Chapter Text
Crowley met his angel the day he Fell. He was not even being his usual dramatic self when saying this, no—a fall on the runway during Paris Fashion Week was indeed a capital-F Fall. Or, at least, it would have been, if it were not for the angel…
The first half of Morningstar’s Spring/Summer 2025 show “Straight from Heaven” was shocking in how mundane it appeared. The glossy runway was lit with scorching white light, not a speck of shadow in sight. The backdrop offered the only splash of color—a huge screen showing a shifting bird’s eye view of the most iconic landmarks in the world, arranged into an improbable skyline. The Shard, the Empire State Building, and the Pyramids were all visible at once, with the Eiffel Tower slowly drifting into view.
Conventionally handsome models, stiff and unsmiling, paraded corporate couture in shades of very light grey with golden accents. Crowley was no exception. With his silvery-grey tracksuit over a dove-white turtleneck, a pale golden scarf knotted loosely around his neck, he blended in with the rest of the models seamlessly, like a bee among the hive. It was not his worst look ever—that distinction belonged to the one that came with a fake moustache—but it was just as bland as the others. He could almost hear the fashion journalists in the first row composing scathing reviews titled “Fifty shades of pale” or maybe “Boring as Heaven”. He grinned to himself as he rushed to change. Just you wait. Lucian had a vision, Crowley held the starring role, and plenty of models would’ve given their right arm to be him that night. Well, someone’s right arm, he amended, recalling some of the models he’d had the displeasure of working with in the past.
Ten minutes later, after a lightning-quick clothes change and what felt like an eternity in makeup, he was back on the catwalk. The audience gasped audibly when Crowley stepped into the limelight and paused to let them drink in the sight.
The black silk shift looked charred at the bottom, the uneven hem offering glimpses of his bare ankles. High heeled jet-black shoes shone as if dipped in tar, glossy and slick, a smattering of black rhinestones catching the light with every move. A cloak enveloped his shoulders and arms, long metallic feathers glinting with a silvery sheen. Fiery hair fell below his shoulders in a tangled mane instead of the neat updo of his first look. The makeup team had barely managed to finish his change in time—arranging the locks in an artful disarray, replacing the subtle gold-tinted eyeliner with dramatic cat-eye, inserting the costume contacts that gave Crowley startling bright yellow irises with vertical slits… The result was worth it, though—he couldn’t imagine many spectators made the connection between the unassuming angel from earlier in the show and this arresting vision.
Crowley gave everybody a few seconds to stare, shook out the folds of the cloak to unfold them into full-blown wings, and started his walk.
And that went down like a lead balloon.
Crowley was an old hand at fashion shows, having walked more runways than he could remember. If asked, he would assure you that he could do it with his eyes closed. He had never had a reason to test this assumption, though, until today. The yellow contacts worked just fine backstage, but turned out to be nearly opaque under the glare of stage lights, leaving him with only vague impressions of the world around him.
Crowley would probably have finished the walk anyway, on instinct and out of sheer spite, if it weren’t for the shoes. Reliable and sturdy during the practice runs, they were anything but that when it counted. The heels felt unstable, turning Crowley’s signature saunter, normally confident and flashy, into more of a meandering stagger. He barely made it halfway down the catwalk—hadn’t even passed the last angel returning from the first part of the show yet—when the left heel wobbled one last time and snapped in half, and Crowley fell.
Well, Crowley started falling. He had a split second to envision a broken or at least sprained ankle and, somewhat hysterically, a career switch to modeling for medical equipment companies before he landed on something that was decidedly not the floor (softwarm, Crowley’s brain cooed in delight). He blinked his eyes open and, miraculously, the lenses cooperated, allowing him to see… an angel. The angel, more accurately—the previous model who abandoned his own walk to catch him mid-fall.
Crowley distantly heard the audience gasping in shock, followed by impressed “oohs” and “aahs”. Later, he would learn that Lucian’s last trick had gone off at that exact moment: the lighting changed, and the silver bled off his wings, leaving them a singed back instead. This was originally scheduled for the pause Crowley would take at the end of the runway, posing for the cameras, but the special effects operator had jumped on the perfect opportunity to complete his transformation into a fallen angel.
He didn’t care. He was cradled in the angel’s arms, staring into his alarmed blue-grey eyes under a halo of light, and not having a worry in the world.
The respite didn’t last, of course. Seconds later, the other model breathed out a warning and promptly hoisted Crowley up in a bridal carry. The angel walked back with perfect poise, holding Crowley as if he weighed nothing (softwarmstrong, Crowley’s brain amended helpfully), black wings trailing majestically behind them.
Once they left the spotlight and somebody barked “Crowley and Az off the runway,” the world around him exploded in a flurry of motion. The angel—Az?—set him down carefully and vanished, and after Crowley tore off the accursed shoes and had a brief but heated exchange with the stage manager, he was whisked away for his last change.
Meanwhile, the show went on. The second half featured “demons” in dark colours and bold designs, much more in line with Morningstar’s usual style. Crowley closed the show with his final look, a modern-day tempter demon in skin-tight jeans and a boxy jacket over a silky button-down shirt and a leather waistcoat—black on black, of course. His faux-snakeskin shoes had low heels, and his contact-free eyes were hidden behind stylish sunglasses, so this time Crowley made it to the end of the runway unimpeded. He struck a triumphant pose and, with a daring smirk, offered the audience a bright red apple on the palm of his hand.
The whole show was intended to be centered around two looks, the freshly fallen angel and the full-on tempter in the end. The media coverage, though, focused on a third one: a fallen angel and an angel with his celestial whites still intact, holding each other and gazing into each other's eyes with ineffable softness.
Crowley didn’t care that his face was all over the fashion news; he was more interested in the other face in the photos. The angel hadn’t reappeared after setting him down, and he’d never had a chance to thank him or ask for his number. But now, the media frenzy gave him a name: Aziraphale Fell.