Work Text:
He hadn’t realized it until Crowley stepped inside.
Before, working on his own, very cloistered and focused unblinkingly upon turning his bookshop into a shrine for the things he loved, Aziraphale hadn’t given it a thought. Choosing colors for the walls, inside and out, had been as any other task in the building's construction: his tastes alone would dictate what he did, for this would be his home, his resting-place away from Heaven. After his choice to carve out the cardinal directions in the center, there was nothing upon which he dwelled for long. He simply made choices; decided, on impulse, what pleased him best.
And then Crowley came inside, and all at once the rich, spiced red and the warm gold struck through Aziraphale's heart. They had been whims. He was sure of it. Crowley had never once entered into his mind in their choosing, and yet....
A secret part of him lay exposed. Worse than the feeble excuse of a "bookshop" to justify his material desires; worse than the continued indulgence in food. Far worse, for if Crowley should see his reflection in Aziraphale's work –!
He found an excuse to shepherd Crowley out at once, with the promise of some wine at Rules, in all likelihood. The leaving, too, was swift, for the façade of A.Z. Fell and Company gleamed like Crowley's fiery curls in the afternoon sunlight.
Aziraphale returned, sober and alone, some hours later. Darkness had fallen, dimming the intensity of the paint; he touched the tempting red with the knowledge of himself burning in his brain, and he shivered. He mustn't keep it this way. He mustn't. It was dangerous – certainly to himself, possibly to Crowley – for him to make such signs and leave them where anyone, Heaven or Hell, might see.
The angel's hand slid caressingly from the deep red wood, still warm from the gloaming. He knew, already, that he wouldn't change. He loved what he saw too well.