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1599, The Globe Theatre
It is the first show they see at the Globe, though it’s by no means the first of Shakespeare’s works they have seen together. That fact in and of itself creates quite a challenge when Aziraphale first presents the flyleaf announcing The cōmedie of muche A doo about nothinge to Crowley.
“Absolutely not,” the demon pronounces. “I’ve seen enough of that gloomy bugger’s plays to last me a lifetime.”
“But Crowley, this one is a comedy! You did so enjoy the one with the faeries.”
“What about all those other ones that were named after kings and whatnot? Dreadfully depressing.”
“You liked the one with the Russian dancers too.”
“Hated the one with the dead children and the feuding families,” grumbles Crowley.
“Don’t lie, you serpent, I saw you drying your eyes after Romeo & Juliet . Anyways,” he barrels on before Crowley can protest, “At any rate, this won’t be like that. It’s one of the funny ones. Please?”
Crowley sighs and Aziraphale knows he’s won. “Fine, but I’m walking out if it’s even remotely sad.”
He doesn’t walk out. Aziraphale watches out of the corner of his eye as Crowley laughs at the antics of Beatrice and Benedick and feels something warm stirring in his chest.
“Did you enjoy the show?” he asks after, striving to keep his voice neutral.
“Don’t be smug, angel, it’s rude.” Crowley retorts. A pause. “I rather liked it.”
1699, Theatre Royal
The summer of 1699 in London is unusually hot and, as such, Aziraphale heads to Oxford to visit the Bodleian Library, taking refuge from the bright sun within its cool stone walls. There are so many books here, rows upon rows of them for the angel to peruse. He also quickly discovers that he enjoys conversing with the dons, whether about theology or the provenance of some of the rarer books in the library’s collection.
Aziraphale hasn’t seen Crowley in some months. Centuries ago, that would have been normal, but the Earth seems to get smaller as the humans multiply, pushing them closer and closer together, and with more regularity. Aziraphale hesitates to say he misses the demon, but he can admit that he’s noticed his absence, at least. Even the scholars at Oxford cannot manage to hold conversation as interesting as Crowley’s. But he’s probably sunning himself on some rock somewhere, the slothful old serpent. He will turn up eventually.
The angel replaces a book on the shelf and steps into the next row. And there’s Crowley, leaning up against a bookcase, wearing dark glasses and a smirk. “Hello, Aziraphale!”
“Speak of the devil,” Aziraphale answers before he can censor himself. Crowley’s grin widens.
“Thinking of me, angel?”
“Hardly,” snaps Aziraphale. “Just wondering what kind of mischief you were getting up to while I was out of town.”
“Ah, you know me.” Crowley shrugs, “Too busy being lazy to do any wiling.”
“What are you doing here?” asks Aziraphale. He takes another book from his stack and releases it into the air. It floats up to the top shelf and slides neatly back into place. “Not trying to tempt any students, I hope?”
“Just you, angel.” Crowley says breezily. Before Aziraphale can protest, he produces two tickets, brandishing them excitedly. “Did you know it’s the one-hundredth anniversary of Much Ado ? I’ve got us a box at Drury Lane. What do you say, angel? Ready to head back to London?”
Aziraphale hesitates.
“I’ll remind you that we saw your favorite last time.” Crowley wheedles, and Aziraphale thinks back to Hamlet and the seats they’d had to miracle into existence just to be able to squeeze in with the sold-out crowd. He sighs.
“Oh, very well.”
With a snap of the demon’s fingers, they’re in their box at the Royal. Crowley manifests a bottle of wine and sets about pouring drinks, whistling cheerfully. Aziraphale settles into his seat, trying not to think too hard about how easily he’d capitulated and how much he enjoys the demon’s company. Surely, that isn’t a good sign.
But then the show begins, and Aziraphale gets to hear Crowley’s earnest laughter, and he decides that perhaps it isn’t so bad after all.
1902, Old Vic Theatre
It has been forty years since he’s last seen Crowley.
Aziraphale is not a fool; he knows they’ve gone much longer than this without seeing each other. But those instances were in the pre-Arrangement days. Those instances hadn’t come immediately after bitter words and harsh accusations.
I don’t need you Crowley had said.
And the feeling is mutual Aziraphale had returned without thinking. It wasn’t a lie, necessarily, but it hadn’t felt like the complete truth, even then. He might not need the demon, but that certainly doesn’t mean he doesn’t want him around. Obviously he wants him around; the fear that Crowley might leave him permanently is the whole reason he was so angry in the first place.
He’d tried apologizing once, half a decade after the argument, but his letter had been returned unopened. After that, Aziraphale had decided to give Crowley his space, and had sought to distract himself from the aching loneliness he felt.
One such attempt finds him seated alone at the Royal Victoria Hall, seeing a Shakespearian comedy unaccompanied for the first time. It’s Crowley’s favorite: Much Ado About Nothing , and Azirphale tells himself that he isn’t scanning the crowds for the demon’s pale face before the lights go down.
It is an excellent production, though his enjoyment is diminished every time Aziraphale glances to his left and remembers that the seat there is empty. By the beginning of the fourth act, he’s feeling very heavy-hearted indeed.
Kill Claudio says Beatrice.
Not for the wide world returns Benedick.
You kill me to deny it.
Aziraphale stands abruptly, ignoring cries of protest from the people sitting behind him, and leaves without a backwards glance.
He doesn’t see another show for half a century.
2011, Wyndham’s Theatre
“I heard you have the evenin’ off, Miz Ashtoreth,” Aziraphale says in greeting as Warlock goes barrelling past him towards the flowerbeds, Crowley close behind in her sensible heels.
“I do,” she replies. “Mrs. Dowling’s mother has flown in for a visit to meet Warlock.”
The aforementioned toddler wraps a stubby hand around the stem of one of Aziraphale’s marigolds and yanks it from the earth. Instantly, his nanny is kneeling next to him, prising it gently from his fingers.
“Now, now darling. Don’t uproot the flowers.” With a flick of her wrist, the marigold is safely planted again. She picks up the toddler and props him on her hip, turning to give Aziraphale a shrewd look. “Why do you ask, anyway?”
“I wondered if you might want to catch a show in the West End tonight. With me.”
Crowley bares her teeth in a grin. “Why Brother Francis, are you asking me on a date ?”
Aziraphale feels his face flush and is suddenly grateful for his ruddy gardener complexion. “Simply hoping for some company from another Shakespeare aficionado.”
“Very well, then,” she says briskly, brushing a leaf out of Warlock’s hair. “He needs a bath before his grandmum arrives. Shall I meet you at the cottage at seven?”
She arrives a quarter of an hour late, wearing red lipstick and a dark grey evening gown. Aziraphale is back in his preferred form, and dressed for an evening on the town. He offers Crowley an arm.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to miracle us there as someone was too busy putting on makeup to be on time,” he says, straight-faced.
Crowley jabs him with a sharp red nail. “Vanity is one of my main vices, angel. Besides, you really ought not complain when you’ve got a date who looks this good.”
Aziraphale rolls his eyes and miracles them to the box office.
After the show, Crowley takes his arm again as they meander back out onto the street. “That was an excellent production, wasn’t it? A Beatrice who truly embraced her wrath!”
“I thought the actor who played Benedick did a remarkable job portraying the character learning humility.” Aziraphale replies primly. Crowley pinches the inside of his wrist, but Aziraphale just smiles beatifically and helps her onto the bus.
2019, Shakespeare’s Globe
Aziraphale has seen Much Ado About Nothing at least a dozen times. He’s seen it modernized and conceptualized, done on the finest stages and in the muddiest parks, by brilliant professionals, and by accountants and teachers and stay-at-home-mothers, dedicating their time as volunteers, out of sheer love of the theatre. It’s Crowley’s favorite and, more often than not, they see it together. More often than not, they retire to Aziraphale’s bookshop to discuss the production over a few bottles of Malvasia delle Lipari.
So he knows that Crowley considers Claudio to be “a bit of a pillock, really.” That he finds Margaret a fascinating character who should be given more to do, that he enjoys how Don John skulks about the stage, and that Beatrice and Benedick are his favorites because he’s a romantic, no matter what he claims.
For the four hundred and twentieth anniversary of the play, they get tickets to the new Globe Theatre. Seems as good a way as any to celebrate a favorite show and an Apocalypse only recently averted. Ever the traditionalist, Aziraphale prefers the original building, but he listens with a patient smile as Crowley raves over the humans’ dedication to the recreation.
The production is lovely, just as expected, and they’re both in high spirits as they leave the theatre at the end of the evening.
“Stay for a nightcap?” Aziraphale asks as Crowley throws the Bentley into park in front of the bookshop. The demon grins and follows him inside. He heads for the back room as Aziraphale locks up, and has already poured two glasses of sweet, white wine and draped himself over the couch by the time the angel catches up. Crowley lifts his head from the arm of the sofa as Aziraphale takes a seat across from him, and raises his glass in a toast.
“To a night of good theatre!”
“To time spent with friends,” Aziraphale returns with a smile. Crowley’s face goes pink and he takes an enormous swig of wine as if that will hide anything. Aziraphale takes a more modest sip and sets his glass back down on the table. “I still prefer Hamlet, my dear, but I must admit that I’ve grown quite fond of this one, over the years.”
“‘Course you have,” Crowley answers. “It’s bloody hilarious! And it’s a romance. Your lot love...well, love , eh?”
“It is a rather excellent love story,” Aziraphale agrees with a sigh. “It’s just wonderful that two people who dislike each other so intensely could eventually find common ground and fall in love.” His smile falters when he glances up and sees Crowley staring at him. The demon is frozen, eyebrows inching towards his hairline, mouth hanging open. “Is everything alright, dear boy?”
Crowley frowns, setting his wine glass down on the table. “Benedick and Beatrice are in love from the very beginning.”
Now it’s Aziraphale’s turn to frown. “Don’t be ridiculous. They can hardly stand each other at the beginning.”
“You’re not serious?”
“I certainly am!” Aziraphale snaps. He feels suddenly agitated. “Benedick falls in love at the end of the second act, and Beatrice at the start of the third.”
Crowley shakes his head. “What’s all that at the beginning then, hm? ‘A merry war?’ They’re flirting.”
Aziraphale bristles. “I’m sure I don’t know anything about flirting.”
Crowley mutters something that sounds suspiciously like you don’t have to tell me. He pulls his sunglasses off, yellow eyes intent on the angel’s face. Aziraphale feels like a dove caught in the hypnotic gaze of a viper. “Angel, I’m telling you, they’re in love right from the start. But it takes hearing about the other one for them to admit to their feelings.”
“So your interpretation is that they love each other but deny themselves because of their pride?” Aziraphale scoffs. “I really don’t think that makes a better story.”
“Maybe…” Crowley’s voice wavers and he shoves his sunglasses back on abruptly. “Maybe it’s not pride, but the fear that their affections are unrequited. Possibly they find it better to have just a friendly battle of wits than to risk losing the companionship of the other altogether.”
Aziraphale has the sudden sense that they aren’t talking about the play anymore. “Crowley…”
Recognizing the danger, the demon springs up from the sofa and starts for the door. “No, no, no. We are not having this conversation.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats, standing up to block his exit. “Please, be sensible.”
“ Ssssensible ?” he hisses, wrenching his sunglasses off and flinging them down on the sofa. His eyes glimmer with suppressed anger. “Six thousand years of misunderstanding my meaning, or telling me to--to ssslow down, and now you’re blatantly misinterpreting Shakespeare to change the topic of conversation. I never…” Crowley has worked himself up to a good rant now, and is pacing the room, gesticulating wildly as he rambles. Aziraphale watches and feels that familiar warmth unfold in his chest. He thinks about theatre boxes and books of prophecy, about botched heists, and the sound of Crowley’s unrestrained laughter. Aziraphale has had a name for this feeling for nearly eighty years, has felt it for even longer than he can remember. He’s not interested in letting it go unexamined for another second.
“Dearest, hush.” he says, grabbing Crowley’s elbow and hauling him into a kiss.
Instantly, Crowley’s hands fly up to fist in his jacket, his mouth falling open under Aziraphale’s. He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whimper when Aziraphale slides a hand into his hair, tilting his head to kiss him deeper. He kisses back so carefully, like he’s afraid it’s going to be taken away from him and Aziraphale’s chest aches with how much he loves him.
When they finally part, Crowley’s yellow eyes are as wide as saucers, his pupils dilated. “Assssiraphale…”
“That’s easily the most effective method I’ve found of stopping you talking in six thousand years,” Aziraphale says with a smug little grin. “I should very much like to employ it going forward.”
“Then I’ll perform you a million soliloquies,” comes the fierce reply. Crowley reaches up with a trembling hand and gently touches Aziraphale’s face. “If that’s what you want?”
Aziraphale softens. His heart has never felt so light as when he takes Crowley’s hand, twining their fingers together. “Oh my love, I can think of nothing better.”