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It was a couple hours into the first rainstorm on Earth, and the angel of the Eastern Gate was humming.
There was no particular reason for him to be doing so, as far as Crawly could tell, nor any particular purpose to the melody. It did not sound like a song of praise, as one might expect of an angel, but nor was it a dirge of mourning (which might also have been logical, under the circumstances). There were no lyrics to the music, a somewhat shaky rhythm, and if there was a key it was a key that was experiencing a serious identity crisis every few beats.
But, Crawly supposed, it was a way to pass the time, now that their conversation on the wall had fizzled out to a natural silence. And, imperfect intonation notwithstanding, it was nice to hear a sound other than the constant patter of raindrops and the occasional peal of thunder.
On impulse, he joined in, overlaying Aziraphale’s improvised notes with a few out-of-context measures from the music of the spheres he’d once helped compose. It sounded very different here, performed by physical vocal chords, practically unrecognizable as the rich harmonies imprinted into the orchestral pattern of the stars. But, Crawly decided, it didn’t necessarily sound bad; just different.
~ ~ ~
Aziraphale had never sung in the celestial choirs.
He’d auditioned, three times — drawn by the glory of their music, the vision of spending his time on beauty rather than battle training, and the sense of common cause which all the singers seemed to share — but didn’t get in. The first time, the conductor kindly encouraged him to keep practicing, perhaps with a celestial metronome and tuner. The second time, the conductor said the same thing, though they sounded a trifle less optimistic.
His third audition, Michael pulled Aziraphale aside afterwards and strongly suggested that he would be well-advised to focus on his divinely assigned purpose, rather than wasting time, effort, and resources trying towards other talents that he was obviously not built for. There was no point in a duck trying merchant banking, Michael might have told him, if either ducks or merchant banking had been invented yet at that point.
Aziraphale hadn’t auditioned again, after that. It was clearly not meant to be. Who was he, a mere sword arm, to dream of making music?
It was only on Earth, in Eden, when he heard the humans singing — together and in solo, their voices thin, untrained, paltry in comparison to anything the celestial choirs ever sang, yet somehow still lovely in their own way, such that he found himself instinctively wanting to hear more — that it occurred to Aziraphale that there could be other kinds of singing. Singing which would never clear the bar for choral admission, yet could still be worthwhile on its own.
He’d taken to mimicking the humans, when there was no one around to hear: humming softly to their duets, copying what he could remember of their solos, or even — as the humans themselves seemed to do — simply making notes up as he went along. He didn’t sound good, of course, Aziraphale was under no illusions there. But as long as he was on guard duty anyway, he’d reasoned, there was no harm in it.
He hadn’t meant to start humming with the demon right there on the wall, though. Didn’t know why he had done so. Didn’t even realize he had… until Crawly started harmonizing, and the sound of their mingling voices somehow transformed Aziraphale’s unskilled improvisation into something richer, stronger, more beautiful.
He should probably have fallen silent, when he noticed what was happening. There were, as far as he knew, no official policies about singing outside of the official choirs; but, if he’d posed the question, Aziraphale had little doubt what the answer would be to Is it okay to sing with demons?
But he had not posed the question, and there was no one else present to criticize. And the demon’s voice was pretty, and if Aziraphale stopped now there was every likelihood Crawly might stop too.
So he continued humming, joining with the demon and the rain to create some of the first earthly harmonies.