nny | (no subject)

This? Really needs tinkering with. Remind me, alright?

copinggoggles made me.

Content Over Form

"Ouch, Crowley!"

"Look, I'm not exactly used to the whole following lark, alright?" Crowley scowled. "Whatever possessed you to learn to gavotte, in any case?"

"It filled the time. You were in... Paris, I believe?"

The demon looked distant for a moment and then grinned, abruptly, a flicker of heat in yellow eyes. "Ah, yeah. Incubus days."

Aziraphale cleared his throat and flushed. "Well doesn't that require... rhythm? Of a sort?"

"Of a sort." Really, thought the angel, that sort of grin oughtn't to be allowed.

With angels and demons, it's all a matter of content. Form is largely immaterial. There are, of course, certain constraints- the old adage that eyes are the window to the soul holds entirely more truth than most would suspect.

"This is really very good of you, you know."

"I know. You'll owe me."

Thrown entirely off pace, Aziraphale narrowly avoided crushing Crowley's foot. The demon flicked long hair out of this particular body's eyes, a smirk twisting her lips. The angel looked distinctly nervous.

"Owe you what, precisely?"

"I thought dinner." Crowley's smirk widened as Aziraphale relaxed slightly. "That place with the good canelloni..."

"Italy?!"

"Heels, angel."

"No one said you had to wear heels. A nice pair of loafers would be entirely more sensible." A withering glare from the demon was his only response, but she moved closer again in any case, allowing him to place his hand on her waist, their feet scraping on the wooden floor.

"Crowley, that is most certainly not a gavotte. Did you just... shimmy?"

"I have never 'shimmied' in my life." The demon looked thoughtful. "Well. Possibly in the fifties. But there were extenuating circumstances."

"Ouch!"

Aziraphale sighed. "Oh, very well. Italy."

Eventually, Crowley swore and kicked off the offending heels- they hit the rolled up carpet with muffled thumps and she hissed in relief. Aziraphale couldn't conceal his grin, and she glared up at him.

"I won't be shorter than just anyone, you know."

Aziraphale rested his head against hers, giving up on all pretence of form, just swaying slightly in time with the music.

"I know."

With angels and demons, form is largely immaterial. It's all a matter of content.