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It’s eight forty-five on a Saturday, and the regular crowd is shuffling in.
Aziraphale watches them with a smile as he dries glasses behind the bar. There’s something of Zen about it – pick up, swipe the rag, set, repeat. No worries of the outside world can reach him here in The Flaming Sword. The bar is his home, for all it doesn’t quite seem to match him (until, that is, he rolls up his sleeves to show his tattoos). It’s a place of peace found through watching others’ chaos.
It’s also one of the premier gay bars in all of London.
Everyone knows that but their pianist.
“I’ll raise the bet to fifty quid,” says Hastur from his usual spot at the bar.
Ligur lets out a low whistle. “Wow.”
“There’s no way he knows. He says the weirdest things.”
Ligur shrugs and signals for a refill. “Maybe it’s just uncomfortable for him. If he’s not out, might feel strange to be sitting here every week’s end with the rest of us. Might not know how much he wants to, y’know. Give away.”
“Or maybe he’s straight,” chimes in Newt from where he’s cleaning tables. Hastur and Ligur both cackle and Newt looks put out. “What? You never know!”
“Have you seen the way he looks at Aziraphale?” Anathema asks as she pushes past him with a tray.
“Don’t you mean angel?” says Ligur with a snicker.
Aziraphale can feel himself blushing. “So how’s your latest business venture going?” He smiles brightly, hoping to redirect the conversation. “Something about picnic hampers?”
“Yeah, you know. Feel like they could be improved upon.”
It nearly works, but Shadwell has made his way through the door just in time to pick up on the topic of conversation. “Ye talkin’ about that demon again? Is he gonnae play my song tonight?”
“He isn’t going to play your song,” says Anathema, “because your song doesn’t exist.”
“It does, lass! Ye’ll know when ye hear it. Or perhaps you’re too young. No head for the classics, for the good ol’ days.”
Anathema hums a teasing melody, la la la ditty da-a, and Shadwell sits bolt upright.
“That’s it! That’s the song!”
“Sorry, mate,” says Newt, “but she only knows it because we’ve heard you sing it every night for the past – what is it, three years?”
“Oh, more than that, loves!”
Aziraphale turns to see Tracy entering. He obligingly leans forward for his kisses on both cheeks. She is in rare form tonight, her hair extra-high and her cheeks extra-glittered, and she brightens the room immediately.
“I’ve been coming here for nearly twenty and I know some of your faces aren’t that new.”
“Twenty years?” Newt blinks incredulously. He is their newest member, both the newest employee and the newest of the regulars, and sometimes he shows it.
“Oh, at least.” She smiles and deposits a kiss on the top of his head. “Now. Shall we see about a daiquiri?”
Grateful for the distraction, Aziraphale finds one for her.
Because here’s the thing:
Aziraphale doesn’t know if Crowley knows.
He must… right? None of the couples here are subtle. Aziraphale himself has been referred to as ‘gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide.’ The bar is called The Flaming Sword, for Christ’s sake. And yet…
Sometimes Crowley says things. And Aziraphale wonders.
Perhaps he’s happier not knowing. Because the question of whether Crowley knows is all tangled up with another question, namely: is Crowley straight? And Aziraphale isn’t quite ready to break his own heart forever with the answer.
Next Gabriel and Sandalphon arrive together, as they always do. For once Gabriel is in ordinary clothes, neither uniform nor leather – must’ve just come from work, then. (He’s an accountant.) Sandy immediately launches into a story about his next novel, as if he’d ever finished the first one.
Hastur and Ligur are lighting up a blunt in a way they probably think is discreet. Aziraphale looks past them, searching for the one face that he wants more than anything to see.
And there he is. Crowley, the piano man. The closest thing to a serpent that The Flaming Sword has ever had, despite its logo of a hissing snake wrapped around a fiery blade. His hips certainly twist like one, and he has a snake tattoo on his temple. Aziraphale watches him, then concentrates on not watching him, then has to turn his attention to not dropping a glass when his gaze slides back of its own accord.
Crowley doesn’t set up any sheet music. He rarely does – only on Tuesday or Wednesday mornings, when he comes in off-shift to play around and learn something new. Tonight is a Saturday and he is all business as he positions the bench, lifts the cover from over the keys, and runs through a scale to check the tuning. (As if there’s anything they can do about that – the last tuning was outrageously expensive and only happened because Crowley had insisted upon it with the threat of quitting.)
Then he comes over to Aziraphale, who meets him with his customary Black Russian, two parts Kahlúa and five parts a much higher-shelf vodka than Aziraphale should be using on a drink he’s giving away.
But it’s Crowley.
And anyway, it’s not like Aziraphale doesn’t own the bar.
Crowley takes it with a ridiculous wink and a blinding grin. “Evenin’, angel. How’s the night?”
“Young,” says Aziraphale on an exhale, already feeling looser and calmer now that Crowley’s here. “How’s the music?”
“It’ll come. Actually, I wanted… wanted to ask you something.”
Crowley seems nervous. Aziraphale just barely doesn’t cover his hand with his own. “Yes?”
“If I… if I played something different tonight…”
“You play something different every night, my dear.”
“Something, ah… let’s call it personal.”
Now there’s an intriguing thought. “You can play whatever you want, dear. I’m sure it will be lovely.”
At that moment, the manager, Beelzebub, enters and tips their head toward Crowley, the best acknowledgement he ever gets from them. He responds with a sardonic wave, and then they’re in their office and out of sight.
“Whatever it is,” Aziraphale says quietly, “everyone will love it.”
“Thanks, angel. Suppose I’d best get to it, then.”
He takes another sip of his drink and then goes to settle on the piano bench. The general conversation fades in an anticipatory lull.
Crowley glances at the clock on the wall one more time before he begins, and Aziraphale wonders if he’s getting impatient, if he’s nervous, if he’s thinking of leaving, if if if –
But then the music begins and everything makes sense.
“It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday,” Crowley begins over a simple accompaniment. “The regular crowd shuffles in. There’s an old man sittin’ next to me, makin’ love to his tonic and gin.”
Shadwell glances up from his regular seat, which is in fact the closest to the piano bench. There is something like astonishment on his face as he tries to process what is going on and whether or not he should be insulted.
“You are old, dearie,” Tracy whispers, patting his cheek.
“He says, ‘Son, can you play me a memory? I’m not really sure how it goes. But it’s sad and it’s sweet, and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man’s clothes.’”
It’s a bit of a paraphrase, Aziraphale will give it that. He remembers the real first time Shadwell made his request…
“Laddie, ’ve got the next song for ye t’ play,” said Shadwell, leaning so far off his stool he nearly fell. Tracy tilted him back up without a word.
“Am I taking requests now?” Crowley asked, amused, as he glanced up at Aziraphale.
It was his second night at the bar, and he was still warming up to the crowd, but Aziraphale had liked him immediately, so everyone else followed suit. The unwritten rules of his position were still being negotiated.
Aziraphale shrugged, leaving it up to him.
“Ye’ve gottae take this one,” Shadwell said with offense. “I learned ’t in the old days.”
“When you were better dressed,” called out one of the older regulars.
“And better groomed,” said another, with a nudge.
“Aye, I wore a younger man’s clothes then,” Shadwell answered dreamily, which Aziraphale knew to be true; his boyfriend at the time had been a tailor, and his junior by at least two decades. His picture was still up behind the bar.
Aziraphale watched to see if Crowley would take offense – he seemed remarkably blasé so far about working in a gay bar – but there wasn’t any sort of interesting reaction. There never was. Crowley would have made a fantastic poker player, Aziraphale thought, sunglasses aside.
“So what’s this song?” Crowley asked.
Anathema groaned. “You’re going to regret that.”
“Well, it goes like this…”
“La la la ditty da,” Crowley sings, and Shadwell lights up. “La la, ditty da…. da dum.”
“That’s my song!” says Shadwell, grabbing Gabe by the arm. (He is quickly shaken off.)
Crowley just throws him a wink and continues: “Sing us a song, you’re the piano man! Sing us a song tonight. Well, we’re all in the mood for a melody, and you’ve got us feeling all right.”
And then he glances up at Aziraphale with a wicked smile, and Aziraphale feels faint.
“The angel bartender’s a friend of mine,” he sings next. “He gets me my drinks for free.” (No one is technically supposed to know about that. Everyone already does, though, so it’s all right.) “And he’s quick with a smile, or to talk for a while, but there’s someplace that he’d rather be.”
Oh, no. Aziraphale knows where this is going.
The ‘angel’ thing started about four nights in, after Crowley had heard tales from the others of Aziraphale’s many adventures guarding and protecting the regulars of the bar.
“Heard you’re a guardian angel,” Crowley said, slipping into a barstool after he was done playing for the night.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, my dear.”
But fate was against them, for within ten minutes Aziraphale was forced to run out some ruffians who were bullying their newest member (Warlock, young and gay and artistic and barely twenty-two). When he returned, Crowley was watching him with something like wonder as he rolled his sleeves back down.
“What?” he asked finally.
“You really are an angel.” Shaking himself out of his trance, Crowley thumped the stool beside him. “C’mon. Have a drink. Lemme buy you one. Somebody ought to, after that.”
“I don’t get drunk on the job, dear boy,” Aziraphale insisted, but Anathema poked him in the shoulder as she walked by.
“You’re not on shift. You’re not even supposed to be here.”
“Well, I suppose one wouldn’t hurt,” he said, and with the way Crowley lit up, Aziraphale wasn’t sure how he had ever tried to refuse him anything.
Three drinks in, they had made their way to adjoining barstools and Aziraphale was trying to keep the arm-touching to a minimum. In his current state, that meant about every two sentences or so.
“My dear boy, this might be killing me,” he confessed.
Crowley frowned in sympathy, glasses slipping down. “How so?”
“I never intended to run a bar for a living. I just inherited it from my uncle and… and…”
“So sell it?”
Aziraphale gasped. “Never!”
“Sorry!” Crowley put his hands up in apology, looking amused. “Just a thought. What would you do, if you did something else?”
“I… well. I always dreamed about running a bookshop.”
“You? A bookshop?”
“You don’t see it?” Aziraphale asked with a little pout.
“Angel, I think maybe you were born in a bookshop. But would you really sell them?”
“Of course!”
“You nearly murdered a bloke the other day for bending your copy of Anna Karenina.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have leant it out. Some people need to learn to behave before they deserve books of their own.”
“You see? I’m picturing you there – where?”
“Pardon?”
“Where’s your dream bookshop?”
“Oh, near here, I’m sure. Somewhere in Soho, at any rate.”
“I’m picturing you here in Soho with this massive pile of books that absolutely no one is allowed to touch.”
“Really –”
“The book dragon of Soho!”
“I’m cutting you off.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
And he grinned down at Aziraphale, and of course Aziraphale wouldn’t have denied him anything.
Crowley doesn’t break eye contact with Aziraphale as he heads into the second half of the verse: “He says, ‘Dear, I believe this is killing me,’ as the smile runs away from his face. ‘I’d hoard books for a living in… Soho somewhere, if I could get out of this place.’”
The others whoop and Ligur thumps Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale hides his face in his hands.
“Oh, la la la ditty da,” Crowley continues to a still-grinning Shadwell, “la la ditty da, da dum.”
He winks at Aziraphale (in the least heterosexual manner possible, honestly) and then turns to Gabe and Sandy.
“Now Sandy’s a real estate novelist who never had time for a wife.”
Sandalphon laughs and grins a little sheepishly.
“And he’s talkin’ with Gabey, who’s still in the Navy, and probably will be for life.”
Gabriel shrugs, not even the slightest hint of a blush on his cheeks as he bares his perfect white teeth in a smile.
“And the waitress is practicing politics –” Anathema raises up the glass she’s carrying. “– as the businessmen slowly get stoned.” Hastur nudges the blunt slightly more out of sight behind a napkin dispenser. It’s not very convincing. “Yes, they’re sharing a drink they call loneliness, but it’s better than drinking alone.”
“I’m not lonely,” said Anathema. “I’m not!”
“You’re very single, though, dear, aren’t you?” Aziraphale asked with a pointed glance at Newt, who did not catch it.
“Lonely enough to talk to the Shark Tank twins,” Crowley put in from the piano.
“Shut up and play!” she shot back, earning a cackle.
Eventually Crowley wandered over and took a seat during one of his breaks, finding Anathema and Aziraphale still deep in a similar conversation.
“Look, if we’re going to get any traction against this new trans bathroom bill, we’ve got to focus all our energy on it. I don’t have time for anything else in my life right now.”
“Trans what now?” asked Crowley.
Aziraphale held very still as Anathema explained it to him.
“Huh,” said Crowley. “Sounds like a load of rubbish.” And then, before Aziraphale could react: “The bill, I mean. People should be able to go where they want, yeah? I mean, it’s all new to me, but – that’s what I think.”
“Would you like a pamphlet?” asked Anathema, pulling one out of her bag and handing it over. “Some good Trans 101 stuff in there.”
“Oh yeah, cheers.” Crowley took it and flipped through it immediately. “Hmm. Pronouns are a big thing, huh?”
Aziraphale chuckled. “You could say that.”
Suddenly Crowley was sitting up straighter, leaning in close to the two of them. “Look, I don’t know if I’m supposed to ask this, but – but I don’t want to do the wrong thing, here, and I…” They were staring at him blankly. He took a deep breath. “Right. Tracy. The, ah. The Madame. Is – are they – do…”
Anathema just waited for it, forcing him to suffer.
“Is ‘she’ the right word?”
Anathema finally nodded. “Here? Yeah. Not sure how she identifies the rest of the time, and honestly that’s none of our business. But when she’s all glammed up, ‘she’ is absolutely the right word.”
“Wait, you can be a ‘she’… just some of the time?” Crowley asked, as one would ask a thing of great import.
“Of course, my dear boy,” said Aziraphale, “people can be anything they want to be.”
“Funny thing, that,” Crowley mused later on in the evening. “What with our dear manager, that’s two, ah – ‘transgender’ people in the same bar. What are the odds?”
“Three!” called Anathema from beside Aziraphale, pointer fingers exaggeratedly indicating her own face. “If the Madame wants to be counted. And it’s not that strange, it’s a g–”
Aziraphale stepped on her foot as he interrupted: “Great... place to get a drink! Would you like anything?”
He didn’t want the bet to end yet.
He didn’t want the hope to end yet.
And so he carried on.
Crowley loops through the chorus again and then continues: “It’s a pretty good crowd for a Saturday, and the manager gives me a smile.”
Beelzebub has returned from their office and raises their drink in a sarcastic toast. No one has ever known Beelzebub to smile, but they’re all aware that a slight nod is close enough, where Beelzebub is concerned.
“’Cause they know that it’s me everyone comes to see to forget about life for a while.”
The accompaniment builds, louder, louder…
“And the piano sounds like a carnival!”
Crowley’s voice crescendos, too, bringing chills down Aziraphale’s spine.
“And the microphone smells like a beer. And they sit at the bar, and put bread in my jar, and say ‘Man, what are you doin’ here?’”
(Hastur and Ligur have aimed that exact quote at him multiple times, and Crowley has never answered. What is he doing here? Is he here for community, a purpose? Is he here as a straight man looking to make some extra dosh in his spare time? Is he still here, after all this time, at least in part, because of Aziraphale? Perish the thought.)
Crowley hits the chorus one more time and then the accompaniment slowly fades out, to raucous applause from the crowd. Shadwell slaps him on the back and Tracy kisses his cheek.
Then Crowley comes back up to finish his drink.
“That was just marvelous!” Aziraphale exclaims. “Oh, the way you included us… so clever, and the rhymes… have you written much music before?”
Crowley shrugs. “A few times. This is the first one I’ve actually finished, though. Wanted everyone to hear it. Glad it went over so well.”
“Of course it did. It was a work of art.”
When his drink is empty, Crowley accepts another and brings it back to the piano as he continues playing in the background. Usually he’s gone by midnight, but this time he sticks around as the bar slowly empties, tooling and meandering about with the keys.
Finally they are the only two people left.
Crowley closes the lid over the keys like he always does, slowly, reverently. Then he returns to the bar.
Aziraphale, feeling possessed by some strange spirit, comes around and sits beside him.
Neither of them are drunk anymore, but there’s a feeling in the air like intoxication. They’ve never been alone before.
“Tell me, angel, why haven’t you gone for your bookshop yet?”
“I like tending bar,” says Aziraphale.
Crowley raises a doubtful eyebrow.
“I do! Do you know my mother taught me to pour and count with fruit juice and sugar water? It… makes me feel closer to her, I suppose, now that she’s gone.”
“Oh, angel,” says Crowley with pity, but Aziraphale isn’t sad to have brought it up – there’s no room for ‘sad’ over the thrill of two angels in quick succession.
They sit there a moment more, and then Aziraphale can’t help but ask: “My dear, you don’t think Gabriel is… actually in the Navy, do you?”
Crowley stares back in confusion. “He wears his uniform in all the time.”
“He wears a lot of uniforms, you know.”
“Figured it was, formal and everyday, or whatever.”
“And the leather?”
Crowley is blushing now. “Yeah, nn… never really figured out that whole situation. Guess that one’s more of a p-personal quirk.”
Aziraphale sighs.
It has to happen eventually – the reckoning. It’s better to get it out of the way now, with some privacy. If Crowley turns out to be a homophobe, at least he can be sacked quietly and replaced without too much drama. (Except, that is, for the breaking of Aziraphale’s heart.)
“You…”
Crowley leans in closer at his hesitation. “Hmm?”
“You do know this is a gay bar, don’t you?” Aziraphale asks so quickly that Crowley blinks, taking a moment to process the torrent of words.
“I… what?”
“Crowley, the place is filled with queer couples. I’ve a rainbow flag over the mirror. It’s called The Flaming Sword.”
Crowley looks around, seeming to take in the place through new eyes. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“You really didn’t know? We were all wondering.”
“Yeah, well.”
“Only it was so strange, the things you’d say sometimes, that we thought maybe you didn’t know, although that was absurd, except clearly not, because it seems like it’s actually true…”
“Angel…”
“And I wanted to tell you, but then it seemed as if too much time had passed, and I wasn’t sure if it would be a problem, I do hope it’s not a problem, but I know you’re the decent sort, or at least I was relatively certain –”
“Angel.”
“And do you know nearly everyone in this place wants you? You’re the catch of the bar and they all talk about you like a piece of meat and I prayed you wouldn’t hear it, and I considered warning you but I decided if you’re straight you wouldn’t want to know –”
“Angel!”
Aziraphale pauses; calms a little. Stares back into Crowley’s eyes. “Yes?”
“Does that mean you’re… you know.”
“No, I don’t, Crowley,” he says, although he has an inkling, tilting his head in challenge.
“Does that mean you like men?” Crowley bursts out impatiently.
The moment seems to freeze around them. In for a penny, Aziraphale thinks, and says, “Yes.”
“Thank God,” says Crowley, and he leans forward, hand coming up to catch the side of Aziraphale’s face, thumb stroking over his cheek.
Aziraphale can barely think. “So you’re, ah… that’s not a problem for you?”
Crowley chuckles. “Aziraphale, I’m gayer than a Pride parade. You really didn’t know?”
“How was I supposed to know?”
“I call you angel!”
“Well, I make you drinks for free!”
They stare at each other in shock for a bit. Crowley is brave enough to speak first: “So, you… you like me, too?”
Aziraphale closes his eyes to say, “Yes.”
“You’re one of those men who want me?”
“Yes, and I won’t have you tease me over it.”
“Rather tease you in other ways,” Crowley says under his breath, and then, “May I kiss you?”
“Please,” says Aziraphale, and opens his eyes just long enough to see Crowley close the gap between them.
It feels right. It feels like coming home. Aziraphale falls into Crowley as their mouths move against each other, Crowley warm against him, his hands coming up to sift through the fluff of Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale clings around Crowley’s lower back and returns the kiss with equal fervor.
When they’re brought back to themselves by the horn of a passing car, it must have been minutes, at least.
“Not to fall into a pub cliché, but… come back to my flat with me?” Crowley’s voice is low and just a touch out of breath.
“I thought you’d never ask,” says Aziraphale.
Crowley gathers his things from the bench, taking one last lingering look at the piano. “You know what, angel? Next, I’m going to write you a song.”
And he does.
In fact, he writes one for every anniversary.
There are many.