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Give My Regards to Broadway

Summary:

Five decades of Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship, as told through the Broadway shows they attended.

Notes:

Upon canon confirmation that Aziraphale is a Sondheim fan, I had to write this.

In this chapter: West Side Story, She Loves Me, Jesus Christ Superstar, Assassins, Rent

Chapter Text

  1. West Side Story (1957)

Aziraphale liked New York, even though it was the other side’s greatest achievement, city-wise--maybe their greatest achievement, period. If Hell had to vacate, the demons would swarm Manhattan, the lower-ranks would be pushed out into Brooklyn or up to the Bronx. Queens and Staten Island would remain human, where no demon would deign to go.

Consequently, it was also a place where angels feared to tread--or not so much feared as crinkled their noses, like a human being asked to plunge naked into a swamp or a sewer.  In many ways, this was good for Aziraphale, who cherished the privacy of his Greenwich Village apartment, but it also meant a dearth of theatre companions. When The Black Crook first premiered in 1866, he’d scrambled to explain the premise to his fellow angels, and been shot down for one reason or another:

 

“It’s like a play, but with songs.”

“There’s usually music in plays.”

“Yes, but this is different.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know yet.”

 

“A play? Like Antigone?

“Yes!”

“I hated Antigone.”

 

“It’s in New York and--”

“No.”

 

“No, not Newark, New York. Why would it be in Newark?”

 

“Hello, it’s Aziraphale, I was wondering if...Hello? Hello?”

 

Angels weren’t cultural connoisseurs and besides, they had no compulsion to try anything new. Art and music and dancing were human indulgences, and the fact that Aziraphale was keen to indulge made him a bit of an oddball. There was no shame in going to the theater by oneself, and when he thought about it honestly, Aziraphale knew it was preferable than going with any of his colleagues.

Still, it would have been nice to have someone to talk to afterwards without arousing suspicion that he was otherworldly. And there was only one non-human creature Aziraphale knew who enjoyed human indulgences as much as he did, if not more.

So when he invited Crowley, he didn’t need to invent excuses (“It would be nice to see what our wards are up to,” “The Almighty might give us a surprise test. You know how fond She is of those…”) He just needed to say when and where and pray the demon abided by theatre etiquette.

From then on, Crowley was Aziraphale’s reliable theatre date, and an enjoyable one, Aziraphale dared say, even if Crowley hated half of the shows and Aziraphale loathed the other half, even if Crowley had an irritating habit of walking out of the theater singing loud, intentionally off-key snippets of songs. Aziraphale assumed it was payback for his preference of a leisurely post-theatre stroll instead of a mad ride in the Bentley.

Currently, Crowley was singing “I feel pretty and witty and gaaaay!” Aziraphale bristled at passers-bys’ glances, and Crowley waved his fingers at them.

“Such insipid lyrics, don’t you think?” Crowley said. “I bet he’ll regret writing them.”

“I liked them.” Aziraphale was stunned. He’d found the song--music and lyrics both--utterly delightful. The word “insipid” never crossed his mind.

“Nah. He can do better, and he will.”

“You know him?” Aziraphale raised his voice in surprise but then he remembered Crowley knew all great artists. Intimately, in many cases. “Of course you do.”

“I’m familiar with him. Not as an artist.”

“Right, then,” Aziraphale said with a slight sharpness to indicate he did not want to know more.

“And not in the light.”

“Got it.”

“Biblically, as you would say it.”

Okay.”

Aziraphale walked quietly, not sure how to respond, and let Crowley sing a few bars about how he liked to be in America.

Eventually, Crowley stopped singing and asked, “So, why West Side Story?”

“There’s been quite a bit of hype surrounding it. I thought we should see it.”

“Oh?” Crowley raised an eyebrow and smirked and Aziraphale knew, despite the darkness and sunglasses, that there was a mischievous glint in Crowley’s eyes--an unreadable glint, or semi-readable, like water-smudged words that Aziraphale could sort of make out.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, feathers metaphorically ruffled. “You didn’t think it was good?”

“I thought it was good. A little on the nose on your part, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.” Aziraphale’s feathers were now literally ruffled.

“Two warring families, two unlikely partners in the midst of it all…” Crowley snapped his fingers below his waist in a way that could only be described as “campy-threatening.”

“So you fancy us star-crossed lovers, then?”

“No. I fancy myself Riff. Got a rocket in your pocket, keep cooly cool boy. ” He walked down the street fight-snapping, which, out of the context of the stage seemed ridiculous and, in the context of the stage, seemed slightly less ridiculous. More glancing, glaring passers-by. Soon enough, not even half a decade, they’d know the reference. Until then, Crowley seemed like a loon. Aziraphale kept his face carefully arranged to say I don’t know him.

“It’s the same premise as Romeo and Juliet .” He should have accepted Crowley’s topic change--should have been effusively grateful for it--but he found himself being stubborn for no reason at all.

“Yes, it is,” Crowley agreed. “So?”

“That’s a more accurate comparison than we are.”

“I obviously don’t think they based it on us.

“It has nothing to do with us.”

Crowley slipped his fingers under his sunglasses and pressed his eyes. “Forget I said anything. What would you say to a drink?”

“No.” Aziraphale said. Something in the night had soured.

“Dinner? Cabaret show? There’s a place for us, somewhere a place for us…”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. Crowley sighed.

“Fine. I’ll meet up with Art, Steve, and Lenny at the after party. You can join me. It’ll be fun. ” Mockery dripped from Crowley’s voice. Aziraphale couldn’t identify the exact target.

“I think I’ve had enough fun tonight.”

“Of course. See you at the next opening, I guess.” Crowley vanished before Aziraphale could say good-bye.


 

2. Gypsy (1959)

"Is Ethel one of yours?" Aziraphale asked.

"Obviously."


 

3. She Loves Me (1963)

Aziraphale couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so enchanted. It was a sweet little show--a simple story and a soaring score and a cast that could sing like nobody’s business. As he walked out of the theater, Aziraphale’s mind was torn in two places: reflecting on what he’d just seen, and making plans to see it again.

“I thought it was twee,” Crowley scowled.

“I thought it was delightful.”

“Of course you did. You want some ice cream?”

“Yes, but--you never crave sweets.”

“They had a whole bloody song about it. Of course I want some.”

“It’s past eleven. I don’t know any shops that are open.”

“It’s New York, and we’re an angel and a demon. We’ll manage.”

As much as he wanted ice cream, Aziraphale hoped neither of them would have to use their powers for something so minor and selfish. They didn’t, though, because New York itself was a miracle of 24/7 anything if you were willing to search. Crowley griped about not having his car, and, secretly, Aziraphale wished for the Bentley, too, but eventually they found a little shop that happened to be open and happened to serve ice cream.

The ice cream was good, given the extenuating circumstances, even though Flake bars were sadly not an option. They ate their vanilla ice cream in the brisk April air, in a small park near Aziraphale’s flat.

“So, aren’t you going to say something?” Aziraphale asked.

“About?”

“You know. The show. About how it was about two people who were supposed to hate each other, but they were really in love with each other.”

“Hmm, no, what do you mean?” Crowley said, too airily.

“Nothing. It’s just you’re always quick to point out that recurring theme. In shows. The shows we see. Even though it’s a common plot.”

Crowley shoved his empty cup on top of Aziraphale’s empty cone. Crowley seemed awkward about littering in front of Aziraphale, but also, understandably, felt awkward about  not  littering, so it became his habit to give Aziraphale his trash and let the angel do two good deeds for the price of one. “I’m not sure what there is to say."



4. Jesus Christ Superstar (1970)

“They were quite nice to Judas, I think. Gave him the best songs. I always thought,” Aziraphale glanced around quickly before continuing, even though the odds of angels lurking in Crowley’s Bentley were zero, “I always thought he was given an unfair shake.”

“Your side? Unfair? Naaah.” 

Aziraphale harrumphed. Crowley always managed to make harsh truths sound harsher, unlike Aziraphale, who managed to make harsh truths sound gentle and diplomatic and untrue.

Driving in New York wasn’t as stressful as it looked, provided you were in the passenger seat and the driver was a demon magicking away other cars. To be clear, it was still somewhat stressful, especially with the driver going 90 and not checking his rearviews, just not as stressful as Aziraphale imagined while a pedestrian.

“I’m sure he finds all the trouble he went through worthwhile now,” Crowley said, before unleashing a throat-tearing rock-riffed “ Jeeeeesuuuuuus!”

He was quite petulant,” Aziraphale said. “In the show, I mean.”

“Wouldn’t you be, in that situation? Speaking of unfair shakes.”

“I guess. If I were human. Angels don’t have it in us to be petulant.”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, both eyebrows raised, and laughed.

“What? Are you saying I’m petulant? Oh, do watch the road,” Aziraphale begged. The Bentley barely managed to avoid scraping a cab.

“It was bold of them to make Judas and Jesus so, ah, well, you know.”

“So what?”

“You know. Such good pals.”

A squirrel darted in front of the car and Aziraphale, in a fit of quick instincts, made the car skip in the air and land gently.

“Are you serious? For a squirrel?” Crowley said.

“It’s a living thing!”

They arrived at Crowley’s apartment in a building called the Dakota, stepped into the elevator, pressed no button, and appeared in Crowley’s penthouse apartment. Aziraphale, as a general rule, didn’t drink, but, as an exception to the rule, it was hard not to drink in Crowley’s apartment. It was very stylish and shiny, a lot of sharply-angled furniture, woefully modern--in other words, conducive to nothing except alcohol.

“Your plants look healthy,” Aziraphale said. More than healthy, actually. The greenery had almost overtaken the sleek monochrome but, rather than making the place seem homier, gave it the unsettling appearance of a break in space-time: a cold, clinical environment that could not cultivate life had sprouted a small forest. He’d never say so, but there was something disturbing about it.

“I’ve been talking to them.” Crowley gravitated towards his well-stocked bar while Aziraphale took a seat on the couch, his head brushing a large palm hovering above.

“Talking to them? What do you say?” He needed that drink, now. Crowley enjoyed preparing drinks by hand, and his concoctions were always strange and strong and delicious--if a bit darker and less fruity than Aziraphale usually preferred, on the rare-but-increasingly-less-rare occasions when he drank without Crowley. He suspected Crowley added a little extra oomph because Aziraphale always got giddier than usual, faster than usual, with drinks in Crowley’s apartment. Regardless, Crowley always stuck a little umbrella and cherry in them, which was nice.

“Oh,” Crowley airily waved his hand and set a cocktail in front of Aziraphale. “Just pep talks, mostly.”

There was an undertone to Crowley’s voice that invited--begged for--more questions, and compelled Aziraphale to change the subject immediately. “I have to ask--that musical, was that one of yours or one of theirs?”

“Honestly, I’ve no idea.” Crowley settled next to him with his own drink and put his feet on the coffee table, a habit that made Aziraphale wince. “Could it be a joint collaboration?”

“Imagine. A collaboration between Heaven and Hell.”

“Are you saying we should write a musical?”

“No, not at all.”

“Oh, come on. We’ve seen so many. We’re practically experts. How hard could it be? I’ll start. Da da daaa, da da daaa.”

“You’re just singing the song from the show.”

“What? No, that was a Crowley original. Da da daa, da da daa.”

“No, listen. Jesus Chriiist. Superstaaar. That’s what you were singing.”

Crowley frowned. “Oh. So it was. Well, let’s not let that stop us.” He cheerily snapped his fingers and conjured a grand piano, just as large and just as shiny and just as, well, grand, as the rest of the decor. Somehow, the room did not seem smaller.

“Oh, oh no, I couldn’t possibly…” Aziraphale waited one second and one self-effacing smile, then pushed himself off the couch and to the piano bench. “Ridiculous, conjuring a piano…I’m not at all prepared...Wasn’t at all expecting...” He unbuttoned his cufflinks and played a quick warm-up. “I don’t know how to love him, what to do, how to move him.” Crowley settled next to him, carrying both their drinks, and Aziraphale abruptly cleared his throat. “Right, then. Where should we start?”

“I think the show should be about a broad of a certain age.”

“A broad? No, no, the show should star a dame.”

Crowley leaned back, impressed. “Was that a joke? Did you just make a joke?”

“A dame. Of a certain age.” Aziraphale played a few show-offy flourishes, then settled into a light, catchy tune.

The sun rose, and then fell again, and then rose and fell a couple of more times. The floor was littered with papers and empty cups, the products of exhilaration that matched a dozen humans on a bucket of cocaine.

“Well? Have we produced something brilliant? Something timeless? Something extraordinary?” Crowley said. His nose twitched, rabbit-y, for some reason.

“I should say so,” Aziraphale rifled through sheafs of paper, humming a few bars, his red-rimmed eyes skimming through lines. “We’ve written Hello Dolly.


 

5. Assassins (1990)

After the show, they went to Aziraphale’s apartment down in Greenwich Village. Aziraphale had not had a good time. Didn’t like it at all. In retrospect, he didn’t know what he’d been thinking, with a name like Assassins. Then again, hindsight was 20/20. Then again, it was right there in the title. Too late now. He needed his familiar surroundings and his books and a good sulk.

Crowley had loved it and, unbeknownst to Aziraphale, was already making plans to see it again. Alone.

At the apartment, Crowley busied himself with the tea kettle, giving Aziraphale space and, eventually, cocoa. “ All you have to do is pull your little… ” He shut up when Aziraphale glared at him.  “Weren’t a fan, I take it.”

“And you were, I take it.”

“Different strokes. If it’s any consolation, I don’t expect it will run long.” Crowley had a brilliant mind for that sort of thing--predicting how long things would run, how much money they’d made. At first, Aziraphale suspected hellish interference but, as time went on, he realized Crowley just had a knack, a keen industry brain and, if he ever needed to, could make a large fortune on investments.

Then again, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that a subversive concept musical about men and women who killed or tried to kill presidents would not fare well.

It was right there in the title.

“No, I don’t want people to be out of work. It does make you think, doesn’t it,” Aziraphale mused over the mug of cocoa, “about what if you think you’re doing the right thing, but it turns out to be wrong.”

“Not really, no,” Crowley said, with the confidence of someone who knew he always did the wrong thing with style and panache.

“Not me, either, obviously,” Aziraphale added hastily, “I’m serving Heaven. But a human, say. The ambiguity of it all. The uncertainty.” He hoped Crowley didn’t notice the slight tremble of his mug.

“Oh, this always happens. It’s Into the Woods all over again. Can’t you watch a fun, light-hearted musical about murder and the ideological dismantling of America through gun violence without getting maudlin about it?”

The shaking mug was now unignorable, as it was splashing cocoa over Aziraphale’s pale pants. Crowley magicked the stain away before Aziraphale had the presence of mind to do so.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, which meant a lot coming from a demon, even if it was accompanied by a dramatic eyeroll and sagging shoulders.

“No,” Aziraphale sighed from his chest and flung his head back against the couch, “I guess some might call me maudlin.”

“I knew the Booth family. All of them. A bunch of drunks,” Crowley said, taking a swig of liquor from the bottle and detecting no irony. He poured a dark stream into Aziraphale’s mug. Aziraphale appreciated not having to ask. Drinking was one thing, asking for a drink was another, and somehow, Crowley always anticipated the request. Aziraphale straightened up and took a large, grateful swallow.

“Well,” Aziraphale attempted a smile and a joke, “they were actors.”

“They were certainly…” Crowley inhaled through his nostrils for emphasis, not for breath. “...performers.”

“Edwin became a good Hamlet. Eventually.” Aziraphale sipped his cocoa-splashed whiskey.

“Pfft. Every actor becomes a good Hamlet eventually.”

“That’s not true. Ben Whishaw was born a good Hamlet,” Aziraphale said, wistfully, recalling the captivating 23-year-old actor who took the reins of that iconic role.

“One of yours,” Crowley ceded.

Crowley’s diversion almost worked. Almost. But it was too easy, and inevitable, to go back to the situation at hand, and Aziraphale sidestepped back to the original topic: “Did you...have anything to do...with, er, any of those?” Referring, of course, to the real-life murders and attempted murders from the night’s musical.

Aziraphale hoped for the answer he usually got: that the most egregious terrors were either a glitch of humanity--often understandable, the poor, flawed creatures--or the machinations of a more malevolent demon. But Crowley’s mouth was in a crooked grimace, and he shook his head from side to side as if weighing his words.

“I might have given the Italian a stomachache.”

No!

“I didn’t know he would try to kill the president! President elect. And try to kill are the operative words here. Nothing bad actually happened. Except to the, uh, well, the mayor of Chicago.”

Aziraphale crossed his arms and squished his back against the couch. “That could have been FDR. Franklin Delano Roosevelt. They could’ve wound up with, with, one of the other blokes.” He couldn’t remember any of the other candidates. One stomach ache and there’d be no New Deal, no Social Security…”Someone less socialist. It would have been a travesty!”

“It was just a stomach ache! How was I supposed to know it would lead to murder?”

“Isn’t that what you wanted? Isn’t that a 1,000-point hole in Skeeball?”

“What the Heaven is Skeeball?”

It’s a game ! A thousand for murder! Ten thousand for mass murder! A million for war!”

That’s Skeeball?”

Aziraphale groaned in frustration.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, in a strange, serious voice, “you know I have too much finesse for murder. Traffic jams, phone line tie-ups, cold-callers... That’s my game. Murder is not my style. Never has been.”

“‘M sorry.” Aziraphale stared into his empty mug. A bottle appeared in front of his face and his eyes trailed up to Crowley’s arm and Crowley’s face. Crowley shook the bottle, and whatever liquid was left splashed around in mostly-emptiness. Aziraphale accepted the offering. “Times are just very turbulent.”

“I know.”

“And I can’t help but feel they’re going to get worse.”



6. RENT (1996)

It was an historical opening. The show had been buzzed-about off-Broadway, but Aziraphale never got the chance to see it and now, finally, he had. Aziraphale first intended to cap of the occasion with a good restaurant dinner--and, for Crowley, good drinks--but by the end of the show, the dinner was to ruminate, not celebrate.

Aziraphale buttered some bread as Crowley wafted a glass of the most expensive wine in the restaurant. At least the meal would be nice even if the show wasn’t.

Crowley spoke first: “I loved it.”

“You did not!”

“I did.”

“They were awful! The stripper breaks into the musician’s apartment and begs him for sex and debauchery, the performance artist is terrible to her sexual partners, and the cameraman’s so whingy. And I did not appreciate the moniker ‘Angel’ being given to a dog-killer.” Out of the primary cast of eight struggling bohemians and bohemian-adjacents, Aziraphale only really liked Joanne and had no qualms with Tom.

Crowley shrugged and took a satisfied sip of wine. “What can I say? I love a group of chaotic evil ne’er-do-wells, even if the love message is gooey. But ‘no day but today’ is a mantra of selfishness if I ever heard one. Almost makes up for all that love business.”

“‘Measure in love.’ As if calendars weren’t invented for a reason.”

“The show will run for years.”

“And how long is that in truths that she learned? Or in times that she cried? Or bridges she burned? Or--"

“It’s going to be huge, angel. I predict a, oh,” Crowley ticked off his fingers, “ten year run, maybe a little more, oodles of awards, a movie, legions and legions of fans.”

“Tosh.” Aziraphale pouted and reached for another bread roll.

“The wunderkind writer died. On opening night. The crowds’ll eat it up.”

“Died?” Aziraphale frowned. That did change things. No, he mentally shook himself, it didn’t. Still, it was a shame he died.

“Excuse me,” a well-dressed woman in a fashionable cream pantsuit and matching clutch said, tapping Crowley on the shoulder. “Are you talking about RENT?”

“Yes, we are!” Crowley smiled. It was off-putting how charming and affable he was around humans, how readily they engaged him and how easily he returned their attention--confidently and helpfully giving out (wrong) directions and genuine compliments, sharing complaints about everyday inconveniences which had no effect on him and some of which he’d caused. Heaven was lucky Crowley did not have the ambition to become a politician.

“Oh, did you see it? What did you think? I’ve heard so much about it!”

“I. Loved. It.”

It didn’t matter that they were, at this point, old friends--er, comfortable acquaintances: earnestness from a demon’s voice (and a human in the mix) made Aziraphale shiver. He looked up to two sets of eyes, one obscured by sunglasses, waiting for his opinion.

“It was quite good,” Aziraphale said, because if a demon could be earnest, an angel could tell a white lie. And if he sensed a slight tremor down Crowley's spine, Aziraphale didn't say anything.