Happy Holidays, kingstoken!

[goe_mod]

 Recipient: Kingstoken

Title: A Magnifying Glass

Rated: Gen

Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley attend a new opera in 19^th century Saint Petersburg. It happens to be the first time they’ve seen each other since their fight in 1862. And the play makes it even more awkward because the characters remind them of themselves.

Pairing: Aziraphale & Crowley

Canon: TV

A/N: The title is a reference to the words of the poet Vladimir Mayakovsky: “Theatre is not a mirror; it’s a magnifying glass.”  

Happy Holidays, dear Kingstoken! I chose your second prompt, but I combined it a bit with the first one. I hope you’ll like it.

A huge thank you to my wonderful beta!

 

1875, Saint Petersburg, Russia

“The theatre’s full, the boxes glitter;
The restless gallery claps and roars”–

Those were almost the only lines Aziraphale remembered from Pushkin’s Onegin and even those he’d read in translation. Russian was even harder to master than French, and Aziraphale had never been in dire need to learn it. However, he didn’t have to understand all the words to be able to enjoy the opera. Opera was seldom about words. It was all about music, drama and emotions. And the language of those was international.

He thought that he’d never got such a pleasant assignment from Heaven before: to come to the Mariinsky Theatre in St Petersburg and watch the new Rubinstein opera The Demon, based on Lermontov’s poem, and check if it was appropriate in terms of “romanticizing evil.”

The title got him thinking that this job would be even more pleasant if he had company, but Aziraphale didn’t allow himself to dream in that direction. Apparently, Crowley was still mad at him after their argument in 1862 in London. And Aziraphale wasn’t going to be the first to apologize. He didn’t have anything to apologize for, did he?

So, he’d just have to enjoy the opera alone, just as he’d enjoyed many concerts and plays, many dinners and walks since 1862, and wait for Crowley to finally admit that Aziraphale had been right.

The fact that he had been right, however, didn’t make the time until the beginning of the show less awkward to spend alone. So he went to the buffet to get some champagne and cake. There, in a hall filled with small tables and soft chairs and couches, St Petersburg theatre-goers were already sharing their views on the play.

As Aziraphale was sipping his drink, watching the men and women in their best evening clothes parading before him along the theatre corridor, he suddenly caught a glimpse of a familiar figure. He was easily spotted not only because he was tall and redheaded, and also because he was alone and curiously staring at people around him, just like Aziraphale himself.

Something leapt inside him either in joy or in fear, he wasn’t sure. Could he approach Crowley like he always had before, as if nothing had happened? Would the demon be glad to see him? Was he even glad to see Crowley? Maybe it was better to just pretend that Aziraphale hadn’t noticed him. 

He was so absorbed by his conflicted thoughts that he lost Crowley in the crowd at some point and was almost relieved. But then…

“Look who’s here, trying to dazzle the old-fashioned Russian public with his gorgeous new London tail-coat!”

“Oh! Crowley! Hello.” Aziraphale jumped a little when the demon appeared just behind his left shoulder. “I– It’s actually a very old coat, really,” he said, blushing.

“I know. I was talking about myself.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale frowned. “Well, you do look great. As always.”

“Do I?” Crowley scoffed, and Aziraphale turned to him, slightly surprised.

Actually, now that Aziraphale was taking a closer look at him, he noticed that Crowley didn’t look all that great at all. He wore a nice suit, yes, and his long slender fingers looked so perfect in the tight white gloves that it took all Aziraphale’s willpower to tear his eyes off them. However, Crowley’s face didn’t fit his immaculate clothing. It was pale and bore the marks of exhaustion as if he were a human who hadn’t slept in a long time or was plagued by chronic pains. Only Crowley was a demon and neither had to sleep nor fell ill. And even if he did, Aziraphale was sure Crowley wouldn’t tell him about it.

“Well, you’ve… you’ve always had good taste in clothes,” Aziraphale said evasively, but added, unable to resist:

“But I must confess you seem a bit tired. Lots of demonic work, I imagine?”

“Er… Yeah,” Crowley said, looking somewhat surprised that Aziraphale had noticed. “Tons.”

“Here on business, too? I don’t remember you being a fan of the opera.”

“I liked the name,” Crowley smirked.

“Ah, of course. The Demon.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“Surprised to see you here, though. Thought you tried to avoid anything demonic. Aren’t you afraid that your lot will think that you’re fraternising with this one?”

“Crowley!”

That hurt. So Crowley really hadn’t got over that little squabble in St James’s yet. He was still angry. Then why come up to him today? Why start the conversation? Only for the chance to offend Aziraphale? Good heavens, sometimes Crowley was more insufferable than Gabriel. At least, with Gabriel, the offences were never personal…

“If you must know, I’m here on business as well. Didn’t have plans to fraternise with anyone today.”

“I see. Then I’d better leave you to it. We don’t want you to be noticed in my awful company, do we? Is that champagne?” Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s glass from the table, took a sip, and put it down again. “Ew. Cheap Russian stuff. They were never good at it. Proshai, angel.” And he disappeared in the crowd.

“What the Heaven was that?” muttered Aziraphale.

“It’s Russian, sir. I think it means something about the drink,” said a helpful young lady in a dress too extravagant to be local.

“Thanks,” Aziraphale said, lost in his thoughts, and took a sip too. Crowley was right. It wasn’t great.  

For some reason, Aziraphale couldn’t stop thinking about his encounter with Crowley while he was walking to his seat in the box. Probably that was why his ticket decided that Aziraphale expected his seat to be directly next to Crowley’s. That was extremely presumptuous of it. Also, thoughtful.

“Seriously?” Crowley raised his eyebrows above his sunglasses when Aziraphale sank into the chair next to him.

“Not my choice,” Aziraphale shrugged, almost not lying. “Can you even see anything with those glasses on? They seem terribly inconvenient.”

“They’re fine,” Crowley grumbled. “Do you want me to change my seat?”

“God, no! Why would I want that? I’m sure we can live through the performance like perfectly civilized… entities.”

“Right.”

They sat in silence for a while. Aziraphale tried to figure out the plot by reading the programme. It was in Russian. That Cyril, couldn’t he have used Latin letters for his alphabet like a normal person?

“So… is it terribly ungodly then?” he asked Crowley matter-of-factly.

“What?”

“The play.”

“Why are you asking?” the demon frowned suspiciously.

“For goodness’ sake! Just trying to have a civilized conversation. Heaven wants me to report if the play is blasphemous or something.”

“No idea. You’re the one who should know; it’s based on a poem, after all.”

“I must confess I haven’t read it.”

“You haven’t what? I thought you read everything!”

“I can’t read everything, Crowley; people write something every minute and in different languages!”

“Still.” Crowley shrugged.

“It’s poetry.” Aziraphale felt a sudden need to defend himself. “It should be read in the original. And it only came out about twenty years ago, and I was… busy at the time. With the bookshop and all. You know. Not a good time to revise Russian.”

Not a very good time to read something titled The Demon, either.

When Crowley said nothing, he went on as if talking to himself.

“I think I’ll just tell them it’s fine. That poor Lermontov lad couldn’t get his poem published while he was alive. He deserves to at least have it staged after his death. If it’s not indeed horrible, of course,” he added hurriedly. Crowley smirked.

“You might not be able to appreciate it, you know,” the demon noted. “Maybe it would be even better if you came back some other night.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I’m planning on ruining it, of course.”

“Please, tell me you’re joking.” Aziraphale turned to him anxiously.

“I’m not. I’ve got my orders,” Crowley winced.

“So you are on business here too!” Aziraphale gasped. “Can’t you do it on another day? It’s only the premiere night, everyone’s here – the press, the royals–”

“I mussst do it today, I said,” Crowley hissed angrily, and it seemed to Aziraphale that he noticed a flicker of pain in the ways his eyebrows quirked before he frowned again.

“Do you have a deadline or something?”

“No!”

“Then…”

“Because otherwise, I can’t leave this place!” Crowley blurted out. “Happy? I’m trapped here. I can’t leave, and I’m being watched.”

“Trapped? My Lord! Who by? Heaven?”

“No! Why would Heaven do that? Trap a wolf in a barn?”

“Well, it would make sense if there was a hunter in the barn.”

“What do you mean?” Crowley started to get tired of the metaphor.

Aziraphale looked at himself meaningfully.

“You? Don’t be ridiculous. You’re obviously no hunter.”

“Well, you’re not exactly a wolf yourself, you know,” Aziraphale countered. “So, it was your lot then?”

“Yeah, it’s their idea of employee motivation: to lock you up inside a theatre until you perform some evil deed, pun unintended.”

“How did they even lure you here in the first place?”

“They didn’t. They summoned me.”

“Summoned?”

“Yeah, warded the building so I couldn’t get out, then summoned me here and left. They could have just as well asked; I would have finished the job two days ago! But no, they needed to show their power. Well, it’s their own fault I’m stuck here instead of tempting that prime minister I was going to–”

 “Two days! Do you mean you’ve been here for two days? Oh, Lord!” Aziraphale covered his mouth with a hand. The marks of exhaustion on Crowley’s face now made sense. He probably had been unable to perform miracles for some time because of the summoning.  

“And let me tell you: I’ve heard enough opera already to make me quite motivated to blow the whole place up!”

“I gather. And can you, now?”

“Now my powers are back, yes, but I can only blow the place up from the inside, but that would include me too, and I’m not ready to part with this corporation yet.”

“I never knew they could do that. Summon you, I mean.”

“They can do many things even worse than that,” Crowley shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing ever. “That’s why I asked you for that insurance thing back then, remember?”

“No, I told you, Crowley, we are not having this conversation again!”

“Fine, fine, don’t yell.”

“I’m not yelling, I’m–” Aziraphale stopped, realising that he indeed was talking rather loudly. Well, what Crowley had told him was truly horrible, and he preferred not to think about the sympathy for the demon that was starting to form within him. It was much easier to be angry at Crowley instead.

He collected himself.

“Well, I definitely won’t let you ruin the performance. Not on my watch. Not while I’m watching it.” Aziraphale paused and heard Crowley let out a heavy sigh. “But maybe I will let you do it tomorrow.”

He risked a glance at Crowley, and maybe he was imagining it, but he thought he saw a small smile hiding in the corner of Crowley’s mouth.

Finally, the lights went down. For a moment, it became very quiet except for the rustling of women’s dresses and occasional coughs. Then the music filled the air. Aziraphale leaned forward to better see the stage, where the scenery represented mountains and valleys and the dark clouds moving in the sky above them.   

The leading actor appeared on the stage surrounded by the evil spirits who were singing about their master spreading chaos on the Earth. The Demon was dressed in black and had very prominent cheekbones painted on his face, which Aziraphale could see even from the box. Aziraphale blinked and was about to point that out to Crowley, but then when he looked back at the stage, the horrible make-up had suddenly disappeared.

The Demon was singing something about his rebellion against God, his hatred towards Earth and its creatures, about sewing chaos and destruction. He sang how nothing pleased him in this world, and nothing could stop him.

Aziraphale felt Crowley also leaning closer beside him.

“Do you think that’s supposed to be Lucifer?” Aziraphale whispered.

“Nah, doesn’t look like it. It’s called The Demon, not The Devil, after all.”

“So, it’s a symbolic figure then? One of those who denied God? One of…”

“…us, yeah,” said Crowley.  

“He has red hair too,” Aziraphale noted. “A funny coincidence.”

“Does he? I think it’s sort of brownish.”

“No, it’s definitely–”

But then the actor appeared again from behind the cloud, and he had unmistakably brown hair.

“My dear!” Aziraphale said, but Crowley only raised an eyebrow at him as if nothing had happened.  

This was going to be interesting.

“Oh, look, that’s surely one of yours,” Crowley chuckled as a Spirit dressed in white appeared on the stage. He began trying to convince the Demon to repent and return to Heaven, but the Demon was unyielding, going on and on about how he preferred his freedom to all the happiness and glory of God’s realm.

Crowley rolled his eyes: “Damn, could he be more dramatic? Honestly, I can’t believe this is how they see us demons!”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. This was how he, personally, had seen Crowley more than once before, when the demon had been especially drunk and complaining about the universal injustice in general and his own fate in particular.

The fact that Crowley denied his likeness to the Demon made Aziraphale pay more attention to the stage – if this had hit home, who knew what Aziraphale would learn next?

The next scene featured the Demon feeling lonely and depressed. He was flying over the beautiful mountains of Caucasus, but at that moment there was nothing in his heart but deep painful emptiness, and even the beauty of the world didn’t touch him. Aziraphale didn’t risk looking at Crowley, who’d fallen silent. They both knew it would be hypocrisy if Crowley tried to persuade him that he’d never felt that way.

However, Crowley returned to his insufferable remarks when, in the next scene, the Demon saw the Georgian Princess Tamara walking and dancing with her friends.

“Why does this woman have a dress with wings?” he asked, pointing his finger. “Look, there. Don’t those look like wings to you?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale had to admit. “Symbolism, I suppose. She’s meant to look like an angel or something.”

“Oh. Okay. I see. Do all angels wear so little clothes in the nineteenth century?”

“Crowley!”

“What? Wait and see, she’s just about to tempt some poor bugger, who will either kill her or die himself or both, and later they’ll call it a great tragedy. I know well enough how your precious literature works.”

“How do you know that, pray tell?!” Aziraphale almost exclaimed.

“See? There! What’s he doing?” Crowley nodded in the direction of the Demon, who was standing on the top of a rock and watching Tamara intently.

“Oh my! You’re right. He looks utterly enchanted.”

The Demon threw himself behind the rock when the young girls passed by. He huddled there, clutching his chest desperately and breathing heavily.

“It looks like he’s having a panic attack and an awkward arousal at the same time,” Crowley commented.

“It’s modern art, Crowley.” Aziraphale tried not to chuckle.

“Too modern even for me, and I’m supposed to like progress.”

“Hush, maybe you’ll like it later.”

When the Demon got over whatever it was that was wrong with him, he addressed the audience with a lost look on his face. The music became powerful but soft at the same time, as if he was confessing his deepest thoughts.

“What is this sadness, sharp and new?
Some feeling speaking deep inside me
In a sweet tongue that I once knew?
I want to tempt, but I can’t find them –
The words of vice, they’ve left my mind.
Can I forget? God wouldn’t let me.
But even if He did, I doubt,
That now I would accept forgetting.”

“Shit,” suddenly muttered Crowley. Aziraphale turned to him, but Crowley didn’t take his eyes off the stage and couldn’t see the tears glistening in Aziraphale’s eyes.

The Demon came to Tamara and spoke to her in her dreams. He offered her freedom and his love – an eternity together. But she was scared of him. She ran to her friends and father, trying to banish the strange feeling that her dream had evoked in her.

Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley said anything during the next scene, which featured Tamara’s fiancée, a Georgian prince, who was coming to their wedding from afar. The Demon met him in the mountains and tempted him with thoughts of Tamara, and the prince fell asleep without a prayer. That night, a group of enemies attacked him and his people and killed the prince.

When the girl learnt about his death, she was inconsolable. It took her the whole aria to lament her prince. But the same night, the Demon came to her in her dream again, now showing himself.

“Don’t cry, my child. Your tears are useless,” he sang to her. He said that her prince was already in Heaven, and he didn’t care for her where he was, whereas the Demon was here, on Earth, and he needed her, he was going to be with her forever, making every one of her dreams beautiful and making her life a sweet dream. He talked to her about the stars and clouds dancing in the sky and urged her to be just like them, free from earthly sorrows.

When the Demon fell silent and disappeared, Aziraphale noticed that he had been holding his breath. He realised that he had already heard words like that. Less poetic and more muddled by alcohol, but just as ardent and filled with emotion…

When he had been grieving over the beginning of yet another war in Europe, unable to make sense of Heaven’s strict non-interference policy, he’d met Crowley in one of their secret meeting spots with a bottle of whiskey and immediately broken down.

Crowley had also been quite angry with the state of the world back then, and he’d grabbed Aziraphale roughly by the shoulders and hugged him unceremoniously, so tightly it had hurt. And then he’d talked – angrily, barely holding back his emotions – about how it was all nonsense; that humans didn’t deserve Aziraphale’s tears and Heaven didn’t deserve his loyalty. That it was all a game: humans committed horrible crimes, they killed each other, they created martyrs, and then martyrs went to Heaven, and Heaven won, but sometimes it was Hell who won, and Heaven let them because without killers there’d be no martyrs. He talked about how they were alone – he and Aziraphale – on their own side, with each other and the sky full of stars, and they didn’t have to worry about those who only wanted to kill and to die.

Aziraphale knew that Crowley didn’t really think all that, that he’d only believed his own words in that very moment, when Aziraphale had been suffering and Crowley had hated the world that had done that to him, so he’d said all that. And oh, how much Aziraphale lo… was grateful to him for that.

He risked a glance at Crowley and saw the demon’s fingers mercilessly clenching and twisting his gloves.

And then Tamara woke up, remembering the stranger from her dream. She was confused by the feeling which his words had evoked in her.

“And to describe I wouldn’t dare
This feeling boiling in my blood.
Grief, fear, joy – they can’t compare
With fire rushing like a flood.

And when that stranger stood beside me,
Unearthly beautiful and sad,
Sorrow and love in him were fighting,
As if for me his heart had bled.

That wasn’t Devil in Hell living,
Nor Angel with his halo bright.
He looked to me like a clear evening –
Neither a day nor a dark night.”

This was when the curtain started to fall on the first act, leaving the princess alone with her feelings. The audience began applauding. Crowley and Aziraphale sat in relative silence for a while, and then Crowley stood and summed up Aziraphale’s feelings:

“I need a drink.”

 

*

They walked to the buffet in silent agreement not to raise the topic of the play before the first glass. Then, as if a sip of red gave him permission, Aziraphale asked:

“Have you ever felt jealousy?”

Crowley almost spilt his own wine.

“Why?”

“Well, this Demon in the play, he clearly killed the prince out of jealousy.”

“He didn’t kill him; the Turks did,” Crowley corrected automatically, feeling the urge to defend one of his kind.

“Need to be able to love to feel jealous, don’t you?” Crowley shrugged. “You’re the one who keeps saying demons can’t love.”

“This one obviously can,” Aziraphale stated thoughtfully.

“Oh, so you believe this one?” Crowley asked, raising his eyebrows, and stopped himself before he could finish the sentence with “but not me.”

“I don’t know. The words in the girl’s last song somehow make you believe it.”

“Do you think she loves him?”

“Oh, yes, she definitely does,” Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically. “But she is so very afraid of this feeling, the poor dear. I fear to see what it’s going to do to her.”

“Right, because it’s so horrible to love a demon,” Crowley scoffed.

“No. Because it’s horrible to love someone you aren’t allowed to love,” Aziraphale corrected, looking at Crowley sadly.

“No one keeps her from being with him. It’s her own stupid choice not to let herself love him,” Crowley argued stubbornly.

“The sheer laws of the Universe don’t let her. That’s just how it is. You’ll see.”

“There are no such laws of the Universe that say that people have to be unhappy. Those ‘laws’ were invented by the awfully gloomy writers you call classics. I’ll need another glass before we go back to our seats. Or a bottle, perhaps.”

When the interval was over, they saw Tamara asking her father to let her enter a convent, where she hoped to escape the spirit tempting her with sinful dreams.

“Oh great, here we go,” muttered Crowley. “Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse.”

But then, as the girl continued to sing about how hard it was for her to live with these feelings, something turned inside Crowley. He saw the look on her face. It was full of horror but also of sadness and longing, and it was sort of… familiar?

No way…

It took Crowley’s breath away when he realized just where he’d seen this very expression.

Tamara sang that the Demon was calling her somewhere, but she felt that he would lead her to her demise. He was a stranger to her, someone too different from her to be able to trust. And for her to succumb to his will would mean to cease being herself, to change her very nature. Crowley saw that her soul was yearning for the Demon, even behind the monastery walls, and he found himself feeling sorry for the poor angelic girl and suddenly not wanting anything to ruin her beautiful innocence.

When the actor playing the Demon appeared in the wings, Crowley quietly snapped his fingers, and one of the curtains dividing the wings into separate areas flew up as if caught in a gust of wind and enveloped the Demon. He almost missed his cue to enter the stage.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said in annoyance, freeing the actor with a snap of his own. “I thought you promised not to spoil the performance today!”

“Okay, okay.” Crowley rolled his eyes, not wanting to confess that it’d had nothing to do with the performance and everything with not letting the Demon harm Tamara.

The Demon desperately begged her to let him into the convent, to be with him, and some part of Crowley wished that she would give up her false beliefs and stop hiding behind those holy walls. He wanted her to admit that she yearned for him and needed him as much as he needed her. And he saw it! He saw those feelings on her face: she was scared and ashamed of her love, she cried and prayed, but she was drawn to the Demon nonetheless, as she saw him in her dreams. And the Demon wasn’t the one to hesitate. He came up to the walls of the monastery–

“Fool! Stop! It’s consecrated ground!” suddenly shouted Aziraphale next to him, startling Crowley and a few other people in the nearby box. “Sorry,” he mumbled, answering their disapproving looks.

Crowley stared at him, amazed.

“What?” Aziraphale whispered. “Doesn’t he know how dangerous this is? There are nuns everywhere and holy water, and whatnot?”

Crowley saw that the angel’s hands were moving nervously on his lap, fingers shaking a little, and he realised that Aziraphale was indeed worried about the Demon.

“Unbelievable,” he said and shook his head.

The Demon, meanwhile, stood outside Tamara’s cell, and the more he waited, the stranger he felt.

“For many years only hatred
And vice have grown deep in my soul.
But ever since Tamara entered,
She brought the light to the darkened hall.

It seems to me I could forever
Forgo all evil on the Earth,
Accept the good, make peace with Heaven,
Let love bring me to my rebirth.”

Crowley swallowed hard. He understood the poor bugger better than he wished to.

To mark the last words of his song, a single tear from the Demon’s thoroughly lined eye fell down on the big rock. It immediately began to sizzle and smoke. The Demon’s tear – an inhuman tear of inhuman pain – burnt through the stone.

Crowley heard Aziraphale sniffle next to him.

Finally, with newfound hope and harmony in his heart, the Demon stepped into the monastery cell. Aziraphale’s breath hitched.

“He loves her, I guess it’s worth the risk,” Crowley whispered. Aziraphale glanced at him quickly, his eyes huge and glistening in the lights of the theatre. His expression was a strange mixture of worry, sorrow, hope, kindness, and – for some reason – guilt. Crowley inhaled sharply and made himself turn back to the stage.

Meanwhile, the Demon there was unharmed by the holy place; apparently, neither the author of the poem nor the author of the opera knew their subject very well.

He appeared in Tamara’s cell, and they began their duet. She asked him who he was, and he told her everything about his sufferings, his love and his awful deeds which he was now willing to leave behind. He begged her for compassion and love, and she desperately wanted to believe him. In her turn, she asked him not to tempt her and not to destroy her soul. She was ready to be with him if he denied evil forever. And he swore. He swore by Heaven and Hell, by his demon servants and former angel brothers, by his first tears and Tamara’s last breath. He was telling the truth. Crowley thought that the Demon’s readiness to do everything for the sake of love would have seemed pathetic if he wasn’t almost scary in his fervent devotion. The Demon was so desperate to have in Tamara his eternal companion who would put an end to his loneliness, that Crowley felt a sudden, hollow sadness deep within himself. As if he were a cripple and someone had made a joke about it.

So at that moment, he very selfishly wished for Tamara to accept her Demon’s love, though he knew it probably wouldn’t end well.

And Tamara looked at the Demon with hope and passion and made a little tentative step towards him. He rushed forward like a tortured prisoner that was released from his jail. He lowered his head and kissed Tamara on the mouth. She leaned into the kiss but then abruptly froze and let out a short cry of pain, hurt and regret – a cry of someone who’s saying farewell to life.

“No!” Crowley gasped. “No, not this!” he begged under his breath.

Tamara was dying. The Demon’s kiss had killed her. His love had killed her. He was not meant to love a mortal, pure girl. God hadn’t forgiven him and wasn’t done punishing him. And because of him, this innocent person had died. Someone he loved.

Crowley was mortified.

Maybe Aziraphale had been right about their relationship. Crowley had been afraid of Hell’s punishment and had asked Aziraphale to get holy water in case Crowley would have to deal with demons. But he hadn’t paid enough thought to the possibility of Heaven’s punishment. Angels – Michael, Gabriel, even Metatron – had never scared him very much, and he knew that Aziraphale’s fear was also based only on his own insecurities and his wish to be “a proper angel.” But what about God? What about the natural order of things? The laws of the Universe? What if he destroyed Aziraphale by simply being close to him?

This was unbearable to think about.

Damn the bloody theatre, damn bloody Lermontov with his bloody Romanticism! And damn Beelzebub for making Crowley do this.

He risked a glance at Aziraphale. He knew the angel felt his gaze, but he didn’t take his eyes off the stage. Tears were streaming down his grief-stricken face. Was he thinking the same thing as Crowley?

On the stage, meanwhile, an angel descended from Heaven and took Tamara’s soul with him.

“She’s mine!” the Demon tried to argue, but he had no power over the decisions of God. Tamara was too pure to go to Hell or stay with the Demon.

Some consolation at least, Crowley thought. But it was a small one.

The Angel and Tamara flew up to the ceiling, raised by almost invisible strings, and disappeared amid heavenly light.

The Demon was left alone again.

*

When the final piece of music started, marking with a solemn and restless melody the Demon’s eternal loneliness and desperation, Crowley stood up and stormed out of the box.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale rushed after him.

Aziraphale had guessed what the ending of the story would be a little before it happened, and he still couldn’t hold back tears. The Demon didn’t deserve it. He had so much love in him, he was so tired of evil and of loneliness; he was ready to change and to go back to love – even to Heaven! And he was robbed of the first hope he’d had in aeons. It must have been so painful for Crowley to watch.

He found his demon standing at the top of the staircase and leaning on the bannister.

“Crowley? Are you okay?”

“It’s not fair,” Crowley unexpectedly voiced his own thoughts to him.

“Yes, I thought that too–” he began, but Crowley wasn’t done yet.

“She didn’t do anything! She hadn’t lived, hadn’t sinned; her only misstep was to love that poor bugger. It’s so cruel. Even worse than Romeo and Juliet, and that is saying something!”

“Oh, Crowley…”

The demon had surprised him yet again. Aziraphale had thought it had been hard for Crowley to watch a version of his own fate reflected back at him, whereas all this time Crowley had been more affected by Tamara’s death. Or was it just that?

“I hope you enjoyed the play,” said Crowley gloomily. “’Cause I’m totally going to blow it up tomorrow. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

“Crowley, can we please talk?”

“No, I don’t think we should, angel. I think you were right before,” Crowley said and shoved off the bannister with his hand as if he needed extra support to force his body into movement. “We shouldn’t be seen together much. Better safe than sorry. See you around, angel.” And he hurried down the stairs, keeping his head low.

Aziraphale knew that, since Crowley couldn’t leave the building, he could easily find him again. But he thought that Crowley might want some time alone. He sighed heavily and went away.

 

***

Aziraphale came back the next day. He had been reading all night. Of course, that wasn’t anything unusual; Aziraphale read almost every night. Only this time he had been reading and rereading the poem The Demon time after time. It really was overly dramatic, and the main character was typical for that of Romanticism – a lonesome hero fighting against the whole world, strong but suffering, and with not a hint of a sense of humour. Clearly, the young poet had been a great fan of Lord Byron. But some bits and pieces were just too close to home: the Demon’s striving for freedom and knowledge, his habit of questioning God, and the old pain left after His rejection and the Fall. The Demon’s bitterness and occasional ranting about Heaven’s injustice, too. But also his ability to see beauty and love it, his loneliness and yearning to belong.

All yesterday evening, Crowley had been either quiet and gloomy or almost dangerously agitated. Aziraphale remembered his words about Tamara’s death, about the danger of the two of them spending time together – and then he suddenly realised what it was all about.

“My dear,” he whispered in shock, feeling something very strange deep inside. It was the unusual joy of realising that he had been wrong. It was the hope he could fix it. And it was the fear of being too late.

He needed to see Crowley.

As soon as the doors of the theatre opened to the public, Aziraphale rushed inside, feeling for the familiar presence of the trapped demon. He found him in the buffet, lounging on a couch with a glass of wine and… a book?

“I can’t believe my eyes! You’re reading?!” Aziraphale said in way of greeting. He was still a bit flushed and breathless from running, and he needed to talk to Crowley, urgently, but he just couldn’t hold back the sarcastic remark.

“What? No!” Crowley quickly closed the book, and that was his mistake because it let Aziraphale see the title.

“It’s The Demon? I should have guessed. I read it myself, too… after the performance.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, the verses are actually much better in the poem than in the songs.”

“Are they? Seems all the same whiny nonsense to me,” Crowley shrugged.

“No, no, they… they made me cry.”

“You cried at the opera, too.” Crowley raised an eyebrow, and Aziraphale decided to leave out the detail that the poem had made him cry all eleven times he had read it.

“Why are you reading it if you hate it so much?” he asked instead to change the topic.

“Thought maybe it would inspire me about how to ruin the performance.”

“Oh. Any luck?”

“Not yet. Thought I could drop the chandelier, maybe? That’s something you wouldn’t forget, eh?”

“Make sure that your own seat isn’t in the stalls, then. It would be very much in your style.”

Crowley took out a ticket from his pocket, looked at it, and cursed.

“Where did you get the book?” Aziraphale went on, smiling. “Has your trap been broken?”

“No. Asked one of the fiddlers to bring me a copy. Really, they should invent some way to purchase things in the shops right from where you are, instantly and without leaving the building. Maybe that new telephone thing can be of use, you know?”

“I suppose so. I wouldn’t be having it in my shop, though. I have too many customers as it is. No need for them to be telephoning me, too.”

“Suit yourself. Why are you here again, anyway?”

Oh. That was it. The small talk being over, it was now the time to do it. To explain. To apologize– and Aziraphale was terrified.

“I… I liked the play,” he said, mentally slapping himself on the forehead. “Wanted to see it again.”

“Don’t lie! You bloody hated it just as much as I did.”

“Well…”

“So, what is it? Came to revel in my misery? Or did you report to Heaven how good the play was, and they gave you a task to thwart my evil plans of ruining it?”

“Oh heavens, no! I gave my report to Gabriel, but I doubt that he’ll read it anytime soon. He likes to show how busy he is. I just… wanted to see how you’ll manage to deal with your… er… motivated… er… job. Wanted to see if I could be maybe… of any assistance?”

“Assistance? You?”

“Well, we’ve done it before. The Arrangement–”

“Shut up.”

“But Crowley–”

“No, Aziraphale!” Crowley snapped. “I said no. How can you possibly be so–”

“So what?”

“Difficult? Inconsistent? I don’t know! It was hard enough for me to get used to being mad at you because it’s not something easily done. I mean you’re… you.” He made an emotional gesture with both hands in Aziraphale’s direction.

“Oh, Crowley!”

“No Crowley!” Crowley threw his hands up. “Then I had to deal with the realisation that you could have bloody died because of me, and it’s already too much, and–”

“What? Oh, I see.”

“…and now you have to drop the bomb and say that you want to help me! People don’t do that, Aziraphale.”

“Technically, I’m not people.” Aziraphale raised an index finger.

“Argh!” said Crowley.

Before Crowley could flee, Aziraphale took a step in front of him.

“Crowley, I have to tell you something. Please, will you let me?” Aziraphale finally sat down on the couch next to Crowley, who made a show of moving as far away from him as possible and pressing his back against the corner. “The Demon, he sings so much about how he hates his own eternity. The eternity that is either empty or filled with evil, pain and disappointment.”

“He does, doesn’t he? Bloody dramatic bastard,” Crowley snorted.

“It got me thinking. I need to ask you something. Do you know – I mean, really know – why I didn’t want to give you the holy water?”

“Because it’s dangerous. Someone may learn about the Arrangement,” Crowley shrugged as if he was stating the obvious. “What does it have to do–”

“Not because they might find out, you silly demon! Because… because I don’t want to think of what will happen if they do. And because if something did happen, you might feel the same way about your eternity as this poor demon does. And then you’d have a way to end it.”

Crowley’s expression didn’t change for a moment, as if he didn’t know how to react. Then he swallowed.

“I’d… never do that.”

“Can you be sure?”

“My eternity isn’t empty or filled with evil, pain and disappointment,” he said with a lopsided smile. “It’s filled with…” He didn’t finish. Instead he took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair in what seemed to be frustration.

“It isn’t,” Aziraphale said, smiling as well. “And I truly admire that in you. But Crowley, eternity is… well, eternal. And who knows what might happen in a hundred years? Or in a thousand?”

 “We’ve known each other for 6,000 years. You should trust me.”

“I do! I trust you with my life, I just… Don’t always trust you with yours. It’s like… I suppose I care for you too much to trust you.”

“That is not how it should work, angel.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I think I just… Need time, maybe.”

Crowley was silent. Aziraphale wished he could see his eyes behind the glasses and know what he was thinking.

“Can one even keep water for a hundred years? What’s its expiry date?” Crowley wondered, throwing Aziraphale off track.

“I– I’m not sure.”

There was another pause, and then Crowley decided to clarify: “So, does this speech mean you don’t wish to ‘fraternise’ with me less often?”

“I would be very happy to ‘fraternise’ with you as often as possible if you forgive me for worrying about your safety.”

“My… Oh– okay.” Crowley blushed a bit behind the glasses, and Aziraphale’s chest warmed. “I know you worry too much. I get it. I worry too, believe me. Especially since goddamn yesterday!”

Aziraphale chuckled.

“It’s a play, Crowley. It’s meant to be dramatic. And I’m not mortal. I won’t die if you kiss me.”

“Errm?”

Crowley’s jaw dropped. Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to go red. He mumbled and stammered, trying to fix it: “I– I mean, not that we were going to… n–not like in the play anyway, but if we did…s-someday–”

“Yeah, sure, relax.” Crowley finally smiled in earnest and patted Aziraphale on the shoulder. “Fraternising first, kisses later, right, angel?”

“Right,” Aziraphale mumbled and smiled too, feeling relieved in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

“Besides,” Crowley said, becoming more serious again. “I was exaggerating, you know? I don’t have all that many people to fraternise with.”

“I know. Neither do I.”

“Oh? You big liar!”

“What? You lied too!”

“Exaggerated! And I’m a demon, we’re not supposed to be very honest! That reminds me. I have a book to finish. See you in the interval.”

“Fine,” Aziraphale stood and took a few steps to be on the safe side before he asked: “Shall I lend you a handkerchief? In case you get all teary in the end?”

“Sod off!”

***

Aziraphale was planning on finding a seat next to Crowley’s again tonight. He didn’t know where Crowley was sitting, though, so he went to their box from yesterday to better see the stalls and spot the demon. But just when the second bell rang to announce that the show was about to start, something absolutely dreadful happened.

Someone patted him on the back. Aziraphale jumped a little and turned around to see the smiling face of the archangel Gabriel.

“Oh, dear! Gabriel. What a– a pleasant surprise. You’ve startled me. What are you doing here?”

“I got your report,” Gabriel announced brightly.

“Already? I only sent it yesterday.”

“Yes, you’re right, I’m terribly busy, and it’s terribly long. So, I’ve only read the first two lines where you say that the poem is a masterpiece and all that stuff. Thought maybe I could pop down here quickly and ask you personally.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I should have made it shorter. Let me send you another one, okay?”

“Well, I am already here. And you’re– bless my soul, Aziraphale, you’re in the theatre again! Why? Is it so good that we should all see it? Do I need to stay? I’m not a fan of the humans’ entertainment, but you could try to persuade me, you know,” he said and winked.

“No, it’s– it’s really not–”

But Gabriel wasn’t listening to him anymore. His attention span had never been very long when it came to conversations with Aziraphale. But this time something had distracted him.

“Wait a minute.” Gabriel sniffed the air. “I feel something evil here.”

Oh shit, Crowley!

From the box, Aziraphale saw the demon trying to get to his seat in the stalls and deliberately stepping on women’s long skirts and men’s shiny shoes.

“Do you?” Aziraphale fretted. Then an idea presented itself to him. “Oh, yes, it must be because of the play. You see, if you’d read my report, you would know: I saw it yesterday, and it’s the most unholy, horrible thing ever staged in this city! I wanted to come here today and do something about it.”

“Hm, really? I thought the Demon was punished in the end.”

“He is, yes,” Aziraphale said, frantically looking for a way out. “But, you see, the audience is supposed to sympathise with him, feel sorry for him, and eventually even hate God for the so-called injustice towards the evil thing. It’s manipulating good Christians into a rebellion against our Father.”

“Ooh, now I get it!” Gabriel said, clearly impressed. “It’s very shrewd of you, Aziraphale. So what are you planning to do? Do you need help? A legion of Heaven, maybe?”

“No, no, there no need for that. I– I’m sure that the critics and the audience will destroy the play quicker than an army of angels. I’ve already talked to a couple of my acquaintances in Saint Petersburg. They think that the music is decent only in the main arias, and the verses are a downright parody of Lermontov’s poem. Besides, I’ve heard that today’s performance was very poorly rehearsed and will be even worse than opening night. So no need to worry. Actually, you could just as well go do your very important busy archangel stuff, and leave it to me.”

“All right, if you say so. But I’d better stay in case you need help after all. This play sounds really dangerous.”

 “O–okay.” Aziraphale sighed, praying that Crowley wouldn’t look in their direction.

*

Crowley didn’t, because he had more important problems of his own to deal with.

As soon as he sat down, he realized that he was not alone. Very cautiously, he turned to the left and looked up to recognize the person in a dark tail-coat and top hat unceremoniously blocking the stage from the view of everyone behind them.

“L–lord Beelzebub? You’re here?”

“Crowley,” said the Prince of Hell dryly.

“H–how… c–can I do anything for you?”

“You can do your bloody job, Crowley! You’ve been here for several dayzzz, and there’zzz been no rezzult.”

“I–I only got my powers back yesterday, lord. Had to come up with a plan.”

“Have you?” Beelzebub wrinkled their nose.

“You’ll have to wait and see.” Crowley forced a winning smile. Beelzebub narrowed their eyes and turned away to look at the stage where the curtain was already rising.

Crowley’s heart was pounding in his chest, and it took all his willpower to think straight and not have a panic attack right there and then.

Beelzebub was here. In the theatre. And Aziraphale was in the theatre, too. Aziraphale wanted to help Crowley, but he didn’t know that he was being monitored. Now Crowley had to do something really bad to impress his boss, but if he did, Aziraphale would either lose the little trust he still had in Crowley or do something reckless to stop him, and then… Then Beelzebub would know the angel was here. It was the sort of worst-case scenario Crowley had seen in his most horrible nightmares.

The opera started. When the Demon appeared on the stage, Crowley was relieved to see that he hadn’t managed to get a new red wig and was wearing the brown one from yesterday that had been miracled by Crowley.

Beelzebub watched the play with zero emotions on their face. Instead, every now and then, they glanced at Crowley impatiently, waiting to see what he was going to do.

Crowley felt a trickle of sweat crawl down his spine.

When Tamara appeared on the stage in her white dress resembling angels’ wings, he felt a faint glimmer of divine power in the air. Instantly, the wings disappeared and the dress now looked rather plain and non-symbolic.

Aziraphale, Crowley mentally rolled his eyes but barely kept from smiling. Just couldn’t resist. 

Beelzebub sniffed the air.

“There’zzz an angel in the theatre,” they buzzed quietly, probably keeping their voice down not out of politeness but because of the possible danger.

“Nah, that’s probably the play. You see, this actress is supposed to represent purity and innocence, almost like an angel. One of the reasons why this is such a good play to spoil,” he added wickedly.

“Get on wizzz zzzat already.”

“Oh no, it’s too early, my lord. But if you’re busy, you can read my report later.”

“No! I’ve had enough of your reports, Crowley. They all boast about amazzing rezzults and new techniques, but the number of soulzz in Hell hazzn’t increased lately. It’s time for your ‘techniques’ to prove worthy.”

“All right, all right. But don’t rush me. I’m an artist at my job. You don’t tell the singers to sing quicker, do you?”

“Can we do zzzat?”

Crowley sighed.

*

When the interval started, Aziraphale’s stress peaked. Crowley was supposed to meet him during the interval! What was he going to do? Would Crowley feel Gabriel? He surely could, right?

Gabriel didn’t express much desire to leave the box, so Aziraphale decided it might be safer to stay with him, just in case. But what if Crowley decided to come over?

Aziraphale leaned over the edge of the box, trying to see the demon in the crowd down in the stalls and give him some sign.

“What is it you’re looking at?” Gabriel asked curiously, joining him.

“Ah, nothing. Just the people.”

“You feel it too, don’t you?”

“What?”

“It’s not just some sort of evil,” Gabriel said and squinted his eyes at the crowd. “It’s demonic evil. There are demons in the building.”

“No, I very much doubt it–”

“There!” Gabriel suddenly exclaimed, pointing a finger down at one of the front rows. There sat Crowley and next to him – someone else, the mere sight of whom made Aziraphale shiver for some reason.

“It’s the Lord of the Flies,” said Gabriel, appalled and disgusted at the same time. “And with him, is that…?”

“Crowley, the demon stationed on Earth. Yes, you’re right,” Aziraphale admitted.

“What are they planning to do? Collect souls for Lucifer?”

“Well, remember what I told you about the play? It’s an apologia of the Demon. Everything except for the ending, where he is punished. They’ve probably decided to do something about it.”

“Shall we stop them?” Gabriel rose from his seat. Aziraphale thought that the archangel had probably got rusty doing nothing but paperwork in Heaven and was in dire need of any sort of action. Pity that Aziraphale had different plans.

“No, no, we wouldn’t want that. If they cause any sort of trouble, it will be even better for us. After all, we want to cancel the play, don’t we?”

“We do.” Gabriel frowned uncertainly.

“So all we need to do is make sure that they don’t do anything too disastrous. Like blowing up the building or dropping the chandelier.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite.”

Aziraphale was not sure at all. He didn’t know the amount of pressure Crowley was under right now and couldn’t predict what he would have to do to please his boss. And he was really terrified of what Gabriel might do if the demons put the humans in danger.

The first bell for the second act rang.

*

The play was nearing its end, and Crowley had done nothing yet. Aziraphale couldn’t wait anymore. He knew that there was only one scene left, and then… The performance would be over. What would happen to Crowley if he didn’t do anything while his boss was in the building? What if Crowley was holding back because he knew that Aziraphale might somehow react and reveal himself, putting both of them in danger?

But the Demon was already at the walls of the monastery, and Crowley was still waiting. And Aziraphale decided that it was time for him to show how much he valued the Arrangement.

When the Demon came into Tamara’s cell and started talking to her about his love, Aziraphale very slowly began to gather his angelic powers.

“What are you doing?” Gabriel whispered by his side. “You will reveal yourself.”

“Can’t you feel it? He’s about to strike,” Aziraphale answered.

A moment later, he felt it for real: Crowley very tentatively was getting his powers ready too. It wasn’t the right amount for anything too dangerous. Not enough for the Prince of Hell. And not enough for the evil deed Aziraphale was planning.

The Demon kissed Tamara, and she died. Aziraphale felt Beelzebub’s attention now turning in his own direction. But just as Tamara’s angelic soul flew up to the shining heavenly ceiling, Aziraphale made a vague gesture with his hand hidden under the chair.

It seemed like the whole theatre gasped as the safety lines holding the actress up in the air suddenly snapped. She fell down suddenly but rather gracefully, her long and light clothes flapping in the air.

And in that very moment, when the woman was about to hit the stage, the Demon, obeying some strange impulse and suddenly feeling supernatural (quite literally, in fact) demonic strength, stepped forward and caught her in his arms.

The music stopped only for a moment and then went on, and the astonished actor found himself singing his next line –

“She’s mine!”

– in a very different manner than he’d always sung it before.

Tamara came to life, wrapped her arms around her rescuer’s neck, and kissed the Demon.

Lermontov was turning in his grave, Aziraphale thought a bit guiltily.

“What just happened?” asked Gabriel, bewildered.

“Didn’t you notice? It was the demon. I mean, Crowley. He wanted to ruin the performance and cut the wires. I encouraged the actor to catch the poor girl. Now there’ll be a scandal, the play will most definitely be cancelled. And Crowley will be reprimanded by his boss. I’ve killed two hares with one shot, as Russians say, and it wasn’t even me who fired the gun.”

“My word, Aziraphale! That was really excellent work. I must confess it happened so quickly, I didn’t quite realise who did what and why.”

“That’s all right. I’m just used to such things, you know; I’ve been thwarting Crowley’s plans for ages now.”

“Yes, yes, of course. You will get your commendation as soon as I get to my office to sign it.”

“Thank you, Gabriel. Always a pleasure to see you here.” Aziraphale smiled, wishing to see the archangel leave.

After a couple of seconds, Gabriel vanished. He probably didn’t want to spend another minute among the humans.

Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief and decided to get away from the audience hall for a while too. No need to give Crowley another reason to worry.

*

Crowley had enough on his plate already. He was trying to explain theatre to Beelzebub.

“She didn’t die! What sort of bad deed izzz that?”

“Well, yes, the angel spoilt the show a bit, making that actor catch her. But it’s even better this way! You see, the ending is completely different: the princess didn’t get to Heaven – she stayed with the Demon. That’s the first play about the triumph of the damned since… since forever! And look – the audience is conflicted. Some of them feel happy for the Demon, and they are not sure if it’s a sin or not – I’ve put doubt in their hearts. Hundreds and hundreds of hearts! And the other half is appalled by the play, and their hatred is going to spill over onto the theatre, the creators, the actors, and their fellow viewers who liked the new version. There’s going to be a civil war in the world of culture tomorrow.”

“Hmmm… Are you sure?”

“If you don’t believe me, you can stay and monitor the results. Or I can send you the numbers in my next report.”

“I have more important buzzziness to do than read stupid human paperzz.” Beelzebub rolled their eyes. “Fine. You can leave. For now. The numberzz muzzt be on my desk by the end of the week.”

“Sure, my lord. No problem, my lord. I can make a compilation of theatre reviews for you if you want.”

“No.” Beelzebub stood to leave, and a bunch of enthusiastic audience members saw it as their cue to start a standing ovation. The Prince of Hell growled in irritation. “Crowley?” They turned back to him.

“Yes, lord?”

“Why did thozze painted mountainzz keep bloody moving? Makes you dizzzzy.”

“I don’t know, lord. Modern art, apparently?”

Beelzebub rolled their eyes, and then they were gone. Crowley sighed in relief.

***

When the theatre was no longer full, and the boxes didn’t glitter, Aziraphale found Crowley on the same couch in the buffet where he had sat before the performance.

“Oh, no! They didn’t release you, did they?”

“They did,” smiled Crowley. “Impressed by the scale of my plans and my out-of-the-box thinking. I still have a pile of reports to write, but that’s normal for Hell.”

“Then what are you doing here? I thought you’d be gone as soon as the trap broke.”

“Couldn’t miss an opportunity to mock an angel who lied to his boss and almost killed a human in front of his eyes.” Crowley shook his head and grinned, although his smile looked more amused than mocking.

Aziraphale felt himself blushing.

“I– I knew you would catch her,” he said, offering Crowley a tentative smile as well. “I gave you a hint.”

Crowley shook his head again as if he couldn’t believe Aziraphale’s words. After a pause, he said quietly and seriously:

“That required quite a bit of trust in me, angel.”

“It did, didn’t it?” Aziraphale beamed. “I will be working on it.”

Crowley chuckled, stood up, and held out a hand. Aziraphale took it gratefully. It was firm and cool in his own soft, warm fingers. He shook it and let go, afraid that Crowley would end the handshake before him.

“I’d say thank you, but I don’t want to sound like that guy in the opera.” Crowley ran his hand through his hair a bit awkwardly. Aziraphale grinned.

“You never will, my dear, don’t worry. You never will.”