Chapter Text
By the moment he opened the door of the bookshop the next morning, Crowley had shoved his soppy feelings as deep as possible, smiling widely at the opportunity to do music with his friend. It felt right to do things together. Even averting Apocalypse was not that bad, if he gave it a thought. Even raising Warlock was fun most of the time, though he would never admit it to Aziraphale.
“Morning, angel!”
Aziraphale emerged from the backroom, all smiles. “Come here, Crowley, I’ve got something to show you.” He disappeared again.
The thing he was so enthusiastic about turned out to be a huge box, supposedly filled with books. Aziraphale did not hurry to open it, however, so Crowley perched on the edge of the table, putting the guitar he had brought in the armchair he usually occupied. “So, what’s in the box?”
Aziraphale brightened even further. “I have to admit that I’ve had a sort of lifelong passion…” he started.
“Tell me about that,” Crowley shot. Oh, no, not again. Aziraphale gave him a wary look. That would not do. “I mean, do tell me, I’m genuinely interested. Isn’t it books?”
“Books, yes, but also…” He opened the box that, to Crowley’s surprise, was filled with smaller boxes, and took out a pair of bright black-and-red wooden spoons. “Well, it’s not actually a lifelong passion, more like a recent hobby… Anyway, for about a century, I’ve been collecting unusual musical instruments!”
Spoons. Really.
“I thought you would appreciate my small collection,” the angel continued to ramble, “I do find music fascinating, but I’m not much of a musician myself, as you remember. I think I always lacked patience…” As if to prove it, he played a simple tune with his spoons, eyes shining with contagious happiness.
“I never thought you could surprise me with something like that,” Crowley chuckled, “but why spoons?”
“Oh, it is a gift from a nice man I helped once. They have a traditional Russian ornament, khokhloma, see?” The angel gave Crowley one of the spoons. “This Soviet spy was so eager to defuse the international tension somehow, and he was in a very difficult situation, and I may have used a couple of blessings to help him out. You must have seen him in St James’s Park, he used to enjoy long strolls with his American friend back then.” Aziraphale smiled, “They always reminded me of us, you know. Earthly politics can get quite complicated, too…”
Crowley nodded and sat on the floor, closer to the box. “What else do you have?”
Aziraphale was pleased by the demon’s interest. He started to unpack box after box to show Crowley all the instruments he had and to reminisce about their stories. They definitely were “unusual”, as the angel had announced earlier. Among them were a funny little thumb piano (“How can you improvise so beautifully, Crowley? I’m going to give this kalimba to you!”), a tiny flute and a pungi.
“Why on Earth would you have this, angel? Isn’t it used in snake charming?” Crowley widened his eyes.
“Well, what if I wanted to charm an old wily serpent one day?” Aziraphale laughed as he watched Crowley’s eyebrows rise higher and higher. “Do you think it would work on you?”
“Hell yes,” the demon agreed, with as much sarcasm in his voice as he could manage.
“I would not possibly do such a thing to you, though,” Aziraphale said seriously. “Anyway! Here’s the thing I wanted to show you!”
Aziraphale put an exquisite hang drum on his lap. “Your raindrop miracle yesterday was so inspiring that I remembered this lovely drum. Just listen to its sound. I can play it a bit...” The angel started beating his fingers softly against the shining surface of the instrument, his hands moving swiftly around the hang. It did sound like rain, and there was something very light and heavenly about its music. Moreover, Aziraphale seemed to be quite good at playing it. Apparently, the hang for him was the gavotte of musical instruments.
Having got over the stupefying admiration, Crowley grabbed the guitar and joined Aziraphale’s performance.
This is how it started. An angel and a demon were playing music together to thank people for being people.
But mostly because they simply loved doing it with each other.
***
“Rehearsal, angel!”
“Lunch first?”
This conversation became their new ritual. They were now spending most of their time together, improvising, and composing, and trying to perfect what they had already done. It involved numerous recordings, shared jokes, and, on some days, quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol. There were also more meals in Aziraphale’s favourite places in London, and fewer customers in his bookshop: even most avid bibliophiles were having difficulties figuring out the opening hours now.
Aziraphale loved it all. He enjoyed this very special feeling of purpose playing music with Crowley gave him – the feeling he thought he would have lost when the world had been saved. For an angel, receiving instructions from higher authorities is an integral part of life, and even though Aziraphale valued his freedom, at first, he had been ready to feel frustrated or, at least, disoriented. It never actually happened, though. He was finally free to be where he belonged.
He enjoyed other things about doing music as well. He enjoyed spending time with Crowley, and learning from him, and seeing him so enthusiastic and relaxed at the same time. He enjoyed watching the demon’s long fingers doing the impossible with the guitar. He even enjoyed all the little jokes that made both of them feel slightly (extremely, in Crowley’s case) tense. For Aziraphale, though, they were not mere jokes, but a way to prepare both Crowley and himself to what he was going to tell the demon. Sooner or later. One day. Eventually.
The lack of response from Crowley, however, was unexpected, so Aziraphale decided not to force it. Everything was good, anyway. There was just one thing to worry about.
“Crowley, I’ve been thinking,” he started after a particularly successful rehearsal, when both of them were satisfied with their work and the best merlot from Aziraphale’s wine rack. “How are we going to present our music?”
“What do you mean?” the demon asked lazily, sprawling even further in the armchair, which would be quite challenging for anyone who is not at least thirty percent serpent. Aziraphale contemplated him for a couple of moments.
“We’re getting better and better, aren’t we? How can we show our music to people?”
“I’d rather not.” Crowley reconsidered, when he saw Aziraphale pleading eyes. “It was your plan, anyway, so you tell me.”
“Erm… It was, sure, but I did not plan it that thoroughly…” Aziraphale could feel his cheeks blushing, and he did not like it. Crowley’s eyes were now focused on him, which did not help at all. “Crowley, I did not even dare to hope you would agree to do it with me!”
The demon’s eyebrow went up sceptically, and a smile appeared on his face.
“Okay, I did hope!” Aziraphale admitted, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “But I never planned much further, if you must know,” the angel sighed.
Crowley had definitely grown too soft. In spite of having five sarcastic remarks about poor planning in his head, he couldn’t resist the urge to help the angel. “Let’s record it and upload on youtube,” he suggested. “When we are ready.” He hated to think that he would soon need to create another excuse to spend time with Aziraphale, who did not seem to be content with sharing their music online.
“Probably, it would be easier to convey our gratitude in person…” Aziraphale mumbled.
“What do you want then? A music festival?” Crowley returned to his wine, which he found more inspiring than all these frustrating talks about thanking people. He had not been playing music for others, and he had cherished a frail hope that Aziraphale had not either. But he was not going to let this hope spoil everything and scare the angel away.
To his surprise, Aziraphale brightened, miraculously avoiding spilling his wine in excitement. “Crowley, that’s brilliant! We will perform at a music festival in Lower Tadfield!”
Crowley hated ruining it for the angel, but he suspected that Aziraphale was not very well aware of what music festivals are usually like. Besides, there were no festivals to take place in the vicinity of Tadfield. This part, however, did not bother Aziraphale.
“We will inspire some people in the town council, or whoever could make this decision, to organize a tiny festival, let’s say, at the weekend,” the angel suggested with a cunning smile.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley grinned, watching his friend in disbelief, “by inspiring you could not possibly mean tempting some low-rank politicians into doing whatever you want them to do?” He asked slowly, innocence written all over his face.
Aziraphale winked at him. “Oh, I’m just enough of a bastard for that, aren’t I?”
***
A couple of temptations, a handful of blessings, and excessive amounts of preparation – and here they are, watching the second stage being erected in a riverside meadow near Lower Tadfield. Well, Aziraphale is watching, as he has already finished with the food arrangements for the weekend open-air festival. They never expected so many local musicians to volunteer to take part in it, so the event is going to be slightly bigger than they initially planned. This is exactly the reason Crowley is wearing a yellow helmet and giving directions to the team of builders, who are almost finishing with the construction.
Aziraphale is sitting on a soft beige blanket, his back leaning on a tall tree, whose leaves have already turned crimson and amber, and now that it is getting dark, it becomes difficult to spot Crowley in the distance. He can still see his luminescent vest among the builders’ luminescent vests, though.
The angel is tired, and pensive, and deeply satisfied. He thinks about everything they have done over the past month; he thinks about the festival they only had a week to prepare (“Even deadlines in Hell weren’t so tight, angel!”), and he can see only one reason for Crowley to have been going through it all with him. The same reason Crowley saved his life over and over again. The same reason he saved his books back in 1941. The same reason he asked the angel to fly to Alpha Centauri with him.
All these insights make Aziraphale feel jittery, because he does not seem to have any more excuses to postpone the conversation they should have had long ago.
“Ready?”
Aziraphale almost jumped. “W-what? Oh, um, yes, I… Have you finished?” He did not notice that Crowley had got that close and had probably been standing near him for several moments.
“Can’t you tell?” the demon smiled.
Aziraphale looked at the dark-blue stage that was now decorated with some constellation patterns and a huge pair of wings, one black and one white. “It’s charming, Crowley!” Aziraphale smiled softly. The stage was smaller than the one on the other side of the meadow, but it was also stunning.
Crowley smirked at the angel’s reaction. He was still wearing the helmet, his red hair and broad grin making Aziraphale wonder whether the demon had anything to do with Ayn Rand writing Howard Roark.
The angel got up and looked at his friend appreciatively. “Thank you, Crowley. For everything.”
He will say more. Soon. Not now.
***
Twenty hours later the meadow was crowded with people, and lots and lots of tents were hiding behind the tall trees of the wood nearby. It was warm and dry, and the ground was covered with crunchy fallen leaves. Near Tadfield the weather had been perfect for the last eleven years, and this day was not an exception.
People were wondering around, chattering excitedly. The space between the two stages was big enough to explore, and as the majority of visitors were heading to the bigger, red-and-yellow sun-patterned stage, most of them stopped here and there to have a look at motley merchant stalls selling whatever one could imagine. Tiny food outlets and restaurants were especially appealing, offering gourmet meals that were of better quality and taste than food at any other open-air festival. Just a miracle!
“You sure you don’t want to go to the big stage?” Crowley asked Aziraphale, caressing the guitar. Near the starry stage there were not so many people. Among them, however, was everyone Aziraphale had actually had in mind when he initiated the whole thing. He smiled, watching Sergeant Shadwell recruiting Adam and his friends to The Witchfinder Army. None of them seemed to have noticed Aziraphale or Crowley yet.
“I suppose we’ll be fine here,” Aziraphale said. “Let’s just… begin?”
Crowley nodded at his hesitation, “It’ll be fine, angel.”
He went to the stage. Aziraphale followed. So did the attention of their small audience, including all of The Witchfinder Army, which consisted of more than 5 people now (which had not been the case for more than a century, mind you!), some of their parents, an occultist and Madam Tracy, who actually felt like a bit of all three.
“Wanna say anything before we begin?”
“I… Yes,” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Our dearest guests,” he began, watching the audience attentively. “thank you for coming here today and for staying with us. We’re actually very grateful for many things some of you may not remember clearly…” he spotted Crowley’s you’re-not-actually-going-to-remind-everyone-about-Apocalypse-are-you expression. Aziraphale smiled softly and continued. “Just think about the time you felt proud to be a human. This is what we want to thank you for.”
Crowley rolled his eyes, which nobody could see behind the sunglasses. They started playing, and it was miraculously beautiful (no miracles involved). “You don’t even need to be an angel to feel waves of love rising all around”, Aziraphale thought. He saw those who listened to them, their eyes bright with inspiration and happiness; he could feel their love for everything – their friends and families, their partners, their life… It was magnificent, and Aziraphale could not help smiling. More importantly, it brought out Crowley’s love. He could feel it better than ever before, and it made the angel’s heart go faster.
In no time, their performance was over. It was longer than a typical song, and still, for Crowley it had always been surprising: hours, days, months of rehearsals – and only minutes on stage. Minutes that feel like a blink. He was smiling widely now. He had not performed on stage for quite some time, and it felt just as great as before. “Thank you,” he said to the audience. He meant it now.
They were leaving the stage to rapturous applause, when he spotted an elderly couple rushing towards him.
“Excuse me,” the man shouted. “You’re Anthony, right? You used to sing for The Black Wings, didn’t you?” He was speaking more quietly now, when he was right near the stage. Still, it was loud enough for Aziraphale to hear him and to be looking curiously at Crowley. “Oh dear, you never told me you were singing…” the angel started.
Fuck.
“Darling, please stop,” the woman said to the man, looking very embarrassed. “I’ve told you, this boy is too young for that…” she looked at Crowley with excuse-my-husband-please eyes.
“Valery, don’t you know how this business is? Plastic surgery and stuff, who are we to blame him?” He turned back to Crowley, who was desperately looking at Aziraphale now. “You were really great, both now and back then, such a pity you left the band…” Before Crowley had a chance to say at least something, the unrealistically garrulous man continued, “I just wanted to ask you to play one song, you see, it’s our song, I first kissed my wife when you were playing it, yes, so please, could you play ‘My Angel’ for us!”
There was a pause. The man looked extremely satisfied with himself.
Fuck.
Aziraphale, still on stage, was looking at him with his huge blue eyes wider than ever.
Fuck.
“Listen,” Crowley started, “I’m not…”
“Crowley, please…” he heard Aziraphale’s soft voice before he could finish.
Fuck it.
“You asked for it,” he sighed, looking Aziraphale in the eye.
He adjusted the microphone and started singing, picking the strings softly. It felt like the stage was burning under him, but he had to admit that it wasn’t and that he had no hope to escape.
‘How many years has it been since I fell? I don't bother to count’
He is pointedly not looking at Aziraphale. He is not going to look at him ever again.
‘How many hours I've spent with you - and you only - on Earth’
He has never realised he could physically feel that awkward. His fingers are shaking. Alea iacta est. He continues playing.
‘I've been fallen for you all way long, and it tears me apart’
People start hugging and dancing slowly. Some raise their lighters in the air. He doesn’t care.
‘You're the best of my blessings, the most terrifying curse’
The old man who has just ruined Crowley’s life is elated. He knows that the bridge is coming.
‘I am yearning for you, and I think it could never be helped
Don't you shine at me, dear; I’m afraid I am going to melt’
Valery and her horrible husband are singing along.
At this point, Crowley starts feeling some masochistic delight. He almost enjoys the absurdity of it all.
“…don’t-look-at-the-angel-don’t-look-at-the-angel-don’t-look-at-the-angel-don’t-look-at-the-angel-don’t-look-at-the-angel-don’t-look-at-the-angel-DON’T-YOU-DARE-don’t-look-at-him…” he thinks just before he looks at the angel.
‘I would fancy to call you “my angel”, but you'd fly away,
I'd say it into your lips, precious, that would be all I could say
I'd just stay with you on our side, I would, honey, a-ah
Make my therapist stop calling my crush on you mania-ah’
Aziraphale’s face is illegible, or it is just Crowley, whose adrenaline levels are too high to let him think clearly. He breaks the eye-contact. The song lasts for some more time, until he finally breathes out the last line:
‘But for now you'd rather stay away,
My angel’
Crowley did not hear the applause this time. All he could think of was the soft touch of Aziraphale’s warm hand, urging him to leave the stage. Nobody was paying them any attention anymore – the excitement at Crowley’s song had quickly changed with welcoming cheering for some other musicians. Too quickly, so it must have taken the angel a miracle or two. Still, they were now moving away from the stage, towards the quiet of the wood.
“…don’t-look-at-the-angel-don’t-look-at-the-angel-don’t-look-at-the-angel…” It works this time.
“Happy now?” he asked the moment they stopped. He had planned to sound angry or bitter, but it was closer to burnt out. He did not expect to hear Aziraphale’s soft and simple: “Yes.”
He finally looked at Aziraphale incredulously. The angel was radiant, and he was standing too close, and he was holding Crowley’s hand in his hands, and it all was so unbelievable and overwhelming that it took him some time to realize that the next moment Aziraphale was kissing him, sweetly and tenderly.
And everything was suddenly great. Amazing. Fantastic. Terrific. Magnificent. Sublime.
Everything was right.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you myself” Aziraphale was whispering to him gently, “I just didn’t know how to do it.” It turned out Aziraphale could speak very coherently between the tiny kisses he kept pressing against Crowley’s lips and hands. As for the demon’s part, he was having some difficulties following the angel’s train of thought.
“I love you, Aziraphale,” was all he managed to say. It was enough. Aziraphale smiled at him.
“I love you too, Crowley.”
***
The end of a good weekend is always a pity. The festival was over, and its guests were not looking forward to coming back to their daily routine in the city, whether it was work, or studies, or whatever it was the festival had given them a break from.
It was different for Aziraphale and Crowley. None of them was upset at coming back to London, because their life, while it was going to stay very similar to what it used to be, had definitely changed for the better. And they were finally going to enjoy it to the full.
“I wouldn’t, by the way,” says Aziraphale when they are in the Bentley on their way home.
“Hmm?” Crowley utters, noticing the twinkle in the angel’s eye.
“I wouldn’t stay away. You sang that I would. I wouldn’t.”
“Do shut up, angel,” laughs Crowley, unable to hide a huge grin. “Sure you wouldn’t.”