an evening star

someone give me validation this took forever 

7/6/19 Update: Translated into Vietnamese by the amazing @annapotterkiku

9/19/2019 Update: Translated into Chinese by @adrienbrodysgoddamnsexy!

7/7/19 Update: Part Two is now up! 

8/13/19 Update: And Part Three! 

8/4/19 Update: Podfic by @rhythmelia​

6/30/20 Update: Podfic by numerous authors

Archived as plain text on AO3 and in picture format on Wayback 

Other works inspired by this one listed after the fic! 

Discredit - Excerpts from A.Z. Fell and Co.’s Yelp Page 

When Crowley said, "that's the point. No nightingales," I paused and went - huh. So both Aziraphale and Crowley KNEW about the actual nightingale bird that sang in Berkeley square? We as the audience are AWARE about it, of course, because God's narration told us so. We also know that, outside the mise en scène, Tori Amos' A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square plays as the end credits for season 1 roll.

But the s1 end credits song, I assumed, was non-diegetic. As in, like the soundtracks that permeate throughout most films, the song could only be heard by the AUDIENCE, and not by the characters. In addition, the characters THEMSELVES cannot hear what God says to the audience - and logically speaking both Crowley and Aziraphale could not have known about a singular, inconspicuous bird singing despite the noise of the traffic. Especially not when the Nightingale sings while they're currently dining at the Ritz.

So the 'No Nightingales' line WORKS for the audience - it's an incredible gut punch that leaves you weeping. But since we never heard or saw either Aziraphale and Crowley acknowledge the Nightingale, did that line have the same devastating impact to the both of them?

Oh, it absolutely did. Maybe even worse than we could ever imagine.

Because Crowley WASN'T just talking about that damn nightingale bird, was he? If you rewatch Season 1, Episode 6, you can see and hear VERY clearly that while Aziraphale and Crowley settle on their usual table at the Ritz, a pianist plays A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square inside the scene itself. Unlike the end credits, the piano version of the song is a DIEGETIC sound! That means both the Aziraphale and Crowley can hear it LOUD AS DAY.

And it's JUST - the heart-breaking contrast this has to Beelzebub and Gabriel's Everyday. When Crowley says 'No Nightingales," he implies that that was THEIR song. It's a specific reference enough to know that this became part of their history - of their rich plethora of inside jokes and shared memories. And judging by Aziraphale's shattered face, he KNEW the significance of the line. He KNEW that Crowley is throwing back THEIR song to his face. "If Gabriel and Beelzebub can do it, why can't we? Why can't we make the Nightingale a reality, the same way they made their Everyday come true?"

That A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square is Aziraphale and Crowley's Everyday becomes fact when Crowley turns the Bentley's radio on, only for it to play THIS song. THEIR song. Which SHOULD HAVE brought them together. It SHOULD HAVE. It worked for Gabriel and Beelzebub, didn't it?

Turns out, not every problem could be fixed by making that song yours.

I get the urge towards that headcanon, and I do think the Crowley in the miniseries comes off as nicer than the one in the book.  (I think miniseries Crowley and Aziraphale are both a little nicer, a little more toothless, than the versions of themselves in the book.)  But maybe it’s because I was a book fan first, or maybe it’s because I just find him infinitely more interesting this way–I think Crowley, even show!Crowley, has the capacity to be very good at his job of sowing evil.  And I think that matters to the story as a whole.

A demon’s job on Earth, and specifically Crowley’s job on Earth, isn’t to make people suffer.  It’s to make people sin.  And the handful of ‘evil’ things we see Crowley do over the course of the series are effective at that, even if the show itself doesn’t explore them a lot.

Take the cell phone network thing, for instance.  This gets a paragraph in the book that’s largely brushed off in the conversation with Hastur and Ligur, and I think it’s really telling: 

What could he tell them?  That twenty thousand people got bloody furious?  That you could hear the arteries clanging shut all across the city?  And that then they went back and took it out on their secretaries or traffic wardens or whatever, and they took it out on other people?  In all kinds of vindictive little ways which, and here was the good bit, they thought up themselves.  For the rest of the day.  The pass-along effects were incalculable.  Thousands and thousands of souls all got a faint patina of tarnish, and you hardly had to lift a finger.

In essence, without any great expenditure of effort (look, I’d never say Crowley isn’t slothful, but that just makes him efficient), he’s managed to put half of London in a mental and emotional state that Crowley knows will make them more inclined to sin.  He’s given twenty thousand or a hundred thousand or half a million people a Bad Day.  Which, okay, it’s just a bad day–but bad days are exhausting.  Bad days make you snap, make you fail at things, make you feel guiltier and more stressed out in the aftermath when you wake up the next day, makes everything a little worse.  Bad days matter.

Maybe it’s because I’m a believer in the ripple effect of small kindnesses, and that means I have to believe in its opposite.  Maybe it’s just that I, personally, have had enough days that were bad enough that a downed cell network (or an angry coworker because of a downed cell network) would honestly have mattered.  But somebody who deliberately moves through the world doing their best to make everyone’s lives harder, with the aim of encouraging everybody around them to be just a little crueler, just a little angrier, just a little less empathetic–you know what, yes.  I do call that successful evil.

It’s subtle, is the thing.  That’s why Hastur and Ligur don’t get it, don’t approve of it.  Not because Crowley isn’t good at his job, but because we’ve seen from the beginning that Hastur and Ligur are extremely out of touch with humanity and the modern world and just plain aren’t smart enough to get it.  It’s a strategy that relies on understanding how humans work, what our buttons are and how to press them.  It’s also a strategy that’s remarkably advanced in terms of free will.  Hastur and Ligur deliberately tempt and coerce and entrap individuals into sinning, but Crowley never even gets close.  We never see him say to a single person, ‘hey, I’ve got an idea for you, why don’t you go do this bad thing?’  He sets up conditions to encourage humans to actually do the bad things they’re already thinking of themselves.  He creates a situation and opens it up to the results of free choice.  Every single thing a person does after Crowley’s messed with them is their own decision, without any demonic coercion to blame for any of it.

You see it again in the paintball match.  “They wanted real guns, I gave them what they wanted.”  In this case, Crowley didn’t need to irritate anybody into wanting to do evil–the desire to shoot and hurt and maybe even kill their own coworkers was already present in every combatant on that paintball field.  Crowley just so happened to be there at exactly the right time to give them the opportunity to turn that fleeting, kind-of-bad-but-never-acted-upon desire into real, concrete, attempted murder.  Sure, nobody died–where would be the fun in a pile of corpses?  But now forty-odd people who may never have committed a real act of violence in their entire lives, caught in a moment of weakness with real live weapons in their hands, will get to spend the rest of their lives knowing that given the opportunity and the tiniest smidgen of plausible deniability, they are absolutely the sort of people who could and would kill another human being they see every single day over a string of petty annoyances.

Crowley understands the path between bad thought and evil action.  He knows it gets shorter when somebody is upset or irritated, and that it gets shorter when people practice turning one into the other.  He understands that sometimes, removing a couple of practical obstacles is the only nudge a person needs–no demonic pressure or circumvention of free will required.

I love this interpretation, because I love the idea that Crowley, who’s been living on Earth for six thousand years, actually gets people in a way no other demon can.  I love the idea that Crowley, the very first tempter, who was there when free will was invented, understands how it works and how to use it better than maybe anyone else.  And I really love the idea that Crowley our hero, who loves Aziraphale and saves the world, isn’t necessarily a good guy.

There’s a narrative fandom’s been telling that, at its core, is centered around the idea that Crowley is good, and loves and cares and is nice, and always has been.  Heaven and its rigid ideas of Right and Wrong is itself the bad thing.  Crowley is too good for Heaven, and was punished for it, but under all the angst and pain and feelings of hurt and betrayal, he’s the best of all of them after all.

That’s a compelling story.  There’s a reason we keep telling it.  The conflict between kindness and Moral Authority, the idea that maybe the people in charge are the ones who’re wrong and the people they’ve rejected are both victim and hero all at once–yeah.  There’s a lot there to connect with, and I wouldn’t want to take it away from anyone.  But the compelling story I want, for me, is different.

I look at Crowley and I want a story about someone who absolutely has the capacity for cruelty and disseminating evil into the world.  Somebody who’s actually really skilled at it, even if all he does is create opportunities, and humans themselves just keep living down to and even surpassing his expectations.  Somebody who enjoys it, even.  Maybe he was unfairly labeled and tossed out of heaven to begin with, but he’s embraced what he was given.  He’s thrived.  He is, legitimately, a bad person.

And he tries to save the world anyway.

He loves Aziraphale.  He helps save the entire world.  Scared and desperate and determined and devoted, he drives through a wall of fire for the sake of something other than himself.  He likes humans, their cleverness, their complexities, the talent they have for doing the same sort of evil he does himself, the talent they have for doing the exact opposite.  He cares.

It’s not a story about someone who was always secretly good even though they tried to convince the whole world and themself that they weren’t.  It’s a story about someone who, despite being legitimately bad in so many ways, still has the capacity to be good anyway.  It’s not about redemption, or about what Heaven thinks or judges or wants.  It’s about free will.  However terrible you are or were or have the ability to be, you can still choose to do a good thing.  You can still love.  You can still be loved in return.

I WORKED SO HARD ON THIS AND I'M SO HAPPY WITH HOW IT TURNED OUT YAYYYY