Chapter Text
For five hours straight, legions of raindrops had been knocking on the tall windows of his flat, as if asking for permission to enter, when Crowley finally opened the curtains, wondering whether it was still London outside. Well, it looked more like Venice, indeed. A very cold Venice, though. November kind of Venice, probably. Not the ideal August weather in London, anyway.
Crowley was neither surprised, nor disappointed. It would take quite a naïve person to actually hope for the spotless sky on the very last days of summer, and he definitely was not naïve at all for at least two reasons. First, he had been hanging out on Earth for about 6000 years, measured by human standards, which meant he had quite a decent grasp of how things actually worked. Second, he was a demon, so healthy skepticism was one of the major professional requirements.
Besides, the recent changes in his life guaranteed that all the outdoor pursuits of the foreseeable future would only take place if he himself wanted them to, so the weather could not become an upsetting factor, anyway. Being fired from Hell had its advantages. In fact, the only disadvantage was the inevitable fight for survival against all of his ex-colleagues, but he had already won that war for now and was immensely proud of himself. It felt like the first real holiday in his prolonged lifetime, when no other being could tell him what to do or somehow interfere with his plans.
Well, almost no other being. Through the countless streams of water running down the window, he suddenly noticed a spot of beige moving towards his house. The lonely figure with a huge tartan umbrella seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the stroll – Crowley could say it for sure, even though he did not see Aziraphale’s face clearly.
Crowley put his sunglasses on and grinned at the sudden feeling of interest, warmth and that-which-shall-not-be-named. He did not mind this particular kind of interference. The day promised not to be dull, after all.
***
Fifteen minutes later, Aziraphale was in Crowley’s kitchen, sipping steaming tea and giving broad smiles to the hot mug and to Crowley himself. His hair was even more curly than usual, as it was still slightly wet – just like his suit. A being of a sunny disposition, he did not seem to be bothered at all. Unlike Crowley, who (though he was not going to admit it) was slightly worried.
“Why don’t you just make your clothes dry? “ Crowley frowned.
“Well, my dear friend, any tea ceremony gets even more pleasant when it’s pouring outside, and you have found a nice and warm shelter, but still remember what it felt like to be in the rain,” Aziraphale beamed at Crowley.
Crowley raised his eyebrow:
“Like you would forget if you changed, or something.”
“But the experience itself is completely different!” the angel claimed.
Crowley did not see how a huge tartan mug (“What? You don’t have any teacups here, so I conjured it!”) and a three-year-old teabag (“Oh, really, my dear Crowley, we should get you some proper tea!”) were a tea ceremony, but he was not going to argue about it. His face, however, must have been expressive enough: the angel closed his eyes for a couple of second, and when he opened them again, nothing would betray that he had got soaked to the skin while getting here. Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley felt the sudden urge to fill the painfully warm and cozy silence with at least something.
“So, why have you decided to pay me a visit?” he asked, but quickly paraphrased not to sound inhospitable towards his guest. “I mean, what could ever get you out of your bookshop on such a day?”
Crowley was, in fact, slightly perplexed, but Aziraphale was in such a jolly mood that he did not even get to think of anything like new Heaven/Hell problems, which would be the only reasonable explanation of the angel’s current presence at his place. Well, he would be pleased to think that Aziraphale was just seeking his company, and he even knew that it was partially true, but there must have been something else as well.
Aziraphale smiled at him:
“There is something I’ve been thinking about for a couple of days… I believe that we might have caused a great number of inconveniences to some people while preventing Apocalypse, so it would be nice… ”
He paused under Crowley’s glare. He knew it too well to be tricked by the sunglasses. He would recognize it even if he could not see the demon’s face at all, and this thought made Aziraphale feel strange contentment.
“…I thought it would be de rigeur if we made our apologi…”
“Apologies?!” Crowley was not going to lose his temper, but he had never actually found it, in the first place, so it was all right. “I don’t know, angel, we were trying to save their world, if you didn’t notice! Isn’t it enough for some mild inconveniences?!”
“It’s our world now, too,” Aziraphale simply said. “Besides, I was speaking about those who were actually doing the same thing! This nicest lady, Madam Tracy, she was so kind as to lend me her body, and I am genuinely grateful to her…”
The whole talk seemed just absurd to Crowley, but he had no intention to interrupt Aziraphale this time. It was not his fault that the angel, who was definitely overexcited at his new idea, was looking for words for so long.
“Listen, angel, you borrowed my body too, and it was not that bad!”
That sounded awkward. Probably, he should have been the one to spend more time choosing his words. “Anyway, the whole situation helped the old woman with her love life, what else do you want?”
Aziraphale was particularly pleased about this part, so he smiled virtuously at the notion, ignoring the first part of the comment.
“Oh, yes, Madam Tracy’s life has definitely changed for the better. But then there is this girl with the book, Anathema.”
Crowley gave him another look that was supposed to remind the angel that their meeting with Anathema had already caused him enough pain in the… car.
“Oh, Crowley, just imagine how hard it must have been for her to be left without her book because of us!”
“What do you mean, ‘us’?” Not that he did not like the wording, but being involved in the whole gratitude business did not sound that appealing at all. “I’m not the one fond of reading here, but if it’s all about this book stuff, just give her one from your collection and consider your gratitude expressed. Or do some blessings and relax.”
Aziraphale looked at him, slightly irritated because he had to explain his brilliant idea and how exactly his brilliant idea was brilliant.
“Crowley,” he sighed, “what is the best way to express your feelings, what do you think?”
That was an unexpected turn. “Oh yeah, right, ask me”, the demon thought, suppressing his wish to shift from one foot to the other. You’ve got to stay cool, after all.
“How would I know that? It’s not something they teach in Hell, is it?”
Aziraphale brightened, just like a student who knew the right answer to the teacher’s question. That was a bit unfair, given that he had asked the question himself.
“It is music, my dear friend! Of course, it’s music!” he exclaimed. “And I thought we could compose something truly beautiful for all those people to enjoy!” – Finally having his idea verbalized, the angel returned to his tea, which had got too cold and too strong by now. Aziraphale screwed up his face, put the mug away and waited for Crowley’s answer.
Now, it was getting interesting. Crowley had always enjoyed good music, and the perspective of doing music with Aziraphale sounded like fun, even though the angel’s conception of “bebop” was not quite up to date. The more fun it promised. He grinned at the angel.
“I never thought you could write music.”
Aziraphale paused. “I would not say I can do it…” he drummed his fingers, slightly nervously, “but I know that my demonic friend is very good at music, and I would make a very good student, I guess?” he added with a shy smile.
Crowley’s grin got even broader. “Alright,” he said, “I’m not a fan of your idea in general, but this part sounds fun. Sure you are ready to learn from me, angel?”
***
There are many things one could expect to find under a demon’s bed. Some of them might serve as terrifying reminders of what is awaiting those not following righteous ways. Some could be seen as temptation equipment of various kinds. A perfectly tuned acoustic guitar is hardly one of those things. Aziraphale smiled softly, when Crowley’s fingers unzipped the bag and lovingly patted the reddish wood.
When Crowley finally moved his eyes back to the angel, Aziraphale was absolutely sure that tempting the demon into playing music again was one of his best ideas over the last 6000 years.
“Are you going to stand there forever?” Crowley nodded to the door and then to the bed, inviting the angel to sit next to him. When Aziraphale did so, Crowley started to pick the strings slowly.
“It’s very beautiful,” Aziraphale gasped after some time. It was. Both listening to Crowley’s play and watching him being so meditative and serene were beautiful. “Why did you quit that ensemble of yours back then?”
“A band, Aziraphale, it was a band,” Crowley corrected him. He considered telling the angel the truth for a moment: “Because at some point it became too difficult to stay underground, and if we had charted, you’d most likely have heard some of my sloppy lyrics on the radio, and then you’d know for sure that I’m madly in love with you, and you wouldn’t know what to do about it for the next several centuries.” He decided against it.
“Nah, we were never good,” he said instead. He never mentioned that before leaving the band he had found them another guitarist, and then, with one or two demonic miracles, helped the guys attract just enough public attention to soon become iconic (they changed the name first). They kept sending him postcards and invitations to all of their shows, and he even visited them, occasionally.
“Such a pity I never heard you!” Aziraphale sighed. “I’m sure you were just great!” He had always been extremely appreciative when it came to arts.
“Doubt it. Anyway, what do you want us to do?” Crowley looked at him, hesitating. “I could teach you a couple of chords to begin with,” he suggested somewhat nervously. Somewhat hopefully. He had not had anyone to talk to about music for years.
“That would be just fine!” Aziraphale smiled, all ready to start playing.
They spent several hours in the bedroom, passing the guitar to each other. Aziraphale watched with admiration even the simplest chords Crowley played with ease, and Crowley loved seeing so much feeling in the angel’s eyes. He kept explaining some basic music theory to Aziraphale, who was listening eagerly and was happy to give Crowley the chance to play and to demonstrate how it all worked – his fingers had started to ache by the end of the first thirty minutes of their class.
Crowley turned out to be a very good and observant teacher (“Nah, that’s just for you, angel.” He was not lying). He noticed quickly that his student was struggling with finger positioning, and he was always there to help Aziraphale move his fingers on the frets. The angel would probably be quite distressed, because it was in fact so much more difficult than he had expected, if it were not for Crowley, who was sitting closely behind him, holding the angel’s hands and guiding them through the strings. As for Crowley himself, he was mentally thanking everyone Above and Below, because Aziraphale could not see his face, or read his mind.
Unbearably close.
He moved away from Aziraphale, swallowing drily. He did not see the brief disappointment in his student’s face.
“You’re doing well, angel, let’s stop for today.”
“Oh, Crowley, you’re a magnificent teacher!” Aziraphale exclaimed, putting down the guitar. The tips of his fingers were sore, and now that his back was not pressed against Crowley’s chest, he was too well aware of how chilly the room was.
“Nah,” said Crowley, grabbing the guitar, “Any time.”
He dropped himself on the floor, closed his eyes tiredly and started playing a wistful melody. At some point, another instrument joined the guitar, and Aziraphale watched raindrops in amusement. They drummed against the windows, adding to the music, settling into an intricate rhythm to bring out the demon’s guitar. “Such a beautiful miracle,” Aziraphale thought, “I wish I could do something that beautiful for you.”
When Crowley stopped playing, he opened his eyes and focused on Aziraphale’s soft expression.
“Thank you,” the angel whispered. “That was very beautiful, Crowley.”
The demon nodded, getting on his feet.
“I think I should be going now,” Aziraphale continued, looking at the darkening sky.
“’course you should,” Crowley mumbled slightly irritably.
Aziraphale turned to him, worried. “Are you alright?”
“Yep. Nope. You could stay,” he said before he could stop himself. “It’s raining like hell, anyway,” he added quickly and shook his head shortly, trying to get over his stupid melancholic mood.
“I’d be happy to stay longer, my dear Crowley, but your play inspired me so much that I need to do something in the bookshop before you come there tomorrow morning! Will you?” the angel asked with that shy smile again.
Could he ever say “no”? “Get the guitar, angel. You’ve got to practice. Lift home?” he asked, managing a smile.
“Lift home,” Aziraphale said gratefully, and something warm flooded Crowley’s chest. “But keep the guitar for now, I would not possibly take it away from you! You seem to love it as much as you love your Bentley.”
“Not as much as I love you, though,” Aziraphale thought.
“Oh, please, stop torturing me with your four-letter-words,” Crowley thought.
***
“Thank you, Crowley.” Aziraphale said before getting out of the car. “For the lift, for the class, and for the day.”
“Any time, as I told you,” Crowley smirked. He noticed Aziraphale’s hesitation: “What?”
“I think I’ll never learn all these things about music you have told me,” Aziraphale admitted. “I have even forgotten the notes of the open strings already…” the angel sighed.
Crowley watched him softly. “Don’t worry, you just have to remember: ‘Every Apple Does Get Bitten Eventually’.” He laughed at the perplexity that marked Aziraphale’s face. “Mnemonics, you know. For EADGBE. See you tomorrow?”
“Every Apple Does Get Bitten Eventually,” Aziraphale repeated thoughtfully and smiled, “Good night, Crowley.”
That. Oblivious. Bastard.