#class difference fic

Good omens ballet fic - Aziraphale as a noble and Crowley as a ballerina and their strange little friendship. Read tags for more.

Being a man of good status, wealth, and shy demeanor, Aziraphale was abundantly aware of his own flaws. He had learnt them young, and spent his time masking those inadequacies.

Particularly, Aziraphale was all too aware of the sin of greed.

It was the story of the first woman Eve that Aziraphale had become fascinated with this. His governess had reacted harshly to Aziraphale's questions, and had had to threaten him with taking away his literature lessons if he didn't stop. Aziraphale had sorrowfully accepted this. But it did not stop his want to know.

He quite liked books, and his collection had grown substantially as he'd gotten older. He was the only child of wealthy parents. He didn't mind this, as it gave him plenty of times to read. The irony of having no choice but to seek companionship in the people he read about

Apart from this, Aziraphale had all the strappings of a fine Englishmen of quality lineage. He had developed a taste for fine foods and wines, and was known to indulge in these pleasures. He was a decent enough conversationalist on the occasions where he chose to venture out into society. He was well liked amongst his staff, extended family and social circle. He was, overall, quite content with his position in life.

There was a knock at the door of his study. Aziraphale gently set the book he was reading down. His housekeeper, Mrs Williams, entered the study and curtsied.

"Sir, your carriage is out front as you have requested."

"Very good." Aziraphale nodded, checking his timepiece. It was a quarter to six, and the ballet was set to start at 7:30pm. Aziraphale pondered this for a moment. He had not yet had dinner, but it would have to wait until after the show. Mrs Williams left the room, her quiet footsteps tapping down the hall. Aziraphale took that moment to once over his appearance, flattening out the cuff of his shirtsleeve before heading out the door.

The resounding thunk echoed against the stage walls. Crowley gasped as the floor punched against his bare feet. Freezing, Crowley listened for any sign of footsteps.

He would be punished if they found him here, practicing, when he was supposed to be asleep. But the risk was worth it for the rest aching, used muscles would bring him once he returned to bed.

He'd been doing this almost as long as he'd been apart of the company. In the beginning, it had been a way of getting a little extra practice in. He never danced more than two hours of those nights. Eventually, however, he had started coming because he couldn't sleep. It was his routine now. But tonight, it brought him no comfort.

Crowley slid on his sweater and tugged on a pair of tattered socks and stood up. He climbed the stairs to his room, carefully, avoiding all the ones that creaked. He opened the door to his small room slowly. Returning to his bed, he shut his eyes, knowing he wouldn't sleep.

Beatrice, their company manager, had broken the noise exactly a month ago, deliberately having waited until their morning rehearsal had ended, to make the announcement.

Crowley hadn't heard it, but he had known what she was saying even as a siren blared in Crowley's head upon her condemnation. That evening, he had thrown up. The next day, Bea had sent him out of rehearsal upon his arrival. Crowley slept that day, and rehearsed that night.

The last month had been the only time in years that Crowley had managed to sleep decently at night. The combination of extra rehearsals for their final performance, and the pressure that accompanied auditions for every ballet company he could reasonably aspire to join left his worn down. But the alternative was poverty.

As a male ballerino approaching physical decline, Crowley was all too aware that he had run out of time. It would take a miracle to find another position after Solar completed their last show. Crowley had only ever danced. He was nothing else.

La Sylphide's opening night approached fast. The ritual the dancers observed on concert days was undertaken slowly. It remained unspoken, the shared fate of the dancers. Crowley had known most of them his whole life.

The noise of the audience claiming their seats echoed through the small rehearsal room behind the stage. While they had a month of shows planned, a sense of finality claimed him.

As a performer, he knew what to expect when he stood in position on the stage. Someone was counting beside him. He breathed in. The curtains rose.

There were roses in his room. There was always roses in his room. Luckily, Eric had decided to sit them out of the way after the sharp word Crowley had had with him last time after petals had fallen all over his writing desk.

It was a success, earning a four minute standing ovation. Bea had told him afterwards. Crowley couldn't say he cared exactly. While he had underdoubtedly danced well, the years spent in this same, familiar routine of practice, fittings, show, crowds had dampened the effect a successful show had had on him when he was young. He had skipped out on celebratory drinks with the other dancers. What he wanted now was to crawl into bed and hibernate. His limbs shook with exhaustion, and he was tired too.

If he had expected some grand revelation by the end of the second act, he would be disappointed. He shut his eyes, and tried to sleep.

Applause followed the finale of the ballet. Aziraphale watched as the dancers took to the stage once more to bow. When he exited the auditorium, he removed his coat. It was a warm night. His servant waited for him with the carriage, and he climbed in.

-

It was the strange way James - or the ballerino playing him - approached each step of the dance with a miserable foreknowledge of his own tragic fate.

Aziraphale could admit he was one for these indulgences. It wasn't unusual for Aziraphale to reserve a box at a particular opera or concerto he liked several nights in a row. But it was this uncanny dancer that was the reason Aziraphale found himself at the theatre again the next night. It wasn't as though he intended to try and speak with the dancer, or even the head of the company. He just wanted to see it again.

When he left the theatre, he immediately regretted sending his carriage back to his house. The weather had changed dramatically in the few hours since he had arrived. Aziraphale was fond of walking, however, and it would give him time to think. He wasn't sure whether he was upset, angry, or vindicated when the ballet ended again that evening with jubilant applause. Indeed, he spent the entire evening locked on to the lead, watching for any change from his debut. Yet there was nothing but the same melancholic sadness that shadowed each move. Aziraphale found in infuriating.

A loud thumping noise to his right spooked him out of his post-show haze. Aziraphale realised he had ventured past the stage doors, where a small group of people had gathered.

At the forefront of the group was James.

Aziraphale had intended to hurry past the group, not wanting his silent, unaccompanied walk to be interrupted by people he would undoubtedly be unable to escape speaking with if they approached him to speak. He had also become well used to silent escapes. It was easier to merge in to the background of finely dressed nobles when nobody was there to speak to you. Aziraphale had gone unnoticed until the death of his parents. But years of evasion had served him well. Nobody questioned you excusing yourself when they don't even know why you're there.

There was a commotion, and Aziraphale watched as a young brunette girl he immediately recognized as the love interest to the protagonist suddenly shot forward before falling to the floor. Without realising it, he had stepped forward.

"Excuse me."

Crowley turned his head quickly. A well-dressed gentlemen, likely a theatregoer trying to speak to the dancers at the stage door, was frowning at them. Crowley snarled. This was the last thing he needed. The nonsense with Anna's lover's appearance, demanding to speak to her as she tried to get away, was already making his head hurt. Now, some fancy guy appearing suddenly, likely trying to speak to one of the girls. He didn't want to deal with this.

"What is the meaning of this?" the gentlemen demanded. Crowley stared at him. The gentleman stood patiently, one hand resting in the other. Suddenly, Anathema broke free of - Christopher, that was probably his name - and latched on to Crowley's arm, which caused him to scowl.

"Nothing's the matter here." Crowley stated firmly when it became apparent that no one else was going to speak. While Crowley immediately hated the posh prick, daring to interject himself in their personal manners because none of them could reasonably say anything about it. But, to his credit, it seemed to work on Anna's worthless ex. Until he lunged forward and hit the man.

Crowley pulled him off and shoved him away. He slid to the ground and reached for the gentleman's hand to pull him up. The man made a noise as he brushed the dirt off his back with one hand, frowning and saying something under his breath at the same time.

Crowley turned at the sound of yelling. There was a scrambling as the observers, the other dancers, moved to inform the police of what had happened. Anathema had moved to stand beside Crowley and the gentlemen, who had finally finished swiping the dirt away, and was now looking pensively at Crowley. It was then that Crowley realised that their arms were still joined together, and quickly let go.

"My, that looks terrible," announced Anathema as she reached up to graze the bruise forming on the gentlemen's cheek. Crowley looked at the man, who watched Anathema hesitantly.

"Oh dear. That's not good," the gentlemen responded. He turned his eyes to Crowley and, when they briefly met, Crowley felt an uncomfortable tug in his gut.

"Let's get you upstairs and treat it. You can't go out like this." Anathema stated, tugging the gentleman in the direction of the stage door before he had time to object.

-

Aziraphale had insisted the entire way up to what he expected was Anathema's room that he was fine, but Anathema wasn't hearing it. Anathema opened the door at the end of a short hallway lined with identical doors to a small room covered in roses.

Aziraphale was told to sit at the desk before Anathema left the room. The male, who Aziraphale had not yet learnt the name of, was reaching above a tall closet for a box. Aziraphale watched, wanting to help, but knowing he had no idea what he was doing, he remained where he was and waited.

The man rummaged through the box as Aziraphale watched. Neither of them said anything. After a moment, he found a short piece of gauze. Nodding, he shoved it into his pocket and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Aziraphale said worriedly.

The man turned, and looked at Aziraphale with confusion.

"Going to get ice." he finally said. Aziraphale realised it was the first time he'd heard the gentlemen speak.

"You don't need to." Aziraphale stood up. Then, realising he had stood up for basically no reason, fiddled with his hands.

"I mean." he inhaled. "I'm honestly fine."

"You're not." he pointed to his own head. "You've got a bruise."

"Umm." Aziraphale took a step forward. "Genuinely, I'm fine. Thank you for your help, umm."

"Crowley." the man stated blandly.

"Crowley." Aziraphale repeated. "I'm, umm, Aziraphale. And really, it's no bother. I wouldn't want to burden you."

Crowley sighed, which surprised Aziraphale until he realised that this was a normal reaction by people who dealt with Aziraphale long enough.

"Look, just let me get the ice. Wait there." and then he was out of the door before Aziraphale could object.

When Crowley returned some five minutes later, he was both the gauze-wrapped ice and a large coat.

"What's this?" Aziraphale asked.

"Coat. From costume. It's cold outside. Here, ice."

Aziraphale held it against his cheek, wincing at the contact.

"I've sent for a carriage. It should be here within the other."

Aziraphale hummed., and took the coat, resting it on his lap. Crowley, meanwhile, took a seat on the bed, not saying anything.

"Anathema, umm. has a lot of admirers."

Crowley looked up at him. He was, to Aziraphale's surprise, wearing sunglasses. But Aziraphale had manners, and didn't ask why.

"These? They're mine. This is my room."

Crowley watched as Aziraphale's eyes widened at this. He couldn't help but find humor in the mans bashfulness. It had been the last thing he had been expected from the nicely dressed gentlemen. Really, he had pinned Aziraphale all wrong.

"Well, they're all quite lovely." Aziraphale stated awkwardly. "And well deserved, I mean. I didn't mean to imply I didn't think you're worthy of roses."

Crowley wanted to pry, but the other man likely wouldn't appreciate it. Luckily, he didn't have to. Before Crowley could say anything in response, Aziraphale cleared his throat silently.

"It's just that, I noticed the way you dance for, for James, is so melancholic. I wondered why, but I didn't have the opportunity to ask."

Crowley blinked at the statement. It was no question, Crowley was well aware Aziraphale believed his own statement, and didn't require the validation. Crowley looked at the man, silent for a few moments.

"I suppose you're right." Crowley stated. Aziraphale did not say anything for a moment, and Crowley didn't either.

"My apologies." Aziraphale said after a long moment of silence. "I didn't mean to overstep."

Crowley nodded at him absently. To his credit, Aziraphale didn't say anything after, which was just fine with him. Crowley was not in the mood to argue whether or not Aziraphale was right or not. He had had enough of chattering elites with too much to say for a lifetime. He would agree if it made the time go by quicker.

The carriage pulled up outside their building and Aziraphale stood up slowly, still looking at Crowley but not saying anything. Crowley supposed he felt bad for what he had said earlier, or at least awkward about the silence that had come after. Before Crowley had the chance to offer to walk him down to the carriage, Aziraphale was saying something. Crowley blinked up at him.