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“Hey, Piano Man, can you play ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’?” yelled Crowley from behind the bar.
Beelzebub groaned, about to tell their most fractious employee to 1) call Gabriel by his name, and 2) lay off the Queen and let customers request songs, but then Crowley’s husband, a genuine paying customer, flipped a coin toward the tip jar on the piano, wiggled in satisfaction when it hit its mark, and echoed Crowley’s request.
Gabriel took his hands off the keys to give Aziraphale a double thumbs-up. Beelzebub would have sneered at the sheer dorkiness of it, but they were too distracted by those hands. Big enough to play Rachmaninoff, strong enough to open the olive jar that had thwarted no fewer than four bartenders, and far softer than they would have expected. Not that they hoarded the memories of every time their fingers had brushed Gabriel’s when handing him a drink. Definitely not.
His long fingers seemed to work magic, performing any song request or faking it well enough that Beelzebub couldn’t tell the difference. He usually knew the words, too, and if he got them wrong he’d just laugh and carry on playing. His voice was an unremarkable baritone, but he hit every note with ease and Beelzebub had always been weak for competence.
This thing
Called love
I just
Can’t handle it
Gabriel was so in tune with the music that Beelzebub could hardly believe how out of tune he was with everything else. He’d been playing at The Devil’s Hole for almost a year, in perfect ignorance of the fact that it was a gay bar. This, despite how many not-female people had hit on him over the course of the year, including Beelzebub, who didn’t mind taking employees home as long as expectations were clear. Early on, they’d offered Gabriel a no-strings hookup, which he’d interpreted as an invitation to discuss piano tuning.
I gotta be cool, relax
Get hip and get on my tracks
Take a back seat, hitchhike
Gabriel’s cluelessness was even more mind-boggling in light of the fact that it had been his cousin Aziraphale, a regular at Devil’s Hole, who’d brought him in for the audition that landed him the job.
Gabriel had come at just the right time. The bar’s clientele had been looking for something new to occupy their interest, after the fireworks of Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s courtship had settled into a disgustingly happy marriage.
It would be hard to top the overdramatic breakups, the petty jealousies, the tearful reunions, the horrible thrill of Aziraphale’s “I don’t even like you” speech or the night Crowley threw down his towel on the bartop and walked out the door proclaiming, “I won’t even think about you!”
Beelzebub had been pissed about having to take over the rest of Crowley’s shift, and reamed him out for it later, but the tips that night had been spectacular.
When Aziraphale finally proposed, he did it at Devil’s Hole, after performing “You’re My Best Friend” on the little-used piano in the corner. He brushed off compliments on his playing with a mention of his cousin, a far more accomplished musician who had apparently just moved to town, and was looking for work.
Despite their skepticism, Beelzebub agreed to give Gabriel a trial run, and he quickly became an indispensable fixture. For one thing, he was eye candy incarnate. Bar patrons of all orientations admired his bold jaw, bright eyes, broad shoulders, and beautiful physique–it was like having a classical sculpture installed on the piano bench. For another, his far-reaching repertoire included Christian music with hilariously suggestive lyrics that made customers and bartenders alike dissolve into ribald cackling.
Gabriel had to be the most oblivious man alive. Not only did he fail to understand what was so funny about belting out “Have your way in me, O Lord,” but he was constitutionally incapable of picking up on pickup lines. Not long after Beelzebub’s failed attempt, a regular named Paul asked Gabriel to come home with him and see how his piano handled. Gabriel handed over a card for his preferred piano repair service.
“I could not have been more obvious,” Paul moaned into his whiskey, to which Beelzebub responded under their breath, “or more disgusting.” But Crowley had sympathy for the poor devil, and proceeded to hook him up with Davy, the sailor at the other end of the bar. At least two people went home happy that night.
So come on, Virginia, show me a sign
Send up a signal, I'll throw you a line
Gabriel must have gotten another request, as he transitioned seamlessly from Queen to Billy Joel. Beelzebub picked up a glass and began to pull a Guinness.
“Are you getting Piano Man a drink?” asked Crowley, smirking.
“What’s it to you?” growled Beelzebub. Crowley always gave them shit for serving Gabriel’s drinks themselves.
“Well, you might like to know that someone else just bought him one.”
Beelzebub glanced over, and sure enough, there was a nearly-full glass on top of the piano. They glared at Crowley, who raised his hands placatingly. “You’ve never told me not to let people buy him drinks.”
“Who was it?”
“Not that you care, of course,” goaded Crowley, pointing his chin toward a woman with white-blonde hair and a glittering smile who hovered at Gabriel’s shoulder.
“Not that I care,” agreed Beelzebub. They gulped the superfluous beer they were now holding, even though they hated stouts, and busied themselves with nothing in particular.
Given Gabriel’s reputation as the token straight employee, it wasn’t too surprising that this customer would be so focused on him. And there was no rule against heterosexual flirting in The Devil’s Hole, although right at this moment Beelzebub considered making one.
Sooner or later it comes down to fate
I might as well be the one
The woman leaned down to speak in Gabriel’s ear while he sang. He shook his head with an apologetic smile, but the woman slid onto the bench beside him anyway.
Beelzebub drained the rest of their gross beer as they watched Gabriel’s body language grow increasingly uncomfortable. Was he too old-fashioned to tell the woman off? Maybe he’d been raised to be unfailingly courteous to ladies. Then Gabriel stiffened, his unease shifting into genuine distress, and Beelzebub saw her hand in his lap.
They catapulted around the bar. “Get up.”
She removed her hand at Beelzebub’s sudden approach, but she looked affronted. “Do you mind? We’re having a conversation.”
“No, you’re fucking creeping on my employee. Get up.” They couldn’t believe she was still sitting on that bench.
Finally she stood, with an obnoxious delicacy, patting down her skirt. She was about the same height as Beelzebub, though considerably heavier. Beelzebub couldn’t help guessing her weight class, eyeing her long gold fingernails, measuring her up for a fight.
“So you’re the owner,” she sniffed. “Keeping the good stuff for yourself, I see.”
“You’re two seconds from getting thrown out on your ass.” Beelzebub pushed into her space, mostly to get her farther away from Gabriel, who was frozen on the bench. If he stood up, he’d tower over them both, which made this face-off feel faintly ridiculous. But he didn’t stand up.
“Or is it a one-sided crush?” she smirked. “Don’t be jealous just because you’re not woman enough for him, sweetheart.”
All that prevented Beelzebub from landing a punch was the arrival at that moment of their bouncer, Hastur. The woman blanched when he took her arm. Hastur had bad hair, bad teeth, and bad eyes, but he wasn’t a bad sort. “We reserve the right to refuse service to wankers,” he intoned, and marched her out the door.
A small crowd had gathered, including the Hole’s other bouncer, Ligur, who tended to lurk on-site even when he was off-duty. “We won’t let her back in again,” he promised.
Aziraphale spoke up unexpectedly from his perch at the bar. “I do believe that was Sandra D’Angelo. She’s a writer; I’ve seen her at conventions. I doubt Gabriel will want to press charges, but if he does–I mean, if you do–”
Aziraphale, and everyone else, turned to the piano bench. Which was empty.
Without thinking twice, Beelzebub ducked into their office, pulled out their cell phone, and dialed. Somewhat to their surprise, Gabriel picked up right away. “Hello?”
Beelzebub, who was supposed to say “I just want to make sure you’re ok” or “Take the rest of the night off,” or “I’m so sorry that happened,” instead blurted out, “Where are you?”
“I went for a walk. I’ll be right back–”
“No no no no,” they said, grabbing their jacket. “Don’t worry about it. That’s not what I meant. I just–where are you? Wherever you are, I’ll come to you.”
That’s my line! mouthed Crowley from the doorway. As if Beelzebub could forget how he’d wailed it into his phone after getting absolutely shit-faced on his night off, crying that Aziraphale had left him forever, only to get a call from his “angel” wanting to get back together. Hastur had been obliged to confiscate his car keys.
Ignoring Crowley’s ridiculous attempt to lay claim to a portion of the English language, Beelzebub amended their statement to Gabriel. “If you want company, that is. If you want to be alone–”
“I’d like to see you,” he said quickly. “I’ll wait for you at the Tadfield Ave bridge.”
“Be there in five.” Beelzebub hung up, told Crowley, “You’re closing,” and left before he could complain.
Tadfield Avenue was two blocks from the bar, and the bridge was less than half a mile further down. As Beelzebub approached, they saw Gabriel leaning on the low wall, looking out over the river. He didn’t look like eye candy incarnate, or the most oblivious man alive, or any of the other epithets they’d come up with over the year they’d known him. He looked like a person, plain and simple, messy and complex, with weariness bending his wide shoulders and tension carving the line of his jaw.
Beelzebub stopped beside him, unconsciously mirroring his pose, their hands splayed on top of the wall and their upper body leaning over it.
“Hey,” they said.
“Hey, are you okay?” answered Gabriel, which seemed pretty stupid to Beelzebub. But he turned to look at them with genuine concern. “That woman was kind of a jerk–”
“No shit–”
“–to you.”
“To me?” Beelzebub shook their head, incredulous. “You’re the one who got molested!”
He winced at the word, but didn’t say anything, so Beelzebub plowed ahead. “Aziraphale recognized her. Knows her name, if you want to do anything about it. You don’t have to decide now. Hastur and Ligur will make sure she doesn’t ever come back in. And don’t worry about taking the night off, tomorrow too if you want. I’m so sorry that happened.” Great, now everything was coming out all at once.
“It’s not your fault. I know you try to look out for me.” Gabriel laughed ruefully, his long fingers flexing and then resettling on the stone wall. “Can’t believe after all this time working at a gay bar, it was a woman hitting on me that made me turn tail and run.”
“She didn’t just hit on you, she fucking groped you,” Beelzebub snapped, before their brain caught up with the rest of what Gabriel had said. “Wait. Wait. How long have you known Devil’s Hole was a gay bar?”
“Well . . . I had to consider it was a possibility when the cousin my aunt once described as ‘gayer than a pod of dolphins on ecstasy’ got me the interview.”
He sounded embarrassed, which was good, because Beelzebub’s face was burning. “We all thought you didn’t know. Hell of a scam.”
“If it was a scam, then I was scamming myself, too.” Gabriel’s eyes tracked a few leaves caught in an upstream eddy. “It was easier to pretend I was clueless. Just like it was easier to pretend I was straight.”
“So, you’re . . . not?” ventured Beelzebub. Somehow their hand had shifted so their pinky was pressed alongside Gabriel’s.
“I still don’t know what I am, honestly.” His hand lifted, and came back down on top of Beelzebub’s, covering it completely. The gentle encompassing warmth sent shivers through the rest of their body.
While Beelzebub was working through the short circuit this produced in their brain, Gabriel spoke again, sounding tentative. “She said you were saving me.”
Beelzebub didn’t want Gabriel to think about that awful customer for another second. “Ah, that’s bullshit, she was just trying to piss me off, don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worried, I’m–” he paused. “Is it too late to take you up on the offer you made, my first week?”
“Yeah,” growled Beelzebub, “it is,” because they were an idiot who could never say things right.
Gabriel started to withdraw his hand, looking crestfallen, but Beelzebub clung to it, interlocking their fingers. “That offer is withdrawn, because now I like you too much. I can’t do a no-strings hookup.”
“Okay,” he said, still looking disappointed. “I get it. I like you too.”
Beelzebub turned to face Gabriel, squeezing his hand hard. Why were they fucking this up so badly? “Now there are strings. Lots of strings, all over the place. I want to take you home, but only if you’ll stay the night. I want to know how loudly you snore and I want to know what you like for breakfast–I know your drink preferences to the smallest detail, but I don’t have a damn clue what you eat.”
“I don’t. I live on smoothies.” Gabriel was smiling, which was glorious, and made Beelzebub smack him in the chest with their free hand.
“See, now I can’t even tell if you’re serious! I have to fucking reevaluate everything! I want you to take me home so I can figure you out. Is there really a white pigeon that comes to the window when you play hymns, or is that a dumb story you made up for laughs?”
“That one’s true, her name is Johanna. You can meet her.”
“I want to meet her! Fuck, I want to meet the rest of your stupid family, find out what kind of weirdos spawned people like you and Aziraphale. I want to–”
Grinning widely now, Gabriel interrupted. “Forgive me if I’m out of line, boss, but it kind of sounds like you want to date me.”
“Yeah, I fucking do, okay?”
“Okay.” Gabriel took their other hand. His fingers, long and thick, made space for themselves between Beelzebub’s, and his thumbs stroked the tender skin inside their wrists. He leaned down until his head was right next to Beelzebub's, then whispered, “You know I’m good at piano, but I should tell you I suck on the organ.”