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Most days, Aziraphale rose early from bed, sometimes wriggling out from under Crowley’s arms, other times tearing himself from whatever book he’d borrowed from the Dowling’s personal library. Usually some political theory or biography of some famous and/or successful human. Dreadfully dull, but he missed his bookstore and unlike Crowley, he didn’t get the daily mental stimulation of teaching and child rearing.
The little cottage on the Dowling’s property was quaint, with two small bedrooms, a living room, kitchen, and of course a loo that neither of them used for much but bathing and fooling around when the family had a night out. It had an amazing bathtub, a deep, old fashioned affair, complete with clawed feet. Despite being fairly well furnished, it was missing some small appliances. One of them being a coffeemaker. They kept meaning to pick one up, but days off in London were entirely too busy between checking in with the office on high and sorting their personal business. They barely ever had the time to have a nice night out! So they were still stuck with Nescafe or Kenco, every morning Crowley complained, and Aziraphale would hum softly as he pinned Crowley’s hair.
The demon was decidedly not a morning person. He grumbled, growled, and his usual languid swagger was more like a stumble into wakefulness, heralded by sharp, violent curses, not always in English. There was pleasure in this quiet existence, even if they both sometimes worried that it wouldn’t be enough. After all, plenty of humans turned monstrous. Was there really any hope to turn the fate of the antichrist? Aziraphale was an eternal optimist and Crowley liked his plots. It was a semi-desperate act of hope and proaction.
Though his amber eyes were tired they were still intent as ever. He smiled faintly as he clutched the mug of watery coffee, Aziraphale caught the look out of the corner of his vision as he picked out the demon’s make up for the day.
“What are you smiling about?” Aziraphale asked, giving him a furtive look.
“You,” Crowley replied bluntly enough that it made the angel flush faintly. “It’s funny how seriously you take all of this.”
“Well!” Aziraphale huffed softly as he considered a warmer look for his eye makeup, something to bring out the colour of his eyes. No one would see it but him, of course, but that was part of the fun. “Maybe I think Ms. Ashtoreth holds herself to a certain standard.”
“Oh, does she, angel? Do tell.” Crowley sounded deeply amused.
“I don’t know,” Aziraphale shook his head “It’s more an idea than a narrative. She’s tidy, a bit severe and very exacting; she likes to have her way and is exceedingly good at getting it. Now what do you think for the lipstick? This bronze shade or a nude?”
“Nude would probably be better,” Crowley drawled lazily, eyes narrowing slightly in a faint, sleepy leer. “In more ways than one.”
“Oh, stop it, you old snake,” Aziraphale chided, the stern, almost exasperated tone was undercut by a small, pleased smile and flirtatious look. “You have an early start, and even if we did have time, you know it’s just too risky while they’re home. God forbid there be a problem with the begonias.”
The angel was recalling a fairly precarious event shortly after they’d begun their little ruse. A fairly heated morning interlude had been interrupted by Harriet Dowling having a melt down about the rose bushes being the wrong colour. Crowley had managed to sort her out, but it had made Aziraphale a bit more wary of being caught in some compromising position. Small miracle that she hadn’t used her key to the cottage and let herself in. He had felt rather bad having to gaslight her. He’d simply thought roses the shade of champagne would be something more interesting than the traditional pinks or reds, and hadn’t he always heard that Americans were obsessed with individuality? By the afternoon they were white as his wings and Aziraphale had managed to gently convince her that perhaps they’d looked different by dawn’s pale illumination.
Though Crowley would never admit to it, Aziraphale was reasonably certain he didn’t mind getting dolled up. The demon did have a point, however. There was no reason for Aziraphale to spend the time on his makeup and pinning his long hair into complex, elegant updos. Crowley was androgynous enough that a frock and a bit of padding wouldn’t get him a second look unless someone was truly suspicious. Sometimes the angel felt like Pygmalian, enamored with his creation.
While Crowley got changed, Aziraphale put the kettle on for his tea. He was a bit better off than Crowley in this regard. The angel didn’t have his elaborate tea sets, but he did have an infuser, saving his delicate palate from bagged teas. While he missed the stability of life in Soho, this reminded Aziraphale of the old, nomadic days before they followed the Romans to Brittania. Modernity had made their work more nuanced and complex, especially as society became more and more liberated from the uglier trappings of human prejudice and fear. Things weren’t perfect, but at least he didn’t have to wear a stiletto in his boot anymore.
Crowley re-emerged partially dressed, long hair slightly damp. It fell past his shoulders now. The angel hid a small smile behind his mug of tea as he thought about getting his fingers into it. Crowley always had such lovely hair.
“How did you get into all this, anyway?” the demon asked, a few minutes later, seated in a chair taken from the kitchen.
“Hm, what?” Aziraphale hummed softly as he deftly braided Crowley’s hair, only half paying attention to him.
“The hair and makeup.”
“Oh, when I was being mentored by that magician, he sometimes had me help with his show. Stagecraft and tart up his assistants, as I recall correctly.”
Crowley snorted softly. He truly disliked being reminded of Aziraphale’s little hobby. The angel thought he could use another hobby or two, but perhaps he embodied idle hands and devilry.
“Scoff all you want, my dear,” Aziraphale replied in a tone that was almost sickeningly sweet. It had taken quite some time for the angel to get a handle on sarcasm and irony, but being around Crowley had at least given him a good study. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be burning miracles and have blown our cover within a year.”
“Come off it,” Crowley said without much venom. “I have been female y’know. Even without going the whole way around and just dressing up, I would have been fine.” A beat before he added a bit wryly. “Perhaps they would have just considered me a very homely woman.”
It was Aziraphale’s turn to snort. He didn’t think the demon could be remotely considered homely unless he rolled around in refuse, and even then. It would have to be some very unappealing rubbish to say the least.
With his hair done, wearing a lightly padded bra stuffed with tissues, pencil skirt, and stockings, Crowley looked half done, a deliriously appealing androgyne, as they’d both been once upon a time. That small eternity seemed so ephemeral now compared to the time they’d spent on Earth.
He was actually quite good with makeup, knew how to pick colours that flattered skin tone, enhance someone’s best features, line an eye with great care, and shape a brow impeccably. Crowley had since become his favourite canvas. He loved experimenting and toying with seasonal aesthetics. Aziraphale knew he was the only one who appreciated his efforts, Crowley obviously wore dark glasses around the estate, and that was just fine with him. It made the angel feel special.
Out the corner of his eye, he spied the wall clock while he swept a small brush along Crowley’s mouth, painting his lips a faint shade of pink. He noted with a sense of pride that he’d gotten faster as well. They still had a half hour to spare and all the demon had to do was put on a top and smart wool jacket that matched with his skirt.
Against his better judgment, Aziraphale pressed a kiss to Crowley’s mouth. The lipstick added a faintly floral taste to his lips, and the angel should have pulled back with a smirk, perhaps cheekily grabbing a bit of tissue from Crowley’s bra to wipe his mouth. He didn’t though. Instead he ended up in the demon’s lap being kissed breathless. They were a magnetic force, drawn together indelibly, their only constants for millennia aside from humanity's tendency toward self-destruction.
“Well,” Aziraphale sighed when he pulled back, relieved that Crowley had chosen a nude shade so he didn’t have to fix and clean up so much. “If I didn’t know any better, you’d planned that.”
“It’s cute that you think that I didn’t,” Crowley teased.
“Cheeky,” the angel shook his head, trying to shake the pleasant daze kissing always left him in. “I suppose I’m glad tomorrow’s a day off.”
Crowley hummed faint approval as they separated, the demon to finish dressing and Aziraphale went to the kitchen in order to splash cold water on his face in order to soothe the brilliant, glowing flush of desire. It returned with a vengeance when Crowley kissed him goodbye until later in the evening.
A couple hours later Aziraphale would emerge in his much more elaborate costume. Crowley didn’t like it at all and thought he was ridiculous for taking such precaution to obscure and change his face. The angel only insisted if they ran into the Dowlings in London, it would be all blown straight to Hell. He liked to think he had a very memorable face, and unlike Crowley wasn’t hiding behind the ruse of different gender presentation. Worst case scenario, they’d stop by to ask if he had a twin sister who worked as a nanny.
He took a fresh thermos of tea along with a book to read to the garden, where the flowers opened as he passed by to rest on a stone bench. Oh, he’d heard the bafflement when it came to his work. Clearly he was brilliant but had anyone ever seen him so much as water a plant? By some miracle someone would always remember something. Funny how that worked out.