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    Summary

    “You look… very pretty,” Aziraphale said as he took in the sight of Crowley, adorned in jewelry and silks. Of course, the angel was mocking him. Unfortunately, knowing that didn’t make the demon’s heart beat any quieter.

    Crowley scowled at him as he continued to fuss irritably with his toga.

    “Demons aren’t pretty.”

    “… Tempting, then,” Aziraphale said, a bit quieter. He was looking at Crowley funny, his lips slightly parted.

    “You alright?” Crowley asked. “Have you eaten?”

    Aziraphale licked his lips, and his gaze finally moved from Crowley’s hands tugging at his fine garments to his face again.

    “No.”

    There was a moment where their eyes met, and the air felt thick in Crowley’s lungs. He reached for his wine goblet and drained it, before tossing it into a large potted plant to be discovered by confused waitstaff later.

    “We’d best find the buffet table, then, hmm?”

    Aziraphale smiled. “Yes, lead the way.”

    In other words: Four times Crowley refuses to accept praise from the angel, and one time when he finally does.

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