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To the untrained eye, the angel sitting primly in front of the freshly-miracled vanity was the picture of serenity, with her perfectly coiffed curls and peachy little smile. But six thousand years of knowing each other gave Crowley a bit of a leg up vis-a-vis peeking past bogus angelic facades, and she was confident in her ability to read Aziraphale like a Sunday paper.
What she read was this: Aziraphale was nervous. The proof was in the twitch of her fingers, currently plucking aimlessly at her new skirt, no doubt trying to acquaint herself with the unfamiliar fabric. Crowley had insisted that her normal attire was fine– women had been wearing pants for well over two centuries now, after all, and Aziraphale’s duster and bow tie would look fine no matter what physical form she was wearing. But Aziraphale had insisted right back that this was a special occasion, and special occasions warranted special attire.
Crowley wondered if she was doing this out of some lingering sense of guilt. She’d always been the slower, steadier half of the pair of them, always taking one step back when Crowley tried to tug their relationship two steps forward. If Crowley was a horse, stumbling headlong into life without a thought in her head, then Aziraphale was an old, fussy mule, standing resolute as she watched the world roll by. Or, at least, she had been.
She’d changed a lot over the past year. They both had. Stopping Armageddon twice could do that to a pair of person-shaped beings.
So. New beginnings, fresh starts. A new body shape, one more of a long-lost acquaintance than a stranger. A new dress in powder blue, similar in shade to her beloved undershirt that she’d carefully folded and stowed away. A new pearl necklace, received that morning in the form of a gift box and thanked in the form of a long, languid kiss.
“Still can’t believe it,” said Crowley. “You’ve never done your own makeup? Not even once?”
“Well, it’s not like I never attempted it,” Aziraphale sniffed. “But all the powders and creams and such– oh, it was so confusing. Plus, you know what horrid concoctions humans put on their skin before! Some of it was dreadful! Best just to miracle it on, for my corporation’s sake.”
“Guess so,” said Crowley, smirking. “You’re lucky I got pointers in the eighties.” She palmed a palette of eyeshadows ranging from coal black to electric blue. Aziraphale’s eyes grew as wide as saucers, and her freshly finished eyebrows shot right up beneath her bangs.
“You promised you wouldn’t.” She sounded so affronted that Crowley couldn’t help but laugh.
“And what if I told you I lied?”
Crowley nearly lost her nerve when Aziraphale outright pouted, that pretty lower lip of hers looking every bit like a strawberry sweet. She hadn’t even gotten to the lipstick yet.
“Alright, alright. Less Debbie Harry, more Princess Di, just like I promised.”
“Lovely woman,” Aziraphale said. She shimmied her shoulders and clasped her hands, and though she still had that crackle of nervous energy about her, her posture slipped into something far less harried.
“That she was,” Crowley agreed. The demon put down the eyebrow pencil and reached for the compact of blush.
“I use cream, personally, when I do this,” explained Crowley. Aziraphale nodded so thoughtfully that, if she had access to a pen and paper, Crowley had no doubt she’d be taking detailed notes. The mental image warmed Crowley’s heart, and the angel’s rapt attention made it stutter. Dumb organ. Crowley couldn’t blame it though; even after six thousand years, those starry eyes always caught her off guard. When they’d first met (well, when they’d first met as hereditary enemies, not as two of the same naive ethereal beings flitting through stardust), Crowley had been thoroughly convinced that it was just a dastardly effect that angels had on demons– their gaze so holy it threatened to turn them inside out. But she quickly learned that the effect was strictly limited to Aziraphale. For a long time afterwards, she wasn’t sure whether that was better or worse.
“But you want subtle,” Crowley continued, wading through her wandering thoughts, “and powder goes on lighter. Easier to build it up. Smile?”
Aziraphale smiled, bright as sunrise. Crowley, still blinded by the sight even after all this time, tried to distract herself by dabbing powder onto the apples of those cherubic cheeks. She had a feeling that her own cheeks were blazing bright crimson, and it had little to do with her own heavy layer of cream blush. Aziraphale’s gaze flicked to Crowley’s face once or twice, but she, thankfully, said nothing.
“A little goes a long way,” Crowley murmured. “And a light hand helps.”
And, true to her word, Crowley kept her hand light as she could, the brush barely kissing Aziraphale’s skin as she worked. The angel, obviously comfortable, let her pretty eyes fall shut with a content little sigh. Crowley wondered if Aziraphale was aware that she was leaning into the touch, chasing the brush as it pulled away.
“Adorable,” Crowley teased. Aziraphale said nothing, but the blush on her cheeks grew darker.
Overwhelmingly fond, Crowley traced a path along the edge of Aziraphale’s jaw, her fingertips ultimately finding a home just beneath the angel’s soft chin. She tipped Aziraphale’s willing head to and fro under the guise of checking for imperfections in her craft.
There were none, obviously. She was a master, and she’d been given such a pretty canvas to work with.
“I’m sure it's fine, dearest.” She opened her eyes just in the nick of time, catching Crowley’s gaze before she could look away.
She could look all she wanted now. She needed to remember that. It had been hard won, after all.
“‘S not that,” said Crowley, voice soft. She had to reel back on the sappy shit before she ruined her own makeup. Tear stains were not part of the look she was going for tonight. “Your skin just looks nice, is all. You always look a bit like you’re glowing. Don’t even need any of this stuff, really.”
The pout made a reappearance. It took every ounce of willpower Crowley had not to kiss her.
“But it’s fun.”
Crowley lost the fight. She kept it small and chaste, nothing more than a peck, really; but when she pulled away, Aziraphale chased her mouth like she’d chased the kabuki brush.
“That it is. Close your eyes again?"
Aziraphale, pliant and pleased, did as she was asked. Crowley was instantly sorry to see her pretty eyes go, but she had work to do.
Dabbing primer onto the angels’ eyelids reminded Crowley of oil paints and old masters of the craft. Da Vinci had sketched their likenesses, once upon a time– and each time Crowley had insisted that no, this was not a couple’s portrait, the artist would roll his eyes and smirk. He was a complete bastard, and Crowley missed him every day.
A few weeks before their wedding day, Crowley caught Aziraphale hanging up the portraits. He’d pressed them lovingly into an antique frame, his fingers fluttering about as he tried to make sure they hung straight.
Neither of them brought up their cottage’s newest decoration, and Crowley definitely did not comment on the fact that the portraits, which had once been separated and now shared a home in the same frame, looked far better as one complete image.
If Crowley had her way, she would’ve loved to paint Aziraphale’s eyelids with every color the world had to offer. But a promise was a promise, and she was a demon of her word. She’d stick to a small, simple palette. Milk, cream, cocoa– a touch of luster because despite her insistence against it, Aziraphale was, deep down, a creature of decadence. A splash of blue– not too much! But just enough to suggest the idea of the sky, an impression of the sea. When she was done, Crowley realized she’d pulled less inspiration from Da Vinci and more from Monet. With the way Aziraphale had crooned about his work, however, Crowley was sure she wouldn’t mind one bit.
She kept the eyeliner classy– a touch of brown above her lash line, ending in the most fragile wing the demon could manage.
Crowley hemmed and hawed over whether or not to deploy mascara, and ultimately decided against it. Aziraphale’s lashes were long and lovely, and they were such a delicate shade of off-white that she couldn’t imagine clumping them together with any product. Instead, she dusted away any eyeshadow fallout, tried not to give in to the temptation to kiss her senseless when her nose scrunched up at the touch, then reached for the eyelash curler.
“Stay still, or this’ll become the world’s worst plucking session,” joked Crowley.
“I trust you.”
That was all it took, really. Just a bit of trust.
With her eyelashes curled and eyelids painted, Crowley moved on to her lips.
Well, she was about to. But Aziraphale seemed to have other plans. Eyes still dutifully shut, she reached blindly towards some biscuits on the vanity. Crowley was sure they hadn’t existed before, but there they were, placed just close enough for Aziraphale to grab with ease. She nibbled the edges without a word.
“We do have reservations, you know,” reminded Crowley. “They’re only an hour out.”
Aziraphale responded by handing Crowley a biscuit, then grabbing two more for herself.
With a fond roll of her eyes, Crowley waited for Aziraphale to finish her snack before uncapping the lipstick.
"Crumbs," Crowley explained as she brushed her thumb against the corner of Aziraphale's mouth.
Her lips were already soft, well moisturized and sugar-scrubbed, and though the angel bit them on occasion when she was focused on a particularly titillating passage of a novel, they were unblemished. In the interest of subtlety, Crowley picked shades that were indistinguishable from Aziraphale’s actual lip color. It wasn’t hard, really– Crowley could match the exact shade without hesitation, the color of that mouth was imprinted in every corner of Crowley’s stupid sentimental brain. That realization had been embarrassing.
Guh. It came in handy, at least. The lip liner was a perfect match, and the lipstick blended in seamlessly.
She wondered, as she often did, how she managed to avoid kissing her for all those thousands of years.
The answer was fear. She knew it intimately; they both did. Fear of being caught, being harmed, losing one another. Crowley knew that fear was why Aziraphale had such a hard time taking those steps forward, why Crowley herself sprinted through life like she might outrun those that meant her harm. She was ashamed of the fear she’d pressed into their first kiss, and was so grateful that, when all was said and done, she was given a second chance. And a third. And many, many more.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Aziraphale.
“Sappy stuff,” Crowley replied. “Gratitude, ‘n all that.”
“Oh, dearest, you’ll have to elaborate.” Aziraphale untucked her hand from her skirt and all the crumbs that’d gathered there. She made a complicated gesture, and then, of-fucking-course, produced a penny from thin air. “Penny for your thoughts?”
Crowley snorted, plucking the coin from Aziraphale’s perfectly manicured fingers.
“I dunno,” said Crowley, chucking the coin behind her. “Lots of things. Everything. Being able to celebrate this. Us.”
It hit Crowley that Aziraphale hadn’t worn makeup on the day of their wedding. It made sense– neither of them had, as they were male-presenting at the time, and hadn’t felt a need to do anything more than exist as they were. It was a celebration of their freedom, a final shedding of the shackles that bound them to causes they didn’t believe in.
Crowley knew that Aziraphale still had his wedding suit, pressed and hung neatly in their closet. It would stay there for eternity, most likely– perfectly preserved by the power of a miracle fueled with love.
There were a lot of feelings that came with the realization. Crowley had spent millenia experiencing so much with Aziraphale by her side, and the desire to keep experiencing things with her meant that any new possibility became an immediate temptation. She wondered if she could broach the idea of a second wedding, renewed vows, different bodies. She wasn’t sure what Aziraphale would prefer; wearing a wedding dress this time around, with all the lace and ribbons and veils, or seeing Crowley in one. Perhaps the answer was both. It would be a treat to find out.
Even though they strolled through life at about the same pace nowadays, with Crowley slowing down and Aziraphale picking up the pace, speed still frightened the angel. Abrupt change made her uncomfortable. She was still tugging at her skirt, and though her fingers were less frantic, it would still take some time before she fully embraced her new clothes. Crowley couldn’t fault her for that, and she definitely didn’t want to spring too much on her all at once.
They deserved a soft, quiet life, and any milestones they reached, they’d reach in tandem. They had eternity to figure it out, after all.
“Thank you for doing this for me,” Aziraphale said, breaking into Crowley’s racing thoughts. “It’s nice, trying new things with you. You’ve always given me opportunities to do that.”
Oh. Crowley swallowed, suddenly so overcome with affection that she fell mute. She put down the lipstick and looked at the angel, in awe of how easily she let her guard down around her.
“Can I open my eyes yet?” Aziraphale asked, hands smoothing over her skirt in anticipation.
“Wait,” said Crowley. “Last thing.” She spritzed a fine mist of setting spray over her handiwork, fluffed her curls, and straightened the necklace so it lay perfectly flush against her soft throat.
“Okay. Go ahead.”
Aziraphale opened her eyes, subtle brush strokes softening them ever-so-slightly. She reached for Crowley’s free hand, squeezing lightly. Her thumb found its favorite spot, and the demon practically melted when she grazed it across Crowley’s bony knuckles.
Before she even glanced in the mirror’s direction, she looked Crowley in the eye.
“Thank you for waiting for me to catch up,” said Aziraphale. She sounded thoughtful, as if she’d just woken from a particularly enchanting dream. “Celebrating this milestone with you is everything to me.”
“One year,” Crowley breathed. “Sure flew by, didn’t it?”
“It’s a blink of the eye, in the grand scheme of things,” said Aziraphale. “It’s a privilege that I’ll cherish for eternity.”
“Stop,” said Crowley, looking up and blinking rapidly. “You’re gonna get me going, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”
“I like when you cry,” said Aziraphale. Whatever expression Crowley shot in her direction made Aziraphale burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, I just mean– it shows a vulnerable side of you. You cried on our wedding day, you know.”
“Shut up.”
“You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen,” reassured Aziraphale. Then, with a final squeeze of Crowley’s hand, she turned her gaze to the mirror.
Aziraphale literally squeaked in delight. She brought a hand up to her cheeks, patting the rouge and staring in wonder when it did not transfer. She blinked her eyes open and closed, first simultaneously, then one at a time, marveling at the delicate colors. She brought two fingers to her lips, letting them hover millimeters in front of them.
They spoke at the same time.
“Oh, wait, hang on, I need to–” started Crowley, reaching for a blotting cloth.
“Oh, my dear, this is absolutely phenomenal. I can’t thank you enough.”
Before Crowley could stop her, Aziraphale pressed a tacky kiss to her cheek, leaving behind an imprint of her lipstick.
The angel was instantly apologetic, offering to dab it away or miracle it off, but Crowley held up a steady hand.
“Nah,” she said, looking it over in the mirror. The smooch rested snugly beside her snake sigil, and though it wasn’t necessarily Crowley’s color, it was definitely eye-catching. The lipstick mark itself was avant-garde, bold and daring– but the shade was subtle and sweet, soft and chaste.
“It’s perfect.”