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Crowley had been concentrating on applying his eyeliner so intently that when Aziraphale put his hands on his shoulders, he jumped so hard that, if he had been in serpent form, he might have prematurely shed his skin.
Crowley leaned back to meet the angel’s eyes in the lighted mirror perched on his dresser, but not before he got a proper glance at the panic on his own face. Aziraphale was plainly working through something behind those articulate lips of his, moving his hands from his shoulders to comb through the wavy hair sticking to Crowley’s sweating neck. When Crowley still didn’t move, Aziraphale took a quick breath and smiled.
“Sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to scare you like that. Would — would you like help with that?”
Crowley turned finally, sizing Aziraphale up. He had no idea what he actually said — something sarcastic? a simple stuttered yes? — but he put the black pencil into Aziraphale’s hand, tilted his chair back against his dresser, and closed his eyes.
Aziraphale’s fingers came to steady his face. Crowley felt the soft pencil working over his lashes in short, hesitant strokes. When the angel let out a frustrated huff, Crowley chanced a glance up at the tiny slip of pink tongue poking out of Aziraphale’s mouth and smiled to himself.
“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale said, touching Crowley’s eyelids shut to finish working at the pencil liner. “Why did you let me help, this is much harder than it looks!”
“Oh, angel, it’s —” Crowley righted his chair and swiveled to the glass full of brushes on the dresser. “It’s fine, see?” He plucked up a smudge brush and smoked out the rough edges in the mirror. Then he turned back to Aziraphale to demonstrate how fine it was. “Here, try the mascara, that’s much easier.”
The angel gamely worked the wand through Crowley’s lashes, dimming their flame red to coal black. “Why don’t you just, you know,” said Aziraphale, “magic it on? It would be much less messy.” He screwed the cap back on the pink tube and handed it back to Crowley.
“Well, because,” he said, evening out the application with a clean spoolie. “I like how it feels, putting it on.” He batted his lashes into the mirror. Crowley next took a different black pencil to quickly outline his lips, drawing the liner heavier at the corners, before passing to Aziraphale a brush daubed with wine-red lip color. “Just — color inside the lines.”
Aziraphale again used a hand to steady his face, soft pads of his fingers coming to Crowley’s knife-blade of a jaw and his thumb on his razor cheekbone. With short, deliberate strokes, the angel painted the color on the same way he had watched Michelangelo once paint the Sistine Chapel. But with perhaps a touch more reverence. When he’d finished applying color to his pliant lips (like plum skin — and he rather liked plums), Aziraphale passed the brush back to Crowley to fix his work, but Crowley set it aside and admired himself in the mirror. He rolled his lips around, working the contrasting colors into a soft ombre. His wide grin split his face.
“Perfect.”
He dusted on a sheer powder and quickly aimed some setting spray at his face. Then he stood, plucking at the long black tunic he was wearing (with sleeves that the humans these days were calling angel wings, Aziraphale noted) and swiping imaginary powder from the knees of his tight leggings. He ducked to wipe a hand over his head in the mirror, smoothing down escaped strands. He’d clearly straightened his hair for the occasion, and cleaned it up, too — the lower third neatly razored under his half-up, half-down style — but the London humidity was already making his curls spring up again. Then Crowley reached for his sunglasses.
“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Going out tonight?”
“Yeah, the concert at the club, remember?” Crowley hovered a dry kiss over the angel’s cheek, trying not to smudge his lipstick. “I did tell you that.”
“But why … ?” Aziraphale gestured hesitantly at Crowley’s eyes as he slid the glasses on.
Crowley winced slightly, but openly. “I just … feel better this way.”
“No, I mean — the makeup —”
“I know.”
Aziraphale did that thing with his mouth again. “Perhaps I could join you tonight?”
Crowley half-smiled. “It’s really not your scene, angel.” He caught Aziraphale’s hand as he stepped into short, heeled boots, zipping up the insides. He thumbed the angel’s soft knuckles after he righted himself. “But thank you.”
“Well, perhaps …” Aziraphale turned Crowley’s same hand so he could kiss its palm. “You might, you know …” He wiggled his other hand at Crowley’s face. “Might posh yourself up for home sometime?”
Crowley took his sunglasses back off, gazing at the angel with gleaming eyes — like sunlight glancing off rain-glazed amber. He caught the angel close and enclosed his lips in a soft, sweet kiss.
Aziraphale made a pleased little gasp when their lips clicked apart, before huffing, “Crowley! I just!” He reached out to prod the mussed corner of his partner’s lips. “I only just put that lipstick on you!”
Crowley tossed his hair back and laughed. He then deftly traced his lips with two fingers, cleaning the edges, before wiping a thumb across the rosy smear around Aziraphale’s own lips.