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You always manage to pull me out of the shadows.
Holed up as I am in the peeling doors that I lock myself in.
I stand still and listen to you sing, you try to get me out.
Even when it's only there that I would like to stay.
Even when I think that's where I belong.
To you, who still sing with me, Lav, another serenade.
There are two things to consider when conversing with Anthony J. Crowley.
First one: he will probably spend most of his time talking to you about how good he has been at making disasters in the previous weeks.
Second one: if you are making an appointment, don't expect banal places.
Aziraphale looked at him for a moment, widening his large blue eyes. He was leaning against the wall of the alley as if he had owned it, his jacket undone over his lead-coloured shirt, his glasses lowered to the bridge of his nose to reveal just enough of his pupils. A hat covered his quiff, giving him an even more mysterious appearance.
"Crowley, the monthly meeting!”.
The angel's petulant voice made Crowley snort.
“I already told you that I am limited in my movements,” grumbled the snake, “If you could come to the…”.
“Don’t even say it”.
“Come on angel, I'm not asking you to smuggle whiskey”, Crowley snorted as he adjusted his glasses on his nose.
“Obviously”, Aziraphale squeaked, looking very annoyed, “That's your job. I'm telling you for the hundredth time, I have no intention of joining your… your smuggling clan”.
“Clan of smugglers? Little angel, I'm doing a favour for a friend. Shouldn't you angels support charitable works?”.
Aziraphale's annoyed grimace cooled the sneer on Crowley's thin lips, and he shook his head theatrically: “I asked you to meet us there because I have an important commitment, certainly not to force you to carry bottles under your shirt”.
“I'm sure you didn't ask me!”, said Aziraphale, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Just the thought of it would make you sweat like a fountain and shatter them all into pieces… but that's not the point!”.
Crowley stamped his foot impatiently on the ground: “Do we really have to give ourselves this damned monthly report?”.
Aziraphale, possibly even more upset, took a notebook from his jacket pocket and opened it. He had transcribed an impeccable calendar, tracing the boxes of the months with millimetric precision, decorating each one with different colours and small drawings. There were notes of all sorts, at least one a day, written with the inevitable fountain pen that Aziraphale jealously kept in his desk drawer. Among those little rivers of black ink, only a few ticks had been made with the colour red; one appeared every month. The snake's eyes slid down to the “November 1921” box. It was purple, filled with notes but still without any red marks.
“My diary is already full dear,” said Aziraphale, “I'm afraid it really can't be postponed any longer”.
“If it is so mandatory, why so many scruples about the place, angel? I remind you that in 1858 I even took you to the Opera for one of your monthly meetings, try!”.
“It was 1854, dear, and you realize that a venue like the one you're trying to send me to is very different from a theatre. I'm not going into that dump, forget it!”.
“Speaking of effort. Come on, you’ll just have to wait until I finish an errand there and then we can go wherever you want, I promise”.
“I'll wait outside”.
“But it's November angel, you risk freezing”.
“I. Am. Not. Entering.”.
“You’re being annoying as an itchy pair of underpants, angel”.
“I must insist”.
"Do as you like; you'll wait for me outside and you'll freeze to pieces".
"Fine!".
"Fine".
They both looked at each other shiftily, Crowley kicked a few pebbles from the path to slow the gallop of silence.
“What time can I come by?”, asked Aziraphale, wrapping himself in his coat. The serpent raised the cuff of his jacket and checked his watch; he stared into space, as if he were trying to remember something.
“Not before 2 a.m., I have work to do,” he said after that moment of stasis.
“Notify your colleagues that you will have to leave early. We will meet at midnight, not a minute later".
"I cannot miss. See you at one".
"Absolutely not!".
“What's the matter angel, do you have any night commitments in those coloured boxes?”.
"Midnight. And if you're not punctual I swear not to speak to you again for the next twenty years".
Crowley tipped his hat in greeting and nodded.
“See you at midnight then, angel”.
Crowley took a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to him: “Here are precise directions on how to get there and the password. You will find a red door. If you want to drink while you wait, come in and order whatever, it's on me."
Before Aziraphale could repeat to him that no, he would not enter that hideout of evildoers, Crowley, with his classic limp gait, turned around, whistling, and disappeared into the tangled tangle of alleys. Aziraphale remained alone, still snuggled up in the folds of his coat, forcing himself to walk to the meeting place to familiarize himself with the route. He hated that neighborhood, he hated the rancid smell and the glances that were thrown at his refined clothing, at the hasty pace that he forced himself to slow down so as not to arouse suspicion. He cautiously opened the piece of paper and examined it. It wasn't Crowley's angular handwriting: the letters, like the lines on the map, had been drawn by a shaky hand. As he read, Aziraphale had to hold back a nervous laugh. What kind of buzzword was “frozen peas”? When he saw the little red door, the angel jumped. That place gave him everything but positive sensations. He folded the package carefully and put it in his pocket, continuing to walk home; lying on his sofa reading, the sunset dyed the clouds outside the windows orange, but the spiteful night never seemed to want to fall. The moon did not grace Aziraphale with his presence that evening. The clear sky was dotted with stars, but those friendly presences did not reassure the angel who, even colder, slipped back towards the red door, struggling at times, given the darkness, to check the map. He kept his head bowed as he advanced, promising himself that he would stop, this time for real, to listen to what that snake suggested to him. And no sir, he wasn't going to let himself be led by the nose next time! They would have had dinner in a nice place, even if they had to miraculously have one on the spot. The peeling door was waiting for him, a rectangle stripped of paint in the equally peeling wall of the street. He checked his pocket watch: a quarter past eleven. Early as always.
What to do? Enter?
An angel of God in that sinful hovel?
No. Not even by a long shot. He would have waited for him outside, as per the script.
But he couldn't wait outside all that time, he'd be frozen.
He couldn't resist anymore; the waiting had worn him out for an entire day.
He would have grabbed that demon by the hair and would have made him anticipate his commitments with blessings.
It always worked: when he wanted to get something, he started blessing the objects in the room where he was with Crowley, indiscriminately targeting furniture, cushions, chairs, curtains, even bottles of Merlot. He blessed more and more, more and more until the demon, cornered, often climbing the wall to escape that barrage of miracles, begged him to stop.
Yes, that's what he would have done.
He looked over his shoulder, making sure no one saw him, and knocked gently.
“Who is it?”, said a hoarse voice from beyond the door.
The angel cleared his throat, murmuring politely, "Good evening".
“I don't have all night princess, what do you want to eat?”.
“What shall I take? Oh wow, what a difficult question…”, stammered Aziraphale.
He suddenly remembered the paper in his pocket: “I'll take frozen peas”.
The lock clicked and an elderly lady popped her head out of her door, ordering Aziraphale to hurry and come in with quick waves of her hand. They find themselves in the dark, in a narrow tunnel.
“Welcome to The Scarlet Angel”, the woman grumbled, turning on a lamp, “Follow me”.
Aziraphale was pushed forward with little grace, through the corridor, until he emerged into a small, lit room; as soon as the angel's eyes got used to the soft light of the room, he was able to look at the woman who had escorted him. He saw her lips stretch into a small smile; her dark eyes surrounded by wrinkles flickering towards her Aziraphale: "Crowley sent you?".
“Do you know him?”, asked Aziraphale, looking around.
“Without that little red-haired bastard this place would be empty. Top notch work, his".
“I guess”, said the angel without being able to hide a hint of disappointment in his voice, “Can I sit down?”.
The lady pointed to an empty table and Aziraphale, thanking her, took a seat.
The club was immersed in darkness, there were few lamps attached to the walls. There were no windows to let in any light, much less the fresh evening air. There was a strong musty smell, but the atmosphere was made so warm by the chatter of those present that the stench was bearable. The counter of the place was chipped, the white walls decorated with faded posters. The wrought iron tables were covered with red placemats, a larger cloth had been made of the same fabric and hung on the wall in front of Aziraphale, acting as a backdrop to a small stage slightly higher than the floor. A young man with his shirt sleeves folded up at his elbows approached Aziraphale's table, wiping his hands with a rag: "Can I help you?".
He smiled the angel as the boy hung the cloth over his shoulder: "Hello, I'm actually waiting for Crowley".
“Indeed, Crowley had mentioned a certain blue-eyed guest. He left any fees covered for you so… what do you want to drink, little blonde?”.
“Uhm”.
“Darling, I wish I had all day to watch your stunning lips ordering a drink, but the place is loaded and the night has just begun. What do you take?".
"Tea".
“Tea?!”.
“Earl Grey, thank you”.
“Earl Grey?! Are you sure about that?".
“Why shouldn't I”.
“That very Earl Grey?”.
"Yes. Thank you".
Throwing suspicious glances at Aziraphale, the boy disappeared behind the counter, to reappear shortly after with a chipped cup and a porcelain teapot. Not fully understanding the reasons for the waiter's resistance to the tea as he poured the amber liquid, Aziraphale realized too late that he was not emitting smoke. He brought the rim of the cup to his lips and took a greedy sip. He stopped halfway, an unusual burning sensation was starting to spread in his throat, and he felt his face turn red. He coughed loudly as he slammed the cup onto the saucer and patted his chest with his free hand. As soon as he had started to breathe normally again amid general laughter, Aziraphale smelled the contents of the teapot.
Whiskey.
“Easy with that!”, a gentleman shouted at him from the back of the room, causing a new chorus of laughter to rise.
Aziraphale took out his pocket handkerchief and dabbed at his lips, suppressing the last surviving coughs with a miracle. He looked at the pocket watch chain and sighed as he took it in his hands. He held the watch closed in the palm of his hand. He counted to ten. She was starting to feel dizzy with him.
“Why do I feel like you're late, you little shit?” he thought, and the alcohol interfered with the very last words.
He opened the watch. On the polished dial, the hands were about to strike midnight. There were thirty seconds left before the hour and Aziraphale impatiently turned towards the entrance, seeing it closed.
“If you're not here within twenty seconds I won't speak to you again, it's a promise!”, thought the angel annoyed while a hand was already running to the jacket leaning against the back of the chair. He began the countdown and, already looking at the door, started to get up.
The lights in the room suddenly dimmed, Aziraphale's fingers loosened their grip on the jacket until he let go of it completely, her face turned as if mechanically towards the red cloth in front of him, now illuminated by a spotlight.
A dead silence fell in The Scarlet Angel.
A gasp slipped from the angel's lips as he heard the click of heels on the stage beams, followed by a rustle of fabric. Not noticing the smile that curved his lips, Aziraphale saw Crowley appear.
He walked slowly, his gaze fixed on the audience, waving here and there as he took his place in the centre of the small stage. An attendant rushed to the stage to bring a long metal rod, with some sort of small disk on top. Crowley's pupils were covered by a pair of dark, round lenses in thin metal frames. The arms of his glasses were lost among the red locks of his hair, parted to the left, which fell in neat waves onto the demon's shoulders.
“I could have sworn he had them short this morning”, Aziraphale noted curiously.
The angel took a sip of whiskey, blushing as he saw a hint of breast curve Crowley's chest. That too wasn't there that morning. While, as if hypnotized, he sat down again in silence so as not to disturb that apparition, the angel's eyes could not help but scrutinize every detail of that slender figure that concluded his magnificent entrance. Crowley wore a black satin suit. What an original colour. The lean shapes and curves of his body were modelled by the fabric, the long sleeves clasped the lithe arms which arranged the microphone stand with innate elegance. Turning slightly, called by the woman in the hall, Crowley turned his back to the audience.
Aziraphale felt the air drain from his lungs. The fabric was missing from shoulders to butt, leaving the demon's porcelain skin on display, muscles rippling. On the spine, attached to the bottom of the dress and the top, was a golden serpent. He was semi-mobile, with every movement he seemed to come to life and crawl towards his master's shoulders. The angel surprised his heart by speeding up, his lips suddenly dry as if he had drunk sand. Crowley couldn't have been more handsome that evening.
“Good evening,” the demon spoke into the microphone, turning around again, “I didn't expect so many of you.”
A timid applause came from the room.
“You're late!”, shouted a boy from the back of the room, putting his hands in a cone around his mouth to make himself heard. Crowley calmly threw a kiss in that direction, with the sly wink that Aziraphale couldn't stand: "I'll try to make it up to you."
More decisive applause rose from those present, accompanied by whistles and the sound of bottles and glasses banging on the tables.
While Crowley was arranging the suit, he felt a certain pair of turquoise eyes resting on his hands, on his fingers, on the folds that he was smoothing. He slowed down, enjoying the slide of the fabric on his skin, the murmurs starting to rise from the audience again; he looked up slowly, let it wander in search of Aziraphale. There wasn't the slightest trace of reproach in the other's gaze, no words of reproach appeared on the angel's pink mouth; to be honest, there wasn't the slightest trace of any word there in that mouth.
Aziraphale's lips had parted as soon as Crowley's eyes had reached him, as if he were emitting an imperceptible sigh, amazement that added to amazement, until it left him breathless, voiceless.
“Shall we begin?”, Crowley continued, shaking his hair, “I bet you all know this one”.
The applause that followed turned into rhythmic clapping as Crowley began to sing.
Aziraphale relaxed suddenly.
He had heard Crowley singing ages ago. All the angels sing. It's part of their nature, they use songs to praise God. Aziraphale remembered that the halls of Heaven were filled with wordless melodies, echoes of voices like flutes. Only Aziraphale did not like to sing with others; not that he had an unpleasant voice, quite the opposite. He preferred to listen. He couldn't do anything about it, even when he was in the heavenly ranks, he would suddenly hold his tongue to enjoy the voice of his colleagues. First, Crowley. He had always remained listening, in his little cotton wool nest, to what music could tell. As he fell, Crowley realized that not all demons sang. There is no sign in the infernal corridors that prohibits singing, simply no one does it anymore. Some still remembered how it was done, too resentful to do it again. Devils translate everything into grunts and screams, even words, let alone warble like angels! The kingdom of Lucifer keeps away from the earth the clanking of chains, the boiling of sulfuric ponds, the crackling of infernal flames. Souls can do nothing but howl their damnation into the bottomless pit, without ever emerging. There is no place for beauty in Hell. But outside…
The first time Aziraphale heard Crowley sing he was almost afraid.
He was the one who asked him to do it, ready to hear the redhead's irritated snorts, a refusal accompanied by a dramatic shrug of the shoulders.
“I don't sing angel”, “Have you lost your mind?”, “I don't do certain things”.
And instead Crowley had looked him straight in the eyes, without glasses, and his voice had made the earth tremble, the voice Aziraphale was used to had vanished, an almost rasping sound came out of Crowley's mouth. His tone was warm and deep, a metallic howl in the silence. Aziraphale's mind immediately flew to the ancient battle songs. He had asked him to stop, while he ran away. Until several decades later, he no longer had the courage to ask him to sing. When he asked him again, they were in the woods for a walk.
“Are you sure your delicate angel ears will resist this time?”, the demon had mocked him.
Crowley's voice had suddenly flooded Aziraphale, the same dark sound that heralds avalanches. The angel did what he did best: he listened. Mesmerized by that melody, he wished he had roots like the trees around him. He saw the Earth before him, their Earth, the animals and humans, immense expanses of flames and glaciers. He saw wars and clear skies. He saw himself reflected in that sky and saw Crowley, he felt within himself the wind of the steppes and the sun from which he was born. Crowley sang of the Earth, he sang of his creatures as they were, without the need for perfection.
The echo of Crowley's voice spread like a wave, silencing even the most vain little birds.
Just like on that day in the woods, like the first time, Crowley was singing.
It was a human song that Aziraphale had heard was very popular lately, but the way Crowley interpreted it was anything but banal. He swayed casually as he chanted the words into the microphone, occasionally pinning his stray locks behind his ears. He looked straight ahead, focusing on some of the faces closest to the stage. However, when the demon, with an elegant pirouette or a twist step, moved closer to the edge of the stage, Aziraphale could have that gaze fixed on him; those serpentine eyes seemed to creep under his waistcoat, under his shirt, and at that thought he only blushed even more.
The audience, bewitched, continued to keep the rhythm with their hands and feet, whistling the chorus. Aziraphale found himself stamping his shoes on the ground to keep time, pausing for a few moments when the snake on the singer's back appeared before his eyes.
“Oh, dear,” he thought, chuckling when Crowley, understanding his surprise at that detail of the suit, placed a hand on his hip and moved it up to his collarbones, caressing the metallic reptile.
To conclude the performance in style, when the high note came Crowley had an elegant casquè performed on the microphone, setting the room on fire with thunderous ovations. Many stood up to applaud, peeling their hands as they howled, “Encore! Bis!”.
Crowley collected the kisses that were thrown at him and sent as many; one of the boldest spectators threw his bowler hat which, also thanks to a small miracle, landed on his red hair. Taking advantage of the outcry that that little bit of magic had unleashed, the snake quickly crawled out of the scene.
Aziraphale shook himself out of the spell he had fallen into and forced himself to stand up.
Behind the empty stage there was a small door with a plate on it that was so rusty it was illegible and pinned on it with equally rusty nails. He knocked a couple of times, holding his breath at the thought of finding someone else inside; he exhaled loudly as a familiar voice from the other side of the entrance said, “Come in”.
After clearing his throat, a voluminous bouquet of roses appeared in Aziraphale's hands. Red, of course. Only then did he decide to go inside.
He found himself in a bare dressing room, with a strong musty smell and little chipped furniture filling the small room; the only sources of light were some rickety wall lights and the tacky mirror surrounded by light bulbs in front of which the star of the evening sat. Crowley was turned away, with his back to the door, but the snake had been covered by the fabric of a silk dressing gown. He was combing through his messy hair, trying to tame it with the brush.
“Paul you can tell our guests that I'm done for tonight, if there are flowers leave them at the entrance, I'll get them later”.
“Actually, I would like to give these to you in person”, Aziraphale said shyly, turning the bouquet paper over in his hands.
Crowley swung his torso around. Without the shield of his sunglasses, his pupils widened in surprise.
“Angel”, he whispered as he stood up from the chair.
“You were…”, Aziraphale tried to begin.
"An idiot. I know. I was supposed to be out of here before midnight, but those guys wouldn't decide on the prices, I had to haggle for over an hour! Crazy stuff, I should have warned you".
“Actually, I came to tell you that you were wonderful, my dear”, said Aziraphale, smiling.
He placed a hand on the demon's cheek, holding back a shudder when he found the warmth of the other's thin face waiting for his fingers.
“Aren't you mad at me?”.
“Why should I, we met after all. And from what I saw you even entertained some humans tonight”.
“Don't think for a moment that I put that whole show together for their entertainment. I'm just doing my job".
"Oh really? It seemed to me that you liked being there".
“Yes, I get paid. Money is a source of sin".
“Money, not music, and you sang”.
“I don't sing, angel, I charm humans, I seduce them, that's why I was there”.
“You did it because you like it”.
"No! I'm a slimy serpent! I lead them into temptation! I am a compulsive sin machine”.
“I can't believe you dress like that just to make some human sin”.
Crowley theatrically dropped his robe from his shoulders, opening his arms to let the angel admire every detail of the robe he was wearing.
“I must admit that I like this rag”, said the demon, feigning nonchalance as he pretended to remove a piece of lint from his sleeve.
He turned to let the angel look at the golden snake on his back once more.
“You certainly didn't put on the first thing you found in the closet”, Aziraphale laughed.
He lingered with his gaze on the pale skin, admiring the freckles.
"May I?", he asked then with a soft voice.
Crowley gently moved his curls away and passed them over his shoulder to leave his half-naked back exposed. Aziraphale let his fingertips timidly graze the metal scales, with the fear that the animal would come to life at any second and bite him.
“I'm not the only one who likes this dress”, Crowley said.
“I think it’s beautiful”.
The demon turned again, sitting in front of the mirror again to help with the brush.
“If you keep changing your hairstyles that often, I will end up not recognizing you anymore, my dear”, said Aziraphale, taking a copper ringlet between his fingers.
“Don't you like my hair?”, Crowley smirked.
“On the contrary, they are adorable”, smiled Aziraphale, “But they would be even prettier with a little adjustment”.
Stretching his fingers towards the bunch of roses, Aziraphale fished one out, broke the stem with a sharp blow and delicately placed it above Crowley's ear.
“Here”, murmured the angel, moving away to admire his work.
For a moment, as the flower petals touched his cheek, Crowley was tempted to smile.
“Shall we talk about it again then?” asked Aziraphale.
“About what, angel?”.
“Of the monthly meeting”.
"You cannot be serious".
"I am. And brutally, my dear”.
“After all that performance!”.
“At the risk of hearing you sing for another three centuries”.
"Oh yeah? Well, if you insist…”, said Crowley, clearing his throat and putting a hand to his diaphragm ready to start a song again.
Without losing his composure, Aziraphale closed his eyes: "Bless these roses, almighty Lo- “.
“LET'S TALK ABOUT IT!”, Crowley stopped him, already ready to throw away the rose in his hair.
The angel took the demon's wrist delicately, placing a soft kiss on it before returning the flower to its place, in the red bush of Crowley's hair. Laughing out loud at the sight of his colleague's astonished face, Aziraphale pulled his ever-present notebook from his pocket and showed off a dazzling smile: "When then?".