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Art imported from Instagram link here
(sorry, that’s the best I can do with uploading images) (will update later if I figure it out)
….
Aziraphale prefers to appear masculine. After all, the comforts of pants, chopped hair, and sharp coats were much too good to pass up.
But deep down, only the angel knows the true reason.
Humans, come to find, changed values far too often on what is considered beautiful. One day, a body of lucious curves and cellulite is considered the epitome of grace, and the next, a body with so little fat it’s practically skin and bones. And women, unfortunately, often bore the brunt of such changes.
Now, Aziraphale had never particularly cared about corporations. It was merely a house for an angelic soul to rest in — after all, the true form of any angel would be enough to send a human scurrying the opposite direction whilst screaming in Tongues.
And so angels had been created to appear soft, unassuming, crafted at the hands of a being who knew the challenges they’d be facing. It had certainly helped to appear innocent over the years, at least.
This being said, however, both Aziraphale and Crowley had heard just about every phrase or slur over the centuries pertaining to their presentation of that time. But no matter how hard one tries to ignore it, the harsh and hurtful comments stick in the back of the mind and run in a loop like a broken record.
“So hideous!”
“Are you sure you should be eating any more?”
To Aziraphale, all human bodies are perfect the way they are. Humans were crafted in the image of the Almighty, after all, and She doesn’t make mistakes.
But maybe… maybe She had.
“Perhaps you should head back home, Azira. It would be… untoward to be seen beside someone so… large. You understand, of course.”
She doesn’t.
“My dear, I was invited to this ball.” Aziraphale defends, fingers alternating between twisting around themselves and smoothing down the yellow brocade of her dress. Two young ladies to the left glance their way and snicker into their decorative fans.
“Yes,” the woman’s harsh gaze rakes her form. “Though I haven’t the slightest clue why.”
And, well, that stings.
She’d been invited by the hostess herself, a talented woman named Jane who had written one of Aziraphale’s favorite novels of the time: First Impressions, or as the publisher had edited, Pride and Prejudice. She’d even given her a personally signed copy! Signed, “to Aziraphale, my dearest friend and lover of language.”
And oh, it had been far too long since she’d seen her. So, when Aziraphale first heard wind of a ball being hosted by none other than Jane Austen, the angel could hardly resist.
“I happen to know the hostess personally, and dear Jane has no issues with my being here.” She huffs, peering past the woman’s shoulder to the intricate gates of the manor. “Now, if you’d please excuse me, I must—“
“Angel?”
Aziraphale has never been more relieved to hear such a familiar voice.
“Oh, Crowley! You frightened me.” She chuckles nervously, placing a gloved hand over her chest and turning to face its owner with a grin so wide it nearly splits her face in two.
A tall, lanky woman stands behind her, fiery auburn curls framing a set of sharp cheekbones and weathered skin. A pair of dark spectacles rest on a hooked nose, drooping down just enough to get a glimpse of the golden slits behind them.
The woman smirks and the sight alone sends the angel’s fake heart fluttering. “Funny seeing you here.”
Her eyes dart down to the simple, yellow drape of Aziraphale’s dress, down to the ruche of fabric hugging her newly formed breasts, and back up to meet the angel’s curious gaze. “Nice look. Suits you.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, feeling almost lightheaded at the sudden attention, “thank you, my dear. You look wonderful as well.”
Was it just her imagination or have Crowey’s cheeks gotten more flushed? Perhaps it’s the dancing candlelight playing tricks on her eyes.
“You know Jane as well, I take it?”
“Oh, yes,” the demon practically purrs, “a real piece of work, that one. Thought I’d pop by and see what sort of trouble she’ll stir up.”
The woman she’d been talking to previously makes a noise akin to a low growl and flicks her fan against her left ear, storming off. Rude.
“Who was that?” Crowley asks, motioning to the woman’s retreating form.
“An old… acquaintance of mine. She used to visit the bookshop sometimes— though only really to complain about my appearance.”
“She what?”
“My dear, there’s no need to cause such a fuss. People are entitled to their opinions, of course.” Aziraphale assures her, biting back the things she truly wants to say— words that taste of something dreadful and bitter. Things that angels ought to push down and never speak aloud.
Crowley’s glasses slip further down her nose, eyes now on full display. They flash with something wicked, whites completely covered. “Angel, what did she say to you?”
“Oh, please, as though you cannot see it.” Aziraphale has the sudden sense to wrap her arms around herself, as though it will conceal what she’s too afraid to show.
“See what?” The demon hisses through her teeth. “Angel, what are you talking about?” She steps forward, heels clicking noisily on the cobblestones.
“My size, Crowley. I’m not exactly… considered beautiful amongst the humans.”
To the naked eye, Crowley’s the picture of serenity, hands clasped behind her back and back straight, but Aziraphale knows, below the surface, she’s trembling with fury. “ Aziraphale—“
“Now, Crowley, there’s no need for all that. Let’s just enjoy the ball, yes?“ Aziraphale struggles to swallow the lump in the throat as she tugs on Crowley’s arm to force them both through the gates.
….
There are just so many people.
So many prying eyes, watching her ascend the staircase. Are they looking at her? Are they noticing her flaws? Are they liking what they’re seeing?
Oh how silly of her, resorting to such superficial thoughts. Angels don’t worry about how they look. Angels are ethereal, perfection in its purest form, just as they are intended to be, they don’t—
“Angel?”
Aziraphale feels a little like she’s drowning, with Crowley’s voice being the only thing keeping her afloat.
“Hey, you don’t have to go down there, if you don’t want. We can just… go back to the bookshop, crack open a bottle of red, forget about all this.” The demon offers, feigning nonchalance.
Aziraphale pales. “Oh, no, my dear, that won’t be necessary. I would very much like to witness my first ball.” She quickly avoides Crowley’s concerned frown.
The demon bends down, hand brushing against her own. Long fingers tap twice against the angel’s pinkie, as though asking for permission to touch.
Aziraphale nearly cries with relief, happily letting the hand explore her own. Crowley’s thumb brushes over her gloved knuckle a few times in a small attempt at comfort and Aziraphale feels her stomach twist with nerves. It’s hardly the first time they’ve held hands, but somehow it feels… different this time.
“C’mon angel, we’ve a party to attend.” The demon croaks, refusing to look in her direction. Aziraphale smiles fondly at the sight.
Perhaps…
Perhaps it won’t be so bad after all.
….
It was going so well.
Everything was nearly perfect — she’d popped off to the dessert table almost immediately and just had to try some of the delectable treats laid before them. She’d practically begged Crowley taste at least one, to which the demon had snickered and popped a small biscuit in her mouth with a hum, making a show of washing it down with a hefty swig of wine. They’d chatted awhile, about anything and everything, content to just watch the humans dance and gossip about in their groups.
Aziraphale couldn’t help but bask in the love that permeated the air as couples swayed and dipped and laughed. It was just as Jane had described — wonderful and soft and so very human— that it had the angel feeling giddy.
And then it all went downhill.
“My lady, may I have the honor of a dance?” An older gentleman, hair greying at the edges, dips into a bow before her, hand outstretched. Aziraphale gulps down the lump forming in her throat, sharing a quick, nervous glance with Crowley. The demon watches him, reclining against the banister and raising the glass to her wine-stained lips. She holds it there, nails tapping against its stem.
“Ah, my apologies. I don’t—“
“I wasn’t referring to you. I was referring to the pretty lady beside you.”
A chill seeps into her bones.
“Oh. I see.”
She’d nearly forgotten her previous insecurities, too preoccupied with basking in the wonders of a real, authentic ball.
But now the words “so… large” are running a loop in her mind. Had they been right all along?
Wordlessly, she steps aside, as though shrinking in Crowley’s shadow, and worries the fabric of her gloves.
The demon steps forward, expression unreadable, dark gown sashaying with each dramatic hip movement and carefully pinned curls bouncing in place…
…and drapes her hand in the man’s awaiting palm.
Oh.
A sick feeling rises in the angel’s stomach that feels a little too close to jealousy for comfort, and she hurries to push it down as far as it can go. There’s no reason Crowley can’t dance with him. She’s a demon; demons enjoy the activity. And he did offer.
But then why does it feel so… wrong?
“You flatter me, good sir.” Crowley says, voice smooth and rich as the wine that sloshes in her glass. She leans closer, nearly close enough to touch the man’s ear with her chin. “However, I’d be much more inclined to watch a carriage wreck than dance with the likes of you.”
The man stumbles back, a look of furious confusion written on his face. “I— I beg your pardon?!”
“Mm, yes, you should.” The demon whispers beneath her breath, turning to face Aziraphale’s own shocked expression. “Come on, angel, we’re leaving.”
With that, she begins tugging the angel forward, up the spiraling staircase, towards the highest floor.
And while Aziraphale sputters in shock and allows herself to be pulled, the man suddenly finds his shoelaces tied together. He yelps, slipping forward and over the ledge, toppling onto the large collection of wineglasses that litter several long tables.
Daring to peek over the edge of the banister, she notices the man tangled in a cluttered heap of shattered glass and red liquid — his once pristine white suit forever stained.
The demon cackles loudly beside her, though Aziraphale barely registers it as the guests begin gathering and snickering at the display. Before she can begin to help, herself, Crowley pulls her through a doorway and slams the door behind them.
….
“Crowley! You can’t just—“
“Oh, I can.” Crowley throws her head back with a hearty laugh, slumping against the railing of am empty balcony.
“He could be seriously hurt!” The angel continues, pinching a strip of white fabric between her fingers and rubbing over it several times.
The balcony was quiet— a breath of fresh air that she hadn’t known she needed. Aziraphale lets herself breathe in the calm of night air, trying not to slip into the familiar weight of anxiety.
Crowley makes some sort of noncommittal noise and lazily waves a hand around. “Ah, he’s not really hurt. More his pride than anything.”
“Still. You can’t always defend me, you know.”
“And, what? You were just going to let that human talk you down like that?” Crowley asks, voice laden with unspoken emotion.
Aziraphale huffs, the fabric beginning to tear from how hard she’d been pulling on it. “Yes.”
“Yeah, great plan. Fantastic plan, really. Let’s just let some random man in a fancy coat tell you how—“
“Will you just please drop it?!”
Aziraphale stomps forward and slumps against the balustrade, hunching so far over it that she feels she can nearly fly off in the night sky. She rubs at her tired eyes, almost wishing she could claw away at them and never have to witness the disgusted looks on anyone’s faces again.
Crowley reels back, startled, but softens almost immediately. She hesitates, palm hovering above the angel’s back, before placing it over her shoulder and leaning ever closer. With her other hand, she tosses the wine glass over the railing without a care (and if the woman walking below that had been splashed by it happened to be the woman from earlier, no one had to know) and summons her decorative fan, flicking it closed against her cheek. “Y’know, for the record, I don’t see the problem in a bit of curve. Lots more to see, and, ngk, ‘s pretty ‘n all.”
Aziraphale dares a glance in her direction, watching the light of the ballroom through the glass flatteringly drape itself across her slim figure and pool in the cracks of her blood-red gown. She’s curled the little wisps of hair that frame her face, the angel notes idly. It suits her.
“Thank you, my dear.” She says, smiling.
“And don’t listen to those bloody idiots, angel.” Crowley sighs, hand still clinging to her shoulder. She pulls the blonde closer, peering out at the darkened sky in thought.
“They’re right though, aren’t they? I’ve never been good enough.” The words just seem to slip from her mouth unbidden, secrets spilling into the crisp air like smoke. “Not on Earth, and certainly not in Heaven.”
“Angel,” Crowley begins, testing the words on her tongue, “those bastards in heaven couldn’t tell a dove from a crow, let alone a good angel from themselves. And humans? Eh, they live for superficiality.”
Aziraphale isn’t quite sure if this is supposed to be comforting or not, but stays silent, regardless.
“‘Sides, you’re too good for them, anyway.”
A flicker of something so achingly familiar burns in the angel’s chest.
But… it can’t be.
Demons can’t feel such things — it’s impossible. The angels always said so, at least.
And yet… here it is, plain as day. The all-encompassing feeling of love.
“My dear,” she says, voice nearly a whisper, “you are—“
“If you say nice, I’ll—“
“I was going to say that you’re right.”
“Oh.” The demon’s chest deflates, almost as though the fight is leaving her body.
“I shouldn’t worry so much what they think. The humans, I mean.” She says, peering out at the stars twinkling above. “I must admit, I don’t often wear this style of corporation due to their opinions.”
“Yeah, I noticed that…” Crowley trails off, watching her curiously. “Didn’t want to point it out, but it’s unusual to see, I suppose. ‘S nice. Different.”
Aziraphale feels the spark grow to an ember, setting her senses alight with pure, unfettered warmth. “Thank you, dear. But you saw them out there, they can be…”
“Cruel? Wrong? Absolute bloody idiots?”
“Mean. They can be rather mean.” She grins, feeling the anxiety fade like a wave in the ocean. “You wily thing.”
“Seriously though, don’t listen to them. They wouldn’t know beauty if it slapped them in the face.” Crowley grabs her fan and flicks it open dramatically, placing it over her lips.
Aziraphale doesn’t have the heart to argue, so she changes the subject instead. “I suppose I should try to get back to the party now.”
Crowley hums, fanning herself. “Or we could just stay out here. ‘S quiet. Peaceful.”
Aziraphale watches her sleek black glove trace the banister invitingly and can’t help but feel compelled to listen. “I wouldn’t be opposed to… standing out here with you, I suppose.”
What she doesn’t say is, I could stand beside you forever and be content.
But Crowley understands, regardless.
And so, an angel and a demon stay and watch the moon dip beneath the horizon and beckon the coming of a new day. They never did dance, either of them, but neither minded much. And though no words were spoken, both had never felt more content.
And maybe, just maybe, the angel thought, presenting this way isn’t so bad after all.