It was when the violinist had a solo on the center of the stage and the strings of his instrument were vibrating in breathless passion beneath his fingers and his bow.
It was when the ladies in their equally breathless anticipation leaned on the edge of their seats, eyelashes and fans fluttering, lungs compacted beneath the crush of their whalebone corsets.
It was when the men moved forward lazily to watch the rapid rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall of the ladies' powdered bosoms from beneath their hungry eyelids.
It was on the high C that pierced the air sharper than any knife, went rocketing up to the rafters swifter than any bullet, resounding in their ears and resounding in their hearts more monumental than any revolution.
It was when one young woman became so excited by the climax of the piece that she crushed her program in her palm, beneath her delicate and soft and feminine fingers.
It was at this moment of rayonnement that had hearts beating off their regular rhythms, had eyes wide open and thoughts silenced as breaths were silenced in worshipful reverence, the church of music, the eternity of a high C, the tears in the violinist's bleary, wondering eyes, the thoughts of a demon returning or turning for the first time to memory, a silence uninterrupted by anything but that infallible, ineffable, melodious note, the glisten in a poor man's eyes over the amazement he gets in his heart from spilled wine running like time through his fingers.
It was the death of the first nobleman, a blonde chap with dark, proud eyes, riding his horse through the lower city over the dirty streets which seemed to him as hell might look -- not that he would ever see hell, a good Christian man, an upstanding and wealthy man -- but perhaps yet more distasteful than even hellfire was the pollution of the streets. His name was Jacques Lepaix and a woman killed him with a knife she would have used to cut meat had she meat in her kitchen to cut. She killed both him and his horse and tipped her head back like a wolf, laughing up early to the sickle moon, which was a green and jealous color. Lepaix's blood ran like wine in the streets and his mouth was opened in a shocked, perhaps even amused 'O,' as if he were laughing at a good joke, not yet knowing his death was the punchline, not yet knowing he was laughing at himself. Or the husk that was all that was left of his self.
It was the laughter of that woman, bosom heaving in rhythm to the violin played in the Opera House, that made it happen, the air crazy, writhing in madness, and therefore without remorse and without kindness, its souls tainted and sullied from it beyond the repair of salvation in penance.
It was then that Aziraphale doubled over in his seat with an undignified grunt of pain, anguish convulsing beneath his skin, the agony of hate pounding in his ears, white hot light flashing like a headache before his eyes in sin, a fire he did not know in his veins.
They did not carry blood.
They pumped virtue, forgiveness, a platonic angel love that was innocence itself, chaste, love that was love because it did not know better, did not know how to hate or even the true nature of what hate was.
Angels had never felt hatred, it was not in their natures, it was a general poison to their systems as goodness and virtue was a sickness in demons, and so they could not possibly begin to understand it at all. In turn, it wounded them, until they grew callused enough to be protected from it.
But the force of such hatred, undiluted, unfiltered, unbridled, was too powerful for Aziraphale to ignore or even to withstand. He curled in upon himself with a soft, pained whimper, arms wrapped tight around his middle as he convulsed against the spiritual invasion.
"Angel," Crowley questioned, leaning forward, trying to get a good look at his face, "Aziraphale. What's wrong?" He was worried, or at least as worried as he ever got, or ever could get. Aziraphale bit back a whimper.
"...think...fresh air..." What Aziraphale meant was, he didn't want to cause a scene in the refined setting, or, God forbid, disrupt the beautiful music he had so been enjoying.
"Right, " Crowley said, matter-of-fact, and helped Aziraphale to stand, holding tight to one of his arms. To Aziraphale's credit, and Crowley was quite proud of him for this, the angel managed to get out into the hall simply by leaning on Crowley's arm, and then collapsed against him. "Come on," Crowley soothed as best he coul, taking that half-limp, trembling body into his arms, cradling the angel close to his chest as gently as his nature would allow.
Outside a star shone brightly over the city of Paris, glinting on and off, on and off in guidance.
Inside their carriage, Aziraphale was curled up tight into a ball, half in Crowley's lap, his fingers knotted in the soft velvet of Crowley's coat.
"I spoke with Israfel," Crowley said to distract his companion, running his fingers through Aziraphale's hair. Silky and golden and long, perhaps a bit too feminine for some tastes, but Crowley liked it, like the way it slid through his fingers like a golden fall of water.
"Nn," Aziraphale whispered.
The streets were so, so angry for the feet that pounded over them, angry, and the blood that had been spilled upon them, thicker than wine, unexpected, unready to meet the cold and unforgiving cobblestone earth.
"How are you feeling now?" Crowley asked, touching the soft curve of Aziraphale's cheek with the very tips of his fingers, tentative, hesitant, more unsure than he had ever been in his entire, remorseless life.
"Nn," Aziraphale murmured, leaning just slightly intot he touch. His body felt on fire with the anger that wracked the night.
The hands of the men, women, children, cracked and weathered, lined with age, short lines on young hands, uplifted to the sky, questioning not the men and women who filled them with their hate, but the cycles of the moon and the burning of the sun and the contentment, far away, of the stars.
"It's been a long time," Crowley murmured absently, and he brushed the corner of Aziraphale's mouth with his his pinky almost by accident, "since anyone called me Crawly. And," he added thoughtfully, "since anyone has called you Asirafel."
"Crowley," Aziraphale mumbled into the demon's side, and he winced again, "they're killing people -- Crowley..."
"I know, angel," Crowley said. He rested his hand against the side of Aziraphale's pale swan's neck, feeling the human pulse beneath mixing with the panicked angel's pulse. For a while, it was hard to distinguish which was which. "I know." There it was. The angel, unreal because of its ethereality, and the human, a body, a human suit, just as unharmonious to the 'normal' world as that which it housed.
Outside the carriage window a bank had gone up in flames, the first building casuality of those angry hands, the first of hundreds.
Aziraphale's hands tightened again against Crowley's suit. The demon smelled more familiar to him that his faint memories of all of Heav'n. There was no perfume in Heav'n, just clouds and sunshine so bright the clouds became gossamer and transparent. There was also dancing in Heav'n, but it was nothing like a saraband and a ballroom with tinkling champagne glasses and tinkling laughter and Crowley's arms wrapped around him, his cheek against Crowley's shoulder. There was no music now, just a discordant wrongness barrelling at him through the air.
"You'll stay at my apartment tonight, I should think," Crowley said, and through the haze in his soul Aziraphale knew he meant not 'I think' but rather 'I know.' The flat of Crowley's palm pressed gently against Aziraphale's Adam's Apple. His hand was cool, but it only made sense. He was a cold-blooded creature, after all.
"Mm," Aziraphale sighed.
God watched His children, humans, angels and demons, from where He sat in the arms of chaos, directing and understanding but never once a figure of commiseration. He saw the pieces come sliding into place, and He smiled a smile ever-shifting.
It began to rain, putting out the fire before a little girl was trapped beneath a burning roof beam.
But the damage was done.
Crowley carried Aziraphale up the stairs, hating the idea of being so affected by grief, so susceptible to the crushing force of hate, as angels were. He, too, was a weak creature, but not nearly so weak as the angel he carried in his arms was. It was not his body that was, but his spirit. Aziraphale was the enemy, but he was also a friend. In the scaley depths of himself, beneath the skin and the muscle and the bone, Crowley did not care for him because he could not care, but felt responsible when he had never felt such a way over anything or anyone before in his life.
Aziraphale's face, slackened in sleep, with its fine cheekbones and long lashes and sensitive mouth, had once been merely attractive, and then merely familiar, and then just a mixture of both. Now, it was a source of divine purification that Crowley had not known he was seeking.
But it was just a face.
Aziraphale's face.
Outside, in the light, dispersing drizzle of rain, the people of the city had made a scarecrow of garbage, of straw and the clothing of dead children. With soot to paint the eyes and bad wine for the lips they made a mannequin of the queen and dragged her haphazardly assembled body through the slick streets, stuffing from her shallow, flimsy innards strewn in a winding path behind her.
In effigy, the children of Paris tore the queen limb from limb, exchanging wine for her blood and cake for her heart.