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It had been approximately 2,355 years – give or take a few* – since Aziraphale had last had a beard.
*Some years had gone missing during the conversion from BC to AD and, considering the years in question, it honestly hadn’t seemed worth the effort searching for them.
For the most part of human history, he had managed to get by with how his corporation had looked when it had first been assigned to him, but there had been times when even he had been forced to amend it somewhat so as to not stand out too much or be mistaken for something he most decided was not*. So, at times, he had sported a full beard.
*Ahem, male prostitute. The first time had been enlightening. The seventh time had been alarming. The less said about the thirteenth time, the better. Although that particular man had certainly learnt the lesson that prostitute or not, no really meant no.
His last spell with a beard had been during his time in Greece – or Ancient Greece as it was now called, although it had been Modern Greece at the time – and beards had been very much the expected thing. A male looking being without a beard was not to be taken seriously.
So Aziraphale had relented and grown a beard.
Then Alexander of Macedonia had come along and beards became a thing of the past.
That had suited Aziraphale rather well and he’d managed to avoid any significant facial hair ever since – a lovely set of sideburns notwithstanding.
Beards, he decided, just weren’t him. However, if there was ever such a time to revisit such a decision, being stuck in quarantine was it.
It had started with a mild comment from Crowley on the matter of hair. Some of the humans, it transpired, were becoming rather distressed over not being able to visit a barber or hairdresser. Human hair grew, a fact Aziraphale was aware of, but not something he had thought about in relation to lockdown.
“Might be a bit odd if we come out of this with the same hair we went in with,” Crowley observed. “People might question it.”
Well, it was alright for Crowley, he was used to changing his general look and hairstyles. The odd side parting aside, Aziraphale had had the same hairstyle for most of human history. And while in London he had regularly gone to a particular barber, that had been more for the social aspect than for anything else. And each time he’d gone he’d had to remember to extend his hair length somewhat beforehand*.
*After incidents of having made it too long or too short, he had finally got it down to a fine art. Or, so he thought. In truth, it was more that on realising there was something not quite normal about one of their most regular and generous customers, the barber had stopped remarking on anything.
“Grow my hair?” he had questioned.
“At least,” Crowley had confirmed. “Unless you hypothetically trust me to cut it for you.”
Hypothetically or not, Aziraphale wasn’t too sure about that.
“What will you do?” he asked Crowley.
“Probably grow it,” Crowley said. “Been a while since I’ve had it longer. Good excuse for a change.”
So Aziraphale made a conscious effort to allow his hair to grow. Lockdown hair was what they were calling it, and with it, he discovered, lockdown beard.
Well, he had thought, it had certainly been a good while since the last time, and since they were in lockdown, should it turn out to be a dreadful mistake, not many people would see it.
And he would hardly be alone, either, their neighbour’s hair would be changing also, so there would be no better time for a little experimentation.
*
It took Crowley three days to notice.
In Crowley’s defence, there was several reasons for not noticing, the main of which was Aziraphale himself. Change was not something Aziraphale did lightly, so it did not cross Crowley’s mind that such a significant change to his corporation was even a possibility.
Then there was the fact that Aziraphale’s very pale hair colour did not easily stand out against his skin. Honestly, Crowley had initially dismissed it as being down to his dodgy eyesight, or a trick of the light, until the point where even he could not fail to notice.
“Angel,” he started slowly, “is that stubble?”
Aziraphale, who had been waiting for Crowley to notice, merely confirmed that it was and went back to his morning tea.
Crowley, who had responded to that by simply staring, decided he needed more coffee in order to deal with this, went and made himself another pot.
“Is this a… purposeful thing?” he finally asked once he had got a sinful amount of caffeine into his corporation.
“Oh yes,” Aziraphale replied infuriatingly mildly, before launching into a discussion about which Oscar Wilde play he should re-read next*.
*They settled on Lady Windermere’s Fan.
Eventually Crowley managed to ask the question he had been wanting to ask right from the beginning.
“Why?”
“Why not?” Aziraphale had countered, much to Crowley’s caffeine fuelled frustration and the reminder of that little bastard side of Aziraphale he was usually rather fond of.
“Because- because you consider a side parting a big change.”
“Yes, well, not all of us have corporations so well suited to moving with human fashions and fancies,” Aziraphale responded primely.
There was a compliment in there, Crowley was sure. There was also some bite as well.
“I just thought this was a good opportunity for a change,” Aziraphale continued. “I’ve been trying so many new things recently that I thought I may as well amend my appearance a little as well.”
Taking up baking and being introduced to Netflix and Pinterest was one thing, Crowley thought, but fiddling with his corporation, well, that was something else entirely.
And Crowley wasn’t sure he liked that something else.
If there was one word that came to mind when he thought about Aziraphale, it was unchanging.
That is, it wasn’t that Aziraphale didn’t change, he did, of course he did. The fact they were residing together free from the constraints of both heaven and hell, revelling in a very human domestic bliss proved that Aziraphale could change. It was just that when it came to Aziraphale, change was usually one part fiddling at the edges and one part shedding the confining expectations of heaven to finally embrace a perfectly good aspect of who he was that he had previously been made to feel guilty about.
Food, for instance. Despite having been made by God in the first place – and, therefore, technically good – food was something that the other angels had looked down on. Aziraphale had not only tried the food, but had gone on to delight in all of its tastes, textures, and forms. It was part of God’s creation, Aziraphale had once reasoned to him a loooooong time ago now, so it couldn’t be bad. It was supposed to be appreciated.
And since taking up baking himself, Aziraphale had found a whole new sense of appreciation, both for the food itself, and of the people who make it.
So, while it was a new interest, baking was nothing more than Aziraphale being more Aziraphale. It wasn’t as much a change as a deepening of who he was.
His other new interests were much the same. Netflix was just plays in your own living room.
Taking up new crafts was just his creative side coming out.
Taking an interest in village life – whether in person or through social media – was the nurturing, guardian side of him. The angel who had never really ceased to be the protector of humans and guardian of the eastern gate, even when there were far more humans than one angel could hope to protect and there was no eastern gate left to guard.
No, when it came to change, Aziraphale tended to stay fully rooted to who he was. It was one of the things that Crowley most loved about him. He was a fixed point in an ever-changing age. Even after they had become tentative friends, there had been times when they hadn’t seen each other for decades at a time, and yet the one thing Crowley had been sure about was that when their paths did finally cross again, Aziraphale would still be Aziraphale.
Good, kind, fussy, light coloured Aziraphale.
Now though.
There was no real reason for Aziraphale to be growing a beard. Not considering all the effort he had gone to over the millennia to not have a beard*.
*Brother Francis, for instance, would have been well within his rights to have a beard, but somehow they had settled for those ridiculous sideburns.
Growing his hair out a bit was one thing. It was only sensible given the current situation. No hair growth would only raise questions. Crowley, however, had not been expecting Aziraphale to keep growing his hair though. Once lockdown was over Aziraphale would go back to his usual length.
A beard though. Not only was a beard unnecessary but Crowley didn’t like the sound of Aziraphale’s reasoning. A good opportunity for a change? Might as well amend his appearance?
Amend his appearance?
What next? Lose the waistcoat and bowtie? Forgo the heavenly tartan?
No, it would be all okay. It was just a minor thing. Aziraphale wasn’t really going to start changing things that Crowley considered fundamental to who the angel was. It was all fine
Then Aziraphale started changing his clothing as well.
*
In all honesty, the primroses may not have deserved quite as much shouting as he gave them, it was just Crowley found he needed to scream at someone and since he couldn’t scream at the alpacas or at Aziraphale himself, the primroses caught the brunt of it.
Aziraphale was trying new clothing.
Or old clothing, if the wear and styles were anything to go by.
One day it was the loss of the waistcoat and bowtie. The next, it was a shirt with an open collar. Another day, it was a blue with white stripes button down. The next a shirt with no collar at all.
Even the trousers changed.
It was…
It was…
It was…. aarrrggghhhhhh.
“My dear,” Aziraphale said while sporting a sleeveless cream and blue* striped V-neck jumper, “are you quite alright?”
*Blue. Not sky blue. Not light blue. Blue blue.
No, Crowley was not alright. But he was a consummate liar, so managed to escape into the garden with just a few words and some non-descript noises that signalled that he was fine, of course he was fine, how could Aziraphale think he was anything but fine?
He went to talk to the alpacas.
“It’s not even the beard itself,” he found himself saying. “Okay, yes, it is the beard, but it’s not the beard. And it’s not the clothes either. Although yesterday, yesterday he actually had his sleeves rolled up. Sleeves. Rolled up. Sleeves! And not because he was baking or anything. He was reading. With rolled up sleeves? For no reason. Experimenting, he said. Experimenting? Gaahhhhh. What next? A piercing? A tattoo? Denim? Ahhhhhhhh!”
At which point Oscar gave him a pitying look and wandered off.
Crowley figured he deserved it.
*
Then, as with all things, lockdown ended – sort of.
The “stay at home, protect the NHS, save lives” message changed to “stay alert, control the virus, save lives”, and for some reason Barnard Castle was the place to visit.
For them though, the most significant thing was that you were now allowed out for more than just an hour’s exercise, and you could now meet up with up to five other people from more than one household provided you were outside. Prosecco in the garden was, therefore, absolutely allowed.
It was at this point that Crowley had thought Aziraphale would give up on the beard and random clothing and go back to his familiar smooth face and heavenly tartan before too many people saw him.
Aziraphale did not.
The beard stayed. Not only that but it had reached a critical length, and therefore, thickness. Far more than stubble, there was no possibility of mistaking it for anything other than a full beard.
The clothes, too, also sort of stayed, much to Crowley’s distress. Although it had not sunk as low as denim.
It was Claire who ended up challenging Aziraphale about it all, glass of Prosecco in hand.
“I’m not saying it’s bad or anything,” she said, “but you weren’t on my list for potential village beard of the year. So, come on, is it lockdown or some sort of midlife crisis?”
Midlife crisis! Ha! If only! Crowley thought as Aziraphale beamed and launched into his beard related tale. Long time since he had tried a beard. Good opportunity for a change. Keep things fresh. So on, and so on.
Then he asked Claire what she thought.
“To be honest, and no offense,” she said, “but it ages you.”
“Yes, I suppose it does,” Aziraphale agreed in his mild tone that said he wasn’t in any way insulted by her comment.
“Impressive though,” Claire continued.
Not how Crowley would have described it.
“What about you, Crowley,” Claire continued suddenly turning to look at him. “No lockdown beard for you?”
“No,” Crowley said firmly. “Definitely not. Not that I couldn’t, I’ve rocked many a fabulous facial hair over the years, but the hair is enough right now.”
“You’re certainly rocking that headband,” Claire had grinned. “Suits you.”
And then later she was gone and it was just the two of them, several empty bottles of Prosecco, and the beard.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale said lightly once they were back inside. “I know you say you’re alright, but I can’t help thinking I’ve upset you in some way.”
Trust Aziraphale to suddenly broach the subject when his guard was down. And even more deviously, to be physically between him and the major escape routes.
“Upset?” Crowley managed with a voice that even to his ears sounded far too high and far too strained. “No, of course not. Nah-ha. Never. Why would you think that?”
“Because you’ve been acting rather oddly lately,” Aziraphale said in that annoyingly gentle understanding tone of his. “And I can’t help wonder if it has something to do with, well, with my beard.”
Crowley made a somewhat strangled sound.
“I know changing corporations has always sort of been your thing. So, I can’t but help think that I’m inadvertently trampling on some sort of boundary. If I am, please tell me. I don’t wish to cause you distress.”
“Angel,” Crowley managed, before sinking into a chair.
“It’s the beard, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said.
“It’s not the beard,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale clearly did not believe him.
“Alright, yes,” he corrected, “it is the beard.”
“You don’t like it.”
“Nnggh,” Crowley managed before lapsing into other virtually unintelligible noises.
“Crowley?”
“Two thousand years, angel,” Crowley finally managed to spit out. Then all of it suddenly started to come out. Like a tide he couldn’t stop.
“Two thousand years and now a beard,” he said, springing back to his feet. “For no reason. Nothing forcing you to have it. And then, no tartan. No bowtie. No hundred-year-old waistcoat. And arrggghhhh. Why?”
“Why?” Aziraphale said.
“Yes! Why?” Crowley all but shouted. “Your hair, your beard, your clothes. Why??”
Aziraphale frowned. “I just wanted a change.”
“Arrrrggggggghhhhhh.”
“But I thought you liked change?” Aziraphale said, his face all lined with a frown, well, what Crowley could see of his face under that beard.
“Change, yes!” Crowley said. “My change, yes. Getting you to try new things like Netflix and Pinterest and baking, sure, yes, absolutely. But this,” he waved his hand in Aziraphale’s direction. “This change. This change is you. You’re changing you. You never change you. You like your corporation. You like your hair. Your face. Your clothes. You love tartan.”
“Well, it is stylish,” Aziraphale interjected.
“Stylish, yes!” Crowley said. “Exactly. But now, no tartan. No waistcoat and bowtie. You’re changing.”
“But I thought you wanted me to change?” Aziraphale said.
“Change things that you do,” Crowley said. “Try new things I know you’d enjoy. Like, like new foods, or new books, or new friends. Not change the things that make you you.”
“But I thought-” Aziraphale started, then stopped. “Oh dear,” he said quietly. “I do believe we’ve rather the misunderstanding. I thought… well, you’re always so smart and up-to-date, and I’m rather, well, old-fashioned. I guess I feared that if I didn’t try new things, you might, well, get bored of me.”
Get bored of him?
Get bored of him.
“Six thousand years, angel,” Crowley said quietly. “We went up against heaven and hell. I stood against Satan themself. I know exactly what you’re like. Why would I get bored of you now?”
“Oh, my dear.”
“Don’t change, angel. Not who you are. Not for the sake of changing. And not for me. Never for me.”
“Well,” Aziraphale said slowly. “I do rather miss the tartan. And the waistcoat. And the beard is rather uncomfortable. And as impressive as it is, it’s not really me.”
Crowley started to smile.
“But I really do wish you had said something earlier, my dear.”
Ah.
“But I guess that’s not in your nature. And I wouldn’t want you to change either.”
Urrrrgghgghghg.
“Maybe we should accept that communication is something we both should work on.”
Bastard. His angel was that little bit of a bastard.
And he wouldn’t want it any other way.
“Crowley.”
He stopped before he could get fully out of the room.
“With all the changes with my beard and my clothes and all of that, you didn’t think that I might, I’m not sure how to put it, change my mind about you as well? About us? About this?”
There was a raw earnestness to Aziraphale’s expression as he waved vaguely around himself, at the life they had built together, at the plants and the books and the knickknacks and the artwork. Of the unique blending that was them.
“Of course not, angel,” Crowley replied as lightly as he could considering no amount of swallowing was getting rid of the weird lump in his throat.
“Because I would never-”
“I know.”
Because of course Crowley knew that. He absolutely knew that. No doubt in his mind at all. After six thousand years there was no way Aziraphale would ever turn around and decide he no longer needed Crowley in his life.
Was there?
No. Of course not.
But that wasn’t what this was all about at all, was it?
Was it?
Urrrrgggggghhhhh.
Maybe the primroses could do with a bit more shouting.