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A retired angel and a not-much-of-a-demon-really were meandering through Regent’s Park when the latter suddenly placed a hand on the former’s shoulder, pulling him to a stop. Crowley stared at Aziraphale for a beat from behind his dark shades.
“Is there…something on my face?” Aziraphale asked uncertainly.
“Don’t move,” Crowley replied (which wasn’t much of a reply in Aziraphale’s opinion), stepping away and tugging his mobile device out of his pocket. He lifted it to eye level.
“What are you-“
“’M taking a picture. Don’t move.”
Aziraphale obediently stayed still, staring awkwardly at the device.
“You can smile, you know.”
“The exposure time-“
“Is not twenty minutes anymore. It’ll only take a blink, now.”
“Oh, really?” Aziraphale grinned, clapping his hands together in delight. “Humans are ever so inventive, aren’t they? Now all their pictures move about in colour, and it’s all so fascinating!”
Crowley lowered the device, smiling softly. “Perfect.”
“Oh, did you-“
“Yup. Let’s go, then.”
This wasn’t an isolated incident. Following that day, Crowley began taking photos when they were together regularly. Not always of Aziraphale, but also of ducks, the sky, pedestrians yanking on coins glued to the pavement. He also took – what was that word? Selfpics? He took many selfpics, talking all the while of his genius in inventing them and the egotistical culture that accompanied it.
But he also took a lot of photos of Aziraphale.
Aziraphale didn’t mind it. Granted, he also didn’t know what to think of it at all. Crowley had always been a collector of sorts, gathering souvenirs wherever he went. They two were all too aware of the fleetingness of humanity’s cultures. Each moment was temporary, and Aziraphale assumed this was Crowley’s way of staying connected with the flowing eras. Aziraphale could hardly judge, considering his bookshop, which was full of thousands of years of treasures stashed between the books and scrolls, which were treasures of their own.
But even that aside, they had always been so careful to erase every trace of their companionship, every footprint and smudge. And now, they didn’t have to.
So, he let Crowley take pictures of him, and he only complained a little, yet not enough to stop him. He knew Crowley would stop if he asked, which was why he felt comfortable with him taking them.
“You know, my dear,” Aziraphale said after Crowley had just snapped yet another photo of the angel, this one framed by the sunset across the Thames, “I understand that young people take selfpics together nowadays.”
Crowley, who had stopped trying to correct “selfpics” years ago, froze in returning the mobile to his pocket. “Oh?”
“Seems like we ought to take one together, don’t you think? It’s the done thing,” Aziraphale added, knowing full well he had never once cared about what the done thing was.
Crowley shrugged. “Could.” He approached slowly and stopped beside Aziraphale, whipping the phone out to hold it at arm’s length. Aziraphale gazed in surprise to see his own and Crowley’s face looking back at them, the sky and water ablaze in pinks behind them.
“Oh, how lovely! You can see it as you take the photo!”
“Obvi – scoot closer, would you? You’re half out of frame.”
Aziraphale moved until their shoulders were pressed together. “Like so?”
“Mmm.”
“You’re looking very red. Is it the lighting?”
“Shut up. Yes.”
Aziraphale laughed, bright and gleeful, and Crowley took the photo.
He noticed the next day that Crowley had made it the background on his mobile. The two of them, mushed together, Aziraphale laughing, and Crowley gazing at him with a tender smile.