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1601
THE GLOBE THEATRE, LONDON
At the Crowley’s coin toss, Aziraphale picks heads and he loses their bet for Edinburgh. Granted, the angel looks a bit put off but doesn't say anything even when Crowley looks at him smugly.
In front of them, Shakespeare is talking to the oyster seller named Juliet. He is complaining very loudly, “It’s been like this every performance, Juliet. A complete dud. It’d take a miracle to get people to come and see Hamlet.”
Instinctively, Crowley looks at Aziraphale. Aziraphale‘s eyes are covertly asking. He knows two truths in that moment. The first one is bone deep and is that Crowley knows exactly what Aziraphale wants. The second truth is that he would do it and there was absolutely no question about it.
Crowley pretends that he is considering it for a bit but relents faster than he hoped. “Yeah. All right. I’ll do that one. My treat.”
Aziraphale’s, “Oh, really?” keeps him in a good mood for the entire day. Just Aziraphale’s utter delight paired with slight surprise threatens to shake Crowley to the core.
They both look at each other again, this time a fraction longer than either party intends. And they remember another fundamental truth that they both know by now. It is that Crowley only complains once about Aziraphale’s choice in plays but partakes in it like a fish to water.
Crowley can’t help but quip, “I still prefer the funny ones,” before he walks out of the theatre to tempt humans into watching Shakespeare's Hamlet. He's trying so hard to hide his grin when he sees Aziraphale beaming at him like that.
The next day, Aziraphale drags Crowley half across London for some new French dish called ragout. Apparently, it’s all the rage.
“You have to try it! I heard that this restaurant is particularly known for it,” Aziraphale says to Crowley as the enter the establishment.
Crowley pulls out the chair for Aziraphale before sitting down on the opposite side of their round table.
Crowley spots the rack of wine bottles in a corner and says, “Only if we have wine with it.”
Aziraphale hums at the suggestion, not quite wanting to point out that it is barely past noon.
“We could have French wine while we are at it,” Crowley adds. “We might as well get the whole experience, angel.”
Aziraphale shakes his head in fond exasperation. “Crowley-”
The arrival of their waiter cuts Aziraphale off.
Surprise, surprise, their waiter speaks French and only French. Crowley lets Aziraphale do the talking, preferring to sink into his plush chair. Damn, the French don’t play around. His cushion is a cotton cloud and Crowley likes this experience already.
If Crowley had to review the dish, he feels that maybe the ragout would have tasted better without the vegetables. The carrots make it hard for Crowley to simply gulp it all down. Despite this minor inconvenience, Crowley’s plate is clean in under five minutes. No matter what shape of form, he is still a serpent.
Aziraphale has long stopped trying to talk Crowley into eating in a more civilised manner. Instead, he usually chooses to look away but this time, Aziraphale watches Crowley eat with a subliminally raised eyebrow.
Aziraphale is on his fourth bite when Crowley sets his eyes on the wine. The bottle of wine never stood a chance.
Aziraphale sings praises to the waiter by the time their are done with their lunch.
The theatre is full. Crowley tries not to preen when Aziraphale thanks him. Crowley brushes it off with a shrug.
This poses a problem as Aziraphale realises. "Oh dear, where will we find seats?"
"Oi, Shakespeare!" Crowley calls him over when he sees that signature near-balding head.
Shakespeare sees them and quickly walks over, eager to share the great news. "We've sold out of tickets for the next six days. It's a miracle!" Shakespeare gushes to Aziraphale who is nodding along, grinning.
When Aziraphale proudly pats Crowley on his elbow, Crowley admits the truth, "It was more of a temptation really."
“Temptation, eh? I wonder how-” Shakespeare begins to ask.
Aziraphale speaks over him, "Ah, Shakespeare, my good man, we were hoping for seats… But it seems like everywhere is full.”
Shakespeare laughs and says, “You shall have seats in the best house. Here, I’ll show you there.”
“I think he means the best seats in the house?” Crowley genuinely asks Aziraphale because Crowley is no playwright but even he knows the proper phrase.
Aziraphale sends him a soft shush. “The man must be under a lot of pressure.”
They follow Shakespeare as he ambles off to the more expensive seats, the ones with a better view and more privacy.
They settle down in their seats. Crowley misses the seats from the restaurant. Here, it is more threadbare than plush.
Crowley is quite distracted from the sorry state of his bottom when Aziraphale decides to regale him about Hamlet or in reality, supply Crowley with not a very brief backstory.
“It was awfully confusing the first time I watched it. So many characters and all. They were dying left and right,” Aziraphale says as he gestures with his hands. He then goes into the families involved in the story.
All Crowley’s gathered from Aziraphale’s little speech is that there’s Hamlet, Hamlet’s enemy which is his uncle, some soldiers and someone called Ophelia. He wants to ask questions but he doesn’t really know where to start.
He really should have focused more on what Aziraphale was saying than how he was saying it. Soon, a hush falls over the crowd. The curtain rises and Aziraphale gasps when the props for Act 1 are revealed. Crowley attempts to appreciate the almost shoddy woodwork.
Crowley's always preferred the funny ones like the Comedy of Errors. But first, credit must be given where credit is due. There is no doubt that without Aziraphale, Crowley would have never seen a play in his life. After all, Crowley’s a demon and the least a demon can do is tempt humans to idle around and waste their lives away.
He was under the false pretences that watching plays were idle activities. Hence, if humans were already on their way to doom, he would need to have no hand in it and he could just claim the devilish invention as his.
He was reluctantly surprised when he first heard Aziraphale wanting to go to a play. He doesn’t remember when or where or anything of the play itself. His recollection only consists of Aziraphale with bright eyes and wide smile. Crowley went with Aziraphale that one time. It turned into a habit of Crowley to tag along every other time when they were in the same area.
They went to comedic plays that often featured an unlucky character or a hilarious misunderstanding than tragedies and its like. And the reason he favoured them so much was because of Aziraphale.
In comedies, Crowley was blessed in both the sight and sounds of Aziraphale. Aziraphale had a wonderful laughter, it bubbled and overflowed like water where the cadence of the notes echoed, multiplying onto itself into disarming butterflies.
Aziraphale’s unwitting smile was radiant. Crowley imagined budding flowers starting to mature, their stems of light green growing darker and unraveling, blooming in Aziraphale’s presence. The best of all was Aziraphale’s almost scandalised grin when there was a slightly innocuous innuendo uttered. There was an accompanying sharp intake of air. Crowley’s mind went wild with the existence of such a sound.
If Crowley was truthful to himself, he always favoured the funny ones because of Aziraphale.
At some point during the play, ‘Ophelia’ says something. Crowley does not catch it but whatever it is, it prompted Aziraphale to place his hand atop of Crowley’s. Crowley can feel the heat emanating from the hand. The skin is soft but calloused in places. Books, Crowley’s mind supplies. Handling heavy books and such.
Crowley suppresses the urge to wiggle his fingers. He wants to interlock their fingers together.
Would his fingers fit in the spaces between Aziraphale’s?
The idea is so tempting that he needs to know.
Crowley could try as Aziraphale stares on. Aziraphale’s gaze never quite wavering from stage and his eyes tear slightly as they follow where Hamlet lays on the wooden stage succumbing to the poison. Crowley can't help but marvel at how beautiful Aziraphale is. That caring humanity-like nature unsullied by heaven, his expressive face and bottomless pit of patience Aziraphale has for Crowley (and his shenanigans).
The grip on Crowley's hand grows tighter. Aziraphale’s palm is flush against Crowley’s palm.
A single thought flits through Crowley’s mind. It feels so right.
Crowley forgets to breathe out for a quick minute as the pressure in his chest builds up until he does, slowly releasing his breath.
A pearlescent tear falls from Aziraphale's lower lashes onto his cheek. Crowley can't help squeeze Aziraphale's hand reassuringly. When Aziraphale watches Hamlet's head fall, Crowley leans back and lets a smile slip onto his face. Aziraphale's enraptured look would rival the intensity of a noon sun. Aziraphale is glorious.
Crowley wishes that one day perhaps to elicit such an expression in Aziraphale. For now, he is content in standing in the sidelines, waiting for the angel to catch up on Crowley's attachment to said angel.
Crowley sighs when a few women and men cry out in horror when it is apparent Hamlet is finally dead. What a tragedy, he thinks. Aziraphale turns to Crowley and whispers to him to pay attention.
"You are missing the last part, Crowley!" Aziraphale admonishes. It is kind reprimand of sorts which is so very like Aziraphale.
Crowley chuckles before whispering back, "My apologies, angel. It seems that my head was stuck in the clouds."
Aziraphale snorts. The angel would deny any such undignified behaviour if Crowley brought it up at a later time and date. Fortunately, Aziraphale would never deny what he did next.
Aziraphale moves his fingers and slips them in between Crowley’s, interlocking their fingers. Crowley may have made a flustered noise at the sensation.
“Hush, Crowley.” Aziraphale leans his head again Crowley’s shoulder before continuing, “You’ve been radiating love.”
The fear that descends upon him is palpable. Is Aziraphale angry? Is it wrong for a demon to love an angel?
It probably is. Don’t hate me, he thinks as the cold seeps into his veins.
“Angel-” Crowley tries to reason. Angel, I’ll keep it in check. No need to worry. Don’t leave.
“Frankly, my dear, It’s making me drowsy,” Aziraphale says before he yawns and burrows into Crowley’s side even more. “Lend me your shoulder, dear.”
Crowley breath is hitched. It dawns on him. And the only thing stopping Crowley from jumping out of his seat is Aziraphale leaning against him.
Crowley has a slight wavering in his voice when he replies, “Of course, take as long as you like, angel.”
It is like Crowley has lost his voice beyond that point for he doesn’t say another word until the curtains fall. Crowley busies himself with other pressing matters like the press of Aziraphale’s head on his shoulder.
Upon further inspection, Crowley finds that in fact, his fingers do fit quite nicely between the spaces of Aziraphale’s fingers. Crowley doesn’t fight the urge to place a kiss on Aziraphale’s hand.
Aziraphale lifts his head and sleepily gazes at him with the entirety of his being. Crowley returns the earnestness with as much as he can muster, all the love, affection, care and attachment a demon can hold for an angel.
Crowley may still prefer the funny plays but right at this perfect moment, he wouldn't trade it for the world.