"Some things are timeless. Cole Porter blessed well ought to be one of them." Crowley makes himself comfortable as he watches Aziraphale head back over towards the selection book, a little surprised that he gets another turn right away.
(it's not a surprise. Over half the bar is watching them now and wondering about the gentleman in the fantastic vintage outfit and the guy who looks like an older rock star. Bets are changing hands about if they're dating or not. One group that intended to leave half an hour ago is deliberately lingering just to watch, and a different group has just forcibly prevented a young man from going up to do a song because they want to see what the pair will do next. One girl is tweeting all of it. In another day or two the evening's events will have gone viral)
Crowley breaks open the new bottle and pours himself a cup, and takes a long drink while Aziraphale gets on the stage and nervously fidgets. He almost spits it out as the first notes begin, sitting bolt upright.
Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. This is so much worse than "Let's Misbehave." He's not sure he can think of anything that would be worse.
Crowley's not a big fan of musicals in general, aside from some of the funnier ones, but he knows Carousel. There's a whole room in Hell set aside just for people to listen to "This Was a Real Nice Clambake" on repeat, forever. Personaly, Crowley's always felt that was too cruel a punishment even for serial mass murderers or people who talk at the theatre, but even without the cursed clambake song, he's never cared much for Carousel.
And this...this is pretty much the biggest unrequited wistful love song ever, hands down. Perfect for karaoke Terrifying for a demon in love with his angelic best friend who doesn't know it or doesn't acknowledge it or might be trying to tell him something or might just like the pretty melody and oh, fuck fucking fuckbuckets.
Except he doesn't consciously think any of that, aside from deep, deep in his subconscious, because he's too busy listening. Crowley goes absolutely still, still as stone, still as a snake hiding from a predator. It's possible he forgets to breathe. Every note drips with longing and purity, and all he can do is listen and watch.
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timeasmymeasure
Oooh, ow, right to the gut with that one. Perfect, thank you.
Date: 2019-09-06 07:32 pm (UTC)(it's not a surprise. Over half the bar is watching them now and wondering about the gentleman in the fantastic vintage outfit and the guy who looks like an older rock star. Bets are changing hands about if they're dating or not. One group that intended to leave half an hour ago is deliberately lingering just to watch, and a different group has just forcibly prevented a young man from going up to do a song because they want to see what the pair will do next. One girl is tweeting all of it. In another day or two the evening's events will have gone viral)
Crowley breaks open the new bottle and pours himself a cup, and takes a long drink while Aziraphale gets on the stage and nervously fidgets. He almost spits it out as the first notes begin, sitting bolt upright.
Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. This is so much worse than "Let's Misbehave." He's not sure he can think of anything that would be worse.
Crowley's not a big fan of musicals in general, aside from some of the funnier ones, but he knows Carousel. There's a whole room in Hell set aside just for people to listen to "This Was a Real Nice Clambake" on repeat, forever. Personaly, Crowley's always felt that was too cruel a punishment even for serial mass murderers or people who talk at the theatre, but even without the cursed clambake song, he's never cared much for Carousel.
And this...this is pretty much the biggest unrequited wistful love song ever, hands down. Perfect for karaoke Terrifying for a demon in love with his angelic best friend who doesn't know it or doesn't acknowledge it or might be trying to tell him something or might just like the pretty melody and oh, fuck fucking fuckbuckets.
Except he doesn't consciously think any of that, aside from deep, deep in his subconscious, because he's too busy listening. Crowley goes absolutely still, still as stone, still as a snake hiding from a predator. It's possible he forgets to breathe. Every note drips with longing and purity, and all he can do is listen and watch.