Archive of Our Own ^beta

1450s, England

Sunlight filters in through the windows, catching on the wet paint where Aziraphale has dragged her brush across the linen-covered panel. She pauses, taking a moment to admire the sight. Her master told her she’d benefit from the natural light in the workroom, and she hasn’t promised too much. The painting is illuminated by the rare English sun, appearing bright and lively and positively holy.

Of course, considering the subject of her study this could very well be taken as blasphemy, which is why Aziraphale would never say so outside the privacy of her own head.

Dipping her brush into the copper paint, she adds another careful stroke to the strands of hair taking shape before her eyes.

Painting is turning out to be one of those endlessly fascinating parts of human life, much more complex than she initially assumed. Composition, techniques, color theory and the likes are only the beginning – having mastered those aspects by no means translates to having mastered the craft itself.

This stage, her master tells her, is where the real work begins, where she will learn what no theory could teach her. Practice, turning into experience, turning into skill. If she wants to create a single masterpiece, she will have to paint a thousand mediocre pictures first.

The number might have been an exaggeration on her part, but Aziraphale decided that it’s best not to take any risks. She is determined to eventually hit that mark, and has already made considerable progress.

Anything and everything that comes to mind, her teacher has instructed. And so Aziraphale has been painting. Enjoying the freedom that no one here really knows who she is, nor who any other non-human beings are. The freedom to paint whatever is on her mind.

Anything and everything, but particularly that which she thinks of often, that which takes up the most space in her head.

It just so happened that Aziraphale has been spending rather a lot of time lately thinking about Crowley.

It’s not exactly shocking – it has been quite a while since they last saw each other. 537 AD, it must have been. That dreary, damp business in Wessex. Crowley had been fomenting. So had she.

Crowley suggested that ludicrous idea of sharing their assignments between them, and they left things quite unresolved. A ridiculous concept, really. Downright blasphemous. Not to mention dangerous, for both of them, but especially for Crowley. Really, it’s like he wants to play with fire, and not the hellish kind that won’t hurt him. No, Aziraphale couldn’t possibly entertain the idea, even if that meant leaving him in the wet English countryside in a huff.

She wonders what he’s been up to since.

They’ll run into each other again eventually, they always do. It’s just been a while. He’ll probably look different, when they see each other next. Different clothes, though she does that, too. Keeping up with the times to the best of her abilities. A different hairstyle, most likely. He does like to try new things there, though the color seems to be a constant. Copper, or at least that’s how she remembers it. She has been wondering if she’s getting it right, or if her memory has altered the shade of it. A new pair of dark glasses, certainly, even if she’d rather he kept them off. Maybe even a new name again. That would be a shame. She’s gotten quite used to Crowley now, though she’s mostly called him that in her head. There just haven’t been many opportunities to do so otherwise. Earth is a vast place, and it’s easier not to stumble upon each other than to do.

It would be nice. Seeing him again. Crowley is the enemy, of course, but that just makes it more convenient – when they do meet, she’ll get to thwart his wiles and see a familiar face on top of it. Maybe even share a meal with him, if the opportunity arises. Have a drink or two. There is this local specialty that she just knows Crowley would love, a spiced red wine that makes her think of him every time she treats herself to it.

Alcohol is something Crowley will definitely let himself be tempted to. Not that the bar is high – he let her tempt him to things he didn’t even seem to care about trying before, like the oysters back in Rome. Which makes sense, all things considered. Such is his demonic nature. Normally Aziraphale wouldn’t want to encourage sinful habits, but, well, it is nice to have someone to try new things with.

She’ll ask him about the spiced wine, next time they see each other. If the humans still make it by then. These things do change so fast, and God knows when they’ll meet again. She’ll have to tell him all about it, then. Describe to him what he missed, and maybe he’ll make sure not to stay gone so long next time. He’ll be quite sorry to have missed out, she’s sure. He’ll say something scathing in return, but she’ll know just what he means by it, and then he’ll tell her about some new local specialty that she has been missing out on, and he’ll call her-

“Angel?”

Aziraphale yelps and drops her brush, narrowly avoiding an ugly accident on the panel.

Spinning around, her heart jostles curiously in her chest.

“Crowley?”

The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Nice of you to remember this time.”

Aziraphale would like to inform him that she is quite capable of remembering that he changed his name, but unfortunately all words seem to have deserted her for the time being.

It’s shocking to find him actually in front of her, not only because she believed herself to be alone, but because he was occupying her mind so thoroughly that very moment. There is no way he can tell, of course, but the uncomfortable sense of being caught red-handed still lingers.

Now that she isn’t lost in her own head anymore she can feel his presence, too. How deep in thought she must have been not to notice it!

He looks different, as she knew he would. Dark glasses, with golden frames that glint in the sunlight as he pulls them off. Dark clothes, according to recent fashion. He’s wearing a hat, black as his outfit, but there’s a white feather stuck to it, and a yellow flower – incidentally the same color as her dress. His hair is long again, growing past his chin in smooth waves.

She got the shade of it right, at least.

The thought brings with it a flash of panic as she remembers what, or more specifically who exactly she was in the middle of painting. She chances a quick glance back at the panel – the red is somewhat revealing, but there are no other discernible features, so really, that could be anyone.

Crowley follows her gaze to the painting, squinting at it, but leaves it uncommented. He just turns back to her, stating, “Well, this is new.”

Grateful to have something to focus her attention on, she nods. Then she remembers the brush she dropped and bends to pick it up, miracling the stain it left away with a wave of her fingers.

“Ah, yes. It is. I’ve been looking to learn for quite some time, but it took me a while to find the right teacher. It’s still early days.”

“I meant the gender presentation,” Crowley remarks, then tilts his head and concedes, “Though I suppose the painting is, too.”

“Oh, yes. Rather.” She looks down the length of her body, flustered. It’s easy to forget she looks different right now, especially when no one else is around. Every time she remembers, it’s a bit of a surprise. “I’m still getting used to it. People treat you very differently, you know.” She pauses. “Well. You do know.”

Crowley has experimented extensively with the look of his corporation, sexual characteristics included. Aziraphale, on the other hand, has settled rather comfortably into the gender that’s assumed to come with her usual body. This is her first time changing things up.

Crowley watches her fiddle with the skirt of her dress, lifting an eyebrow.

“Don’t like it, then?”

“No, I didn’t say that. I suppose I am more comfortable as a man, though it doesn’t hurt to try new things every now and then. Like the painting. Always something to be learned from it. Do you? Like it? On- on me, I mean,” Aziraphale adds, rather breathless as she awaits his answer, though she wonders in the same instant why it even matters.

Crowley seems surprised to be asked, but takes his time to think about it. He pushes his hands into his pockets, eyes raking over her in a way Aziraphale feels like a physical sensation. He tilts his head this way and that, probably for show, and makes a considering sound.

Aziraphale grows warm beneath his intent eyes – it’s nice to see them uncovered by any spectacles, though it does seem to enhance the effect somehow. It’s probably just getting hot in here with all that sunlight coming in. She’ll have to cover up the windows again, or miracle it cooler if she wants to keep the light to continue painting.

That, however, doesn’t seem like the best use of her time today anymore all of a sudden.

“It suits you,” Crowley finishes his inspection, ripping her from her deliberations. “Though I can tell you’re more comfortable in your usual form, so that one still wins out, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, well, that’s good enough for the moment. I suppose I’ll get more used to it in time. It doesn’t have to be forever, at any rate.”

Crowley cocks his head. “So what’s the point of all this? If you’re more comfortable presenting as a man.”

“It’s for educational reasons,” Aziraphale informs him. Crowley’s eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline.

“Educational reasons,” he echoes, gaze darting down her body. His cheeks are growing ruddy before Aziraphale’s eyes. It really must be getting warm in here.

“Yes, indeed. As I said, I’ve been meaning to learn how to paint for a while, but I didn’t want just anyone as my teacher. I finally found someone very promising, and it turns out she’s a woman painting under a man’s name! She admitted as much to me when I sought her out. Only she then told me in the next breath that she’d never teach a man her craft.”

“Ah. That kind of education. Got it.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale frowns. “What did you think I meant?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Crowley signals her to carry on with a wave of his hand. “She doesn’t teach men, so you decided to turn into a woman?”

“Quite so.”

“Didn’t she realize you look suspiciously like that man who just pestered her about being taught?”

“Well, I didn’t go about it as clumsily as that,” Aziraphale says, giving him a flat look. “I told her that I regretted I’d never get to learn from her, but I understood her reasons. However, I would very much like to send my twin sister to learn in my stead.”

Crowley snorts. “Your twin sister.”

Aziraphale blinks at him cantingly. “We look very alike.”

“Sure. Course. And now you’re stuck here, in this form, until you’ve learned all there is?”

“Well, it’s not so bad. I tend to forget about it, if I’m entirely honest, or at least until I go out into the world. But there’s hardly time to sit around and consider my body parts all day. I’ve kept very busy.”

“It certainly looks like you have,” Crowley mutters, gaze shifting from the painting behind her to the stacks of them around the room.

Alarm seizes Aziraphale as she remembers the contents of a significant number of those paintings, particularly in the corner of the workroom. Crowley has his back to them for the moment, but if he starts looking around…

“What- what are you doing here, then?” Aziraphale blurts out, perhaps a little louder than strictly necessary. It does have the welcome effect of Crowley’s attention shifting back to her, though he's looking at her a little strangely.

“Was in the area.” He lifts his shoulders, sniffs. “Started sensing an angelic presence when I was out. Figured it was you, so I followed it.”

As pleased as Aziraphale is to hear that he has willingly sought her out, she shakes her head and clarifies, “I meant what are you doing in the area? I suppose you’re here on… business?”

“Ah… yup. Business,” Crowley agrees after a slight pause, over-enunciating the last word. “You know how it is,” he adds, and then doesn’t elaborate.

Aziraphale narrows her eyes.

“What are you up to? Just- fomenting? Or are you involved in something I should know about?”

Crowley purses his lips, making an unintelligible sound that could mean anything. “Well, you know. This and that. Anyway, er, they’ve- they’ve not been giving you any assignments, then? Since you’ve got time to hang around here and paint all day?”

Aziraphale huffs, straightening. “Well, an angel is never off duty, as you know. I have some blessings to do every now and then. Had to perform a minor miracle the other day. In Ireland,” she adds, wrinkling her nose. Not because Ireland isn’t beautiful – it is, perhaps one of the prettiest places on the planet – but it did take her rather farther away from England than she’d wanted to be. “But apart from that I’m mostly meant to keep watch and… spread good wherever I see fit.”

“Which you’ve chosen to do in the form of paintings,” Crowley finishes.

Aziraphale tries to smile, but it feels strained. She forces herself not to look at the corner and call Crowley’s attention to it, focusing so hard that she feels her face getting clammy with anxious sweat.

“You alright, angel?” Crowley asks, frowning.

“Peachy,” she agrees. He’s still looking at her. Too late she realizes that he was teasing her before – that her reaction wasn’t quite the appropriate response. But then Crowley looks away, and that’s worse, because this time he doesn’t just eye the paintings scattered around the room, he actually starts walking towards them.

“Wait!” Aziraphale bursts out, then shuts her mouth with a click. “Uh, those- those aren’t very good. You should look at the ones over there,” she suggests weakly as he arches an eyebrow in her direction.

His sharp gaze drifts over the paintings he’s been approaching – not the most revealing, not as bad as the ones in the corner, but studies in details that actually make her sweat when she thinks about them in Crowley’s hands. Come to think of it, there is definitely a study of Crowley’s hands in there. It’s not her fault he has very paintable digits.

Luckily, the painting on top doesn’t interest him enough to make him go through the whole stack. It’s a color study, an attempt to figure out the right shade of his hair. Underneath it is a color study of yellow and gold. She’d much prefer he didn’t connect those dots.

Instead of going through the pile, Crowley turns and lets his attention be redirected to the innocent portraits and landscapes Aziraphale has made in the first part of her apprenticeship. Innocent, but apparently not all that interesting either. He flips through them, making a thoughtful noise here and there, teases her about the rather too big nose on her first portrait, and then drops them again, turning back to her.

“Well. Good to know that even an angel can’t do everything perfectly on the first try.”

“Well, I could have miracled myself better at it, but I’m finding it rather gratifying to learn the hard way.”

“Course. Very virtuous of you, putting yourself through hardship to emerge better and all that.”

“Quite.”

And with that, the matter seems to be closed, as Crowley doesn’t appear particularly interested in furthering the subject of painting. Aziraphale allows herself to relax as he turns his back on the paintings.

But then he keeps moving, always in unpredictable motion as he is, and turns his head just so, putting the paintings in the corner directly in his line of vision.

Aziraphale’s stomach drops. Frantically, she tries to think of something to distract him – anything at all – but comes up horrifically empty-handed.

Narrowing his eyes, Crowley stalks over to the corner, hands on his hips when he stops.

“What’s this, then?”

“Oh. Those,” Aziraphale says weakly, clearing her throat. “They’re, ah, they’re not- you wouldn’t like-“

Crowley isn’t listening. He tilts his head, then bends down and picks up the panels. Aziraphale squeezes her eyes shut, for the first time in her existence battling the urge to take the Almighty’s name in vain.

“Well, hello,” Crowley mutters, examining the painted snake on top of the stack. A snake that, for all intents and purposes, looks exactly like he did in Eden. Maybe he won’t notice? He didn’t see himself, did he? Not a lot of mirrors in Eden. Maybe he doesn’t know what he looked like.

Unlikely, she’s well aware. But one can hold out hope for a miracle.

That hope is shattered ruthlessly when Crowley looks up from the snake, cocks an eyebrow, and says, “Call me conceited, but this looks familiar.”

“Oh, you- you think? I, ah. I hadn’t noticed. You- you know a serpent that looks like that?”

Crowley stares at her, probably trying to parse if she’s joking. When she gives no indication that she is, his lips stretch into a gleeful smile. He looks far too pleased when he says, “Really, angel, if you needed a model, you could have just asked.”

Aziraphale swallows. “Oh, I, ah- I see what you mean, yes. Because you were the one in the garden who- would you believe it, I completely forgot!” She forces out a laugh. “You see- yes, it would look familiar. Because it’s- biblical art! It’s… all the rage, yes. You should see what they’re doing in Italy. I have loads more, all kinds of things, uhm, somewhere else. Not just- not just of Eden, of course, that would be strange.”

She’s babbling, isn’t she? As soon as she becomes aware of it, she cuts herself off.

The good news is that Crowley seems to have stopped listening somewhere along the way, too occupied looking at the paintings. The bad news is that he is occupied looking at paintings she has been making of him. This really is something of a lose/lose situation.

Aziraphale watches in dismay as he moves on to the one she has titled Starmaker in her head. Not only is this a rendition of the very first time they met – something Crowley will surely remember – but it features him in the middle of booting up the nebulas, something they both know he was the one to do. On the plus side, he is only visible from the back – then again, that doesn’t hide the shade of his hair at all.

It’s quite bad. But not as bad as the next one will be.

The next one… well. It’s the first of the series of portraits Aziraphale is still working on. There are half a dozen of them by now. They all, more or less undeniably, depict Crowley.

Crowley is staring at them. Crowley doesn’t say anything, which is a bad sign, because Crowley always has something to say, or at least some noise to make. For all his teasing just a moment ago, he seems rather taken aback by his own face looking back at him.

Aziraphale was still honing her skills when she made this one, hadn’t yet figured out how to hold the brush to create the shape of his eyes or the line of his lips and really make them his. But oh, the red. It’s impossible to ignore. Improbable to explain away. It will be her undoing, if she doesn’t come up with something right this instant.

In a blind panic, Aziraphale lies, “That’s- my teacher!”

A frown creases Crowley’s forehead as he tears his eyes from the painting to look at her.

“Thought you said these are biblical.”

“Yes, well, I was wrong. I mean, they’re all mixed up. There’s no order to them.”

Crowley is still frowning, eyes shifting back to the painting, and so Aziraphale bursts out, “Wine!”

That manages to catch his attention.

“What?”

She nods avidly. “There’s this lovely local specialty the humans make. Spiced red wine. You simply must try it. In fact, why don’t we go and have some right now?”

She takes the paintings out of his hands and drops them on the table behind her. Crowley blinks in surprise, but seems distracted enough to let it happen.

“We?” he echoes.

“Certainly.”

Putting her hand on his shoulders, she determinedly shoos him out of the workroom, locking up with a snap of her fingers.

Once they’re outside, she heaves a sigh of relief. No more paintings for him to discover here. Still, best to get a move on – before her master decides to pay her a visit, very much not looking like the person in the painting.

“Let’s go this way. There’s a little street market just down the road, part of a festival, I believe. There’ll be plenty of wine to try there.”

“Naturally. The humans do little but drink these days,” Crowley remarks, sounding rather proud. He fishes his glasses out of one pocket or another, then signals her to lead the way.

“And whose fault is that?”

“You’re blaming me? Who’s taking me to drink some wine in the middle of the day, angel?” he counters, which she admittedly can’t argue with.

“How long have you been here, then?” she asks instead as they head down the street towards the bustle of the market.

“Not long enough to try the wine,” Crowley returns, which doesn’t tell her much of anything. “You?”

“Oh, about three months now, I think. I wasn’t set on settling here, but it has grown on me now that I’ve decided to stick around.”

“The wine doesn’t play into it, I’m sure.”

Aziraphale decides not to grace this with a response.

“And you’ve been painting all this time?”

“Oh, yes. Well. After my… transition, you might say, I started right away, and I’ve been rather busy with it since. My teacher tells me that any skill will take practice to perfect, and I’ve been taking that very seriously.”

“Yeah, you would.” Crowley’s eyes follow a group of riders in fine clothes before he asks, “Who is she, then? Someone I’d know?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Especially not if you’re not from around here, but then, hardly anyone does. A weaver, officially. Trust me, though, she’s one of the finest painters of this decade. She learned from Catherine of Bologna herself, if you can believe it! And the public has no idea about her. Of course, it’s very noble not to care about recognition and fame, but it does feel wrong to see her work attributed to some man.”

Crowley grins. “Encouraging pride, are we, angel? The most demonic of the capital sins, at least according to those lists the humans are making?”

“I am doing no such thing,” Aziraphale returns primly.

Crowley snorts in amusement. There is a brief pause – when Aziraphale glances at him, his eyes are lingering on the group coming around the street corner ahead of them, but then he shakes himself and returns his attention to her.

“So why painting?”

“Oh, don’t you think it’s simply marvelous? The things they have taught themselves to do – and to now be taught by them, I must admit, it’s making me rather proud. And it has been nice to have something to take my mind off things with that dreadful business between the English and the French still going on. Not to mention the Black Death.”

Crowley makes a face. He doesn’t even tease her about the fact that it’s been a hundred years since the plague – it still feels like the blink of an eye, and Aziraphale is quite sure it’ll take her a couple hundred more to forget the suffering she witnessed.

“Hell’s still pretty happy about that one,” Crowley mutters. “People giving the plague to each other, bringing them down with them. They loved that.”

“Well, I hardly suppose they did that on purpose,” Aziraphale remarks with a frown.

“Definitely not. As far as Hell’s concerned, though, they absolutely did. Perhaps someone tempted them into it. Ignoring symptoms, being reckless. Getting revenge on someone who wronged them.”

Aziraphale stops in her tracks, staring at him.

“You lied… to your head office?”

Crowley huffs. “What, and you never have?”

“No! I don’t lie in general.“ At least not when she can avoid it.

The look Crowley gives her is entirely too knowing.

“They haven’t checked my reports once in the past 500-ish years,” he then tells her, lifting his shoulders. “And even when they did, ‘s not like they know what to look out for. They have no idea how things work up here, and they don’t care. They just want me to make some trouble.”

“And you want to avoid doing your job, it seems,” Aziraphale says disapprovingly.

“Considering what my job is, I thought you’d be happier about that.”

“Well… I suppose,” she admits reluctantly. Hard to argue with that logic. Laziness is a sin, of course, but Crowley not wanting to do his demonic work is really rather nice of him. Perhaps she had better let it slide, then.

Despite their back and forth – or perhaps because of it, the familiarity it brings – she finds the tension Crowley’s surprise appearance brought with it finally dissolving, leaving her relaxed and secure in the knowledge that there is no need for her to worry about being found out (and teased) now that they’re outside.

Crowley, curiously, seems to have the opposite problem.

Whereas he was perfectly calm in her workroom, he keeps looking over his shoulder now, glancing up and down the streets nervously, like he’s looking for someone. Or fears that someone is looking for him.

“Crowley.”

“Mhm.”

“Are you up to something?”

“What? No. Course not. What would I even be up to? I’m never up to anything.”

“You’re a demon! You’re always up to something.”

“Yeah, alright, keep your voice down, would you? Don’t need this lot to take notice and start getting ideas,” Crowley mutters, tugging her along to get away from the busy street. Aziraphale, somewhat caught off guard by his hand on her elbow, lets him.

Once they’ve rounded the corner, Crowley belatedly lets go of her and clears his throat. Aziraphale can’t see where he’s looking with those glasses he’s wearing, but she can tell by his fidgeting hands that he’s distracted even as he starts talking.

“Say, angel. Speaking of our respective head offices. With all this painting you’ve been doing, you must have had a lot of time to think. You wouldn’t have given my suggestion any more thought, would you?”

It is perfectly clear what he’s talking about, but Aziraphale still clenches her jaw and asks with forced calmness, “What suggestion might that be?”

Crowley sends her a look over his glasses.

She huffs, lifting her chin. “Oh, I see. I most certainly have.”

Perking up, Crowley asks, “Yeah?”

“Yes. And I am still completely against it!”

Groaning, Crowley throws his head back.

“I don’t understand. Why are you being so stubborn about this? You know I’m right that sharing the load is the sensible thing to do, and I know you loathe unnecessary work as much as I do.”

“That does not make this an actually viable solution,” Aziraphale hisses.

“Well-“

“No! It’s out of the question, Crowley. I won’t be caught doing- doing demonic work!”

“You wouldn’t be caught! And think of all the extra time to paint you’d get if you didn’t have to leave in the middle of your work because Heaven wants you to bless someone in Wales or something,” he argues, unfortunately very sensibly. It only makes Aziraphale more resolved to ignore him. “I’m sure we could come to an agreement. Make an arrangement of sorts-“

“An arrangement!” she repeats incredulously, rather louder than she intended. A couple passing them gives her strange looks. She lets out a deep breath, lowering her voice back to its usual level. “You must be out of your mind. Do you have any idea what kind of trouble I’d be in if Heaven found out? And you – I don’t even want to know what they’d do to you down there!”

“They’d never have to know!”

“They’d check!” she insists. “And furthermore, it’s wrong.”

“I just told you they never check my reports-“

“Enough.” Aziraphale gathers her dress and picks up her pace. “I won’t hear another word about this.”

“Angel. Angel!” Crowley calls after her, but she steadfastly ignores him, even when he hurries to catch up and nudges her. “Oh, come on. Don’t look like that. I was just thinking out loud. Let’s not talk about it anymore. It’s a lovely day! You’re free to enjoy yourself! And look, we’re here! Plenty of stalls around, things to see, food to eat. Oh, like that, see?”

He skips over to an old man selling a variety of baked goods.

“Look at these, angel. Some lovely pastries. Smells like- well, I don’t wanna say heaven, but you know what I mean. You must wanna try one, no?”

Despite herself, Aziraphale glances over at the stall. She sniffs, lips pinched. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind,” she allows.

“There we go, then!” Crowley turns to the vendor with a flourish. “We’ll take one off your hands, kind sir.”

“Which one would you like, then?” he asks, wearily glancing at Crowley’s glasses, but the prospect of a paying customer seems to outweigh his suspicion.

Crowley turns back to Aziraphale. “Angel?”

“The yellow tart looks delicious,” she mutters, stepping closer. “Is that saffron?”

“Aye, ‘t is. It’ll cost ya, mind.” He glances at her dress before his eyes shift to Crowley’s expensive-looking trousers. “Though I don’t suppose that’ll be an issue.”

“Not to worry, we’ll pay you handsomely for so fine a craft as this,” Crowley assures the man. He’s laying it on a bit thick, but the vendor relaxes, nodding to himself as he selects the prettiest of his tarts and hands it over.

“Anything else for you and your wife, sir?”

Aziraphale, who has been eyeing the tart in Crowley’s hand, freezes.

“His-” she begins, heat rushing to her face, but stops short when Crowley makes an amused, snorting sound.

“Ah. Yes. My wife would absolutely love another one of your pastries. Wouldn’t you, my love?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale hisses. Her face is burning. She must be red as a pomegranate, which is almost more embarrassing than this man assuming that they’re married. Her corporation is choosing the worst time to betray her.

Crowley throws her a glance over the rim of his glasses. “You don’t want a pastry?” he asks cantingly.

“Oh, you- you fiend!” she exclaims, just so managing to keep herself from stomping her foot like a child.

The vendor seems to find this almost as amusing as Crowley, despite lacking context.

“She’s a feisty one,” he remarks.

“That she is, good sir,” Crowley agrees cheerily. “That she is. Alas, no pastry for her today, it looks like. Maybe some other time.”

He tips his hat before turning back to Aziraphale, who huffs and resumes her walking pace, desperate to get away from the vendor.

She does accept the tart, though she instantly regrets it when Crowley keeps up the charade as he hands it over.

“There you go, darling dearest. Light of my life. Apple-“ he snorts- “apple of my eye. Get it? Apple, because of-“

“Yes, Crowley, I’m not an idiot,” Aziraphale cuts in, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Having calmed herself, she then gives him a scathing look.

“That was degrading.”

Crowley makes a vague noise. “Don’t worry, people can’t tell your supposed husband is a demon.”

“Not that part! Being talked about like- like a child, or some ill-behaved dog! Really, Crowley, haven’t you heard of chivalry? It’s all the rage. You might try it sometime.”

Crowley lets out a boisterous laugh, stopping short in his tracks.

“Oh, I can do chivalry, angel. Wanna see?”

Not waiting for an answer, he reveals a handkerchief from behind his back, pulling back the top to show what he’s holding.

Aziraphale sucks in a sharp breath. “You stole from that vendor?”

“He won’t miss one measly pastry, angel. You, on the other hand, would have hated to miss out on trying it, I know you would’ve.”

He wriggles his hand until Aziraphale accepts the pastry on instinct, worrying that he’ll drop it. And, well, if she’s holding it already, she might as well keep it. The vendor probably wouldn’t want it back anyway, now that they’ve touched it and everything. Besides, Crowley paid him a steep price for the tart. It probably covered the pastry and then some.

Crowley gives her a triumphant grin. “Chivalrous to my bones,” he pronounces. “Anything for my feisty lady.” 

And before Aziraphale can as much as react, he grasps her hand and lifts it to his lips.

She’s not sure what she expected – or would have, if she’d had any time whatsoever to process where this was headed – but all that registers is… warmth. The softness of Crowley’s lips on the back of her hand, yielding to the pressure of his kiss. And a curious tingling, travelling from her hand all the way up her arm and down her spine, culminating in a perplexing sensation somewhere in her stomach.

It registers, and yet, somehow, she can’t seem to process it. It’s a moment suspended in time, stretching far longer than it ought to, but for some reason Aziraphale cannot – does not move away.

Neither does Crowley.

It can’t be more than a handful of seconds, but every single one is utterly baffling in its existence, a strange sensation building until Aziraphale feels ready to burst with it.

It’s only when their perfect stillness shatters that time seems to start again. One of them shifts first, she’s not sure who, and then they’re both moving at once, pulling away from each other to bring some space between them. Crowley lifts his head, drops her hand a second later. For a long, painful beat, all Aziraphale feels is the loss of him.

“Oh,” she mutters, surprised by the roughness of her voice. “I…”

The right words don’t find her; all she can do is stare at Crowley. Crowley, who has a strange flush on his face, eyes hidden by the glasses. The sunlight reflects in them, and goodness, they really ought to get into the shade. His corporation is ginger; he must burn easily. Aziraphale is feeling rather sweaty as well, now that she thinks about it.

Crowley’s throat shifts as he swallows. Then he sniffs, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.

“That’s- there you go, then. See? Told you I could do it. Easy as anything.”

Aziraphale blinks, struggling to remember what they were talking about.

Ah. Chivalry.

“Yes, well.” She clears her throat, falling silent. Somehow, telling him that he should do it more often doesn’t feel very sensible. “Let’s- let’s have a look at the other stalls, shall we?” Her eyes fall on her hand, and she gasps, realizing that she hasn’t even tasted the tart yet. “Goodness. Let me try this first.”

“Not a moment to lose,” Crowley remarks, the corner of his mouth lifting. Even with the glasses obscuring his gaze, Aziraphale can tell he’s watching her as she takes a bite.

“Oh!” she says around the crumbs flooding her mouth with sweet flavor. “Oh, my, that’s very good. Oh, Crowley, you must try it.”

She holds out the tart, and Crowley only glances down at it for a second before leaning in and taking a small bite right next to the one she took.

“Mhn,” he makes, which Aziraphale takes as an expression of appreciation.

“Lovely, isn’t it? The saffron really adds something special.”

She takes another bite, savoring the taste. As she chews, she glances at Crowley beside her. Undeniably male-presenting as he is, anyone would look at them and assume the same thing that vendor did. Especially if they’re walking together like this, sharing a tart, bickering like only people who have known each other for a long time, or intimately, do.

“You could change things up as well, you know,” she comments. “To prevent- all this. Certainly in the clothes department, if not otherwise. If people saw two women, they wouldn’t… assume things,” she finishes delicately, unwilling to name it any more directly.

“That’s because they’re narrow-minded.”

“Well, yes. Still.”

Crowley stuffs his hands into his pockets, turning his head away. “Can’t.”

Aziraphale lifts an eyebrow, unsuccessfully trying to catch his gaze. “You can’t?”

“Well, I can. Shouldn’t, though. Think it might, uh. Draw the wrong sort of attention. Best to lie low for a while.”

When he offers nothing further, Aziraphale frowns. This isn’t the first time Crowley has been evasive today, and they’ve barely spent an hour together. He still hasn’t told her what he’s even doing here. Business, he said. Hell must have sent him to do a particularly unpleasant job if he’s being this vague about it.

Then again, since it’s clear as day that he’s avoiding whatever work Hell wants him to do, it’s probably not a problem she needs to concern herself with.

“If you say so. Have some more of the tart,” she changes the subject. “You paid for it, after all.”

“Only in the loosest sense of the phrase,” Crowley points out, but he does accept another bite. They share the rest between them, and then Aziraphale tries the pastry as well, which Crowley refuses on account of it being his gift to her and she thus finishes by herself. Not a hardship, considering how delicious it is.

“They’re getting rather inventive, aren’t they?” Crowley muses as they stroll around the stalls, looking at the goods on display.

“Quite so. Though I’m sure they’re only getting started. You’ve heard of the Gutenberg bible, I assume? It’s simply outstanding, this new technique. Think of what else they’ll be able to do with it in a few years’ time!”

“Print debauchery and spread sin,” Crowley says. “I’m very much looking forward to that.”

“Oh-“ Aziraphale rolls her eyes. “Really. The first thing they’ve printed is a bible, and that’s what you expect next?”

“What can I say? I have faith in them. Which I don’t say lightly after the torture that last century has been. Thought it’d never end, that one. ‘s about time they got a move on away from that.”

“Oh, they’re certainly getting somewhere. One must be patient, I think. You can’t rush these things.”

Crowley grunts. He mutters something, but Aziraphale, distracted by a noisy commotion to her right, misses what he says.

“Crowley, look!” she exclaims when she realizes that a crowd has gathered in a loose circle around the traveling stage, patting his arm. “They’re putting on a play! Have you seen any of those?”

Despite making a face, Crowley lets himself be pulled along.

“One or two, yeah. Was entertaining for a while to see them get the details all wrong. Went to see Noah and the Flood once, I think. The Fall of Lucifer, which was nothing like the real thing. Grew bored of it after a while.”

“Oh, they’ve moved on from the biblical plays, for the most part. These days miracle plays are all the rage,” Aziraphale explains, gesticulating wildly as they join the crowd.

“Miracle plays,” Crowley pronounces, cocking an eyebrow. “What it says on the tin, I assume?”

“Quite so. They’re usually dedicated to the life of a specific saint. I believe this one might be another one about St. Mary, those are rather popular around here! I’ve seen a few of them. There’s always an unsolvable problem, and then she appears, and boom! Problem solved. Miraculously.”

She claps her hands, beaming at him.

Crowley seems more amused than excited, but he doesn’t immediately refuse to stick around.

“Is that so. Let’s see this miracle then,” he says, crossing his arms.

Aziraphale was right. The play is about St. Mary, as it quickly becomes evident. A poor peasant, who lets the audience know he has many hungry mouths to feed, goes to work, only to be unrightfully accused of theft. After a dramatic scene he is let go and returns home empty-handed. Before he has to confess to his wife and children that there will be no food the next day, he sends out a prayer to St. Mary, who promptly appears from behind a curtain and blesses him by emptying a box of yellow wooden beads all over the stage.

The peasant dropping to his knees and exclaiming “Coins!” is the only clue as to what it is he’s meant to be collecting – they’re entirely the wrong size and shape to be mistaken for real money. While Aziraphale is willing to suspend her disbelief, Crowley isn’t as gracious.

“Oh, this is dreadful,” he says, not bothering to lower his voice.

Aziraphale elbows him. “Don’t be rude,” she mutters under her breath. “They’re doing their best.”

“’s not very good though, is it.” Crowley peeks over his glasses, a calculating look in his eyes. Aziraphale recognizes the corner of his mouth lifting as a warning sign a moment too late; he has already raised his hand and snapped his fingers. She feels the thrumming of energy that comes with a miracle being performed, and the next moment the stage is covered in real coins.

The play comes to a sudden halt. Frozen, the actors stare at the money. The audience looks on. Then someone exclaims in delight, and the crowd erupts into chaos.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale hisses, being pushed and knocked into from all sides as people scramble to storm the stage. Steadying herself on his arm, she can feel the shaking of his chest as he cackles.

“What?” he asks innocently, lifting his shoulders. “Everyone’s here to see a miracle. I just gave them their money’s worth.”

“And how are you going to explain any of this, hm?”

“I won’t.” He nudges her. “Come on, angel. Everyone gets to go home a little richer, and probably with their faith renewed.” He wrinkles his nose. “Should have thought of that sooner, I’ll admit.”

“Yes, indeed you should have. If Hell finds out, what do you think they’ll do then?”

Crowley grimaces. “Ngk. Yeah, best not to let them find out. Let’s leave the humans to it, shall we?”

“I think that’s for the best.”

They turn around, but instead of making a discrete exit as intended, Crowley stops short with a yelp, then immediately whirls back around.

“Shit, shit, shit-“ he mutters through his teeth, assuming a strange posture that Aziraphale can only assume is meant to make him look inconspicuous but unfortunately achieves the opposite.

“What? What is it?”

“Don’t look,” Crowley hisses when she cranes her head to look over her shoulder, tugging at her until she turns back around. She yanks her elbow out of his grasp, frowning.

“Crowley, what-“

“Sssilence, angel,” he hisses, pulling her closer by the arm before linking them. Aziraphale stares down at where they connect, then up at him.

“Explain yourself,” she demands lowly.

“Not here. Let’s just- get out of here. Like this, alright? Like we’re married. They won’t pay attention to a married man. Hopefully.”

Aziraphale squints at him, but Crowley looks actually stressed – he’s not leading her on or having a laugh, prolonging the joke that vendor started. So Aziraphale nods and nestles closer to his side. She can’t very well leave someone in need of help hanging. It’s simply not in her nature.

“Lead the way, my love,” she says sweetly, loud enough that anyone paying attention to them will hear it.

Crowley makes a startled sound in his throat, but doesn’t waste any more time. As they depart from the crowd, pretending to move on to the vendors, Aziraphale notices the new arrivals that must have sent Crowley into a panic. She has seen those uniforms on the street before; usually around one of those quarrelsome nobles who are ruling in the absence of King Henry. Crowley is hiding from the royal entourage.

Good Lord. Just what has he been up to?

They stroll along the stalls, then veer and go past them, casual enough not to arouse suspicion. Well, more suspicion than walking away from a miraculous shower of coins will arouse.

“They’re not looking at us, are they?” Crowley murmurs as they leave the market place behind. “They’re not following us? Don’t look at them too obviously when you check.”

Aziraphale rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to give us away, Crowley. What do you take me for, an imbecile?”

She chances a look back at the crowd, letting her eyes wander discreetly. No one is looking in their direction at all. The guards seem much more interested in the sudden appearance of money (and the collection of it) than in anything else.

“I think we’re in the clear,” she mutters, patting the arm that’s still linked with hers reassuringly. “Best to get a bit more distance between us and that miracle, though.”

“And those guards,” Crowley mutters, to which Aziraphale huffs in response, though she doesn’t disagree. If Crowley is running from something rather than staying and using the opportunity to spread chaos, there must be a good reason for it.

She allows him to take the lead for a while, still holding on to her, pretending they’re husband and wife out on a stroll despite the fact that there’s a considerable distance between them and the guards they’re hiding from now. She doesn’t stop him, just goes along until Crowley finally slows down.

“That should do it,” he says, craning his head to look behind them. “All clear. Thank Satan.”

“I don’t think he had anything to do with it,” Aziraphale remarks.

Crowley looks at her, then seems to realize that their arms are still entwined and abruptly lets go. The sudden loss of his body heat is a bit disconcerting. Aziraphale didn’t notice how used she’d gotten to it in so short a time.

“Well, then.” She crosses her arms, which helps with the lack of warmth from him, and lifts her eyebrows expectantly. “What have you gotten yourself into now?”

Crowley purses his lips, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I, uh. Know those guards from work.”

“I figured as much, yes.”

“Yeah. Uhm, so basically I was… I spent some time at the royal court. Recently. And then I stopped. And now they’re looking for me.”

Aziraphale gives him a flat look. “You ‘spent some time there’? For work, I assume?”

Crowley makes a vaguely affirmative sound.

“What did they send you there to do?”

Groaning, he throws his head back. He paces a few steps, then comes to a halt and finally confesses, “I was sent to tempt the Duke of York. Well, the ruling monarch, which happens to be him right now.”

“Tempt him into what?”

“No, angel, tempt him. Carnally.”

Aziraphale blinks. “Goodness.”

“Yeah. So I went to his court, as a woman, thinking I’ll put some sinful thoughts in his head and that’s that. Only it all worked a bit too well, the guy becomes- obsessed with me, or the idea of me, you know, sleeping with me. So I thought to myself, well, temptation accomplished, time to get out of here, lay low for a while. He’ll take care of the rest himself, you know, find someone to cheat on his wife with. But now he’s still looking for me, and he hasn’t slept with anyone else, which was the whole point. So really I should go back, maybe as someone else, tempt him a bit more until he follows through. I just…” He shrugs with his whole body somehow. “Haven’t gotten ‘round to it yet, I suppose.”

Aziraphale takes a moment to process all the information she just received.

“You won’t actually have to-“

She breaks off, gesturing vaguely downwards.

Crowley hisses, eyes growing so wide she can see it despite the glasses. “Satan, no. I don’t go in for that sort of work. Planting the idea in his mind is enough. Making sure he follows through with someone else, just to be on the safe side, but that’s it.”

“Oh. Well, that’s not so bad,” Aziraphale says, trying hard to sound cheerful. One look at Crowley tells her that she didn’t succeed – he is the picture of misery.

“Yeah, well, ‘s easy for you to say. All you ever have to do is fun, easy stuff. Nothing as humiliating as leading someone on like that.”

“Right, yes. Fun and easy.” Easy, certainly. Fun… well, it’s good work, of course, in the purest sense of the word. But do it for a couple of years with no variety to break up the daily grind, the ‘fun’ aspect of it tends to get somewhat lost.

If she’s being honest, Crowley’s assignment – demonic and sinful as it may be – sounds much more exciting to her than anything Heaven has asked her to do in the past millennium.

“Yeah.” Crowley sniffs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He stares at the ground, kicking a few pebbles away. “‘s just that I bloody hate this kind of work. It’s- blunt, and mindless, never mind what Ligur says. Craftsmanship, what a joke.”

Aziraphale takes in the pitiful figure he cuts, standing before her like a sad impression of a demon rather than the original tempter who brought knowledge to all humanity.

“You really don’t want to do this,” she realizes.

“Can you blame me?” Crowley glances up at her, then shrugs. “Used to be that I’d just accept the job and get it done, hoping the next one would be better. But lately all they’ve been sending me is stuff like this. And I don’t think I’m to blame for just not always feeling up to it, am I? It’s not like it’s been all sunshine and rainbows on Earth lately. We only just got out of the 14th century.”

“Well-“ Aziraphale begins, but Crowley carries on before she can get another word in.

“And that really took it out of me, I’ll be the first to say that. You were there, you know what it was like. Worst blessed time I’ve spent on this planet, that’s for sure. I’ve barely recovered, and all they do is ask me to do these inane jobs. And, of course, the faster I get ‘em done, the sooner they send me on another hellish assignment. Well. Obviously, but y’know what I’m saying. It’s just… never-ending.”

He finishes his monologue on a hopeless note, and may God be her witness (or, on second thought, may God not look anywhere near them right now), Crowley looks absolutely miserable.

Aziraphale lets out a sigh.

“Oh, alright.”

He lifts his head to look at her. “Alright what?”

“Alright, I’ll do it.”

A few seconds pass, during which Crowley stares at her wordlessly. “You’ll do it,” he repeats eventually, sounding dubious. As if there’s any way of misunderstanding what she is saying.

“Just this once. Seeing as I’m already dressed for the occasion,” she adds, nodding meaningfully towards her cleavage. Crowley’s eyes follow the movement, then snap back up instantly.

“You.” He clears his throat. “You mean that?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, would I?” she returns, ignoring that she has already lied to him multiple times today. That was different. That was practically self-defense. “Wouldn’t be very angelic of me, now.”

“No, I suppose not.” Crowley gulps, staring at her over the rim of his glasses. “Angel… Aziraphale.”

“Yes, yes,” she waves him off, feeling warmth rising in her cheeks at the sincerity in his eyes. “It’s quite alright. No need to make a fuss.”

“Right. I’m…”

“Yes. I know.”

“Right.”

They both fall silent, regarding each other awkwardly for a moment.

“So I just… get close to the duke?” Aziraphale clarifies. “Make him think impure thoughts? Then make sure he acts on them?”

“That’s the idea.”

Aziraphale nods resolutely. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Crowley stares at her. His throat bobs a couple of times before he nods mutely.

“Yeah, alright.” He clears his throat again. “Are you… sure I can’t do anything in return? You know, to say thank you?”

Aziraphale bites her lip and looks away. The temptation is strong – of course, coming from the very first tempter, but she can tell he isn’t trying to talk her into anything. He’s just being earnest. And, well, if he’s offering already, and he really wants to…

“I suppose you could… take care of a couple of blessings for me,” she allows. Then she frowns. “You can still do that, can’t you?”

“Yeah, ‘course. It’s the same power source, no matter the kind of miracle you do.”

Aziraphale narrows her eyes. “You’ve tried it before?”

“What, you’ve never tried to use your powers for evil, just to see if you could?”

“No!”

“Well, it’s about time then.”

“Yes, well. One must make exceptions sometimes, I suppose.” She casts him a worried glance. “And Hell won’t notice you using your powers for… good?”

Crowley smirks. “Worried about the safety of a demon, angel?”

She rolls her eyes. It’s good to see him back to his old self, now that the prospect of having to do his job isn’t looming over him anymore. It’s just unfortunate that his old self enjoys teasing her so much.

“Well then,” she says, not gracing the remark with a response. “I’d best get to it. Shall we… meet up in a couple of days? I’ll let you know how the temptation went, so you’ll know what to write in your report, and give you the details about those blessings. And you can finally try the wine,” she adds, realizing that they never got to that part. She’s been so looking forward to it.

Crowley nods. “Let’s say tomorrow night? You can give me an update at any rate, even if you haven’t finished the job yet.”

“Perfect. Meet me at my workroom, around midnight. I might be spending a few hours at the court, depending on how it goes.”

“It’s a date.”

Aziraphale barely resists rolling her eyes again. The impulse evaporates at once when Crowley takes her hand and raises it to his lips swiftly, leaving another kiss there.

These strange, human hearts in their cooperations. Sometimes they just skip a beat. It’s such a peculiar feeling.

“Much obliged, angel,” Crowley says when he pulls back, smirking. “I owe you one.”

“Yes, I rather think you do.”

Belatedly, Crowley lets go of her hand. It still tingles where his lips touched her skin. She rubs the spot absently.

“Just this once,” she repeats sternly. Best not to give him any ideas.

“Course. Just this once,” Crowley agrees. He winks at her over his glasses, then takes a step back to let her pass. “Catch you later, angel.”

“Tomorrow,” she agrees, then turns back to the direction of the festival. A quick miraculous detection reveals that the royal guards were accompanied by several members of the royal court, and they’re still in the area, apparently having moved to an establishment to eat.

She will join them there, say hello. It’ll be easy enough to make one of them believe she’s the sister of one duke or another. Just one. Barely a miracle, that’s all it’ll take, and then it’s on to the palace, to the Duke of York. Seduction, she muses, is really something of an art form, no matter what Crowley has to say about it. Offer just enough to get someone interested, then refuse anything more.

She understands why Crowley didn’t want to do it, but now that she’s thinking about it, considering how to best make the duke squirm, it does sound… fun. She’s almost looking forward to it. And she’ll get to meet Crowley afterwards, at any rate. She’s certainly looking forward to that.

Aziraphale smiles and picks up her pace.

After all, she has work to do.

*

2030s, England

“Watch out!” Aziraphale yelps, hands flying to the door handle as Crowley swerves to avoid a senior citizen on the street. Narrowly.

“Oh, he won’t have much time left anyway,” Crowley mutters, not sounding very apologetic.

“Yes. All the more reason not to cut it short,” Aziraphale returns pointedly. “We, on the other hand, have all the time in the world, so I don’t see why you have to drive at 90 miles per hour. And why exactly are you so eager to get to that museum, anyway?”

Crowley has been in a strange mood all day. Since last night, actually, when he came home and told him gleefully that they were going to a museum first thing in the morning. Told, not asked. Aziraphale didn’t exactly get a choice in the matter. Not that he’s opposed to spending some time on the arts – he does so enjoy reminiscing, his time as a painter long gone by but never quite forgotten. Still, Crowley’s sudden enthusiasm is… unusual. Worrying, even.

He shrugs at the question, barely glancing in the rearview mirror before performing another reckless maneuver to bring them ahead.

“Just excited for all the art, angel. Big art lover, me.”

Aziraphale gives him a flat look.

“You’re up to something.”

Crowley just grins, which isn’t reassuring in the slightest.

They make it into London in barely an hour’s time, which feels and probably is illegal, but Aziraphale is too distracted by the view outside his window to reprimand Crowley for it. The streets are achingly familiar, and yet so different already. Always changing so fast. He hasn’t regretted moving out of the city a single day, but it is nice to return every once in a while, as they frequently do. Catch up on what they’ve missed.

Like this art museum, apparently.

“I’ve never been to this one before,” Aziraphale remarks, getting out of the car and looking at the building. “Can you believe that? Centuries in the city, and there are still things I haven’t seen.”

“You’re gonna love it,” Crowley promises, heading for the entrance so fast that Aziraphale has to hurry to keep up.

“Oh, a medieval wing!” he exclaims when he looks around inside, while Crowley procures two tickets.

“That’s where we’re going,” he says and promptly leads the way.

Only once they’re entering the exhibition does he slow down, resuming his usual walking pace, letting Aziraphale take the lead. He does look around, but Aziraphale is peripherally aware of his eyes constantly returning to him as they make their way through the gallery.

“What a lovely collection,” he murmurs, letting his eyes wander before turning back to Crowley, beaming. “This is what you wanted to show me? I’m still very fond of this era, I’ll admit. It never lost its charm to me, not even after studying it so intently. Oh, this is bringing back so many memories!”

Crowley hums, trailing a step behind him. “Just take a look around, angel.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

“You know, I might be biased, but I really do think there was something to this time that got lost later on. There was this one technique I learned that-“

He breaks off with a sharp inhale, his hand flying to Crowley’s arm.

“I don’t believe it! That’s- that one is one of my master’s paintings, Crowley!” He leans in to squint at the golden badge next to it. “It’s attributed to a man,” he mutters, disappointed, then focuses on the portrait. Masterful, even now. Standing the test of time with ease. “It’s definitely hers,” he murmurs, blinking against the sudden, surprising sting in his eyes.

Crowley must be able to tell how moved he is, because he shifts closer, making sure their bodies are touching as they look at the portrait together. Aziraphale smiles at the silent show of support.

“Oh, it’s wonderful to see her work again after all this time. Did you know this was one of hers? Is that why you brought me here?”

“Not quite,” Crowley says. Aziraphale takes one last look at the portrait before moving on.

“I didn’t even know you were so familiar with her style. You never met, did you? I don’t think I even told you her- oh, goodness,” he lets slip, stopping in his tracks.

The next painting is one he’s even more familiar with. Intimately so, even – he spent hours upon hours on it, after all.

It’s one of the portraits he did of Crowley.

He hasn’t seen it in a long time, centuries, but recognizes it in a heartbeat all the same. It is a rather good likeness, if he does say so himself, especially with the subject of the portrait standing right next to him. There really is no way around it. He captured him beyond any plausible deniability.

He never knew what had happened to most of his paintings, certainly not to this one. Where it had ended up. If anything, he would have assumed it had been thrown away at some point. But here it is. All this time, and it’s right there.

Crowley steps beside him, leaning in to take a closer look with his hands behind his back.

“Your… teacher, wasn’t it?”

Aziraphale flushes. “Mmh,” he agrees vaguely, resolutely staring at the painting to avoid Crowley’s gaze.

“You must have spent hours on this, didn’t you? A lot of work, all those details. The attention you must have paid.”

“Well,” Aziraphale begins, then stops.

“The color coordination’s simply stunning.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, certainly. The red really… pops. Not to mention the eyes. That yellow, very distinctive. And the technique you used for the hair-“ He trails his finger along the red strands, hovering just slightly over the panel. “Quite impressive.”

“I- uh, thank you.”

Crowley hums thoughtfully, never taking his eyes off the painting.

“You really got my good side there, angel.”

“Oh, for-“

There was never any denying it, but being caught in so obvious a lie – even if it’s been centuries – is still a little mortifying.

Crowley cackles. He bumps Aziraphale’s shoulder with his, who sends him a withering look, probably somewhat diminished by the heat still lingering in his cheeks.

“No need to be embarrassed, angel. It’s a good painting.”

“Yes, well.” He sniffs. “I had a very efficient muse, so to speak.”

“I’ll say.” Crowley gives him a shit-eating grin. “I’ve been known to inspire great works of art. Can’t blame you one bit. And besides, ’s not like you were the only one already smitten, anyway,” he adds, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Aziraphale turns his head. “Smitten, hm?”

“Afraid so.”

“Did you have a ‘crush’ on me, as they say?”

Crowley gives him a look. “This can’t possibly come as a surprise to you. We live together.”

“We didn’t at the time. And besides, I just like hearing it again sometimes.” He beams up at Crowley, all embarrassment forgotten, and then stretches to place a soft kiss on his lips, just because he can. Because he couldn’t, back then, even if he didn’t understand that he wanted to quite yet.

Crowley returns the kiss, drawing it out a little. Aziraphale is more than happy to indulge him.

When he pulls back, Crowley remarks, “You could do it again, you know. Paint me. Only properly this time. Live, so to speak.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm,” Crowley agrees. “What was that lovely expression? Like one of your French girls.”

Aziraphale frowns. “I don’t think that’s an expression.”

“No, no, it is.”

“What French girls? I only know that lovely woman from the bistro on Whickber Street. I never painted any French girls.”

“It’s an expression-“

“Why would I paint them differently from other humans, anyway? This doesn’t make any sense, Crowley.”

Crowley is wearing his long-suffering expression that he gets when Aziraphale misses something obvious. But then he smiles, something wicked in the curve of his lips that Aziraphale looks forward to uncovering.

“Don’t worry, angel. I’ll show you exactly what it means.”

He hums, considering. “Well, then. If you really want to, I could certainly… brush up on my skills. They’re probably a little rusty, mind you. I’ll have to practice first so I can do you justice, dear.”

“Not a problem,” Crowley says, planting another short kiss on his mouth. “What was it you said? We have all the time in the world.”

“Yes, quite,” Aziraphale agrees, a pleased smile spreading on his lips. Crowley drops his arm and weaves their hands together, returning his smile easily.

All the time in the world.

What a lovely thing to look forward to.