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Carpets patterned specifically to hide all of London's dirt and grime wipe themselves clean as a dark, sharp-toed snakeskin boot clicks onto the bus. The seats, their panic now over, are cleaner than they were when they were built, the very thought of sullying one particular entity's cream-coloured trousers appearing so abhorrent to them that they entirely dismiss their new-found consciousness.
Black boots slink their way through the aisle, followed closely by small-stepping brown brogues; the owners of these shoes are engaged in quiet conversation, before the black-booted one barks out a laugh and sits down.
"Come on, angel," he says; the angel sits beside him, tutting disapprovingly, probably at whatever black-boots had said to the bus driver.
"Really, Crowley," brown-brogues says, sighing fondly.
No one on the bus takes any notice – they've far more important things to think about, like how clean the bus seats are, and they weren't clean earlier, were they? The TFL doesn't clean their buses. It'd be futile.
If no one on the bus notices the blurred, silhouetted reflections of the two new passengers, or how murky they are, or how they defy the very laws of reality, well – they could surely be forgiven.
–x–x–x–
They were sitting in the bookshop, passing a rather large bottle of wine back and forth, completely unaware of its habit of refilling itself each time they took a drink. Glasses had been abandoned long ago, sitting somewhere on the coffee table, little rings of red seeping into centuries-old wood. Really, the whole table should be red by now, what with how many times this has happened – but it knows what's good for it, so it stays its regular, oaky self, like the good little table it is. Definitely wasn't offered a deal by a very drunk demon some hundred and fifty years ago, in exchange for a new varnish. No, not at all.
"And- hic- and they've got them," Aziraphale is saying, eyebrows knitting together tightly as he cradles the bottle, seemingly using it to stabilise himself. Blue eyes glance downwards, mourn the bottle for a millisecond, and pass it firmly to Crowley, who still hasn't figured out what the angel was saying.
"What?"
"They've got them. Oranges," says the angel, gesticulating wildly with his hands. He's starting to lean over to one side.
"What about oranges?"
"They've got them!" The corners of his mouth fold downwards into a half-frown, half-pout, an expectant expression on his face. "What aren't you- oogh," Aziraphale gasps, jolting himself upright from his previous 80-degree angle. "Why didn't you tell me I was falling?"
"Couldn't, angel," Crowley says, taking a short sip. He then looks at the bottle as if it's offended him, and takes a much larger sip which any reasonable person would call a 'swig'. Despite what they might think, neither Crowley nor Aziraphale are what anyone, let alone the average person, might call 'reasonable'. "Was lookin' at you."
A blush rises to the angel’s cheeks, blotches of pink joining his already alcohol-reddened face. Then, he realises something – or, more accurately, remembers something – and his head wilts down in an almost prayer-like manner.
"I want to look at me," Aziraphale sighs grumpily, shoulders drooping with his thoughts. Sitting with his misery alone feels awful, so he reaches clumsily for the bottle, pulling it out of Crowley's loose grasp.
"Whaddyou mean," Crowley says – well, asks, really, but it comes out more like a 'says'.
"I want to see what I look like."
"S'a mirror, there." And there is – a full-length mirror, with a smooth wooden frame and perplexingly dust-free glass.
Aziraphale sighs bodily, slumping over a little as he does. "That won't work, Crowley," he moans, looking at the demon imploringly. What he's imploring about, Crowley doesn't know.
"Why not? S'a mirror, s'supposed to... reflect, an' all that stuff."
"Well, yes, but it reflects, you know, me, rather than my me."
"What does that even mean? Angel, you're not making sense."
Aziraphale huffs – a little indignant thing which really shouldn't do so much to Crowley's heart. A wiling, fly-away hand rubs absent-mindedly at his chest, and the demon attached files that interaction away to unpack later, wilfully ignoring the fact that he now has so many moments tucked away that his mind looks like an active Amazon warehouse.
Aziraphale, for his part, remains patient, if grumpy – so, he stands, wobbly and slow but solidly enough to keep his balance, and asks his demon to follow him.
They walk (and meander) across to the mirror, which looked rather like it had enjoyed being wherever it was before being summoned rather suddenly into a dusty old corner of an equally old and infinitely dustier bookshop. Aziraphale parks himself in front of it, standing with his hands clasped together in front of him; he doesn’t hate looking in the mirror, but he does hate that he can’t see his corporation – in front of him, instead, is a- well, him. A central pillar of light, warm and cold and iridescent all at once, with millions of eyes and hands and wings orbiting him like one of the earlier star system experiments that went horribly wrong and had to be Undone by Her. All of Heaven had heard about that one, and once, sometime in the ninth century, he’d brought it up to Crowley, who told him that marketing should not have gotten involved.
And here he is, fire and rings and feathers, and sensory organs which might be eyes or ears or noses or mouths but which are definitely all of the above, sitting in a mirror’s reflection.
You see, what they say about mirrors being a passageway to another dimension isn’t entirely untrue. Before all the fighting – before fighting had even been invented – there were mirrors. Mirrors which were used in much the same way Humans use phones now: to communicate. Except, no one really had corporations until the idea of a human was unveiled, so when they all adopted their corporations, they didn’t appear in the mirrors, because that would interrupt their communications. Angels and demons, they’re all from the same stock, cut from the same cloth. Humans, however, are far more delicate; when they see something impossible, their minds simply reject it in favour of remaining sane. So, when the bus passengers watched two celestial beings walking down the aisle, their reflections were little more than blurry human-ish shapes wading through murky glass.
Not to Aziraphale and Crowley, though.
“Oh,” says Crowley, who stares at Azriaphale’s pure form from just over wherever his corporation’s left shoulder might be. Being that Aziraphale is a Principality, he is not small, so Crowley ends up somewhere within the pillar of light, nearly blinded by its glory. He himself coils around where Aziraphale’s corporation should be, millions of tiny black and red snakes cringing away from the light while also trying to burrow into it.
“Ooh, do be careful, Crowley,” Aziraphale coos, fluttering his hands around until he turns and covers the demon’s corporeal eyes.
“I see what you mean, angel.”
“Hm.”
They fall into a peaceful silence, Aziraphale’s hands still covering Crowley’s eyes as they shuffle back towards the sofa, before the two of them realise how close they are; slowly, the (human) hands are removed from Crowley’s face, and Aziraphale comes back into view, looking… normal as ever.
They’d both be lying if they said they’d never caught a glimpse of one another’s ethereal and occult forms, respectively – but, a glimpse, once caught, must be broken away from; it’s simply impolite to do anything otherwise. A glimpse, or even hundreds of glimpses, is nothing compared to a good, long look.
“I, uh- ngk- hnnn- gotthesamething, y’know,” Crowley sputters, attempting to regain some semblance of… well, he’s not sure what, but not this. This is very nearly intimate.
“I saw,” comes the reply, hummed out softly like he can’t quite believe it.
Silence laps over them again, the shoreline of normalcy being slowly eroded by it, piece by piece. Eventually, Crowley makes an awkward, terrible joke, and Aziraphale laughs, and their evening continues on as if nothing had ever happened.
–x–x–x–
Three months on, they’re sitting on the floor in Crowley’s flat. The kitchen is a mess, the bathroom’s got no toilet paper, and Crowley’s alcohol cupboard has been quite thoroughly raided. Also, they might have sent Jamie Oliver to Hell.
“I don’t understand,” Aziraphale whines, covered in what could, feasibly, be flour, but what is, more likely, the goopy horror they’d brought to life in their attempt to make dumplings. “We followed the instructions perfectly!”
“Should’ve just gotten takeaway,” Crowley groans, not for the first time. He’s still picking goop out of his hair; just when he thinks he’s got a bit out, it hardens, having been touched too many times, so he moves onto another bit while he waits for the last one to liquify once more. “I’m gonna call the Chinese down the road, once this infernal mess is out of my hair.”
“At least you can see it in yours,” the angel huffs, selecting a bottle of Tesco’s own wine. “...Why?”
“Forgot I had the cupboard, wanted something quick,” Crowley replies, not even having to look at what Aziraphale’s asking about. “That was around the time I delivered the Antichrist wrong.”
“Ah…”
By the time the takeaway arrives, both Aziraphale and Crowley were clean as whistles, having remembered that they can just… miracle their accidental homunculus goop away. Dinner was had, along with copious amounts of wine (excluding the Tesco’s wine. Aziraphale would not be caught dead – inconveniently discorporated or otherwise – drinking Tesco’s wine). All of that is to say, the stress of their failed cooking venture and their arguably irresponsible consumption of alcohol can be blamed for what comes out of Aziraphale’s mouth.
“We should paint each other.”
Silence.
“What.”
“We should paint each other,” Aziraphale reiterates, turning his head up slightly at Crowley as if to challenge him to disagree. Crowley, being Crowley, does no such thing.
In fact, Crowley adores the idea. A painting- …activity. Definitely not a date-ish thing to do. Together. Alone. On his living room floor. Not a date. And certainly not so he has an excuse to watch Aziraphale intently for three hours.
“My dear, are you going to fetch the paints or shall I?”
“Fetch the- I don’t just have painting equipment sitting about my flat, angel,” Crowley half-laughs. He’s about to make a joke about paintbrushes and stroking, before something in Aziraphale’s face puts his mind on alert. “...Do you have paint stuff sitting about the bookshop?”
“I’ll have you know, I do, as a matter of fact,” Aziraphale announces – he raises his eyebrows, surprise evident on his face. “I’d have expected the same of you.”
“Oh, come off it, angel,” Crowley replies, dragging out the last syllable until his grumble starts turning into a gurgle, “you know I’m not a hobbyist.” It’s a fat load of bollocks, but Aziraphale doesn’t need to tell him that, so he simply raises an eyebrow and moves on. Bastard.
“Well, I’ll simply have to summon it from my shop.” With a click of his perfectly-manicured fingers, a white sheet covered in dashes of long-dried paint appears below them like a picnic blanket; a tray of acrylic paints materialises, along with a set of paintbrushes, all laid out neatly in a fancy-looking wooden box. Two palettes appear, with easels and decently-sized canvases, in front of them, creating a sort of barrier so they can’t see one another’s portraits.
“Oh,” Crowley says, smartly.
“They’re acrylics because, while I do prefer oils, they take forever to dry, and I cannot have you poking around at your portrait before it’s finished, my dear – it simply wouldn’t be ‘on’, as you put it. Now, shall we start?”
“Wine first,” Crowley manages to say, pouring both of them a generous helping from a bottle which, really, should’ve been in Aziraphale’s basement. “See you on the other side of it, angel.”
Crowley thinks he’s going to throw up. He’s looking at Aziraphale, and he’s allowed – encouraged – to look, to know, to commit to memory every single plane of his face, every muscle he moves when he thinks. He’s done it millions of times, over and over again, in dark pubs or over the heads of an angry mob. But now, he can do it for as long as he likes, and he wants to get it right, he wants Aziraphale to know how beautiful he is. With no small amount of anticipation, he begins to paint.
Aziraphale thinks he’s going to melt. He’s looking at Crowley, and he simply must in order to capture him. He must watch, look, wait for the way he raises his brow, for the slight wrinkle in his nose to appear when he’s concentrating on something particularly befuddling. He’s done it millions of times, over and over again, in crowded hallways and during under-the-table deals. But now, he can do it for as long as he likes, and he wants to get it right, he wants Crowley to know how gorgeous he is. With a great amount of care, he begins to paint.
If either of them grow flustered at the idea of the other watching them, they don’t mention it.
–x–x–x–
Silver light cascades through large windows, coating an ex-angel and ex-demon in its ghostly glow as they sip on wine, passing the glass between them every now and then. At one point, Crowley had stuck his very much used paintbrush into his wine, so the two made do with one glass instead. They both knew there were more glasses in the cupboard, but if neither of them acknowledged it, then they could continue sharing their glass in peace, and so they did.
“Go on, you show yours first,” Aziraphale says, almost giggling with excitement, watching Crowley go through the five stages of grief before he picks up his canvas and, ever so slowly, turns it.
A peach-pink blob sits in the middle of the canvas, clearly layered on too thick; atop the pink sit two spots of blue, as if they’d been squeezed straight out of the tube. White whisps of what might possibly be hair stand out like static from painting-Aziraphale’s head, the edges muddied by a bright yellow background which makes what is probably his waistcoat look grey in comparison. Crowley drums his fingers on the sides of the canvas nervously, getting multicoloured fingerprints all over the canvas’ edges, the demon evidently unaware of his actions. It’s the most earnest, soulful painting Aziraphale has ever seen.
“Oh,” he gasps, a bright, wide grin weaseling its way onto his face and settling there, not to be moved for love nor money. Clearly, it’s not the right response, because Crowley panics.
“Look, angel, I know it’s not my best work, and I’ve never been a painter, not really, and, y’know, you’ve probably been painted by a bajillion masters now, and it’s not really a good look at yourself, not the way I see you, but-”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says far more calmly than he feels. “I love it.”
“Oh,” says Crowley, deflating. Then, he smiles the loveliest smile known to… well, anyone, ever, at all. “That’s alright then.”
They sit in each other’s silence for a short while; Aziraphale pretends to stare at the painting, and Crowley pretends to begin clearing his side up, but really, they’re just playing in an elaborate staring contest wherein the opposition cannot know you’re looking at them.
“Oh, oi, your turn now, angel,” Crowley says eventually, having remembered what it is they’re doing. “Bet you got paint on your- woah.”
Woah, because Aziraphale – wonderful, enigmatic Aziraphale – turns his canvas around, and it is a masterpiece. Crowley knows he can be biased. Crowley knows he is definitely biased when it comes to Aziraphale. But, in all his years, he’s never seen this: someone whose art has really, truly flourished. ‘Only acrylics’, he’d said, and Crowley knew, he knew Azraphale had something hiding up his sleeve when he’d said that. Because, in front of him, it’s like a photo. Actually, it’s better than a photo – it’s like the image has been taken directly out of Aziraphale’s mind. Each brushstroke is so exact, so smooth, that it disappears wholly amongst all the others, which line up into form like starlings murmurating in the open sky; the painting, vivid and bright, shows him, laughing, with his eyes half-closed as they scrunch upwards. His hair is crumpled slightly, out of place, and a flyaway hair sways in front of his face. As he stares at the painting, the flyaway hair falls in front of his eyes, and he takes hold of it between two fingers. He’d even managed to accurately depict one singular hair.
But the thing that catches his eye the most is… well, his eyes. They’re rendered in a way that very nearly makes him consider them pretty. Demon eyes, pretty? He may be drunk, but he’s not stupid.
“Are you alright, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks tentatively.
“Ngk.”
“Ah, I know it’s a bit unfinished, but-”
“Un- unfinished? Angel, when in the bloody Hell did you learn to paint like that?”
“Ah, uhm, some time around 1610? But I learned properly during the Romantic era, so around the 19th century.” Aziraphale smiles a wobbly smile at that – it’s a small thing, coy, as if he’s afraid he’ll get into trouble. “It’s no Rembrandt, I admit, or even a-”
“Angel.”
Aziraphale stops talking.
“It’s perfect.”
The angel becomes a vibrant, positively exquisite red, and hands the painting to Crowley.
“Ah, well, there you are, my dear boy. Now you know what you look like.”
“What?” Why would he not..? Oh. “OH, yeah, nh, haha, thank you, angel.” Great save, Crowley. “M’sorry I couldn’t give you a proper one.”
“Not at all, dear, this is more than perfect.”
It’s Crowley’s turn to go red.
–x–x–x–
As the sun filters through the kitchen windows, two celestial entities pack their paints and brushes into a cloth, which miraculously avoids spilling paint-infused wine all over them before it makes its way back to the bookshop’s spare cupboard, safe and sound. Aziraphale drinks a cup of tea, while Crowley makes an impossibly sweet, frothy coffee from one of those fancy coffee machines that only runs on fresh Arabica beans and milk from one of three particular cows living along the coast. As the caffeine enters his system, he checks his phone, and he’s hit with an idea.
“Angel, d’you want me to take a photo of you?”
“...What.”