Work Text:
31 August, 1927
There was a demon in St James's Park.
There had not been a demon in St James's Park for 65 years, two months, and four days.
Not that Aziraphale has been counting, of course.
He straightens his bowtie, tugs at his waistcoat, takes a deep breath that he doesn't need, and reminds himself how well this had gone in Rome. Although. Rome hadn't been so soon after a major fight.
He takes another breath, and makes himself walk forward. "Excuse me," he says, as politely as if he was addressing a stranger instead of someone he has known for over five thousand years, and indicates the other end of the bench that Crowley is slouched on. "Is this seat taken?" Is there room for me, beside you? In your life? goes, as ever, unspoken.
Crowley's gaze snaps up to meet his. They stand there for what feels like a long time, but can't be that long because they haven't attracted attention. Then Crowley waves an almost dismissive (welcoming) hand at the seat in wordless invitation to use it.
Aziraphale inclines his head the acceptable amount, and sits down.
Neither of them speaks for another long moment, as if the six-odd decades since their last meeting have made them truly strangers.
Aziraphale's words are stuck in his throat, anyway. He's made his gesture, it's taken most of his courage, and he isn't sure where they go from here.
In the end, it's Crowley who makes the next move, offering some context. He says, grudgingly, not looking anywhere near Aziraphale, "My side sent me a commendation for the Great War. It woke me up."
"Ah." Aziraphale swallows his first instinct, to assume that the commendation was true and let Crowley reassure him that it wasn't. Instead, he lets his mind process the information properly. If Crowley has been asleep since their - their disagreement - then of course it was just the humans doing it. Not to mention that Aziraphale had been responsible for a lot of the treaties that pulled the countries in. He'd told Gabriel it was encouraging world peace. Before. And then.... Well, and then it hadn't, but he knows very well it wasn't the demon's fault. He risks a glance sideways. Crowley is, as ever, beautifully dressed in the latest fashions, in black. "How long have you been awake?"
Crowley shrugs a shoulder. "A year?" he hazards.
Aziraphale nods slowly, and takes the remains of his courage in both hands. "If- If it would be- Perhaps I could catch you up on what you have missed? For the, ah, Arrangement? Over- Over a glass of wine?"
The corner of Crowley's mouth ticks up ever so slightly, but coming from him it's as good as a wide smile. "Yeah," he says. "Why not." Then he takes a deep breath of his own. "I- have a car now. I could give you a lift. If you want."
"Oh. Yes. That would save us getting a cab. To the bookshop?"
"Anywhere you want to go, angel. Come on, it's this way."
#
Once there, Crowley prowls the bookshop while Aziraphale steadies himself after that ride and locates a bottle of good red wine and a pair of glasses, picking something put away before- before Crowley fell asleep.
Crowley saunters into the back room at last, accepts his full glass of wine and drops onto the sofa that has always been his seat here, since the shop opened. His dark glasses remain firmly in place.
They're two refills down, with Aziraphale babbling about everything he can think of happening in the last few decades (minus the Great War, which, if Crowley got a commendation for it, he almost certainly both knows about and doesn't want to think about), when Crowley takes advantage of Aziraphale pausing to drink to wave a languid hand at the old radio sitting on a nearby table.
Crowley asks, "Is that how your side contacts you these days? I've been trying to get mine to use technology instead of - their usual method." His face tightens in a way that usually means pain or disgust, or both. "No luck though."
"Oh," Aziraphale says, his face lighting up, "you know about radios?"
"Morse code and marching orders, right?"
"Originally - and no, Gabriel still prefers written notes - but humans have moved onto other things for it now."
"Oh?"
"Music, sometimes, and information - like a newspaper you can listen to. In fact, there's a concert for the groundlings1 tonight, and they let the radio listen in so you can hear the concert2 even if you can't get seats." Aziraphale pops out of his chair and goes to fiddle with the tuning knobs. There's a crackle as the radio warms up, and then a voice, thinner and tinnier than it might be in person, explaining what's happening next.
Crowley tenses, startled at the unexpected stranger's voice coming from a box, and then buries his nose in his wine to recover.
Aziraphale just hopes that the concert will have music that they can both enjoy.
It starts well enough, with dance music that makes Crowley's swinging foot bounce, tapping out the rhythm (Just out of time, but there. Demons are not good dancers) of the tune.
Angels are even worse dancers, and it isn't a gavotte tune, but Aziraphale finds his fingers tapping lightly on the arm of his chair anyway. (He's out of time with the music's beat too, though he matches Crowley).
Next is an aria from an opera that they saw together, once, back in the day, back when it was new. One they both enjoyed enough to bicker about later, at least. There's a remembering smile on Crowley's face as he listens, anyway, big enough that it's actually visible, and a look almost of wonder at the things these lovely, clever, humans have come up with while he slept.
Then, as the more recent music comes to the fore of the program, a symphony by Brahms, too recent for Crowley to have heard before, though he might have heard some of the man's earlier works. It wasn't particularly popular at the time, but then again, neither was Hamlet, originally, and now look at them both.
Crowley tips his head back, and a stillness comes over him. Not one of fear, but a rarer one that only comes out when he feels safe enough to let himself get completely absorbed in whatever he is doing.
To place all his focus into listening, rather than keeping some of it back to keep watch for them both, is a major act of trust, and Aziraphale sobers up a little to make sure he's worthy of it.
Holst is too recent for Crowley to have encountered at all, prior to sleeping, and it's only extracts from the Planet suite, not the whole thing - Aziraphale makes a mental note to find somewhere playing the whole thing if Crowley enjoys this much of it - but the skittering notes of Mercury always remind him of Crowley's constant jittery movement.
Judging by the amused huff of breath, Crowley feels the same.
As the music swells from Mercury into Jupiter, Aziraphale begins to relax, begins to believe that he and Crowley aren't - aren't quite so much at odds anymore. He remembers too late that part of Jupiter has been taken and turned into a hymn3, only catching it when the first phrase reaches his ears, and he tries not to flinch. Glancing at Crowley, hoping that the tune itself hasn't been turned holy enough to hurt the demon, he sags ever so slightly in relief. Not only is his demon not hurt, but his lips are moving, as if he is singing silently along, or at least commentating under his breath4.
That's all right then.
They're safe, and listening to a concert together is familiar, even if the means and location for doing so isn't. Aziraphale lets out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding, and settles in to listen to the rest of the program.