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There is no stifling the horrified gasp that escapes Aziraphale’s mouth when he opens the blinds and the afternoon sun spills into the bookshop.
Aghast, he scans the… well, the crowd gathered on the other side of the window, and his unnecessary heart misses several beats, sending him spiralling into a panic.
He is suddenly overcome by a gut-wrenching, never ending blur of apocalyptic, gruelling images. Grubby hands carelessly handling his precious first editions, noses pushing against his pristine glass cabinets, people mindlessly chatting and milling around his bookshelves enquiring about misprinted bibles.
It’s awful. It’s unconscionable. It’s the end of the world.
Breathless, overwhelmed and cold all over, Aziraphale barely registers the blasphemy of his own thoughts – and may God forgive him for that – before crouching down to hide from greedy eyes and disrespectful customers. If not in their behaviour, surely in their numbers.
Eyes firmly closed, he takes a deep, calming breath, then one more, then another, willing his heart to stop its erratic beating and missing the days when there weren’t oodles of humans to avoid at all times.
It takes more focus than usual, shaken as he is, but he gets there eventually.
When he’s quite sure he has everything under control, he opens his eyes, stands up and straightens his waistcoat with a firm tug.
These may be unprecedented circumstances, but if there’s one thing Aziraphale never gets tired of, one thing he proudly excels at, that is warding off unwanted customers (also known as “all customers”).
It can’t be worse than that evening he forgot to close the door, too engrossed in the novel he was reading to care for the time, and a stag party crashed into the shop, asking to be shown to the private rooms and refusing to leave until Aziraphale had brought them up to his very dusty, very boring flat. Or that other time a suspicious individual wandered in requesting to see his Buggre All Bible, which made for a very uncomfortable back and forth until Aziraphale realised with a not insignificant amount of relief that the man wasn’t talking about his misprinted bible at all. Misunderstandings all cleared up, he then directed the gentleman to another shop further down the road.
You can do this, he tells himself. Chin up, dear fellow.
He bravely marches to the front door, a polite smile already on his lips and multiple passive-aggressive remarks ready to be deployed on the tip of his tongue.
He opens the door, takes a deep breath and…
…sees that no one in the crowd is paying any attention to him. Or the shop. Only two girls barely glance in his direction, giving him a faint smile before resuming their excited talk.
And really, now that he really looks at it, Aziraphale can see that it’s not a crowd at all, but rather an orderly queue snaking up the entire sidewalk and ending right in front of Margareth’s record shop. It’s an eclectic, colourful mix of young people, ranging from very young to slightly less young (Aziraphale is terrible at judging people’s ages; besides, everyone is young when you’re six thousand years old and counting), of high-waisted flared jeans, tight shirts and plunging necklines.
He observes men and women alike with puzzled interest, noticing the big crimson squares some of them are holding in their hands or in their bags.
It’s a music album, Aziraphale realises. With a deep red cover and some kind of pattern he can’t really make out from the front stoop.
Relief gives way to curiosity, and he soon finds himself closing up the shop and moving along the queue to reach Margareth’s door. Miraculously, no one seems to be bothered by the elegantly dressed gentleman skipping the line, not even the burly man standing guard by the entrance and throwing menacing glares every time someone gets too overexcited.
As soon as Aziraphale steps into the shop, Margareth’s head whips towards him with a chastising look on her face, quickly replaced by recognition and a warm, genuine smile.
“Mr. Fell!”
“Hello, Margareth, dear.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she greets him in a swish of colourful skirts, any question about how Aziraphale got past security conveniently forgotten.
“Oh, I was just passing by when I noticed the queue outside. And, well, I’m afraid curiosity got the better of me.”
Margareth rounds the counter, arms open, and gives a little shimmy. “It’s a signing event!” she says in a sing-song voice, clearly proud of her achievement. The Small Backroom hasn’t been open very long, but it seems to be doing quite well. If you think that a shop “doing well” means lots of customers buying your stuff, of course. “We rearranged your listening corner for the occasion, I hope you don’t mind. Your armchair and antique turntable are safe and sound in the backroom, Mr. Fell. My Maggie has seen to that.”
“Isn’t that exciting!” Aziraphale politely remarks, finally taking in the shop with its familiar orange walls and rows upon rows of records. It’s not his bookshop, but it’s cosy (today notwithstanding) and he’s really starting to like it here.
And, sure enough, the turntable and the armchair he usually sits in to listen to the ‘78s Margareth obtains for him are nowhere to be seen, replaced by a red plastic table and five mismatched chairs. He recognises two from the tea room across the street. On the table, there’s a pitcher of water, five glasses and a pile of the same crimson LPs Aziraphale saw scattered throughout the line outside.
“So you know the band?” Margareth asks gleefully, having mistaken his feigned enthusiasm for recognition.
“I’m afraid I didn’t quite get their name,” Aziraphale admits.
“It’s Healthy Beer!” shouts a high-pitched voice in a somewhat peculiar accent, as a blonde head jumps out from behind the counter.
“Hello, Maggie.” Aziraphale greets Margareth’s niece with a warm yet uncomfortable smile.
It’s his gut reaction every time he sees a child, the humans he personally classifies as too young. Maggie has make-up haphazardly smeared all over her face, and Aziraphale has to sternly remind himself that they’re not in the bookshop and that his books are quite safe.
“I’ve never heard of Healthy Beer,” he says apologetically. “Though it’s true that beer can be healthy if drunk in moderation. There was this monk I knew once…” he babbles on and, if it wasn’t for their reaction, he would gladly go off on a tangent about mediaeval remedies.
But Margareth bursts out laughing and Maggie is the picture of scorned indignation.
“It’s LTBR, not Healthy Beer,” young Maggie remarks with barely concealed disdain. “As in L-T-B-R. Stands for Let There Be Rock.”
“Oh, I see. Very…” Aziraphale struggles for something to say only to come up with a disappointing: “Biblical.”
“Biblical is the way some of the people out there would like to know their frontman, if you know what I mean,” Margareth quips in a low voice, so that only Aziraphale can hear.
“Oh, I certainly do,” he says matter-of-factly. Why, some would even say that this is precisely his area of expertise. “Is it a religious band then? I didn’t know they could be so popular.” Are choirs finally making a comeback?
If that’s the case, a certain demon owes him a certain amount of pounds. Though he may need to adjust for inflation, it was the 1810s after all…
Margareth arches an eyebrow. “No…? It’s a rock band,” she says, sending a shiver down Aziraphale’s spine, all thoughts of bets and choirs promptly forgotten.
“You should definitely check them out,” Maggie insists. “They’re sooooo good! I can’t believe you’ve never listened to Tempting Angels!”
Aziraphale feels himself blushing before he can even think of getting a hold of himself. “W-well, that’s just factually incorrect,” he says, offended despite his best intentions and looking to Margareth for help.
“So you have listened to it?” Maggie asks.
“Not at all,” Aziraphale rushes to clarify. “What I meant to say is that angels cannot be tempted.”
Maggie shoots him an impish smile and it’s like she’s staring into his very soul. “Not according to Tony. Some of us actually have a theory that Angel is a nickname for his secret girlfriend.”
“That’s quite enough of that, young lady. Behave or I’ll send you back to your mother. If she knew I let you wear make-up and hang around with rockstars, I’d never hear the end of it.” Margareth swoops in to rescue Aziraphale, who is currently choking on his own saliva and wondering if he knows any singers named Tony. “They’re going to be here soon, Mr. Fell. I expect there’s going to be quite the kerfuffle, so if you want to pop out, you better do it now bef–”
A piercing scream cuts her off and her cheery expression falters. She collects herself with a deep breath and makes a valiant attempt to rein in her nerves.
“Well, too late for that. It’s go time. Maggie, put the record on.” Then, to Aziraphale: “You better make yourself comfortable, Mr. Fell. Unless you feel like braving the crowd outside, I’m afraid you’re going to be here a while.”
“Oh, dear,” it’s the only thing he gets to say before a harried-looking woman in a rumpled taupe suit steps into the shop, the excited screams from the people outside almost deafening now that the door is open.
“Are you ready for us?” she asks Margareth with a pleading look on her face.
“Yes! Yes, of course! Send them in!”
The woman disappears outside, the guard moving to hold the door open while the queue turns into a swarming mess of outreached hands and people jumping up and down in an attempt to get closer to something. Or someone.
Aziraphale doesn’t know what to expect, and to be quite honest with himself, he doesn’t even care, curiosity having already been replaced by sheer annoyance. The excited shrieks have turned into something awfully resembling howls and the last thing he wants to do with his afternoon is stare at a wretched rock band signing records for dreamy-eyed admirers.
Music is now playing in the background and Aziraphale, who has spent millennia reporting to Gabriel and has become quite adept at blocking out irritating noises, wouldn’t even notice it if the lyrics didn’t catch his attention straight away.
Well I met her in the garden
Underneath that old apple tree
Sitting with a handful of flowers
Looking as cool as can be
And that voice… it stirs something in him. It sounds like… like… but no, that would be ridiculous.
He frowns, trying to ignore the familiar feeling tugging at his insides, and he can’t help but reach the table waiting for the band to snatch one of the scarlet albums for closer inspection.
There’s a foreign noise coming out of his mouth when he takes in the artwork, which depicts a tangle of snakes coiled around an outlined apple right at the centre. He quickly turns the record on the other side to pore over the tracklist, and he regrets it immediately.
The titles knock the wind right out of him.
Demon Fire… Shot Down In Flames… Tempting Angels (despicable!)… Hell’s Bells… Sin City (Rome?)… Hell Ain’t a Bad Place To Be (which is a lie if he ever heard one)... Highway to Hell … Rock and Roll Ain’t Noise Pollution (debatable), Rock N Roll Train (could be worse, could be a car or, God forbid, a motorbike)... Night in Wales …
Ignoring the wild screaming outside, Aziraphale opens the album with the same horrified fascination one would have for a crowd standing outside a bookshop. The lyrics are all written inside. He skims them, which does nothing for his blood pressure.
She had the face of an angel
Smiling with sin
A body of Venus with arms
Angels, it goes without saying, do not smile with sin (though Gabriel’s smile could tempt an angel to not-so-vaguely entertain the possibility of committing a wide variety of nefarious acts), and the line about Venus is just clunky.
One hot angel
One cool devil
Your mind on the fantasy
Living on the ecstasy
This one makes a furious blush rise to his cheeks and betrayal churn in his stomach – and it’s the one about the train! He likes trains! What has the world come to if you can’t even trust a train anymore?
At this point, Aziraphale knows the situation can only get worse, but he doesn’t seem to be able to stop his eyes from going over the rest of the lyrics.
Sin City wasn't made for you
Angels like you
At least they got one thing right. Angels and sin do not go together. That’s just common sense, really. Though he didn’t mind Rome all that much. It wasn’t that bad if you ignored all the backstabbing and people killing each other for entertainment.
But, alas, his relief is short lived.
Wild beast, I'll make you mine
Taste your kiss, sweet lips divine
She got moves, drips of sweat
She got eyes of blue, body curves
'n legs that'll break your nerves
He startles, as if the lyrics had just punched him in the face. He quickly closes the album as he would a novel after a ridiculous plot twist, heart pounding in his chest and heat flaming in his face, neck and ears.
Oh, if it wasn’t for that voice singing in the background, somehow overpowering the screaming fans in Aziraphale’s ears, he would definitely be planning to have some choice words with the demon behind these… these… hellish songs.
Honestly, Aziraphale is so affronted by the very unwelcome images flashing through his head, that he even finds himself thinking about purchasing the album to listen to the whole thing and read all the lyrics without haste. Just so he can be properly outraged.
He likes to be thorough.
Well, sometimes, at least.
But before he can put his plan into action or make the conscious decision to miracle himself back to the safety of the bookshop, there is a flurry of movement behind him and that tugging feeling in his stomach suddenly intensifies.
His body moves before his brain can catch up, and though Aziraphale would later deny it, he scurries behind the beaded curtain that separates the shop from the backroom, almost toppling over his trusty armchair.
When his faculties do come back to him, it’s only to unhelpfully point out that this is the second time he gave in to the urge to hide himself in less than twenty minutes.
The furious blush has practically taken up residence on his face and Aziraphale is awfully convinced that his ears are about to melt off his head or something equally grim.
He wouldn’t be hiding at all if it wasn’t for… well. Best not to think about certain events.
In fact, he should really go back to the bookshop and take his mind off of this unpleasant business, but the red square he’s still holding to his chest somehow keeps him rooted to the spot.
He peers through the clinking, multicoloured beads, spying the newcomers and their movements.
A gangly looking man with long black hair sidles up to Margareth and kisses her hand in a surprisingly gallant manner before moving to sit in one of the empty chairs behind the table just a few feet away from Aziraphale’s hiding place. He is quickly followed by a petite woman who seems bored out of her mind, and two more people of unspecified gender who are so alike they might as well be twins.
Aziraphale takes his time studying their clothes and appearance because, deep down, he already knows that he’s only delaying the inevitable and that something is about to slap him in the face – only figuratively, he hopes. The situation is already mortifying enough as it is, he could do without smiting someone by mistake.
Still, even if he had an inkling of what is actually behind this infernal band, not even in his wildest, most feverish dreams he could have pictured the half-naked Crowley sauntering into the shop accompanied by a cacophony of excited shrieks from the crowd raring to be let in.
Aziraphale hears a whine and it takes him a second to realise it came out of him. He stops breathing altogether, lest more embarrassing, very unangelic sounds escape him, and the temperature in the cramped little backroom suddenly goes several degrees warmer.
Before he knows it, he’s blushing and bumbling to himself at the same time, torn between indignation and pure, unadulterated shock.
It’s been twelve years since Crowley and Aziraphale last saw each other.
Twelve years since Aziraphale materialised into the Bentley with a tartan thermos in hand and an almost paralysing fear gripping his chest. And before that… well. He shouldn’t be thinking about demons saving prophecy books in a bombed church, or an angel doing magic tricks in the West End. There should be no candlelit bookshops in his mind, or slow, romantic music playing in the background, no tipsy demons tempting equally tipsy angels to dance and… and…
No.
No, he should not be thinking about that night at all. He’s been training himself to not think about it for years. Almost forty at this point!
He can do this. He can.
Once again, he wills his heart to slow down, and only when he’s sure he won’t lose his mind any time soon does he steal a glance at Crowley through the beaded curtain.
It’s a simple enough act that quickly disproves the earlier assessment of his state of mind because… good Lord.
Crowley has long, wavy hair reaching his shoulders. Sunglasses in a style Aziraphale has never seen before. A sleeveless, black denim jacket left open over his bare chest. A trail of red hair that tempts the eye (not Aziraphale’s, obviously) to move lower and lower still, past Crowley’s purely decorational belly-button, past his slinky hips, past the snake belt buckle and down black flared jeans and snakeskin boots.
Crowley should look silly, Aziraphale thinks, and in a certain way he does. Those pants are ridiculous, and why would anyone leave the house half-dressed like that?
And yet… Aziraphale can lie to himself all he wants, but he knows he’s burning up from the inside, his thoughts and memories desperately kicking at their restraints, desperately digging up the feel of hands on hands, of an uncharacteristically soft voice whispering directly on his lips…
“Hello,” Crowley greets Margareth with a devastating grin that has Aziraphale’s knees turning into jelly. Which is, again, extremely silly, for several reasons he doesn’t really feel comfortable exploring right now.
Is this what Crowley looks like tempting people when Aziraphale is not around? Did he look like that when he… but no, that wasn’t a temptation at all, no matter how many times Aziraphale has tried to convince himself that it was.
And anyway, does Crowley know Aziraphale is hiding just a few feet away from him? It’s true that the demon can probably sense his presence, just like Aziraphale can sense his, but there are many people around and Crowley seems to be quite occupied at the moment, so maybe not.
Aziraphale desperately hopes so. This is not how he pictured their next meeting would go.
The demon barks out a laugh at something Margareth has said, while the harried-looking woman from earlier dithers next to him. “Tony, I’m really sorry, but we need to move things along.”
Tony. Now that is silly indeed.
“Sure, sure. Sssend ‘em in.” He turns towards Margareth with another devilish smile: “Sorry, duty callsss.”
“I don’t know who’s calling,” Aziraphale mutters to himself, a spark of indignation flickering in his chest despite the sea of embarrassment he’s currently drowning in. “But I sincerely doubt it’s duty.”
He watches as Crowley walks to the table and jumps to sit – slouch – on it, ignoring the empty chair waiting for him, while the woman who appears to be their handler directs the first fans towards the waiting band.
Hidden in the relative safety of the poorly-lit backroom, Aziraphale takes his time to study the demon’s profile and register all the subtle and not-so-subtle changes in Crowley’s appearance since they last saw each other.
Amongst everything else, it’s the slight curve of Crowley’s stomach that snatches most of Aziraphale’s attention and, despite his attempts to steer clear of dangerous territories, he finds himself trying to remember when was the last time he saw that particular piece of Crowley’s anatomy.
He thinks of Rome and his brain unhelpfully offers: Sin City, was it?
There are more shouts from outside, people chanting Tony! Tony! Tony!, excited whispers from the people taking turns entering the shop, flashes and camera clicks from all over the place, and sniffles behind the counter, where Margareth is ringing up customers while gently patting the back of a crying Maggie.
“She is sooooo pretty,” Maggie sobs, her eyes obsessively trained on the bored woman signing records and passing them to her bandmates with the same sparkling enthusiasm Aziraphale reserves for paperwork.
It would be a good time to vacate the premises, Aziraphale thinks once again, and yet, seeing Crowley interact with his… well, his admirers, he supposes, does really weird things to his insides. Especially when a particularly adventurous fellow dares to touch Crowley’s naked shoulder and Aziraphale needs to stifle the urge to wrap the demon in a blanket and drag him to the bookshop to keep him safe.
Not only that, but the fans seem to be getting more handsy with each passing second. Which is why Aziraphale’s outrage soon stops paying attention to the preposterous songs playing in the background – not to mention the embarrassment roaring in his veins – and focuses on the queue instead. And though Crowley may seem perfectly at ease to anyone who hasn’t spent the last six thousand years staring at him when he wasn’t looking, Aziraphale can easily detect his discomfort.
He somehow manages to keep himself in check for a whole five minutes, but when another girl moves to touch Crowley’s hair, Aziraphale decides that enough is enough.
Huffing and puffing, he steps out of the backroom in a clinking of beads and sidles up to Crowley with an outstretched arm and a stern expression on his face.
“Excuse me,” he says tetchily, barely refraining himself from swatting the girl’s hand away.
Luckily for him, she’s so startled by his sudden appearance that she retrieves the hand of her own accord, eyes going wide.
Aziraphale should probably say something now, but he’s just standing there, not having thought any further than that when concocting his grand rescue plan. Maybe, if he wasn’t busy reining in all thoughts of literally shooing people away and/or bodily removing them from the shop, he could come up with something clever.
“And who are you?” the girl snaps, painfully red in the face.
“I am…” Aziraphale struggles for something to say, then lands on the truth. As a general rule, he usually prefers to work around it, but he feels that it’s his safest option at the moment. “I am the landlord.”
He finally chances a look at Crowley who, for his part, seems both shocked and pleasantly surprised by this unexpected development, a disbelieving smile plastered on his infuriatingly familiar lips.
No, Aziraphale scolds himself. Lips are evil. Very evil.
And the warm feeling spilling in his chest? That’s also very evil. The heat of hellfire, probably.
“Angel?” Crowley asks, eliciting a surprised oooooh from the fans waiting in line. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?”
“Yeah, ‘s far from the bookshop, innit?” He can’t be sure, with the sunglasses still on, but he feels Crowley staring at him a bit too insistently.
“The shop is literally next door,” Aziraphale chides, noticing the suspicious slump of Crowley’s shoulders and the lazy tilt of his head.
“Wot?” Crowley turns to his bandmates, flabbergasted. “Aren’t we in Camden?”
“Wake up, Tony. This is Soho.”
Aziraphale frowns. “Are you drunk?”
“Maybe… just a teeny, tiny bit,” Crowley slurs, bringing thumb and index finger close together. Aziraphale notices that his nails are painted black and promptly forgets about them when Crowley leans into him with a conspiratorial grin. “Don’t tell anyone, but these things make me kind of nervous. Needed a bit of liquid courage, so to ssspeak.”
“Is that why you forgot half your clothes at home?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
Crowley’s expression turns mischievous in the blink of an eye. “That’s the whole look, ‘Ziraphale. Why? Want me to miracle one for you too?”
Aziraphale scoffs, giving him another not-so-reluctant once-over. “You know I don’t like miracled clothes.”
Crowley laughs, joyful and unrestrained. “I can take them off, if you like,” he says nonchalantly, making Aziraphale’s head explode without even realising it. “I had to improvise, ‘s all. Let me tell you, this temptation has really gone off the rails,” he groans, grabbing Aziraphale’s hand for support, which makes Aziraphale startle and blush all over again.
The last time they held hands was…
Never.
It never happened.
“Do you need me to help?” Aziraphale forces himself to ask.
“Well…”
“That ’s Angel?” Having recovered from her initial shock, the girl who tried to touch Crowley’s hair rudely cuts in, her mouth forming a perfect “O”.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Angel is a woman,” says the moustachioed man next to her.
“Are you sure?” interjects the older lady right behind them with a knowing look on her face.
“Well, yes,” the man insists before pointing to Aziraphale. “And he’s a man. Aren’t you a man?”
“Oh my God, George, you can’t just go around and ask people if they’re a man!” the girl rebukes him.
“As a matter of fact, I’m not a man,” Aziraphale haughtily informs them, which unleashes another burst of shocked ooooohs . Both the girl and his friend seem to be trying very hard to make sense of what he’s just said. “Don’t strain yourselves on my account,” he adds primly. “Also, since I have you here, you should all know that angels cannot be tempted,” he adds for good measure, because he still hasn’t forgotten about that and he would really like to stress that point, thank you very much.
“‘Course not,” Crowley confirms, signing the girl’s record with a flourish. “It’s called poetic licence.”
“Oh, you must admit there’s hardly anything poetic about it,” Aziraphale remarks. “A Venus with arms, Crowley, really?”
The demon pouts. “I was there when she had them, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, and also when she lost them, if I remember correctly,” Aziraphale implies with an air of superiority.
“For the hundredth time, Aziraphale, that wasn’t me!” Crowley protests before slumping down again. “But yeah, the line is not… not one of my best,” he admits, which means he’s far drunker than he lets on. “Motorway to Hell, though. That’s brilliant stuff right there.”
“It’s highway, mate, we already talked about it,” one of his bandmates reminds him with the bored inflection of someone repeating things that have been discussed over and over again.
“No, you talked about it and I told you that the M25 is a motorway. None of that American bollocks.”
“Some of his best work,” Aziraphale agrees, wanting to be supportive.
“Thank you,” Crowley says, clearly feeling vindicated.
“Listen, Professor McStuffy, if you like the song then you know that highway flows way better than motorway,” the bored woman remarks.
“Who said anything about the song?” Aziraphale huffs, more annoyed by the misunderstanding than the ridiculous nickname.
They may not have seen each other since 1967, but Aziraphale did receive a detailed report about Crowley’s demonic work on the M25, followed by an equally detailed rant about his fellow demons’ lack of imagination.
“Wait a second, Mr. Fell,” young Maggie pipes up from behind the counter, make-up and snot smeared all over her face. “You’re friends with Tony from LTBR?”
“See?” moustache-man says, elbowing his friend in the ribs. “They’re just friends!”
Some small part of Aziraphale knows that the statement should make him feel at least partly relieved, but the carelessness of it really bothers him. As if friendship wasn’t a milestone in its own right, but rather just a stepping stone towards better things. As if it didn’t take Aziraphale literal millennia to finally come to terms with that particular definition for his… his relationship with Crowley. As if finally accepting it didn’t feel like conquering something. All of his reservations, all of his fears. Just to be able to say that Crowley is indeed his friend, even if only for a single night almost forty years ago.
Just friends? Unbelievable.
“Well, then I’m sorry you don’t treasure your friends as you should,” Aziraphale tells him, clearly annoyed and more than slightly breathless.
He doesn’t have to turn to feel Crowley’s eyes boring into him as the demon finally hands the signed record to moustache-man and the queue moves along. Aziraphale clears his throat, once again feeling very silly, standing there like the least threatening bodyguard to ever walk the Earth. His face is on fire and he is all of a sudden very aware of his physicality and the people surrounding him.
“Go,” Crowley tells him, and thank God he’s slurring his words, otherwise the soft quality of his voice would discorporate Aziraphale on the spot. “I can handle myself.”
Then, as yet another testament to his drunkenness, Crowley taps Aziraphale’s nose and smiles at him.
“Best get a wiggle on before I show these people how to tempt angels.”
Aziraphale flushes, sputtering absolute nonsense. “Oh, shut up, you fiend.”
He fixes his bow-tie and says his goodbyes first to the band, then to Margareth and Maggie. He leaves the Small Backroom and hurries back to the bookshop, stubbornly ignoring the faint trace of Crowley’s touch still lingering on the tip of his nose. And if he allows himself a quick miracle to ensure no one’s going to be getting any unwanted touches, it’s only because of his angelic duties.
He doesn’t know how long it has been since he made the journey in the opposite direction, but the crowd seems to have grown exponentially.
He quickens his pace, and only when the bookshop door miraculously locks behind him does he realise that he still has a copy of the album with him.
Oh, bother.
It’s the middle of the night when the phone rings, shattering the quietness of the bookshop and prompting Aziraphale to open his eyes.
He’s sitting on his favourite armchair, lost in his thoughts, the record player spinning aimlessly by his side. He should move the needle and play it back for what would be the fourth or maybe fifth time – he’s lost count at this point – but he’s not sure he can take it.
Paired with the darkness and the stillness of the night, the songs are starting to have a weird effect on him.
He sighs and raises to his feet to pick up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice whispers in his ear from the other end of the line.
“Oh, hello Crowley.” He can’t even muster up the energy to sound surprised, because he isn’t. “Did you survive your own wiles then?”
Crowley snorts. “I never learn, do I?”
“You certainly never do,” he murmurs, fonder than he should.
“Nothing more demonic than rock, that’s what I said to Dagon,” Crowley drawls and Aziraphale hears a glass clinking in the background. “Biggest mistake I ever made.”
“Is that really why you started your own band?”
“You know I’m a hands-on kind of demon.”
“Oh, I know,” Aziraphale murmurs, a small smile tugging at his lips.
He also knows he shouldn’t be saying stuff like that, but the bookshop is quiet and the darkness is almost tender in its embrace. It feels surreal, a pocket out of time and space where an angel can sit in his favourite armchair and listen to silly rock songs written by a demon.
Crowley sighs, then takes a sip of whatever he’s drinking. More liquid courage, perhaps?
“Listen, angel, about the songs…”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Aziraphale quickly stops him.
“I just…”
“Please,” he insists. And then, just to make sure that Crowley knows he’s not angry with him, he adds: “I listened to it, you know.”
“Did you?” Crowley sounds breathless, surprised. Maybe even pleased. “Yeah? Did you like it?”
“It isn’t quite my speed, I’m afraid,” he admits, turning to look at the album resting on the side table next to the record player.
Crowley doesn’t say anything and Aziraphale swears he can hear his own heartbeat pounding away in his chest.
Maybe it’s the shadows protecting him from the outside world, or Crowley’s breathing caressing his ear and marking the rhythm of his heart. Either way, Aziraphale is feeling reckless.
“There is one I definitely like, though.”
“Yeah?” Crowley stutters, almost hopeful.
“Yes. Night in Wales, I think it’s called.” He pauses for a second. “I didn’t know you were so fond of Wales.”
Nightingales, though... that's another story.
“Yeah, well. ‘M full of surprises.”
“You are.”
“So… uh… what did you like about it?”
Aziraphale takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “It’s about magic.”
But it’s not all it is about, and Aziraphale knows that. It’s a song about an almost dance and an almost kiss and he would love nothing more than to be almost brave enough to say it out loud.
“And you like magic.”
“I do.”
“I know.”
“It’s slower than the other songs, too.”
“Yeah.”
“I like slow.”
“I know you do, angel,” Crowley says softly, voice shaky. Or maybe Aziraphale is just imagining it. “I don’t mind it either sometimes.”
“You don’t?”
“Wrote the song, didn’t I?”
“That you did.”
“Yeah.”
An entire minute goes by before Crowley speaks again, but Aziraphale doesn’t fret. In fact, he would gladly stay on the phone with him for the whole night without uttering a single word, taking simple comfort in the demon’s presence.
He never realised twelve years could be such a long time.
“Too bad you didn’t like the others. Shouldn’t quit my day job, uh, angel?”
“Don’t be silly. What would Downstairs do without your clever wiles?”
“They’d be boring as… well, Hell, I imagine.”
Aziraphale smiles and opens his eyes on the familiar shadows surrounding him. “Maybe I’ll like them. The songs, I mean. Someday.”
“‘S possible. You’re always late on trends.”
“I hope they won’t go out of style before I come around,” he says, almost choking on the words because he’s not talking about the songs at all, and they both know it.
There’s a long pause before Crowley finally says: “Don’t worry. Some things never do.”
And just like that, Aziraphale realises there are tears stinging his eyes. “I hope they don’t,” he manages to say.
“I have a new flat in Mayfair,” Crowley quickly changes the topic. “You should stop by sometime.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Crowley sighs and puts down his drink. “Goodnight, Aziraphale.”
“Goodnight, Crowley.”
The line goes dead and silence falls all around him, the receiver still pressed to his ear. If he really concentrates, he can pretend he can still hear Crowley breathing on the other end of the line.
It takes him a while to put the phone back on its cradle. To go back to his favourite armchair, to his record player, and to reposition the needle so he can start the album for the fifth or maybe sixth time.
The night is long and Aziraphale doesn’t need to sleep.