Crowley lounged in Aziraphaleâs armchair, one leg kicked over the side, stretched his head back to look at his angel sideways, smirked a bit, and said âWhat, you donât like this one?â
Aziraphale had been staring at him, contemplatively, and the question seemed to jolt him from his thoughts. âDonât like⌠Iâm sorry, my dear, which one? One what?â
Crowley watched him, enjoying catching the angel out at things, enjoying springing the trap. âMy new look. You donât like it?â
And ah, there it was, the little look of panic Aziraphale couldnât hide. The angel was picking up deception from the humans, slowly, but he had a long way to go. âLike it? I have no idea what youâre talking about.â His voice rose in pitch. âWhy would you think I donât?â
âWell.â He turned himself around to face Aziraphale properly⌠but made sure to still be rather impressively posed. âThis is the second time youâve gotten me drunk enough you think I wonât notice you drawing me, and you still havenât drawn me.â
Aziraphaleâs only response was a few flustered syllables of embarrassment.
Crowley watched him squirm, something old and gentle and playful feeling warm in his chest. âWhatâs wrong? I sat in your armchair both times. You like drawing me in your armchair.â And before his bookshop, it had been a settee. And before heâd gotten Crowley comfortable coming into his home, it had been a park bench, and before park benches had existed⌠Well, in any case, heâd liked drawing Crowley in his armchair ever since heâd gotten it for his then-new bookshop. It was 1982, now, over a century later, and Aziraphale had drawn Crowley sprawled over his armchair in every style heâd passed through.
âI⌠I have no idea what youâreâŚâ
Crowley stared at him, always fascinated by watching his angel try to lie. He raised one eyebrow, encouraging, waiting.
Aziraphale wilted. âOh, alright. I didnât think you knew! Youâre⌠Youâre just interesting to draw. Your outfits are⌠Well, your hairâŚâ
âMy hair?â Crowley prompted, pleased. He gave his hair a little shake, glad long hair on men was currently acceptable.
âOh, you know what your hair looks like!â
He did, but he had to admit - only to himself - that he hadnât been sure Aziraphale had noticed. âWell? Whatâs the hold up? I drank, I posed. Iâm ready for my portrait.â
Hmm. âHellâs sake.â Crowley murmured, softly, starting to feel embarrassed himself. âIs it that bad? Should I change it?â
âNo! No, itâsâŚâ Aziraphale sighed. âI wanted to draw you looking at me, for once. I always draw you looking off somewhere, or with your eyes closed. But I wanted to draw you looking at me.â
Crowley straighten up, abruptly interested. âYeah? I can do that. How do you want me?â Heâd seen humans posing for each other, in art schools, and suddenly the idea seemed intoxicating. Somehow intimate. To be allowed to look at Aziraphale, to watch him draw, to know Aziraphale was looking at him, studying his expression, in every minute detail.
Expression was, at times, the most honest communication they dared.
âJust there. Just⌠donât pose. Just⌠look like yourself.â
Aziraphale disappeared into the next room, presumably getting his supplies, and Crowley attempted the suddenly challenging task of looking like himself. Yes, just how exactly would he sit, to watch Aziraphale draw? How exactly did he sit in chairs? If he were, for instance, himself, how would he appear?
He leaned back in the chair, crossed his legs at the knees, and put his arms on the armrests. No, too prince-of-Hell. He threw one leg over the armrest, but now he was tilting away from Aziraphaleâs own seat. He jumped up, turned the chair, and tried again, but now it felt ridiculous, too obviously seductive, too- He moved the chair again, heard Aziraphaleâs steps coming back, then flung himself back in the chair and just tried to look like heâd been casually taking his ease there the whole time.
âDo you want me to move or something? I donât mind.â he drawled, in his most casual, bored drawl.
Aziraphale smiled, sitting down with his drawing pad, and pencils. He spent a few moments fussing about, getting settled, and when he looked up, Crowley realized he was staring.
âYes.â Aziraphale said swiftly, firmly, before Crowleyâs millennia of habit could kick in, before he could catch himself and looked away. âJust like that. Like how you look at me when you think I donât notice.â
But the protest was weak, and Aziraphale didnât even acknowledge it.
Quiet fell. There was just the scratching of pencil on paper. Just Aziraphaleâs eyes, flicking up to study him, then back down to his paper, then, again, up to Crowleyâs own. Just that beautiful look of concentration, relaxation, the look of creation, on an angel who had learned human ways to do it.
Just Aziraphaleâs eyes, so warm and intent, focused on Crowley alone. Crowley wasnât sure he took a breath the whole time.
Then it was over. It hadnât taken long at all. âDone.â Aziraphale said.
Crowley leaned forward, eagerly. âCan I see?â
Aziraphale actually blushed. âI suppose itâs only fair. Do you want to see the others?â
âYou have them?â Crowley actually felt his heart speed up, at the information. Somehow heâd always imagined the drawings filling an unused page somewhere, just a bit of scrap paper, then absently thrown out in Aziraphaleâs next cleaning. âYes!â
Aziraphale got up, probably intending to get the drawings and bring them back, but Crowley followed on his heel. And when Aziraphale knelt to pull a folder out of a bottom shelf, Crowley knelt with him, perfectly happy to look at the drawings right there.
Aziraphale sighed, an exasperated little breath that held a whole conversation of commentary on his impatience, and then indulgently handed Crowley the folder.
Crowley opened it, and the pages spilled, loose, across his lap, and Crowley shuffled delicately through them. He knew well how to be careful with old paper, but these seemed suspiciously, one might say miraculously, well-preserved. And the drawings showedâŚ
Crowley hadnât expected soft. He hadnât expected this. Heâd wanted to know, wanted to see what his angel saw when he looked at him; heâd been expecting pretty, maybe dangerous, and hoping for hot. He hadnât expected⌠gentle. Or relaxed. Or happy. There were the drawings heâd known about, but there were others. Crowley in Aziraphaleâs shop, smiling at an old woman as he helped her carry her books. Crowley in ancient robes, smiling out at a sunset. Crowley sprawled on his settee, asleep, looking vulnerable and yet safe.
And one, at the very bottom of the pile. It must have been drawn ages after the fact, because humans hadnât yet invented paper back then. Crowley was smiling at Aziraphale, looking right at him, long curls loose down his back, snake eyes bright. It must have been drawn from memory, but Crowley remembered looking at Aziraphale exactly like that, while the angelâs wing had shielded him from the rain.
In every picture, every single one, no matter what time period it was from, Crowley looked happy. And in every stroke of pencil, every glide across the page, there was love. Love.
He looked at the newest one. His smile was softer. Unhurried. But his eyes were just the same as in the first one. Fixed on Aziraphale, as if there could be nothing better to look at in all of creation.
He scrambled through the pages, forgetting to be as gentle as he could, needing to search for some, any, other interpretation.
âOh, angelâŚâ He looked at him, and Aziraphaleâs eyes were gentle, shy, but not denying what Crowley saw. Crowley wanted to kiss him. He wanted to put a hand on the back of the angelâs neck, and pull him close, and kiss him until all the lies they had to hide behind fell away, until they were one being, and Heaven and Hell could never part them again, untilâŚ
Because his angel loved him. That was what these drawings said. His angel loved him, and had all along. And yet.
âAngel,â His voice came out rough, his throat strangely tight. âAre you sure I go too fast?â
He could hear Aziraphaleâs breath catch, they were so close. Aziraphale nodded, the movement tiny but urgent, and he looked away.
Crowley lowered his eyes as well, heart hurting.
Then, so quickly it was over before he knew what was happening, angelic fingers were on his chin, lifting him up, and for the briefest moment, soft lips were at just the corner of his mouth.
Then Aziraphale was up, hurrying away, probably off to make tea and any other distraction he could think of.
Crowley watched him go, and his fingers rose to the ghost of Aziraphaleâs lips on his. A smile spread across his face.
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