Work Text:
Anyone who knew anything about the demon Crowley knew of his insatiable love of music; From the Velvet Underground to Freddie Mercury himself, he’d met and paid his respects to the artists, giving one or two quick miracles to help them reach the fame and fortune that he himself thought that they deserved. Of course, he did so in the name of Evil: Freddie Mercury was a man who liked who he liked, gender norms be damned. In the eyes of some humans, he was already considered a sin on two legs. Crowley was perfectly justified in his choices to help him rise to legend status. It couldn’t have even been considered a miracle by any means; Freddie Boy was just that damn good.
However. Aziraphale had his preferences too, music wise. Some, Crowley could agree with; tease him about, even. Like Mozart and Beethoven. They were part of Hell’s entourage, and the Angel liked them quite a bit despite that; Some music he didn’t quite see the appeal of, such as Joseph Haydn’s works. Though he was on par with Mozart himself, Crowley just didn’t see the appeal of some of his pieces, such as String Quartet No. 53 in D Major, Op. 64. It just sounded like modern day lift music but played with instruments. But watching Aziraphale’s face as Hadyn conducted at the Esterhazy Estate was enough to make him find the piece somewhat interesting.
But there was one singer that Crowley knew, one that he’d been sent to tempt ages ago: Frank Sinatra. He’d become such a phenomenon in the year 1939 that the forces of hell themselves had found him a worthy prospect to join their ranks. And who do they send to tempt the man with the voice of an Angel?
Safe to say, Crowley wasn’t happy about going to the States. What was there even to do there other than his temptations? Trying to get people to sin enough to be considered for their ranks was tedious at best, but this seemed to be one of the few things that he couldn’t slither his way out of.
Whatever. He was sure that it would be just as boring as most other jobs.
“I’ll be away.” Crowley had said one day, to his apartment. Nothing responded. He knew that it wouldn’t. That there would be no response to his words. Why had he said them?
Flashes of white hair appeared in his mind, and he clenched his jaw, scowling. He still hadn’t spoken to Aziraphale since the whole disaster with the holy water. He could still picture the look of utter shock and betrayal on his face; the worry and anxiety that accompanied such a request. Crowley truly wished that he had taken a different approach to asking for it, but at that point he was so sure that the Angel would do it just because he asked. Arrogant of him. Stupid of him.
Baby blue eyes would haunt his eyelids every day after that. It wasn’t his bloody fault, now was it? He was just doing what he thought was necessary to protect what they had. What was it that they had? Nothing, Crowley decided instantly. There was nothing for Aziraphale and him other than the arrangement.
He ignored the tight sensation in his chest that might have suggested otherwise.
The Palmer House, Chicago, IL. The snow that fell was light and danced through the air as if it were capable of being mirthful in its descent. As if falling from the sky was something to be happy about.
Though Chicago wasn’t London, Crowley had to begrudgingly admit that the hotel had the phrase ‘Luxurious Comfort’ perfected: The room was draped in warm amber lights emanating from 24k gold Tiffany chandeliers, the rumbles of conversation only adding to the strange atmosphere of elegant coziness. The cinnamon tiles shone with their polish, reflecting the light onto the painted ceiling depicting French Impressionist artwork. Crowley found himself liking the place against his better judgement. He had arrived in a charcoal, double-breasted pinstripe suit, not wanting to stand out too much in a country already foreign to him. It was odd, he thought to himself, to not see everyone talking avidly about how to prepare for the second World War. Though there was an underlying sense of unrest, there were no real, active talks about what could possibly happen to them, of course.
“Mr. Crowley.” A voice made his head turn, and it was a bellboy, with big blue eyes and red, curly hair styled neatly besides the few strands sticking out from exertion. He had a spattering of dark freckles over his rosy cheeks, and if it weren’t for the shake in his voice due to nervousness, Crowley might have thought him a Nephilim. “I-I’m here to take your things and escort you to your room, Sir.”
“Ah.” Crowley said. “Yes, thank you.” He watched big eyes widen even further and emotive eyebrows raise at the sound of his accent, but when he tilted his head at the young man, rosy cheeks became scarlet and he quickly excused himself, taking the bags by Crowley’s feet and making his way to the lifts. He felt his brow furrow at the thought that the bellboy looked like if someone had mashed his features together with Aziraphale’s. He quickly crushed that thought, wondering why he’d even had it in the first place.
Some things, no matter where you go, simply do not change.
Crowley knew this, being an entity who was sent to travel and tempt on a moment’s notice. From the smallest Chieftain of a village, to politician’s wives and sometimes husbands. He never really had much interest in looking around the places he was sent to do work, content with the little home that he had carved out for himself in Soho, London. As long as he a place there, there wouldn’t be anywhere else for him to even consider.
And then he’d walked into the Empire room.
Though he knew the human ideas of what Heaven would look like to be false, if places like this existed, he supposed he understood where their notions came from. Emerald curtains enveloped an oak stage, remaining open just slightly enough that the sight of people stepping across the stage was available for only a flash of a second; probably setting up for the act that was to perform that night. The ceilings were adorned with twin chandeliers, much like the ones in the lobby, and they sparkled as if they were the stars themselves. Dining tables were assorted around the rectangular space on the floor, presumably for dancing later on in the evening. Sinatra seemed to draw a crowd, judging by how cramped the tables were together.
Crowley could already hear whispers about the singer. Nicknames like Frankie Boy and The Sultan of Swoon. Crowley rolled his eyes at the second one while sipping from a flute of champagne, but the one that caught his intrigue more than anything was The Voice.
Nicknames weren’t all he heard. Tales of his generosity and kindness trickled through the room as if someone had left the sink on. Whispers of his charisma weren’t far behind, and he heard it again: The Voice of an Angel.
Ridiculous, he thought to himself as he sat down in one of the very front tables. Every angel he’s ever met sounded like a pretentious prick.
…Well.
Almost every angel.
He didn’t realize that the show was starting until the lights dimmed, and the lights on the stage brightened up, as if eager to illuminate the guest of the evening. Another man, dressed in his own pinstripe suit, was speaking something, but Crowley found himself tuning out as it dawned on him it was dark enough for him to take his sunglasses off without being noticed. He hesitated for only a moment before pulling them off gingerly, tucking them into the breast pocket of his jacket as the final announcement was made by the man onstage, who was beginning to sweat from being under the limelight.
“Well then, Ladies and Gentlemen.” He boomed, wringing his hands with the very clear desire to get off the stage. “Introducing Frank Sinatra and the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra!” He rushed off the stage at the same speed the curtains rushed open, and the roar of applause around him made a grimace appear on Crowley’s face as a headache began at the back of his skull.
To the left side of the stage, several people with different instruments sat, and to the right of the stage, a man stepped out into the spotlight. His suit was bluer than sapphires, and he wore it as if he were born in it. A strong hand delicately took hold of the microphone, as if it were a flower meant to be cradled. Finally, the face was revealed, and Crowley found himself taken aback.
Inky black hair gelled into a side part was what met his eye. Strong eyebrows. The man was all sharp cheekbones and jawline, lips full and soft-looking. His eyes were closed, and even from the distance Crowley was sitting, he could see the full brush of eyelashes against the pearly whiteness of his skin. The background singers began to sing.
I’ll never Smile again
Until I smile at you.
I’ll never laugh again…
Sinatra’s eyes opened, and Crowley stopped breathing as icy blues pierced through the quiet comfort of the dark room. As if it could banish the shadows just by itself.
And he began to sing.
What good would it do?
He leaned into the mic like he didn’t know or didn’t care about how his voice misted through the air, as if it were capable of entrancing every single person in the room. His free hand, which had been cradling the other, slid sensually down to the microphone stand and held onto it with three of his fingers, the pinky sticking out as he gently swayed to the music.
For tears would fill my eyes
My heart would realize
That our Romance is through.
Crowley found himself leaning his elbows on the table, intertwining his fingers and resting his chin on his thumbs as he listened and watched. Sinatra didn’t say anything, but it seemed as if he didn’t need to: Just a few words had the room hushed.
I’ll never love again
I’m so in love with you.
Unbidden, the tight feeling that plagued him before he’d even left for America was back, and he felt himself take a deep inhale without his permission. It must have been loud even in that room, because Frank Sinatra’s eyes snapped over to him, eyes filled with curiousity. There was this twinkle in his eye, one that betrayed his amusement at Crowley’s odd noise. A crooked smile even made its way across the singer’s lips, revealing teeth whiter than the pearly gates. Crowley could feel his throat valiantly trying to swallow his tongue at such an intense stare.
I’ll never thrill again
To somebody new.
Within my heart,
I know I will never start
To smile again…
Until I smile at you.
And as if on cue, He smiled. Grinned, really. Directly at Crowley. Crowley tried not to choke on his drink again.
Within my heart,
I know I will never start
To smile again
Until I smile at you.
Finally, those artic eyes were hidden by his eyelids once more as he crooned out the final phrase.
Until I smile at you.
Crowley hadn’t had a fair chance to escape: Sinatra had found him like a bloodhound on the scent. “Good evening, Sir.” His low baritone was sweet, soft and warm as he sat down across from the demon. A real Gentleman’s voice. “Saw you while I was singin’. Real eager beaver, aren’t ya?”
Crowley’s eyebrows raised above the glass of his shades. “What?” He wasn’t sure if he heard him correctly.
Sinatra’s smile was charmingly crooked. “I’m not gonna bust your chops over a little choking noise in the middle of the piece. Matter of fact, it made me smile. You seem like a real gas.” He leans forward, angling his shoulders in a slant. “What’s your story? I don’t see a lot of English people around here, at least, not at a time like this.”
Crowley took in a deep breath, firmly holding onto his champagne flute. A couple strands of ebony hair fell out of its styling, and Crowley found his eyes glued to them. “Heard about a talented young singer.” He said, almost to himself. He took a sip, watching those cobalt eyes flicker to his drink, and back up to his sunglasses. Crowley swallowed the champagne, throat suddenly dry. “He’s said to have the voice of an angel.”
“You know many angels, Mr…?” Sinatra trailed off, tilting his head to the side like a curious feline.
Crowley couldn’t stop it. “Crowley. My name is Crowley.”
If smiles could kill, Crowley would have discorporated on the spot with the brilliant smile Sinatra gives him. “You can call me Frankie, if you’d like. Care to join me at the bar for a swigger, Mr. Crowley?”
Crowley found himself smiling back. “Only if you lead the way, Mr. Sinatra.”
“Frankie.” Sin-Frankie practically crooned. “Please, call me Frankie.”
Frankie seemed to be a man of all-around good tastes. He liked his scotch neat and his suits tailored; a man after the finer things in life. But he wasn’t one to forget where he came from. He told Crowley all about his mother and father, and for the first time in a while, Crowley found himself genuinely listening. He listened to the story of his father owning a tavern and winning fights on the weekend, and his mother’s local political influence. The way his fingers moved as he described the first time he’d heard Bing Crosby’s voice on his mother’s gramophone was nothing short of refined, much like the man himself. “It was something I’d thought I’d only ever hear in a dream, the way he sang.” His tone was wistful, and his eyes were lidded, as if he were reliving the memory that very moment. “Some might say that my voice is a thing of beauty, Mr. Crowley, but Bing Crosby is a man who outshines me every day of the week.”
Crowley found himself saying “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Before he could stop himself. Those piercing blues found their way to his sunglasses again, and he stuttered over his words a bit. “I-What I’m saying is that great singers and artists don’t outshine each other. They’re… they’re like stars.” He lets his palms face upward, remembering the feeling of creating his own constellations, galaxies, and planets. “They don’t make the other seem dimmer, per say; rather, they just make each other brighter, more glorious.”
“You speak of them as if you were there when they were made.” Frankie gently teased. “Are you an astrophysicist, by chance? Should I have called you Dr. Crowley instead?”
Crowley couldn’t stop his scoff, downing the rest of his scotch. “Nothing of the sort.” He said airily. “I just know what I’m talking about.” He looked over to the young man once more, who had that twinkle of mischief in his eyes once again, like when he was onstage. “And believe me when I tell you you’re going places.”
Frankie leaned just a little closer, eyes flicking down to Crowley’s lips just for a moment. “And are those places good?” He asked, almost at a whisper. The crowd around them payed them no mind, and Crowley swallowed thickly. “Am I going places I want to go?”
For a moment, Crowley considered. And considered. And even almost accepted. But the sound of glass shattering jarred the two men from their intense stare down, and all eyes turned to a busboy who’d gone as white as a sheet, staring down at a tray’s worth of champagne glasses eradicated into almost tiny crystalline jewels on the ground. His arms were still shaking, Crowley noticed, probably from the weight of all the drinks. He barely raised an eyebrow at the owner firing the now tearful boy on the spot, and he was about to sigh and excuse himself-
“Excuse me.” Frankie’s voice was soft, and Crowley hadn’t realized that he’d made his way over to the young man, a gentle hand now on his shoulder. “Are you alright?” When he nodded, Frankie straightened out and turned with elegant grace, smiling at the manager without a single drop of the magical mirth the demon had come to expect. “How much were those?” He asked, not unkindly, and the man gave him an estimate. “And how much for every single glass you have in there?” He asked again, and gaping, the man gave him another estimate. Without even flinching, he pulled out a wad of cash from his jacket, licking his thumb and pulling out the amount given as if it were nothing other than pocket money. “Bring me every available glass you have.” He said, looking at the man from under the length of inky black lashes framing his eyes. There was no room for argument in his tone, and the owner practically rushed out. Frankie’s eyes flickered over to Crowley, who was watching him curiously, wondering what he was planning on doing.
In the time that it took for the owner to return, Frankie’s voice could be heard soothing the shaking young man, a comforting hand on his shoulder as he promised everything would be okay. By the time the owner came back, the bus boy had managed to only have a slight tremor in his left hand, squeezing it tightly. The entire room was watching them, and Frankie turned to them, smiling to ease the tension before turning back to the owner, and the busboy. “What’s your name?” He asked the employee.
“I-” Brown eyes darted over to the owner, and then back to Frankie. “William.”
“William.” Frankie’s tone was warm, kind. “Can you do me a favour?” the boy nodded jerkily, and the singer’s smile appeared once more. “Break all those glasses.”
Dead silence. William looked like he’d seen a ghost, and the entire room was dead quiet. Even Crowley was stunned. “Wh-what?” William squeaked.
“Go on.” Frankie ushered him towards the glassware, picking one up himself and examining it. “It’s okay. Go ahead. Like this.” He looked the owner directly in the eye and smiled thinly before letting the glass slip from his hands, shattering on the floor. The sound was loud in the hush of the room, and the owner’s face was priceless; cherry red, vein thumping on his bald head, but not speaking a word. Frankie’s eyes were still trained on him, freezing him in place. “Go on, William.” He urged, gently pushing him forward as if he were the invisible hand. “Go on.”
And like it were a command from above, William obeyed.
Crowley marveled at the way that shattered glass glittered like diamonds; the way that they caught the light, reflecting off of each other and causing it to dance over the walls, ceiling and a man with not only the voice, but perhaps the heart, of an angel. He stood in the middle of all the glass shards, admiring its broken beauty as if he were looking in a mirror. A small corner of his lip was upturned, and he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling and closing his eyes before lighting a cigarette. The smoke curled around his nose and caressed his temple as the crowd around them simply watched on, as silent as when he sang onstage.
But in a way, this was also a performance. A strange mockery of the glass windows they had in churches, where celestial beings were glorified in their full grace and holiness. The evening lights, however, would give their depictions a strange sense of loneliness, the isolation of being the most beautiful and ethereal creature in the room.
Their eyes met again, and Frankie smiled.
Crowley found it a little difficult to breathe.
“Mr. Wilson.” Frankie’s voice floated to Crowley’s ears, as if it were whispered into them. “Every time I come in here, the kid still better have his job.” He didn’t wait for the mumbled affirmative before turning to Crowley, grinning from ear to ear and patting the kid on the shoulder. “See you around, William.” He murmured, stepping out from the circle of safety into the hazard-filled ring of shards, not taking his eyes off of Crowley’s shades once. He never got closer than arm’s distance, not with all those people watching, but Crowley felt as if Frankie was drinking him in, nose to nose.
“Mr. Crowley.” The croon of his voice was back, and Crowley could not deny him. “If you would accompany me to my suite to continue our conversation?” He didn’t wait for him to respond, merely turned towards the exit, knowing that Crowley would silently follow.
Frankie’s laugh was honeyed and rich, and Crowley found himself echoing it on the balcony of the Executive suite, holding a glass of some amber liquid that went smoothly down his throat. Their joyous sound curled in the air, as if they were making midnight clouds that intermingled together. Just like the stars, they didn’t diminish each other: Rather, they made it better.
As their uproar over the night’s events died down, Frankie’s eyes slid over to Crowley, and his eyes crinkled with mirth. “Mr. Crowley, I am a patient man but even I have my limits.” He leaned slightly towards him, cocking his head once more. “What on earth is your first name?”
Crowley couldn’t wipe the grin off of his face if he tried. “Oh, if only you knew the irony in that statement, Frankie.” He takes a moment to ponder, sipping at the drink in his hand and tightening his grip on the coat he’d had wrapped around himself, black as the night sky. Eventually, he found his words. “I don’t have a first name.” He said. “Just the one.”
Surprise of the kindest sort flashed over Frankie’s face before morphing into curiousity. “Well now, that won’t do, will it? We’ll have to think something up for you.” He almost comically pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger, and another chuckle left the demon. “It can’t be something outdated. Nothing obnoxious or atrocious. Something that fits a wily man like yourself.”
“Wily?” Crowley scoffed. “The best word you could have used? You’ve a better imagination than that, Frankie.”
“Well, I can’t just go around calling you handsome all the time, now can I?” Frankie’s rebuttal had Crowley choking on his drink, prompting another round of laughter from the singer. “I am only joking. But perhaps…” He takes a moment, looking Crowley up and down as if truly seeing him for who he was. What he was. And yet, the smile never left his face. Crowley swallowed dryly again. “How about Anthony?”
“I-What-” Crowley sputtered, cheeks only reflecting the redness they were due to the cold. (Or at least, that was what he told himself.) “Why Anthony?” He asked instead of sputtering like a broken water fountain.
Frankie shrugged, looking out on the city of Chicago. “I don’t know. It just suits you. A sharp name for a sharp man.” He tilted his head as he noticed the flush on Crowley’s cheeks, grinning wide. “Come on, I can’t be the only one who sees that, can I?”
Unbidden, Aziraphale’s face came to the forefront of his mind, and the pleasant warmth from his drink dissipated. “…No.” He said quietly. “No, you are not the only person who thought so.” He tactfully put down his glass, memories of all that manmade stardust surrounding Frankie bringing him back to his current troubles, far across the ocean.
Frankie could tell something had gone south. “Someone on your mind, Anthony?” At Crowley’s bemused look, he chuckled. “It’s all right. I’m sure whatever it is, I’ve heard something similar before.”
Crowley very sincerely doubted it, but he found himself speaking anyway. “This person and I… have an arrangement. Help each other out from time to time, keep out of each other’s way…” Frankie nods next to him, and Crowley keeps going. “But the last time we spoke, I didn’t think things through. I spoke to him in a way that wasn’t exactly warranted. Told him that I didn’t need him.” His jaw clenched, and he took a deep breath to try and steady himself.
“Why did you say something like that?” Frankie asked.
Crowley blinked slowly, eyes lidded. “Mm, probably because he said what we had was fraternizing, and fraternizing only. I had thought it was more than that.”
The snow no longer twirled in its descent, Crowley thought to himself. It simply fell.
“I thought he saw us as more than that.”
The dramatic shift in mood had the cold nip harshly at Crowley’s cheeks, rather than simply brushing them. He realized then just how cold Chicago was, and just how far away from home he was. How far away Aziraphale he was.
Both physically and mentally.
“I’ll never love again…” Crowley’s eyes snapped to Frankie, who had started to sing the first song in his performance. “I’m so in love with you.” At Crowley’s stare, Frankie raised an eyebrow, looking back out towards the city. “That was when you made that noise.” He looked at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. “Made you think of that special someone?”
“No.” Crowley huffed. “It just made my chest hurt.”
“The heart often remembers what the mind forgets.” Frankie offered, giving Crowley a once-over. “You must not realize how much you miss him. Sounds like you’d do just about anything for him. So that leaves just one more question.”
“I love how you keep me in suspense, Frankie.” Crowley droned, no real irritation in his voice. “What is it?”
“What are you still doing here?” Frankie asked.
For the first time, Crowley had no real answer.
“The Dorchester Hotel in London?” Frankie asked curiously, sitting in his striped pyjamas and buttering his toast with his knife. “You said that I should perform there?”
“Yes.” Crowley said. “It’s right by Hyde Park. First hotel in the world to be built with reinforced concrete, one of the finest hotels that London has to offer.”
“It’s only been open for about nine years, Anthony.” Frankie teased over their breakfast, which consisted of eggs, toast and bacon. Due to the rationing that was happening in England, Crowley knew that this was considered a big deal, so he made sure to eat it. “What makes you think that it’s one of the finest, other than what it’s made of?”
“It’s the foundation of anything that give it the stability to be something great.” Crowley said. “Such as your foundation with the Dorsey Orchestra. It gives you a good starting point so you can branch off and become a solo artist.”
Now it was Frankie’s turn to choke, and Crowley didn’t try to hide the grin on his face as pale cheekbones flushed, along with a slender neck and collarbone. “You really think I can do that so soon?” He asked. “I don’t think Dorsey would like it all that much.”
“It doesn’t matter what Dorsey thinks. This is what you know.” He pointed his knife at Frankie, who looked thoroughly amused at the concept of Crowley stabbing him. “You’re going to eclipse them, one day. Don’t let anyone stop you from doing what you were born to do.”
Frankie leaned his elbows on the table, Cheshire grin back on his face. “What exactly is that?”
“Sing.” Crowley simply said. “You were born to sing.”
Frankie looked at him for a moment, face unreadable before he laughed and shook his head. “You’re lucky you’re a taken man, or I’d have some words to keep you here with me, Mr. Anthony J. Crowley.”
Crowley frowned. “J? What does the J stand for?”
Frankie’s eyes got that faraway look again. “Hm… Just a J, really. Sounds good. Gives you a bit of mystery, not that you really need it with those spectacles of yours.”
Crowley rolled his eyes. “Shut it.”
“Are you gonna tell me his name?”
“No.”
“Does he only have one name like you then?”
“No. He has a last name.”
“Is it yours?”
Crowley whipped around to look at Frankie, who looked nothing less than smug. “No.” He said instead. “No it isn’t.” He paused for a moment as the busboy from the day before came down with his things to the lobby. “But… I know that he would love to hear you sing one day.”
Frankie looked surprised. “You’re too kind.” He said softly, as if Crowley had truly done something great for him.
“Shut up.” Crowley snapped half-heartedly. He felt unbearably… fond of this young man. He hated how it made him feel, to know that he’d essentially sent this man to the vice of greed and power. To plant the idea of an endless pursuit of power and glory, the nonstop hustle of the musical world. He clenched his jaw as Frankie beamed at him again, and he looked away once more. “I better see you in England soon, Frankie.” He muttered. “London would love you.”
Frankie’s voice dripped with warmth. “I’m sure that I’d love what London has to offer, too. Who it has to offer.” Graceful hands touched his wrist, fingers sliding up under the fabric of Crowley’s shirt. “If you ever change your mind, Angel, you know where to find me.”
Crowley’s eyes snapped over to Frankie, who had already stepped away and turned to leave. He didn’t look back, but his pace was slow, as if waiting for someone to catch up to him.
“I’m no angel.” Crowley said to the ghost of the moment. “Never have been.”
London, 1941
"Mr. Anthony J. Crowley. Your fame precedes you.”
Piercing but kind blues focus in on Crowley, who is burning from the feet up. “Anthony?”
“You don’t like it?” Crowley asked, chest aching at the sight of the angel. His Angel.
Even in a life or death situation, Aziraphale couldn’t keep the fondness out of his voice. “No no, I didn’t say that. I’ll get used to it.” The German woman says something, but Crowley can’t move his eyes away from the celestial in white and tartan, who seems to only have eyes for him. “What does the J stand for?” Aziraphale blurts out.
Crowley has to fight down a grin as the sound of the air raid grows louder. “It’s just a J, really.”