Chapter Text
Crowley stares at the new painting Aziraphale has hung in the bookshop. It's suggestive, it's lewd, it's practically pornographic. “What the fuck, angel?” Crowley gestures dramatically.
"Isn't it lovely?" Aziraphale grins warmly as he looks up from organizing the till. There’s a hint of pride coating his voice.
“You can't just… hang this here,” Crowley says. He's not a prude. He's not. But, clearly, Aziraphale doesn't know what the painting is really about. "Believe me, this is not the kind of thing you want to have hanging in your shop.”
"Why not?” The angel blinks at him and then at the painting. “This is a bookshop. A place where people come to revel in their love of literature." He points at the art like that alone explains everything.
Crowley twitches. “That's not… it's… look, sometimes things aren't what they seem.” He’s trying to be patient but, Satan, he really doesn't want to have to explain this. “Trust me, angel, take it down.”
Aziraphale scoffs. "I most certainly will not. It's a beautiful painting, Crowley.” He comes around the counter, strolling over with his hands clasped behind his back. “Really captures the exquisite pleasure of running one's fingers through the pages of a well-loved book, don't you think?"
Crowley doesn't think. Crowley doesn’t breathe. Crowley’s mind blanks out for a second and his throat clicks as he swallows dryly.
"Such a moving painting, really.” Aziraphale continues, oblivious to the demon’s distress as he takes up a station next to him. “Look how finely the artist has rendered the delicate folds." He sounds like an overly invested docent at the National Gallery.
Crowley doesn't want to look. He doesn’t need to look. He’ll see it when he closes his eyes tonight, the rich colors and smooth brush strokes seared into his brain along with every cursed word the angel has spilled in the last minute. “Aziraphale,” he grinds out roughly, desperately, as he shifts on his feet. "You can't just have it out in the open for everyone to see."
"And why is that?" He sounds like he's just on the edge of no longer humoring him.
"It's obscene!" Crowley explodes, arms flying wildly.
"Well, that's not very nice of you, Crowley,” Aziraphale all but pouts. “I don't go around criticizing your taste in art. Besides,” he adds with an air of casualness. “There's hardly anything obscene about fingering through one's favorite novel. Savoring the special moments, the ones that arouse the most feeling.”
Crowley tries to control his breathing. “‘M not much of a reader,” he offers feebly. He watches Aziraphale gaze at the painting.
“Have you ever heard of fore-edge paintings?” Aziraphale muses after a time. “Books with painted edges,” he adds as he glances over to Crowley to see the demon stiffly shake his head. “They're a wonderful little secret, you see. Hidden unless you know how to manipulate the pages.”
“Oh?” Crowley says, eyes not moving from the painting. “Is that so?” The red edges seem brighter, lush and tumescent now that Aziraphale has called attention to them.
Aziraphale hums. “You need to work them very carefully, spread them in just the right way to reveal the beauty. It takes a skillful hand.”
Crowley shifts, hoping the urgent way his legs press together goes unnoticed.
“I don't suppose…” Aziraphale begins, gaze flickering briefly to Crowley.
“Yes?” Crowley encourages.
“You wouldn't like to see one, would you? Your fingers are so long and dexterous,” he glances down at Crowley’s hand. “I think you'd be able to expose one quite easily.” Aziraphale looks up, eyes locked on Crowley's, the picture of divine innocence.
Crowley takes a steadying breath. "Aziraphale, I would like nothing more than to spread your book out and see what it reveals."
“Oh.” A smile blooms on his face along with the barest hint of a blush. “That’s wonderful.” Aziraphale moves over to a shelf and carefully pulls out a book. “This one is a bit large,” he explains, almost apologetically as he hefts it onto the counter. "You need to fan the pages out, to really experience it, and the larger ones can give your fingers quite the workout."
Crowley joins him at the counter, nearly knocking shoulders with the angel. “I'm sure I'll be able to handle it,” he murmurs.
“Yes, quite,” Aziraphale breathes, his own fingers trailing reverently across the cover of the book.
“Do this a lot?” Crowley sways closer to Aziraphale without actually touching him. “Spread the pages? By yourself?”
Aziraphale’s fingers stutter in their admiration. “No reason to have them if you’re not going to have a look every once in a while, is there?” His fingertips tease along the edges of the cover, worrying against the corners. “I find a great deal of gratification in exploring my tomes.”
Crowley doesn’t doubt it. He’s seen the way Aziraphale trails his fingers along the shelved books, as though simply touching them grants him access to the transcendent worlds contained inside. He directs his attention to the book in front of them. There’s a shimmer of gilt on the edges of the pages and he reaches forward. “So, I just… flip it open?”
“Oh my, no,” Aziraphale says, voice a dusky glow against his ear. “It’s far too delicate for such rough treatment.” His fingers brush against Crowley’s wrist, circling lightly and directing him towards the spine. “You need to start here, working the spine until it’s pliable enough to open safely.”
Their hands move together, achingly slow along the spine, gentle pressure warming the leather. Crowley can feel the subtle give under his fingertips, the barely-there roughness of the hide. “And then we spread it wide open?”
“This isn’t something you want to rush, Crowley,” Aziraphale admonishes. “You have to get a feel for what the book wants, what it’s willing to give, how far it’s willing to go.” He directs Crowley’s hand and they slowly ease the front cover open. “See how it opens so easily now?”
He turns the book so that the edges of the pages are facing them. “You must be careful with this part. The pages are delicate, sensitive to the slightest bit of mishandling.”
Crowley pulls back, squirming with sudden nervousness. “Maybe I shouldn't. Wouldn’t want to ruin-” He’s stopped with a single touch. Aziraphale’s hands fold over his, warm and sure.
“I’ll show you how,” the angel says. “I trust you.” He moves Crowley's hands to either side of the book, guiding him to take hold of the pages. “Just like that, yes, steady pressure.”
Aziraphale presses different places on Crowley’s hands, controlling when he moves, how he spreads his fingers, even the angle of his wrists. “That’s it,” he coos, salving the encouragement onto to Crowley’s gradually fraying nerves. “Right there, just like that.” He pushes Crowley to spread his fingers. “A little more, almost there.” Another adjustment, easing him into the correct position. “Almost… Oh, you’re doing so well, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs.
One last stretch of his trembling, heated fingers, and with his breath catching against a wounded, broken noise in his throat, the image reveals itself. It’s an angel, luminously detailed, spread out and laid bare for all of Heaven and Hell and Earth to see. It almost looks like Aziraphale, if Crowley lets his eyes go fuzzy. “Beautiful,” he chokes out, eyes tearing up to look at his angel only to find that Aziraphale is already looking at him, eyes wide and raw.
“You really think so,” he asks, as though there could ever be a single doubt. “I was worried that perhaps it was too much work, with not enough reward.”
“No,” Crowley breathes, shaking his head. “No, angel. It’s never too much.”