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It had been a long time since Aziraphale had worn makeup.
When he’d sat down in his dressing room earlier that afternoon, hours away from performing on stage for the very first time, he’d had no idea where to start. He knew the basics—humans had been using pigments to enhance whichever features were considered stylish for thousands of years. But makeup for the stage was an entirely different beast, and it had been nearly sixty years since he’d been close with any human actors.
Luckily, the dancers in the other dressing room had sensed his nerves before the show began, and had been eager to help. They had gotten a bit carried away, in fact, giggling to each other as they dusted blush over his cheeks and traced his eyes with liner. One of them had even smacked a kiss on his lips, pleading efficient application of lip stain when the others had scolded her. It had all been in good fun, naturally; Aziraphale knew very well what impression he gave off to humans. The young ladies had felt safe with him because of it, and what a wonderful thing that was.
Now, sitting at the vanity in the aftermath of his show, flush with pride and adrenaline and all manner of un-angelic things, he found himself having a devil of a time getting the whole mess off. He’d been at it with a towel for the better part of ten minutes, and still looked a bit like the rosy-cheeked cherubs from the horrible Christmas cards Crowley liked to send him. He could have miracled it, of course, but that might have ended up in Heaven’s ledgers, and he wanted this night to be his own. Not Michael’s, not Gabriel’s, not even—Lord forgive him—the Almighty’s. His.
(And maybe…well. No sense wondering. There had been too many faces in the crowd to tell.)
Setting aside his towel, Aziraphale glanced in the mirror. He’d been sweating under the stage lights and under his hat, leaving his hair in wild disarray. His cheeks were rubbed pink from scrubbing away rouge, and a hint of mascara remained smudged around his eyes. He looked like a mess. He looked—
Like a human. Like a very tired, very happy human.
Goodness. He couldn’t stop smiling.
Aziraphale stood, humming to himself, and began to gather his things. The minor blessing that had been his excuse to participate in the show had been a success, and his act had gone rather well, for a beginner. The only thing that could make the evening better would be—
“Heaven’s loosened up their dress code, I see.”
Aziraphale whipped around.
Crowley was leaning in the doorway, distressingly handsome as always in his sleek black suit and shades. He was holding a bright bouquet of red and yellow flowers, and smirking languidly in that way that made Aziraphale’s knees a bit wobbly.
“You came,” Aziraphale said. It came out just a touch too raw, but Crowley kindly overlooked it, slinking in and kicking the door shut behind him in one graceful motion.
“‘Lo, angel,” he drawled. He tossed the bouquet in Aziraphale’s direction. Aziraphale caught it neatly, used by now to the way Crowley seemed to delight in lobbing treats at his head. “Aren’t you a sight. You’ve got your own feathers, you know, no need for the accessory.”
Aziraphale beamed, touching the fluffy scarf at his neck. “Do you like it? I got it from one of the young ladies across the hall after the show. She called it a ‘boa,’ said it looked nice on me.”
Crowley scoffed. “Guarantee whoever named those things never saw a real boa. Nasty things. Never met a ruder snake, yours truly included.” He made a show of looking Aziraphale up and down. “Suppose she’s not wrong, though. Feathery, camp. Suits you well enough.”
“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale said, in too good a mood to mind the teasing. At least Crowley, unlike the angels he knew, always meant it fondly. “Did you enjoy the show?”
Crowley blew a raspberry. “Stage magic, pff. I’ve seen you walk on water. Do a proper miracle next time, get ‘em speaking in tongues.”
Aziraphale pouted. “But that’s not any fun.”
“I bet you cheated on the card trick.”
“I certainly did not!” Truth be told, he had bungled that one in every rehearsal, and might have sent one or two prayers the Almighty’s way in desperation as he walked on stage. But that didn't count as cheating, no matter what certain grumpy old snakes had to say about it. “I did it all the human way. There’s a trick to it, you see. It’s all in where you cut the deck—”
“Aziraphale, if you want to teach me magic tricks, you’ll have to ply me with whiskey until I’m comatose.”
“Maybe I will.”
Crowley grinned. “Don't threaten me with a good time.”
Crowley detested stage magic. They had seen one of Harry Houdini’s shows together in the late 90’s, and while Aziraphale had been delighted in a way he hadn’t been since he’d gotten his hands on his first Gutenberg, Crowley had sneered the entire carriage ride back to the shop. He had an uneasy relationship with human occultists, being a demon and therefore subject to summonings and other unpleasant business, and as many times as Aziraphale had tried to explain that Harry was in fact deeply opposed to the Spiritualism movement and a nonbeliever to boot, the message had never stuck.
But he was here. He had come to Aziraphale’s show, and sat through the whole thing, and brought him flowers. Aziraphale wasn’t sure he had ever smiled this much, or for this long. His cheeks were beginning to hurt.
He looked down at the bouquet, running a finger over a rose petal. They were perfect, of course. Crowley would never have allowed anything less. “These are beautiful. You shouldn’t have.”
“That’s me. Always doing things I shouldn’t,” Crowley said, tucking his hands in his pockets. He put up a good act, but Aziraphale knew preening when he saw it. “You like ‘em?”
“You know I do.” They really were lovely—long-stemmed red roses surrounded by cheerful yellow daffodils, tied together with a sleek black bow. Passion, joy, admiration, good luck. And the other thing, too, but of course they didn’t talk about that. “I’ll get a vase for them, put them by the till. I’ve got a rather persistent customer who’s been sniffing around Will’s folios, but I suspect he’ll come down with a dreadful allergy to roses by the end of the week.”
Crowley barked a surprised laugh. “You bastard,” he said, with open admiration. He snapped, and a gleaming silver vase appeared on the vanity table. “There you are. Don’t worry about walking with them, I’ll drive you home. Unless you’ve got plans?”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Aziraphale demurred. He turned to the vanity, tucking the flowers into the vase and hiding his smile. He did love when Crowley tempted him. “It’s quite exhausting, all this show business.”
“‘Course,” Crowley said gamely. “Rabbits to wrangle into hats. Doves to suffocate. Can’t imagine.” He’d begun circling, as was his habit, watching Aziraphale with eyes that gleamed behind his glasses. “Sure I can’t take you anywhere, though? Celebrate your debut as the newest hack on London’s supernatural stage?”
Aziraphale huffed. Like he’d rise to a barb like that—Crowley wasn’t even trying. “No, thank you. I think a cup of tea and a book back at the shop will be just the ticket.”
Crowley came around his right side, then, moving close enough that their arms brushed. “Silly bugger,” he murmured, reaching out to toy with the end of the boa. “Look at you. All dressed up, nowhere to go.”
“You’re quite taken with this, aren’t you, dear?” Aziraphale mused, eyeing the dark lines of Crowley’s suit with speculative glee. “I don’t suppose you’d like to try it on for yourself?”
Under the bright lights surrounding the vanity mirror, he could just barely see Crowley’s eyes widen behind his glasses. “Oh, no. Don’t you dare—”
Aziraphale moved first, darting forward to press his advantage in strength and surprise. Crowley, being a snake, was quicker, but he was betrayed by his one weakness: the indignity of limbs. With a yelp, he tripped over his own feet, tumbling backwards. A quick miracle had him landing in the chair by the mirror rather than flat on the floor, but it left him defenseless as Aziraphale threw the boa around his shoulders, shimmying it down until his arms were pinned to his sides.
“Aziraphale!” he snarled, all gnashing fangs and wounded pride. Aziraphale burst into giggles, unable to help himself. “Oi! Knock it off, you oversized pigeon!”
“You’re smiling,” Aziraphale said smugly.
“‘M not!”
But he was, and as Aziraphale continued to laugh, he seemed to give up on the pretense. His smile grew until he was grinning, bright and unabashed and beautiful.
Aziraphale was struck, suddenly, by a memory of the day they’d met. They’d been speaking in the Old language then, and he couldn’t recall what it was Crowley had said to him, but he knew that it was the very first time in his life he had ever laughed. Crowley had been quick to join him, not yet worn down by Hell and Earth and all of their relentless misery, and Aziraphale remembered thinking, just for a moment, that he was the loveliest thing in all of Creation.
He’d prayed himself into hysterics over it in the years following. All creatures great and small. Love thy enemy. Mantra, excuse, absolution. Or lack thereof.
“Alright, you’ve got me,” Crowley was saying, wriggling theatrically in his seat. “Best devil’s trap I’ve ever seen. Heaven commends you, you absolute menace.”
“Consider yourself thwarted, serpent,” Aziraphale said. He unwrapped the boa just enough to free Crowley’s arms, then arranged it fetchingly around his neck instead. Crowley sighed, but allowed it, tossing one end over his shoulder with a flourish and a wink.
“No rest for the wicked,” he said, put-upon. “I’m keeping this, by the way. Stealing, it’s a sin. Good for me. Like eating my vegetables. Do snakes eat vegetables? I don’t. Bleugh.”
Ridiculous creature. Aziraphale adored him. “Thank you for coming,” he said. It wasn’t the done thing, them thanking each other, but if he didn’t give voice to the warmth in his chest he thought he might discorporate. “Even though you hated it.”
“I did. ’S dreadful,” Crowley insisted. That bright smile was still lingering at the corners of his mouth. “You have fun, angel?”
“I did,” Aziraphale said, unable to stop himself from wiggling in place. Somewhere in another plane, his wings were fluttering with joy. He wondered if Crowley could feel the subtle shift in the air currents around them.
“Well. That’s alright then,” said Crowley, ducking his head. Aziraphale caught a glimpse of his eyes just before he reached up to adjust his glasses, and the staggering fondness in them left him breathless.
(Crowley, bringing him flowers. Crowley, saving his books. Crowley, smiling at him like he was worth all the stars he’d hung in the sky. What was the point of it all, if it wasn’t—)
Crowley was staring up at him with a curious tilt to his head. “What’s that look for?” he asked.
A dangerous question, but Crowley had always liked those. He had lost his hat at some point during their little tussle, and his hair gleamed apple bright under the dressing room lights. Aziraphale wanted to touch it.
He wanted so many things.
“You’re awfully sweet, you know,” he said quietly.
Crowley jerked back in his seat. “Aziraphale,” he said, a warning, but then Aziraphale reached out and cupped his face, and he went very still.
“Let me,” Aziraphale said. The air around them had grown thick and heavy. He wondered if maybe Crowley had stopped time, but no; he could still hear laughter and shouting from the room next door, cheering from the theater below. The world was moving around them, as it always had, as it always would, and here was Crowley, a fixed point at the center of it all. “Please. Will you let me—” He tapped the rim of Crowley’s glasses.
Crowley made a strangled sort of hissing noise, but nodded. When Aziraphale pulled the glasses off, his eyes were wide, blown out to the edges with daffodil yellow.
“There you are,” Aziraphale said, reverent, and then he leaned in and kissed him.
The first lasted only a handful of seconds, barely a hint of pressure and warmth against thin lips, but it still left Crowley gasping. Aziraphale supposed he ought to be similarly affected, but instead, it was as if the constantly-churning anxiety in his mind had finally settled. It was the easiest thing in the world, kissing Crowley. How could there be any room for doubt, when he deserved so much to be adored?
Crowley, poor dear, was clutching at the armrests of the chair, white-knuckled and trembling. It seemed like he might need a moment to collect himself, so Aziraphale indulged his impulse to run a hand through his hair. It was slicked back with pomade and a little frizzy from the warmth of the room—styled the human way, just as Aziraphale liked to do. Two of a kind, they were.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley said finally, cracked through with longing. “You—”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “Always. Yes.”
Crowley surged forward then, yanking Aziraphale down so forcefully that their teeth clacked together. Crowley made a nervous, apologetic noise against his mouth, but Aziraphale just smiled, tilting his head to slot their lips together properly, and oh. Yes. That was it.
Leaning down was becoming uncomfortable, so he did the sensible thing and slid himself neatly into Crowley’s lap. Crowley put an arm around his waist to steady him, gentle and considerate in that way that he always was when he forgot himself. He kissed with great enthusiasm, if not much expertise, opening up under Aziraphale’s guidance very sweetly, and it was good. So good, just as good as Aziraphale had always known it would be, if he had only—
The theater below them erupted into screams.
He jolted away, or perhaps Crowley did. They stared at each other, bewildered, and in Aziraphale’s case, a little put out. Did the humans have to choose now to have a crisis, of all—
And then Crowley gasped, and shoved at his chest. Aziraphale stood up immediately and stepped back, watching as Crowley scrambled to his feet, sniffing the air. “Crowley?” he asked, dread beginning to creep up through the heady rush of desire and joy.
Crowley shut his eyes, putting his hands to his temples. Whatever he sensed had him stumbling towards the door, a desperate snap locking it with a thunk.
“Crowley! What’s happening?”
Crowley didn’t turn around. “It’s Hell,” he said hoarsely. “They’re here. They’re looking for me.”
(In the times Aziraphale had become despondent enough to imagine what Falling would be like, he had thought it would be all heat, and pain, and fire. This was the opposite—ice and creeping numbness—but the free-falling, skewering shock of terror was exactly the same.)
Hell knew.
Hell knew, and they were coming for Crowley, and they were going to destroy him.
Aziraphale must have made a noise, because Crowley spun on his heel to face him, and his face crumpled at whatever he saw.
“Wait,” he said, rushing forward. “No, no no no, stop that, it’s—it’s fine. None of them were in here, all they know is that we’re both in the building. We can spin this, angel, we can, but you need to listen to me, yes?”
“They’ll kill you,” Aziraphale whispered, staring at the rumpled lapels of Crowley’s suit. He couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at that dear face and know that it would soon be gone, and it would be all his fault.
“They won’t,” Crowley said, taking his hands. Aziraphale let him, and wondered at how warm they felt. Or perhaps his own had just gone cold. “Hey. They won’t. In fact, we play this right, they’ll give me a fucking medal. I’ve got an idea, I just need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
Could he? He didn’t know. He couldn’t trust himself, certainly. Not with Crowley. Not ever again.
“Talk to me, Aziraphale.”
“Tell me what to do,” Aziraphale said dully. He could manage that much—it was what he was made for. He knew what happened when angels strayed. He knew, and look where he had ended up anyway.
Crowley made a pained noise, deep in his chest, and then shook himself, voice pitching almost manic. “Fuck. Okay. Uh—my glasses. Can I have them back?”
Aziraphale had tucked them away in his pocket at some point. Numbly, he held them out, looking up without really seeing.
Crowley took them, relief flashing across his face almost too quickly to catch. He slipped them on, untangled the boa from around his neck, and dropped it next to the vase of flowers. Red roses, yellow daffodils. Passion, joy, admiration, good luck. And—
“Right,” Crowley said, suddenly all swagger and charm. He flashed his fangs at Aziraphale in a ferocious grin, like this was just another joint temptation or blessing gone sideways, like he might not be burned out of the fabric of the universe within the hour. “Time to move. Got another show in you, love?”
Love, thought Aziraphale, blinking back a rush of tears. Love. My love.
Crowley was already at the door, looking over his shoulder. “Aziraphale?”
Even if Crowley lived, even if they escaped without being found out, it was over. The risk was too great.
This could never happen again.
“I’m ready,” Aziraphale lied, and he followed Crowley out into the massacre.