In Major Key - zelda_hime (2024)

Part I: 1926

Dmitri Shostokovitch

First Symphony

Part I:

Part II:

Parts III & IV:

If Crowley was going to be in Saint—in Petro—in Leningrad, he was bloody well going to take some time off work in a nice, heated building that didn’t have any thrice-damned snow in it. Hell was not going to check the weather report and see that it actually rather pleasant in this part of Russia in May, nearly warm and gorgeously sunny, and the building didn’t actually need much heating. And if that nice, heated building also had one of Aziraphale’s assigned blessing targets conducting some kid’s first symphony, that was for him to know and Hell not to find out. His miraculously-procured seat was just as awkward for him to sit in as any seat in the West End, but he’d been finagling himself to more-or-less fit in chairs as long as they’d existed; he managed.

It was weird, going to a concert without Aziraphale. It wasn’t like they’d been tied at the hip or anything, but for nearly three hundred years before their fight, Crowley and Aziraphale had been “finding” that they had “coincidentally” booked tickets to the same show, or “happened” to be standing next to each other in line, about twice a month. Crowley had gone to the odd gig without him for work, but he’d rarely stayed through the whole thing in that case; easier to pop in late, leave just before intermission. Making a big scene like that was a good way to hit his soul corruption quarterlies, but not a good way to actually experience a show. As he waited for the thing to start, he kept turning to his right, expecting to share a pithy observation with his friend and instead being confronted by an empty seat.

When the house lights went down, Crowley was relieved more than anything.

And then the music started, and Crowley missed Aziraphale even more than he had before. He should have had Aziraphale take his temptations, been passive-aggressive in the other direction. This was precisely the kind of thing Aziraphale liked to listen to, simultaneously conservative and experimental. It was cheeky, almost mischievous; it was in conversation with Prokofiev and Stravinsky, but also with Hans Christian Andersen and the rhymes kindergarteners recited on playgrounds. He could already hear Aziraphale’s voice in his head, praising the way the music crept forward on tiptoes before breaking into a run, the enforced silence at the end of the allegro. It was both childlike and mature, a kid expressing the exuberance of youth with the kind of skill usually seen in those decades his senior.

Aziraphale should have been here instead. He would have used his assignment to meet the kid backstage and shake his hand, get the program autographed, put a small blessing on his career. All the kind of stuff that came as easily to him as breathing, that he insisted was simply his being angelic but that he and Crowley both knew was practically the antithesis of what Heaven’s mandate for him.

Crowley was going to do that too, to give to Aziraphale as a gift when they were on good enough terms for that kind of thing again. But Aziraphale would have enjoyed it so much more than he did, would treat the little pamphlet like a treasure and used it to help him recall the time he met so-and-so like he did all the other knick-knacks he hoarded in his shop.

(Crowley checked the pamphlet: Dmitri Dmitriyevich Shostakovich, graduated from Leningrad Conservatory last year. He couldn’t be older than, what, his twenties? Brilliant piece from such a young composer, Aziraphale would have gushed.)

Crowley’s idea of Aziraphale wasn’t the only one impressed. Crowley was swept up as the music ended and the humans around him sprung to their feet, applauding, demanding an encore. The sound of stomping, clapping, shouting filled the philharmonia, a thousand people demanding more, more of this clever symphony and its powerful, complicated, beautiful traipse through half the emotions in the human repertoire.

Fine, that Aziraphale would like it wasn’t the only reason it made him miss Aziraphale. It also reminded Crowley himself so strongly of Aziraphale that it made his teeth ache. The allegro non troppo especially was just like Aziraphale when he had a clever little scheme, a mad old plan to execute; sneaking around, putting on his costumes, being a just a little naughty and so adorable it made Crowley want to scream. Half the time they even worked, or at least worked out all right in the end. The lento began so exactly in the mood that Aziraphale was often in when he came back down to Earth from his quarter-centennial review in Heaven that it made Crowley want to buy the whole chamber orchestra dinner on reflex. He hadn’t done, the last three. Bought Aziraphale dinner, that is. He wasn’t even in town after the 1925 one, knowing how awkward it would be to pass Aziraphale at the new lift their home bases had installed in London and not be able to go round to the bookshop after.

Crowley stomped and clapped and screamed “encore” with the humans all around him, desperate to hear it again. If he could just hear it again, he would see Aziraphale in his mind’s eye as he listened this time.

An encore was granted.

After, he went backstage like he’d planned, blessed the conductor, got an autograph. He might have laid a blessing on the kid too, though he’d deny it if asked. He looked like he was barely more than a teenager, all gangly limbs and co*ke-bottle glasses. It was stronger than he’d planned, actually. He wound up having to justify a strong curse to Hell, but hey, it was Soviet Russia—he could claim a lot of things there were his doing. He and Aziraphale had both claimed Marx, and Crowley at least had gotten a commendation out of it. He had some leeway when it came to what he did in the USSR.

He hid that pamphlet in a secret compartment under his desk when he finally got back to London. He wouldn’t be fighting with Aziraphale forever. It would be a nice gift someday.

Part II: 1942

Sarah Vaughan & Her All-Stars

Interlude (Night in Tunisia)

It was nice to be back to normal. Crowley would have preferred to be back to how they’d been in the Georgians, when he could almost pretend to himself that Aziraphale wanted the same things he did, but normal was good. Normal was much better than what they’d been doing to themselves for almost a hundred years, pretending their Arrangement was purely business and that it didn’t get lonely on Earth, that they were fine with being pawns in some bloody game of draughts and really did root for their respective sides. Crowley hated lying. He just didn’t like to do it. And he especially didn’t like to lie to Aziraphale, and doubly didn’t like to lie to Aziraphale when they both knew he was doing it and that he didn’t want to be. It was just a bad deal all around, the awkwardness of the last seventy years and change, and he was glad that they were back to baseline.

Sometimes, though, Crowley almost thought Aziraphale wanted the intimacy they’d let themselves have in the nineteenth century as much as he did. It was something in the way their eyes would meet, or how Crowley would feel his attention as he slithered through the stacks in the bookshop, or how he would bite his lip when Crowley leaned into his space, eyes following Crowley’s hands. Letting Crowley’s hands in so close that they nearly touched, only fabric and the barest millimeter of air separating them as Crowley spouted some nonsense to argue about, purely for the pleasure of hearing Aziraphale dispute it.

It was something in the way that, war or no war, Aziraphale almost seemed to go out of his way to ask Crowley to come by, come to lunch, meet him in the park, have a drink; they were seeing each other nearly every week, sometimes even more. They’d never met this frequently, even when things were going well between them. Crowley was drunk on it.

Tonight, Aziraphale had invited him to the bookshop to listen to a record his tenant had recently imported from America. “Jazz is evolving, you see,” he’d told Crowley on the phone, “and this is in a new style called ‘bebop.’ The up-and-coming musicians in New Haarlem are all playing it this way, my dear fellow, and I think you will quite enjoy it.”

So, Crowley had parked his Bentley two streets away in front of an illegal speakeasy, sauntered over to Aziraphale’s bookshop, and parked himself on a hideous yellow chaise across from Aziraphale’s fifty-year-old gramophone with an angel in the seat nearby, two matching tumblers of a nicely aged Talisker on the side-table between them, and some fresh-cut flowers in a vase near the till.

Aziraphale had been excitedly talking about the more technical points of the record, punctuating himself with emphatic little movements, his hands as near to a-flutter as he ever came. Ever proper, he contained himself within the little box of air that ended a foot in front of either shoulder, but the passion in his voice for the artistry of the singer and the deceptive smoothness of the rhythm belying its technical complexity made Crowley fall in love with him all over again. He watched Aziraphale contentedly, eyes half-closed, basking in the warmth of his voice and the dim evening light streaming in through the windows that Aziraphale didn’t seem to know were supposed to be covered, turning Aziraphale golden on the lit side, like the waxing moon on a clear August night.

“Oh, whatever am I doing,” Aziraphale eventually said, knocking Crowley out of his reverie as he stood up. “Listen to me go on about it. No, we’ll put the actual record on, shan’t we?” His smile was nearly blinding.

Crowley wasn’t quite sure what possessed him to stand up too, other than a desire just to be closer to his angel and just enough scotch to be in the pleasantly fuzzy part of tipsy where he rather unwisely loved everyone around him. Aziraphale smiled at him as they leant over the gramophone, offered him the honors.

It really was a nice record. Crowley hadn’t listened to much jazz, had mostly thought of it as a nuisance that was hard to talk over while he was tempting people in dance halls, but Aziraphale’s love for it was infectious. He swayed slightly to the slow melody, the low brass and the singer’s crisp alto almost hypnotizing [*]. Aziraphale caught him before he could trip over his feet, a broad hand awkwardly caught between his waist and the edge of his hip; Crowley slung his opposite arm over his angel’s shoulder and smiled at him, and Aziraphale’s face seemed to twitch for a moment before settling into an expression of fond resignation to his new job holding Crowley aloft.

The song ended and changed to one just slightly faster, and Crowley’s head was just clear enough to register the lyrics as he continued to sway with Aziraphale in tow. It was a love song. He watched Aziraphale intently as Aziraphale swallowed, moving his hand just slightly to rest more naturally on Crowley’s waist. I thrill as your arms would enfold me, the gramophone sang to them, a kiss of surrender says the mood, and Crowley was riveted as he watched Aziraphale’s eyes travel down Crowley’s face; he leaned in and felt Aziraphale’s breath, hot against his lips. Heaven fell down when you told me, the gramophone continued, Aziraphale’s forehead meeting his, their noses bumping as they moved toward each other, love’s a passing inter—

Aziraphale had stepped back so abruptly that he bumped into the gramophone, the record making a scratching sound as the needle relocated halfway through a different number, where the singer crooned that we’ll live in a Heavenly way, dear before Aziraphale rather aggressively relocated the needle to its the resting position.

Crowley had been so warm and fuzzy just a moment ago, and now felt very solid and very, very cold.

“Perhaps we ought to sober up,” Aziraphale said in the kind of properly enunciated voice that made it clear to Crowley that he had definitely sobered up before making the suggestion. It was also very clear to Crowley that if he sobered up, he would feel even colder.

He did it anyway.

Crowley sucked in a breath through his lower teeth. Aziraphale stared at the ceiling, the glass oculus that concentrated communication from Heaven into his shop. That wasn’t awkwardness. That was the most damning confirmation he’d had so far, actually, that what Crowley craved was what Aziraphale wanted too. He wouldn’t be so distraught or so concerned about surveillance if it wasn’t. Crowley snatched his glasses up from where they rested on the side-table, shoving them onto his face. It wouldn’t do to let Aziraphale see whatever was written in his eyes, not with the mental kicking he must be giving himself right now.

“Right,” Crowley heard himself say. “I’d better get going, then. Places to be, people to tempt.” Aziraphale nodded, not looking at him. Crowley made a bit of a show of twirling his keys as he left, dropping them on the pavement with an “Oh, Satan bless it.” He didn’t look, but he knew that always made Aziraphale smile a bit, if only because the flow didn’t quite work in English like it did in Enochian and Aziraphale thought that was funny.

He almost couldn’t believe that they really did want the same thing. He knew they could never have it, not really. He could ask all he liked, but Aziraphale wouldn’t spring for it, not while he thought Heaven and Hell could be watching. And whenever they got close, all that they’d earn was two steps back, just in case.

Crowley didn’t think he liked this new-fangled bebop stuff very much after all.

Part III: 1967

The Beatles

Please Please Me (album)

Hello, Goodbye / I Am the Walrus (single)

Hello, Goodbye:

I Am the Walrus:

Crowley’s drive back to his flat from Soho the night Aziraphale handed him a flask of holy water was the slowest he’d ever driven. He stopped at stop signs. He yielded to pedestrians. The trip to his Mayfair flat was usually five minutes, but with the cargo he was carrying in the Bentley now, he took an excruciating twenty. He could almost have made better time walking, except walking would expose it to even more jostling.

Aziraphale’s words rattled around in his skull like loose change in a tin can. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

He knew he did. He knew where they stood. They hadn’t allowed themselves to be alone together in twenty-five years until tonight. They went out to eat, went out to drink, went out to feed the ducks where there were humans around to remind them that no matter how safe they felt there might be eyes on them at any time. If that’s what it took to make Aziraphale feel safe, that’s what he’d do.

But this: “You go too fast for me,” Aziraphale had said, while also conceding the argument they’d been having for 105 years. That wasn’t really an accusation of speed. Aziraphale was worried. Aziraphale was scared. Crowley could feel the miracle on that flask. This was exactly the kind of thing that actually would get Aziraphale in trouble, a protective seal that was nearly as powerful as the ward over his bookshop’s front door. Crowley remembered the reams of paperwork Aziraphale had needed to put in to get that approved, and that was for a Heavenly embassy that Heaven knew about and had an interest in.

Aziraphale had always been afraid that Crowley would do something that would get them separated. It had happened before, in that time before Time. Now he was afraid that Crowley would get them both killed. Crowley understood. He did.

But just as much as it was a warning, it was wrapped in an almost-promise. Not now, they’re watching us, but someday, maybe. “Perhaps one day we’ll go on a picnic, dine at the Ritz.”

The Holy Water was an “I love you.” Aziraphale’s declining of a lift was a “stay safe for me.”

Crowley’s heart was falling to pieces in his chest.

They were running out of time. 1996 was only thirty short years away. What good was playing it safe when—

Crowley secured the flask of Holy Water—and oh, Someone, it was Aziraphale’s personal tartan, the one he’d had specially commissioned—in his wall safe, covered that up with his Mona Lisa, and stalked to his sitting room while summoning a bottle of red with a miracle.

He was going to get drunk. He’d listen to boppy dance music and get so drunk he couldn’t remember his own name and when he woke up in the morning he’d have a hangover. And he would be fine. He’d be better than fine. He’d be safe, just like he’d promised. He’d keep them safe.

He rifled through his records while taking swigs of Constantia directly out of the bottle, failing to properly appreciate the light citrus notes and delicate nutmeg flair. The sweet smoothness of it went down easy, and he found what he was looking for: The Beatles. Twist & Shout was on this one, he was certain, and it was exactly the kind of feel-good nonsense he needed to hear.

He set Please Please Me on the record player, already two and a half bottles deep [**], and stretched himself out on his brand-new green sofa, specifically chosen to coordinate with the new houseplants. It started off boppy enough, though not quite nonsense enough for what he wanted; he took a deep drink of his wine and tried very hard to block images of dancing with Aziraphale (both of them just a bit tipsy, swaying, moonlight streaming into the bookshop as they leaned in—) from his imagination.

Then Misery came on, not Twist & Shout, and it was a lost cause. 70 seconds and tears were starting to flow as Anna came on and—f*ck.

Like John Lennon couldn’t hold on to Anna, Crowley couldn’t hold on to Aziraphale. Aziraphale would choose God if it came down to it. God did still love him. And Crowley wouldn’t make him make that choice. Go with Him, Aziraphale, go with Him.

He listened to the Beatles sing schmaltzy love songs that reminded him of Aziraphale and drank his wine and let himself sob to Ask Me Why. When he noticed his Constantia should probably be empty by now, he switched to Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a vintage he’d picked up last time he was in Avignon hunting down a manuscript Aziraphale had been looking for while Aziraphale picked up a temptation for him in Belfast.

Everything hurt, was the thing, and it hurt worse because he knew it was never, ever going to get better than it was now for them. Heaven and Hell weren’t watching, mostly, but they always could.

It was like… like if there was someone that you really liked, better than you’d ever liked anyone else. And he liked you, you knew it, he showed it in a million tiny ways. Technically you were on opposite sides of some great cosmic war between Good and Evil, but you’d always been more similar to each other than to anyone on your ostensible sides. All very standard. Romeo and Juliet, Antonius and Cleopatra, Paris and Helen. Except that your sides are selectively omnipresent and could be watching you at any time, so even your most private moments need to be carefully encoded, guarded, plausibly deniable.

Aziraphale owned his heart, for whatever it was worth, but Hell held the title and deed for his soul. And knowing Aziraphale was in the same position made it worse, not better.

By the time Twist & Shout finally came on, A Taste of Honey had broken his heart anew and he was too maudlin to even enjoy the vindication that he had put on the right record after all.

An uncoordinated snap miraculously switched the record for him to the new single he’d picked up. A song about opposites, and symmetry, and never quite moving in step.

A second snap was not required to flip from A side to B side; he’d miracled his record player to do that on its own ages ago. He fully expected it to be yet another commercial pop love song, to fit the way his evening was turning out.

It was not.

The psychedelic guitar seemed to screech across his sound system as John Lennon recited some absolute LSD-fueled Alice in Wonderland nonsense, and Crowley’s brow furrowed in confusion. He startled and dropped his wine as John Lennon shouted “I am the walrus! Koo-koo-kachoo!” across his flat. He blinked heavily and drew a hand over his face, sitting almost upright as he struggled to understand what was happening. Something about dead dogs and knickers? He flinched as some bike bell-static-sounding something interrupted the nonsense and led to worse-mixed nonsense. His head swam as he stared at the record turning on its table, uncomprehending as it built to a noisy and raucous conclusion.

Was that King bloody Lear?

He grimaced at the sudden silence and ran a hand through his hair to try to recover, only succeeding in making his fringe stick out in weird directions as the rest of it frizzed and curled.

He tried to stand up to get a different record, or maybe restart this one so he could figure out what, exactly, the Heaven Lennon was going on about, but he went too fast, going dizzy as his foot hit the ground. His other leg tried to join in on the action but stepped on the dropped wine bottle instead, sending him rocketing backward and dark red wine staining the white part of his black-and-white shag rug. He landed on his bum and bashed his elbow against the wall, wincing and shaking his arm out to keep it from bruising the extra bone that he had there for… some reason [***].

He lolled his head back, staring at the ceiling like it had answers, and raised his arms in a shambolic mockery of an American Baptist preacher. He asked a single slurred “Why?” before dropping both arms and head toward the ground.

He lived here now. May as well, it was his flat. Bloody damn wine, bloody damn Beatles.

King bloody Lear in a Beatles record. Aziraphale would absolutely hate it, wouldn’t he? Crowley smiled despite himself, staring at his white and black and red rug.

What was an egg man, anyway?

Part IV: 1983

Queen

Body Language

The discothèque was hot and crowded, a pulsating mass of humanity sweating against each other in the dark. People laughed and drank and danced, pressing close to each other to say things that couldn’t be said in the world outside. The groove was funky, the clientele was in a state of half-dress at most, and the whole place smelled of sin and sex.

This was exactly the opposite of how Crowley wanted to spend his Saturday night, but that was work for you. These places had plenty of sin happening without his having to change out of his pyjamas and turn off his telly, ta. But nooooo, he had specific orders that he was supposed to find a specific bloke and tempt him to adultery with another specific bloke, because Duke Hastur wanted the second bloke to consider the proposition, so they’d have his soul in twenty-five years. Look boss, Crowley had wanted to say, if Bloke Number Two is habitually hanging out in gay discos in Soho, he’ll either end up in Hell of his own accord or he’ll run into its resident angel and we won’t have a chance, so it’s not worth getting up and out and missing Dynasty.

Crowley wasn’t stupid, though, so he didn’t say anything and resigned himself to a night of struggling not trip over other peoples’ corporations while holding a glass cup in an overcrowded, noisy, tiny little space while Aziraphale was cozy in his bookshop less than a block away and he wasn’t even allowed to pop over and say hi. Not altogether unlike Hell, honestly, and he was mostly used to Hell at this point. Unpleasant, but hardly the end of the world. That was coming in about thirteen years, so sooner than it’d take to win this one bloke’s soul, but that was Duke Hastur’s problem, not his.

He'd been to this disco in the daytime about thirty years ago when it’d been a jazz club, and the owner then had been an older gent. Even Aziraphale’s stabilizing influence on Whickber and Broad Streets couldn’t keep them from changing entirely; humans always had their own ideas. So, Crowley had dropped in early to do a little recon, make sure he could swoop in, tempt, and leave.

Unfortunately, dropping in early meant he then had to wait until the bloody men showed up to be tempted. The night was still young-ish, and they might not show until midnight if they were particularly hard partiers or were waiting until wives were asleep. Crowley glanced down under his lenses at his brand-new Rolex and sighed. Half past ten, only two minutes since he’d last checked. He didn’t read much anymore, but he desperately wished he’d thought of bringing a book. He couldn’t get one from Aziraphale’s shop or Aziraphale would know he still read, and he couldn’t pop out and get one from a smut shop because Aziraphale would know he still read and would be upset he didn’t get a book from him, the bookseller who doesn’t sell books, so he was stuck with human interaction as his only source of possible entertainment.

One other thing he didn’t like about discos: his usual “I’m too cool to be bothered with talking to you” attitude did not get him left alone like it did outside. Instead, it got him a bunch of humans who wanted to have sex with him that he had to awkwardly turn down.

“Look mate,” he told the third one of the night somewhat desperately, “I’m meeting someone.”

The human looked at him pityingly. “You’ve checked your watch four times in the last five minutes. He’s not coming, darling. Let me help you forget him.” And the human reached out to touch him. Crowley flinched on instinct before collecting himself. The human probably just meant to gently touch his arm, flirt a little, not anything like happened… well. He smiled at the human tightly.

“No, thank you,” he insisted, and sounded a bit strained even to his own ears.

The human looked him up and down, then gave him a little card—Crowley thought calling cards had gone out of fashion, but they must work for this guy well enough. “My number, if you change your mind, Red,” he said, before melting back into the crowd. Crowley stared at it for a long moment. The calling card was out of fashion, he was certain, but here one was in a gay disco. It was the same dimensions as a business card, probably done by a copy shop the same way, but with just the human’s name, neighborhood, and phone number. In gold ink.

Crowley would bet a significant number of the damned on this little flourish having been divinely inspired.

Before he could do something stupid like hold it to his black heart, he dug a carton of cigarettes out of jacket pocket. He took one out and lit it with the tiniest spark of Hellfire and took a long drag on it to distract him from his nerves; then he stuck the card in the carton where he couldn’t see it and stuck it deep in his pockets again.

He was entertaining himself by trying to figure out how to breathe smoke rings from a cigarette when he realized two things: first, he actually recognized the song being played, and second, that the only person who would wear a cream suit to an establishment this dingy was one who could be assured that his laundry would always miraculously get out the stains.

Freddie Mercury grunted and sang about body language overhead as he and Aziraphale made eye contact through the crowd, and Aziraphale apparated over to him before he could shake his head to tell him not to.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted directly into his ear to be heard clearly over the music. “Whatever are you doing here!”

Crowley cringed. “Don’t do that, angel, I miracled a sonic bubble.” Aziraphale smiled at him, a bit sheepishly but still clearly pleased. “I’m working. Hastur’s outsourced a temptation, some indirect work for the soul of some MP. Gotta get him thinking about cheating on his wife, I suppose.”

“If he’s in the Carnation he’s already thinking about that, my dear.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking! Barely need to be here, do I? But orders is orders.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement, then stepped back to give him a once-over. Then a twice-over, slowly, licking his lips as though Crowley were a particularly decadent ox-rib. Don’t talk, Freddie Mercury entreated them over the synthetic bassline. Crowley posed with the cig held provocatively between his teeth. “Did Hastur ask you to wear this for it, or did you pick it out yourself?” His tone was judgmental, as befitted a Principality speaking to a demon, but his eyes were very much not.

Crowley knew this dance. If they stayed on beat, didn’t stray from the steps, they would be safe enough.

He took the cigarette out of his mouth and dangled it from his fingers. “Nah. He doesn’t like it, but he knows I’m a snappier dresser than he is any decade.”

Crowley lowered his glasses to wink just as Freddie sang “snakes in your eyes,” and watched the breath catch in Aziraphale’s throat.

Under Freddie’s pants and groans (he hoped; he remembered he did that a lot on this track, but the crowd was being plenty erotic alongside), he and Aziraphale managed to keep their hands very firmly to themselves as they sized each other up, but at least on Crowley’s side, it was a very close call. Aziraphale cut quite the figure, all cream and bright blue, his curls shaped and tamed into the curlicues that were fashionable fifteen years ago and still looked lovely on him. The pulsating rainbow of the disco ball reflected and refracted and cast shadows within them, making Aziraphale’s head look nearly like the starfield they’d met by for the first time, so very long ago.

“Sssso, what’re you here for then? Saving some souls from certain sin?” Crowley asked lowly, putting his hiss on display. Intimidation, if Hastur saw or heard. Cute, Aziraphale had called it once when they were a little too drunk in the, gosh, must have been the 1500s sometime, BC. Crowley had been offended at the time, but it was hard to be offended with Aziraphale standing in front of him now, with grey eyes gone almost black in the dark club.

“Something like that,” was the haughty reply, Aziraphale’s chin tipped up, neck enticingly bared. “If you must know, I’ve gotten approval for blessing the businesses in the immediate vicinity of the bookshop, and this one has recently changed hands.” As Freddie moaned (definitely Freddie, he was, like, 80% sure) one last time, Aziraphale leaned in. “I always make sure to have a little extra room in my miracle budget for couples in love, you know.”

Electricity hummed pleasantly down Crowley’s spine. This time he was the one whose breath caught.

Crowley dropped his cigarette, and Aziraphale took the opportunity to snuff it out with his fancy brown leather brogues, stepping even closer into his space. He smiled conspiratorially. “Or taking care of demons setting the place on fire, of course.”

“Of course,” Crowley agreed breathlessly.

Aziraphale straightened out his waistcoat as he pulled away, tone reverting to all business. “Tempt Thomas, if you would? I know Nicky’s type, and Thomas has just gotten out of a bad situation and could do with a nice night. That one there, with the harness and the bad hair.” Aziraphale indicated a man on the far side of the bar. “It will work out better for both of them, I think. You shouldn’t have to wait too long; Nicky’s usually here by eleven.”

“Wait, Nicky?” Crowley asked Aziraphale’s back as Aziraphale began to bustle toward the back of the pub. “Angel! Nicky?”

“Oh f*ck, did MP Hotshot get Mr Fell too?” asked a passing human who had clearly only caught Crowley’s last bit, in a tone of complete admiration. “The absolute slu*t.”

“Mind your own business,” Crowley snapped. “And no.”

No, he was going to get Nicky laid, and then he was going to his nice quiet flat with no humans in it and a decent stereo system, where he would dig out the single from his Queen collection. He was going to think about burying his hands in Aziraphale’s hair as he was pinned to a wall, think about the overwhelming scent of tea and dust and sanctity inside his mouth, think about well-manicured hands tracing sigils down his chest, his stomach, his—

Right. Job to do first.

Part V: 2001

Bon Jovi

It’s My Life

Crowley had been careful, in the last thirty-four years, to meet Aziraphale on his own terms. Always cautious to begin with, Aziraphale had started to edge on paranoid. Chance meetings while they were both working were one thing; if he wanted to actually talk to Aziraphale, not just flirt for a few minutes, he had to make arrangements to rendezvous in neutral territory, like it was the twelfth century all over again but this time with telephones instead of messenger pigeons. Aziraphale’s paranoia bled over into electronics too; anything newer than his old fossil of a computer, he was convinced was actively spying on them.

Crowley had tried to explain that while, yes, Hell did spy on him through electronics, he usually knew it was happening. This had not had the intended reassuring effect on Aziraphale, instead leading him to give away his ancient CRT telly. He only retained IBM because of its lack of a picture display and, presumably, the fact that Heaven had approved its purchase and would notice if it had gone missing.

The hoops were worth jumping through though, when it meant he still got to do this: sit together with Aziraphale, somewhere in London, and watch him indulge himself.

Aziraphale was working his way, slowly and politely, through half the menu of one of the dozens of independently-named Taj Mahal restaurants in the East End. American rock music poured through the closed back door, where a teenaged human was blasting it in a pique of misplaced rebellion while doing the dishes [****].

Aziraphale’s plates were piled high with naan and chutney, chicken tikka masala and lamb-and-cashew pasanda, dimer pudding. He dipped his naan lightly into the curries and took small, contained bites. When he took in the meat and vegetables, he enveloped the whole bowl of the spoon in his mouth, lips touching and tongue wiping the silverware clean. Crowley was glad that he didn’t have to blink. His eyes didn’t require it, and nobody could tell through the glasses. It meant he didn’t have to miss even a second of Aziraphale’s dinner-and-a-show, could soak in every second of their abbreviated meetings. He concentrated on Aziraphale entirely, resting his face on his fist. Aziraphale closed his eyes and hummed appreciatively at the first taste of his pasanda and Crowley felt his jaw unhinge in some kind of bizarre sympathetic reaction. He didn’t bother to correct this. Memorizing Aziraphale’s face as he indulged himself, as he experienced a kind of pleasure usually off-limits to creatures like them, was far more important than whatever nonsense his own corporation was getting up to. He could have been watching for hours for all he was aware, in this small bubble of pleasure that they shared like a secret.

When Aziraphale swallowed the last spoonful of pudding, raising a napkin to his mouth to wipe away non-existent crumbs, Crowley reigned himself in a bit, straightening his legs under the table and scratching his jaw to disguise its re-hinging.

“How was it then, angel?” he asked, affecting a bored nonchalance that belied his intense focus. “Glad you left your bookshop for it?”

Aziraphale wiggled his shoulders and leaned forward over the table. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about!” Crowley raised his eyebrows theatrically over his glasses. “I think I’ve worked it out, you see.” Aziraphale’s expression was self-righteously smug. Crowley couldn’t wait to see where this was going.

“Worked out what?”

“Well, you see,” Aziraphale lowered his voice, as though they might still be being spied upon here, in a six-table Bangladeshi restaurant on Brick Lane on a Tuesday afternoon when neither of their sides had checked in for months, “I think they’re not actually going to go through with it, after all.”

The golden warm feeling of pleasure had been sitting while Aziraphale ate suddenly felt like a stone in Crowley’s stomach. “Go through with?” he asked, even though he already knew what Aziraphale meant.

“The apocalypse, of course. It didn’t come in 1996, or 1997, or 2000, and it wasn’t that dreadful business in America last month, so the plan must have changed, you see.” Aziraphale looked so self-satisfied, like he’d single-handedly divined God’s own intentions. Just like he’d thought he had with Job, and with Isaac, and with Martin Luther.

Hell, maybe he even had, but that didn’t mean they could count on it.

“What—of course there’s going to be an apocalypse, angel, it’s all over that blasted Plan they keep going on about. Even the humans know about it, remember? I seem to recall that the Revelations guy was one of yours—”

“Oh, John of Patmos wasn’t one of mine—” Aziraphale interrupted distastefully.

“One of your lot’s then, whatever, point is, this is one of those written-in-stone rules like the Thou Shalt Nots—”

“Commandments.”

“Not a test, or a, a, a hygienic suggestion, or whatever,” Crowley finished, pointedly ignoring Aziraphale’s correction. “If your side doesn’t start it, mine will. They’ve been wanting to get revenge for ages, you know this, Aziraphale.”

“You are the one who is always saying that our sides are two sides of the same coin, Crowley,” Aziraphale said primly, as though Crowley was the one who was being ridiculous. “Don’t you see? If they’ve decided not to go through with it, we can continue here, just as we are.”

“Just as we are?” Crowley asked incredulously. “Are you really happy with this?” He waved his arms expansively, to indicate not just the restaurant but their whole situation, the constant ducking around like enemy spies, the fact that Crowley couldn’t be in the bookshop after hours and Aziraphale had never been to Crowley’s flat, the fact they hadn’t so much as accidentally brushed fingertips since the sixties. “I can’t believe that.”

Aziraphale’s lips thinned, annoyance thinly covering anger. “It’s much better than the alternative.”

“Is it?” Crowley asked, anger bubbling up through him, thinly covering hurt. “They’re not watching, Aziraphale. They haven’t told us anything about the apocalypse because we’re not important. The world could end tomorrow and we’ll have wasted the last two hundred years we had together—”

“Wasted?” Aziraphale asked, voice deceptively even.

“Yes, angel, wasted, because you and I both know we could have been—"

“I’m going back to the bookshop.” Aziraphale abruptly stood and walked to the counter with his own wallet out. Seeing it hit Crowley like a holy sword through the heart.

“Aziraphale,” he said plaintively, “you know what I meant.”

“Do I?” Aziraphale asked coldly. He turned back around, and Crowley could see tears in the corners of his eyes. “If I were caught with you, I would be punished. If you were caught with me, you would be killed, Crowley.”

“That’s my risk to take, Aziraphale! It’s my life, alright? And I want to spend it here.” Crowley waved his hand over his head.

Aziraphale pursed his lips and turned to speak to the owner in quiet Bengali, apologizing for the scene and paying for their meal. In the sudden silence, the kid’s music seemed to echo.

It’s now or never,

I ain’t gonna live forever,

I just wanna live while I’m alive.

The bell over the door chimed as Aziraphale walked away.

Crowley stood frozen in the middle of the shop as the owner looked at him with a sad smile.

It’s my life!

“Mr Fell loves you a lot,” she told him. “He talks about you all the time. No matter what your church says, it is not the end of the world if you must leave it.”

Crowley took a deep breath. “Yeah. I know he does,” he told her, grateful for his sunglasses even more than usual. Wouldn’t do for a human who was trying to help him to see his personal mark of Cain. “Too much, sometimes.”

She nodded. “My husband was the same way.” They watched through the window as Aziraphale disappeared into a right turn around a building. “Even if he thinks he will live forever, he will not. One of you will have to live without the other one someday.”

She didn’t know how right she was.

Crowley handed her a tenner that would change to a fifty in about five minutes. “For the trouble,” he said. “Sorry for your loss.”

“Good luck,” she told him. He tossed off a cool two-fingered salute before slinking out the door, letting it chime hopefully behind him over Jon Bon Jovi’s guitar.

He hoped to, well, Somebody that this wouldn’t be the last time he talked to Aziraphale. He couldn’t stand it if their last conversation was a row.

Part VI: 2025

Chxrlotte

Come With Me

Crowley had helped as much as he could, but Aziraphale was the one of them that was any good at warding. He’d covered their new cottage in alarms and sigils and practically bathed it in protective miracles to fend off or slow down unwanted visitors. He didn’t recognize half of them and was impressed by the intricacy and complexity of the other half. Aziraphale must have dedicated himself to studying these at least as much as he had to books of prophecy over the past thousand years or more. Crowley’s help had mostly been decorative, holding things and making sure there was an endless Spotify playlist coming from his phone for Aziraphale to work to and lounging about attractively. The one time he’d tried to help lay a ward, Aziraphale had smacked his hand like he was a child stealing from the cookie jar and sent him off on a snipe hunt, so he contented himself with watching.

Watching was a pretty luxe job, actually. Aziraphale had discarded both his housecoat and his waistcoat and had rolled up his shirtsleeves. Crowley had a front-row seat to the way his arms flexed as he drew a spell circle, the way his eyes narrowed in concentration as he wrote out Enochian sigils in his neat hand, every speck of ink and miraculous energy precise and accounted for, with purposeful flourishes to make them aesthetically pleasing as well as practically protective. With the quiet confidence of an expert in the field combined with the artistic eye of someone who had been observing for millennia, Aziraphale painted them safe. So many years together, and Aziraphale still had so many facets of himself Crowley had never seen, like the world’s most intricate multidimensional diamond. Age shall not wither, nor custom stale his infinite variety, he’d said once, when that was a normal way to talk, and he’d meant it.

Aziraphale stepped back from the ward he’d placed above the lintel of the door, a look of satisfaction written on his face. “I believe that should be the last one,” he said, and turned to look at Crowley. “Do you think it will work?”

Crowley shrugged from his perch on the back of their new loveseat. “You’re the expert, angel.”

Aziraphale seemed to think for a moment, then went to the landline. “The new-fangled ones simply need to be asked, don’t they?” he asked Crowley, but didn’t wait for an answer before instructing the telephone, “Call Beelzebub and Gabriel, please.”

“What could you possibly want with them?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale shushed him. “Yes, hello Gabriel. I was wondering, is Beelzebub there as well? Perfect. Would you mind doing me a small favor? Ah, I appreciate it. Could each of you please attempt to spy on Crowley’s cellular telephone?”

“Have you gone stark raving mad?” Crowley shot up to standing and dropped his phone like it had been possessed, because that’s what Aziraphale was literally asking their ex-bosses, the former Supreme Archangel and the former Prince of Hell, to do.

Aziraphale shushed him again, which, really.

The phone, feeling a phantom press on its touchscreen as it was dropped onto a small mountain of throw pillows, switched abruptly from Crowley’s Best of Beethoven playlist to a song with a lot of ukelele on it, which was a point in favor of its not being possessed—he’d tried taking credit for white people playing ukeleles but Hell hadn’t been impressed with his claim that twee ukelele music was annoying enough to be respectable demonic work, and Aziraphale had tried to claim credit for them but Heaven hadn’t felt the resultant music praise-the-Lord-y enough.

Still, who knew what Beelzebub and Gabriel had been getting up to? They’d bonded over Buddy bloody Holly; it wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility, is what he was saying.

“I see. Thank you ever so much, I am glad to hear that. I hope you’re enjoying Alpha Centauri? Yes, I see. Well, I shan’t keep you. Ta.” Aziraphale hung up the phone and Crowley spluttered.

“What on Earth was that about, angel? Are you trying to invite trouble?” he asked, roving circles around the room. “I shan’t keep you,” he intoned in a high-pitched mockery of Aziraphale’s affected RP. “Are you inviting them to high tea next?” He spun on a dime and flung his hands wide, silver scarf flying where it hung loose around his neck.

Aziraphale grabbed his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. “They couldn’t do it, Crowley. It worked,” he said, his voice full of emotion. “They can’t see us. They can’t hear us.”

The ukelele singer faded into the background as Crowley turned toward Aziraphale. The hand on his shoulder slid down to his hand and their fingers intertwined; Aziraphale raised his other hand on to cradle Crowley’s cheek. “We’re finally safe, Crowley,” he whispered. “They can’t take you away from me.”

“Never would have let them, angel,” Crowley whispered back as they leaned into each other.

We’ve escaped them, you and I, sang Crowley’s phone in the background.

Their foreheads met as they smiled at each other, breathing as one. Crowley’s hand found Aziraphale’s hair as Aziraphale’s lips found his. The gentle pressure of Aziraphale’s mouth finally, finally on his was as sweet as, as, oh, something very sweet, he wasn’t a poet: nothing like the horrible desperation of their first kiss. Aziraphale’s lips moved slowly across his, and this time he followed Aziraphale’s lead. He understood now what Aziraphale had tried to do last time, when he’d been so laser-focused on trying to make him stay. He felt almost giddy. At last, they were truly on their own side, on their own terms. They belonged to each other and to no one else. They were free. As their mouths slid together, he moved his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, still so short in the back that it didn’t quite curl. Aziraphale squeezed their joined hands, and he squeezed back.

Forgotten amongst the cushions, the phone continued to play its looping tune: Let’s go together, now we’re free. The world ends eventually, so come with me. Crowley eventually had the presence of mind to snap it quiet.

When he pulled back, it was only just far enough to look into Aziraphale’s eyes. They seemed like black holes, the pupils dilated and swallowing their usual changeable hazel-grey. “Hi angel,” he murmured, breathing Aziraphale’s breath, unable to keep himself from grinning like a fool. Luckily, Aziraphale looked as happily dazed as Crowley felt. Crowley had the urge to kiss the ridiculous little upturn at the end of his nose, went to smother it—and didn’t have to. He gave in, a featherlight touch that made Aziraphale’s eyes cross and crinkle, and laughed softly. “Going to do that every day now,” he joked, head tilting in fond amusem*nt. Aziraphale tutted and leaned back in, capturing Crowley’s laughter in his mouth.

Now that they had nothing to fear, Crowley thought they could spend an eternity like this, hand in hand and trading kisses in the home they shared. They were, at last, an us. Optimist that he was, it was still more than he’d ever dared to hope for.

Footnotes:

*: He’d been caught by a snake charmer once when he was in snake form, while on an assignment in Karachi, and this wasn’t totally unlike his experience then. [Return.]

**: It was the same bottle; Crowley wasn’t keeping track, and so more wine was there when he expected it to be. [Return.]

***: Crowley had radically misinterpreted what a funny bone was. [Return.]

****: Crowley approved of this on principle but did note that he was still doing the dishes; he’d have to come round again and teach him something of proper rebellion. [Return.]

Endnotes: