Work Text:
With the patience of a – well, not a saint, obviously – Crowley allowed Aziraphale to drag him through the light-filled, vast halls of the Victoria and Albert Museum.
The angel’s enthusiasm about a new exhibition they had here was infectuous, though Crowley would never give any outward indication that he loved art as much as Aziraphale. Appearances, you know.
A deep sense of calm washed over him as he tuned out Aziraphale’s excited chattering about this or that painting, and instead was content to look upon the angel from behind the safe shield of his dark glasses. Aziraphale’s visible happiness caused a warmth inside of Crowley that he otherwise couldn’t feel any more, not to such an extent. He could enjoy the artworks at another time.
His relaxed calm shattered when he noticed a splotch of copper from the corner of his eye.
Swivelling his head around, his frantic gaze skimmed over the painting to his right. His heart stuttered to a screeching halt for a moment, but then, his shoulders slumped.
No. It wasn’t one of his. Just the painting of some random red-headed woman.
While Aziraphale still gushed on, Crowley turned to the painting, hearing the angel wander off only as if through cotton wool.
He had to admit he was a bit disappointed, but, actually, shouldn’t be at all.
Coming upon any of his paintings in a museum or gallery would only break his little fantasy, after all.
It had all started as a chance to annoy the prim angel.
They were in Rome, for the umpteenth time now, and had met by chance in a Roman bathing house (to this day, Crowley didn’t know which miracle Aziraphale had been supposed to work in a bathing house – must have been an awfully important one for the angel to come here since there were naked people all around, after all). It was hilarious to watch the angel blush constantly at all the uncovered skin in that place. Not that Crowley didn’t feel just as out of his league, but he was able to hide it better. This was supposed to be his scene, after all.
He remembered that they’d sold food and drink there, little luxuries like bathing oils and perfumes in exquisitely cut crystal phials, hand mirrors and jewellery. What they’d also sold there were small pictures. Small, erotic pictures. At the time, Crowley thought it a fabulous idea to quickly pose for one of those to afterwards gift it to the angel, simply as a means to get him even more flustered. When he’d presented Aziraphale with the rectangular wooden picture, Crowley had never seen the angel blush so hard, but he’d taken the gift nonetheless since he was way too polite to turn it down.
After that, posing for artists in the nude had become, well, a kink, even if the word hadn’t been invented yet.
In those early days, apart from a couple of antique vases, Crowley was especially proud that his naked, larger-than life form adorned the interior wall of a house in Pompeii. Pity that it was now buried under tons of ash (maybe he should pop over there in the near future, go look for the house in question; what a, yes, nice image that the fresco may have in any way survived).
With the downfall of the Roman Empire and with the Christians (and their bloody holier than thou moralities) taking over, the next couple of centuries hadn’t given Crowley all that many opportunities to flaunt his naked form – all for the sake of the fine arts, of course. Although… even during the Middle Ages, there’d been people who were a bit more… uninhibited. And that in a monastery of all places, but that was another story all in itself. Yet, there they were – or, they were somewhere, if they still existed –, two parchment codices with copies of some of the more daring Roman and Greek texts that were as of then sporting a nude portrait of Crowley on their pages.
When the Renaissance eventually rose out of the ashes of the infernal fourteenth century, Crowley had the time of is life. Suddenly, nakedness wasn’t a sin any more or something to be ashamed of. There were once again people who appreciated the natural beauty of the body God had given them, especially the artists. And they were all so incredibly talented.
Da Vinci, Botticelli, Rafael, Michelangelo, Tizian. He’d posed for them all. Even Rubens, despite the fact that Crowley’s slender body, be it male of female, wasn’t normally to Rubens’ tastes. The angel would have been a much better choice for the Flemish to paint. He would have looked divine, all cherubic face and pale skin spanning soft mounds of flesh, white-blond hair surrounding his head like a halo, and big blue-grey eyes.
Being sometimes a fickle thing, Crowley often enough lost interest in new hobbies that had caught his attention when they were new and en vogue. But not this hobby. On the contrary! The fun was just startin’. Poussin, Vermeer, Degas, Cézanne, Manet, Van Gogh, Lautrec (oh, the Impressionists were a sly old bunch, especially the Bohemians in Paris; not shy at all – could have been all the absinth though, now that Crowley thought about it), Klimt and he’d also posed for Picasso and his peculiar new style, later on for the equally as peculiar artists of the twentieth century. With the invention of photography, Crowley even dipped his toes into that metier. In that regard, Crowley was especially proud of the almost pornographic photos that young American, Mapplethorpe, had taken of him back in the 1980ies.
Yeah, those had been some wild times that he wouldn’t forget so soon. How far humanity had come; from the almost pure depictions of white-skinned virgins or gods to the explicitness of Robert’s photos. They’d made even Crowley blush – and he was really, really used to these kind of things by now.
With the angel nowhere in sight any more by now, his gaze strayed back to the painting in front of him for a closer look, which was, all in all, incredibly tame, hardly a naked shoulder showing. Not like some of his.
Although Crowley liked aiding the fine arts in that way, the real reasons for his behaviour ran deeper.
Much, much deeper.
Nobody apart from Leonardo had ever learned about his secret: That he’d mostly only ever done this when he knew Aziraphale was somewhere in the vicinity.
It was a game, nothing more, having started with a personal favour Da Vinci owed him. But in the darkest corners of his heart, the demon harboured the nice little fantasy that Aziraphale was the one to buy every single piece of art depicting Crowley because… because he felt the same as Crowley did about him. And by owning the paintings, he would show him the depth of these feelings in his own unique way. The angel was a possessive little beast who would guard things he held dear jealously, just like he did his books. A dragon sitting on its hoard was nothing in comparison.
It was a nice thought; that Aziraphale thought Crowley so precious that he’d hide all these pieces of paint-drenched canvas away because he didn’t want to share Crowley with anyone.
In his fantasies, posing for the artists throughout human history was only ever for Aziraphale.
It was the reason he’d never acquired any of them. After all, if they were in Crowley’s possession, how could the angel ever get his hands on them?
Not that he had, mind, but the fantasy that Aziraphale did have them all, hoarding them away, was still as strong as on the first day all these centuries ago in Da Vinci’s shabby little atelier.
Sometimes, Crowley wondered what had become of all of them. The paintings, not the artists. None of the artwork had become in any way famous throughout history, like the Mona Lisa or the Woman in Gold. Not that he knew, at least. He’d never encountered his own face staring back at him in one of these big, prestigious museums he’d visited all over the world. Maybe the bitter fact was that they had been destroyed, or were rotting up in someone’s attic, long forgotten.
“There you are!” Aziraphale’s voice suddenly turning up next to him startled Crowley violently, but he would never admit to it.
He made a non-committal noise.
“What a beauty,” Aziraphale commented as he stood shoulder to shoulder with Crowley to also study the painting the demon seemed so fascinated with.
“Hm.”
“But her hair’s not as spectacular as yours, my dear,” Aziraphale commented expertly, teasingly, causing Crowley to blush. With the bashfulness, a deep longing rose inside the demon – a longing he felt constantly, night and day, for thousands of years now. But most of the time, he was quite adept at hiding it.
It was just in moments like this that he couldn’t hide it any more, wasn’t strong enough to resist that longing, so that he now instinctively reached out to close his slender fingers around Aziraphale’s sturdier ones. After all, they were free now; nobody there any more to scold them or worse.
His heart broke a little when Aziraphale pulled his hand out of Crowley’s as soon as the demon’s fingers closed around his; as it broke every time a little more every time the angel denied him.
It was like this for months now, this gut-wrenching back and forth. In the bookshop or sometimes Crowley’s flat, they were quite close, giving Crowley the impression that they’d come to an understanding even without words, fulfilling Crowley’s deepest wish, but in public…
Swallowing down the hurt, Crowley didn’t say anything. He tried to be patient instead. Aziraphale just needed more time.
Not really paying attention any more to the art around him, Crowley followed Aziraphale through the rest of the exhibition.
Back in the watery London sunshine, angel and demon decided to take a stroll through the nearby Hyde Park. Aziraphale was enjoying a pastry, once again making these pornographic noises he wasn’t probably even aware of making, but which had Crowley’s blood boil with bashful desire. Sitting next to him on a bench, clutching a takeaway cup of coffee, the only thing Crowley could do was stare at his friend. And wish to be closer. Wish to lean in and kiss the sticky sweet marzipan from Aziraphale’s lips. Maybe now, at least a little…
Feeling brave, Crowley shuffled closer, and placed his hand on to the back of the bench. Surely that was okay. If he’d move it just a little down, his arm would encircle Aziraphale’s shoulders. He’d done it thousands of times before, but these days, something was different in that closeness. Something about it seemed to shake Aziraphale though, when they were outside.
The moment his hand actually did touch Aziraphale’s shoulder, the angel flinched, and moved away from Crowley.
“Dear…” he said, his voice dripping with chastening trepidation and unease.
Appearing more composed than he really was, Crowley moved away until there was a “proper” distance between them.
“I see,” he said, his voice nothing more than a growl.
“Crowley, I don’t m…”
“Don’t say you don’t mean it like that,” he snapped. “If you’re embarrassed to be seen with me, jus’ say so, but stop toying ‘round with me.”
Aziraphale drew in a deep breath. “I would never toy with you!” he protested Crowley’s accusations, fiercely offended.
Crowley looked at him, his yellow gaze seeming to pierce Aziraphale into place like a caught insect, even through his dark glasses. “No?” He reclined against the backrest, and spread his legs to sprawl on the bench in a more comfortable way; his way of showing that he didn’t care, it was all cool. “What would you call what we’re doing behind closed doors while I’m not good enough for you in public?” he drawled mockingly. “I call that toying around.”
“This is not true.” By now, Aziraphale was noticeably angry. Irritated, he pressed his lips together, and stared straight ahead instead of at Crowley.
Crowley scoffed, the sound more miserable than sarcastic. He waved his hand between them. “Tha’ distance between us says otherwise.”
At that, Aziraphale actually started to squirm before he thought better of himself. His pastry long forgotten beside him on the bench, he clenched his hands into fists, and pressed them into his thighs, his back ramrod straight and unmoving now. “I can’t help it if I’m still worried about Heaven seeing us together.”
“We’re free of them!”
“I know that!” Aziraphale cried, exasperated. “But these things take time. I told you once, you go…”
“Too fast for you, yeah, I know that.” Crowley snorted, and couldn’t help the maliciousness surging up inside him like heartburn. Threateningly, he leaned closer to Aziraphale, staring at him intensely. “Aeons of being an obedient little angel ‘s hard to unlearn, I suppose. Give me a call when I’m more to you than a bloody convenience.”
Alarmed, Aziraphale’s gaze snapped up to him. “Crowley!”
“I’m really tired of this, angel,” Crowley murmured while rising from the bench, knowing Aziraphale could still hear him. Then, he sauntered away, not looking back once. He had better things to do. Wallowing in self-pity for example. At his flat, a bottle with whisky had his name on it.
Aghast, Aziraphale stared after Crowley. He couldn’t believe what just happened. He thought they were past all this… All of…
“Oh, bugger,” he mumbled when – eventually – it hit him like a sledgehammer to the head.
Wringing his hands furiously, Aziraphale’s hectic gaze flitted around so as if hoping for a solution to just spring out at him from behind the nearest bush. Meanwhile, his thoughts were tumbling over each other, one more vicious and accusing than the other.
He’d really hurt Crowley through his – admittedly – inconsiderate behaviour, hadn’t he? But it was just… it was him who was the inadequate one! Not Crowley. Never Crowley. He must see that… Didn’t he? He must surely know in how high a regard Aziraphale held him!
“You idiot angel,” he lamented softly as he realised, no, Crowley didn’t know that. How could he? His accusations were true, were they not. Aziraphale had only ever given him the impression that he was indeed a mere convenience for him. After all, it was so lovely practical when Crowley turned out of the blue like a knight in shining black armour to safe Aziraphale from any mess he’d stumbled into, or to do him a favour.
It was a very bitter thing to realise that, for thousands of years, he’d taken his best, his only friend for granted. And now that they were finally free of all obligations, now that they had the chance to become something more, Aziraphale was so stupid to break his heart. Just because he wasn’t as strong as Crowley. He wished he were; being able to simply shrug off Heaven’s influence on him. But he couldn’t. It was the truth, he really needed more time. But… but his own shortcomings could never take precedence over Crowley’s heart.
He felt his own heart break into a thousand little pieces. What kind of person was he? What kind of angel? A blasted being of love?! He loved everything on this Earth, but then he went and shattered the one being that actually mattered through his thoughtlessness. He wasn’t worthy to be friends with Crowley. Let alone have more tender feelings for him.
“I thought you knew,” he whispered. He really did. Since they were free of their respective Head Offices, there had been moments. Tender ones. Between them, in the book shop, less often in Crowley’s flat. Looks that didn’t need any more saying. Moments that were, to Aziraphale, unmistakable, and let him hope that he wasn’t alone with his… with his love.
But turned out, he’d once more made a horrible mess of things – the not talking about their feelings part had probably been the gravest mistake they could both make. And now Crowley thought Aziraphale to be careless and indifferent. Had thought him to be thus all this time.
Oh, the silly dear thing couldn’t be more wrong!
Having to blink back tears, Aziraphale let his eyes sweep over the lush greenery and colourful flowers of the park Crowley loved so much, over the happy families, and couples, and friends spending their free time here, unaware of the plight of an angel in their midst.
Pressing his lips together in resolve, a fierce determination awoke in Aziraphale.
He needed to do something. There must be a way to show Crowley that he wanted to be with him. That he wasn’t ashamed of him, especially not about being together in public. He needed to show Crowley how much he loved him.
Thoughtfully, Aziraphale’s searching gaze continued to stray around. When he looked into the direction they’d come from, into the direction of the museum, a thought suddenly struck him like an epiphany.
Almost tripping over his own two feet, the angel jumped from the bench.
It had all started as a kind of game for him.
A game that he was playing for a long time now. It had started during the Renaissance, if he recalled correctly.
He stopped for a moment in the middle of the pavement as he gathered his thoughts, almost causing several busy pedestrians to crash into him. Aziraphale paid his surroundings no heed.
Yes.
He nodded, then continued on his way to the National Gallery.
Botticelli’s work and Aziraphale’s own acquaintance with the man had been the starting point for his… today, he believed, people would call it a fetish. Or a kink; he didn’t quite know the difference. Crowley would probably call it an obsession if he knew about it, and smirk at him gleefully. Aziraphale called it… he actually hadn’t a name for what this was. The closest thing he could come up with was love. Unrequited love, but still love.
Over the course of the millennia, Aziraphale was friends with many an artist. It was incredible how creative humanity was. During the Middle Ages in particular, he’d been so busy with blessing as many monasteries as he could because they created all the beautiful illuminations in the precious books that he earned himself a slap on the fingers from Gabriel once for neglecting to do some divine smiting of evil instead. For Aziraphale though, it was the most noble of actions to nurture these humble artists painting day and night the most extraordinary motifs in the name of God, not some silly war the humans thought they fought righteously in the Almighty’s will.
But in the Renaissance, oh, there, it had all started. It was like an explosion of senses, of colour, of themes, of creativity. It carried him back right to the moment Aziraphale had tasted human food for the first time, tempted into it by his dear demon all these centuries ago.
It was pure coincidence that, one day, Aziraphale discovered Crowley’s little hobby while they were both in Florence, while he had visited that promising young artist. Aziraphale had been scandalised. Of course. And intrigued, much to his shock. To this day, he believed he’d zoomed out for quite a time so much as to have worried the young human, while the only thing he could do was stare at the colourful yet delicately painted picture on Botticelli’s easel. Showing Crowley. In all his glory. His naked glory.
Some kind of epiphany had gripped Aziraphale with a warm feeling like the most divine light streaming through him, filling his heart to bursting. It was in that moment that he realised… that he loved Crowley. Had loved him for quite a while now. Maybe always had, and just hadn’t known. But in this moment, seeing this painting…
He needed to have it.
It was like a burning need to have it. If he ever told any other angel of this, they would rear back in shock, claiming he was being tempted in the worst way by Hell. Tempted, yes. But not by Hell. Not by evil. By love. By fierce love and yet also by his own sudden obsession (which, yes, was so strong that it could be considered as infernal) of a being that would never be his, would never even consider someone like Aziraphale. Struck down by his own cowardice also, that he’d rather possess a mere painting than the real thing. If paint and canvas were the only thing he would ever have of Crowley, then so be it though. It was easier to hide that piece of fabric than actually be with the demon. If Heaven and Hell ever found out…
At first, Aziraphale thought it a fluke, a spur of the moment from the demon to tempt a poor human artist into… something. But eventually, he realised that it was a thing Crowley did regularly. To this day, Aziraphale never uncovered Crowley’s reasons behind his behaviour (of course not, Crowley didn’t know that Aziraphale knew, was even collecting all his paintings, so how could they have ever spoken about his motives). He thought that he surely must like to pose for artists in that way. Or that there was some infernal mischief at work. Probably both. All in all, Crowley’s reasons for doing so didn’t ever concern him because…
Once again, Aziraphale’s feet came to a thoughtful standstill on the pavement, his eyes fixed onto the concrete ground in front of him. The humans hastening by angrily but effortlessly flowed around and past him to be on their way.
Because, in his head, he harboured a fantasy. A fantasy that Crowley was doing this all for him. That he was somehow tempting Aziraphale specifically with these paintings, knowing that, if the angel took the bait, he would hoard them like the most precious things in existence. By pretending he did this solely for him, Aziraphale could harbour the illusion that Crowley felt more for him than he really did.
Maybe now he slowly started to, but he wasn’t sure. He had the horrible feeling that they still weren’t on the same page regarding whatever was happening between them.
After realising that there were more paintings, would be more, he’d tracked down all of them; the ones already in existence, as well as those that were yet to come in future years. He needed all of them. He’d employed a whole network of expert agents all over Europe to look for these special paintings for him; some pieces he uncovered only by accident, like the two medieval codices, but it only showed how good his people had been back then. In his hunt for the paintings, Aziraphale was even more meticulous than he was with his books. In fact, this mad hunting for the paintings all over the known world had prepared him quite well for the task of also hunting for rare books in the coming centuries, expanding his love of prophetic books to all kinds of books so that he was eventually forced to open the book shop to store them all.
For his books, he’d opened the shop, yes, but, eventually, the paintings became another matter. By the middle of the 19th century, Aziraphale realised that he couldn’t keep storing them in the book shop any longer. The shop’s cellar was far from ideal for the precious canvasses, a miracle here and there to preserve them adequately notwithstanding. And anyway, his biggest worry was rather that Crowley would stumble upon them one day. Explaining that would have been… awkward.
Giving them to the National Gallery had been a relief, but also as if he gave away a piece (a big piece) of his heart because he loved to have them nearby, loved looking at them whenever he felt like it without anyone judging him for it, not even his own nagging consciousness he did his utmost best to silence in these moments.
It was for the better, though, and anyway, the Gallery wasn’t overly far from Soho, so he could go look at them when he wanted (that is, even he had to conform to the Gallery’s highly ludicrous opening times that banned him from visiting late in the evenings; how preposterous to thwart him like that!). Through some aiding blessings and miracles, he’d always made sure the rather new institution flourished and never got into any trouble, especially during Second World War, to keep his own paintings, but also the countless other treasures in their depots safe. It worked out quite well until today, even if he (or whoever he was posing as from the Fell family over the years) was regularly accosted by the curators there to tell them more about his collection. They weren’t stupid; it was obvious that, through the centuries, the subject of the paintings always looked so eerily the same, be it man or woman. Apart from telling them it was always members of the same family posing for the paintings which explained the striking resemblance, Aziraphale kept his silence, although all knew that he clearly hid further information. Yet, an angel was nothing if not stubborn.
Over the years, Aziraphale had continued to add to his collection, frustrating the poor humans even more with every single treasure he entrusted to their care. He even dared to venture into the medium of photography, and acquired the pictures that young American photographer had made of Crowley in the 1980ies – by now, Aziraphale had seen a lot during his several millennia here on Earth, and had become way more laid-back concerning nudeness and sexuality, but seeing those had his face turn crimson while his blood started to boil; as did some of the other modern works Crowley had done, but at least, all of them were quite tasteful (they were few, but the two of them could agree on a couple of things in their lives without any discussion; the quality of good alcohol as well as what they considered to be tasteful art).
He was surprised himself when he looked up next, and found himself standing in front of the column-lined entrance of the National Gallery. His heart suddenly beating up to his throat, Aziraphale entered the huge building, steering straight for the information desk. He smiled fleetingly at the young lady manning it.
“Good day, my dear woman. I would like to speak to the director, if you please.”
Before Crowley knew it, several weeks had gone by after his fight with the angel. He hadn’t heard from him since, which flung him into a whole new abyss of depression, unsure if Aziraphale wanted to be tactful and give him space or if he simply didn’t care enough.
He hoped it wasn’t the latter. Should know it wasn’t the latter, but with the angel, one couldn’t always be sure. Aziraphale cared for him, of that he was certain, but how deeply he cared…
For once, Crowley didn’t want to be the one to take the first step. He’d always done it, always gave in after a fight and come slinking back to the angel; never with an apology on his lips, of course not, but mostly at a very convenient time to help him out of a tight spot instead.
Losing all sense of time, the demon was shocked about the amount of, well, time that had passed, but was even more shocked when one day, it was actually Aziraphale reaching out to him. Surely not to apologise? That wasn’t him at all except for the really grave cases that demanded the Dance.
Stubbornness rearing its ugly head, Crowley ignored him for a good long while.
In the end, of course, he gave in just like he always did, missing the angel too much to stay away for too long. He supposed that was what you did when you loved someone, even if that someone hurt you. Right?
With trepidation sitting heavy in his stomach like a stone, Crowley made his way to Trafalgar Square. He already spotted the angel’s white-blond head from afar, and unconsciously straightened his spine, also wiping all nervousness from his face to put on a mask of cool nonchalance.
That mask slipped when Aziraphale, who seemed contrite yet determined and just as nervous as Crowley, bade him to follow him into the National Gallery with a briefly mumbled greeting.
Puzzled, Crowley looked around as they passed the mighty columns of the entrance area, passed currents of visitors just leaving. A guard in the foyer nodded at them, and even addressed Aziraphale with a respectful “Mr. Fell”.
All in all, it seemed that no miracle was making sure they could be here, but that Aziraphale was officially allowed to visit the National Gallery after closing time.
“Wh… Why’re they letting us in here?” he breathed, suddenly feeling small and unimportant as they marched through the vast halls lined with tons and tons of the best and most breathtaking art humanity had ever produced. Aziraphale appeared to have a specific destination in mind since they were passing all these artworks the angel normally would have been cooing about.
“Because they are storing my private art collection. I can come here whenever I like – at reasonable times.”
Crowley could practically hear the eye-roll.
“I was informed that this hour really tiptoes the line of reasonable, but they owe me quite a huge favour, and I needed to do this as soon as possible.”
Aziraphale’s sure steps faltered for a moment.
“And I needed to do it with just the two of us here.”
Now even more puzzled, Crowley dutifully trudged after the angel to an area where, if he recalled correctly, the Gallery normally showed the special exhibitions.
Indeed entering the huge hall reserved for that purpose, Crowley noticed a tall banner hanging left and right from the high entrance. But since he wanted to keep up with Aziraphale’s uncharacteristic brisk pace, and since the lights were dimmed in the halls to an almost romantic glow that only illuminated the paintings around them, Crowley merely caught a fleeting impression of the newest exhibition that was simply titled “The Redhead”. Strange. Since that seemed to be where they were going, and since it seemed utterly important to Aziraphale, he hadn’t heard the angel gush about a new exhibition before now, their time apart notwithstanding.
The mystery of why Aziraphale wanted to meet here was becoming an even greater one. This behaviour was strange, even for the angel. He…
Crowley came to a slithering stop with so much force that his boots made a squeaky sound on the smooth marble tiles. His eyes widened comically. His body had caught up with what it had spotted way sooner than his brain did, but when Crowley eventually realised – really realised – what he was looking at, he felt faint, felt elated, felt… He didn’t know how to feel, actually.
Because…
Here they were.
The paintings he’d posed for over and over again, during so many epochs, for so many different artists.
They were here, in this room.
All of them.
Together.
Ripping off his sunglasses, his wild gaze flitted around, taking them in in an almost frantic way, so as if to check as if they were really all here.
They were.
There! There was the da Vinci it had all started with.
Or over there. The Botticelli; prickly little man, who was so squeamish about Crowley’s male body that he’d, exasperated, promptly changed into a woman, and then wiped Botticelli’s mind of the spontaneous change (It was quite often that he’d posed as a woman since a lot of epochs weren’t so keen on naked males – apart from mythological or biblical figures, but not men as a mere object of desire, oh no –, but nude women in all forms were okay for society, the little hypocrites).
And… Oh Lord Almighty and Satan. His eyes glued to the painting hanging on the wall above him, Crowley blindly stumbled closer. He’d never thought he would ever see that one again; one of his most personal pictures, painted by da Vinci. Crowley as he really was, yellow eyes uncovered and staring at the observer, black wings starkly visible in this realm of reality, gleaming like ravens feathers. He’d shocked good old Leonardo with that one, but since they’d both been drunk at the time, Crowley wasn’t sure how much the master of all masters remembered (probably more than he’d ever admitted to afterwards). Eventually, he left the picture with da Vinci to do with as he pleased. Somehow, Crowley couldn’t look upon this painting despite the fact that it was such a personal one; the work that was titled “The Fallen Angel”. He didn’t know what had happened to it after it was finished, and had, for a while, dreaded that people would see it. But then, reassured, he thought that none of the humans would ever imagine it to be the real thing. They’d merely think this was just another biblical themed painting by one of the great masters like the countless other fantastical motifs throughout the centuries.
“That one was a commission,” he mumbled a little stupidly, staring now at the Le Brun Crowley had thought, back then, to have been commissioned by someone in the royal family of France since Le Brun made such a blasted mystery out of the client. He’d thought afterwards it was maybe lost during the French Revolution.
“Yes. By me.”
Crowley’s head swivelled around briefly to stare at Aziraphale. The angel only shrugged.
Drawing in a shaky breath, Crowley turned away again, taking in every single one of these paintings he hadn’t seen in decades, most of them in centuries.
The Gluck was there as well, one of the few paintings Crowley had done after Second World War. This, with him neither being man nor woman in body, had been just as personal to him as the “Fallen” painting. Oh yeah, those had been a great time; he remembered these painting sessions quite fondly, both of them, since da Vinci and Gluck were, by accident, a couple of the few selected ones to see him for who he really was, that he was more than his outward human appearance.
A lit glass showcase drew his attention next.
In it was…
Crowley had to swallow heavily. He blinked furiously when he spotted the unassuming little wooden board, heavily enclosed in that glass case in perfect environmental conditions for a piece of wood that was so old. The first picture of him. That which had merely been meant as a joke. And Aziraphale had kept it for all these centuries?
Next to it, carefully mounted to the wall, was a fresco that was quite faded at the edges, but was still clearly recognisable. In fact, it was in such a good condition that only a miracle could have saved it out of the ashes of the Vesuvius.
Spotting also the two medieval codices he’d tempted a couple of highly talented monks for, it all became a little too much for Crowley. With wide eyes, he focussed his gaze on to Aziraphale standing a little away. His sight was blurring for a moment as tears gathered in his eyes.
“What… How…”
“You know, it started as a game for me, back in the Renaissance,” the angel finally began, carefully, and a little wistful. Until now, he had waited patiently for Crowley to look his fill, waited for him until he was ready to talk.
But then, Aziraphale started to explain. He explained it all. And with every word the angel spoke, Crowley felt more astonished. Could it really be? Should, for once in his life, his wish have been granted and his silly little fantasy had come true?
He couldn’t help himself, while Aziraphale spoke, he needed to look upon these paintings again, felt as if he could never look his fill of them. But when Aziraphale explained that… “I always imagined you did this just for me.”
Crowley spun around again, locking eyes with the angel.
Had he misheard?
Swallowing heavily to wet his suddenly parched throat, desperately trying to regain his cool, Crowley stammered, “And… and then you go and show all of them to the world? Bit out of character for you.”
Visibly straightening, Aziraphale nodded. “The Gallery’s been bothering me for ages now to show them publicly.” He shrugged and laughed a little humourlessly. “One of the most valuable collections in the world, they said. As if I cared about that. Neither do I care about their moaning that almost no one except real experts know about these pieces of art, or that there are only images of them in specialised literature. They somehow think I owe them to the world.” He tightened his hands into fists at his sides. “I didn’t want anyone to know. Until lately…”
“What changed?” Crowley whispered, treacherous hope stealing into his voice. “This exhibition will shake the art world.”
“Probably.”Aziraphale drew in a shuddering breath. “But that’s not the reason I did this.”
“Then why?” Crowley asked, beseeching, and he closed the distance between them. The hopeful feeling almost bursting out of Crowley’s chest got stronger and stronger until he felt he would suffocate on it.
He only breathed out in relief, as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders, at Aziraphale’s next words.
“First, I wanted to apologise. I still do. So, please forgive me, my dearest, I beg you. But… more so, I want to show you that you are far from just convenient to me. Crowley.” His eyes wide and pleading, Aziraphale bridged the last of the distance between them until they stood almost nose to nose, their chests just shy of touching. “With all this, I needed to show you what I feel for you. And that I do so always, in private or in public. No more hiding. I won’t deny my love for you any longer.”
Love. Such a small word. And yet, it had the strength to shatter even the strongest demon. Crowley couldn’t help the raw noise that was wrenched out of his throat as if he was a wounded animal – the only reaction he could currently show to this world-shattering revelations.
Aziraphale’s eyes widened in panic.
“Oh no, please, my dear.” His blue-grey eyes hectically searched Crowley’s face, clearly coming to the wrong conclusions like so often. “I did the wrong thing, did I not? Forgive me, please. I shouldn’t… I mean… After all, it’s your body plastered on every surface here, and I should have as…”
To shut the angel up, Crowley resorted to the only method he could think of right this moment. He kissed him.
Turned out it worked quite beautifully. He should resort to that method much more often in the future.
Aziraphale looked a little dazed when Crowley eventually pulled back, looking exactly like Crowley felt.
“You’re an angel,” he whispered, managing to slip in a teasing note in his voice that was otherwise thick with emotion, “I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.”
Gasping, Aziraphale’s tense-looking shoulders relaxed at being given this benediction as well as the teasing. “Thank you,” he whispered, a mischievous yet fond, wistful gleam appearing in his eyes. “It’s been bothering me.”
“Of course it did.” Crowley smirked, then became a bit more serious again, and wrapped his arms around the angel who was, what a relief, trembling now just as much as Crowley. He didn’t know who held up whom as both sank into the embrace in relief, but they nonetheless kept standing on their own two feet.
“I did all of this just for you,” Crowley finally confessed into Aziraphale’s ear. “This was my little fantasy. That you’d be the possessive bastard you are, and would hoard them all away in case you felt maybe just a little bit for me what I feel for you.”
In his tight embrace, Aziraphale tensed, but Crowley could feel it wasn’t a worried tension, especially when the demon felt the ghost of soft lips brush the nape of his neck.
“I am possessive,” Aziraphale admitted in a rough voice. “But let the world look upon these paintings for all I care. Now that I have the real thing, I don’t need them any more, lovely as they are.” He pulled back, looking Crowley in the eye. A last shred of uncertainty gleamed in those big doe eyes. “If… If I do have the real thing…”
Crowley smiled. Not a smirk or a grin. A real smile that he knew conveyed all the happiness he felt blazing through his veins.
“Always,” he said before he leaned in for another kiss.
End