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“So.”
“So what?”
“What did you think?”
Crowley tossed his jacket over the arm of his chic sofa and turned to face Aziraphale. He was hanging his own coat up on a stand that Crowley was sure hadn’t been there before. It was a varnished red wood affair, and it stood starkly against the monochrome décor. He determinedly didn’t think about Aziraphale shedding that same coat a few hours previously.
“I didn’t get the appeal, angel.”
“Oh.”
Aziraphale looked slightly put out.
“You know,” Crowley began, wanting to wipe that frown off Aziraphale’s face, “I mean, a herd of people standing around, all staring at your body? Not exactly my idea of a good time.”
“That’s not what I heard back in 1987.” Aziraphale said primly. (1)
(1: Crowley had been rather the regular around the Soho nightlife in the 80s, and it wasn’t uncommon to see him with a conspicuous lack of clothing if one happened to be looking, which a select few were, or sometimes with even more interesting attire on his person.)
Crowley gave him a look as if to say ‘really, angel?’
Aziraphale ignored him and took a seat on the sofa.
“Besides, you didn’t get the full experience. If you hadn’t backed out at the last minute then-“
“I never promised anything!”
Aziraphale huffed.
“Well, fine,” he said, “what about the drawing then? Please tell me you did actually take part, and didn’t just stand there like a- like a lemon!”
Crowley sighed, and fetched a bottle of wine and two large glasses from the kitchen.
“Of course I did! What? You think I would actually just stand there for three full hours doing nothing?”
When he got back to the living room Aziraphale looked smug.
“Ah. So you did get something out of it. Let’s see them then?”
Crowley tried not to choke on his drink.
“See what?” he asked, feigning ignorance.
“The drawings, Crowley!”
Crowley hesitated as Aziraphale considered the wine in his glass, swirling it around and sniffing it. Crowley watched the rich liquid wash across the side of the glass and flow back down again. He swallowed.
“Ww-ww-ngk,” he tried. “Why would you want to see them?”
Aziraphale looked at him like he was being deliberately stupid. Which, of course, is entirely what Crowley was doing.
“Don’t be coy, Crowley,” he chided. “I’ve actually been rather eager to observe your drawing skills since you told me about your dalliances with Da Vinci. It’s a shame I couldn’t move my head, otherwise I would have had the opportunity. So, come on now, where are they?”
Crowley didn’t look at the jacket next to him, and he fervently hoped the way it fell across the arm of the sofa concealed the conspicuous roll of drawings inside. He’d hastily conjured up a pocket half an hour ago.
“Oh. I err, I left them there.”
“You left them there?”
“Yeah. I- er- well, they weren’t very good. I thought they might as well keep them as an example of what not to do.”
Crowley cleared his throat. He could feel the burn of Aziraphale’s frown boring into the side of his face, but he didn’t meet his gaze. He was sincerely grateful that these glasses concealed his eyes all the way around.
“Well no matter, I can contact the professor tomorrow and have her check the studio. I’m sure she’ll find them easily enough.”
“Mm,” Crowley said.
“I do wish you’d had a go at posing though,” Aziraphale continued, oblivious to Crowley’s discomfort, “it really is very freeing. And the robes they give you afterwards, well, I might have to try and seek a set out for myself. Incredibly comfortable. Eliza said the same thing. You know Eliza; she was the lovely lady standing next to me. She said that she’s been posing for classes for five years now, and these are the best robes she’s ever had-“
Crowley got to his feet again. He popped back into the kitchen for another bottle of wine so he had something to do. Restlessness saturated his body and he thrummed with anxious energy, as if Beelzebub’s flies had swarmed and had him surrounded. He could hear Aziraphale continue to talk, and took a moment to breathe deeply before heading back to the sofa.
“-considerate of them to turn up the heating, I can’t imagine the discomfort- oh. You’re switching to a red? I might join you. Honestly, I did think this one was slightly too dry for my taste-“
Crowley let Aziraphale continue to natter as he filled two more glasses. He didn’t sit down. He didn’t think he’d be able to sit still. He paced idly around the living room instead, adjusting a few things here, running his hands over a surface there. The problem was the décor was so minimal that he quickly ran out of things to occupy himself with. He grabbed the plant mister, and began to spray the few potted plants he’d let migrate to the room.
“-and I was discussing this with Eliza, and she said that in her experience it’s uncommon to pose with food and drink, you know, a still-life ensemble, because the professors want their students to focus on proportions and angles of the body. I suppose that makes sense, although I rather think that having a more interesting composition with the addition of a table and some fruit or wine - perhaps some drapery - would encourage them to practise perspective, which is equally as important. I’m planning to bring it up with the course manager next week. What do you think, my dear?”
“Should I redecorate?”
“…what?”
Crowley spun around, looking around the room. He let his gaze jump over Aziraphale.
“The room. Should I redecorate it?”
“Oh. Well. I- Yes. Yes I think you should. I’ve always thought it wasn’t, well, very you. It’s depressing, and your furniture leaves much to be desired.”
As if to illustrate this, Aziraphale adjusted himself on the sofa. Crowley’s jacket slid off the curved armrest and onto the sofa cushion he’d occupied before.
“Mmm,” Crowley thoughtfully responded.
“Are you…are you alright, Crowley?”
Crowley hummed again, and took another sip of wine.
“Only you seem restless,” Aziraphale continued in a probing voice.
“Restless? Oh no-no, I’m fine.”
There was silence for a beat.
“Are you alright, angel?”
Crowley finally looked at Aziraphale from the corner of his eye. He blinked, blindsided by the question.
“Yes. What’s gotten you so riled up this evening?”
Crowley’s stomach sank. He’d noticed the change in Aziraphale’s behaviour lately. He was eating less, drinking less too, come to think of it. Even now he’d only made it through half a glass of wine. Then there were subtler things that perhaps Crowley wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t so attuned to Aziraphale’s behaviour. The stretching of Aziraphale’s neck, for example. It wasn’t that this was an unusual thing for the angel to do, but usually it was only after he’d been reading for a long time and needed the relief, or when he was able to spread his wings and release some of the pressure of his divinity for a short moment. Now he seemed to be doing it almost constantly. Crowley watched as, sure enough, Aziraphale twisted his neck to the side and stretched, lips pursed and eyes closed in concentration.
Crowley turned away.
Then of course, there were the other things. The way he would sometimes slip a hand beneath his collar and run his fingers there, as if to fetch a shed hair that was irritating his neck, or smooth down a troublesome clothing tag. Of course, Aziraphale’s hair never fell out, nor did his clothes have any clothing tags, as he despised the things and removed all trace of them whenever he fancied expanding his wardrobe. And then the strangest thing happened two weeks previously, when Crowley had entered the closed bookshop to find Aziraphale pottering around in socked feet. Crowley was quite sure that ever since the development of closed shoes he had never seen Aziraphale without them.
Crowley tapped his wine glass nervously.
“Um. Well. I suppose you just haven’t seemed yourself, lately,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. You seem restless. All the time. Well, ever since-“ Crowley paused, “ever since Tadfield, actually.”
Silence.
“And then, I mean, there’s the shoes.”
“The shoes?”
“Yes! Shoes. You have them. Lots of them. Of pairs. And you always wear shoes.”
“Well…yes. I suppose I do.”
Aziraphale sounded confused. He opened his mouth to reply but Crowley cut him off before he could begin.
“And then,” Crowley continued, letting his nervous energy drive him, “and then you start sitting for amateur artists at a local college. First the shoes, and now- now, well, full nudity, angel.”
Crowley had been gesturing at mid-air, still facing away from Aziraphale at he talked, but now he dropped his hand to the side and took a fortifying gulp of wine.
“There’s nothing wrong with taking up a new hobby-“
“Angel, you never take up new hobbies. Your interests have stayed the same for the past six thousand years, and never, not even once in that time have you considered taking off all your clothes and lying in front of a room of people observing your body a hobby!”
Crowley finally turned to the sofa, looking at Aziraphale as he finished his tirade. Aziraphale stared defiantly back at him and straightened up in his seat. His expression was decidedly not amused.
“If you have an issue with me posing for life drawing classes, Crowley, I’d rather you just clear it up now and-“
“But that’s it, angel. Why don’t you have an issue with it? You-you- you even-“ Crowley cast around for something to make his point, “you even made an effort!”
A blush rose on Aziraphale’s face, but Crowley could tell his was more angry than embarrassed.
Crowley rubbed a hand across his face. This is not how he wanted this to go.
“Look, okay. Okay. Just- just tell me that you’re not, I don’t know, having some kind of mid-life crisis or something.”
“We don’t have mid-life crises, Crowley-“
Crowley raised his face to the Heavens in frustration.
“It’s an expression, angel!”
“Well, I am not having any kind of crisis. I am perfectly fine.”
They stared at each other for a second. Aziraphale’s hand twitched. He scratched his neck.
“No, see. Look. Look! What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
Crowley could see Aziraphale was close to getting up and walking out.
“That! Your hand. Why are you scratching your neck?”
“I had an itch,” Aziraphale replied.
“No. Come on, angel. You’ve been like this for months now. It’s like. It’s like you have red ants crawling over you all the time, or- or- or your body is too small for you, like you don’t-“
Crowley paused.
“It’s like you don’t fit in it anymore.”
Oh.
Aziraphale was silent. He dropped his eyes to the ground.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” asked Crowley, softly. He edged closer to Aziraphale. “Something’s wrong with your corporation.”
“No! Don’t be silly, nothing’s wrong with it.”
“Did Adam do something wrong? Mess it up somehow?” Crowley asked.
Everything made sense now. They could figure out what was wrong with Aziraphale and get Adam to fix it. Take a trip out to Tadfield.
“No. No he did everything right. I’m just the same as I was before I was discorporated.”
Crowley was next to the sofa now, and he pushed his jacket out of the way so he could sit next to Aziraphale.
“Well, something is wrong, or you wouldn’t be acting like this.”
“Oh. Oh, I…”
Aziraphale trailed off and put his head in his hands. Crowley’s heart lurched in his chest at the angel’s tone, a terrible mix of anxiety and helplessness lacing every syllable like a poison.
And Crowley didn’t know what to do. He’d seen Aziraphale upset before, of course. He’d seen his despair and terror and helplessness before the Flood, he’d seen it when that poor carpenter was so horrifically murdered, he’d seen it at the crux of the Apocalypse when they were about to face down Satan himself.
He’d seen Aziraphale angry. Back when Crowley had asked him for holy water for the first time Aziraphale was upset, and seething, and lashed out in his rage.
And he knew that day at the bandstand what he’d seen was Aziraphale heartbroken. Devastated by the loss of his friend, a hopeless mirror of Crowley.
But this. This was new. This was Aziraphale helpless and uncomfortable and wrong, and the only piece in play in this game was Aziraphale himself.
“Tell me,” Crowley said. And he said it so gently, trying to keep his own fear out of his voice. “Aziraphale. Tell me.”
“Oh, Crowley,” he said.
Aziraphale raised his head slowly, and schooled his expression into a semblance of serenity, if ‘serenity’ had gotten bored and decided to swap definitions with ‘disquiet’.
Crowley had the alarming urge to touch Aziraphale’s hand.
“It was Tadfield, wasn’t it?” he said.
Aziraphale nodded.
“Yes.”
There was silence. Crowley waited for Aziraphale to speak.
“Have you ever…possessed someone?”
“No.”
Aziraphale nodded.
“I possessed rather a lot of people before I found Madame Tracy. All across the world too. One moment I was in the Australian outback and the next I found myself on live Christian television in Nebraska.”
Crowley couldn’t help huffing out a laugh, and Aziraphale gave a tremulous giggle in return. He was already looking more relaxed.
“I wish I could have seen that.”
“Oh, don’t. I ended up lecturing the poor man on the Rapture.”
Crowley laughed gleefully, and Aziraphale met him with an amused smile. After ten seconds or so Crowley reminded himself to blink, and he abruptly noticed that in his concern he was leaning protectively into Aziraphale’s space. He discreetly moved back again.
“So, what was it like? To possess someone?”
Aziraphale thought for a moment.
“Small,” he said. “Far too small. Like...like-“
“Trying to fit a camel through the eye of a needle?”
“But the needle has a mind of its own, Crowley. It tries to squeeze itself smaller, and when you finally enter you have to accommodate all of its needs. There were moments with Madame Tracy in which I forgot to breathe, or the energy I needed to operate her body would temporarily halt her digestive system.” Aziraphale pursed his lips and looked down. “It was rather horrible for her, I suspect, although she was pleasant enough to me about it.”
“It sounds exhausting for you too, angel, to have to regulate all of that.”
“Yes, well. Needs must.”
“Mm. So then, when Adam restored your body…?”
“Oh, I think by that point I’d been discorporated too long. I didn’t quite notice it at first but...it dawned on me that I’m not quite…comfortable.”
Aziraphale faced flashed with despair again. Crowley frowned. Aziraphale, the noted hedonist, who pampered his body with good food and wine and clothing. No wonder he was out of sorts.
“And this is why you haven’t been eating properly?”
Aziraphale seemed surprised.
“Well, I suppose, it hasn’t seemed quite as important as in the past. Not as satisfying.”
Aziraphale sighed.
“When we swapped bodies, do you remember the sensation of travelling between the two?”
“Like hanging out a train door, or jumping off a cliff.”
“Precisely. How did you feel when you were about to enter my body?”
Crowley determinedly focussed his thoughts.
“Well, the opposite. As if I was on a threshold?”
“Yes! Yes that’s it. On the one side you’re still in the wind, and on the other you have a defined shape. You become a stable entity.”
“And you’re stuck in that threshold?”
“Well, that’s certainly how it feels.”
Crowley watched carefully as Aziraphale twitched again. He looked as if he was going to shift in his seat, but quashed the urge.
In fact, the only time Aziraphale had been still all day was when he had been posing nude in a studio.
“But this…helps you? The posing?”
Crowley couldn’t read the expression on Aziraphale’s face.
“It sounds foolish.”
Crowley smiled, suddenly enthusiastic.
“No. It makes sense. The whole point is your corporation, right? So with all these people focussed on your body, you’re aware of it, and they’re aware of it, and they see you as a defined thing occupying the space.”
Crowley watched as Aziraphale’s eyes brightened. He looked relieved.
“And seeing the drawings, too,” Aziraphale pointed out. “It’s about perspective, you see.”
“You can imagine their observations,” Crowley mused. He knew all about the powers of imagination, and how they could affect reality. “Angel…I think you should eat something.”
“Pardon?”
Crowley stood up, determined.
“You’ve been going about this completely the wrong way,” he said confidently. “Avoiding food and drink is the best way to forget how your body works. Stupid, really.”
He gave Aziraphale a cheeky grin, and it was returned with a smile so, well, radiant was the only fitting word, that Crowley found himself swallowing. He refilled Aziraphale’s wine glass and pushed it into his hand firmly. Their hands touched, and when Crowley pulled back Aziraphale seemed to follow him a half inch.
“I’ll be right back,” Crowley murmured.
He went back to the kitchen, but before he raided his stash of gourmet food he took a few moments to himself.
Everything made so much more sense now. Aziraphale’s discorporation, his brief stints in who knows how many bodies of different shapes, sizes, and constitutions, and then his last hurrah in Madame Tracy, both trying to control her body, struggling against each other even, at times. No wonder he couldn’t adjust. He must be exhausted.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale called.
“Sushi alright?” Crowley replied.
“Yes, of course!”
Crowley was reassured to hear Aziraphale’s enthusiastic tone.
He opened the fridge and retrieved a platter with far more food on it than the two of them could manage. There were stacks of quality sashimi threatening to topple the platter, laid next to dozens of hand-prepared maki, (2) and piles of ngiri.
(2: Though prepared by whom is unknown. Crowley simply expected it to be there, and it was.)
“Crowley?”
“Mm?” He added ginger to the tray, and filled some pots with soy sauce.
“Do…did you do much studying under Da Vinci?”
Crowley frowned. Paused.
“I just got drunk with him a few times, angel.” (3)
(3: Da Vinci had taught him a few tricks, but Crowley was mostly invested in acquiring his art, not creating his own. He had however, spent a bit of time around the early French realists before taking a nap in the mid-1800s. )
“Oh. So, erm, he didn’t teach you how to draw then?”
Crowley added some wasabi to the abundant selection.
“No. You’ve seen my Mona Lisa, right?”
“Yes…well. I thought… Never mind.”
Crowley narrowed his eyes. He added freshly prepared green tea to the platter and walked back into the living room.
“Right,” he said, setting it all down on the coffee table, “we’re going to eat some proper food, and then get absolutely sloshed on some expensive wine. And then tomorrow, I’m going to convince that lovely professor to spice up the life drawing a bit.”
Crowley poured them a couple of glasses from a nice bottle of Chateau d’Yquem that he hadn’t had two seconds before, and set the bottle on the table with a dramatic flourish.
“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, softly.
Crowley looked up.
Aziraphale was not looking at Crowley, or the wine, or even the sushi.
He was looking at Crowley’s drawings of him. The drawings that Crowley had left in his hastily conjured jacket pocket. The jacket in question was lying on the floor where he had knocked it earlier, and it had fallen open to reveal the red lining inside.
Crowley swallowed.
“Ah,” he said, eloquently.
Silence.
“Could have sworn I left them behind.”
Silence.
“It’s uh. Um. They’re nothing really. You know. Just. Just sketches.”
Silence.
“I brought sushi?” he tried.
He took a step back.
“Mm. Well. I’ll just. Yeah. I’ll just take those.”
Aziraphale shifted them away as Crowley tried to snap them up.
“Don’t,” Aziraphale said. His voice sounded very tight.
Crowley decided pretending nothing was amiss was probably the best way to go about this.
“It’s a life drawing class. You were a model. I drew you. Let’s eat.”
“Oh, Crowley.”
“What?”
Aziraphale smoothed his hand over the page he was studying. It was one of the full body studies Crowley had done halfway through the class. Aziraphale had been sitting at the time, with his legs crossed and chin resting on his hand. Crowley had felt so unsettled by the pose that he’d redone the whole thing, rendering Aziraphale in his armchair as he’d seen him thousands of times before in the back room of the bookshop; studying a book or considering a glass of wine.
Various body parts had been scattered across the other pages; Aziraphale’s hands clasped together in his customary position, from a moment between poses; a vague outline suggesting a nose, lips, and chin, and one figure which sharply defined his belly and thighs.
The last page featured a profile of Aziraphale’s face, raised upwards, with chin and nose and eyes pointed towards the sky. It was in charcoal, but Crowley had used soft white pencil to highlight, and Aziraphale’s face seemed to glow.
Aziraphale looked up at him then, and Crowley was struck with the likeness.
“Mm. You can have them if you want. If you like them.”
He shifted under Aziraphale’s gaze. He felt flayed, like a nerve exposed in an open wound. Crowley had no interest in art, despite his skill, but for the first time he understood why so many artists kept their work a secret.
“Yes. I’d like that,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley nodded. Aziraphale was still looking at him in that over-bright way.
“I want to try something,” Crowley said abruptly.
“What?”
“Stand up.”
Aziraphale stood, and Crowley stepped in closer, so they were only a foot apart. He opened his arms.
“Oh. Oh, really?”
“Don’t talk please, angel. Just. Just come on.”
Crowley could feel himself warming, but it was nothing compared to the flush on Aziraphale’s cheeks.
Aziraphale stepped forward into the circle of Crowley’s arms, and Crowley wrapped them around his shoulders, pulling him in until they were pressed flush together, and Aziraphale’s forehead rested against his shoulder.
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed.
Crowley waited for Aziraphale to settle, for him to tentatively wrap his arms around Crowley’s waist in return. He was so warm, so solid against him and yet soft, malleable. His curls tickled Crowley’s nose, and Crowley inhaled silently, letting the ozone scent float through him.
Then he smoothed his hands down Aziraphale’s spine, following the bump of each vertebrae before stopping at his waist and sliding back up to his shoulders. The shoulders were next, and Crowley had to part from him slightly to get his hands between them, but he curved his palms over Aziraphale’s shoulders with his thumbs firm against his collar bones, bellies still pressed together, and then up to cup his neck and slide into his hair. His thumbs brushed Aziraphale’s earlobes and caught against his jaw, and Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s soft inhale where it was still buried at his shoulder. Aziraphale’s whole body relaxed in Crowley’s arms.
Crowley continued to press his palms against the contours of Aziraphale’s body, urging one arm at a time to drop so he could press firmly against the bicep, the forearm, encircle his wrist and press his thumb against the pulsing veins.
He didn’t touch Aziraphale’s hands, or his face. It wasn’t time for that yet.
He wrapped his arms back around Aziraphale, and he couldn’t say how long they stood there, simply feeling their bodies pressed against one another and feeling the shift of lungs and bone and souls contained safe inside, but he knew that when they broke apart the wine would still be rich, and the sushi still fresh.