Archive of Our Own ^beta

Aziraphale had just put up his feet, determined to enjoy his break while the art students traipsed down the hall to fetch cups of tea, when there was a commotion in the doorway.

“Aziraphale? Angel? Is that you? What— What the bloody hell?!” Crowley, who had apparently been hurrying down the corridor, stuttered to a halt. He hesitated, then inched inside the classroom, mouth agape. “What are you doing here? You’re barefoot... Wait— is that a bathrobe?”

Oh, this was terribly embarrassing. Even more embarrassing than what Aziraphale had steeled himself to expect. When he’d agreed to help out tonight, he’d been certain that the entire undertaking would be anonymous. Toynbee Hall was not in an area of London he usually frequented, and the people who attended these adult education classes were not likely to ever turn up in his bookshop, which meant he need never see them again. He could make himself very public – which is what the job required, after all – while remaining quite assured of his privacy. That is, until Crowley turned up.

Crowley, who was now standing before him, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water.

“Watch the space heater, my dear, you’re about to knock it over with your boots.”

“Sorry.” Crowley shuffled back. “Wait, why d’you need the heater? S’not cold.”

“It certainly is if one isn’t wearing any clothes. I am nude under this robe.”

Crowley’s mouth did another fish-out-of-water impression. “Wh...what? Angel, is this some sort of temptation? Or a modern avant-garde blessing I don’t know about?”

“What? No. I’m just helping out a friend.”

“By...”

“By sitting in as a life model in an art class, obviously. Look around you.”

If the draped chaise-longue on which Aziraphale sat didn’t give the game away, the series of easels scattered around the room should have. That, and the smell of turpentine. Aziraphale glanced at a sketchbook abandoned on a nearby chair, which revealed his own plump form rendered in charcoal – with limited skill, granted, but still recognizable. No one had claimed the people who attended these night classes were the next Rembrandt, but giving the disadvantaged folks of the East End a chance to better themselves was something Aziraphale could definitely get behind. They’d suffered so much in the Blitz; the neighbourhood was just starting to find its feet again.

“You... you...” Crowley was making the fish face again. “You mean you— You take that robe off? In front of actual people? But you’re naked under there!”

Really, for the original tempter of Eden, Crowley could be awfully prudish. Aziraphale felt a prickle of annoyance. It was none of Crowley’s business what Aziraphale did with his corporation. Crowley had certainly never expressed any interest in it. Which was too bad, really; Aziraphale would not have been averse to a bit of carnal attention from the demon. It would have been nice to know that Crowley – he of the long legs and the slinking hips and the come-hither smirk – found Aziraphale attractive. But there’d been no sign of it. All those millennia in each other’s orbit, and not a dollop of sexual interest on Crowley’s part. And now Crowley felt entitled to tell him what he could and couldn’t do with his body? Seriously? “And what of it?”

“Angel, are you out of your mind?”

Aziraphale flounced to his feet. “I resent that! What I do with my time, with or without my clothes on, is my own affair. A dear friend who usually models for these classes happens to have come down with flu this evening. He couldn’t find a replacement so he asked me, and I’d hate to let these people down; they have so little to look forward to. Like I said, I’m helping. Besides—” He drew the robe tighter around himself. “This is art, Crowley. Not some sort of pornographic display.”

“Oh, come on, angel, that’s not fair—”

“I might ask what you’re doing here of all places. Spying on me?”

“What? No.” Crowley flinched. Like a snail poked in his sensitive tentacles, he seemed to withdraw into himself. “S’just... Erm... automotive repair. Class. Down the hall.” He put his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched up around his ears. “S’interesting, is all, how they put the engines together.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I come to learn sometimes. Get my hands dirty.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Why would you.”

“Ah. So, complete coincidence then.”

“Seems that way. Was just walking and... there you were.”

“Here I was.”

“Hadn’t seen you in six years, wasn’t expecting to run into you in this neighbourhood. It was a bit of a shock.”

“Yes, I can see how—”

“Anyway.” A gaggle of students – most of them young mothers or middle-aged housewives – began to trickle back into the room, their tea break over. Class was about to resume. Crowley backed away. “I’d better let you get—”

“Yes, time for me to get back to—”

“Nice to bump into you and all—”

“Don’t let’s leave it another six years—"

“See you ‘round, angel.”

An impression of graceful motion, clothed in black, slinked toward the door. Then Crowley was gone. Aziraphale had an odd feeling, like he’d just missed a train connection, like something had slipped through his fingers.

*******

Quentin’s flu cleared up within a few days but the dear boy got a commission for some book illustrations on short notice, leaving him in a time crunch, and so Aziraphale officially took over the modeling job for the rest of the term. He did wonder about Quentin’s financial situation and his wellbeing, but then the boy often caused him to worry; with his eccentric appearance and flamboyant manner, he would court trouble at every turn simply by being himself. It must have made for a lonely existence, underneath all that bravado. Quietly, Aziraphale sent a blessing his way. There was something about Quentin’s crimson hennaed hair, slim build, and refusal to take the easy path that tugged at the angel’s heartstrings.

Besides, Aziraphale truly didn’t mind the modeling. It was oddly enjoyable to push himself out of his comfort zone; exciting to be someone different for three hours. There was a sense of calm that descended on him as he stood there, exposed, the smell of turps in his nose, his nipples pebbling from the chill. He wore nothing but a small loin cloth, a sort of modesty pouch – with ladies present, it was a requirement – but his arse was right there on display. He’d never shown so much flesh, not out in public, and it felt freeing.

It became a part of his routine, something he fit into his weekly activities: open the bookshop, avoid customers if he could, visit the odd estate sale in search of rare volumes, enjoy a nice cup of Ovaltine while reading late into the night – and pose nude in front of the life class at Toynbee Hall on Tuesdays. Reassuringly predictable, unvarying from one week to the next.

That is, until one evening Crowley appeared at the back of the class. With a sketchbook.

Aziraphale had a thousand questions – chief among them, what the hell are you doing here, demon? – but Crowley had slipped into the room just as class was starting, so there was no time to ask them. The warm-up pose was first. Aziraphale stood in the middle of the room for thirty minutes, hand on cocked hip, trying not to stare in Crowley’s direction but sneaking glances all the same.

Crowley seemed absorbed in his drawing, brows drawn, eyes peeking over sunglasses with scholarly intent. His pencil was moving over paper with deliberate strokes, and when the instructor leaned over his work while strolling around the room, she smiled and said, “Good, very good. You have a keen eye.”

Next up were the quick poses, which usually called for more adventurous stances on the model’s part – given that they were only held for short periods. Aziraphale imitated the discus thrower; then stood with one leg raised, foot upon a chair; and finally slumped sideways against a wall in an attitude of utter relaxation (which took all of his core muscle strength to maintain for three minutes). Crowley sketched away as if possessed.

“We’ll break for ten minutes as usual! Tea is down the hall,” the instructor – a young university student – called out, and Crowley was out of the room like a shot, handily avoiding speaking to Aziraphale. He returned just as class was resuming and sat in the back for the next hour, busily drawing – all while Aziraphale’s confusion mounted. It was unnerving to have the demon’s entire attention focused on him without a single word having been exchanged. The usual comfortable companionship that sprang up between them whenever they met was absent; in its place was something that was edged with discomfort but with a large measure of excitement too. With every passing minute Aziraphale became more and more conscious of the fact that he was naked, for God’s sake, and that Crowley was looking at him.

During the second tea break one of the young mothers brought him a cup and said, “The gentleman at the back said to give this to you.” The cup of tea was perfect, just how Aziraphale liked it – with milk, and sugar too, despite the rationing and the sugar shortage. (Aziraphale suspected a demonic miracle at work.) And still Crowley avoided speaking to him, sneaking back in just as the last hour was beginning.

The final pose was held the longest, which meant it had to be comfortable enough for the model to maintain. Aziraphale reclined sideways on the chaise-longue, one leg extended, head pillowed on his arm. Crowley drew. As the minutes ticked by, the instructor went from student to student, looking over each person’s work and making suggestions on perspective and technique. As she bent over Crowley’s sketchpad, her whole face lit up; it seemed his work was good.

“We’re out of time but it’s been a pleasure seeing you all again this evening,” she said at last. “Please join me in thanking tonight’s model, Mr. Fell, for his time and generous assistance.” The students clapped. People began to pack up their things, but Crowley was still sketching. One by one, the young mothers and the middle-aged housewives left the room, hefting their sketchpads and purses. Still, Crowley drew.

“I’m afraid we are out of time...” The instructor’s voice held an edge of impatience. She hovered over Crowley.

“I’m almost done, just... finish up this bit here—”

“Class ends promptly at ten, I do have a meeting to get to downstairs—”

“Please.” Crowley looked up. There was something vulnerable about the set of his jaw. “I only need a few minutes. It’s not quite right yet; I need to get it right—”

“You don’t have to stay, miss.” Aziraphale didn’t realize he was going to speak until the words had actually left his mouth. “I know this man; he’s my friend. You go on to your meeting, I can pose for a little longer. I’ll lock the classroom afterwards.”

Crowley’s eyes widened – whether at the suggestion of the one-on-one posing session or at the open avowal of friendship, Aziraphale wasn’t sure. The young woman hesitated. “If you’re certain...”

“It’s fine, dear girl, the classroom is in safe hands with me.” Aziraphale beamed reassuringly and sent a small blessing her way. She did tend to fret overmuch; soothing her tendency to worry was the least he could do. Her shoulders relaxed as she left the room with an air of perfect serenity.

And then it was just him and Crowley.

“Alright if I move my chair a bit closer, angel?”

“If you need to. I don’t mind. I am a professional.”

One of Crowley’s eyebrows lifted but he didn’t disagree. His long fingers held the pencil in a confident grip, moving it over the paper with purpose.

“So you... erm, have you... Have you done much sketching in the past? I didn’t know you liked to dabble in art, my dear.”

“I’m far from good, angel. Just try to draw what I see.”

“Still lifes and such? Like your plants?”

“I can look at my plants anytime, don’t need to draw them.”

“Landscapes then? Still pond with ducks, that sort of thing?” Aziraphale attempted a joke. The air in the classroom was getting awfully warm; it must be the heater.

“Sorry, just—” Crowley’s eyes darted up distractedly. “D’you mind if I just...”

“Would you like me to be quiet so you can focus?”

A sheepish grimace. “That alright?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks. I’ll try to be quick.”

But the minutes seemed to stretch into hours. When the whole class was there, it had felt different. There was something impersonal in posing for a group, a sort of safety in numbers; he was everyone’s subject to observe – ergo, he was no one’s in particular. This meant that he was his own person, fully in control. Now, under Crowley’s appraising gaze, the intimacy of what they were doing slid into the foreground as the feeling of control slipped farther out of reach.

What made the whole business more unsettling was that Crowley wasn’t a stranger. They had the Arrangement, which meant they were friends of a sort – or at the very least acquaintances; they had gone through a rough patch in the nineteenth century but their last meeting, in 1941, had been a meaningful one. Crowley had saved him from being discorporated, had looked out for him, had saved his books. He hadn’t needed to, but he did – which was kind and thoughtful of him. It was the sort of thing good friends did. Best friends even.

Seeing one another naked was something best friends did not do.

Or was it?

The instant that thought flashed across Aziraphale’s mind, he knew he was in trouble. He had Made an Effort for the class, naturally. It was a life class, designed to teach art students about the human anatomy; to appear with certain attributes lacking would have been alarming to the students, who were worldly enough to know what to look for. But now that Effort was starting to make itself very much known.

The cloth pouch Aziraphale wore over his genitals was close fitting but loose enough to allow movement. Now it began to fill as its contents swelled and hardened. Frantically, Aziraphale attempted to direct his thoughts to matters distinctly un-arousing, but to no avail. Being laid out for Crowley’s eyes like this, like a banquet – open to scrutiny, subject to his approval – gave him a profound erotic thrill.

As he felt his skin flush pink, Aziraphale’s only hope was that Crowley wouldn’t notice. Crowley wasn’t interested in that, after all. He never had been. Such an obscene display on Aziraphale’s part would be off-putting for the demon, which would make the entire situation even more mortifying for Aziraphale. Please, God, whatever happens, don’t let him notice.

Crowley glanced up and his pencil stilled.

Shit.

Aziraphale looked away. There was a cobweb in the corner of the class, up by the ceiling; he directed his entire attention there and watched the little spider at work. If he ignored his present predicament, perhaps it would simply go away. Spin your web, little spider. Look at all your lovely work, well done. Perhaps Crowley would say something, diffuse the awkwardness with a joke, something inappropriate and demonic – and they would laugh about it and it would all be fine.

Crowley shifted in his chair. “All right, angel?”

“Fine.”

“I just... need a bit more detail of your toes.”

“Mhm.”

No joke was forthcoming. Well, then. Perhaps Crowley meant to ignore Aziraphale’s erection the way a doctor might with a patient at a medical checkup, remaining calm and professional – perfectly natural reaction, Mr. Fell, happens all the time, we’ll just give it a minute to subside. Crowley was good at remaining calm in the face of calamities; it seemed like a plausible approach for him to take.

“Got the toes, angel, now just... a bit more definition... in your knees...”

Crowley’s voice was trembling. He didn’t seem very calm.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. This was becoming unbearable. Aziraphale’s cock was as hard as the graphite pencil in Crowley’s hand, and just as straight and rigid. His heart was beating fast and his breathing was rapid. There really was no way out of this awful situation; it would simply need to be endured. Crowley would complete his sketch and leave, and Aziraphale would... Aziraphale would...

“Your... erm, hips... angel... I just... need...”

Crowley had crossed his legs and was no longer sprawling on his chair. His sketchpad was pressed firmly onto his lap, and his drawing hand was shaking a little.

Oh, God, please let this end. Before I discorporate right here in front of him. Before I burst into flame. Before I come untouched, laid out like feast for him to watch. Aziraphale closed his eyes.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a chair scraping against the floor and the clatter of pencil and sketchpad on the slate tiles. Running feet, slamming door. And no more Crowley.

Was this what relief felt like? It was hard to tell. Aziraphale’s stomach plummeted and he had the impression of falling from a great height, white wings charred black, something that might have been his – or perhaps once was – forever out of his reach.

*******

It poured rain that night, which was just as well – it suited Aziraphale’s mood. The bookshop was quiet, his tea was steaming, his books were there as always: comforting old friends. It had been enough once and it would be again. It wasn’t as if he had any alternative; the evening’s events had certainly proven that. Crowley had been so appalled by Aziraphale’s manifestation of sexual interest that he’d bolted. Actually run away at speed. You couldn’t get a clearer sign than that.

Poor, rejected angel, the wind seemed to be whispering. Aziraphale set the tea aside and got out the brandy; he wouldn’t get through the evening without a bit of alcohol. He flipped through his books distractedly, looking for something to hold his interest. Something decidedly non-carnal tonight, he thought. He couldn’t handle carnality just now.

There was a knock at the front door.

Aziraphale huffed out a laugh. How like a gothic novel: a gloomy night, a knock at the door. All we need is to be in the middle of the dark, haunted moors. It was amusing, if annoying beyond measure. “We’re closed!”

Someone was trying the door handle, shaking it a little. Another knock.

“The sign says closed! Come back tomorrow. Or, better yet, next week!” Oh God, why couldn’t people take a hint.

But whoever it was, was persistent. Grumbling, Aziraphale opened the door.

Crowley was soaked to the skin, black shirt clinging to his narrow chest, hair plastered against his face. His yellow eyes burned with intensity, sunglasses nowhere in evidence.

“Angel.”

“Oh.”

“I need to... I want...”

Aziraphale stepped back, making room. “Crowley, there’s absolutely no need for you to be here. I’ll get you a towel and then you can be on your way.”

“But—”

“Where’d you leave the Bentley?”

“I didn’t—”

“Don’t want to think how long you were standing out there, waiting to knock, if you’re this wet. Can’t imagine why. Really, there’s no need.”

“I walked.”

Aziraphale’s train of thought skipped and jolted like the needle on his gramophone. “You what?”

“Walked here. Well, started out just walking aimlessly, but then my feet sort of led me here.” He stood still, making a puddle in Aziraphale’s entryway.

“But why? I mean—” Aziraphale felt his gut tighten. “Why would you want to see me? Wouldn’t blame you for staying away for another century, honestly, after tonight.”

“What d’you mean?”

“You know, the class, and... my, erm, you know... I owe you an apology—”

“You owe me... Angel, stop!”

Crowley’s eyes were pleading. He took a step forward and fell to his knees. Aziraphale was too shocked to even breathe, let alone say anything. Crowley placed his hands on Aziraphale’s ankles, forehead touching his shins. “Angel, I’m such a coward. S’just... we can’t, don’t you see? S’not safe...” He looked up. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to. You have to know that. You have to.”

It was as if everything slowed down then, even time. Aziraphale could hear every single raindrop patter against the pavement outside, every tick of every clock in the bookshop, every flutter of curtain moving in the wind. Most of all, he could hear the beating of his own heart, which hadn’t slowed down at all; quite the opposite.

“So you weren’t offended when I... when I...” When I developed a raging hard-on at the mere thought of your eyes on me, he thought as his body began to react in a familiar way.

“Offended? No, angel. Aroused more like. Had to get out of there before I came in my pants.”

“Crowley! My goodness, the mouth on you...” They’d never spoken of such matters before; it was a bit shocking. Aziraphale’s cock hardened further in his trousers.

“I could show you the mouth on me.” Crowley smiled a slow smirk – then promptly gave himself a shake. “But we can’t. Like I said. You know that.”

He did know that. But Crowley was right there. And the evening was so cold and desolate, surely no celestial or demonic entity would be after them for hours. Aziraphale took an audacious breath. “Perhaps just for tonight... No one need find out. If we’re careful. If we’re quick about it...”

Crowley’s hands had been holding Aziraphale’s ankles; now he slid them up the angel’s thighs, palms open, thumbs skimming over Aziraphale’s groin. His lips were parted and his yellow eyes were bright. “D’you mean that?”

Aziraphale nodded. His voice would have failed him if he’d tried to use it.

Still looking up, Crowley rubbed his cheek against Aziraphale’s clothed erection. “Isn’t this how you’re supposed to worship, on your knees?” he whispered, hissing a bit on the last s. “Let me worship you, angel.”

And then he did.

Later, Aziraphale would have trouble remembering the precise details of what happened next – whether Crowley undid his fly buttons with his fingers or with his teeth, whether it was one hand or both that gripped Aziraphale’s bottom as that forked tongue curled around his prick, whether the heat of Crowley’s mouth had a bit of hellfire in it or whether it felt that way simply because Aziraphale was shivering so much with pleasure. What he would never forget is that it felt right, as if they’d always been meant to do this.

They ended up on the cold entryway floor, kissing, as Aziraphale – sated already thanks to Crowley’s clever tongue – slipped his hand into the demon’s trousers, gripped his hard cock and stroked until Crowley keened and fell apart in Aziraphale’s arms. So that’s how soft his skin feels, Aziraphale thought. He has freckles on his shoulder. That’s what his cock looks like, long and not quite as thick as mine and, oh, its nest of ginger curls is darker than the hair on his head. Alert, he catalogued every detail. This might be the only night they ever spent together. If memory would be all he had, let it be as accurate as he could make it.

As rain fell through the night, they did it again. And then once more. Might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.

When the light of dawn began to filter through the windows, Crowley rose up on an elbow. “We’ve pushed it as far as is safe, angel. Further, probably. I need to go.”

“So soon?”

“I’ll keep seeing you around, you know. Just not...” He gestured to their nakedness.

“Of course.”

“S’not safe for you.”

Crowley began to dress. Long legs, Aziraphale thought. Knees a bit knobbly. Pale, lean thighs. I must remember it all, record it in my mind.

“Crowley,” he said. “You never told me why you turned up at the class last night. Was it just for a lark?”

Crowley stopped. His shirt was halfway on; he shrugged his other arm into a sleeve. “I wanted to see you,” he said. “Thought it might be my only chance.”

“Oh. But the sketching – you seemed serious about it.”

Crowley squirmed. “Souvenir? If ever I wanted to look at you again...”

“Oh.”

“Left it behind anyhow, when I ran. Fat lot of good—”

“I’ve got it, I’ll fetch it for you.”

Aziraphale hurried over to his desk, picked through the mess of things on it. When he got back, Crowley was fully dressed.

“Did you look at them? The sketches,” Crowley asked.

“Uh... no. The sketchbook was closed when I picked it up, I didn’t want to pry.” Or torture myself with memories of my humiliation and rejection, Aziraphale thought.

“You can if you want,” Crowley offered shyly.

After what had just transpired between them, what was a little naked artwork? Aziraphale flipped open the sketchbook. And there he was, page after page of him, pose after pose – except somehow more alight, less dumpy, less ordinary; not at all the person he saw in the mirror every morning. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting Crowley’s drawings to look like; certainly not these paeans to his supposed beauty. It was ridiculous. “Crowley, you’re extraordinarily skilled, my dear, but this isn’t me. You’ve overdone it. I’m not this lovely.”

“Angel.” Crowley looked at him as if he were a little bit slow. “I told you. I just draw what I see.”

How odd that in a night full of surprises, this should be the biggest one of all. He’d thought that touching Crowley would be the peak of this experience, that seeing him, kissing him would be as good as it would get. But that had been just about their bodies. This was somehow more. Suddenly Aziraphale’s heart felt so full of joy, of belonging – of love – that he thought it might burst.

Parting was difficult. They stood in the doorway, holding each other, on the brink of separating but wanting to prolong the moment. “Next time we meet, we keep our distance,” Crowley warned. “Can’t give anything away. Remember, this never happened.”

Aziraphale nodded. Already he felt bereft; memories would only carry him so far, no matter how detailed.

The front door closed behind Crowley.

The bookshop fell silent. Clocks ticked, mice scurried, dust settled.

Then the door handle turned; Crowley poked his head back in and winked. “I’ve got a full-length mirror in my flat, angel. I’ll draw you a self-portrait and drop it off next week. Souvenir, like.”

Well, the clever serpent.

END