Chapter Text
‘I must say, I’m rather looking forward to this!’ Aziraphale said, wiggling happily in his seat with undisguised glee. ‘There really is nothing quite like the magic of theatre!’
Crowley smiled indulgently, enjoying the spectacle of Aziraphale fidgety with pent up enthusiasm, all darting eyes and precise little gestures that made it look as if he were conducting an unseen orchestra. Endearing really. The more excited he was, the more he moved. Currently, he looked one exuberant wrist flick away from an unintended miracle.
‘It’s filling up!’ said Aziraphale, twisting round and squinting back at the steep bank of humanity behind him. He turned back and eyed Crowley with an earnest and conspiratorial nod. ‘A sell out I believe!’
The demon grinned. ‘So you’re not the only one who couldn’t wait for it to open properly and had to get tickets for the previews.’
‘Well previews are fun!’ Aziraphale said, wide-eyed, twinkling and very earnest. ‘Watching the creative process at work. Knowing that the actors are still in the process of trying out different things on stage. Exploring alternatives. Terribly exciting!’ He paused, before adding with automatic certainty, ‘We’ll see it later in the year too of course!’
‘Of course!’ Crowley echoed, amused and prepared to be indulgent. ‘How many times will it take to satisfy you?’
Aziraphale answered with a stern look, not quite sure if the double entendre was intended, and Crowley grinned again. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy theatre, far from it, but he didn’t relish in it in quite the way Aziraphale did. Aziraphale would happily watch an identical production six times in a row and find new things to wonder at each time. The demon, whose attention span was directly proportional to novelty, considered a maximum of twice quite sufficient. Of course it was different when comparing productions. Hell knows how many different times they’d seen Hamlet over the years and argued about whether Hamlet’s madness was feigned or real. Or Romeo and Juliet: Modern versus traditional; Romantic versus social commentary. They both had firm ideas about how the title roles should be played and bickering about it was good fun. It wasn’t just Shakespeare of course (though Aziraphale at least felt particularly invested in the work of the bard), there were plenty of classics that did the rounds. And then there were the plays based on real people and events, interesting in a different way. They’d seen Amadeus twice, decades and continents apart, and debated the portrayal of Mozart (better the first time they'd seen it). They’d do something similar tonight he suspected; discuss the importance of historical accuracy over dramatic impact and reminisce about the people involved as the action catalysed memory. They'd done the same with the film, but the play, well, plays brought things to life in an entirely different way somehow.
Crowley looked round the theatre with interest. It was small, modern and purpose built, a far cry from the traditional play houses that Aziraphale loved, the ones with a superfluity of golden scroll work and a quantity of tired velvet, and he had to admit that it did lack some of their charm. Crowley, for all his leanings towards minimalism, could appreciate the theatricality of some well-placed gilding. That said, he also appreciated the novelty of seating that had been designed by someone who took into consideration the existence of legs.
‘Decent amount of space,’ he observed, stretching. ‘Makes a change. Half the time, the seating is a penance. I blame your lot.’
That got the quizzical eyebrow raise.
‘I should have thought uncomfortable seating was considerably more likely to be demonic in origin!’
‘Nah. Definitely your side. Bloody puritans. Can’t enjoy something without a physical reminder that pleasure is sinful.’
Aziraphale pursed his lips, and cast a judgemental glance at Crowley’s inelegant posture. ‘I’m sure you would manage perfectly well if didn’t sprawl so.’
‘Long legs. Don’t fold.’
‘You are quite capable of folding when the mood takes you,’ said Aziraphale with just enough saucy suggestiveness to cause Crowley’s heart to flutter with ill-timed anticipation. The demon made a determined effort to squash the feeling and wagged a disapproving finger at the angel.
‘Uh-uh, not for nearly three hours. And not sitting still.’ He stretched again. ‘This is nice. Space!’
He could feel his muscles relaxing.
Aziraphale abandoned his scolding demeaner and beamed in affectionate agreement. ‘It is rather comfortable isn’t it!’
They had good seats, well-placed. Not that they ever had anything else of course. Somehow, wherever they wanted to sit, there would always be room available. It was never actually a deliberate miracle; It was more that it had never occurred to either of them as a remote possibility that the place that they wanted might possibly be taken, and thus it never had been. Oh on occasion, puzzled patrons discovered that their email confirmation didn’t match up with what they thought that they remembered booking, but neither angel or demon were ever witness to those puzzled frowns.
This time, Crowley had booked (admittedly at Aziraphale’s insistence) and had chosen for them to sit a few rows back from the front (just far enough to avoid the inconvenience of craning necks) and at the end of the row (to prevent the quantity of apologising that Aziraphale would feel necessary were he to be the one squeezing into a mid-row seat). They had a good view of the stage (empty, but for a low table and a megaphone). He'd chosen well.
‘Oh bother!’ said Aziraphale in a sudden burst of passionate irritation, turning to Crowley with a frustrated frown.
For a brief moment Crowley felt a pang of genuine concern.
’What?’
‘We haven’t brought any treats!’
‘Ah!’
Not an actual crisis then.
‘Oh well, no matter.’ Aziraphale sighed in resignation. ‘It really isn't the same, but needs must.’ He glanced shiftily around and made a delicate motion in the air. Subtle. A paper bag (candy striped pink and white) appeared in his hand. He turned to the demon with a self-satisfied expressions ‘Barley sugar?’
Crowley nodded. ‘Yeah, go on then. You've tempted me.'
He took one. They were delicate little twisted things, sharp at the end as if they had been snapped from one long stick of boiled sweet. Pretty. If he’d held one up to the light it would have glowed tawny orange speckled with tiny trapped amber bubbles. Powdered sugar coated his fingers like the dusty scales of a butterfly’s wing. He brushed it off, dusting it against the black of his jeans and daring it to leave a mark. The little sweet tapped against his teeth, tasting of sugar and nostalgia. Crowley gestured towards the stage where a series of black and white photos were projected onto the back cloth; politicians, athletes, entertainers, all familiar faces from four decades previous. ‘Should’ve have summoned something marginally more up to date angel. Something from the 1980s would be appropriate.’
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, then blinked. Crowley felt the universe shift as Aziraphale, smiling sweetly, proffered the bag again. ‘Flying saucer? Or perhaps you’d prefer black jacks or maybe an… erm…' he peered into the bag, 'refresher?’
‘Occasionally,’ said Crowley dryly. ‘Your cultural knowledge surprises me.’
‘I can’t think why!’ countered Aziraphale, looking deliciously indignant. ‘It wasn’t so very long ago. Not in the grand scheme of things and I remember it perfectly well!’
‘A mere blink of an eye,’ Crowley agreed. ‘I wasn’t questioning your memory, just what you’d bothered to notice. Didn’t think corner shop sweets were your thing.’
‘Children,’ said Aziraphale, giving the word a certain edge, ‘In the decades when they still read books and frequented bookshops, were occasionally disposed to attempt to bring confectionary into the premises.’
‘Hah!’ Crowley’s laugh was swift. He could imagine Aziraphale’s stern disapproval and polite remonstrations. ‘Makes sense.’ He took a luminous green flying saucer and nodded towards the back cloth again just as an image of Freddie Mercury's unmistakeable profile replaced Torvill and Dean. ‘Seems like yesterday.’
‘Indeed.’
Aziraphale looked into the bag of 1980s sweets with an expression of vague disappointment, rummaged a little, found a secret glut of barley sugar and toffee hidden among a preponderance of neon and sherbet, and popped one into his mouth with a little sigh of pleasure.
The projected image changed again and Margaret Thatcher’s face - leering larger than life - took the place of Freddie. The cloth wobbled gently in the breeze so that the politician appeared to snigger. Crowley hissed under his breath. He'd never been a fan, though many of his side had. Probably why he hadn't. The image trembled once more and vanished, snapping out of existence.
The house lights dimmed. ‘Ohh it’s starting!’ whispered Aziraphale happily. ‘I do think we’re in for such a treat!’
Crowley, mouth fizzing with the sting of sherbet, slid a hand hopefully towards Aziraphale's under the cover of darkness and was gratified with the enthusiasm with which the angel took it.
***
‘Well!’ sighed Aziraphale nearly three hours later, unselfconsciously wiping his eyes with the damp and crumpled outcome of what had been a perfectly ironed handkerchief. ‘That really was quite something! Oh I loved it!’ He turned a watery smile to the demon.
‘Wasn’t bad,’ Crowley conceded affecting a dismissive shrug.
Aziraphale looked at him indignantly. ‘I do think you might muster a little more enthusiasm! It was quite- ’
Crowley waited for a ling enough to allow the outrage to build - gotta make the most of Aziraphale's eyes flashing fire - before cutting in with a wicked grin. ‘Yeah ok. It was bloody fantastic.’
‘Oh you...!’ Aziraphale scolded. ‘You are quite impossible! I thought for a moment that you actually genuinely…! Well anyway, we can agree that it was magnificent. Absolutely as good as the film. And the music!' He shut his eyes in reverie. 'The opening to the second half was… well. I don’t quite… It was sublime. Devastating of course. And wonderful. And… oh… I really don’t think I can put it into words!’
He turned back to the stage still half-transported into that world and reluctant to let anything cause it to relinquish its hold.
‘I know what you enjoyed angel!’ Crowley teased, not quite willing to surrender to pure emotion. ‘I saw your eyes wandering! Leather. Feathers. Thrusting.'
(The Valley-Girls-hit-the-London-gay-scene number had been quite something and memories were not the only thing that Crowley had felt stir.)
Aziraphale flushed a little pink. ‘I most certainly was not… well, perhaps a little. But that’s not the point. The storytelling!’ He stopped and placed his hand reverentially against his own chest. ‘I can absolutely feel the love.’
‘Sure it’s the love?’
‘Very sure!’ said Aziraphale firmly. ‘It’s a story with such heart. And the people! Simply wonderful.’
‘Come on,’ said Crowley, prodding the angel to his feet. ‘Other people want to move. We need to get out of their way.’
They threaded their way out of the theatre, back through the foyer in which hung the banner from the miners’ lodge and spilled out onto the Cardiff street. Judging by the chatter that surrounded them, the rest of the audience had a similarly positive reaction and the air was heavy with superlatives.
‘Nightcap?’ Crowley suggested as they walked slowly from the theatre. ‘Must be a pub round here somewhere. Or a bar if you’re going to be sniffy about pubs.’
Aziraphale nodded. ’Wonderful idea. I feel we should offer up a toast as a fitting end to the evening.’
***
They found a pub that was sufficiently genteel and quiet to pass muster and bagged a table in the corner.
‘Well!’ said Aziraphale for the umpteenth time, still struggling to express himself in anything more eloquent than huffs and sighs. He was cradling a dubonnet and bitter lemon, not his normal tipple, but having opted to embrace the 1980s he was damn well doing to do so with committed enthusiasm and he had proved very thoroughly immune to all the dubious looks that Crowley had thrown at him.
‘To Pride!' Crowley raised his glass, ‘And all who fought for it.’
They drank. The whisky was smooth. A good single malt and Crowley approved. It flowed like a little vein of warmth down his throat and mingled with the soft, sentimental emotions already hiding somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.
'And,' said Aziraphale, holding his own drink aloft, 'To community.'
They drank again.
'Not just community though is it?' said Crowley, putting his glass down slightly more heavily than he intended but embracing the accidental emphasis as though it were intentional. Ice cubes clinked. The sentimental feelings wormed their way upwards, loosened by even the tiniest excuse of alcohol. 'It's more than that. It's different communities and solidarity between them. Working together. Finding common ground. Finding friends rather than making enemies. Making things work when the rational thing to do would be to expect them to fail. Standing up for those who need it.' He stopped and ran his finger impatiently along the smooth wood of the table edge. 'It shouldn't be a true story, it doesn't sound like it could be one, but it is. And that's bloody amazing.'
He looked up, slightly self-conscious. Aziraphale was gazing at him indulgently, all soft-eyed and smiling in that tight-lipped pressed together way that he'd used so often in the past when holding back words had been necessary. And - dammit - he had the slightly too bright sparkle in his eyes, damp twinkling with the type of emotion that Aziraphale had never been afraid to let him see. It melted him. Perhaps they were both too soft these days.
'To solidarity,' said Aziraphale quietly, 'And to unexpected collaborations.' He drained his glass, replaced it carefully on the mat and reached across the table to place his hand gently over Crowley's, nudging his fingers under the side of the demon's hand. Crowley closed his fingers around Aziraphale’s, gripping firmly. It was a softer than the firm handshake of the Miners' Lodge banner, but equally committed and considerably more intimate. Crowley’s fingers twitched tighter.
'I maintain,' Aziraphale continued softly, stroking the back of Crowley's hand with his thumb, ''That you are and have always been frequently and considerably undemonic! Particularly, in your celebration of kindness.’
'Maybe,' Crowley conceded, charmed by the caress into accepting the tribute. 'Although,' he added with a sudden rebellious grin, 'It is a good way to annoy people. You'd be surprised how often humans hate unexpected collaboration. People like conflict.'
'Hmm.’ Aziraphale sighed. 'That is a singularly negative assessment of human nature!’
'Is it inaccurate?'
'Unfortunately, there may be a grain or two of truth to it,' Aziraphale admitted. 'But it neglects the far more substantial and significantly better aspect of human nature which celebrates connection and cries over happy endings.'
Crowley reluctantly let the inadvertent innuendo pass. It wasn't the right time (although he would dearly liked to have seen Aziraphale blush and utter the familiar Oh Crowley in remonstration). Nor was it really the right moment to enter into a philosophical debate about human nature and examine the evidence in favour of Aziraphale's hypothesis. He suspected that neither of them were in the mood to defend ‘their’ corner. Not when they were still holding hands over the table.
You know what I think?' he said after a moment or two of thought.
Aziraphale tilted his head.
'And what would that be?'
'We need another round.' Crowley reluctantly extracted his hand and stood up. 'Same again?’
Aziraphale nodded. His white curls were not long enough to bounce but they did shimmer slightly as he moved. Almost like a halo.
‘Please.’
Crowley collected up their glasses and headed back to the bar which was empty save for a barman stacking glasses. He looked up as Crowley approached.
'One Talisker and one dubonnet cocktail?' he asked (being both observant and good at his job) before Crowley had a chance to order.
'Er... yeah, thanks. Well-remembered!'
'Ice again with the whisky?'
Crowley nodded. Bottles clinked.
There you are,' said the barman, pushing the drinks forward. 'Hope it's not intrusive, but I wanted to say how nice it is to see blokes your age holding hands in public. It's not so long ago couples wouldn't dare.' He screwed the lid back on the bottle and placed it on the shelf behind him. 'Been together long have you?'
'Yeah' said Crowley, gathering up the drinks with smile of thanks. 'A while.'
The barman nodded. 'Thought so.' He grinned. 'Looks like you've known each other forever!'
For some inexplicable reason Crowley felt a sudden urge to tell the truth, or at least reveal part of it. It wasn't as if the man would take it literally because humans never did. One of the things that he had learned about people was that they were very, very good at bending whatever they heard to fit with what they already believed to be true. That could frustrating and annoying (for example, when they wilfully misinterpreted the evidence sometimes in highly creative ways) but was undeniably useful when one was struck with a reckless compulsion to out onesself as a supernatural being in a city pub.
'Since the beginning of time!' he said, then winked. 'We're a lot older than we look!'
The barman laughed. 'Must be. No one orders dubonnet these days. Had to blow cobwebs off the bottle. Well, you enjoy it mate.'
'Will do.'
Crowley realised that he must have been still smiling as he walked back to the table because Aziraphale looked at him with a questioning expression.
'What?'
'Nothing.' He placed the drinks down on the table. 'Just appreciating us!'
Aziraphale's look of enquiry softened into shy fondness. 'Now you're being silly!'
'Truthful.'
Aziraphale found an expression somewhere between embarrassed and besotted which made him unfairly hard for Crowley to resist.
‘So,’ said Crowley, placing the glasses firmly on the table and reluctantly deciding to postpone kissing until they had found somewhere more private because kissing was just going to leave him wanting more with no chance of imminent satisfaction. ‘Less of us. Back to the show. I know you loved it, we've established that. What did you think of the characterisation? Accurate?' He sat down heavily and the chair stuttered against the stone floor as he pulled it closer to the table. 'You knew them better than I did!’
Aziraphale shrugged and reached for his glass.
‘Only marginally better. Gethin and Jonathan perhaps, we discussed books. But I really didn’t know the others as well as all that. A few chats. But yes, the way they were portrayed - whilst playing a trifle to stereotypes - matches rather well with what I remembered of them. In spirit at least even if perhaps not in the details.’ He raised his eyebrows in enquiry. ‘Would you agree?’
Crowley nodded. It was a fictionalisation of course, but it felt right. Felt like something he'd lived before. The words might be different, but the meaning was familiar. ’Yeah. Some more than others.' He grinned suddenly. 'One of them looked a bit like you.'
Aziraphale fired him a doubtful frown. 'Which one?'
'The one playing Maureen!'
'But she's the nasty one!' Aziraphale said indignantly, 'The one who betrays them.' He screwed up his nose in doubt. 'I don't see it.'
'Profile's the same.'
'Well,' Aziraphale sniffed a little haughtily, 'I suppose if its the profile I'm hardly in a position to appreciate it then am I?'
'Fair point,' Crowley conceded. 'You wear it better anyway. Suits you.' He was unreasonably fond of Aziraphale's profile. Especially the endearing tilt of his nose.
'Hmm,' said Aziraphale, not entirely mollified. 'In any case, I wasn't considering their er physical appearance so much as how they behaved.'
'Actually, the one playing Mark did looked like him,' said Crowley, 'Even if they had tamed his character. I remember him wilder.'
Aziraphale nodded emphatically. ‘Absolutely. You are right. Similar face shape, very reminiscent of Mark actually. And very definitely tamed.’
He took a deep breath and blew out his cheeks in a long sigh.
‘Dear Mark. So full of indignant energy. I should have like to have got to know him better, but, well...' Aziraphale trailed off, unable to give voice to what they both knew.
For a moment, they were silent. Remembering.
'Sucks doesn't it?' said Crowley gruffly, 'Always the good ones. Burn bright then...' he made a gesture of finality.
'Indeed it does.'
There was another minute of silence. Usually, this was one of those (many) things that they tried to avoid dwelling too much upon. Living 6000 years meant that they were both wearily more than familiar with the brevity of human life and couldn't be shocked by it, not even when it was cut drastically short or when tragedy happened to people they knew. Neither could they indulge in the human pass time of asking 'what if' given that there were any number of miracles that - had they been permitted to perform them - could have changed the course of events. Do not get attached was, in many respects, sound advice. Easier said than done, but sensible if they wanted to remain functional. Nevertheless, it was no use pretending it wasn't difficult; painfully, guiltily, gut-wrenchingly bloody fucking difficult at times. And just occasionally - often with the dubious help of alcohol and the less dubious comfort of solidarity in numbers - it was right to briefly face up to it together.
Aziraphale who broke the silence.
'Still,' he said, smiling with forced cheerfulness and gripping his glass just a little too tightly. 'He made those twenty six years count. Perhaps one should think that better than spending three score years and ten in plodding mediocrity. More worthwhile. And Mark was too busy changing the world to want to waste time in idle small talk. Full of questions. Never one to bow to authority, regardless of the cost.' Aziraphale gave Crowley a pointed look. 'Rather reminded me of you. He had the same wild insolence.’
'I'll take that as a compliment.'
’As well you should!’ said Aziraphale sternly.
'And Jonathan,' said Crowley, taking his turn to lighten the mood, 'Was every bit as flamboyant as you secretly would like to be.'
(And, if he was honest, as fearlessly flamboyant as he would secretly like Aziraphale to be).
The angel's mouth twitched in amusement, not a little flattered. 'If you say so.'
It wasn't a denial. Then the not-quite-smile faded and Aziraphale stared into space, pensive.
'I saw him - Mark I mean - a month or two before he died. Not intentionally I'm afraid, but he happened to pop into the bookshop at a point when I was there. He wasn’t ill then of course. Full of plans and so very principled. A committed communist to the very core.' He steadied himself with another sip of dubonnet. 'And you? Did you er...?'
Crowley shook his head roughly. 'No. Not really. Didn't talk to any of them as much as I should.'
It was silly to feel guilty really. There were any number of humans that he could have got to know better. Billions of them. He couldn't know them all. Besides, he'd had his reasons, sort of. It had felt... wrong... somehow to associate too closely back then. As if his presence some how gave credence to those right wing evangelical radicals who claimed homosexuality was the work of the devil. Or AIDS a punishment from God. Illogical, but by being there - being friends - would he have made it more true? But then, perhaps disengagement (and it was disengagement) was really just cowardice. When the AIDS crisis broke, all the fear and sudden devastation, brutally abrupt and lonely... perhaps he had just been afraid to witness it from up close.
'That is probably a very good thing,' said Aziraphale, breaking into his thoughts in a way that felt intentional and steering the conversation firmly back to more light-hearted territory. 'I cannot imagine how much more of a firebrand he would have been had you provided him with additional inspiration. In any case, he managed quite well without you.'
'Yeah,' Crowley acknowledged. 'He did.'
A thought occurred to him. 'Was any of it your influence? LGSM. Collecting money. Rocking up to unsuspecting miners with support, tight t shirts and a ton of cash. Were you busy whispering heavenly incantations behind the book stacks or chucking blessings about the place just to get them started?' Crowley waved his hands in a little impression of angel conducting blessings and was rewarded with a soft buzz of pleasure when Aziraphale laughed enough that the corner of his eyes twinkled.
'I should imagine,' said Aziraphale, still smiling but firm, 'That it would be rather easier to just initiate a conversation. Miracles or blessings would be entirely unnecessary in circumstances in which a simple word of sound advice or an inspiring suggestion would do.'
'So did you?' Crowley pressed. He could well believe that the angel might have had a hand in it.
'No,' Aziraphale shook his head. 'Much as I should like to take credit for it, no. It was entirely down to the humans. As I said, humans - whilst they have their faults - can be terribly magnificent at times.' He smiled indulgently. 'You know, even if they had done nothing else that bookshop would have been a truly wonderful success.' 'Very special. The first of its kind in Europe I believe and real sanctuary in many ways. An... er.. place where lost souls could find redemption.'
Crowley leaned forward, cupping his chin in his hand. 'Sure you want to say that? Sounds pretty much like blasphemy.'
'Possibly,' Aziraphale admitted with a studious lack of concern, 'And yet, very true.' He smiled fondly at Crowley and very, very briefly ran the side of his index finger down Crowley's cheek, all the way from the coiled tattoo down to the curve of the chin. Crowley shivered. 'You and I both know that of course.' Aziraphale continued. 'How many times did we go there? Half a dozen perhaps? Probably not more than ten. But enough to know. It still is a special place of course by all accounts, but not quite so rare as it was.’
'I seem to remember you were as fond of the cake as the books!'
Aziraphale smiled. 'It was good cake. All home-made and quite a variety. Their walnut cake was sinfully indulgent.'
'Coffee could have been better.'
'It was the 1980s,' said Aziraphale with a little shrug as if that explained everything. 'No one in England could make a cup of coffee worth drinking. Their tea, however, was more than adequate.'
'We should visit again,' said Crowley, sitting back decisively. 'See if the cake is still up to scratch. If the coffee has improved.'
'Yes we should,' said Aziraphale. He peered into his glass. 'Unfortunately, I can't drink to it as my glass is inexplicably empty, but we should consider it a deal.' He held out his hand. 'Perhaps we should shake on it. Then it would be official.'
'Nah,' said Crowley, swooping in swiftly to plant a kiss on Aziraphale's lips. 'I'd rather do it this way.'
'Hmm,' said Aziraphale a few moments later as Crowley disengaged. 'I'll admit that whilst a handshake is conventional, your method has something to recommend it.'
'Only something?'
'Much,' corrected Aziraphale, 'And as it is a very important deal, perhaps we should make sure that it is very formally agreed?'
'Oh definitely!' said Crowley, catching sight of the barman over Aziraphale's shoulder and only blushing slightly as the man gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up and a nod of approval. 'Happy to formalise it as much as you like.'
***