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Aziraphale had always loved the theatre. As an outside observer, seeing humans the way they saw themselves was fascinating. Crowley preferred funny plays, but Aziraphale was particularly fond of the tragedies. There was something beautiful about them. To watch these characters struggle and fail and yet try again. Wasn’t that the essence of humanity? After Shakespeare, his attachment only grew. Of course, that wasn’t entirely Shakespeare’s doing. He could still remember that day in the Globe in crystal definition. The glimmer of a smile on Crowley’s lips. The glint of humor behind his ridiculous sunglasses. The fond annoyance in his voice as he promised to miracle Hamlet into success. Aziraphale had watched many productions of Hamlet in the years that followed, all different, but he thought of Crowley every time. One time in particular, though, he thought of him more than usual.
It was a few months after the Apocalypse That Wasn’t, and he and Crowley were taking some time apart to recover after all the excitement. He had miracled himself into a front row seat at the Royal Shakespeare Company, dressed in his finest evening attire (which, honestly, wasn’t much different than his normal attire). Hamlet was playing, and, as usual, he couldn’t let the run go by without watching at least one performance. Everything was proceeding as usual until Hamlet’s entrance. That voice… it was so familiar. Why couldn’t he place it? As he listened to the disillusioned Hamlet’s “To be or not to be,” it suddenly hit him. Years back, he hd visited the RSC for a production of Richard II. Richard was young and unsure, with long red hair. He couldn’t help but think of Crowley, all those years ago. As he had been when they first met. Gentle, unsure, alone. Checking his program, he recognized the lead actor’s name. What a coincidence. It wasn’t normally his style to hang around and meet the actors, but what the hell. It seemed as though it was meant to be.
He joined the small group of humans waiting outside the stage door, standing in the back in an attempt to be inconspicuous. The rest of the cast filtered out the door, greeting their fans and giving autographs, but Aziraphale was only waiting for Hamlet. And he kept waiting. Until all the rest gave up and went home. And just when Aziraphale himself was about to call it a day, the door crept open, and a shock of red hair emerged. For a moment, Aziraphale stood in stunned silence. “Crowley?” The figure whipped around to stare at Aziraphale, and sure enough, there was the familiar face, colored with embarrassment.
“What are you doing here, angel?”
“I came to see the play. I didn’t expect to run into you.” A moment of awkward silence. “Come back to the bookshop with me? We could open a nice vintage to celebrate?”
Crowley hesitated, but the promise of alcohol eventually swayed him. “Alright.” The walk home was uncharacteristically silent. A few steps from the bookshop, Aziraphale offered “I quite enjoyed the play.” Crowley smiled ever so slightly. “Stellar cast. A joy to work with. Patrick was born to play Claudius.”
Aziraphale huffed softly, pursing his lips. “Crowley, I was talking about you.”
Crowley suddenly stopped, and Aziraphale turned back to look at him. “What’s wrong, Crowley?”
Crowley met his gaze for a moment, then brushed past him into the shop. “You promised me alcohol.”
Aziraphale followed him, making sure the door was locked. When he reached the sitting area with no less than three bottles of wine in his arms, Crowley was surprisingly still standing. Usually he was lounging on a sofa by now. Snake instincts and all. Aziraphale poured him a glass of wine and he took it, leaning against a pillar as he drank. He was trying hard to maintain his aloof demeanor, gazing out a dark window, but Aziraphale could see the tension in his shoulders. After pouring himself a glass, Aziraphale stood awkwardly for a few moments before clearing his throat. “Since when are you an actor, Crowley?”
Crowley paused before taking a deep drink of wine. He made a few noncommittal noises in his throat, then replied, “Dunno, since Shakespeare I guess. I promised I’d make Hamlet a success, and well...” His words trailed off and he readjusted his posture awkwardly.
Aziraphale’s eyes widened, “All this time?” he asked incredulously.
Crowley grumbled softly. “I don’t need your permission to do anything, angel.”
“No, of course not! That’s not what I meant at all!” Aziraphale’s defensive posture softened and he moved towards Crowley. His voice was quiet when he said, “If you had only told me, I would have been at every performance.”
Crowley sighed deeply. “I know, angel. That’s why I didn’t tell you. It’s nice to be someone else for a while. Forget who I am. Hard to do that when everything you used to be is staring you in the face.”
Aziraphale took a step back, trying to hide the hurt on his face. “Oh. I see.”
The silence hung like a condemned man. Crowley finally broke it. “Angel…” He took off his sunglasses and hung them on his shirt, turning to face Aziraphale at last. He struggled to find the words for a moment, then hissed softly in frustration. “Look. Maybe now that we’re on our own side, we can... try something different.” He pauses, smiling ever so slightly. “There was something special coming from the audience tonight.”
Aziraphale brightened, looking a little bashful. “You really are very good.”
A glint struck in Crowley’s eyes. “One condition.”
“Yes?”
“We do this again tomorrow night.”
A smile warmed Aziraphale’s face like a perfect summer day. “Of course, my dear. After all, an actor’s entitled to his after party.”