Archive of Our Own

He shouldn’t be doing this, Aziraphale knew. It was entirely out of character to be snooping through Crowley’s tapes and compact disks. Yet here he was perusing the music selection in the Bentley. He hadn’t intended to do it, but inspiration comes from strange quarters.

Earlier that day, inspiration had blown into his shop in the forms of two teenagers. A lanky boy with short stylish hair, tight black jeans and hands adorned with rings was accompanied by a girl with long flaming locks in a soft old band shirt. Aziraphale would, under normal circumstances try to firmly encourage them to exit his shop. It was something about the pair of them that stopped him. The sun catching her hair. The boy’s lopsided smirk. What Aziraphale couldn’t place at the time was one simple fact; they reminded him of Crowley. He stepped behind the bookshelf the pair were perusing to listen to their whispered conversation.

“Objectively, he’s the best,” the girl was saying.

“I’m not saying he’s bad. Just that I feel his songs are overplayed. Like, ad nauseum. You know?”

“Some songs are played a lot, yeah. But Freddie has some lesser-known gems. Teo Torriatte, for example. It’s super underrated. The lyrics are all about losing loved ones and knowing that someday they might lose you, too. And because he’s a genius, Freddie wrote it so it feels dramatic and operatic! It’s a masterpiece.”

Aziraphale perked up at that. Young people interested in something operatic? As far as he was concerned that was about as rare as the copy of Agnes Nutter’s book Anathema had gifted him as a thank you for helping with the whole averting the apocalypse business.

“Really? I’ve never even heard of it,” the lanky boy was saying. The girl gathered her hair over one shoulder and shook her head.

“I’ve got it on vinyl back at my flat. I’ll play it for you when we’re done here.”

“I’m always down to listen to Queen. Oh, look at this!” Their conversation grounded to a halt as the next title drew their attention.

Queen, though Aziraphale. Isn’t that the band Crowley’s car always seems to be playing? He wouldn’t have called it operatic per se, but then again, he hadn’t felt the need to pay the music any mind. Perhaps he should acquire a copy to try to understand his demon better. He could have easily miracled a record into his shop, but where is the fun in that? Instead, Aziraphale would wander to his favorite music shop and flip through their selection. It would, of course, be exactly where he wanted it to be. Once the owner undoubtedly recovered from his shock, Aziraphale would leave the proud and slightly bewildered owner of his first Queen record. Which is exactly what he did.

He settled down with a lovely cup of jasmine tea that reminded him of the Garden and gingerly placed the needle on the record. Sitting back in his most comfortable armchair, Aziraphale closed his eyes and let the first lines wash over him.

Aziraphale wondered what Crowley was doing at that moment. He pictured him driving far too fast through crowded streets, wearing those glasses like he always did. For the first time in six thousand years, Aziraphale wondered if Crowley hid his eyes because he found them hideous.

Eden. His floral tea tasted of Eden. The garden where he had first met Crowley. Crowley, the demon who loved his house plants even though he pretended to terrorize them. Crowley, who could walk through Kew Gardens and name every tree, bush, and shrub. Crowley, the demon who had gone to a music festival in the 60s and had learned how to make circlets of wild flowers and had proudly placed one atop Aziraphale’s curls when he returned. He still had the crown. A minor miracle kept the blossoms ever-fresh. A marble bust of Oscar Wilde wore it now. Aziraphale leaned back in his chair, letting the melody guide him to the ocean of memory.

It had been the night at the beginning of the end, or more accurately the night Adam, Warlock and the Spare had been delivered, and had gone down in history as one of the best nights in Aziraphale’s life. It was certainly up there with the opening of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, and the first time he had tasted chocolate.

They had been two bottles in when Aziraphale had mustered the courage to speak up.

“Have you ever thought about just how long we’ve been on earth?” he’d asked. Crowley had pursed his lips.

“Sometimes, yeah. Aziraphale and Crowley: watching over the human race since 4004 BC.” Aziraphale had giggled at the silly voice his demon had adopted.

“Makes us sound like lawyers or those- the um- Insurance chaps.” The room had swayed gently, distracting the angel for a long while. “Poetic.”

“What is?” Crowley had asked before he had poured another glass of wine for himself.

“All that time. Watching the earth together.” Aziraphale had flapped a hand lazily toward Crowley. “Six thousand years of friendship. Nine hundred something years of the Arrangement. The angel and the demon together.” He’d blushed furiously as the realization of what he’d said reached him. Crowley didn’t seem to notice the slip-up, much to the angel’s relief. Instead he drained his glass.

“We have been doing this a long while. Dancing about and causing chaos. Or for you causing good.” Crowley had leapt to his feet. “Come here, angel. Join me.”

“Join you for what?”

“Dancing.”

When Crowley pulled the tape from Bentley’s glove box, he was puzzled. That tape didn’t belong. It was a Queen album. Yes, the car would turn everything into Queen after it spent a fortnight in the car, but this was different. This was brand new and had clearly never been played before. He squinted at the name of it. A Day at the Races. Odd.

Crowley flipped it over in hopes that the back of the tape might have more clues as to its origin. There was only one indicator of where it had come from. One word written with silver ink in a familiar hand. Bookshop.

What is Aziraphale playing at? He wondered. Crowley wasn’t one to let mysteries go unsolved, especially those concerning his angel. The engine roared to life, and the car leapt away from the curb. If the angel wanted him to go to the bookshop, then that’s where he’d go.

When he arrived, the door was locked, but that was barely a hindrance for an occult being. The door swung open at a snap of the demon’s fingers and he strode across the threshold.

“Aziraphale?”

“In here, Crowley,” the angel called back. Crowley wandered into the back room and held up the cassette. Aziraphale brightened visibly. “Ah! You got my present. Good.”

“Yeah, I got it. But why did you give me a Queen album? I didn’t know you listened to Queen when you weren’t forced to by my car.”

“Well I don’t. Didn’t. The thing is, there were some young people who visited my shop a few days ago. They were discussing a song by Queen. I knew you liked the band, obviously, so I wanted to see what the fuss was about. I popped over to a music shop and purchased the record. Oh Crowley, it’s wonderful! I never knew contemporary music could have such depth. Such- such drama! And there’s one song in particular on the record that made me think of you and I. So I gifted it to you.” He wrung his hands. “Do you not like it?”

Crowley stared. Aziraphale had not only let teenagers into his shop but listened to them? More than that, he had actually taken their music recommendation? He had half a mind to ring up Anathema to check that the Repeatcalypse hadn’t been kickstarted when he wasn’t paying attention.

“It reminded you of us?” Aziraphale blushed.

“Well, yes. It’s the last song on the album.”

“Teo Torriatte,” Crowley read off of his tape. Aziraphale nodded.

“Just let me play it for you. Please.” Crowley shrugged and collapsed into his usual chair. His angel practically skipped over to the phonograph. With great care, he placed the needle and the room filled with the swell of piano music. Aziraphale turned and extended a hand to the lounging demon.

“What?” he asked Aziraphale.

“Join me, Crowley.”

“Join you for what?” The angel smiled his twinkling smile: the kind where it looked like there were stars in his eyes.

“Dancing.” Crowley took the proffered hand and let Aziraphale pull him close. It wasn’t any dance in particular. Crowley and Aziraphale simply held each other and swayed gently to the music. Freddie’s voice filled the room around them and the rest of the world stood still.