Notes: Just because writer's block is a bitch, and Aziraphale is awesome. I really do like him a bit more than Crowley. ^^;
He raised one hand, and his reflection did as well, gingerly. When he wiggled his fingers slightly, the hand did, too, and that was proof alone that he was not dreaming, and that the reflected person in the bathroom mirror was indeed himself, though greatly changed.
Satisfied with that, at least, he ran a hand through short, faintly curly hair, and blinked impassively at himself.
It was a familiar body, the one that bore his eyes and stared back from the silvery mirror's surface. While it was by no means perfect, it was his, and it was him - it had been for close to three hundred years.
That's why the changes were so glaringly obvious.
Cerulean eyes were his best feature, the only part of his body that could be considered breathtaking, and that was naturally due to their inhuman nature. They were deep. They were endless. They could see right through a person.
His hair was messy at the moment, slightly skewed to one side where he had slept funny. If it had fallen naturally across his head it would have been a bit wavy, cropped behind his ears and swept back, out of his eyes. His lips were thin and pale - unlike Crowley's.
The demon had the most sensuous lips imaginable, and he knew how to use them.
The body had been blank when he was given it, had borne pale, rubbery-soft skin free of blemish or scar. It had been frightening to look at himself in the mirror and see such endless perfection looking back.... Aziraphale had molded his physical form, changed things, tweaked and pulled... Now it fit his personality like a glove. A full body glove, as Crowley would have said, those same lips pulling back into a smirk, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his slacks.
When his 'editing' was done, Aziraphale had given himself scars, freckles, a tendency to sunburn. He'd added a mole under one ear, scars across his legs, given himself a few lines across the forehead - made himself human.
The result was a bookseller who seemed to be in his mid-thirties, enjoy life immensely, and have a penchant for angel food cake. Two of those were incorrect - he hadn't meant to put on weight, really. The name had just seemed so cute, and once he had tried it, well...
The angel had a watch tan, as well as a sock tan. He gardened. Crowley thought it was horribly, disgustingly cute.
Aziraphale tilted his head, and his reflection tilted back, exposing marred throat and pulling the shadows away from his chest. Smiled thinly. Ran the raised hand across his own collarbone, across the raised welts against his neck, the angel sighed.
Enthusiastic, his lover-dear....
They would have to go, he mused idly, stroking the red spots with one fingertip. They trailed in a tell-tale path down across his chest, one perched where his bellybutton would have been had he ever been born, one at the curving juncture of thigh and waist. There were flourishing blots of bruise spread across his hips, where fingernails had bitten into tender skin.
The marks didn't so much hurt as surprise him, because the last thing he had expected were physical signs of the previous evening. After all, Aziraphale didn't know that he should have by all rights been horribly sore - and what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
Pucker-lipped kiss marks, all up the pale skin at his neck. And, in the soft triangle of flesh between throat and collarbone, two puckered puncture marks and a flowing liquid blue-black bruise.
It looked suspiciously like a snake bite.
The angel smiled a faint, nostalgic smile, thought for a moment, and picked the marks off, one by one. One by one the pink-red blotches disappeared into his memory alone, one by one the splotches vanished into pale skin... He trailed a hand down his chest and removed them one by one, finally returning to the bite mark and fingering the wound with a loving, tickling touch.
A thought, and the bruise vanished. A thought and the dark red of the welts was gone, no more real than a memory was - and how much truth could be stocked in the supposed memories of the night before? They were gone, and the proof was gone, and it might as well never have been. Remembered only by two out of billions, unnoticable to others, a miniscule, tiny deed.
A memory was not worth falling for.
Yet there against his neck two small circular scars remained.
He considered the implications, surprised. A change in form was not common, it would take some getting used to - it would be, Aziraphale realized, there forever, and would always remind him of this night.
Crowley. Standing in the doorway, one hand against the frame, eyes fixed on the throat of his angel as he realized his slip, and the mark it had left behind. Wordless and naked save a sheet about his waist, he shuffled slightly, shame heavy across golden-copper snake-slit diamond eyes. "Er."
The angel looked up. "Good morning, Crowley."
"I.... good morning, angel. I'm sorry. I got a bit carried away-"
Aziraphale touched the marks again, smiled, and turned to the demon. "It's alright. It's something," he paused, turning to the demon and opening his arms wide, inviting his counterpart to join him once again. "to remind me of you always."
Crowley's relief was palpable as he kissed his angel, as his angel whispered, feather-light and soft against lips of carmine sin. "Something eternal."