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Humans can’t directly perceive an angel’s Grace. Bits of it brush along the edge of their perceptions. It’s the way spring flowers seem to glow where they push through the snow on a foggy day. Ethereal. It’s an unheard sound so deep it makes them aware of the existence of every bone in their bodies. Unearthly.
Still, humans attempt to capture that fleeting experience. Stained glass is as close as they can come, but it lacks that vibrating energy that cannot be made by any earthly substance. They might get closer if they could make unknowable colors that held the warmth of the inside of an eyelid as it gazes unseeing at nothingness.
Humans are adept at depicting demons, though they don’t realize that. Demons hide behind a glittering reflection. Precious, beautiful colors are pushed away from their occult hearts as if they had some light of their own instead of just reflected glory. The gilded, lacquered icons of saints come so close to depicting that beautiful, glittering anguish that they repel demons at being so keenly seen.
Their corporations hide away most of their true appearance, but some leaks through cracks in the facade. The humans aren’t entirely wrong to cover angels in reflective gold, but it is meant to reflect that Grace inward. It’s a patch on an imperfect vessel to ensure that leaking Grace does not touch the unworthy. Demons own cracks are covered in living materials that cast back reflections in glittering scales and slick skin, wet with what they could never admit are tears.
Swapping bodies is an incomprehensible risk. How can he hope to reflect all that Grace back without it sinking into his heart and destroying him? Even if it works, surely other angels will see he lacks that inner fire to light his features. But they have no other choice. For the angel, he will do anything. Even let him in.
The transfer is terrifying and exhilarating. All that Grace pressed close to his own glittering scales, uncontained and unrestrained by physical form. He shines as bright as the angel, all reflected glory. He should push him away, save him, but all he wants is to hold him tight. Be held. But they must break apart.
They crash into the new corporations, testing the bounds of them as they bow under the weight of new inhabitants. The heart stutters and Crowley tries to remember how lungs work. Aziraphale squeezes his hand and he is here and present again, acutely aware of the warmth of that hand.
He turns his head to check on Aziraphale. Seeing what he thinks of as his face lit from within by Grace is too much to bear and he nearly collapses. Aziraphale pulls him into an embrace to keep him upright.
“Are you hurt?” What should be his voice sounds too tender. Does he ever sound like that?
“No, you’re just…” He sobs at hearing his stolen voice. “Beautiful. You make me look… loved.”
“Because you are.”