Notes, Disclaimers, and Other Such Things:
If I said Good Omens were mine, I expect you'd know better.
In which Aziraphale discovers the theatre:
In London's streets, Aziraphale was never sure whether the crowd would crush him, or embrace him. What he had begun to discover was that he didn't really care. Either way, it was pleasant. Somehow.
He'd gotten used to the bellowing of various tradesmen selling their wares. He'd gotten used to beggars, and thieves, and prostitutes, somehow. If he thought too hard about it, this idea worried him, in a mild way.
Currently, Aziraphale was weary of choking on dust in his room above the tavern, and had decided some (comparatively) fresh air would do him good. He nudged, ducked, sidled, and edged through the crowd, here and there catching a glimpse of an interesting face, elbow, or jerkin. This was routine. This was comfortable, and not at all worrying.
The worrying thing was the hand that caught him by the arm. While Aziraphale was fond of London, he had no illusions about its population. "I haven't any money," he said automatically.
"Hello to you too, angel."
Aziraphale turned as best as he could in the tightly-pressed throng, and met Crowley's slit-pupiled gaze. "Oh."
Crowley smiled, in a way that was less smirk-like than usual. "Been keeping busy?" he asked.
"Yes, I suppose so." Aziraphale glanced at a small visible portion of the ground, then wished he hadn't.
"Me neither," replied the demon. Still grasping Aziraphale's arm, he ducked out of the flow of the crowd. Left with few alternatives, (1)Aziraphale followed. "Hastur's doing most of the work hereabouts. You might want to keep an eye on the royal family, by the way."
Aziraphale had stopped "keeping an eye on" the english royal family after Henry VIII had Anne Boleyn beheaded. Of the crown at present, all he knew was that Elizabeth was called "the Virgin Queen." He remembered this only because he sincerely doubted it. (2)
"Tell me, angel," said Crowley. "Have you ever been to the theatre?"
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Aziraphale had not, in fact, been to the theatre before. His brow furrowed as he stared up at the stage. "What's happening up there?" he asked Crowley.
"Well, you see that man-- no, not that one, the one with the beard. He wants to marry off his daughter. But he can't until the other one's married, first."
"Why?"
Crowley blinked. "How should I know? It's theatre. Anyhow, the older one's pretty much hellspawn. So to speak."
" . . . Oh." Aziraphale had missed a good chunk of the first two scenes ducking flying vegetables. It seemed the audience was not particularly fond of the actor playing Kate.
Then Bianca came onstage. The boy-actor moved like a woman (3), or at least how women were supposed to move. The audience went silent. When he spoke, he ceased to be a young man standing on a nearly bare stage, wearing a worn, gaudy dress and a bad wig. He was a blushing young beauty, deeply in love. His voice was sweeter than any girl's, and surely he was more beautiful. (4)
"Who is that?" Aziraphale wondered. The man behind him, who had until recently been throwing rotted apples at the stage, sent a stabbing glare his way. Aziraphale ignored him.
"That's Bianca, the nice one."
"I meant the actor," said Aziraphale.
"Oh," replied Crowley. "His name is Willie Hughes (5), I think. Brilliant, isn't he?"
Aziraphale nodded. "Amazing!"
An apple hit him in the back of the neck. "Shut up, will you, you stupid poof!"
There was a yelp a moment later as the man's boot became a small inferno. Crowley smirked.
Maybe, thought Aziraphale, smiling faintly, there are advantages to spending time with demons, after all.
(1) That included keeping his arm, at least
(2) Even angels know better than to assume being unmarried means virginity.
(3) Not that anyone would have seen if he hadn't. His legs could have been tap-dancing under that mass of skirts, and no one would have noticed.
(4) This had nothing to do with certain commonly formed impressions about Aziraphale-- it simply was.
(5) If you understand this reference, I love you. Deeply. Devotedly. Marry me, please?
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