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“But Orsino’s an arsehole!”
If they’d been sitting in the galleries, Aziraphale would have slid down out of sight to avoid the hundreds of pairs of eyes that were turned towards them. But today he and Crowley were groundlings, there was no seat to hide under, and instead there was a murmur of amusement, irritation, and, increasingly, agreement.
“Come on, Cesario!” shouted Crowley at the stage, “you’re better than him! He’s a moping, sadistic posh git who can’t even woo properly. You’re the real deal, boy, you know, it, she knows it, you all know it.”
The actors onstage were frozen. The boy playing Olivia, sixteen yesterday and more than a little in love with his Viola/Cesario, tried not to giggle.
“And she is fucking awesome!” Crowley continued. His sixth cup of ale was waving wildly in the air, spattering a nearby nut-seller who glowered at him. “Are you really going to let her go and let her marry your deadbeat twin brother and marry that..” he gestured and the cup of ale soared over on to the stage, narrowly avoiding hitting Sir Toby on the head, “….that abusive, whining, misogynist manchild?”
“Now look here, good sir!” objected Orsino. He had a terrible headache and he wanted his dinner, some sack, a good night’s sleep, and preferably Ned Alleyn. Not in that order. “Viola’s a woman, and she ends up with Orsino and they live… God’s teeth, it’s a happy ending!”
It was an unwise move. Shakespeare’s plays were cutting edge, quality entertainment, but the Globe audience were in some ways quite old-fashioned. It was alright for the characters to blaspheme, but actors were another matter.
“Cesario,” emphasised Crowley, “is… is whatever name they want to be. But whatever their name, they should marry Olivia.”
The actors began to mutter to each other. There were a number of likely lads scattered about the audience who were supposed to spring into action when things like this happened, but they seemed nowhere to be seen.
And now a chant began. It started around Crowley, but an acute observer might have suspected that it began not with that tall, imperious, red-headed figure in black, but with the sweet-looking fair man next to him.
“Marry Olivia! Marry Olivia! Marry Olivia!”
In less than a minute, the entire Globe audience were joining in, even those in the galleries. Backstage, Mr William Shakespeare hid a grin in his hand. Decades of writing plays in a frightening atmosphere of suspicion and rough justice (especially frightening when in your heart of hearts you had that little bit more loyalty to Rome than Canterbury) had given him a fine ear for exactly how far he could push things, and when to stop. But upon compulsion - mark that, upon compulsion! - well, he could not exactly be blamed if the audience demanded that for one night only, Jack should have John, and Jill should have Joan. The right twin should marry the right aristocrat. He beckoned a stage-hand, and whispered a message in his ear.
“Meantime, sweet brother”, said Olivia, a few minutes later, with only a little hesitation[1], “We will not part from hence. Cesario, come;
For so you shall be, while you are a man;
And when in other habits you are seen,
Olivia’s mistress and her fancy’s queen.”
The applause was deafening, only easing when Feste began his final song. Olivia and Cesario looked into each other’s eyes and kissed, and Orsino and Sebastian did the same. Antonio, realising this was his only opportunity, began a bit of stage business befriending Sir Andrew, and Maria grinned at them. Malvolio, backstage already following his grand storming off, slumped into a seat next to Shakespeare.
“Well, Will,” he said. “One day maybe plays will all be like this. The right people with the right people. What you will, not what you’re told to write. No risk of imprisonment if you get it wrong.”
“’Sblood, Harry, I hope so,” replied Shakespeare. “Though not in our age, I think. You saw who started it, I suppose?”
“Yes, Fell and Crowley. They pop up now and again. Odd couple.”
“I am not sure, Master Condell, that they have noticed.”
“That they’re odd?”
“That they’re a couple.”
“Ha!” Harry took Shakespeare’s hand, and kissed it. “Poor fools in love. Fools and madmen. Like Malvolio. Like Olivia. Like Romeo. Like me.”
Even before Feste had finished singing, two friends (or not friends, or more-than-friends, or hereditary enemies, or… well, an odd couple was about the right term, in fact) were sitting by the Thames, looking north to the City of London.
“I do like his funny ones,” said Crowley.
“I noticed,” said Aziraphale.
“Even when they end all wrong.”
“How should they end, Crowley?”
“With… with love rewarded. Real love, not the kind of shadow someone’s felt for five fucking minutes for that hot lady over there, you know?”
“I think they end right sometimes,” said Aziraphale. “Beatrice and Benedick. Even… even Ganymede and Orlando, by the end.”
“Yeah, I know. Orsino just fucks me off. He treats Olivia like he owns her, and you know he’s going to do the same to Cesario and… gah!” he spat.
Aziraphale relaxed. “Well,” he says. “You… fomented a happy ending for this evening’s performance. Was that a good deed or an evil one, I wonder? Should we claim it was all me or all you?”
“Oh, what you will, angel,” said Crowley, summoning two cups of an entirely acceptable sweet sherry and passing one to Aziraphale. “What you will.”