Chapter Four: Diadems & Drama
He did not go to Marie's ball that night.
He dined instead with Crowley in Crowley's expensive city flat, above the glinting lights of Paris, perfect for a gentleman of some social standing, such as Crowley had carved himself out to be.
"I saw Israfel today," Aziraphale said, over their second course of Canard a l'Orange.
"Mm," Crowley said around his glass of wine, "and I had the pleasure of talking to Belphegor."
"So it isn't just Paris, or France," Aziraphale said, frowning.
"Let's not talk about it."
"They must be here for some reason, after all, and we won't know until it's happened what that reason is."
"Angel."
"On the whole, I feel quite confused," Aziraphale said, slicing through the meat on his plate. Crowley watched him and laughed, a low, bemused little chuckle, for it was rare that demons laughed with things, as they only truly knew how to laugh at them.
"Why don't we not talk about it?" Crowley tried again, sighing as Aziraphale ruffled up under his laughter. "The duck won't sit well on your stomach if you're upset like this. Besides, they always figure it out, without really requiring our help in the first place. They don't really need us, and if they did, they'd waste no time in explaining everything."
"Mm," Aziraphale mused over his own wine glass, "I suppose."
"What did Israfel have to say?"
To their unspoken but incredibly important Agreement, they shared all they knew, knew all they shared, and never felt quite guilty about any of it. They weren't betraying either side because what they lost in information they gained back equally. Everything was balanced out neatly and evenly.
They weren't doing anything wrong.
Not really, in any case. It was their own code of ethics, one they had operated on since the middle ages, and by now it was so ingrained into their routines that they couldn't have changed it even if they wanted to. Besides, they were friendly, knew each others favorite type of wine, favorite authors, favorite colors, little, silly things like that. They didn't want anything to change or, not between the two of them, at least.
"Nothing really," Aziraphale said, "just that he liked my cufflinks, and I'd better be more careful about whom I allow to see them, in the future." His eyes met Crowley's and a flash of not anger, not concern, but an unnamed something, as it glinted dangerously in that serpentine gold.
"Was he threatening you?"
"I don't know. No. At least, I don't think so." Aziraphale ran his finger around the rim of his wine glass. "In any case, they are very nice cufflinks, Crowley." As if they were trying to prove Aziraphale's point the black opals caught the light and shimmered enticingly.
"Mm." Crowley was frowning.
"As you said," Aziraphale murmured, fidgeting, "why don't we not talk about it? The duck was very good, as well. My compliments to the chef."
"Come on, then," Crowley said abruptly, "or we'll be just out-of-fashionably late." He snapped his fingers and the dishes were clean, the table set neatly as it had been when they sat down to eat, and the candles had in a puff of air snuffed their waxen bodies out. In the darkness the bottle green of Crowley's suit was dark as the first forest Aziraphale had ever seen, and the gold of his waistcoat was richer than the crown of even the wealthiest king. "Angel?" Crowley paused by the door. "Something the matter?"
"Not at all," Aziraphale replied quickly, standing and sliding his chair back in to the table neatly. "Shall we?"
"Why, yes," Crowley said, taking the blonde's arm in his own, "I think we shall."
They rode in a carriage that had impeccable timing in appearing before Crowley's door as they were leaving, through the streets, bumping along the broken and groaning ground.
In the air it was heard now, those whispers Aziraphale had been feeling down to his marrow, or what passed for his marrow, in any case. Even the horse could feel it, nostrils wide against the oncoming storms of fire and blood.
"I wouldn't be surprised if it starting raining frogs in this city," Crowley muttered, to break the silence.
"Mm," Aziraphale agreed, looking out the curtained window cautiously, uncertain as to what he would find there. They passed by houses livelier than people yet still resembling dank, gray gravestones, haphazardly strewn about, now huddling as close together as possible for meager comfort to their sorrows. One woman stood with a shawl pulled tight around her chest, giving their coach a look of such venomous hatred that Aziraphale felt sick to his stomach and hurriedly pulled the curtains shut again, riding the rest of the way to the theater in blinded silence. It was not Love but Justice who was blind, which was why such times as these must first ache and writhe in prenatal contractions before the hand of God set them to birth, burning and bleeding new nations.
The Opera House was a different scene altogether, set in the hush of muted living, all the theater-goers already in their seats, as Crowley and Aziraphale were eight minutes and forty-six seconds late, and the curtain had already risen over the ostentatiously decorated stage. Aziraphale disliked missing the very beginning, where the lights were dimmed and whispers were silenced and the world around him was blanketed by drama, like a dream, and one he could always wake from. But he, whenever he went places with Crowley, found he was always late, and missed these delicate beginnings he so enjoyed.
"Go on to our seats, angel," Crowley said, ushering him off with his ticket, "I'll be along in a moment."
The great lobby of the Opera House was silent and glittering like a room of jewels in the faint light, everything cast into delicious shadow as Aziraphale's footsteps faded off down one carpeted floor. Crowley stopped breathing for a little while and just listened, hard and long. Somewhere an old woman with a beauty mark beneath one lip coughed softly behind a fan. Then he heard it, the memory or prediction or both of music in the air.
"Issssrafael," Crowley hissed to that singing air, but he was not talking to himself. From behind a Corinthian column Israfel stuck out his head, and followed it with his entire body.
"You could be more polite," Israfel pouted, "that was a fantastic party and the music of Marie's laughter is simply unprecedented. Like a string quartet, you know. She really is quite...well, something. Quite a study, if you will."
"I don't want to talk about queenssss," Crowley said, dangerous for his calm, for the little slither in his voice, "I want to sssspeak of cufflinkssss."
"Ah," Israfel said. "Of the opal sort?"
"Yessss."
"And of the angel Asirafel who wears them?"
"Yessss."
"You needn't get your scales in a prickly, Crawly," Israfel murmured, looking cheerful, "did he tell you I threatened him? Angels don't threaten, you know, they smite without warning, Justic is swift and fierce, and I'm certainly not the best sort for smiting, in any case. And far as I know, Asirafel has not yet done anything to require punishment. I was merely commenting on how nice his cufflinks were.
"I ssssee."
"You have, I must say, quite excellent taste in adornment." It seemed perhaps as if Israfel was not speaking of cufflinks any longer. Crowley's imperturbably nonchalance, though, was almost unnerving to Israfel's sense of musicality. In the composition of the world, Crowley was a wrong note. An interesting and unusual wrong note, but a wrong note nonetheless, that slipped into the general, universal harmony and lingered, the hum of discord.
"Thank you."
"We all fraternize with the enemy," Israfel said suddenly, "you needn't feel hunted, or even particularly special."
And he was gone.
He left a bitter taste in Crowley's ears, because they were enemies, and Crowley paid no mind to it because he knew he had affected the angel more than the angel had affected him. Angels -- other than Aziraphale, of course -- offended his sense of corruptions with their overwhelmingly obnoxious purity.
But Aziraphale, bows in his hair, enjoyment of the theater, flustering tendencies and almost-passion for a good supper of Canard a l'Orange, wasn't like them. Perhaps it was because they had been around each other for so long that their scents had mingled and that purity didn't disrupt Crowley's blackened anti-soul. Perhaps it was a purity he had grown used to, or even enjoyed in the form of envy, or lust, for that was how demons loved all things. From the very filth of their scaled chests.
As Crowley made his way after Aziraphale to their reserved box, he heard in the air a sound like a terrible cry, as if a great mouth had opened like a wound in the earth, pouring forth a cry of fire and pain that rent the air, tearing the flies of the evening into wingless bodies floundering in an echo of despair.