“Just hang on–hang on, I almost have it–”
“No you haven’t,” Crowley says, without looking, because he knows Aziraphale doesn’t. He’s almost had it for the better part of twenty minutes now. “We’re going to be late, you know. You could just miracle the thing on. You could just miracle a real one while you’re at it.”
Aziraphale glares at him, extraordinarily threatening with only half of a curly moustache drawn onto his upper lip in eye pencil. The other half has been wiped clean several times when it has failed to be perfectly symmetrical. “I already told you,” he huffs. “It’s more fun when you do it for real.”
“This isn’t even part of the show,” Crowley points out. “And besides, this isn’t fun, watching you try and draw that on: it’s torture. Come here.”
“No, I really do almost have it–”
“I didn’t mean to miracle it, angel. I’ll just draw it on for you.”
Aziraphale stops. Turns, the pencil still only an inch away from his upper lip, and blinks at Crowley, looking a bit boggled. That’s fair, Crowley thinks. He feels a bit boggled himself. He holds out his hand anyway; he’s not going to back down now. It’s just a bit of make-up.
He beckons again for the pencil. “Come here, I’ll draw it on for you,” he repeats.
There’s another pause, but Aziraphale finally does hold the pencil out, turning to face Crowley fully. Crowley takes it and steps in close, studying the line Aziraphale’s already drawn. He steps in again. A bit closer–there.
He’s only about two or three inches taller than Aziraphale, in these forms, but this close up, both of them standing straight, Aziraphale has to look up at him. It’s a little heady. Crowley swallows hard.
“All right,” he says, twirling the pencil around once. “All right, just–hold your face naturally.”
The first line isn’t as smooth as Crowley would like; he miracles it away with a frown. “See,” Aziraphale says, triumphant but terribly hushed, with Crowley standing so close. “Not as easy as it looks, is it?”
“Shush,” Crowley says. He brings up his other hand. “I’m going to–” Touch you. “Just to steady, mind.” He’s not sure which of them needs the reminder. He’s standing so close now, leaning in just a little, he can see all the tiny lines around Aziraphale’s eyes. All the tiny little lines of Aziraphale’s lips.
Aziraphale nods; Crowley slips his hand just under Aziraphale’s jaw, cupping the side of his cheek, lifting it up a little further so he can see better. Aziraphale’s skin is warm against his palm. “Okay,” he breathes, barely more than a whisper. “Try this again.”
He raises the pencil once again; Aziraphale’s lips move, ever so slightly, as though in anticipation. “Keep still,” Crowley reminds him, eyes darting up to meet Aziraphale’s, which is a mistake: Aziraphale’s eyes are light and dark and bright and shadowed, heavy with the sorts of things they’ve agreed never to say. Hey, angel, he imagines himself saying, not looking away, hey, angel, if the world ends–if the world is going to end, would you ever consider saying–
“We’re going to be late,” Aziraphale points out.
Crowley takes a breath, his thoughts scattering like the startled shreds of a dream. “Right, yes,” he says, looking away, at anything, to reconfigure himself in the world–there are the books, yes, and Aziraphale’s collection of stupid magic trickery, and the Bentley idling by the kerb outside the door. They are an angel, and a demon, and all the space of heaven and hell fits neatly into the four or five inches left between them. “Right.”
He draws the second half of the moustache into place, using an extremely minor miracle to make the sides even, though not exactly perfect–that would be a dead giveaway. He chances one last look at Aziraphale’s eyes, but Aziraphale has already looked away.
Crowley drops his hands. He steps away, clears his throat, tosses the pencil back onto Aziraphale’s desk. “There you go. Good as it’ll ever be. Ready?”
Aziraphale’s fingers hover just above his upper lip, as though trying to work out the shape Crowley’s drawn but remembering he can’t actually touch it. “Yes,” he says, and then there are his eyes again, muted now, as though he’s faltering in the sudden space between them. His voice is awful when he speaks: tenderness. “Thank you, Crowley.”
“Don’t mention it,” Crowley says, and he turns away.
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