GO Fic: Of Nightingales
A/N: I'm going along with Quantum-Witch's hypothesis that Crowley's flat is on Adam's Row, in Mayfair. (She has compiled a brilliant list of similar ideas, which I demand you go and look at right now. It's here: -http :/ quantum- witch. com /bentbooks /favethings. htm- but without the spaces). This particular plot bunny has been bouncing around in my head ever since I looked up the song reference, but I don't hold that this fic is part of what I will call my personal canon, even if it was lots of fun to write. Anyway, it takes place just after they have lunch at the Ritz at the end of the book. None of the characters are mine, and neither is the song. The singer is Elsie Carlisle, I believe, and I have made changes to the track to render my posting of it in pieces here legal.
Of Nightingales
Neither was quite sure why it had happened. Understandably, Crowley was the more astonished of the two.
He didn't bother to consider what to do about his name, and he didn't waste time on where he would go. Crowley was who he was, and Earth was where he belonged. And he would stay on Earth, and - he swore this next bit with a dark scowl and white-knuckled fists, much to Aziraphale's amusement - he would continue to be a flash bastard. Good and Evil were just names, after all; he'd always said so, and it would be more than a little bit hypocritical of him to pick up a harp just because.
Aziraphale was both pleased and deeply concerned, because if Hastur turned out to be the demon assigned to Earth - which was more than likely, Crowley said, given Hell's particular style of retribution - then he would almost certainly come after Crowley, and things might be very difficult from there on out.
Crowley only laughed at him when he voiced these worries. "I'm bloody staying," was all he said. That, and, "Besides, Hastur's even more old-fashioned than you are, and more incompetent than both of us put together. He isn't dangerous, he's obsolete." And when he smiled, he still looked like a snake, which Aziraphale found comforting.
Nothing had changed, really. It was different, but it hadn't changed.
The drive home was unusually quiet, as both beings were lost in thought. Why? Crowley wondered for the umpteenth time that night, though he thought he might know. He was an optimist whose expectations of the inherent good of humanity had been fulfilled, and the distinct lack of apocalypse had left him with a smug, warm little glow of I-knew-you-would burning behind his eyes. He'd felt that way before, once upon a time.
"It might be written differently somewhere else," said Crowley. "Where you can't read it."
"In bigger letters."
"Underlined."
"Twice."
"Perhaps this isn't just a test of the world," said Crowley. "It might be a test of you people, too. Hmm?"
Well, that had been it, hadn't it? That, and the business with the tire iron. He hadn't actually done anything with it, but he had meant to, and that was what counted. Of course, he would have fought against Heaven with just as much desperate conviction if he'd needed to, but he suspected that was beside the point.
Aziraphale suddenly burst into peals of laughter. Crowley swerved, and stared at him in alarm. "Angel, what -"
"Maschwitz," Aziraphale howled, "Nightingales," and Crowley could get no sense out of him for several more minutes.
At last, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes and still hiccupping occasionally, Aziraphale pulled himself together enough to explain. "Just then, Crowley, when we drove past the Square, there was a lull in the traffic and did you - oh, Crowley, did you hear the birds?"
Crowley shrugged. "Sure."
"One of them was a nightingale," Aziraphale told him, beaming and chortling as if this were somehow of great significance.
Crowley took a few calming breaths. "Your unholy fondness for things avian worries me sometimes, you know."
Aziraphale made a rude gesture that hadn't been seen this side of the Mediterranean in at least seven hundred years, but he was still laughing breathlessly. "1940, lyrics by Eric Maschwitz and I can't remember who wrote the tune, but I remember Judy Campbell sang -"
"Would you please get to the point."
Aziraphale waved a hand, and music filled the car. Crowley only listened to about thirty seconds of it before he let out a hiss of disgust.
That certain night, the night we met,
there was magic abroad in the air--
Crowley groaned. "I hate this song so much."
"Shh," said Aziraphale.
There were angels dining at the Ritz,
and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
"Stop humming," Crowley demanded. "Okay, I get it, Ritz and nightingales and Berkeley Square and whatnot. What's your point? No, don't rewind it, just tell me."
"I may be right, I may be wrong, but I'm perfectly willing to swear," Aziraphale warbled, and Crowley did swear as the angel -- the other angel, black bloody damn him -- continued with, "that when you turned and smiled at me, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square."
Aziraphale probably would have sung through the whole cursed song if Crowley hadn't pulled over then and threatened to strangle him. The music faded, much to Crowley's relief.
Aziraphale turned to him, triumphant in spite of the interruption. "My dear boy, don't you see? Either Maschwitz was a prophet, or God has a very peculiar sense of humor." He paused, frowned a little. "Probably both, actually."
"I don't see anything," Crowley snapped, "except for a smug angel who will be very dead in about half a minute if he doesn't tell me what rubbish he's got rattling around in his empty skull."
Aziraphale's good humor refused to be extinguished. "There were angels dining at the Ritz," he repeated firmly. "Angels, Crowley. Plural. It's like what you said. It's written somewhere where we can't see it, but it'll be all right. I know everything will be all right now."
Crowley looked at him, blinking in astonishment, and then he swore again, loudly and at great length. Aziraphale smiled, beatific, and nodded along with the music that started up again. And that was how they drove the rest of the way to Crowley's flat - one laughing quietly to himself and humming, the other muttering threats.
Nothing had changed, really.
The moon that lingered over London town;
poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown.
How could he know we two were so in love,
the whole darn world seemed upside down.
The streets of town were paved with stars,
it was such a romantic affair,
And as we kissed and said goodnight,
a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
Our homeward step was just as light
as the tap dancing feet of Astair.
And like an echo far away,
a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
I know 'cause I was there, that night in Berkeley Square.
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Of Nightingales
Neither was quite sure why it had happened. Understandably, Crowley was the more astonished of the two.
He didn't bother to consider what to do about his name, and he didn't waste time on where he would go. Crowley was who he was, and Earth was where he belonged. And he would stay on Earth, and - he swore this next bit with a dark scowl and white-knuckled fists, much to Aziraphale's amusement - he would continue to be a flash bastard. Good and Evil were just names, after all; he'd always said so, and it would be more than a little bit hypocritical of him to pick up a harp just because.
Aziraphale was both pleased and deeply concerned, because if Hastur turned out to be the demon assigned to Earth - which was more than likely, Crowley said, given Hell's particular style of retribution - then he would almost certainly come after Crowley, and things might be very difficult from there on out.
Crowley only laughed at him when he voiced these worries. "I'm bloody staying," was all he said. That, and, "Besides, Hastur's even more old-fashioned than you are, and more incompetent than both of us put together. He isn't dangerous, he's obsolete." And when he smiled, he still looked like a snake, which Aziraphale found comforting.
Nothing had changed, really. It was different, but it hadn't changed.
The drive home was unusually quiet, as both beings were lost in thought. Why? Crowley wondered for the umpteenth time that night, though he thought he might know. He was an optimist whose expectations of the inherent good of humanity had been fulfilled, and the distinct lack of apocalypse had left him with a smug, warm little glow of I-knew-you-would burning behind his eyes. He'd felt that way before, once upon a time.
"It might be written differently somewhere else," said Crowley. "Where you can't read it."
"In bigger letters."
"Underlined."
"Twice."
"Perhaps this isn't just a test of the world," said Crowley. "It might be a test of you people, too. Hmm?"
Well, that had been it, hadn't it? That, and the business with the tire iron. He hadn't actually done anything with it, but he had meant to, and that was what counted. Of course, he would have fought against Heaven with just as much desperate conviction if he'd needed to, but he suspected that was beside the point.
Aziraphale suddenly burst into peals of laughter. Crowley swerved, and stared at him in alarm. "Angel, what -"
"Maschwitz," Aziraphale howled, "Nightingales," and Crowley could get no sense out of him for several more minutes.
At last, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes and still hiccupping occasionally, Aziraphale pulled himself together enough to explain. "Just then, Crowley, when we drove past the Square, there was a lull in the traffic and did you - oh, Crowley, did you hear the birds?"
Crowley shrugged. "Sure."
"One of them was a nightingale," Aziraphale told him, beaming and chortling as if this were somehow of great significance.
Crowley took a few calming breaths. "Your unholy fondness for things avian worries me sometimes, you know."
Aziraphale made a rude gesture that hadn't been seen this side of the Mediterranean in at least seven hundred years, but he was still laughing breathlessly. "1940, lyrics by Eric Maschwitz and I can't remember who wrote the tune, but I remember Judy Campbell sang -"
"Would you please get to the point."
Aziraphale waved a hand, and music filled the car. Crowley only listened to about thirty seconds of it before he let out a hiss of disgust.
That certain night, the night we met,
there was magic abroad in the air--
Crowley groaned. "I hate this song so much."
"Shh," said Aziraphale.
There were angels dining at the Ritz,
and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
"Stop humming," Crowley demanded. "Okay, I get it, Ritz and nightingales and Berkeley Square and whatnot. What's your point? No, don't rewind it, just tell me."
"I may be right, I may be wrong, but I'm perfectly willing to swear," Aziraphale warbled, and Crowley did swear as the angel -- the other angel, black bloody damn him -- continued with, "that when you turned and smiled at me, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square."
Aziraphale probably would have sung through the whole cursed song if Crowley hadn't pulled over then and threatened to strangle him. The music faded, much to Crowley's relief.
Aziraphale turned to him, triumphant in spite of the interruption. "My dear boy, don't you see? Either Maschwitz was a prophet, or God has a very peculiar sense of humor." He paused, frowned a little. "Probably both, actually."
"I don't see anything," Crowley snapped, "except for a smug angel who will be very dead in about half a minute if he doesn't tell me what rubbish he's got rattling around in his empty skull."
Aziraphale's good humor refused to be extinguished. "There were angels dining at the Ritz," he repeated firmly. "Angels, Crowley. Plural. It's like what you said. It's written somewhere where we can't see it, but it'll be all right. I know everything will be all right now."
Crowley looked at him, blinking in astonishment, and then he swore again, loudly and at great length. Aziraphale smiled, beatific, and nodded along with the music that started up again. And that was how they drove the rest of the way to Crowley's flat - one laughing quietly to himself and humming, the other muttering threats.
Nothing had changed, really.
The moon that lingered over London town;
poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown.
How could he know we two were so in love,
the whole darn world seemed upside down.
The streets of town were paved with stars,
it was such a romantic affair,
And as we kissed and said goodnight,
a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
Our homeward step was just as light
as the tap dancing feet of Astair.
And like an echo far away,
a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
I know 'cause I was there, that night in Berkeley Square.
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