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London, 25th December 1650
Aziraphale blamed the cold. And Crowley, of course: even if they hadn’t set a meeting as such, the demon could have perceived—he should have perceived—that he was needed there, and as soon as possible, if you please. But it hadn’t pleased Crowley to appear yet, and Aziraphale had been waiting for hours, and even the pale January sun was setting, and the scent in the air not so much hinted as shouted that everything was about to buried under several inches of snow.
Granted, that “everything” wasn’t much. The Globe had been closed for almost ten years, and it showed. The benches that hadn’t been used as firewood were creaking. Most of the sky painted over the stage had flaked off, and the woodworms were triumphing over the heavens. From time to time, a bit of straw from the thatched roof fell into the courtyard, a bouquet stripped of flowers for a theatre stripped of its actors.
He decided that pacing around the courtyard was all he needed to keep himself warm. He managed to go back and forth three times before his teeth began to chatter.
He told himself to leave. It would’ve been silly to waste a miracle on avoiding a cold, or worse. The empty theatre was too full of memories, each one of them punching him the gut. Crowley didn’t have any reason to come, after their last encounter and what Aziraphale had said...
Actually, Crowley had a very good reason to come: a perfect occasion to gloat, courtesy of what Aziraphale had said at their last encounter.
“Crowley, I know they’re a bit... keen, these Puritans, but they just want to do their best to celebrate the glory of the Lord. I doubt they will actually close all theatres. Should I expect them to cancel Christmas and ban mince pies too?” And then, in his most scathingly causal voice, he’d added, “That sounds more like something a worshipper of... your side would do.”
Crowley hadn’t replied. He’d just glared at him, nodded, and left.
That was two years ago.
And now they’d done it. No theatres, and no Christmas.
No mince pies either.
Aziraphale realised that he wasn’t just cold, he was starving. His angelic corporation didn’t need any food to survive, of course; but he was overwhelmed by a sudden desire of feeling something in his mouth, possibly something sweet. He thought of raisins, and dark currants, and some orange peel, and a dash of nutmeg, and...
He could almost smell the perfume in his mind.
No, he could actually smell the perfume. In the nose of his corporation.
He turned around.
On a bench that had suddenly found itself in pristine condition and covered in dark red damask cushions, Crowley was performing his best approximation of “sitting”. And he was nibbling something that looked suspiciously like a mince pie.
For a second, Aziraphale’s mind was blank. Then several thoughts began to crowd it, each one of them shouting to get his attention.
CrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowley.
Oh, wonderful, I’ll never hear the end of it.
CrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowley.
Good Lord, I’m hungry.
CrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowley.
And he doesn’t even like mince pies.
CrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowley.
I could strangle him.
CrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowley.
I should say something.
CrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowley.
Say something clever. Now.
CrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowley.
I cannot allow myself to be completely humiliated by a...
CrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowley.
Crowley smiled.
CrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowleyCrowley.
Aziraphale cleared his throat.
Say something clever.
“Oh. Crowley.”
“Oh, angel. Fancy running into you here. Has Heaven decided that violating the law is okay? Or are theatres exempt from...”
“Youwereright.”
Crowley’s smile turned into a grin. “Excuse me?”
“You were right.”
“Many times, I think. Anything specific?”
“You were right about the Puritans.”
Crowley took another bite of mince pie almost to his lips, then put it back in the plate. Aziraphale felt faint.
“Care to articulate?”
“You were...”
Two yellow eyes peeked from above a pair of dark glasses with a gaze slightly wicked, but not unkind. Crowley bit his lips. “I was...? he began.
“You were right, the Puritans are horrible, they did everything you said they would do, and then worse. You were right. When they think they’ve got God on their side, human beings can do things that even...” Aziraphale took a deep breath “They can hurt each other in ways that are far more cruel than anything you—or I, for that matter—could ever imagine. You were right. And now I’m miserable, wretched, cold, and— and I’m bored out of my mind. I miss the theatres, and I miss Christmas, and I miss...” Aziraphale glanced at the sky as if it were about to crash down on him. “Oh, Crowley. What more do you want me to say? You were right. You were right. I was wrong, and you were right. Should I set it to music? Should I dance to it? Just, please...”
Crowley grinned. “A dance?”
“Crowley.”
“Dance.” The demon’s grin softened into a smile. “Then, mince pies. They’re real, no miracles—well, just a tiny miracle to keep them warm—I bribed the best baker in Southwark. The one you used to like, if you want to send him another blessing. I said, ‘another blessing’ because you did that in the past, right? I didn’t bless him. Of course. Just a demonic bribe.” For a moment, he looked almost embarrassed. “Well. So...”
Aziraphale found himself smiling, for the first time in— two years? No, it’s impossible. “Yes. A dance,” he said.
He clicked his fingers. I’m just sweeping up a bit to prevent a fire—a miracle beyond reproach, Heaven won’t even notice. He found himself on a perfectly cleaned up stage, a torch shining its warm light on each and every detail of his performance and a red damask curtain to frame it.
He bowed to his audience.
