Work Text:
One More Night
Crowley had been right. There really only were celestial harmonies in heaven. Terrible, dreadful, damnable harmonies. Constantly. It was practically deafening. If you wanted to listen to a bit of music. Actual, real music, you’d be hard-pressed to find it up here. “Even Crowley’s music would be an improvement,” Aziraphale muttered under his breath, as he tapped the translucent, sparkling Angel Phone resting on his desk, flipping from one blasted track to the next. He clicked the side button the the phone to turn off and lock the screen of his device.
Aziraphale sat back in his chair, his hands rested on his thighs, and tilted his head back, eyes closed. He let out a long, steadying sigh, his shoulders falling away from his ears, trying to calm his anxiety. It had been…how long had it been… since he’d seen Crowley? Since they’d talked, since they’d… no… Better not think of that. Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut tight to force back the emotion rising in his throat and threatening to spill out of his violet eyes in the form of tears that might never stop. He’d complete the rest of his days crying, he knew. If he started, he’d never stop. The human race would have to build another Ark, Aziraphale thought, ruefully, thinking of the platitudes some human mothers often told their frightened children. If Aziraphale began to cry, the rain really would be the tears of an angel. Not multiple angels as some might believe. But one very lonely angel in Heaven.
Thinking very hard, Aziraphale tried to remember songs he had heard while on Earth. He’d spent 6000 years there, he had certainly heard songs while he was there. A memory came to him. He’d been on set for a filming of a music video back in the mid-1980s. He had mistaken the name of the band Genesis for a religious group, given the very famous line, “In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth,” Chapter 1, Verse 1, Book of Genesis. By the time he had realized his error, he’d become a sort of fan of the front man, Phil Collins.
Aziraphale recalled committing a minor miracle to convince those who were supposed to be on set, that he, also should be there. And so he was, in the shadows of the set, he watched Phil play the piano for the video to One More Night, which would go on to become his tenth to hit the UK Chart’s Top Ten. He watched as Phil performed to a pre-recorded version of his vocals layered over an electronic piano.
“I’ve been trying oh-so-long to let you know how I feel. And if I stumble or if I fall, just help me back so I can make you see.”
Aziraphale imagined that day, there in studio. It had been a bustling day on set, but the moment the song came on, Aziraphale had been spellbound. He’d never even told Crowley about that day. He doubted that the demon would have let him live it down. “Phil Collins?” Crowley would say. “The guy, well he’s had his good days and his bad days. If you ask me, his music is rather uninspired. Rather dull.” Crowley would place a heavy emphasis on the word “dull”, dragging it out into two syllables, his tongue caught between his teeth as the letter L rolled off it. With a flick of that tongue, Phil Collins, and his entire discography would be dismissed. Aziraphale could not risk that. He had kept it a secret for almost 40 years, since the track had first become popular.
The lyrics began to come back to him, in his imagination, along with that special day. “I’ve been sitting here so long, wasting time. Just staring at the phone. And I was wondering, should I call you? Then I thought, maybe you’re not alone…” Aziraphale’s heart wrenched in his chest as the lyrics surged through him with a quiet sorrow. He was no longer in Heaven, his corporation was there, but he was, in his imagination, on the black-and-white set of the video, seated at the bar where the solo bartender dried glasses. It was the end of the night, and Phil Collins was there, really playing the piano as Aziraphale ordered a drink, his head in his hands.
Had he made a mistake? Aziraphale had been the one to leave. He’d left. He’d left the love of his life. He’d done it for all the right reasons, and if that as true, how could it feel this terrible? This wrong? How could he be here, so lonely, so empty? Years ago, he’d begged Crowley to stay close to him. He needed him, he had pleaded. Aziraphale had never imagined he would be the one to leave. He had never imagined that doing the right thing would hurt him so much. He’d been trying to protect Crowley. Crowley would have been destroyed. Because of Aziraphale’s lie, he’d saved Crowley’s life while ruining his own. He would never see, or feel, or hold his love again.
Aziraphale could no longer keep the tears back. He opened his eyes and he was immediately transported back into his wide-open, sterile, white “office”. The lights overhead were so bright they practically burned. Aziraphale covered his eyes with his arms as he laid his head down on the desk. Aziraphale was alone. He imagined himself in his bookstore he shared with Crowley. First, he imagined the tinkling of the tiny bell above the door as he came in from the rain and paused to close and shake off an umbrella, his clear blue eyes searching, brows furrowed.
“I’m sorry,” Crowley’s gravely voice would say from somewhere in the stacks, “But we’re very, very closed.”
“Crowley, it’s me,” Aziraphale would say. There would be a long, long pause, the air electrified. In the miraculous silence, Crowley’s footsteps could be heard tapping towards the center of the shop to gaze in the direction of the door.
“Angel,” Crowley would breathe, his dark glasses slid down his nose so those golden eyes, shining with tears, were visible over the top. “You came back.”
Aziraphale imagined his own eyes, filled to the brim, looking back at his demon, “I did, I came back. I’m here. I-”
That night, it stormed on Whickber Street.