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Aziraphale’s eyes flit across his reflection, at his magician's top hat (which he had spent a full 17 minutes perfecting its tilt on his head), his twinkling waistcoat. The sheen of sweat on his cheeks and on the tense crinkles around his eyes make the brown eyeliner he had applied a few moments before smudge, and he dabs at it, exasperated and with a slight tremble in his finger. Unsuccessful, he manages to smear the makeup from the corner of his eye a few centimetres down, before letting out a worried groan.
‘Oh, what if this is a disaster?’ Aziraphale frets, and he glances up expectantly towards Crowley. The demon beside him, who had been checking his own reflection and straightening his maroon tie, raises an eyebrow. He stares at Aziraphale for a moment, at his perfect cupid bow lips, the soft curve of them - his doe eyes which bore into him. He wants to carve himself out and bask in it, be completely hollow except for the angel’s gaze that fills him to the brim with a buzzing bliss. He blinks, before remembering he was meant to … oh, yeah, respond.
‘You’re an angel, angel, if worst comes to worst you can just… miracle your way out of it.’ Crowley scoffs, but not without an affectionate smirk that pulls on the corner of his mouth, and he quickly resumes looking at his reflection, smoothing down his jacket, needing to avert his attention elsewhere.
‘It’s not as easy as that, Crowley,’ Aziraphale grumbles, unsatisfied with the demon’s response, ‘This is human magic… it's all a performance, an illusion- everything must go to plan, or I’ll make a complete fool of myself!’
‘Nah, you’ll be fine,’ Crowley responds, taking a couple steps towards him, ‘I’ll be there, won’t I? If anything doesn’t go to plan… I can, you know, do a smidge of demonic intervention. The audience won’t have a clue.’
Aziraphale gives a tight, but genuine, smile, as he meets Crowley’s gaze.
‘Thank you, dear. Really.’
‘Eh. Nothing I haven’t done before.’
Aziraphale scoffs and rolls his eyes, ‘Well don’t give yourself too much credit. I’ve gotten us out of tricky pickles before too.’
‘Tricky pickles.’
‘Yes!’
‘If I recall, it was me who saved you from getting your head cut off in… when was it, 1793? Then I saved you from getting shot and discorporated by Nazis in that church during the second World War… and, oh, who was it that stopped time just so we could guide the antichrist? Hmm….’
‘Only because I asked you to.’ Grumbles the angel, piercing his lips.
‘Yes, of course.’ smirks Crowley.
‘However, I do think it's rather unfair of you to give me no credit for-’
‘Hold on,’ Crowley mumbles, ‘You've got a little something there.’
He gestures vaguely to his own eye, before Aziraphale, gasps lightly and turns sharply back to the mirror. The eyeliner streak becomes progressively more smudged as Aziraphale swipes at it agitatedly.
‘No- satan, angel, you’re just making it worse,’ Crowley takes another step towards him, ‘Here just let me- angel, stop it- just let me do it.’
He uses one hand to gently pull Aziraphale towards him from the mirror, and he places the other just below his chin to tilt his head up towards his own. The contact of their skin blazes. Aziraphale, who had been so frantic just a moment before, freezes as his breath hitches in his throat at the unexpected touch. He meets Crowley’s suddenly honey-soft gaze, motionless as the demon lowers his hand, a little too fast.
He clears his throat.
‘You’ve just got to- not smear it so aggressively, you know?’ He huffs, but not with a harsh enough tone for it to be the teasing comment Crowley had wanted it to be. He casually licks the tip of his finger before he drags it gently below the angel’s waterline, swiping the blotched eyeliner away in one smooth motion. Aziraphale’s lashes flutter at the touch and Crowley watches with amusement as his cheeks bloom rose pink.
‘Thank you, dear.’ he says, voice hushed. He remains motionless, except for the colour that rapidly paints his skin as Crowley’s finger lingers and traces his cheekbone.
‘No problem.’ he whispers, his touch gentle as a feather as it travels slowly from Aziraphale’s flushed cheek to the edge of his jaw. He drops his finger as Aziraphale’s eyes flicks between his golden ones.
Neither of them move, and they stay frozen there, Aziraphale with his back pressed against the dressing room table, and Crowley hovering over him, one hand leaning against the edge of it, the rest of the world blurry around them.
‘Aziraphale,’ Crowley says, with a raspy tone so delicate, tender, that it makes the angel dizzy.
They are stuck in each other’s orbit, constantly being pulled closer together. It’s a string that permanently ties the demon and the angel together, a force that’s been left dormant for far too long, now tugging harder than ever. If you plucked its invisible chords, the music it would make would bring you to your knees.
Aziraphale felt like he had no control over his movements as he ever so slowly tilted his head forwards, closer, closer to the demon’s, who’s dilated eyes widened at the shift, lips parted like he was about to say something, but the words were too heavy for him to lift with his suddenly weak tongue. So instead of speaking, he leaned closer as well, until he could feel Aziraphale’s soft, sharp breaths on his own lips.
Suddenly, their noses are touching, a light brush of a touch, but enough of one to force Aziraphale to sharply inhale and make Crowley’s warm skin buzz.
‘ELLO!? Mister Fell, are you in there?’ a voice yells, followed by sporadic knocking on the door. Crowley snaps up from where he was leaning over Aziraphale, taking a few steps back but stumbling over his feet in the process. He pulls his sunglasses out of his breast pocket, fumbling as he puts them on, as the stage manager marches in holding a clipboard, lips pierced.
‘Ah, here we are. We’re on in 15, Ezra! Audience is restless tonight, I tell you.’ She pushes her glasses up from where they were sliding off the bridge of her nose, and glances between the two. Both their faces are flushed, standing awkwardly with their eyes looking everywhere except each other, ‘Look, I know this is the world of show business, and I can see that you’re… busy. But-’
‘Not at all!’ splutters Aziraphale, practically squawking as he straightens and smoothens the nonexistent creases on his waistcoat, ‘We’ll be right on it, Madeline. I’ve just got to- reapply some makeup.’
She raises an eyebrow.
‘Eyeliner! It won’t take a second.’ He reassures and smiles, far too wide.
‘Right. Well- good luck with that. See you in a minute.’ She says curtly and she promptly leaves.
Both of the men(-shaped creatures) let out a breath they didn’t know they were holding, and stand in the silence for a moment. Then, Crowley glances towards Aziraphale, who meets his eyes tentatively.
‘Well then-’
‘I really should…’
‘No, no, of course, I ought to-’
‘... go, and finish getting- my hair. Gelled. Again.’
Crowley slinks to the other side of the room (a lot less gracefully than usual, given the light-headed state he was in) towards the door, lips pressed together, his cheeks still warm.
His hand rests on the handle. The fingertip that traced Aziraphale's skin burns against the cold metal of the door knob.
The string pulls.
‘Good luck, tonight, angel,’ Crowley says softly as he looks back, ‘It’s gonna go great. I’ll- I’ll see you afterwards then, yeah? We'll go to the bookshop?’
‘Of course. And, thank you, dearest.’ Aziraphale replies, ears pink. The demon swallows thickly at the nickname before flashing a lopsided grin, and leaving.