âJust hang onâhang on, I almost have itââ
âNo you havenât,â Crowley says, without looking, because he knows Aziraphale doesnât. Heâs almost had it for the better part of twenty minutes now. âWeâre going to be late, you know. You could just miracle the thing on. You could just miracle a real one while youâre at it.âÂ
Aziraphale glares at him, extraordinarily threatening with only half of a curly moustache drawn onto his upper lip in eye pencil. The other half has been wiped clean several times when it has failed to be perfectly symmetrical. âI already told you,â he huffs. âItâs more fun when you do it for real.âÂ
âThis isnât even part of the show,â Crowley points out. âAnd besides, this isnât fun, watching you try and draw that on: itâs torture. Come here.â
âNo, I really do almost have itââ
âI didnât mean to miracle it, angel. Iâll just draw it on for you.âÂ
Aziraphale stops. Turns, the pencil still only an inch away from his upper lip, and blinks at Crowley, looking a bit boggled. Thatâs fair, Crowley thinks. He feels a bit boggled himself. He holds out his hand anyway; heâs not going to back down now. Itâs just a bit of make-up.
He beckons again for the pencil. âCome here, Iâll draw it on for you,â he repeats.Â
Thereâs another pause, but Aziraphale finally does hold the pencil out, turning to face Crowley fully. Crowley takes it and steps in close, studying the line Aziraphaleâs already drawn. He steps in again. A bit closerâthere.
Heâs only about two or three inches taller than Aziraphale, in these forms, but this close up, both of them standing straight, Aziraphale has to look up at him. Itâs a little heady. Crowley swallows hard.
âAll right,â he says, twirling the pencil around once. âAll right, justâhold your face naturally.â
The first line isnât as smooth as Crowley would like; he miracles it away with a frown. âSee,â Aziraphale says, triumphant but terribly hushed, with Crowley standing so close. âNot as easy as it looks, is it?âÂ
âShush,â Crowley says. He brings up his other hand. âIâm going toââ Touch you. âJust to steady, mind.â Heâs not sure which of them needs the reminder. Heâs standing so close now, leaning in just a little, he can see all the tiny lines around Aziraphaleâs eyes. All the tiny little lines of Aziraphaleâs lips.Â
Aziraphale nods; Crowley slips his hand just under Aziraphaleâs jaw, cupping the side of his cheek, lifting it up a little further so he can see better. Aziraphaleâs skin is warm against his palm. âOkay,â he breathes, barely more than a whisper. âTry this again.âÂ
He raises the pencil once again; Aziraphaleâs lips move, ever so slightly, as though in anticipation. âKeep still,â Crowley reminds him, eyes darting up to meet Aziraphaleâs, which is a mistake: Aziraphaleâs eyes are light and dark and bright and shadowed, heavy with the sorts of things theyâve agreed never to say. Hey, angel, he imagines himself saying, not looking away, hey, angel, if the world endsâif the world is going to end, would you ever consider sayingâ
âWeâre going to be late,â Aziraphale points out.
Crowley takes a breath, his thoughts scattering like the startled shreds of a dream. âRight, yes,â he says, looking away, at anything, to reconfigure himself in the worldâthere are the books, yes, and Aziraphaleâs collection of stupid magic trickery, and the Bentley idling by the kerb outside the door. They are an angel, and a demon, and all the space of heaven and hell fits neatly into the four or five inches left between them. âRight.â
He draws the second half of the moustache into place, using an extremely minor miracle to make the sides even, though not exactly perfectâthat would be a dead giveaway. He chances one last look at Aziraphaleâs eyes, but Aziraphale has already looked away.Â
Crowley drops his hands. He steps away, clears his throat, tosses the pencil back onto Aziraphaleâs desk. âThere you go. Good as itâll ever be. Ready?â
Aziraphaleâs fingers hover just above his upper lip, as though trying to work out the shape Crowleyâs drawn but remembering he canât actually touch it. âYes,â he says, and then there are his eyes again, muted now, as though heâs faltering in the sudden space between them. His voice is awful when he speaks: tenderness. âThank you, Crowley.â
âDonât mention it,â Crowley says, and he turns away.Â
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