set the world on fire.
"Shake my hand."
Fell’s voice was quiet so it wouldn’t be picked up over the din of the music, and soft—almost as soft as the hand he held out in front of him looked—but it had an edge of steel to it.
"Just shake my hand, finish the take and we’ll sort all this out in a jiffy."
Crowley swallowed and heard his throat click. He was a professional. He could do this. He reached out and grabbed Aziraphale Fell’s hand, shaking it with a bit more roughness than was probably kind but, well. He had a lot of nervous energy to dispel, and Fell was the one who wanted them to do a bloody handshake and act all civilised rather than tearing the place to the ground.
"And there you have it, people!"
Claudine and Jess were back. Oh, goody. Crowley had actually liked Claudine, he’d been interviewed by her back in the good old days and they’d had a decent enough time of it. They’d even chatted a bit backstage before shooting started, reminiscing on times gone by. He thought they were friendly enough that she might’ve given him a little warning he was about to be turned into this year’s Strictly laughingstock. He glared at the back of her head, remembering how comforting he’d found her arm linked in his not even a full five minutes ago, and thought et tu, Brute?
"That’s all fifteen couples, partnered up and raring to go! Who’ll waltz on home with the Glitterball, and who will quickstep their way out of the competition? That’s up to the judges, and you, the voting public!"
"So tune in next week to see how our professionals are faring with taking these celebrity ducklings and turning them into swan princes and princesses!"
"We’ll see you then, and remember—"
A hand slid around Crowley’s back, making him jump out of his skin.
"The fuck?!"
Fell’s hold on him tightened, pulling him flush to his chest and changed their handshake to a handhold, his right in Crowley’s left, thrusting their joined arms out in a long line in front of them towards the cameras. Crowley was too shocked to fight him off. The man had clearly lost his mind. Then everyone but Crowley intoned together, as though in some sort of sequin-based cult:
"Keep dancing!"
All the other couples had adopted the same pose Fell had arranged them into, and were swaying weirdly back and forth on the spot in facsimiles of a waltz, smiling widely at the central cameras. He was being swayed— Fell rocked them to and fro, his surprisingly solid torso like the wide bow of a ship buffeted by a storm and Crowley was strapped to it, a reluctant figurehead. He wondered if it would be worth the trouble he’d get in letting his nausea overtake him and emptying the contents of the Green Room catering table all over Fell’s vintage woollen blazer.
"Aaaaaand that’s a wrap on Launch! Great work everyone! We nailed it!"
The showrunner was back, looking down on all of them from the top of the dual staircases. Crowley had half a mind to fly up there and punch his lights out. Fell, gratifyingly, looked as though he was having the exact same thought and let go of his iron grip on Crowley to turn his gaze upwards.
"Gabriel, if I could just take a moment of your time—"
"No can do, Az. We’ve gotta edit this baby down to a tight thirty, and some people are just determined to make my job that little bit harder. Speaking of— don’t think I didn’t catch that blip of yours, Tony."
It took Crowley a ridiculously long time to realise he was being referred to, because nobody—nobody—called him Tony. There was nothing about him that suggested he would ever wish to go by Tony, and if there ever had been he would have gotten Anathema to tell him what it was so that he could immediately change it.
"... me?"
"You, Tony. This is the BBC! I know this was a shock to the ol’ system, but no more fucks, alright? No more tits, either. I don’t like to give anyone a hard time but my hands are tied on this— swearing on the show is the Big One. Don’t make me have to punish you."
I was under the impression I’d already been punished, Crowley thought, miserably.
"Gabriel, really, I must insist—"
"Hey. Aziraphale?" The smile Gabriel had pasted on his face wore thinner with each word he spoke. "Remember our chat from this morning? Our one-on-one backstage just now? I thought you were on board. You gave me your word, and what is a man without his word? Nothing, Az. Not a damn thing. So you’re gonna just have to suck it up, suck it in, and do your job. Can you do that for me, Az? Can you manage to do your job? For the sake of the show? For the sake of the family?"
Crowley watched a very impressive number of expressions cross Fell’s face before it settled on a small smile and a tight nod, all without looking up or meeting Gabriel’s eyes. Anyone else might have mistaken it for fear, or timidity, but Crowley could see from his vantage point at Fell’s side the sharp rage tucked into the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. He weirdly felt a little sorry for Gabriel, because those wrinkles said this conversation was far from over and he had a feeling Fell was a force to be reckoned with.
The celebrities and their dancers were pulled aside one by one to film the ‘initial reaction’ interviews that would play over the credits of the show when it aired in a few weeks time, and honestly by this point they were all probably grateful to get out of the range of drama ground zero and do something as banal as reaction shots. Crowley and Fell were left alone for the moment, standing silently side by side on the stage and watching Adam and Eve make playful faces at each other in plain view of the central cameras. Fell’s eyes quickly darted to him before firmly settling back on the other contestants, and it was obvious Crowley would have to be the one to break the tension of the moment. Crowley tried to think of something to say. Fell was clearly willing to play by the rules here for his own personal reasons, and Crowley couldn’t help but feel the heavy weight of a past conversation, on a stage just like this one, threatening to suffocate them both. Say something— say something clever, say something comforting, say something angry, just say something.
"Well," he eventually said, "That one went down like a lead balloon."