Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Crowley made sure the coast was clear and that no one could see or hear him when he climbed down from the rafters above the stage. It wasn’t his first time managing to sneak his own private audience time to watch one of his favorite rock stars perform. Today, Crowley watched him rehearse for a show that he would sneak into later tonight. He wove through equipment backstage and to a door that brought him out into a narrow, poorly lit corridor. He’d just slip on out into the afternoon sun and pop on over to see his angel friend before coming back to this venue tonight for the show.

“I can see you, you know. I can always see you,” a deep, silvery voice took command of the air behind him.

Crowley felt…he almost felt a little fear skip down his spine. There was a taste of excitement. Mostly, he was amused. Glasses still in his hand, he turned around. Fuck! Glasses in his hand! Not covering his eyes. He quickly moved to put them on, but when he caught the mismatched eyes of the figure before him, he fumbled and dropped them. “Fuck!”

“Bit dark in here for glasses, innit?” the man asked. There was a twinkle in his eyes and he ran his fingers through his dirty blonde hair. “Enjoy the show?”

Crowley smirked. “I always do.”

“Going to actually buy a ticket to see the show tonight?” The man moved closer to him.

Crowley stood still. “Wouldn’t dream of doing it any other way.”

“Right then. Well, gimme the goods. How’d it sound?”

“You sound perfect, as always. Love the newer stuff. Really like the drums for the…uh…spaceboy song.”

“Mmm mmmm.” The man’s face was briefly illuminated by the spark of a lighter as he lit a cigarette - not that the crappy lighting hadn’t already highlighted every sharp and perfectly proportioned feature and hypnotic eyes. This was someone who would manage to be captivating no matter the circumstance.

Crowley pointed to a sign on the wall that showed a cigarette in a circle with a line through it. “Don’t think we’re meant to smoke back here.”

The man squinted at the sign and took a long drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke out for an equally dramatic length of time. “So now we care about rules?”

Crowley’s laugh was dry. “I care about our lungs.” He declined when the man’s response was to offer him a cigarette. He was dying to join him, but he never liked smoking as much as he thought he should as a demon and he didn’t want to overstep. Or maybe he should take one. What if he was insulted if he didn’t? Now he was overthinking things much like Aziraphale. Nah, Aziraphale would have been two cigarettes deep by now.

“Best to say no. Shit’s bad for you.” He put the cigarette out against the wall. “Amazing how you never age. It’s been - what? - nearly 25 years of you sneaking around on rafters or backstage or pretending you’re a roadie or a pressman. And then you always manage to get front row. Rather fortunate chap, aren’t you?” His voice was stern, but carried a soft kindness in its undertones. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened with his impish amusement.

“I could say the same about you - about the aging.” Crowley felt more relaxed in his presence, knowing that this man has seen him for decades now and was merely amused today, not angry.

The man snorted quietly. “Years of clean living.”

“Same.”

“Have we ever talked before? Besides that moment in ‘72? I’ve forgotten most of the 70’s. You could tell me that I proposed to you in ‘75 and I would believe you.”

“We haven’t, no. Just that brief encounter in ‘72 when you said you liked my hair and then stole my look. Couldn’t believe it when I saw you with my hair colour and those hips on my telly the week after.” Crowley ran his fingers through his hair to make a point. “You should go red and spikey again for your next album. Suits you.”

“Does it now?” He picked at a few strands of hair that seemed too afraid to do anything other than look perfect. “Maybe I will. I was merely inspired by what I saw and made it my own. One would think I’m known for that sort of thing.” He winked. “Your eyes are extraordinary.”

Fuck. He was still holding his glasses. Act cool. “I could say the same about you.”

Another large smile. The man lit a new cigarette. “You wouldn't actually tell me if anything sounded like shit just now, would you?” He offered a cigarette again.

“Not a chance.”

This time Crowley took the cigarette and let him light it. Just this once, from a man he inspired all those years ago. A man whose music was his own inspiration. Their fingers briefly touched and Crowley nearly vaporized in awe. His hands were warm, almost soft. There was only one other person who could most definitely make Crowley nearly vaporize with a graze of a hand and he was sitting in a bookshop in SoHo. Crowley did not let himself entertain such dangerous thoughts. Their eyes met and Crowley recognized the look of someone who could see beyond his outer image. Few humans ever did, but this fellow was looking deep, knowing.

He took a quick drag of the cigarette, trying to hold most of the smoke in his mouth and immediately coughed, which made the back of his throat and inside of his nose burn.

“Succumbed to peer pressure, after all. Even at our age,” the man teased. “Or your age. I have a feeling you're older than me.”

“Ngk. Nah. Same age. Probably.” He took another half-hearted drag and coughed again.

“Sorry. I was being a bit of a cunt. I shouldn't have offered a second time. You're not a smoker. Which is a good thing. You'll live for a very, very long time.”

Crowley held out the cigarette. “I can give it back.” Why? Why was he offering to give the cigarette back - and lit? He withdrew his hand. “Or maybe I shouldn't. It can’t and won't ever kill me, but I’d like you to live for a long, long time.”

“I intend to. My goal is to live long enough to know that you are at one of my concerts, back row, having actually purchased a ticket.” His laugh - that laugh - echoed through the corridor.

“Deal. That won’t be on this tour, though. Got my tickets already. Coincidentally, first row. All four nights, too.” Crowley added his own confident laughter.

“Tenacious. Interesting fellow.” He nodded towards Crowley’s hand and the cigarette with a long build-up of ash. “Mind your ashes.”

“Oh…uh…,” damn this man and his upper hand. Speaking of hands, he put the cigarette out on his palm.

“Fearless, too.” With another slow drag and billowy puff of smoke, the man circled Crowley. “Tell you what… “you’ve been such a dedicated fan of my works - always showing up to concerts and festivals, making sure the rigging is set up correctly, checking in on soundchecks, guarding the rafters and secret back doors,” he laughed. “One could say I’m more than a bit amused. I enjoy the artful dedication to orderly disobedience. I owe you one for the hair and hip swagger inspiration.” Another laugh. “I’ll play you a song. Any song you’d like tonight.”

Crowley blinked. Crowley coughed. Crowley struggled to find words. “Ngk. A..a..ngk…a ssssong? Any s-s-song? Y-you can’t mean that.”

He cocked his head. “I can’t? Try me.”

Fuck. Did he insult him? Has he been insulting him this whole time? Was any of this really happening? Should he pinch himself? That’s what humans do. He pinched the inside of his wrist and felt himself blush when he noticed the man watching him.

“I do mean it. Pick a song.” The kindness still filled his voice and wrapped Crowley like a hug. At least he thought so. He barely had experience being hugged in his near 6,000 years on Earth so his basis for comparison was feeble at best.

Crowley took a deep breath. Here’s his chance. “I would love…um…ngk…well, it’s more of a duet so I don’t know…I would love to hear Under Pressure. Has a lot of meaning for me.” The acrid taste of cigarette was an unwelcome duet with the sudden dryness of his mouth.

The man nodded. “Under Pressure.” He drew in a sharp breath and clicked his tongue. “It’s a duet.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have suggested it. That was stupid. I’m sorry. I’m really just glad to be there. Honest. I love all of the music. You’ve been such an inspiration and I’m sorry I’ve snuck into a show or two and maybe broke into the backstage during soundchecks, but I’m just a big fan and music gets me through a lot of my very weird life….and…”

A hand was on his arm and suddenly they were incredibly close. Close enough to smell the vetiver cologne over the cigarette smoke. Close enough to feel breath coming out of lungs that powered music that saved his sanity - maybe his life - on more than one occasion. Chills tingled under the skin on his arm and followed a path to the back of his neck and made him suddenly aware of the tiny hairs there. It was rare for him to be touched kindly and this was one of his heroes doing it, causing sparks of electricity inside him.

“Alright, mate?”

Crowley sighed and fought for any self control he could find. “Probably?”

“I offered. Don’t take that lightly. Have you heard of my bassist? She does backing vocals, too. Her name is Gail Ann Dorsey. Powerful voice, incredible talent. I think you’ll find she can handle a bit of Freddie. You’ll be gobsmacked by her voice - promise. It’s your lucky day.”

Crowley was rendered speechless.

As amused as he ever was during this encounter, the man patted his shoulder. Another pleasant jolt of electricity. “I do have to be off. Important rock star stuff to do like eat a proper lunch and call the wife. See you tonight? Properly acquired front row?”

“Front row. Properly acquired. Uh…thank you…in advance, you know, if you do it. Which, uh, which you don’t have to do.” Dear fuck, could he stop fumbling words and acting so obviously nervous? He’s Crowley, smooth and sophisticated demon, straight from Hell.

The man pulled out his pack of cigarettes and plucked the last one out. An attempt to light it resulted in just a few feeble sparks. “Bugger it all. No luck for me.” He reached into his pocket in search of another lighter.

“I’ve got it.” Crowley held out his hand and snapped, causing a flame to rise from between two fingers. He nodded his head. “Oh, look, your pack’s full, too. You really should quit, though.” There. His turn to impress. He watched the man’s mismatched eyes grow wide in realization of what just happened.

“Wot? How did…? What are…?” He blinked and smiled. “That explains more than a few things.”

Crowley began to slowly walk backwards towards the door. He’d leave on this high note, with maybe a bit of a playful upper hand. He watched the crinkle of skin by the man’s eyes as a big smile rose along his cheeks.

“You should get back to practice. If you work at it hard enough, you may just end up a proper rock star after all,” he cackled.

“Don’t forget to put your glasses back on,” the man called back.

Crowley opened the door, letting a supernova of dust motes dance in the flash of bright daylight and cool November air. He slipped his glasses on. “Don’t forget to dye your hair red!” With that, he was back out onto the pavement. He could hear the buoyant rush of the man’s iconic laugh through the walls behind him.

“Aziraphale! Aziraphale? Where are you?” Crowley shouted as he burst through the bookshop door. “Angel?!”

Aziraphale appeared from the backroom dressed in his favourite sandy beige trousers, waistcoat, and light blue shirtsleeves. He’d donned his cozy grey cardigan and looked like a warm, trusty hug. A hug that Crowley wished he could have someday. He pushed the thought way down, far away from his mind and heart.

“Angel! Angel!” He bounced excitedly to the small sofa and waited for Aziraphale to take a seat at his desk.

“You’re awfully chipper for a demon out on the prowl.”

“I just met David Bowie. Well, might’ve been caught doing that thing I do where I sort of watch him rehearse for a show without actually being invited…”

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “Crowley…” He had to admit, seeing a happy Crowley was a rare treat that he wished he could indulge in more often.

“Right. Demon stuff. Doing my job. Breaking and entering. Anyway, anyway - he wasn’t mad. I’m going to see his show tonight. And every night he’s here the next few days. At Wembley. He talked to me!”

“Isn’t that nice? Have you actually purchased tickets?” Maybe two? Aziraphale wasn’t a fan of much bebop, but he’d been to a few shows with Crowley and….oh, he couldn’t let his mind think about how lovely those experiences had been. Perhaps someday such pursuits could be a safe reality.

“Sounds like something an angel would do. Right, so, look at this!” He reached into the pocket of his fitted leather blazer and pulled out a half burned, slightly crumpled cigarette.

“A cigarette?” Aziraphale asked, shocked. “Crowley, you loathe smoking.” He sniffed. “Actually, you smell quite strongly of it.”

Crowley let forth a shrill laugh. “I do! I hate it! He gave it to me and…I just thought I might give it a go. David Bowie and all. I didn’t inhale - that’s what all the cool kids and American presidents say these days. You’re technically not supposed to judge. What would the Almighty think?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I’m not judging, my dear boy. I’m merely questioning with humble authority.”

“Questioning with humble authority? Did you just make that up?”

“Not at all. Now, tell me more about your encounter with your rock and or roll singer.” He leaned back in his armchair and rubbed his hands along his thighs. He needed Crowley to keep talking this nonsense about rock stars and cigarettes. Anything to distract him from the actual sight of Crowley, who was wearing a very fitted leather blazer, tight black jeans, black shirtsleeves, and his ever-present chain to Hell. He was melted into the sofa, legs spread, hand draped on a thigh and calling attention to….Aziraphale closed his eyes to ward off the sinful thoughts that he absolutely would not entertain. Until he was alone. With his hand.

Crowley, too, was suffering. Aziraphale, heavenly creampuff, was sitting there, rubbing his hands along thick thighs that were straining against the fabric of his trousers. Lust was supposed to be a speciality for demons, but Crowley avoided it for many personal reasons. He didn’t feel attraction much at all and he liked it that way. Aziraphale was an exception. A fluffy, warm, indulgent exception. Perhaps someday there would be a solution to this.

Crowley chattered on and on about the concert, the hair, the eyes, his glasses, the cigarettes, the laughter, his voice and the kindness in it, the promised song. Before long, it was time for Crowley to leave - a moment they both always dreaded. With their lives and assignments - and, on unfortunate occasions, punishments - they could never be quite sure if it would be a mere hours before they saw one another again or centuries.

“Enjoy your evening out, Crowley. Mind how you go.” Aziraphale watched him walk to the Bentley, trying his damnedest not to admire the confident sway of those hips. He brushed away the envy and the wish that he'd been invited.

Crowley didn’t truly think Bowie would play his request. He thought he was a kindly rock star who may have just wanted to get an intrusive fan out of his hair and away from his rehearsals. The concert was thrilling so far as it neared its end. He felt like he was high on the best drugs - not that he had extensive experience with those at all, but this must be awfully close. Even better. The energy of the stadium electrified him and the performance he was witnessing was raw and captivating. Bowie was at his peak and the audience buzzed with the celebration and worship of this man. Crowley didn’t need his request played. It was an honour just to be there…without a ticket…no matter what songs were sung.

There was nothing that could stop the wide, toothy grin that brightened his face or the bittersweet tears that suddenly soaked his lashes when the iconic opening notes of Under Pressure began and he was given a cheeky wink from the stage. As promised, the vocals of Gail Ann Dorsey overwhelmed him with awe as she handled Freddie’s parts with an unmatchable performance.

”....it’s the terror of knowing, what this world is about, watching some good friend screaming, ‘let me out!’”

Crowley gasped from the enormity of it all. Both he and Aziraphale had been that friend screaming “let me out” to one another over and over through thousands of years. And why? Love. Really….

Gail Ann’s voice rose with the questioning “Why?” and Bowie’s thunderous melody answered with “Love.” Those two words were a simple answer to 6,000 years of a mysterious and confusing, but fulfilling and comforting, friendship. As Freddie asked and Bowie answered - Why? Love.

Those words always hit him hard with an assortment of meanings. Crowley felt the chain hanging down his chest. His very real chain to hell. One day, he thought, this chain could possibly be broken and he would be free…free to love in a way that was too dangerous to imagine right now.

With snapping fingers as the music played out, Bowie stared right at him. He nodded his head toward him with a friendly smile.

Crowley put his hand over his heart and mouthed a ‘thank you,” nodding his head in return. This was a moment he’d carry with him for eternity. He had been seen. Truly seen and it felt his body flushed with simple happiness. Only one other being in this universe has ever truly seen him…

“Angel! Angel!” Crowley pounded on the bookshop door, which was locked with its shades drawn down for the night. “Angel!” he scream-whispered.

“Good heavens!” Aziraphale sat up straight in his chair. He had been comfortably lounging with a cup of nighttime tea and a few biscuits whilst listening to Max Bruch’s Scottish Fantasy. He stopped the spinning of the gramophone and rushed to the door.

“Alright! Alright! Do you want to wake all of Soho?” He asked brusquely as Crowley nearly hopped past him. He poked his head out the door to be sure no one was watching.

“He sang it for me. He sang it to me.”

Aziraphale was once again charmed by the light-hearted mood of his compatriot. He was more than charmed by the outfit. Tonight, the leather blazer was worn over a black waistcoat and what appeared to be a see-through mesh shirt underneath, showing a glimpse of chest hair. Aziraphale steadied his thoughts.

“Oh, Crowley, what a lovely honour. I imagine that must have been quite the experience. You're going to more of his shows, I understand?” Please invite me. I can endure the lights and the noise for you. I won't complain about bebop.

“Yep! Three more at Wembley. Might catch him elsewhere, too. Haven't decided.” Crowley stood there awkwardly. He could smell the chamomile of Aziraphale's tea and realized the angel probably just wanted to relax with his books. He wouldn't bother him much more with the uninteresting subject of bebop. This could have been a phone call.

“Right! Best be off. Need my beauty sleep. Ciao!” He made his way to the door.

It was too short a visit. “Crowley?” Aziraphale called after him.

Crowley turned from the door. “Yeah, Angel?” Ask me to stay. Please ask me to stay.

Aziraphale hesitated and twisted his ring around his pinky. He gave Crowley a sweet smile. “Have a nice sleep. Good night, Crowley.”

Damn. “Good night, Angel.”

It was very early on a damp Monday morning. Aziraphale’s hand was hovering over the snake doorbell to Crowley’s flat. Somber saxophone music could be heard from the other side of the door. News had just come over that morning - David Bowie had died. The moment he heard, Aziraphale rushed over to Mayfair, pulled by some invisible force.

“It's unlocked for you!” Crowley’s voice slithered from inside the flat. Aziraphale hadn't even buzzed or knocked.

Aziraphale looked all around him as if searching for someone who may be watching before he timidly opened the door and peaked in. He wasn't sure what to expect. Crowley could be sitting somewhere or pruning his plants. He could be suspended upside down from the ceiling, or attached to the wall, or in his bed - any of his preferred sleeping methods. Instead, a walk through the foyer brought him to Crowley, dressed for the day, sans jacket, laying on his marble desk, a near empty bottle of whiskey balanced in his hand atop his belly. Another very empty bottle of whiskey teetered near the edge of the desk.

Aziraphale listened to the familiar, though somewhat weak and melancholic voice playing off Crowley’s old turntable.

“I, ah, I heard the news today - ” Aziraphale began.

“Oh, boy,” Crowley interrupted with a half smile.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, Angel. Just an inadvertent song lyric.”

Aziraphale twisted and squeezed his fingers. “Oh, ah, I hadn't realized. I thought I might stop by because I know the news must be causing you considerable sorrow.” He looked at Crowley, who was wearing his glasses, which was not typical for the demon inside his own apartment with friendly company.

“I’m fine, Angel. Just enjoying a few bottles of whiskey for an early breakfast appetizer. Come to think of it, might do with another bottle for actual breakfast.”

Aziraphale stood stiff. “Sounds perfectly reasonable.”

Crowley held out the bottle in offering. “Have a tipple.”

Aziraphale didn't want whiskey. Aziraphale didn't want to refuse an offer from his…friend. He thought back to a conversation two decades earlier where Crowley had taken the offer of a cigarette from Bowie due to a sense of awe. He wondered what had happened to it. With slight hesitation, he took the bottle from Crowley and swallowed a small amount. His throat burned with it. An honest angel would tell you that sharing a swig from a bottle was as close to kissing as they would get…

Crowley’s fingers danced in the air with music while his lips silently mouthed along with the words.

“Such emotion in his voice,” Aziraphale whispered.

“He knew. He knew he was dying. Left us a parting gift. That’s what I believe. Bet we’ll hear something more about that as the days roll on and the tributes roll in. Fucking brilliant at everything he ever did. Even his death.”

“Poetic.” Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what to do. Continue to stand. Sit on the throne. Offer a hand. Or a hug. He wished.

Crowley sat up and rubbed the back of his head. “Cor, got quite the headache.”

“I don’t think having a lie down on marble would bring the most comfort to one’s head. The same goes for two bottles of Talisker.”

“Three, really. Polished the first one off and…and…might’ve sent the empty bottle to the Queen’s bedroom for a lark.” He swung his legs and slithered off the desk, stumbling as he tried to right himself.

Aziraphale caught him. “I’ve got you.” He’d happily stay like this. Crowley smelled like vetiver, whiskey, and fire. For a moment, the demon almost seemed to sink into him.

Crowley immediately felt awkward and hoped Aziraphale didn’t think he just threw himself at him. Perhaps he did so on purpose, just a teeny bit. “Y’always catch me,” he slurred, “funny, that.”

“I wouldn’t just let you fall -” Aziraphale caught himself.

Crowley pulled off his sunglasses and stared at him, amusement bringing colour to his face. “Nice one, Angel.”

Aziraphale was struck at how bleary Crowley’s golden eyes looked. He’d obviously been crying. The urge to reach out to comfort him was so strong. “Is there anything I can do for you today? To bring you comfort, perhaps?”

“Come have a drink with me, Angel.” He began to walk out of the room, the sway of his hips exaggerated by his intoxication. “Follow me to my den of iniquity.”

Crowley didn’t own much, nor did he save very many antiques from his time on earth outside of a few carefully-selected art pieces and the occasional stolen throne. Most of what he had was sentimental. His flat featured industrial minimalism and furniture wasn’t as much needed for entertaining as it was something he thought a posh demon such as himself should have. He led Aziraphale into what one might call a sitting room. There was a large screen television hidden behind a panel that blended into the concrete-finished wall. A black leather sofa and matching armchair sat among a large album collection, marble - in such a deep red that it was almost black - end tables, and a sleek, state of the art stereo system that looked as if it had been carved out of onyx. An orbit globe chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting moody light. If austere design could be flashy and luxurious then Crowley had struck the right balance.

One side of the room was cut with a long marble bartop upon black oakwood. There were two matching chairs, empty for their entire existence, an ode to loneliness. Crowley’s extensive collection of vintage and high-end alcohol was artfully arranged behind the bar.

Aziraphale took a seat in the armchair, perched on the edge. He looked around the room. Crowley always kept his flat updated with modern trends in design. Always the latest furniture fads. His taste was impeccable - if it was even his taste at all. Aziraphale knew that while Crowley’s place consistently looked as if it belonged in the hottest and most modern interior design magazines, it was also very lonely. There was no one to entertain other than an angel who made the occasional visit while looking over his shoulder.

“Settle in, Angel. No need to be uptight. I’ll get you a drink.” He slipped behind the bar. It was rare for him to have opportunities to mix a drink for anyone else. Aziraphale had been the only one on infrequent occasions. Crowley always put on a big show as if he didn't care, that he was cool and aloof, but he hung onto every single second with Aziraphale, especially when those seconds were casual. The loneliness that would follow once he bid Aziraphale goodbye later would be suffocating. Crowley had never been able to withstand that feeling in a healthy way. Thank someone for unlimited alcohol and the ability to sleep for a century at a time.

Aziraphale sank back into the chair and watched Crowley while listening to the music over the speaker. Cracks in the crooning voice sang -

Aziraphale’s own tears lined his lower lids as he watched Crowley try to discreetly wipe at his eyes while mixing a drink.

“Very poignant. Can’t imagine what it must have felt like to make this album, knowing what he knew.”

They shared a look as the lyrics seemed to hit them with a similar meaning for one another at the same time. Damn that Bowie for making them each feel things for the other at a time like this, never mind the ever-present danger. Aziraphale wanted the song to end. He didn’t want to think like this - not now. It was one thing to embrace the melancholy of the day, to support his…his…friend. Recognizing a shared feeling in those amber eyes was not something he wanted to acknowledge lest he fall victim to a different type of heartbreak. Thankfully, Crowley would break the moment for them.

“Thank Go- thank whoever that the Dowlings extended their American holiday for the New Year. Couldn’t imagine hearing this news and dealing with,” he waved his hand in the air, “whatever you call this. Emotions or whatnot. It’s bad enough. Tottering about in my nanny drag would have made it a thousand times worse.” He rolled his eyes dramatically. “Then I’d have to see you in those ridiculous teeth, silly prosthetics, and that drab getup and use all my demonic might not to laugh whilst mourning.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes back at him. “I rather enjoy a bit of pantomime. I dare say you enjoy it, too, Crowley Poppins.”

Glasses clinked as Crowley worked behind the bar. “Crowley Poppins, right.”

“Our young Warlock does adore you. Speaks rather sweetly of you. Proof that your dastardly plans to keep him evil are failing. As arranged and thanks to my own angelic influence. You've always had a certain way with children.” This was probably going too far, Aziraphale warned himself.

“Ngk,” Crowley sneered. “He asked me why you haven't seen a dentist. Not as angelic as you hoped.” That was the point of their entire antichrist arrangement after all - to cancel one another out. He watched a flicker of embarrassment across Aziraphale's face and felt bad for going too far.

Crowley waved a hand in the air. “Don't want to talk about work. Not today.” He moved from behind the bar. “Here, drink up,” he slurred, handing Aziraphale a cocktail glass filled with an orange drink and rimmed with sugar. Crowley had memorized all of Aziraphale's favourite drinks over years, mixing them up and perfecting them - alone - while imagining scenarios in which he could serve them. The death of David Bowie and the unhinged audacity of his mind, heart, whatever emotions was never an imagined scenario. “Hope you like it.”

“A sidecar? Oh, how lovely. Thank you.” Aziraphale took a sip. Crowley had used a rather expensive cognac and it blended perfectly with the Cointreau and fresh lemon juice. “Delightfully crafted. Thank you.”

Crowley perched on the armrest of the sofa, swirling his Boulevardier and stared at nothing at all.

“I make it a point to never get attached to humans. Too many opportunities for heartbreak.”

Aziraphale carefully considered the crystals of sugar slipping off the rim into his drink. “I understand,” he said softly. “Attachments run the risk of bringing pain, ultimately.” A larger sip allowed his head to swirl.

Crowley sniffed. “Wouldn't know. I make it a point to never get attached to anyone.” Demons lie. It was his job.

Certainly not to me, I suppose. “No, no. Certainly not.”

Crowley stood and walked over to the bar to fill his already emptied glass.

He sang along to the next lyrics as he added sweet vermouth into his whiskey.

“You know,” Crowley began taking the album off the turn table, “when he caught me listening to his rehearsals back in ‘95, I told him to dye his hair red again.”

“Ah, he did, if I recall. I remember you gloating endlessly,” Aziraphale teased. He was doing his mightiest work trying not to focus on the way Crowley’s very grateful fingers swept along the width of an album cover.

“Yeah. Yeah. And…and, Angel…he wore yellow snake eye contact lenses in his Little Wonder video. Red hair, yellow snake eyes. That's not a coincidence.” He pulled an album from its sleeve and carefully dropped it down onto the player. For a moment, the static on the speakers was the only sound in the room before the soft rhythm of drums.

“Anyway,” Crowley took a sip and swished it around his mouth. He held up the album and pointed to a blonde figure in a blue jumpsuit on the cover. “I was there when they were doing the photoshoot for this album. The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. Photographed right here in Mayfair,” he said proudly, slapping his thigh. “Right on Heddon Street. Used to be a furrier there. I was innocently walking around that night, gluing pennies to the ground…”

Aziraphale smiled into his drink as he took another sip. He had heard this story at least ten thousand times before and he would listen to him tell it ten thousand times more.

“...and there's this bloke getting photos done. Dirty blonde hair. His natural colour, yeah? Yeah, so, I decided to snake my way through quickly and not be seen, but he noticed me.” He tapped a nail on the album cover. “He was standing right here, by this K. West sign.” Another big gulp was followed by a growling sigh. “Know…know…what he said?”

Aziraphale could quote it word for word. “What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Hey! Great hair! What is that colour?’ Crowley ran his hands through his hair. “Know what I said?” He hiccuped.

Aziraphale longed to run his fingers through that hair. You told him it was your own. Silly snake. He leaned forward, “What did you say?”

“‘My own!’” Crowley slurred. “Kept walking, I did. Heard him ask his photographer, ‘did you see how he walked?’” Crowley stood and walked to the bar with the natural slinky sway of his hips as if to make a point. And refill his glass again.

“Y-you know what…know what happened months later?”

Aziraphale gave a golden smile and watched Crowley walk back to the sofa and slump into it. Next, would be the part about Top of the Pops. “Tell me what happened.”

“Top of the Pops! Months later, he is on Top of the damn Pops debuting his new style and singing Starman. With my red hair. Saw him in concert a bunch and I recognized a certain hip swagger.”

“Mmmm,” Aziraphale agreed, slowly swallowing the final sip of his drink. It was delicious, but had done nothing to stem the vortex of emotional confusion in his heart.

“Lemme get you another,” Crowley stood swaying. “W'd'ya'like?”

“Oh…ah…what would I like?” To hug you until it stops hurting. For both of us. “Surprise me?” He sat quietly, while Crowley began his work behind the bar. For a moment, he wondered if he should get up and sit at the bar, giving those chairs a chance to be used properly. Not quick enough - Crowley was already on his way back with a yellow drink. Aziraphale’s favourite colour - the serpent's eyes. Their fingers grazed as he accepted the drink. Eyes met, briefly, as lyrics hit two hearts silenced by the danger of their respective roles.

Crowley quickly withdrew his hand and stepped back, stumbling from heavy intoxication. Aziraphale instinctively reached a hand out, but it was too late - Crowley regained enough footing to safely retreat to the sofa.

“Bee Knees,” Crowley said, pointing to Aziraphale’s drink. “I know you like the honey in it.”

“Astonishingly good, thank you.” Aziraphale looked on as Crowley became quieter, at times staring intently into the air….perhaps into another dimension. Perhaps he wanted to be alone and Aziraphale was overstaying his welcome.

“Might it be best if I returned to the bookshop.”

Crowley snapped out of whatever deep thought he was swimming in and blinked at Aziraphale. “Wot?” Please, please…no.

“I don't want to intrude on your mourning if you prefer time alone.” Ask me to stay.

Crowley grimaced. “Mourning? I told you, Angel, I don't get attached to humans. I don't get attached to anyone.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale whispered, barely audible above the music. That seemed to answer it. He’d leave. Foolish Angel.

“Was he one of yours or one of ours?” Crowley wouldn't - he couldn’t - outright ask him to stay, but he would keep him engaged in conversation.

“I think he was his own,” Aziraphale answered softly. “A very different sort altogether.”

“Ngk.”

“Precisely.”

“Went to a lot of his concerts. He always looked right at me. Right into my damned burnt soul. Like he recognized me.”

“The hair?”

“More than that.”

“Ah. I don't doubt it. That must feel rather special.”

“Mmm.”

Crowley gulped. “Oh, this song…”

Oh, this song. Aziraphale, not a fan of bebop, thankyouverymuch, was very familiar with this song. He'd never forget a very late night in early July 1973 when Crowley showed up at the bookstore after a Ziggy Stardust concert. His hair was in a spikey style, mimicking the one who copied him, and his face was done artfully in make-up, the majority of him covered in glitter. Or some sort of sparkly dust. Crowley had been under the influence of several substances, in addition to alcohol, which would explain why he didn't seem to remember how he slumped into the armchair at Aziraphale's desk, crying that the show was amazing, but Ziggy was “gone.” His reaction was so strong that Aziraphale momentarily thought Bowie had died then, rather than the truth - the rocker had announced, unexpectedly, on stage that he was retiring the Ziggy Stardust character that night. Crowley, in tears, had played this song on Aziraphale's antique gramophone over and over and over. Now, Aziraphale was aware of growing sadness returning to Crowley’s eyes as the lyrics played on.

“I remember when he sang this as his last song the night he retired Ziggy Stardust…,” Crowley breathed into the air, seemingly speaking to no one, his attention turned to a different time. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and shook his head, bringing himself back to the present.

Crowley turned to the side so Aziraphale couldn't see him wipe his eyes as Bowie screamed reassurance about not being alone.

Aziraphale was desperate to soothe him. It was too dangerous. Who knew if they were being surveilled. He wouldn't go too far, but he would take a chance. He joined Crowley on the sofa, still at a respectful, and safe, distance, but enough for his friend to understand his support. How he wanted to hug him, to let him melt in his arms and cry into his shoulder as he ran a hand through his hair and consoled him. He squeezed the fingers of his left hand over and over.

Crowley watched Aziraphale fidget and squeeze his fingers. Please hug me. Touch me. Something. I need a hug. “That's what it was all about. The loneliness. Isolation. He understood it. The queer. The freaks. People trying to figure themselves out. People who just wanted to be themselves. Those who were cast out. His music was a refuge, it was permission to just be.” Without a fight, he let a tear fall.

“Oh, Crowley. Such a beautiful sentiment. How marvelous to find comfort and belonging in art. He shared a priceless gift with his audience.”

“Yeah.” He seemed to disappear again.

Aziraphale patiently sat with him and listened when he did talk, vacillating between song lyrics and stories, quips and the occasional vulnerable admission.

Crowley stood up some unmeasured amount of time later and walked to the bar. This time, he mixed two of the same drink - French 75s.

“We'll toast him and then I'm going to sober up,” Crowley said, sitting back down next to Aziraphale and handing him the champagne flute.

Aziraphale raised his glass. “To the Starman, whose light will never diminish. And to the Starmaker, who has opened my eyes to the world of a brilliant artist.”

A “ngk” was all Crowley could get out without choking up.

A sobered up Crowley asked Aziraphale to walk to Heddon Street with him.

“Air feels different. Mood is different. You can feel his loss. I can feel the mourning from so many different people.” And myself.

Aziraphale strolled beside him, his hands clasped behind his back. He could feel the change in energy around them. It was a Monday, people were rushing about as lunchtime was approaching. Crowley was right - the air around them felt different, the way it feels heavy when the world mourns. It was soon evident that they were not the only ones heading in that direction. As they turned onto Heddon Street from Regent Street, Aziraphale looked up at the curved facade, topped with two elegantly draped feminine art deco statues, of Westmoreland House. His memories brought him visions of when that building had first been designed, over a hundred years ago. It now housed high fashion shops.

“This crowd is going to grow as the day goes on. This and many other spots in London and around the world,” Crowley said. His steps slowed until he was standing still, pointing to the ground. “Here. I was right here that night.” He pointed to a spot a few feet away and seemed to be lost in a memory for a few moments before speaking. “That’s where he was, getting his picture taken with his blonde hair. That’s where he was standing when he noticed me.”

“That was a very special moment for you.”

Someone placed a bluetooth speaker on the ground and let the music from their phone play. The opening lyrics seemed to summon even more people, gathering around the area where Crowley had just pointed to, an homage to an album cover. As the chorus began to swell, a few voices joined in.

Aziraphale watched the expression change on Crowley’s face. His Starmaker friend, caught between admiration, good memories, and what seemed like a bone deep grief. He followed as Crowley kept walking and matched his gaze as the demon nodded down an alley.

“They have an old phone booth there. Nod to the album artwork. Very famous photo of him in a phonebooth on this street.” A faint smile crossed his face while watching people take photos of one another, mimicking Bowie’s pose, in the phone booth. Someone passed by with a guitar, singing another set of familiar lyrics.

They continued to walk around, listening to people talk about memories of concerts or encounters with the man himself. Someone laid what would be the first of many bouquets of flowers up against the wall where his album cover had been photographed.

“He sang an awful lot about isolation and loneliness. Feeling like an alien in a strange land,” Crowley said wistfully, repeating a point he'd made in his flat earlier. As if to prove his point, another shared radio played a lesser-known song.

“Rather poignant to think of how he made others feel less alone while he, surrounded by so many people, wrote songs about loneliness,” Aziraphale said, his voice somber and reverent. It was a heavy theme for Crowley, that much was obvious as the demon had mentioned it several times now. He, too, knew exactly how it felt.

Crowley rubbed his temples. “Would you…uh…would you like to drive to Brixton with me?”

“Brixton? Whatever for?”

“That’s where he was born. People will be there for sure. There’s a mural of him there.”

A quick lunch followed a quicker and slightly hair-raising ride in the Bentley to Brixton as the normally 25 minute drive took an alarmingly shorter time. At one point, Aziraphale was sure they'd end up joining Bowie as the Bentley weaved across the Vauxhall bridge. Crowley finally slowed as they passed the Ritzy Cinema. The marquee contained a tribute. “David Bowie. Our Brixton Boy. RIP.” Crowley passed round the corner and found a spot in Tunstall Road to park. Just like Heddon Street, a large gathering of people was growing rapidly and music could be heard.

They approached Morley’s Department Store, the side of which had been used by an Australian graffiti artist to paint an image of Bowie some years back. Against a red background, a crimson-haired Bowie, wide-eyed with a lightning bolt down his face, was surrounded by multi-coloured spheres. Planets, maybe. A nod to his otherworldly nature. Mourners of all ages gathered to share stories, songs, and tears. Some had hastily painted lightning bolts down their faces or a golden orb on their forehead. Many wore concert shirts. One thing was for certain, Crowley was far from the only redhead there, though they must have stood out as more than one person approached them.

“You two are like Ziggy Stardust Bowie and Serious Moonlight Bowie!” a young man in a Labyrinth t-shirt exclaimed. “Legends.”

Aziraphale gave him a warm smile.

Crowley stood, taking it all in. No one would notice his eyes, teary and streaked with red, now closed behind his glasses as he felt the energy around him. The people here could relate to how he felt, something he wasn’t used to from anyone other than his angelic friend. Reporters had gathered as well, standing in front of cameras to explain the scene and taking comments from fans. Crowley listened to person after person who described being bullied for being different, feeling like an outsider, and finding comfort and acceptance - freedom to express themselves - in Bowie’s music.

Flowers, candles, photos of the singer, and letters to a Starman quickly spread out and piled up in front of the mural. Messages were scrawled on the wall in Sharpie. Phones played songs, a fan broke out their harmonica while another began to strum his guitar. Melodies drifted above the crowd.

Aziraphale squeezed his fingers. Sadness was just as palpable as joy in the crowd. He wasn’t sure if he should say more to Crowley or just let him absorb it all quietly. His heart lightened at an interaction between his demon friend and a person asking about his hair colour. At first, Crowley had quipped that his hair was “my own,” recalling his answer to Bowie, but upon seeing a flash of disappointment in their eyes, he winked and told them to ask their stylist about colour 6.66. Aziraphale kept the knowledge that Crowley was truly kind close to his heart, where his deepest secrets were stored.

Twilight approached as if it had no idea of the enormity of the day’s events. The gathering of people had grown considerably larger, the sounds of memories louder. Crowley was ready to say goodbye. He took one last look at the mural and turned to Aziraphale, who had patiently stood with him in a respectful silence. Please touch me. Tell me it will feel better.

Aziraphale timidly placed a hand on Crowley’s arm, evoking a memory of ten years prior, when Bowie himself had briefly touched him there in what was an extremely rare moment of kind contact from anyone.

“Are you quite alright?” Aziraphale’s voice was polite in that way that already knew the answer was a screaming “no.”

“‘Course I am, Angel. C’mon. Let’s head back to the Bentley.”

Crowley slowly wound his way down a few residential streets until he came to Stansfield Rd, not far from where they had just been. There were many people walking along the pavement towards a single point. He slowed and pointed out the window. “Number 40, there. That house. That’s where he was born.”

“Would you like to pay respects here as well?”

“No. Someone lives there. Let them keep their privacy.” He sighed. “Would you like to go on a drive? I want to look at the night sky, away from all of this light.”

Hours later, after a stop for dessert, they arrived in a secluded location in the South Downs. Crowley pulled his car into an empty carpark along the edge of a meadow, dormant in the winter cold. Their breaths were carried upward to the sky as they stepped out of the Bentley. Aziraphale tilted his head up. “Oh, how beautiful. I could never tire of such a view.” Despite a few passing clouds, the sky shone with its billions of stars and constellations, the Milky Way cutting across it.

Crowley looked at him. “Gorgeous,” he whispered. Not as gorgeous as you, Angel. He wondered if Aziraphale ever thought of their time together, side by side, as Crowley called all of this into existence. The angel wouldn’t disappoint him with his next words.

“I heard the song about the Starman many times today. I wonder if he is out there. He may have been impressed by your red hair and whatever a swagger is, but one wonders if he realized he was in the presence of an actual Starmaker.”

Crowley’s heart buzzed in his chest. He was remembered. It was enough to make him weep, but they couldn’t do that with one another. One hug. It’s all I need. “Nah. I was just some bloke with good hair and great style that he could steal,” he quipped with an apathetic snort. He sat down on the cold ground. Azirphale sat down next to him with a sigh. Crowley reached into his pocket and pulled out a mostly burnt cigarette. He pulled on the ends and it lengthened into a brand new unsmoked strand.

“I hadn’t realized you were smoking these days.”

“Ngk. M’not. This is the one from him.” He snapped and a flame appeared between his finger tips to light the cigarette. As usual, a cough betrayed him. “Just a few puffs for the memories.” He coughed again. And held the cigarette out to Aziraphale.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to use up your souvenir.”

“No to worry, Angel, this won’t burn away.” Cough.

“In that case…” Aziraphale accepted the offer. His first drag was slow and very satisfactory. He blew the smoke out in long, smooth ribbons.

The mellow strumming of a guitar drifted from the Bentley. Crowley turned. “She’s being cheeky.” He followed the trail of Aziraphale’s smoke until it disappeared from sight. Bowie’s voice rose up after it.

“Doesn’t sound like a Queen song that I can recall.”

“It’s not. It’s Bowie’s cover of a song by Jacques Brel. Err, more bebop. Even the Bentley knows. And, fuck, she’s being direct about it.” He could see the red glow of the cigarette in the corner of his eye as Aziraphale took another languid drag and blew out rings. Show off.

Crowley blew out even bigger rings that chased Aziraphale’s, breaking them apart.

"Must you?”

“Can’t help the way the wind blows,” cough, “Angel.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe you.” He flicked ash. Crowley was right, the cigarette remained the same length despite being passed between them frequently.

Crowley wiped an escaped tear from his eye. “Thank you,” he said, “for sticking around today.”

Aziraphale thought of how passing this cigarette back and forth was much like sharing sips from the same bottle - as close to kissing as possible. It seemed silly, but he willed a lot of love into it as he took a deep inhale. One little treat for his friend. The next exhaled smoke cloud miraculously took on the shape of a lightning bolt before he passed it back to Crowley. The music had stopped.

“Nice one. Bit of a -” cough - “show off -” cough - “tonight, yeah?”

“I have many talents, Crowley. This is merely one of them.” It was nice to hear Crowley laugh at that. “Anyway, you are quite welcome for the companionship. I hope it made a difficult day more bearable.”

Crowley laid back onto the cold earth, his bones ignoring the prickly chill. His fingertip tapped the lit end of the cigarette, extinguishing its flame. “He was right, you know?”

Aziraphale laid down next to him, looking up into the twinkling expanse. He'd worry about the state of his coat later. “How do you mean?”

“The stars look very different today. W-w-well, tonight.”

“Humans aren't the only ones who mourn.”

They lay in a shared silence, watching the stars, hands folded over bellies. Crowley had one knee bent. The Bentley added her own soundtrack.

The combined voices of David Bowie and Tina Turner fizzled out into the air when Crowley snapped and sat up. Aziraphale sat up as well and waited on Crowley’s next cue. He would have laid there all night if Crowley wanted.

“Let me bring you home, Angel. It’s past your curfew.” He managed a thin, crooked grin.

Oh. “Thats a rather good idea. Tomorrow could be a busy day in the bookshop.”

“Aren’t you usually closed on Tuesdays?”

Azraphale stood and brushed his hands along his coat. He wanted to offer a hand to Crowley, but the demon rose up like a serpent being charmed from a basket. “Typically, but tomorrow may not be a typical Tuesday. I haven’t decided.”

Crowley pulled up to the kerb in front of the bookshop well after midnight. He dropped his hands into his lap and looked at Aziraphale, who was still gripping his seat after the speedy drive home. “It was…ngk…I…uh…right, thanks for sticking with me today.” Invite me in. I don’t want to be alone.

Aziraphale relaxed his fingers from the leather seat. “I was happy to do so. I’m very sorry about your sadness, Crowley.” He hesitated, wanting so desperately for the night with his friend to continue, but they had been out long enough and one never knew the eyes that were watching. His head swiveled to check outside the windows. “I trust you’ll get some rest now.”

“Yup,” Crowley said, emphasizing the last letter.

Aziraphale opened the door and climbed out. He bent down and smiled at Crowley, his voice heavy with a warm blessing, “Mind how you go."

Crowley simply nodded. He waited the required amount of time to make sure the angel got into the shop and peeled away from the kerb, tires squealing.

“Oh no! No! No! No! You’re not going to pull this,” Crowley growled at the Bentley. Stop it now."

The Bentley did not listen.

“I’m warning you, dammit. You’re not funny!

Crowley growled again and slapped his hand against the radio, causing static to spurt forth into the air. “Stop it! Or I’ll trade you in for a Jaguar first thing tomorrow,” he threatened. "Ooooh, I’m so angry!" Good, good. Normal, healthy anger to deal with grief.

An undaunted Bentley was taking song requests.

Crowley pounded at radio buttons. “I will not stand for disrespect!

The radio shot out broken pieces of melodies

“Sssstop it, ssstop it!” he hissed.

“Stop!” His voice broke into a sob. “That’s more than enough. Stop!”

Perhaps his tears convinced the Bentley that he was truly serious and not full of his usual bluster. The rest of the ride was silent. That was almost worse, Crowley realized.

Aziraphale pulled his cardigan over his shoulders. It had been quite a day and his mind was a vast nebula of thoughts, matching the emotions cracking through his chest. Of all the highs and lows of his secret friendship and the arrangement with Crowley, nothing hurt quite like the reality of not being able to fully comfort someone who needed it. His arms had ached from the inability to bestow a simple hug and his throat felt constricted, forced to swallow the words he had truly wanted to say. With a heavy and unsatisfied sigh, he put the kettle on for a nice cup of chamomile tea. While it came to temperature, he poked through a drawer of his desk and pulled out a white, hand-tied box from Charbonnel et Walker, a premiere London chocolatier. His fingers wiggled over the selection of rose and violet creams, with their crystalized flower petals atop fondant. They’d been a treasured treat for him for over 150 years.

While his tea steeped, he plucked an album from his collection. David Bowie’s Station to Station. Crowley had several copies and left this one at the shop decades ago. Probably forgotten. It wasn’t quite suited to Aziraphale’s taste, but he had found a few particular songs that spoke to him. Crowley had been right - Bowie knew how to reach people of all backgrounds. This included old-fashioned angels. He set the album on his antique gramophone and poured his tea. The needle found the last song. Aziraphale’s own request.

A small tear began its slow slide down his cheek. He took a bite of his chocolate and washed it down with tea. Loneliness had oozed out of Crowley all day. A fact that Aziraphale wanted to badly to resolve. He knew exactly what it felt like. He was lonely, too. His arms empty.

Aziraphale snapped to stop the music and wipe at his eyes. In his heart, he hoped Crowley was able to get rest. Someday, he thought, days like this would be easier to get through. They had to. They had to hope for it.

Crowley stood in the pitch black darkness, which he could technically see through quite easily, holding a full bottle of Talisker. He had changed, via miracle, into silky black pyjamas. His gaze landed on different spots in his apartment. Where would he choose to sleep? Upside down from the ceiling? Up against the wall? In his very empty bed? He put the bottle down with a thud and padded towards his sitting room. “No staying up late,” he warned his plants. “Goodnight. Sleep tight. Better not let any plant bugs bite.”

In the sitting room, he closed his eyes and remembered what it had been like many hours ago, with Aziraphale sharing drinks and listening to him tell stories about David Bowie. He wondered if Aziraphale was impressed with his story about Bowie copying his hair. “Prob’ly,” he said to no one at all. That was the point. There was no one. The thought pushed him backwards to the armchair where Aziraphale sat earlier. He plopped down into it and curled himself up, tucking his legs under him and wrapping his arms around himself. The hug he could never get. He began to rock himself, willing his mind to let him sleep.

“You were wrong, David,” he whispered. “I am alone.”

He snapped to start music from the ether. A somber guitar began to play, as his tears smeared against the chair.

He continued to rock, inhaling the lingering scent of lilac and old books left behind by Aziraphale on the cold leather of the chair and let his imagination fill his mind with the image of a pair of white wings sheltering him. At least he had that.