Chapter Text
Crowley was never a huge fan of art. Of paintings, mostly. It's not like he couldn't see the appeal, he can clearly recognize a masterpiece when he sees it, rather it's not the best hobby for him. His snake eyes can only take in so much detail from afar, he hated the thought of being near pretentious critics, and his sunglasses made every color seem dull and washed out.
He did, however, enjoy everything else about the painting: seeing the discarded sketches, getting to know the artist, hearing the details that not many people notice. Or, you know, having a very enthusiastic angel tell him all that and more. He'd much rather the second option, honestly.
Aziraphale would often invite him to galleries and exhibitions, which rarely meant looking at the pieces themselves, but instead getting a long winded explanation of them, words accompanied by gesturing hands and dimples appearing after a beaming smile. Naturally, he agreed, not without asking the angel out for lunch later.
The 1800s were interesting times for art, to say the least. Stepping away from strictly religious purposes and more into depicting reality that many people faced at the time. Salons and galleries were always present, but now more than ever were becoming a source of entertainment. Not like there was much else to do back then, anyways.
And yet, Crowley didn’t get to properly watch it evolve for the first half of the century. Getting sucked into Hell for doing a very good deed doesn’t exactly involve going to these galleries and hearing rambles about the meaning behind colors. Although it does involve what could only be portrayed in an average work painted by Fracisco Goya; the screeching of the poor, unfortunate souls, caused by agonizing pain from various creative torture techniques that hadn’t been used since the Spanish Inquisition, cries for mercy being met with laughter and even more pain. Lucky for him, he was out and about by 1862, right before the Prince of Hell decided to use some of Goya’s cruelest paintings as inspiration.
Still, the moment he managed to get out, his first meeting with Aziraphale after many years hadn’t gone smoothly. He knew the kind of favor he was asking, the exasperated reaction he would provoque, the argument that followed. He didn't know, however, the shift in the heavenly sight, going from tenderness to horror, and then to anger. No, not quite “ anger” . More like anger that comes from feeling offended, with a hint of sadness.
Ah yes, disappointment, that's the word, one’s he’s always been familiar with. From tenderness, to horror, to disappointment .
A year had gone by, the topic of that meeting was never mentioned again.
In his mind, Crowley had begun building a dam. A strong and resilient wall of concrete to keep his years alone in one place. He would walk over it, the dried land on his right, and admire the green horizon. If he ever wished to, he could turn back around to see the river, the water darkened by the earth beneath it, a fog that miraculously never goes over to the other side. He never turned, but the choice was there. Aziraphale didn't know of this structure, and Crowley would prefer to keep it that way; pretend the valley ahead was formed eons ago, grass that grew green only from the rain and not from the current. Perhaps, a nice place to have a picnic.
Over time, Crowley noticed a small crack starting to appear at the bottom. A few drops of water started to come through, in the shape of the look on blue eyes from the meeting. He tried to patch it, but the concrete mix wouldn't stick. He stared at it long and hard, a puddle beginning to form at his feet.
“... would you like to come with?”
Crowley blinked twice and shook his head, to startle him awake. He was at the fairly new bookshop, the right side of his body resting against a column. Aziraphale was at his desk, staring at him over his reading glasses.
“ ‘M sorry, what? Go where…?”
“To the Paris’ Salon. I read somewhere that they’ve opened a new exhibition, a whole new room for displays. I was planning on going on my own but… I thought that perhaps you’d like to come with…?” he repeated.
Crowley didn’t respond right away, he breathed slowly. The puddle wasn't growing fast, he could handle the presence of the look at the back of his mind. A rant about secret symbolism could be enough of a distraction. He turned away from the crack.
“Sure, angel. I could use a private tour”.
* * *
Of all the days to go to a new gallery, to try out using binoculars to get a better look on the works from far away, to let go of his river for a while, it had to be today. Of course it would, when has luck ever been kind to Crowley?
Turns out the new exhibition was not about praise or celebration of art, rather a mockery of those brave enough to try but fail miserably. They were at the Salon of Rejects, a room full of paintings that had been rejected by the Academy, for everyone to see.
In the midst of the mumbling crowd, they stood still, heads tilted upwards. At the end of their gaze, a painting hangs near the roof. Trapped in the canvas, an angel was seen, resting on what seems to be the top of a mountain. His toned body facing the right side of the painting, the light hitting the right spots and contrasting with the dark rocks beneath. His hands hold onto each other tightly, away from the viewer, arms stretching and lifting the elbows, hiding the lower half of the face. The visible upper half reveals a pair of eyes reddened from tears falling off of them. Fiery hair getting carried by the wind, showing furrowed brows. His wings frozen in the middle of a transformation: from white near the top, going through greens, blues and browns, to black at the very bottom. Behind him, other angelic figures were hardly distinguishable from clouds. Dynamic, overseeing, cheering. The sky was as blue as it can be, rain hadn't been invented yet.
The fallen angel rested naked. Not because of a lack of clothes, but a lack of curtains to his emotions. The pain, the humiliation, the rage. And for once, Crowley’s shades failed to protect him from the exterior.
He stood still, as he felt the crack of the concrete grow bigger and bigger, the puddle now the size of a pool. The river found a way to escape, blasting with pressure, filling the valley ahead. The flood washed over his senses, as he stayed firmly in his place, holding onto nothing, trying to not get carried away.
But the memories came back clearer than ever, not a single drop of pollution. It washed over the angelical figures in the background with faces he’d never forget. It managed to run past his fingers, holding desperately to one another close to his chest, as he begged for forgiveness. It plunged to the ground and scattered as soon as it hit it, a heightened ache spreading through his whole being. It slithered through the blood in his veins, to pump his pain, his humiliation, his rage.
"Oh dear…" a soft voice laments to his side.
In his mind, Crowley had been trying to get a hold of anything that came across his path. He managed to grab a large stick and dig it into the ground, keeping him in place. In the Salon, he had been gripping the cane to stand. Trying his best to avoid crumbling in front of Aziraphale, Crowley didn't want to disappoint him.
And then he remembered the look. His hand slipped and let go of the stick.
"Terrific, a shame really. Anyways, I'm gonna wait outside. Take your time, angel" the words rushed out of him, as he was stepping away.
“Wait, Crowley-”
Too late, the flood had already dragged him through the door into the next salon, searching for an exit.