Chapter Text
London 1863
Aziraphale had never denied himself the finer things that Earth could offer. Other angels refused to taint their celestial forms with man-made pollutants, but Aziraphale found something moving about the way they created in their short time. Their food, buildings, writing, clothing, and music all screaming to time “don’t forget that I was here-that I existed.” Despite his immortality, Aziraphale empathized.
When he overheard a young couple in his bookshop talking animatedly about an enchanting opera in Paris, his interest was piqued. Food was his favorite human delicacy, but music was a world unto itself. It stirred emotion in him, taking him back centuries or pushing him ahead millennia. He wondered if music made man feel immortal too, if maybe that was why they liked it so much. Trying to be nonchalant, Aziraphale followed the young couple from the next row over to determine if another trip to Paris was worth the hassle.
“…his voice, just ethereal. I’ve never heard anything like it.”
“I quite agree darling. If I were a young boy again, I would say he was an angel. He certainly sang like one.”
“I wish we could go again. When do you think you’ll be called back to Paris? Do you think he will still be there?”
The young man only laughed in response, and they left the shop.
Aziraphale needed no further convincing. As an angel, he had the ability to tune in to the emotions of humans around him, and the awe the couple felt was inspiring. Aziraphale puttered back to the living area of his shop and began gathering the things necessary for a week or so in France. “You can never be sure,” he muttered to himself “just how long you’ll be abroad. After all” he continued, hoisting a large trunk onto his bed, “culture must be explored. Well, food must be tasted, at any rate.”
— Two Weeks Later —
Paris, France 1863
Aziraphale sat in a private box, observing the crowd below him. He knew the opera was popular, but it had never seemed so energetic. The sign outside the opera house advertised the opera, Les Pêcheurs de Perles, alongside the new star tenor. Aziraphale wasn’t sure which drew more patrons. Scanning the crowd, he spotted a great deal more young people than the opera ever seemed to draw in London. Perhaps it’s a French thing he mused. He ran his fingers lightly over the heavy velvet curtains that separated his box from the rest of the opera house. He had rented the entire box, but it seemed a shame to enjoy such music alone. His mind drifted to Heaven, and what the angels would be saying if they saw him in Paris, dressed in silver finery, alone at the opera. Before he could dwell too long on the thought, the curtain rose.
A man began to sing, a low baritone, stately and proud. It was pleasing to the ear, but nothing moving. The stage was made to look like the seashore, and Aziraphale thinks it would be a lovely place to retire. The chorus behind him are dressed as fishermen. Aziraphale smiles. How wonderful, he thinks, to put on such a show just to make other people happy. Never patient, the angel begins to drift further from the opera in thoughts. Then he steps on stage.
Long legs take graceful strides onto the stage, aware yet unconcerned that every eye was fixed on him. His burnt orange hair turned to fire in the spotlight. Eyes that sparkled like amber sat above cheekbones that jut over curved lips. Aziraphale let out a soft sigh as Crowley began to sing.
“Au fond du temple saint paré de fleurs et d’or…”
Truly no other voice that Aziraphale had heard on Heaven or Earth compared to the voice of the Being on stage. It brought forth emotions in him that were only comparable to the end of days. He was not aware of his tears until they wet his cheeks.
“Mais dans mon âme soudain Quelle étrange ardeur s’allume!”
Aziraphale's French was poor, but he understood. He understood in a way that made him want to leap from his box and take flight, to burn with all the glory the Almighty. He wanted to take the voice below him and bring it to every corner of the universe.
“Non, rien! Jurons de rester amis!”
More than anything though, Aziraphale ached for Crowley. Seeing him so close, and hearing his voice again, rekindled everything Aziraphale felt. They only had each other. They were the only two on Earth who lived the way they did. Tears freely falling, Aziraphale desperately tried to catch Crowley’s eye. Luckily, the two of them had always been able to sense each other. By the time Aziraphale found Crowley’s gold eyes amongst the chaos of the stage, they were already watching the angel.
“Oui, partageons le même sort, Soyons unis jusqu’à la mort!”
Aziraphale had a feeling those words were for him.
After the show, Aziraphale found a carriage waiting for him outside the opera house. The coachmen were at the opera house door, asking for a “Mr. Angel” and Aziraphale had to assume it was for him when he saw the black rose they wore in their lapels. They led him to the carriage; dangerous looking with its sharp lines and all-black exterior. Upon entering, Aziraphale was embraced by the familiar scent of sandalwood and smoke. Crowley.
“I didn’t know you were a fan of the opera. I would’ve picked an opera house closer to Soho.”
Aziraphale sputtered, finally settling on “Yes, well, music is popular in Heaven.”
Crowley snorted, “Of course. Talent scouting then? I’m afraid Heaven decided I wasn’t their style in the Beginning. You may be interested in Léontine though, she’s rather lovely.”
“No! No I was just, just in the area, and I thought I would catch a show and, well luck of the devil!”
“You’re a terrible liar.” The carriage took off, rather fast, down the streets of Paris.
“Oh, alright. I heard some people talking about a wonderful French tenor and I just had to hear him.” Crowley raised an eyebrow, but Aziraphale continued “I really didn’t know it was you. Truly. What are you doing singing opera anyway?”
“Oh well, it’s always been a gift. God-given I suppose,” Crowley drawled, “but I’m here to create Envy in the opera scene. I am rather good, and the others are just dying to know how I do it. Or rather, they’d sell their souls. Which some have, I’m afraid. Envy is so easy to inspire in performers.”
“Ah, so. Just for work, then?” Aziraphale asked as they made a rather sharp turn that sent him sliding into Crowley.
“No, not entirely,” the demon answered as they adjusted themselves, “I have always rather liked singing. Hell isn’t much of an audience, but if I can justify it to them, I’ll take the opportunity. It’s like flying, you know? I’m free. And I can take other people with me. If I want.”
The carriage fell silent as Crowley studied his shoes, aware of what he had revealed. Aziraphale looked at the demon with newfound fondness. The stars seemed unusually bright, illuminating the pair in ethereal half-light. Despite the speed, they didn’t seem to be moving. Stuck within time, they were the only constants, orbiting around each other, two bodies bound to each other.
“Crowley, that’s really quite”
“Don’t. Don’t say it. They won’t like it- downstairs I mean. I know what you were going to say, and it’s a nice thing. And I can’t be a nice thing, angel. I’m not.”
“Oh. Right.” Aziraphale surrendered, “demon.”
The carriage careened on, unhindered by human traffic. In the silver glow of the stars, Crowley’s eyes were miniature suns. Aziraphale felt their gaze like warmth on his skin. He noticed, startled, that tears were tracing Crowley’s sharp face. Rather than try for words again, Aziraphale simply took Crowley’s hand in his. Crowley let out a small, choked sob. Aziraphale pretended not to notice, simply sliding across the carriage bench to be closer. He pulled Crowley’s head down to his chest. Crowley took a deep, shaky breath and began to sing.
“Oui, partageons le même sort, Soyons unis jusqu’à la mort! Oui, partageons le même sort, Soyons unis jusqu’à la mort! Oui, partageons le même sort, Soyons unis jusqu’à la mort!”