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Crowley rarely spoke about the century that he and Aziraphale spent apart: Rather, he acted as if it didn’t happen at all, only ever referring to it as his ‘Near Century Long Nap.’ Aziraphale was never sure whether or not he actually meant it. More often than not, he could honestly believe the demon’s claim that he only woke once to go to the bathroom, but sometimes there would be little hints; things that would make him stop and wonder if the Serpent of Eden perhaps didn’t rest as long as he insisted.
Perhaps, for one, the introduction of a vinyl record player in Crowley’s flat. Crowley had always preferred the honesty of a live concert; impossible to hide flaws, mistakes or errors in the piece or the performance. But one day, Aziraphale had stopped and watched as Crowley packed a large, oddly shaped piece of equipment into his car. “What on Earth is that, Crowley?”
Crowley had looked as if he were the proverbial child caught in the cookie jar, staring at Aziraphale as if he’d just committed a temptation that the angel would find disturbing. “It’s… It’s a new invention. Came out last year, 1948.” He smacked the box, trying to play off a grin. “This bad boy can play music, as if there were a concerto in your own home.”
Aziraphale frowned, pointedly thinking about how they could just go see a performance together. “I thought that you enjoyed looking at the nervous faces of the performers as they tried to read the sheet music.” He said.
Crowley couldn’t stop his smile, a huff of amusement leaving him. “I do, yeah. Makes my day most of the time, but I think sometimes if I’m feeling lazy-” He slid his sunglasses down to pointedly look at Aziraphale. “-And as you know, I feel so frequently, I can just listen at home. It’s an evil genius moment! Laziness is the father of invention, you know.”
Well. Aziraphale certainly couldn’t disagree with that. “I see.”
Crowley’s smile diminished, and he looked back at the box. “And sometimes the pieces I want to hear are impossible to match by other performers.” His brow had furrowed, as if he were speaking to himself. “A voice that’s impossible to match.” He mumbled, and Aziraphale had to strain to hear it.
“Impossible?” He couldn’t stop himself from asking. “Surely nothing is impossible.” He said, trying to lighten the mood. “Mozart’s works can be played to perfection, can’t they? Surely, even though he is no longer conducting and composing, his masterpieces can be matched.”
Crowley looked at him, a strange emotion having come over his face. “Not all things can be.” And that was all that he had to say on the matter, quickly taking the thing into his flat. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what exactly that he was trying to do when he mused his response later that evening, but there was something unsaid that he couldn’t stop musing over.
February, 1955
Crowley was excited. That was new. “Come on, Angel.” He said urgently, driving like he always did but with a new incredible sense of purpose, as if he were on his way to audition for the fifth horseman of the apocalypse. As usual, Aziraphale himself was gripping the seat so tightly that his knuckles were bone white; What on earth had gotten into his demon?
The demon. Not his Demon. Crowley was his own entity, not tied to Aziraphale in any way, he reminded himself. He looked over to the demon, who was wearing formal white tie attire; his jacket was a pitch-black tailcoat with a tailored fit, his waistcoat was double-breasted with a white ‘v’ front, and his starched white tip winged collared shirt held onyx cuff links that winked at him, teasing that they got to touch where Aziraphale did not. Even the white bow tie looked immaculate, along with a red carnation on his lapel. Aziraphale wondered what exactly had Crowley riled up in such a way. As they pulled into the Dorchester, Aziraphale’s eye was caught on a sign outside the front of the prestigious hotel:
DORCHESTER HOTEL PROUDLY PRESENTS:
FRANK SINATRA
FEBRUARY 14-17 7PM-MIDNIGHT
“My dear boy.” Aziraphale couldn’t help but ask curiously. “Did you get all dressed up for a live performance by this young man?”
Crowley’s eyes snapped over to where Aziraphale was sitting, and- did his cheeks bloom with a slight magenta hue? “It’s a nice place, Angel.” He said, avoiding an answer. “I need to look good.”
Aziraphale swallowed down a protest of ‘You always look good to me’ and got out of the car, watching Crowley shut his doors and fix his hair in the reflection of his car. He’d only ever seen him do so a handful of times, and only ever when he was anticipating something. Crowley wasn’t telling him something. His suspicions only raised and hackled further when they were met at the door by security, three rather large gentleman and an elegantly dressed young woman, who spoke warmly at the two of them. “Mr. Anthony J. Crowley.” She wore a black velvet gown, her brown hair parted in the middle as cherry lips stretched into a demure smile. “You and your plus one will find your seats this way. Allow me to escort you.”
Aziraphale’s eyebrows practically shot up to his hairline as Crowley’s crooked smile practically exuded fondness. “Thank you, Anthea. Is it the same place as last time?” Anthea? He knew her? How did he know her? What was going on?
The woman named Anthea gave Crowley a look. “As if either of you would ever have it any other way. Of course you’re in the same place. Only the best for his guest of honour.” Her eyes flickered over to Aziraphale, who was now feeling incredibly out of place. He had simply come in his own comfortable style, and now he felt very poorly for it. He wrung his hands and looked around at the hallways as they were led through, almost missing her next words of “Please pardon me, I meant to say guests.” As he took in the room they were entering.
He should have expected that such a grand hotel would have a ballroom, but the sheer elegance and refined atmosphere was almost ostentatious in its presentation; the blueish shade of marble, the mirrors that adorned every wall, and the golden scales of the pillars that peeked outside to drape its glow over the darkened sight of Hyde Park. Definitely under-dressed, His brain screamed at him. Most Definitely Under-dressed. He hoped that a quick miracle into a morning suit would not be noticed by the higher ups. After all, it was hardly even a miracle! A tiny blip in their sensors that they would no doubt ignore. He smoothed down the tartan pants he was wearing and quickly made his way over to where Crowley was being seated and given champagne.
The room was dark, and Aziraphale quickly had to navigate several crowded tables to sit down next to Crowley at the table with only two chairs. “It’s been a while since we’ve gone out and heard a live performance.” He tried to strike up a conversation, watching as his friend wouldn’t break eye contact from the stage, golden irises hardly flickering with any acknowledgement of what Aziraphale had been saying. “What’s grabbed your attention with this one? It sounded like, from what the lovely young lady had said, that you had been here before. Have you seen this man before?”
Why was he asking so many questions? Why was he so overly curious? Aziraphale was usually someone who wasn’t too nosy, thank you very much. But considering the facts presented (Crowley, dressed to the nines, seated at their own personal table at the very front of an extravagant ballroom where even security knew his name) were nothing less than conspicuous, he was fully within reason to ask questions! Instead of receiving an answer, however, Crowley simply stunned him by removing his sunglasses. The demon who drove at night with them on, who sauntered everywhere except Aziraphale’s bookstore with some sort of shield, had taken off his signature sunglasses. What the HEAVEN was happening?
The room darkened, and the risen section of the ballroom was draped in a golden spotlight. “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming out this evening.” A man announced from somewhere Aziraphale could not see. “Tonight, on Valentine’s day, we have a very special guest. Please put your hands together for the one, the only, Frank Sinatra!” Aziraphale had to squint in order to see, as the man who stepped out had a shirt that reflected light with how white it was. But he was dressed similarly as Crowley, minus the flower on his lapel, which was the same startling blue as his eyes. Distantly, Aziraphale registered that it was a blue rose, and for a moment he wondered why that stuck out to him so blatantly, but he had no time to ponder, as the twinkle of a song started, and the familiar stranger opened his mouth to sing:
In the wee small hours of the morning
While the whole wide world is fast asleep,
You lie awake and think about the girl
And never ever think of counting sheep.
Oh. Oh. Aziraphale had to focus on keeping his jaw from falling to the floor. The man in front of him had a gift rarely heard in person. Something that had caught Crowley’s attention.
Something other than himself, anyway.
When your lonely heart has learned its lesson
You’d be hers, if only she would call!
In the wee small hours of the morning
That’s the time you miss her most of all…
The interlude swelled in the room, blooming and enveloping everyone within earshot. Not a soul was speaking in the room, hardly even breathing. Food was left uneaten in front of hungry men and women swathed in the finest silks and gems, and when someone did speak, he was hushed almost immediately. But not, however, fast enough that what he said wasn’t heard:
“He’s truly got the voice of an Angel.”
His first thought was about how ludicrous the mere notion was; Angels weren’t particularly known for dancing, but they were known for their… well… Hell may have the composers, but the voices of heaven boasted the powers and elegance of Nina Simone, Sam Cooke, and Maria Callas. But they were no angels. Then again, singing was often reserved for those who have been saved, been redeemed, by Her grace. Most angels cannot fully grasp the concept of it, much less understand and feel it.
But this man, he has felt it. He must have, with the way that he carved out the room’s heart with a loss they might never have experienced, a tragedy they have never felt until he poured it into their souls, swaddling them in his mourning.
The man onstage smiled, as if someone had whispered something sweet in his ear, and he looked over to their table. He looked over at Crowley, and Crowley was staring right back at the singer, eyes not budging from where they were fixated on him. Enraptured by him.
When your lonely heart has learned its lesson
You’d be hers, if only she would call!
In the wee small hours of the morning,
That’s the time you miss her most…
Crowley did the unthinkable. He smiled.
Aziraphale felt his chest tighten as Mr. Sinatra’s smile widened, and he finished the wistful melody.
…of all…
Aziraphale was a Principality. He was an angel, a being that loved humans and all creations that She had made. And in a way, he loved Mr. Sinatra’s voice, that he was devout. But this… this was a test.
Crowley had practically launched out of his seat when Mr. Sinatra had finished singing. The two of them hadn’t stopped staring at each other the whole time, as if they were the only people in the room. It had made him feel almost… like an intruder.
Which was preposterous! Crowley and Aziraphale had been- well- they’d known each other for thousands of years. Nobody knew him better than Aziraphale, and that was a fact. Nothing would be able to compare to the amount of knowledge and trust that they shared between the two of them.
But.
Crowley’s never looked at him like that before.
“Hello, Frankie.” Aziraphale tried not to let his head snap over to Crowley as if he were some demented owl. Frankie? They were on first name terms? “I see you haven’t lost your vocal chords.”
And as if it were the funniest thing Mr. Sinatra had ever heard, he laughed unabashedly, eyes practically sparkling with unbridled joy. “Anthony, you haven’t changed a bit.” He moved towards the demon and pulled him into a hug, which was reciprocated with gusto.
Aziraphale was pretty sure he was hallucinating.
The two parted from their embrace, and Mr. Sinatra looked over to observe Aziraphale curiously. “And who might this be? You’ve never brought anyone around before, angel. At least, not that I’ve seen.”
Angel.
Did-
“I told you to stop calling me that.” Crowley hissed, no real venom in his tone. His cheeks flooded with crimson, however, betraying how he felt about the nickname that he so often used on Aziraphale himself. An actual angel. “This is Aziraphale Fell. He’s…” Crowley trailed off, if only for a moment, before picking himself back up. “…He’s a bookshop owner in Soho. He likes live music, so I thought I’d bring him with me.”
“My dear boy, isn’t Angel what you call me as well?” Aziraphale’s mouth opened without his permission, and he almost wished he could take it back. Crowley’s mouth opened, and his eyes widened from where they were so starkly visible. Mr. Sinatra looked surprised for a moment, before recognition overcame his features, and he looked back at Crowley, who had promptly gone scarlet.
“Ngk.” The demon eloquently replied.
Mr. Sinatra turned back to Aziraphale, something different shining in his eyes as he outstretched his hand. “You’re more than welcome to call me anything you’d like, Aziraphale.” His grin was nothing less than charming, and Aziraphale had to bite down the urge to call him a thief. Of what, he wasn’t sure. But he felt as if something was stolen from him. “I haven’t seen you in so long, Anthony.” Mr. Sinatra had started speaking to Crowley again. “You and your… book-keeper are more than welcome to stay for a drink. Why, the last time we’d had an opportunity like this…” He tapped his chin as if he were well and truly attempting to recall. “…Was that lovely night we spent together in Chicago in ’39.”
If Aziraphale had anything in his hands, he would have dropped it. “I’m sorry?” He asked in a strangled whisper.
Crowley looked back at Aziraphale, eyes wide as Mr. Sinatra kept talking. “Mm. Yes, he was the one who convinced me to go solo.” If eyes could speak words, Mr. Sinatra’s were speaking volumes in only a single glance at Crowley. “It took… quite a bit of convincing, but eventually even I had to admit that perhaps Angel here had a point.”
Aziraphale was going to strangle a human. “Ah.” He said instead, trying not to grind his teeth together as he smiled. “Well, we’d love to stay, truly, but Crowley and I have business to attend to-”
“What? We do?” Crowley interrupted, eyes wide.
“Yes.” Aziraphale emphasized. “We do.” He looked back at Mr. Sinatra, who had his hands in his pockets and eyes full of amusement that stretched into a smirk that the angel wanted to remove immediately. “Thank you for the offer, but I must-”
“Are you sure it can’t wait? If it’s a matter of transportation, Mr. Fell, I promise that I can get you back to your shop. My chauffeur would be more than willing to escort you.”
Aziraphale tried not to snap at the human. “That isn’t the issue, Crowley can drive-”
Mr. Sinatra took a step towards Crowley. “And after all, it’s been such a long time. You get to have him around. This is a once in a blue moon opportunity for me.” Graceful hands pressed against Crowley’s shoulder blades, and Mr. Sinatra smiled genuinely. “I’d love for an opportunity to catch up.”
It was only for a brief moment, but Aziraphale felt his grace lash out in a way that he’d never experienced before. As if it were a camera going off, his grace unfurled in a way that would have made an archangel blush. It was the closest form of a ‘FUCK YOU’ as he could manage celestially, and it was only for a second, but it was enough to startle every single person in the ballroom to step back. Mr. Sinatra included.
Aziraphale’s smile was all teeth. “I’m afraid we must be going.” He gracefully snarled into the silence. “Thank you for a lovely night, Mr. Sinatra.”
Crowley’s shouts to grab his attention weren’t heard. Aziraphale was already stalking off towards the parking lot, hands in fists tight enough to white his knuckles. The winter air nipped at his cheeks and he ground his teeth together as what felt like steam came out of his ears.
Angel. Who the hell was he to call Crowley something so fond?! To make his demon flush and stutter as if he were something more than a mere human. Unbelievable. Instantly, his brain flashed to when Crowley had bought the contraption of a gramophone, and the suddenness of the truth slammed into him.
“A voice that’s impossible to match.”
He’d been speaking of Frank Sinatra.
“Angel.” Crowley sounded slightly winded, as if physical tiredness were something that actually affected the two of them. “What’s going on? What’s gotten into you?”
“I-” Goodness, what had gotten into him? Crowley was not his, nor anybody’s. He was allowed to speak to whoever he wished. “I need to go.” He said instead.
Crowley’s voice cracked. “Angel-”
Unable to bear the thought of hearing more, Aziraphale’s wings snapped open, and within the second, he was back to his bookshop, mind spinning and heart hurting.
“A voice that’s impossible to match.”
A man that’s impossible to match. Aziraphale drank the thought away, ignoring the weight it held on his chest. Perhaps Crowley was right. Some things truly were impossible.
He didn’t put any music on that night. He was sick of it anyway.