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“That’s a pedestrian- ”
“That’s a bloody tourist and I’m not stopping because of them.” Crowley scoffs easily, one hand in the wheels and the other resting with his arm on the window. Aziraphale already worked on a miracle for that person’s racing heart and is now scrunching his nose at the demon. “I am not.”
“Well, you should!”
“If we start talking about should and shouldn’t this conversation will be quite long, angel.”
“I wouldn’t mind, if it meant getting some sense into- Crowley!”
“Just choose something to listen to and enjoy the ride. It won’t take us long.”
“Not with how you’re driving, it won’t.” He mutters under his breath, feeling a chill on his body and stretching his fingers before opening the car’s cabinet, searching for something worthy of listening to. “Where did my CDs go?”
“Driving, can’t talk.”
An exasperated sigh leaves Aziraphale’s lips before he presses them and decides on Queen’s Greatest Hits, one of the few CDs that have close to no dust no matter how old it is. He would wonder how time hasn’t crashed it already, but Crowley certainly has found his way with that. For this one, he surely would.
Aziraphale has known of Crowley’s love for Queen’s discography for decades, always listening to it while committing barbarities in that Bentley of his. If he hadn’t seen the demon mutter other songs under his breath, he would think those are the only songs he listens to.
He would like to say it was on purpose (and maybe it was, not on his will, but some part of the divine path he’s constantly walking on), but he just ended up stumbling upon the notebook not too long ago (only a couple of decades, he would think) and decided to keep it just in case (in case Crowley asked about it, in case Crowley mentioned the band, in case), never actually reading it.
He obviously inspected it once he got his hands on Freddie Mercury’s song-writing notebook, how could he not? He easily recognised the writing from the letters he remembered being published in the past, the big signature filled with darling and love.
What a marvellous young man. Such a pity.
So he held the notebook with care, away from humans’ hands (it’s a gift, after all) and curious eyes. Different from his collection, the notebook was only there in case.
(just in case)
The point is, Crowley isn’t one to talk about himself. He might go over the top so people will talk about him, but the initiative never comes and, with this, the same happened.
The years passed, the world changed, restaurants were visited, and the notebook stayed in the same place it was put on.
It’s only when Crowley starts to finally (thank heavens) slow down his driving and sing the words under his breath that he’s reminded of said piece of work. He listens to the lyrics and wonders what could have made someone write such a beautiful piece, wonders what formula was put in it so, even after years, humans were still playing it.
Wonders why Crowley, who has listened to all and everything, repeats them religiously- Oh, poor choice of words.
Good thing he can so easily answer his own questions.
[...]
He adjusts his glasses and takes a short sip from the hot cocoa before placing the mug away from the loose pages. The bookshop is already closed and his room is quiet, as he enjoys it.
The first page is… A mess of signature doodles. He can’t decipher all of them, but lets out a fascinated gasp at the spontaneity of humanity. He runs his gloved fingers past the ink, wondering, enjoying the signatures that come in different forms, so different and yet so similar from the one the artist chose at the end.
It only takes a couple of pages until he finds scraps of lyrics, poetry taking form and words that aren’t his name over and over again. He might not be a fan, but he’s still a curious soul and there’s so much history under his fingerprints right now.
So many world-changing melodies, lyrics that never got to see a studio, little notes that could have meant so many things.
He can’t seem to recognise the songs, though. His knowledge is solemnly based on how impactful the band and the singer were in popular culture and history, how humans seemed to have never forgotten and will never forget who they were.
I have sinned dear Father
Father I have sinned
Try and help me Father
Won't you let me in?
And the words traitor and sinner crossed multiple times until liar starts to be repeated and a chorus is created.
He doesn’t remember listening to this one, but makes a mental note to check if Crowley’s CDs have any title similar to this one.
“Fascinating.” He breathes out with his eyes trying to find any and all.
It tells a lot of who Crowley is, of the hidden goodness inside of him. The contradictory kindness not even Aziraphale gets to understand or agree with most of the time. He knows of it, saw it a couple of times, but it’s quite hard to believe it, he may say.
There’s so much to read, so much to wonder.
Every little note gets him a small smile, a sighed wiggle or a quiet giggle. That Mercury boy was truly something, he can understand why Crowley holds his music so close to his heart.
Now, Mercury’s notes are all but predictable, he has to admit, but, some pages in (after his second mug of hot cocoa) he starts to find quite the story among the words that aren’t meant to be lyrics.
my darling friend, don’t give up (i’ll be cheering for your love)
what a pleasure, to write your story
you might have him close, but nothing will compare to holding him closer
At first, he thinks the artist is talking to himself, wondering about his own muse, using poetry as a mirror, but the words start to connect and it’s easy to realise those were meant for a close friend of his and their lover.
The final dot is connected over the notes under a half-written song he can’t recognise.
may raphael give AJ the love he deserves
Love, as pure as it can be, comes naturally to Aziraphale. He was made to love and cherish all and everything created by Her, and he so easily does. Humanity has always been a pleasure to watch over, to sense around him, and so are humans’ feelings.
He can’t help but sigh at the manifestation of what was someday a love story. These two were the reason behind not one, but many of the greatest rock love songs and now Aziraphale is part of their story as well.
With yet another sigh, he decides to take off his reading glasses and put them aside, closing the book for the night.
It doesn’t come as a surprise when he’s reminded of what a great gift this one day will be for Crowley.
That is, in case he asks for it, obviously.
[...]
Six thousand years is quite a lot when it comes to the expression of feelings. What once was something, might (and probably will) change in what seems to be a breath to Aziraphale. Humans can be extremely predictable when it comes to their choices, but the way they choose to express themselves has always seemed to surprise (and amaze) the angel.
Poets and artists in general have guided Aziraphale’s thoughts on love through the centuries, helping him catalogue what is and what isn’t appropriate for each era.
(everything is better when you can catalogue it, when you can put a name and place it somewhere alongside their similar)
(books are surely aziraphale’s favourite form of expression)
Certainly, there are things you can’t exactly tell with prose and verses, some things you have to live to know.
In Aziraphale’s case, you need to observe.
And hasn’t he lived enough lives to catch a glimpse of how marvellous humans can love?
A parent loves their child in a different way they might love their partner, but the vitality coming from that feeling is inebriating. The way a first love feels like, the way one love can change if nurtured, how strong one might feel when they can’t express their love to the world.
Love, in Aziraphale’s words, is God’s greatest gift.
He feels so much of it around him, has always felt.
He wonders if Crowley, who has been around just as long, feels it too. Not in the same way an angel can, obviously, but as a creature with as many emotions as his friend has, he must have felt it before, for someone, for something.
He has to, Aziraphale believes, with the songs he constantly listens to being surrounded by it, it only makes sense.
He wonders. He wishes that for him. He wishes him the world.
(if he would only ask)
[...]
“You’re annoyingly quiet.”
“Hm?” He lifts his glare from the mug with the sudden change in subject, blinking a few times before a confused smile takes his face. “You were the one talking non-stop, dear.”
Crowley scoffs, rolling his eyes and throwing the book he was holding on the couch beside him.
“As if you’re not a bloody expert in interrupting me with your own thoughts.” He starts walking toward Aziraphale, taking his still warm Scotch-filled glass to his lips before continuing. “Not worthy of any of your anecdotes today?”
“You always are.” He replies ever so easily, putting his glass down and placing his hands over his thighs. “What do you want to hear?”
“Amuse me.”
So he starts talking about the strange people that he has met during his week in the bookshop. Talks about the menu change in a Peruvian restaurant he’s been nurturing for two years or more. Talks about the stray cat that has taken a liking to him in the past few days.
He talks and Crowley listens, with his own comments and reactions that only seem to encourage Aziraphale to talk more.
He doesn’t worry about boring the demon, or annoying him, no matter how much the other enjoys using that word.
Does he enjoy the demon’s company? From time to time, yes. More than not. It would be nearly impossible to spend centuries, millennia, with someone and not be fond of them in the slightest. It is impossible to spend six years taking care of the wrong child, to avert Armageddon, to find their own side... And not find the demon's company- Well, interesting.
What if every time he has a plan, his mind finds a way to place Crowley in them? What if he’s been collecting memories of the two as if they were one of his books? What if-
He’s a dear. And that’s it.
“Oh, I know this one!” He perks up in the middle of his own talking with sudden excitement.
Crowley, who was playing with the old radio and made it play (unsurprisingly) a Queen song, looks confused and surprised, furrowing his eyebrows.
His snake-like eyes give Aziraphale an odd look and he feels like he has made a mistake of some kind.
“You do?”
“Ah, I think so.” He looks away in thought, scrunching his nose to recognise which part of the song it is. “It’s the one with the in a world filled with sorrow- ”
“There are people searching for love in every way, yes, but how do you-” The word is punctuated with a lifted eyebrow and Aziraphale has the decency of feeling offended. “Mister Bebop, know that?”
Oh. Of course.
“Well, you see.” He starts and has no idea where that sentence will go, but Crowley is already expecting an explanation of the odd behaviour. “You must have- Certainly must have played it before in that Bentley of yours, my dear.”
He finishes the sentence with a bright grin, reassuring his friend of his words.
They don’t seem to be believed, the borderline sarcastic hum coming from Crowley’s lips telling so.
“Because you pay so much attention to music-”
“I’m a lover of the arts-” He tries in an affronted tone.
“Any and all?”
He parts his lips to agree with ease, but something aches in his chest reminding him of the horrendous concerts he had to watch over in the past and all those nefarious plays he participated centuries ago-
He presses his lips with a grimace, getting a chuckle out of Crowley.
“It’s not an issue, angel. Just curious.” He says with a short corner smile. “Always wondered how long it would take until Freddie got to you.”
A beat.
“Freddie?”
“Mercury.” There’s amusement and a tiny bit of annoyance in his tone.
Aziraphale feels the tip of his ears burning in embarrassment and the same annoyance that takes Crowley’s glowing eyes.
“I know who we’re talking about.” He huffs, clicking his tongue. “I was just- Taken back, by your familiarity. He’s the sort of figure one expects to be called by their full name, always.”
“Don’t you say.”
There’s a playful smile in Crowley’s lips and Aziraphale gives it a look too long before huffing yet again and moving his hands around before clapping them.
“As I was saying-”
“Before you interrupted yourself-”
“Shut it, fiend.”
[...]
A worn-out photograph is thrown over his table while he’s studying a few days later, he frowns at it and looks quizzically at Crowley before taking a proper look.
“What’s the meaning of this?” He asks curiously and Crowley only nods at the picture. “Oh, of course.”
He takes the photograph with his gloved hands and-
“He was rather good to tempt, even better at being the tempter.” Crowley, the same Crowley in the photograph with Freddie Mercury, points out.
“Why are you sharing this now?” He asks the first of the many questions in his mind.
Crowley shrugs, placing his hands inside his pockets and looking away.
“You seemed interested.”
His expression softens alongside a pleased smile, both causing Crowley to grunt and turn around.
“If I knew you would give me that bloody look.”
“What look are you talking about, dear?”
“The one before you tell me I’m something I’m not.”
Nice. Kind. Sweet. Caring.
“Very thoughtful of you.” He says instead. “Can I keep it?”
Crowley met many people during his existence, so did Aziraphale, but while Aziraphale loved humanity and its people, Crowley felt strongly about them, but from a distance. He wasn’t one to keep mementos from time.
He surely wouldn’t mind-
“Not this one.” He says in a low tone and Aziraphale startles with wide eyes at the demon. “It’s- One of a kind.”
He tries to see his eyes through the sunglasses, but Crowley was smart enough to wear them dark enough that not even the angel could read him if he wanted to.
He sighs.
“It’s in good hands, at least.” He decides to say with a small smile, trying to push away the curiosity. “You must have your reasons.”
“You’re awfully noisy when you try not to talk.”
“Maybe you should listen then.”
(ask me)
[...]
He goes back to the notebook, takes a liking to it now with the new questions that every page and lyric brings to him.
Did Crowley know of this? Was Crowley part of that? When did they meet? Were they part of the same group? Was that Mercury fella part of some bigger plan? What did Crowley think of this song?
Crowley. Crowley. Crowley.
(as if his thoughts weren’t loud enough)
(maybe even heaven could hear them)
(he prays he's wrong)
The notebook never leaves his study room, he reads it calmly, not wanting it to end. There are loose pages, ripped pages, stains and cigarette burns (what a shame), but all those only exemplify how precious those pieces are.
And written across one of the pages: this one is for us AJ, maybe someday you’ll get to love your friend the way you want
They were friends. What a lovely heart-breaking story.
Did they ever end up together? He quite remembers how queerness in Britain was treated back then, how it is still treated, from time to time. He believes Mercury would have understood and helped this friend of his through his journey, having someone to share these troubling feelings with.
Aziraphale is not one for favouritism- At least he tries not to.
But that line. Those beautiful lines. And the note under it.
may raphael give AJ the love he deserves
He remembers how much love Mercury inspired in those around him, the love he brought to the world even after he left this astral plan. To see a man so full of love being inspired by the love of others is a charm.
He wants to know more. Wants to understand it.
And he knows who to ask.
[...]
The point is. Crowley loves to talk, loves being the reason behind things, loves getting in those wicked word-plays of his.
Loves inciting questions, loves questioning.
Answering questions, though? Not quite as much.
If Aziraphale wanted to know more of his time as that Mercury boy’s companion, he needs to be as sly as a sna-
Bullocks.
[...]
“Love.” Aziraphale calls out during one of their shared dinners.
Crowley stops his wine glass midway, his eyebrows rising and his eyes much probably widening behind the dark lenses. Aziraphale doesn’t quite understand, but is too nervous and planning his every word to not mess up so he can’t stress too much about it.
“...Yes?”
“Any, ahm, thoughts on it?”
“Ah, that’s what you-” He seems to go through many stages of something before scoffing dryly and going back to playing with his wine glass while looking at Aziraphale, getting his cool back. “Rotten work.”
“You can’t believe in your own words.”
“Demons shouldn’t believe in demons, not even themselves.”
“Don’t try to out-wit me, demon.” He says the word in a mocking (and awfully fond) tone, taking the napkin to his lips while hiding an amused grin. “Love is everywhere, you might not sense it, but you surely see it.”
“Being with you all the time, how could I not?”
He blinks a few times.
“I’m sorry?”
Crowley seems to understand his own words and chokes on his wine briefly, putting the glass down and adjusting his posture, which meant making it even worse.
“You attach those things, that’s obviously what I meant.”
“Obviously.” He repeats, a bit sceptical, his aura going back to its usual state after the quick foolishness of his thoughts. “So you notice it.”
“I’m not naive.”
“Never said you were, dear.” He smiles softly. “I was just wondering if… If there are any love stories that stroke your memory in the past.”
“Nah.” He shrugs, getting his wine back and drinking from it.
Slyer.
“You must know of the heartbreaks then. The longing.”
“Are you trying to get me to watch a play with you? Because you can just ask.”
He presses his lips, a bothered smile taking his lips at his failed attempt.
“Let’s just enjoy our food, shall we?”
“Angel-”
“Is the wine of your liking?”
Crowley seems like he wants to say something, but he only frowns and nods. Aziraphale keeps his smile and changes the subject.
He could always try later.
[...]
He tries. And tries. And tries once again.
Unsurprisingly, he isn’t sly as a snake as his friend once was.
He decides to take a path he’ll never admit how little he takes. Honesty.
They’re in Crowley’s car when it happens.
It’s a similar scenario, one he’s considerably used to by now: they’re driving somewhere and Crowley tells him to choose a CD among the many he has to shut him up from complaining about his dreadful driving.
He’s ready to take the usual Greatest Hits when his fingers stumble upon a different CD in the far back, catching his curiosity.
He puts the CD on, the music starts and he takes a better look at the case.
It’s another one from Queen, and he’s not surprised by that, but he’s certainly spooked by the age of the poor thing, clearly worn-out by the time. Which is… Surprising, and very human of it. Crowley’s CDs had a habit of following his Bentley’s harmony, ever so put together.
This one, though. Hm.
“-should fucking thank me.” Crowley grunts, probably in a good mood since he stopped at a red light. “See, angel-”
With love, Freddie.
It’s the same writing from the notebook, the same one he’s been reading from. And he can’t quite believe his gift could have been that spot on.
“Angel?”
“Apologies, I- I’m just surprised.” He can’t hide the happiness that comes with his words, knowing that choosing the right path has once again given him benefits. “You two were really close.”
“Yeah, he was an old mate.” He shrugs with a soft frown at Aziraphale’s sudden reaction. “We’ve met a considerable amount of people through time, are you this surprised?”
“And you knew of his other companions?” He asks instead, curiosity taking over his whole body.
(did he know AJ? was he acquainted with raphael?)
Crowley gives him a strange look at the question.
“Some of them, yes.” He answers carefully, speeding the car again.
“Have you met AJ by any chance?”
The car does something and Aziraphale can feel his heavenly soul also doing something with that.
“Dear Heavens.” He breathes out, a hand over his chest and the other one tightly holding the car. “Crowley, you have to stop driving this way!”
He doesn’t say anything, just goes back to driving in his own awful way and Aziraphale seems to forget he asked something until Crowley himself points it out once they’re in front of the bookshop.
“Where did you get that name?” He asks and Aziraphale furrows his eyebrows, to which Crowley holds his glare. “AJ.”
“Oh. That.” Good question, dear. One he should’ve been prepared to answer, surely. “Biography.”
“You’ve been reading Freddie Mercury’s biography. Yeah, sure. Try again.”
He presses his lips in a pout and then huffs.
“I don’t have to tell you a thing.” He says stubbornly, trying to preserve his gift. Or so he wants to believe. “It’s just a name I stumbled upon.”
“While?”
“Crowley, dear.” He says the endearment with a different smile and Crowley visibly feels it.
“You’re the one being a bloody crypt.” He points out with ease, not completely unaffected by the tone, but playing it cool.
“I just-”
Honesty. Honesty path.
He takes a deep breath and starts organising his thoughts just when the lyrics of the current song starts playing and he actually recognises it.
may raphael give AJ the love he deserves
It’s a lovely tune, because- Because he feels quite human while listening to it, he can feel raw love coming from Mercury’s voice, from the lyrics, even from the instruments. It’s like something ethereal put a finger on it while the song was being recorded.
I could give up all my life for just one kiss
I would surely die
If you dismiss me from your love
So this is it. This is what the song inspired by AJ’s feelings sounds like. This is how their love was like.
It aches him, to know how that must have felt.
“I- Got you a notebook. A while ago.” He starts, unsure of his own words. “It’s filled with notes by that friend of yours, thoughts cutting through the lyrics. And- Many of these songs were written for another friend of his, about his lover.”
There isn’t silence, there’s Mercury’s voice and the piano filling the Bentley.
He lets out a sighed smile.
“I just wish to know what happened to them. A love this strong, this- Inspiring. It couldn't have been as unrequited as the notes make it to be.” He shrugs lightly, keeping a tender smile as the lyrics are completed. “And, well, since you were a friend of his, maybe you-”
He decides to look up and- Oh. Crowley is giving him an intense look, even under the shades.
“Angel.” His voice is strained, low. “You didn’t even know them.”
“But I can sense it.” He points out strongly. “And… I know love. I- I’ve known it for a while.”
For millennia.
Crowley doesn’t answer him and he looks down at the radio, the song still playing somehow.
“I guess I just wanted to think a love this strong could end well. For humans, at least.” He lets out, feeling his aura crunch around him. He finishes in a whisper. “They surely deserved it.”
“And don’t you?”
The words catch him off guard, but he only presses his lips in a sad smile.
“Not one that I could have.”
I will find you anywhere you go
I’ll be right behind you
Right until the ends of the earth
There’s a pause.
Not too long.
He realises the same verse has been playing on and on and on. He wonders if the Bentley is the one doing it. If it’s Crowley.
“I should go-”
“They weren’t together.” Crowley says, stopping him from moving. “He was a bloody coward, never got to say how he felt.”
“He never thought of showing the songs?” He tries, his aura looking for something. “They tell a lot.”
“Not if you don’t listen.”
The part keeps repeating itself.
“But how-”
“Aziraphale.” The name sounds painful in his lips. “You’re more clever than you’re making yourself to be right now.”
Is he? Then why can’t he piece together what Crowley can’t seem to have the courage to say?
A spark of something hits him, a dryness to his lips. A racing heart that doesn’t belong to this situation, but fits so perfectly.
He takes a better look at the CD’s case, a proper look at the whole writing on it instead of just the signature.
Play it to Raphael someday, he’ll love it.
His breathing hitches.
He looks up and there’s (hope? fear?) so much expectation in Crowley’s face. As if he was waiting for him to notice. All this time. All these decades.
“I- I’m sorry.” It’s the first thing that comes out of his mouth, and it’s the wrong one. “I mean! For not realising, not as a- Rejection of some sort. I’ve been- We’ve been, apparently- Nurturing a very complicated affair and I-”
“And you are only complicating it more.” Crowley says in his usual playful tone, but there’s a softness in it right now and Aziraphale breathes in it.
He chuckles, the song starting all over again and making him feel all the love that was meant for him.
“I wish I’d known poets that could find the words for what I’ve felt for you, my dear.” He says with ease, taking his hand to hold Crowley’s cheek. “May I see you?”
“You already are.”
“Who is complicating it now?”
With a short scoff, sunglasses are taken off.
Those eyes, the same eyes that have followed him since the beginning.
“May I-”
“Stop asking dumb questions.”
They kiss. And it does take his breath away.