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London, 1941
Crowley drove in silence and tried his damnest not to watch his angel from the corner of his eye. Beside him in the Bentley, Aziraphale sat with his rescued prophecy books clutched to his chest with a wistful smile on his face. It was remarkable seeing him bathed in the warm light from the blitz and in such a strange circumstance. And the way he held the books so tightly yet tenderly spoke volumes that didn’t need words. The silence was comfortable; it wasn’t the first extended silence they shared and likely wasn’t to be the last, but in this moment Crowley was happy to enjoy it.
As he approached Soho, he decided he might break the silence by turning on the radio, and as he did so, the reedy music of a fluttering clarinet drifted into the space between them. When the voice broke through the musical underpinning, Crowley watched as Aziraphale’s face further lit up as he turned his bright blue eyes to the radio dial with delight.
Feeling feisty, Crowley smirked. “Should I find something else to listen to, angel?”
“Don’t you dare,” Aziraphale answered quickly as he turned to look at Crowley, recognising the obvious tease and responding in earnest. “No, this song is lovely. Have you heard it? The singer is an American called Glenn Miller.” He enunciated the name as if it was the first words he’d learned in a language he wasn’t yet fluent in. He sighed then as he settled back in his seat and started to sing along with the words and got a childlike gleam in his eyes as he looked directly at Crowley. “There were angels dining at the Ritz, and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square…”
Crowley chuckled. “Did you have anything to do with that?”
“With what?” Aziraphale echoed, and he didn’t seem to follow where his demon was going.
“Angels? At the Ritz?”
“Oh no, certainly not my dear,” Aziraphale answered as he loosened his grip ever so slightly on the rescued prophecy books he still held fast to his chest. “No, though it certainly came as a surprise the first time I heard it. Mark it down as one of those rare moments of serendipity.” And he smiled again as he turned his gaze once more to the window and decided not to sing along, but to hum instead.
Crowley couldn’t hold back the smile that mirrored his angel’s as he watched him soak up the joy that came with such a simple pleasure of a song. He wasn’t totally convinced that Aziraphale had nothing to do with the inspiration behind the song, but he would allow him to have his secret for the moment. Aziraphale kept time by swaying lightly to the melody and when the song finally came to its natural conclusion, the angel gave a contented sigh. “Yes, it is quite lovely after all. It is unfortunate how all this business has affected the atmosphere at the Ritz. I could rather go for a nightcap in the downstairs bar.”
“Msure we’ll find an excuse to go soon,” Crowley responded. “Not really your kind of song though, is it? Don’t you normally go in for…Tchaikovsky? Or who’s that young pianist, Shostakovich? You like those Russians.” Then adding, just to get under his skin, “who have a knack for turning out to be ours.”
“Well, perhaps, but then again, I do recall someone once saying that the devil had all the best music, and who am I to disagree?” Aziraphale was in a playful mood and as the next song started up - a piece by Jimmy Dorsey and his orchestra - he turned the dial down to return the Bentley to silence once more. “You must understand that it's the poetry behind the song, Crowley. For example, did you know that the nightingale symbolises love and lovers in literature throughout millenia? For instance, there is this fascinating Middle English poem…”
As Aziraphale went into his long explication about the significance of the nightingale, all Crowley could do was smile and nod, and offer the occasional “is that so, angel?” and “ssssnot really my thing.” But Aziraphale only seemed to half hear the comments as he launched himself fully into a complete history of the nightingale in lyric poetry, from England to Persia.
When he finished, they had already been parked in front of the bookshop for a good 20 minutes and it was clear Aziraphale hadn’t realised that was the case. “Oh dear,” the angel muttered. “Have we been here long?”
“Not really,” Crowley offered, having given the lecture his undivided attention since parking as he had no reason to keep his eyes on the road.
“But my point is,” Aziraphale went on, “that it really is very romantic, don’t you think?”
“What, the song or the bird?” Crowley joked as he pulled his gaze away to look at the dark building to his right trying to feign disinterest. The reality was that, when Aziraphale felt deeply about something and could go on talking about it for hours on end, he was happy enough just to listen to him. Even if it was something that held no interest for him at all. Even if he didn’t understand anything the angel was saying. To see him so absolutely giddy about something that he felt passionate about was more than sufficient for Crowley to care, and so in this instance, despite not having felt any real attraction to this melody or the vocals, he cared for Aziraphale’s sake, and he determined that he would make a mental note of the song for the future.
Even Bentley seemed to understand because as Crowley thought about it, the radio turned on of its own accord and started to play the same song once more. However something about this second rendition carried a different weight to it. Aziraphale was not singing this time, and both kept their eyes forward, not meeting the other’s gaze. The song ran its full course, and upon ending, Crowley quickly reached over to turn it off so Bentley didn’t get any more bright ideas.
After a momentary silence, Aziraphale was the one to break it by clearing his throat. “Shall we go inside then?” he asked, and when Crowley turned to meet his gaze once more, the angel was staring at him with the biggest, brightest blue eyes filled with something like hope. It caused an uncomfortable flutter to dance in his corporation and he sputtered a bit before looking back at the bookshop.
“Best not,” he responded cautiously and tried not to show how absolutely devastating it was to rebuff the request, but it had after all been a rather eventful night. He couldn’t bring himself to remind the angel that he had actually injured his corporation by being on hallowed ground in the first place. He didn’t need to dampen the mood, and he couldn’t hide his pain for much longer (though he had done quite a show of keeping it together up until this point).
“Are you absolutely sure?” Aziraphale pressed. “I don’t imagine either of us have to worry about our sides. At least not now.”
“Nah, you go on angel,” Crowley replied and gestured to the passenger door, which popped open and effectively put an end to the conversation, as it was almost as blunt as tossing him out.
“Oh. Yes, quite right,” the angel replied in a lower voice, and Crowley could tell that the angel was disheartened by the response. “Only, if you change your mind, you can use your key? You know you’re always welcome, Crowley.”
“Maybe in th’morning,” Crowley turned to look back at Aziraphale and could see the disappointment he had already heard in his voice.
“Of course,” Aziraphale acknowledged as he let himself out of the Bentley. “Though it would save on petrol-”
“Good night, angel,” Crowley was losing his resolve and had to look away.
Aziraphale sighed and shut the car door behind him. “Good night, Crowley,” he spoke softly, low enough that Crowley only just heard him over the staggering, deafening silence his absence left behind.
London, 2023
How could things have gone so awry? Crowley had at last come to terms with his millenia long feelings and determined to speak what had long gone unsaid, only to watch the opportunity abruptly vanish. Being vulnerable was never his forte, and truth be told it was something he didn’t allow himself to experience if he could help it. Still, he had allowed himself to, just this once, in the foolish hope that it might have landed properly.
It hadn’t. It hadn’t landed at all.
There was a brief moment where he watched his angel turn and lock eyes with him - those soft blue eyes that were light and bright and beautiful, though sad - that he thought perhaps, just perhaps he wouldn’t walk away from him and leave him for heaven. He couldn’t fathom it. After all, they both knew how toxic it was. This wasn’t something new. They had discussed it many times before. Heaven had tried to execute him. So what had changed? None of it made sense.
Aziraphale maintained the gaze for what was only a fleeting moment, but when he turned and disappeared behind the Metatron, well, that was it really. No more Ritz. No more Nightingales. No more us. There was only a former demon, his Bentley, and an empty bookshop.
It seemed the only solution was to drive and get away from the place that had been a safe haven and home for him for so long. Without his angel there it seemed hollow now. So he opened the door and sat inside, hesitating for a moment before turning the key over and hearing the soft pur of the engine as Bentley came to life. The radio sputtered, then the bittersweet notes of “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square” crackled through the speakers.
Time stopped as the smooth melody poured over him. No, not this song. Not now.
It wasn’t him. Nor was it Bentley; he would have known. The Bentley was fond of his angel, after all, and she had made it known more than once. Sometimes with songs laden with innuendo. Sometimes with songs that were playful and silly. Several times, with this very song. But not this time. No, this was something else. A miracle.
Yes. A miracle. It was a message from Aziraphale. It had to be.
The realization struck him with the same bitterness that the angel’s words had in the bookshop. Wounding him further. He had said as much.
Listen. Do you hear that?
I don’t hear anything.
That’s the point. No nightingales.
He had spoken the words with bitterness and regret. Because Crowley knew exactly what he was saying, and so did Aziraphale. That song playing now, in this moment, just seemed like salt on a very fresh wound indeed. Crowley had been ready to confess his love, and Aziraphale had gone to heaven instead.
A nightingale sang in Berkley square…
Oh angel, he thought to himself as he reached across the dashboard and turned the radio off. It's too late for that.
Silence once again surrounded him and he was left with nothing but his thoughts. He’d have turned to other music to occupy his lonely mind, but after that tune had bored its way into what was left of his broken heart, he didn’t want to listen to anything. It was with this emptiness that he pulled away from Whickber Street slowly and pensively, quite unlike his usual demeanor behind the wheel. All he could continue to do was ask himself why. The sights of London passed by in a blur as he tried not to consider the bruised feel of his lips from the desperate kiss he’d used as a last ditch effort to convince his angel to stay with him.
Part of him regretted that too, if he was being fully honest with himself. It wasn’t exactly how he had wanted their first kiss to go. That was something he had imagined countless times over the years of their friendship, though he had never felt like it was the right time. He had pondered ways to approach it that were more suited to his angel - less forceful, more enticing. But in those final moments in the shop he had felt hopelessly lonely in a way he hadn’t felt in millenia. As if the person he was - the demon he was - wasn’t actually good enough for Aziraphale. And that was a hard pill to swallow.
As he drove and replayed the argument over and over in his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder what his angel was doing now, in the elevator upwards, with the Metatron beside him, abandoning him and his bookshop and everything that had mattered to him for all this time. How could it have been that he just…didn’t know Aziraphale at all?
Minutes turned to hours and he wasn’t sure how long he drove, taking a trip down the M25 for nostalgia’s sake, but every time he tried to drive further out of London to someplace well and truly forgotten (Dartmoor seemed like a reasonable enough option), he would find that he was once again circling the exit that would take him back to Whickber Street, and the bookshop that had gradually become a second home. A first home, really, since he’d lost his flat.
So it was that he returned after dusk had fallen, pulling to park the Bentley in front of Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, and sat behind the steering wheel, watching through the windows of AZ Fell & Co for any signs of life inside.
It appeared dark.
He couldn’t be certain if Muriel was inside, and had the momentary image of them sitting alone in the middle of the shop in the pitch black, uncertain if this was something normal for humans, and he almost cracked a smile. But a quick glance into the coffee shop revealed that they were, in fact, sitting inside with an undrunk cup of coffee sitting in front of them, nose buried in a book.
That was a relief. Taking a deep breath, he tapped on the steering wheel as he screwed up the courage to do what he wanted. He stepped out of the vehicle with a passive shuffle across the street, shoulders bent, gait hardly the jaunting swagger he typically carried himself with. The community was quiet this time of night, only a few pedestrians on their way home (or perhaps to visit the ladies of the enterprising Mrs. Sandwich) but none that paid him any mind as he took out his key to the shop and let himself in quietly.
Once inside he waved his hand gently, illuminating the shop with the warm honeyed glow that typically filled the interior and glanced around, half expecting some of the surroundings to have changed since his angel left. It didn’t seem right that it should look exactly the same as he’d left it, knowing that Aziraphale was gone.
Taking a breath, he strode over to the plush armchair that sat exactly where he’d last placed it in front of Aziraphale’s desk and all but collapsed into it, sending the antique backwards a few inches under his weight. Much to Crowley’s surprise, something remarkable happened. He heard the record player sputter and crackle as the needle fell down of its own accord, and then there it was. Again. That same song that had played in the Bentley.
That certain night, the night we met, there was magic abroad in the air. There were angels dining -
“Mmph!” he groaned in frustration. Before the music had time to finish the eponymous phrase, Crowley had already sprung to his feet and lifted the arm roughly off the record, which despite playing what it had been only moments ago was, according to its label, Shostakovich’s 5th symphony performed by the New York Philharmonic. It took some self control to keep him from throwing the record across the room, but he was able to resist the urge as he removed his sunglasses and tucked them into his jacket pocket, casting furtive glances around the empty bookshop.
“Too little, too late angel,” he protested, knowing full well that he was nowhere to be seen, and unlikely to hear him. “Wish you’d put as much of an effort into actually…talking to me earlier!” and he strode back over to the arm chair, turned it roughly so it was now facing the desk, and once again collapsed into it before laying with his head on his arms with an endless sigh that petered off into a low growl. “Not even your own idea anyway. Making the record play that. Idiot,” he grumbled, now more to himself than to the idea of Aziraphale trying to communicate with him now, using that song to further wound him.
It was adding insult to injury. If it was supposed to help Crowley better accept things after their argument, it was having the opposite effect.
Sitting back up, he took another deep breath and let his eyes scan the desk and its scattered contents. Books were stacked on top of each other on the right hand side, and what appeared to be the angel’s private journal was in the center, under several pieces of paper that were each scrolled with various notes regarding the week's events. Notes about the shopkeepers association meeting, lots of broken and grammatically questionable sentences in French, and different ideas gleaned from Jane Austin regarding balls and romance and Satan knows what else. There was also an older tome, probably 30 years or more, that was tucked sideways alongside the journal that appeared to be self-published, or at the very least an earlier manuscript of a subsequent work, marked with a bold silk ribbon. All items that pointed to the fact that, up until this afternoon, Aziraphale had no intention of venturing outside of this little community that had grown up around his bookshop over the past two hundred years.
Then his eyes narrowed as he saw what he was fairly confident was his name, poking out towards the margin of a sheet of paper towards the bottom of the stack of papers written in Aziraphale’s flowing cursive. Pulling it out and letting the other papers stay where they landed around him on the floor, he scanned the slanting script with furrowed brow. It had a lot of scrawled notes regarding hor d'oeuvres, where and when to pick up fresh fruits for a fruit tower, the list of confirmed musicians and a reminder to brush up on regency country dances, but at the bottom was the note that had caught his attention that included his name.
Note to self: after the ball discuss the topic of Crowley properly moving into our bookshop.
Our bookshop. Not my. Not the. Our.
He ran his thumb across the paper and could feel a deep engraving in the cotton fibre indicating there was more written on the back. Flipping the paper over in his hand, the slanting script continued;
If he should reject, best find a way to make it appear to be for own benefit since he will be more willing to do so for me than allow me to do something for him.
He slammed the piece of paper back on the desk and groaned a low, frustrated sound. What was he supposed to glean from this? Aziraphale had been trying to woo him as much as he’d been trying to bring Maggie and Nina together? Was that…had that been part of the point all along?
The more he thought about it, the more he could see exactly that in the previous night’s events. He could see now that Aziraphale had been, well, awkwardly himself. Completely oblivious to any dangers outside the bookshop because he was so focused on what was going on inside the bookshop. A fancy ball with the intention of bringing their human companions together, but with an additional goal - to woo a former demon. And what better way for him to woo someone than like he was in a regency novel. He was, after all, effectively Anne Elliot.
But no. No, that didn’t make any sense. If his intention all along had been to broach the topic of Crowley moving in, then why -
“Oh good! You’re back! I was hoping you’d come back.” The light and sugary sweet of Muriel pulled Crowley’s attention to the shop entrance and he pulled his sunglasses out of his breast pocket, putting them on his face and covering his distinctive yellow eyes. “Only I didn’t want to mess up so soon. In fact I thought I messed up before it even started.”
“Hello, Muriel,” Crowley drawled in response as he slid the chair so it was once again facing the entrance, crossing his long legs as he leaned back as nonchalantly as he was able to in the chair. “Mess what up?”
“Oh. Yes, of course. You wouldn’t know because you weren’t here.” They inclined their head thoughtfully, looking at Crowley with wide eyed innocence that reminded him very much of his angel in a lot of ways. The same naivete he’d seen in the garden millenia ago, and the same tender heart. “Only…well, he asked me to look after you, see, and when I realised you’d already left -”
“What? Look after me?” Crowley asked, looking askance though his dubious gaze was hidden behind the dark sunglasses. “Who?”
“Aziraphale,” Muriel responded matter of factly as if it was the most straightforward thing in the world, though they appeared flustered and went on, “I mean, the supreme archangel Aziraphale.” They smiled brightly and crossed over to sit opposite him on the couch nearest facing him, and adjusted their very conspicuous constable's uniform. “He told me to give you a message.” They paused again and their expression shifted to one of confusion. “Oh crumbs, and I never got it. When I looked outside and saw your…what do you call it…car! I saw it was missing, and I believe I dropped the phone.”
Oh. Reality started to catch up with Crowley as he began replaying that dreaded conversation again in his mind. Oh…
His expression must have betrayed every thought that started to pour through his mind because Muriel looked concerned as they gazed at him. “Oh dear. I see I have made a terrible error. Though I am sure he will call again! And then I can give you the message properly! Or he can give it to you himself.” And they smiled as they said this, though clearly they felt there was cause for concern.
They opened their mouth to say more but Crowley held up a hand to silence them as he suddenly poured over every word, every gesture, every expression and then he understood. Of course. Of COURSE. He now saw each fleeting glance through the window into the street, the hand wringing, the nervous laughter, the absolute absurdity of it all.
Aziraphale really was dreadful at lying when it came to Crowley - they had known each other far too long for either to completely deceive the other - but just this once he had actually fallen for it because he was so caught up in trying to confess his feelings. 6,000 years of missed opportunities, constantly looking over their shoulders, holding back for fear of reprisals, and the longing had clouded his judgement. Aziraphale hadn’t wanted him to come with him to heaven at all. He had been trying to tell Crowley without actually telling him that something was wrong. And he’d completely missed it.
No, something else had been happening. The Metatron telling Aziraphale that he was a leader, and honest, and that he didn’t just tell people what they wanted to hear? As much as he loved his angel, he knew that he was rarely any of those things. He went along with heaven as far as he could, just as much as Crowley went along with hell as far as he could. He lied, even to God. Especially to God. And he often extended that silver tongue of his to speak untruths to people to spare their feelings. Which was exactly the same as telling people what they wanted (or needed) to hear.
Oh you idiot, he thought to himself as he threw himself backward in the chair with a loud groan. All of it had been there, right in front of him. And now Aziraphale was in heaven, and he was here, wishing he could have a do over.
As he finally sat up and looked back at Muriel and saw that their mouth was still open as it had been when he silenced them, he couldn’t help but chuckle in the back of his throat. He sat forward with his hands on his knees and gestured for them to continue. Muriel closed their mouth and opened it again, as if trying to bring moisture back having experienced the dryness that came with leaving their mouth open for the first time. And given their naivete, it likely was. “G’on Muriel,” he ventured, his posture more subdued and his tone fallen.
“I would, only I’ve rather forgotten what I was going to say,” they quipped with a shrug. “You seemed upset though, have I said something wrong? I have learned from what I’ve read in these books that sometimes people say things they shouldn’t.”
“No, you haven’t said anything wrong, Muriel,” he responded, his voice somewhat distant as he let his eyes scan the bookshop and hoped that a reconciliation was not so far away from him as it had felt not so many hours ago. “Truth is you said….’xactly what I needed to hear.”
“Really?!” Their eyes brightened and their smile widened. “I’m so glad!”
Crowley slowly got up then and walked back over to the record player and glanced down at it as he allowed his thoughts to drift back to the moment it had played when he sat down in the bookshop. It was scratched from how he’d lifted the arm, and he took a moment to wave his hand over it, the tiniest miracle repairing the shining black surface to better than mint condition. Then he replaced the arm where it had been before, just on the edge of the 45, and took a step back and watched it to see if his angel’s miracle that he suspected had been done before he entered the elevator to heaven might still be in play.
For a moment, nothing happened. Muriel was watching him in confusion, but then suddenly just as it had before, the record started to spin and a sputtering sound filled the bookshop, drifting over the stacks and around them.
That certain night, the night we met, there was magic abroad in the air. There were angels dining at the Ritz, and a nightingale sang in Berkley square
“What is that?” Muriel queried, eyes wide as they watched the record player with such interest as if they had just experienced a miracle for the first time. “Is that music?”
“Mmm,” Crowley nodded and in his mind’s eye he could see the night his angel introduced him to this song, now more nostalgic and tender as he considered it - the way the light of the blitz illuminated him as he gazed out the window, his books clutched to his chest and his body swaying to the music - and Crowley smiled.
“I’ve never heard music like this before,” Muriel spoke honestly as they continued to listen curiously. “They don’t have music like this in heaven.”
“Nah, course not,” Crowley answered as he came back to sit in the arm chair opposite her. “One of the nice things about earth is that there’s a lot of music. Better than anything heaven’s got. Humans have a way with music.”
Muriel got up and walked over to the record player, circling it and gazing down at the spinning record as if trying to understand the mechanics behind it and their eyes followed it in a circle until it appeared they staggered back and had to brace themselves again one of the bookshelves lining the back wall. “And do all nightingales sing like this?”
Crowley couldn’t help it and actually laughed - though the sound seemed to startle Muriel and he shook his head. “S’not the nightingale singing. The nightingale is just…a symbol.”
And he found that he still remembered every detail he’d been told about what the nightingale symbolised throughout millenia, just as Aziraphale had explained to him in 1941. He told them about the Middle English, and Urdu, and high middle French poems that all used the nightingale to symbolise the lover and the beloved. And he told them about the song and what it meant during wartime London, and how the promise of a future with one's love was never guaranteed because of the reality of the blitz. When he finished, he could see that Muriel was absolutely awe struck and it occurred to him now why Aziraphale had chosen this song as his message. Not just as a callback to that night in 1941, but because it was so much more than that.
It was a promise. That even between hell’s and heaven’s toxicity, and the very potential for “all of us against all of them,” there was one constant that would never change.
They were on their own side. Even if, for now, they had gone separate ways, they were only ever on their own side. And that was enough.