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    Summary

    “You’ll stab your eye if you keep on like that.”

    “I’ll be- oops!” He rubbed at a stray mark with his ring finger, then continued. “I am very out of practice, I’m afraid. Ouch!”

    “Just,” Crowley huffed as he plucked the pencil from his hand, “let me. C’mere.” Aziraphale did as he was told, turning away from the mirror and watching with widening eyes as Crowley stepped in close. Oh, my. The mirrors’ bulbs bathed half of his angled features in soft light. Always, Crowley was always gorgeous, but something about this suit — the wide plane of the shoulders, perhaps, or the way the vertical stripes led one’s eyes down the length of his body — and the cut of the hat across his brow… Aziraphale could hardly manage a coherent thought. The buzz of the audience reminded him: show. Soon. Right.

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    Crowley pops into the dressing room before Aziraphale's magic show to wish him luck.

    Language:
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