Chapter Text
It was Cats.
That was the one universal thing you could say about this show, and the universal amount of chicanery and shenanigans that came with it. And the one universal thing you could say about getting this job was that if anyone said they didn’t want it, they were absolutely lying. Everyone (well, not everyone, but most people) would say that they thought Cats was an insane show and they didn’t know how anyone made it through a contract alive. But give the weird little kid that all performers really are at heart a chance to dress up like a cat, dance around, and sing funny songs while getting paid for it? Not a chance: everyone was in.
Anthony Crowley would never have been one of these deniers. Oh no, he was openly elated about having been offered Rum Tum Tugger in the West End revival of Cats. After a targeted campaign by his agent and a gruelling audition process that had tested the outer limits of his actor-who-dances two-and-a-half-threat status, the call had come when he was deep in a Golden Girls marathon, three quarters of the way through a box of chocolate truffles, and quite sure he had missed his chance. The shrill screeching of his phone had caused him first to fall off the sofa in his scramble to reach it, then to leap on top of it, punching the air in triumph.
That’d been long enough ago that Crowley’d had time to do some digging, and find out a bit about who else was going to be involved in the revival. Of course, everyone knew that Tracy Potts was signed on as Grizabella— even if production had wanted to keep that a secret, it would have been useless. Tracy was almost as notorious for her complete inability to keep a secret as she was for her raw powerhouse of a voice. Naturally, then, her involvement was being used to promote the show, while the rest of the casting had, so far, been kept tightly under wraps. But theatre people talked, and loved nothing if not a good gossip.
Crowley had been able to discover a few other names by dint of “now they weren’t supposed to tell me but they did and I’m sworn to secrecy but I know you won’t tell anyone” sort of conversations. Anathema Device, an American who had exploded onto the London scene the previous season, he had been confidently informed would be taking the role of Bombalurina. Robert Shadwell, Tracy Potts’s eternal on-again off-again boyfriend, was heavily rumoured to be playing Gus, and Crowley thought that if there was ever a time for them to appear onstage together, this was it. And one of the more interesting things he had heard was that the role of Victoria had been filled by a complete unknown, who had apparently danced her way straight into the production teams’ hearts over all potential competition. There were plenty of other rumours, of course, but those were the most concrete. But now the day of the table read had come, and soon they would all be put to rest.
The rehearsal studio itself was a familiar sight, but jitters danced up and down Crowley’s spine as they always did when starting on a new job, and he fussed with his bag as he trotted through reception with a vague wave to the familiar faces behind the front desk. There would be time enough to catch up later: for now he made his way quickly through the building with its many faceless doors, behind which theatre magic and a lot of sweat brought shows to life. Finally, and with a deep breath that allowed his sleek self-confidence to settle back into place, Crowley pushed open the door outside which a small screen displayed: Cats.
A cacophony of sound greeted him, including several cries of welcome, and Crowley grinned broadly. He had carefully timed his arrival to not be too early, resulting in nervous hanging about, nor so close to the start time of the readthrough that he was likely to have to squeeze in behind the table after everyone else was already sat down, and as he’d anticipated the room was full of milling people. Several of them descended upon him at once: some members of stage management he’d worked with before; the costume designer, who immediately started rhapsodizing about how she was planning to incorporate his own hair into the design for Rum Tum Tugger’s ruff; and Anathema Device, whom he’d met at the opening night party for a production of Romeo & Juliet in which she was playing a brilliantly tortured Benvolio, he was having a fling with Tybalt, and they hit it off immediately. She was positively fizzing with excitement, and before Crowley could even start to circle the room, he found himself deep in discussion of spandex, wigs, and the complexities of painting one’s face to look like something resembling a cat.
He'd scarcely noticed more people filtering in and starting to settle around the table, when there came a firm grip on his elbow.
“Now now dear, don’t be monopolising our Curious Cat, I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time for that later if you both want.”
Tracy’s clawlike fingers wrapped Crowley’s arm in an affectionate squeeze and she gave Anathema a saucy wink that sent her stumbling over her own tongue. This in turn gave Tracy the opportunity to push a steaming mug at Crowley.
“Black like your soul, Tony m’dear.” It was his turn to receive one of those devastating winks, but Crowley knew Tracy just well enough not to be completely bowled over by it.
“You are a treasure, Miss Potts.” He took the mug in his grateful free hand and brought it to his lips, taking one deep and scalding sip. “Aaah! Now where are my manners, may I escort you to your seat, dear lady?” Tracy rolled her eyes at Crowley’s grandiose offer, and steered him around the table by the elbow, considering she had already scoped out the seating arrangements and Crowley had not the faintest clue of where his name might be. She deposited him near the centre of one long table before moving to her own chair a few seats down. Crowley set his mug next to the sharply folded cardstock reading Anthony Crowley – Rum Tum Tugger in bolded print, and barely restrained his squeal of glee at the binder waiting on the table before him, thick and new and clearly containing the book and score. He rifled through his bag for pencil and highlighters, vaguely aware of all the seats filling up and silence falling.
“Welcome, everyone!” A voice brought Crowley back to reality, and he smacked his hand down on top of the writing utensils he’d just dropped next to his binder to dampen their clatter. “I’m Deirdre Young, and as you all know, I’ll be directing this new production of Cats. I’m so thrilled to have you all—” Deirdre went on with her welcoming speech, but Crowley was too distracted to hear what came next. When he’d finally looked up to the opposite table, his gaze had landed not on Deirdre, but on the man sitting directly across from himself, and oh, it was him.
The name card read Aziraphale Fell – Mr. Mistoffelees, but Crowley hadn’t taken in the words at all. He was stuck on the glowing, cherubic face beneath the mop of white-blond curls, which was currently covered in a beatific smile that seemed meant only for himself. He was staring, and hadn’t quite the presence of mind to realise that Fell was staring right back. Somehow, despite frequently going up for the same parts, they’d never had the chance to meet properly, and if Crowley’s reaction to seeing the man up close and personal for the first time was anything to go by, he was absolutely ruined. His heart was pounding, his palms were damp with sweat, and he felt like he’d just done his first audition for Hal Prince. But now they were going around the tables introducing themselves, and he managed to rip his eyes away from the angel opposite him just in time to see a young person stand and say in a voice shaky with nerves,
“Erm, hello! I’m Muriel, and I’ll be playing Victoria.”
Crowley shot Muriel an encouraging smile, and then before he knew it, it was his turn.
“Anthony Crowley,” he said, managing to re-apply a layer of debonair devil-may-care to his attitude as he stood, flicking the tousled bright-copper flop out of his eyes, “Crowley for short, Rum Tum Tugger. Looking forward to working with you all.” A wide smile full of very bright teeth flashed at Crowley from across the table as Aziraphale nodded to him in greeting, crinkles gathering around his eyes. Something flipped over in Crowley’s stomach. With some effort, he merely smiled back, then looked down the table as the introductions continued.
But, of course, they eventually made their way around until it was Fell’s turn. He stood brightly, tugging down the aged and old-fashioned beige waistcoat that seemed utterly ridiculous and perfect for him at the same time.
“Hello everyone, I’m so thrilled to see a group of familiar and brand new faces! I’m Aziraphale Fell, and I’ll be playing the magical Mister Mistoffelees.” Crowley could hear the barely-restrained jazz hands in Fell’s voice and scarcely contained his laugh. Then the angelic man had the audacity to wink at him as he sat down. Anathema was next, and Crowley allowed his thoughts to linger on Aziraphale as she introduced herself. Of course he was playing Mistoffelees. Where Crowley was an actor-who-dances, Aziraphale was a dancer-who-acts, and they’d both become singers somewhere along the way. True triple-threats were rare, and usually found themselves making a better living than most everybody else by moving from ensemble to ensemble, swinging in and out of shows, and being generally indispensable.
No, where Crowley had bluffed his way through early dance calls on charisma and slinky hips, Aziraphale had dazzled with perfect technique surpassed only by passion. And where Aziraphale had stumbled over lines and struggled to get off book for callbacks, Crowley had delivered Olivier-worthy performances is in dingy rented studios, launching him from unknown to leading man. They were both tenors, Crowley more of a baritenor, and both had a scintillating something sinful they could turn on when the occasion required.
And most importantly, Crowley was absolutely, hopelessly, stupidly, completely gone on Aziraphale Fell.