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“What do you mean, a shower?”
“Look at the state’ve me, angel. Soot all over. Think one’ve Hastur’s maggots got squished in my hair. Smell like burnt rubber. How d’ you clean up?’
“I, ah – these days I just snap. Next to Godliness, and so on. There is a tidy little bath in the flat over the shop, but the plumbing started getting balky right about the time Gabriel had one of his fads for tightening up on indulgences and frivolous miracles. I got in the habit of going to the Turkish baths for a bit, then they went out of style, and… well, I never got told off for getting clean with a miracle. Only for wallowing about in hot water, and using expensive bath salts, and the like. It does save time.”
“Not happening here, ‘fraid. I won’t be a tick.”
“You’ve always done splendidly with stains and things. That time the coulis splashed onto the tablecloth at the Ritz, you remember. And this suit.”
“Newsflash. You take the brimstone dive, you don’t get to snap yourself clean any more. Option off the roster. Function disabled. Wouldn’t be Hell if you could miracle the muck and shite off yourself, would it? There’s demons in the Fifth Circle got algae growin’ on ’em.”
Aziraphale uttered a faint whimper.
“And no fear your mates’ll do it for you. ‘S’ Hell, no one has mates.”
“No wonder you loved the baths in Rome so much. And those Finnish saunas. I always knew where I could find you.”
“You go down there for a review or a presentation, the grunge gets into your pores. Bubs’s the only one can clean up on their own. Rumour is Gabriel pulled in a favour for ’em.”
“Why ever would he do that?”
“Uh – never mind, angel. Anyway, leave you to yourself for a few minutes. There’s wine in the rack and whisky in the cupboard.”
“I could – ah – do the honours. I seem to have managed all right with that --er - untidiness in your office -- did you really ask Hastur if he was feeling lucky? That's one of those scampi Westerns, isn't it?”
“Spaghetti, angel. 'S all right, kinda fancy a real bath right now. Calms you down. Could do with it.”
Pipes thundered distantly as Aziraphale paced about the flat. It echoed. The grey planes of wall and floor were too sterile and the lights too piercing, and the boxy cushions of the sofa dared him to even think of squashing them out of shape. He was nosing in the liquor cupboard Crowley had pointed out – there was not only whiskey but an array of bitter Amaros, hot pepper Stolichnaya and a bottle of black Sambuca – when a weird, wailing sound reached his ears.
Did the flat not like being looked at? Did Crowley have some unknown Hellish familiar? Did he –
The wail rose tunelessly. Words took shape in it.
[something something] poor boy, [something] no sympathy
[something something[ easy come, easy go
Little high, little low…
Crowley was singing.
Well, he was pretty sure it was singing. At least, reasonably sure. It was a little high here, a little low there, but at no time did it seem to strike any true pitch. He hadn’t heard so many half-tones since that assignment in Basra.
If I'm not back again [something] tomorrow
Carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters
Aziraphale winced. It was probably just some random bebop. Velvet Underwear or whatever he played in the car.
[something something] nobody loves me
[something] a poor boy from a poor family
“Oh, dear, Crowley,” murmured Aziraphale. And then the melody soared into what was all but a howl, topping out on a whistle-register shriek that he hadn’t ever imagined Crowley had (he’d been in the stalls in 1848 when Wilhelmina Schroder-Devrient’s high note in the Rage Aria had split like that, shortly before her retirement). He sprinted down the hall to where steam billowed from a door that was slightly ajar, and rapped urgently on the doorjamb.
“Crowley! What’s the matter?”
The plumbing shut off with a bang of water-hammer in the pipes.
“Everything all right out there, angel?”
“Are you all right?”
“Never better. Why shouldn’t I be all right?”
“I was afraid… someone was hurting you. Or you’d gotten, you know, scalded. Or slipped and fallen.” Ouch. “Or…”
The door swung open. Crowley’s bath gown was thick, black (of course) towelling with a hood, and his hair stood up in several directions as he rubbed it with a corner of the bath sheet, then raked it back with his fingers.
“Nah, just channeling a little bit’ve Freddy in the waterfall. Like to get the echo.”
Aziraphale realised he was staring. “Freddy… ah… right.”
“Puts heart in you, a good bath. Want a go? Plenty’ve towels.” Crowley stepped back and opened the door wide to display a vast mirror over a marble vanity, gray tiles with a matte finish, a shower enclosure large enough to accommodate the Bentley, and at an angle to it, an equally capacious tub with whirlpool jets in the sides. Spider plants hung in baskets from the ceiling with its recessed lights. “Take your pick.”
A good many thoughts flashed through the angel’s mind at once, such as Crowley’s standing there in nothing but his bathrobe and he has freckles on his legs (had he ever noticed that when they’d clashed that time in Scotland?), and it sounds terribly tempting but it would, wouldn’t it and if I bathe the Human way I’ll be naked in Crowley’s flat – That was when his whole operating system rebooted.
“Um… you’re very kind, dear boy, but – well, time is rather short. Perhaps if we – after, you know. We’ve got an awful lot to sort out.”
Twelve hours later
“Thank you ever so, Fereydoon. How fortunate for us you had a table free.”
“You are always fortunate, Mr. Fell.” The implacable maitre d’ at the Ritz, discreet to the marrow of his bones, never commented directly on the regularity with which the two of them arrived just as a long-standing reservation was cancelled.
“Do you know, today I feel that way. Lucky.”
There was no real need to examine the menu, which Aziraphale had off by heart, but he picked it up for form’s sake as they continued their conversation.
“It really is dreadful, I had no idea. The mildew, the leaks, the – whatever that is growing in the corners – ah, the three-course menu, I think,” he broke off as a server hovered to take their selections and pour the champagne.
“At any rate,” he went on presently, “I wasn’t at all sure what I’d be facing. Hellhounds perhaps, or some Inquisition sort of setup –” Aziraphale grimaced, washing away that image in a sip of Perrier-Jouet. “I just trusted Agnes that somehow, our changing places would preserve us. And then they dragged me into the place of judgment, and there was – would you ever believe it – a tub. ”
“Oh, they have ’em in Hell. ‘S’ just that none of them drain. You only get muckier.”
“I had gotten a bit mucky, you know, grass stains in the park, and grime from being manhandled by all those demons, and there was something horrid dripping from the ceiling in the vestibule. And of course snapping myself clean was out of the question, I’m glad you mentioned that little detail, I might have spoiled the illusion otherwise. You know how I do love a good illusion – oh, thank you, that looks lovely,” to the waiter as the starters arrived.
“So, I was feeling a bit besmirched, if that’s the word, and can you imagine? The next thing you know, here’s Michael drawing me a lovely bath. The very Godliest.”
Aziraphale allowed himself a mischievous wink. “I thought of how you said it put heart into you, so – I miracled it to just the right temperature before I got in. You could see the demons in the front row getting red-eyed from the vapour.” He leaned forward. “I flatter myself I was very devil-may-care – if that’s the right word – telling them I didn’t want to get your suit wet, and so forth.”
“You – undressed in front of all Hell?”
“Crowley! The very thought! There was no reason to imagine they know what you wear next to your skin, so I managed to – ah – preserve your modesty --”
“Wondered why my corporation was wearin’ last century’s undercrackers.”
“It did detract from the experience a bit. But, well, I really had forgotten what I’ve been missing – I almost sang, but I don’t know any bebop, and I didn’t want to give it away. Mm, try the damson ballotine, it’s lovely.” He pushed his plate across the tablecloth. “So, you know. Not as showy as breathing Hellfire at Gabriel, my word, I’d have loved to see his face, but – well, it was positively invigorating. I quite threw myself into doing you –”
“Erk.”
“All right there, dear boy?”
“Uh. Yeah. Just swallowed some bubbly backwards.”
“The things you can do with that serpent corporation, I never get your limits – well, I thought how mean-spirited it was, this thing of never being allowed to clean up properly, so I was extra saucy. For you, you know.”
Crowley seemed a bit tongue-tied. Possibly just another issue with his serpent corporation..
“I really hadn’t had a good soak in too long. You’ll have to help me retrofit the bookshop.”
For a moment Crowley remained mute, then, “Could do,” he said thoughtfully, gulping the entire contents of his glass as a sort of punctuation. His voice cracked a bit as he went on: “Or, if you’re feeling, y’know, lucky? Like you said.”
“Well… I positively am.”
“Just sayin’, could call round for a bath whenever you liked.”
“My dear, I should hate to impose –”
“Wouldn’t have to wear those undercrackers,” said Crowley, with – was that a tentative arch of his eyebrow?
I’d be naked in Crowley’s flat, thought Aziraphale, and had Crowley always looked at him that way? Like a demon making a wish, perhaps he’d not been paying attention, or trying not to, and….
“Well,” he found himself saying, holding his half-empty flute aloft. “It is a new world, isn’t it? Courtesy of Adam. Perhaps new things should happen.”
“Could scrub your back.”
“Dear boy. Would you? There’s always that one bit the brush doesn’t reach.”
“Full service demon, me,” said Crowley. “Reach… ah, any place you want.”
“You could teach me about Velvet Underwear, and so on.”
“Velvet under – what? ”
“You know. That bebop you were performing.”
“Ah. It’s Velvet Underground, angel.” Crowley pulled his sunglasses down just enough to yield a glimpse of that yellow gaze, found a crooked smile. “And that was Queen. Not your style, really. But I bet… I could make you sing.”