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Goodness, the walls are thin, aren’t they? Thought Aziraphale. Almost like a bomb is going off. The vibrations from the double bass shook the glass perfume bottles the cabaret performers had left behind the night before. He pushed the bottles away from the edge of the dressing table, lest the next song the big band performed had enough oomf to knock them to the floor.
Aziraphale looked up from the cluttered table and into the mirror. His hair was in a deep side part- a little lopsided, if you asked him, but as he was going in front of so many humans he thought it best to follow the fashion choices of the decade. Besides, it would be covered by his hat for almost his entire act. As long as Harry the rabbit didn’t make a mess while he was hidden on top of Aziraphale’s head, his hair would be just fine.
The mustache was another matter. He had tried to imitate his favorite magician of the time, Dante, whose charming wit, talented tricks, and slick mustache had landed him a world tour. Aziraphale had no global ambitions, of course, but he did secretly wish to book a few venues in the Mediterranean once the war was over. Heaven had kept him based in London for over two centuries now and he was longing for some place warm and sunny. Aziraphale hoped that drawing a mustache would bestow some of Dante’s good fortune upon him. So far, however, all it had earned was three weeknight performances in the dingiest pub this side of London.
Something is still missing, Aziraphale thought as he straightened his bow tie. He looked around the room. There were hundreds of pounds worth of props and costumes in the dressing room- before the war began, the pub had been a bustling hub of activity, and it was almost a right of passage for performers to lose a piece or two during their run. Now, however, most items sat gathering dust while the few bands, showgirls, and magicians that had not yet been conscripted got ready around them. The room itself felt like an offering table for better days ahead.
Aziraphale picked up a pink satin glove laying on the vanity. He slipped it on his right hand, considering what a pop of color would do to his outfit. Though he enjoyed the feeling of it between his fingers, he worried that the smooth texture would make it more difficult to perform card tricks (he had already had enough difficulty catching the Ace of Spades in the air). Nonetheless, he took a look around the room to see if he could find the other glove- in Aziraphale’s opinion, nothing was more sad than something without its partner. He was startled out of his search when he heard the applause coming from the stage. The saxophonist had just finished his solo, giving Aziraphale the cue that he only had a few minutes remaining before his own act.
He gently laid down the glove where he found it, and noticed a white feather boa. Aziraphale smiled at the irony of wearing feathers while his own were tucked away safely in another dimension. He was in tune with the times enough to know he would be laughed out of the room if he went on stage wearing such a thing, but felt compelled to try it on anyway. His small smile grew to a full grin as he looped the boa around his neck. He twisted it through his fingers and swung his hips around, doing his best burlesque impression. It was quite fun to pretend to be someone else, if just for a moment. He threw his hands up in the air, as though framing his body for the world to see, and promptly froze when he heard a “Ngggk” behind him.
He stayed frozen for another second, hoping beyond hope that the sound he just heard was merely a trumpet hitting a sour note, or a car backfiring, or a mouse sneezing, or- his hopes were dashed when the voice uttered, “Um, hullo, Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale slowly turned around, arms still up in the air (he really wasn’t sure how to put them down at this point), and laid his eyes on the last being in the world he wanted to see at the moment.
“Ah, Crowley!” He said, finally regaining enough composure to lower his hands and whip the boa off of his neck as though it had burned him. “What a… surprise!” It was as surprising as Crowley disliking oysters in 41, as surprising as him asking for holy water in 1862, as surprising as the moment last year when Aziraphale realized he was utterly in love with the demon. He could not state enough that none of these surprises were a good thing.
Crowley looked uncomfortable (But beautiful, a voice in Aziraphale’s head thought without permission) standing in the doorway with his shoulders up high and thumbs in his pockets. He had on a black coat, dark suit, and same fedora that he had worn the last time Aziraphale saw him. The piece de resistance, at least in Aziraphale’s mind, was his tie- it was the perfect shade of burgundy to match Crowley’s scales when he was in his serpent form.
The demon continued to just look, and Aziraphale realized he would need to be the one to break the silence. “What are you doing here?” Crowley gave a slight shake of his head, as though waking up from a strange dream.
“Ah, well, I was in the area mixing up some sign posts- thought it’d be a right laugh for the BUF members meeting next week to accidentally show up at the Annual Constable Dinner- and I noticed this.” He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Gently, he unfolded it, revealing a poster with ‘The AMAZING Mr. Fell and his INCREDIBLE Magick Act’ written in bold letters. “Figured it must be you- you mentioned that you were spending time with Maskelyne last time I saw you.” Aziraphale swore a blush ran up Crowley’s neck, though he reminded himself that the bulb lights from the mirror played interesting tricks on the eye.
“Yes, I studied under his grandfather, John, actually. He was running a course for amateur magicians in the ‘70s and I decided to pick up a hobby…” Aziraphale trailed off, realizing that he may be giving too many of his feelings away. He realized recently that he had only started practicing magic after he and Crowley had their row about the holy water. It was now a true hobby for him, but was born from the need of a distraction.
“And the boa?” Crowley asked, tilting his head. Aziraphale followed his gaze to where the offending accessory lay strewn across the table.
“That was a flight of fancy. You’ll see no dancing from me in the act, I can assure you.” Aziraphale prayed that the same bulb lights that created Crowley’s blush earlier would be kind enough to hide his own.
“Pity,” Aziraphale’s eyes snapped up to see a smirk forming across Crowley’s face.
“Oh, you rotten serpent, you’re having me on!” Aziraphale returned the smile. “Well, if you’re going to be here, you best make yourself useful. I feel like there’s missing from my ensemble. Something that ties it all together…”
“Have you tried the pink glove?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t find it’s pair- oh, another joke. I see,” Aziraphale said to Crowley’s cackle. “You might as well make your way out to the audience. If you aren’t going to be helpful, there’s no point to you being here.”
“Aziraphale, I’m a demon! You’ve got to let me have a little bit of fun,” Crowley said, though he did roll his shoulders and straighten out his cuffs to indicate he was putting on a more serious tone. “I’ll be helpful, I swear it. What are you trying to look for?”
“That’s just it, I’m not sure! I just don’t look complete. Here, let me show you a true magician.” The angel grabbed the briefcase containing all his magic tricks- decks of cards, handkerchiefs, and whichever poor dove happened to be nearest to him in the park that day. He opened it and turned it around so Crowley could see in. Taped to the lid was a leaflet of a man with blonde hair and a dark mustache, his eyes leering at the viewer. Below him were the words ‘DANTE, Europe’s Magician’.
“I thought it was perhaps the mustache that made him look so alluring- that’s an important trait for a magician to have, you know, makes it easier to distract people when you’re performing sleight of hand. But clearly there’s something else.”
“Maybe it’s the devil in his ear? Quite alluring chaps, those demons are.”
“Crowley!”
“Alright, alright. Hmm.” Crowley looked at the paper for a moment. “It’s his eyes.”
“His eyes?” Aziraphale studied them. “They are much darker than mine, almost like there’s a speck of gold in them. Do you think I should change mine?”
“What? No, your eyes are perfect!” Crowley said sharply, then cleared his throat and began talking at a rapid pace. “I mean, they’re fine. They’re angel eyes, you’re an angel, makes sense. I just mean his eyeliner is all. He’s got some on- it frames his eyes, makes them pop.”
Aziraphale took a breath while his mind caught up to all of the things Crowley was saying- his brain had taken a short break when it heard the word ‘perfect’. “Oh, yes, I do see that now. Would the brow pencil I used for my mustache work?”
“I’m sure it’d suffice.”
“Fantastic. I’ve got just a few moments left, shouldn’t be too hard to get done.” Aziraphale hoped that Crowley would hear that as his queue to take his seat. It was unnerving to be spending time with him so close to a performance, especially doing something as vulnerable as getting ready.
Crowley, however, began poking at all of the costumes and props scattered throughout the room. He’d pick up a headdress and switch it out with his hat, just to put it back a moment later.
Once Aziraphale realized Crowley had no plans to make leave, he grabbed the pencil out of his briefcase and approached the mirror. Just as he was putting the pencil to his eye, Crowley asked, “What is it about Dante, anyway?”
The pencil hovered an inch from Aziraphale’s face. He looked into the mirror at Crowley, who was sifting through the clothing rack. “What do you mean? I admire his work. He’s come up with several new tricks for Thurston to use.”
“Well, you don’t carry around a poster of someone simply because you like their magic tricks, do you? Especially not one so ‘alluring’.”
Aziraphale’s blood ran cold. The way Crowley spoke felt like a judgement; I see right through you and all of the feelings you aren’t supposed to have. They were approaching a very dangerous subject, and it was not one that the angel was ready to have moments before going on stage (or ever, but he wasn’t thinking that far ahead).
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale said with an air of finality. He hoped that the shaking in his hands didn’t extend to his voice.
“No, of course not,” Crowley said, more softly this time, Almost… disappointed? Aziraphale thought. That makes no sense.
Another round of applause broke out of the crowd, and Aziraphale regained his sense of time. He really did need to get a move on if he wanted to perform on time. He put the pencil to his eye again, but his hand was still shaking from the adrenaline of the moment before. He wouldn’t be able to draw any eyeliner without risking a poke to his eye (Your angel eyes, the disobedient voice thought, doing nothing to calm him down).
“Oh, dam-“ He inhaled and pinched his nose before he could finish the blasphemy. “I can’t do this,” he said. He wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by ‘it’, but ‘it’ felt like the right descriptor.
“I could help, if you’d like,” Crowley said, still not looking up from the rack of clothes.
“Have you ever put on eyeliner before?”
“Please, you forget my time in Ancient Egypt. Kohl was all the rage for women back in the day.” Crowley took a step towards him and put out his hand, making a motion for Aziraphale to hand the pencil over.
Their hands brushed for the briefest of seconds, too long and not long enough. “Just look straight ahead,” Crowley said, and brought the pencil to his face.
Aziraphale did as he was told, though since they were only inches apart, his only option was to look straight at Crowley’s glasses. Didn’t think this through, did I? Aziraphale thought. I can practically feel his breath. Crowley put a pinkie on Aziraphale’s cheek, causing the angel to give a small gasp.
“Sorry, but I’ve got to anchor my hand to get a straight line. I know it’s a little cold- serpent thing,” Crowley said, voice soft and maybe the slightest bit vulnerable.
“It’s fine, just surprised me is all,” Aziraphale said, continuing to dutifully look straight ahead. It’s fine, he thought a second time, just to remind himself. They continued in silence for the rest of his right eye. Aziraphale may have forgotten to breathe, but thankfully his body didn’t really need it.
“Ergh, there’s terrible lighting in here. The shadows are making it difficult to get the corners right. Do you mind if I—?” Crowley gestured to finish his sentence, pointing towards his glasses.
“Oh, not at all. That’s fine. Great.” Shut it, Aziraphale! He thought as loud as he could.
“Thanks,” Crowley said, and brought his glasses down to the tip of his nose. Blue eyes met amber.
They stood there in silence, locked together by the weight of the moment. Aziraphale rarely got to see Crowley’s eyes anymore- he had always hated the glasses, but never fully understood why until he had his revelation at the church.
“Just, uh, taking a second for my eyes to adjust,” Crowley said, still boring holes into Aziraphale’s soul with his stare.
“Of course.” The reply was barely more than a whisper.
After a second, or an eternity, Crowley raised the pencil again, this time anchoring his hand to the other cheek. (Don’t move, don’t think, don’t breathe, Aziraphale.)
A moment later and Crowley was done. Aziraphale felt the sting of sadness when he removed his hand. “I think we’ve got it. Unless…” He glanced at the picture of Dante. “His eyeliner is a little smudged- makes it look, hmm, smoky?”
“Do whatever you need to, I trust you.” Aziraphale meant it, so much more than just makeup.
Crowley brought his hand back up, this time cupping Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale let out the smallest breath, and wanted to say more, but felt trapped under Crowley’s gaze. The demon swiped his thumb under Aziraphale’s eye, letting it linger at the corner for just a fraction of a second longer than what was probably necessary.
He dropped his hand, but Aziraphale barely had time to register the loss before it was replaced by the other hand on his right cheek. Crowley repeated the same motion, smudging the eyeliner with his thumb. This time, when he reached the edge where Aziraphale’s crow’s feet formed, the thumb stayed put.
Aziraphale’s heart stopped completely. Had time stopped, too? They stood there, looking into each other’s eyes, on the edge of a precipice that felt terrifying and inevitable. Aziraphale leapt.
“I like your eyes, too,” he said, grateful that he sounded much more brave than he felt. “They’re very… Crowley.” He watched as Crowley’s pupils dilated. Crowley’s tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. Aziraphale was sure he was about to discorporate.
The loudest applause yet broke out in the room next door, and the two jumped apart. Crowley looked into the mirror and straightened his hat before pushing his glasses back up over his eyes.
“Break a leg out there, Angel,” He said as he walked out of the room, not glancing back once.
Aziraphale gazed into the doorway, trying to process what just happened and completely failing. Was it a dream? He grabbed his top hat and turned towards the mirror. The perfectly smudged eyeliner made his heart flutter- Crowley had indeed been there, just inches away, practically caressing him.
No, he thought, he was just helping a friend in need. Though, to be fair, even that thought didn’t slow his racing heart. Were he and Crowley friends now?
“I’m pleased to present the Amazing Mr. Fell!” A voice outside said. Aziraphale startled- he really did need to pull himself together. He took one last look at himself, threw on the top hat, and grabbed his green cloak.
Aziraphale walked out the doorway to the stage, praying that he’d catch a glimpse of amber eyes in the audience.