Chapter Text
The first time Aziraphale heard it was in 1977. All things considered; the day was otherwise very normal. Aziraphale had been in the process of categorizing his first edition copies of 18th-19th century French love poems (it had been a slow day in the bookshop) when the door opened with its familiar ding followed by uneven footsteps. Although the footsteps sounded clunkier than usual, he knew that cadence better than he knew his own reflection. He climbed down from his old, rickety ladder and turned the corner to find none other than Crowley casually strolling about in the lobby. Luckily for Aziraphale’s sake, if it had not been the rhythm of his saunter and the faint scent of cinnamon and sulfur entering the atmosphere, he would not have recognized the demon. Granted, it had been over a decade since they last spoke and Crowley was known for keeping up with fashion fads, but what on Earth was that Satan-forsaken mustache? Nevertheless, Aziraphale tried to quell the fluttering feeling growing in the pit of his stomach and greet his old acquaintance.
“Crowley? What a pleasant surprise, it’s been-”
“Ten years, yes,” his gaze not quite meeting Aziraphale.
A small pang hit in Aziraphale’s chest, but he pressed on. “Ah, yes. I’m aware. So terribly sorry on my account.”
He could almost see Crowley reliving their last encounter. The parked Bentley sheltered from the nightlife of the Soho streets. Purple light emitting from the lewd neon signs illuminating both of their faces. The lingering brush of their fingers as they passed the holy equivalent of an atomic bomb between their shaking bodies. The hurt in both of their voices as they begged and denied each other the universe’s most unspeakable question. The revisit only lasted for a second, but Aziraphale still lived every moment.
“S’alright,” Crowley paced, turning his back to the angel. “Nothing of utter importance happened.”
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Until today? That is?”
Crowley’s platform boots skidded to a stop (good gracious, Aziraphale hoped this trend ends swiftly) and he finally met the angel’s stare through his shades. “I’ve just had a bad day at work, that’s all.” “Ah,” Aziraphale sighed, realizing that ‘work’ meant business down below. He didn’t mention forgetting their eternal duties and purpose on Earth for only a few off-color seconds after Crowley had become his center of attention.
“Tea, perhaps?”
Crowley hesitated. His whole body seemed tense, and Aziraphale could see his eyebrows reappear and disappear behind his thick frames several times. He looked unmovable. Like his exterior was made up of bricks to protect whatever he was hiding behind those retched sunglasses. Aziraphale’s eyes flitted down to his joined hands and offered an apologetic smile. And then, just like that, somehow Crowley moved.
“Yeah, tea’s fine.”
Aziraphale turned the corner to put the kettle on, trying to hide his triumphant smile within the hallway walls.
“Angel,” Crowley called, the upholstery of the couch squeaking as he kicked off his platform boots, “None of that fancy stuff! I like my tea-”
“Black, yes, I’m quite aware, my dear boy.”
*
Crowley’s knack for making his presence tangible in every inch of the bookshop during his visits never went unnoticed by Aziraphale.
When the bookshop first opened, it was Crowley’s hat. Although he wouldn’t be caught discoperated in an accessory that had went out of style years ago, Crowley never really enjoyed hats. Sure, he wore them out in public, but once the coast was clear for removal, the hat was as good as history. The hat was the beginning of an ever-growing collection of varying sizes of ties, more pairs of sunglasses all with as many styles as humanity thought of, and one silk lined blazer as a result of a night of a little too much wine and not enough air conditioning.
It wasn’t just material objects that made Crowley’s presence known to Aziraphale, it was his designer cologne, his mumbled cursing under his breath, the shifting of the crochet blanket Aziraphale sneakily draped over Crowley’s sleeping form on the couch.
But today, it was his humming.
Between the two of them, Aziraphale was the one immortal supernatural being more likely to ever be caught mindlessly humming. But that was it, wasn’t it? Crowley never mindlessly did anything. Everything was calculated. His appearance, his choice of words, his outlandish schemes for temptations. Despite that, here he was, pacing along the isles of bookshelves, running his fingers along the spines as he walked, humming. Perhaps that was why Aziraphale forgot his hand was overtop an open flame.
“Agh,” he shook his burning fingertips and the flame dissolved.
He set the kettle down on the counter and quickly healed the blistering flesh as quietly as possible. He could hear a slight hiccup in the rhythm of Crowley’s mysterious melody, but it picked up as soon as it stopped.
And it didn’t stop the whole week Crowley ended up staying.
Aziraphale mostly let him be, he was afraid that if he started interacting with Crowley all too much that the tune would halt, and he would never hear it again. Throughout the next several days, he went through every composition that he knew in his head and nothing matched. He was certain that it couldn’t be a new bebop or disco tune that the humans found amusing these days, it was too hauntingly beautiful for that. Not that Crowley’s voice was beautiful, by any means. Crowley’s singing (humming, rather) voice wasn’t anything special, but it was pleasant, nonetheless. Anyway, the song was horribly melancholy and Aziraphale couldn’t help but to think that if Crowley still had a soul, that it would mirror the song’s emotion perfectly. It sounded like a siren for the deeply regretful, the eternally hurt, the ones that feel like they’re too much of one thing and not enough of another.
Which is why Aziraphale missed it when Crowley took it with him at the end of his stay.
He tried desperately to get his racing mind off it, he didn’t want Head Office to find out that his thoughts had been taken over by a demon’s swan song. He attempted to sit down and curl up with one of his favorite handwritten Shakespeare sonnet collections that the bard himself gave to the angel as a gift, but no such luck. He then tried pacing, perhaps his mind could catch up with his feet and cancel one another out. Again, no such luck.
The pacing only lead to a corner of the bookshop that had been unused for years. A dusty mahogany practice piano stood lonely alongside a stack of sheet music that had been untouched for decades, if not centuries. Upon the rediscovery of his once beloved musical instrument, the melody in his head became a symphony. Flashes of the memories Aziraphale associated with the piano lit up before him. The excitement of the first inspection of the instrument around the time it was first invented, the joy of handing over money to the manufacturers after it had been installed into the bookshop, the nervous giddiness of playing the first song he learned to Crowley’s listening ears.
A combination of those memories and emotions along with that incessant tune drew him to trace his fingers along the ivory keys.
“I wonder,” Aziraphale whispered to himself curiously.
Although angels did not dance, they most definitely had a sense of perfect pitch. How else were they supposed to sing their celestial praises to the Almighty above? Aziraphale’s right hand hovered over a B flat key and gently pressed down. Yes, that sounded about right. Good start. And what if he-
“Da,” F.
“Da dum,” B flat up an octave, D.
“Bum, ba” A, F sharp.
“Astonishing,” Aziraphale breathed. He smiled to himself.
Looks like his magic act was going to have to be neglected for quite some time.