Aziraphale’s voice trails off when he passes the window, peaks out to the encroaching nighttime beyond. The window faces the forest, the dead brush, the naked trees. The sky is completely black, now, which makes the window more reflective of the light within. Like: Crowley’s reflection is striking, pale skin airbrushed with the violet blacklight, softening the already-delicate line of his nose, the sharp curve of his jaw, the hollows low in his cheeks. His eyes are sapped of darkness, saturation; the yellow looks almost the same shade as the whites of his eyes, the slit of his pupils a thin, navy-violet film. He should look terrifying, like a head floating without a body, like the mouthpiece of God without the Almighty’s words to show for it. The mouthpiece of God ought to have the Almighty’s words, after all.
But Aziraphale doesn’t think Crowley looks terrifying. He doesn’t think anything at all about Crowley, oddly enough, because beside the demon in the reflection is… nobody. Nobody at all.