Archive of Our Own

In the beginning, he found his vessel restrictive. Of course, over the centuries he'd grown to like - even love - his vessel. He became familiar with earthly pleasures, and he fashioned himself an outfit which he thought suited him well. But even now, there is still sometimes this feeling of containment, as if the enormity of his being had been pushed inside a small space, and it was trying to escape. Grace was boundless and infinite, so he should not feel so trapped. Yet still sometimes Aziraphale felt the urge to show all of himself, the form he was born with, the celestial body which God gave him... 

Aziraphale had tried to ask, once, why angels had to occupy vessels. As an angel (a low ranking angel, for that matter) he should not have been asking questions like that. But Aziraphale had asked, and the answer he was given by heaven was that it was 'more convenient', and that he should put the thought of vessels out of his mind.

The excuse made very little sense to Aziraphale. While an angel's form would be unfamiliar to humans, surely there was no need for them to take a human form permanently. Whatever the reason, Aziraphale, in the first few hundred years of 'living' on earth, was frustrated with his vessel. (Until he discovered food, that is, but nevertheless.)

The idea came to him when, while performing a minor miracle a few years after the coming of Christ, he came across an elderly woman who was losing her faith. She had a difficult life, and Aziraphale felt sympathy for her. More than that, he felt angelic love - a love for humanity, a love he had come to treasure. The woman had believed in God for all of her life, yet she had only ever suffered. Now, at the end of the life, she had no friends or family, she was dreadfully sick, and the world appeared to her cruel and cold and dark.

Aziraphale had thought the best way to comfort her would be to show her there were angels, watching out for her, and that she should keep her faith until she inevitably passed away. Technically, showing her his true form was against heaven's direct orders, but Aziraphale decided that if it would restore her faith - and bring her back into the light - then the punishment would be worth it.

So one night, while she sleeps fitfully, he appears by her bedside. As a principality, Aziraphale's form is less overwhelming than his superiors, but his celestial body certainly isn't a human one. He appears first in a wave of coloured fumes, which is his grace, spilling into the air. Then his angelic form takes shape.

He has one hundred eyes. The span of his wings would tear the house apart, if his celestial body was made from matter. Holy light fills the room with unimaginable brightness, and through the white-hot light he sees the woman wake.

And she screams. It is shrill, high pitched, and it devastates Aziraphale. She is terrified. He recalls the shepherds of the bible quaking in the face of an angel, but he had never thought terror would look quite like this. She is pale as she stares at him, and her eyes are so wide he fears they will fall out of her head.

"Do not be afraid." Aziraphale says. It is not in a language known to man. But being on earth, his voice is translated into whatever the native language is. "I am an angel of the lord. The angel of the Eastern gate, Aziraphale."

He watches in horror as her body contorts. She is forced into a bow, perhaps by his own power, though he does not mean for it to happen. Her brittle bones crack as she bends, and she is still shaking in terror.

"An angel?" She asks. She looks up at him again, and Aziraphale, alarmed, sees that her eyes have become bloodshot. The more she stares into his angelic light, the more the blood gathers and pools underneath her eyelids. Perhaps this is why angels in the bible never did stay very long. Their messages are always quick and succinct. "You are an angel?"

"I am." Aziraphale says, "I have come to tell you, do not lose faith. We are watching over you."

Though some of the colour is returning to her cheeks, Aziraphale wonders if his presence here is more of a hurt than a comfort. Perhaps this is the reason they take vessels, then. A trail of blood falls down the old woman's face like a tear, and Aziraphale understands. Humans were not made to see them. There is, in some ways, a wall between the human and celestial. Aziraphale only realises it then, standing in all of his glory.

So he returns to his vessel.

After his celestial being has once again fit into a human form, Aziraphale comes to the woman's side, and presses a hand to her cheek. She trembles still, and so he sighs, a little wistfully.

"I am very sorry, dear." He murmurs. And then she is asleep again, the memory of Aziraphale's true form forgotten. She will know she has met an angel, but she will not remember what he truly looked like, nor the terror she felt.

Aziraphale realises how lonely it is, to be seen yet not really seen. It isn't as if he is seeking that sort of understanding from a human - he is very careful not to form attachments to humans. But nevertheless, there is a barrier between himself and humanity, and the knowledge of it really is so very lonely. Over the centuries, he stops thinking about his true form. He becomes so well acquainted and familiar with his human form that his celestial one stops being a concern. But still, even then, the knowledge he is not really human stays stuck in his mind. And now and then he looks into the mirror and he doesn't know who he's looking at.

Of all the conversations Aziraphale expected to have with Crowley following the narrowly avoided apocalypse, he didn't expect a conversation about their vessels.

Aziraphale had always presumed that Crowley, with all of his fashion sense and swagger, cared very little for his vessel, unless, of course, it was damaged or discorporated. But one evening, tucked into the bookshop with a radio Crowley had summoned playing softly in the background, Crowley asks about it.

"Hey, I've been wondering. Do you always stay in your current body?" He asks. He has his legs crossed, and he watches Aziraphale's reaction over the top of his wine glass. "Your vessel, I mean. Do you never, uh, stretch out? I've never seen your true form."

"Nor I yours." Aziraphale points out.

"You're avoiding the question." Crowley laughs. He leans forward, more curious now, his eyes sharp and quick as a serpent's. "Well?"

"It's inconvenient." Aziraphale says, mirroring the excuse of heaven. Crowley raises an eyebrow.

"Inconvenient, huh?" He says, "So that's a no then?"

"Well, what about you?"

"Oh, yeah, I get my wings out sometimes. I go for a fly, but only in the dark. Not as fun as driving, but it's convenient sometimes." Crowley says casually. Aziraphale nods, remembering when they had stood, their wings stretched, with Adam standing between them. "Don't usually bother with the whole shibang, though. There's no need to take on my true form really, and eh, getting back into the vessel can be a pain. Plus, if a human catches me and runs off screaming, it ruins my day."

Aziraphale's lips twitch. He can't deny being a little curious, though. He's never seen a demon's true form. Crowley, of course, will have seen all of the angels of heaven, before he fell.

"I tried it, once." Aziraphale admits. "I showed myself to a human."

"You what?!"

"I thought the bible had been exaggerating!" Aziraphale complains. "How was I meant to know that when they said the humans were terrified, they meant it very literally?"

Crowley shakes his head, amused.

"You'll have frightened the poor bastard out of their wits."

"She was sick, and I wanted to restore her faith."

"Yeah, I bet looking at a hundred eyes definitely restored her faith." Crowley cackles.

"I erased her memory of it, and ever since, I've stayed inside my vessel. It is against the rules of heaven to show my celestial body on earth, anyway, and the human who looks at me begins to melt if I stay in my form too long. First the eyes bleed, the nerves become damaged. You can imagine the rest. It isn't very pleasant."

"...Well, heaven isn't watching anymore." Crowley says. Aziraphale furrows his eyebrows.

"I suppose so." He says slowly. "Crowley, why do I have the feeling that you have a very bad, terrible idea-"

"Show me." Crowley says. He holds up his hands as a gesture of peace.

"Show you?" Aziraphale asks, surprised. "My true form? Why in heaven's name would I do that?"

"Well, it seems a bit odd that we've known each other for 6000 years but we've never seen each other. Like, properly." Crowley's voice is light. Too light. Aziraphale knows him well enough to know when he is disguising deeper feelings beneath that sly smile. "Could be fun. A bonding experience, you know."

"Fun." Aziraphale sniffs. "I don't see how that's a good idea, Crowley. First of all, your vessel won't be able to withstand seeing me for more than a few minutes, at best-"

"I'm sure I'll manage." Crowley cuts in. "Come on. Show me. I want to see you, angel."

The words tilt Aziraphale off balance, just for a moment. He glances at Crowley, surprised by the intimacy of the demon's words, and shaken too. I want to see you. It is a truly intimate act, the act of seeing and being seen in return.

"Oh." Aziraphale pauses. Crowley looks so hopeful, so willing, and he doesn't want to say no. "Crowley..."

"You don't have to." Crowley shrugs. "Just an idea. You can think about it, if you like."

"No, no, it's alright." Aziraphale stands and brushes down his suit. Crowley pales, and taps his fingers nervously on his knee. "I'll do it."

"You sure, Aziraphale? Cause if you're uncomfortable-"

"I'm not." Aziraphale reassures him. He sends him a smile. "Give me just a minute."

Crowley looks dreadfully nervous, and truthfully Aziraphale is too. It will be the first time he has been looked at (truly looked at) by someone who cares about him. More than that, it will be the first time he has been looked at with anything other than terror. He doesn't know whether to anticipate or dread the look on Crowley's face when he sees Aziraphale's celestial body.

The bookshop begins to fill with holy light. Aziraphale carefully leaves his vessel, and lies it gently on the carpet. At first he is just coloured fumes, a mass of grace, and then he takes shape.

Crowley's gasp is audible. It is difficult to look at him, but Aziraphale does. He hovers in all of his angelic glory in the home he built for himself, and all at once he feels free and grateful and loved. Loved, because Crowley is grinning at him in a way that is undeniably devilish. Whatever his expression is, it's very far from terror, and it makes Aziraphale feel anything but unhappy.

"Well, there you go." Aziraphale says, and he's surprised when his words aren't translated into English. "You still know the language?"

"Gets burned into your brain." Crowley says, in English. He stands, his hands in his pockets. "Never could forget it, even after I fell."

It must hurt, Aziraphale thinks, a painful reminder of what the demon has lost.

"I'm surprised." Crowley admits.

"You've seen angels before."

"Yeah, but I-" Crowley swallows. He's considering Aziraphale, and his eyes linger on the wide breadth of his wings. Bright white. Heavenly white. His gaze is surprisingly reverent for someone who had lost wings like these.

"Yes?"

"I saw them, but I wasn't really seeing them, you know?" Crowley says. "We were all just- angels. I never paid attention."

Crowley pauses.

"Now I'm paying attention." He adds quietly.

The thing about having a celestial body is that emotion is expressed rather differently. For example, when Aziraphale hears Crowley utter those words, a high pitched hum fills the bookshop, and the glass in the windows crack with the force of it. A vessel is much easier to control.

"Oh, the windows." Aziraphale complains.

"Sorry." Crowley grins, though he doesn't look very sorry. He steps forward, his eyes still fixed on one of Aziraphale's wings. He holds out one of his hands. "Can I?"

By instinct, Aziraphale wants to nod, but of course he can't do that in this body.

"Yes." He says instead.

Crowley's hand (warm, soft, human) lands lightly on his left wing. It's so small in comparison to Aziraphale’s wing, but Aziraphale feels the touch so intimately. It's as if Crowley were reaching inside of him, and the spark of pleasure he feels goes right to the core of his grace. Crowley laughs, and he's delightfully giddy as he presses his face into Aziraphale's wing for one, long moment. On the other side of the shop, a bookshelf crashes to the ground.

Then the demon steps back, visibly embarrassed, and looks down at the carpet.

"Got a bit carried away, didn't you?" Crowley asks, gesturing to the bookshelf.

"I told you this was a bad idea." Aziraphale says, and doesn't really mean it.

Then, startled, he notices how the eyes of Crowley's vessel have become painfully red.

"Oh, dear." Aziraphale says.

Without warning, he returns to his vessel, and the shop falls back into darkness. Aziraphale takes a moment, breathes in the air and becomes acquainted with his limbs and his skin and his muscles again. When he opens his eyes again, the bookshop has been restored to its original state.

Crowley is shuffling his feet by the sofa, looking more bashful than Aziraphale has ever seen him. When the angel steps closer, Crowley looks up, startled.

"What-" He falls silent when Aziraphale reaches out, and wipes a trickle of blood from beside his eye.

"Thank you." Aziraphale says sincerely. He means it - he's infinitely grateful. To be seen, to be known, and especially by Crowley... it's a gift.

"Yeah." Crowley says softly, leaning against Aziraphale's hand for the brief second before Aziraphale lets go. "Yeah, of course, angel."

Aziraphale smiles.

"For what it's worth, you, uh," Crowley stumbles over his words, just slightly. "You, uh, you looked-"

"Yes?" Aziraphale asks.

"Nice." Crowley finishes lamely, which makes Aziraphale chuckle.

"Nice?"

Crowley considers him, and then says, in the celestial tongue,

"Beautiful."

And he says the word as if it's a prayer, as if it's sacred. Aziraphale melts.

"Oh." Aziraphale smiles, a little. "Thank you."

"Yeah." Crowley shrugs. "Told you I still know the language."

"Are you going to return the favour?"

"Huh?"

Aziraphale's smile widens.

"It hardly seems fair for me to be the only one... presenting myself like that." He says. "I want to see you too, Crowley."

Crowley swallows.

"Nah." He says. "I'm a demon. It's not pretty, trust me. You don't want to see that."

"I do." Aziraphale says.

"You really don't."

"Yes, I do!"

"Aziraphale." Crowley says patiently. He falls onto the sofa, his hand reaching quickly for his wine glass. "I fell from heaven. I was in hell. What do you think happened to my celestial body? It's been ripped up and scarred in all sorts of ways. You don't understand. I don't want you to see that."

"Please?" Aziraphale asks. Crowley rolls his eyes.

"It's ugly, angel." Crowley says. "I'm not like you, I'm fallen. Have you ever seen a demon's true form?"

Aziraphale shakes his head.

"Please." He says again, softer this time. Crowley considers him for a long moment, his jaw clenched, and then he stands and shrugs.

"Don't say I didn't warn you." He mutters. But Aziraphale can tell he's terrified, can see how shaken he is, how difficult this is for him. He sets a warm hand on Crowley's arm.

"You don't have to." He says.

"You said please." Crowley responds, as if he has no choice but to submit to whatever Aziraphale asks of him.

And then Crowley leaves his vessel. The bookshop grows dark, darker than the night sky, so dark it seems void of any sort of light, until Crowley's celestial body forms.

He was right. He's torn up and permanently wounded. Crowley's wings are the worst of it - they've been mutilated severely, though they had appeared whole when he was beside Adam. Was it a trick, then, a disguise to hide what they really looked like? The wings may be mangled, but they're still functioning, according to Crowley.

The rest of him is not much better. A large, demonic mess of pain and injury that emits a faint, hazy glow. But he's still Crowley. All of it, all of it is Crowley, and that makes him beautiful.

In fact, Aziraphale thinks, standing frozen in the middle of the bookshop, he thinks he loves Crowley more because of this. He can see him, at last.

"Oh, Crowley." He says.

"I told you-" Crowley starts to say, but Aziraphale steps towards him, his heart in his throat. Crowley emits no holy light. His demonic form is cold and sharp. But it is as comforting and as warm to be close to him as being wrapped in angelic wings would be.

"Oh, Crowley, you're lovely." Aziraphale breathes. "You're perfect."

"Don't." Crowley says. His voice is loud, and hard, and the bookshop shakes with the force of it.

"But I-"

"Look at me." Crowley says, and even through the demonic boom of Crowley's true voice, Aziraphale can hear that bitter, self deprecating lilt that his vessel's voice held. "Look at me, Aziraphale. I'm a demon."

"Yes." Aziraphale says. He reaches out, and closes his eyes, feeling the sweet, welcoming chill of Crowley. "Yes, you are."

"How can you even-" Aziraphale looks up at the ceiling when he feels a wetness on his forehead. It has begun to rain, inside. "How can you even touch me, angel, I'm-"

"Hush." Aziraphale murmurs. "Come, dear, wrap your wings around me."

"But I-"

"Crowley." Aziraphale says sternly. Crowley's outstretched wings shift, and the ground trembles beneath them with the force of it. Then Aziraphale is covered, suddenly, in a cold, lovely embrace. Wings are not matter. They can be touched, but not the same way a hand or a thigh can be touched. It doesn't matter. Aziraphale feels Crowley, all of him, sees him the way Crowley saw him.

"Did you not think," Crowley says, his true voice a loud, hellish rumble that Aziraphale finds quite delightful. "That if angels are terrifying, then demons must be something worse, something beyond horrifying?"

"No." Aziraphale admits. "No, not you. You couldn't be."

"Don't you see? I am."

"No."

"Shepherds quake at the sight of you." Crowley says. "But if I were to appear to them, do you think they could even tremble? Their hearts might give out."

"No." Aziraphale repeats angrily. "I can see you, Crowley. I can see all of you. Do I seem scared? Do I seem repulsed?"

"You're an idiot, then."

"Ha!" Aziraphale lets out a surprised laugh. "Listen, you foolish, stubborn serpent. What did you feel when you saw my true form?"

Crowley is silent, for a moment.

"Awe, I think. Joy."

"Was it because I was holy?"

"What?"

"Did you like seeing me because I was holy? Because I was an angel?"

"Well, no, it was because- Ngk. It was because you were you."

Aziraphale smiles triumphantly.

"Then is it so difficult to understand that if you can see only me and not an angel, I could see only you and not a demon?"

"Well, I-" Crowley stops and swears in a language Aziraphale doesn't know. A dead language, perhaps. Aziraphale is drenched beneath Crowley's raincloud, and the rain continues to pound harder. There is a flash of lightning. "Aziraphale..."

"Come back to your vessel." Aziraphale says gently. "Come, Crowley."

Crowley obliges. Light returns to the bookshop slowly. Aziraphale feels a wave of warmth as he dries, and the rain ceases, and Crowley returns to his body. He stands unsteadily, shaken by the force of returning to his vessel, but his wide eyes meet Aziraphale's.

"I don't understand." Crowley says, still in the angelic language. "Weren't you scared?"

"There is no fear in love." Aziraphale quotes, from the book of John. Crowley, pale and confused, just stares at him.

"What?"

"No one has ever seen God, you know." Aziraphale says, instead of explaining. He steps closer to Crowley, who is weak and shaking. "John 4:12. No one has seen God. I think perhaps because if we were to see Her, we would be filled with too much love to function. Too much of it. Spilling out, boundless like Grace."

Aziraphale considers Crowley. He had once thought he couldn't love a demon. It seemed impossible. Love thy enemy, was not meant to be felt so literally. But he had reconciled himself with the fact that all love is holy, and no love could be a sin, and even if it was he couldn't control it, and he wouldn't change it if he could.

"That's how it felt to see you, Crowley." Aziraphale admits. He sends an apologetic glance to heaven for the sin he's about to commit. "Like I was seeing God."

"That's-" Crowley laughs, suddenly. "That's blasphemy."

"Yes."

"You-" Crowley keeps laughing. "You're ridiculous."

The demon shakes his head, disbelieving. Aziraphale smiles at him, and remembers how the cold, sharp touch of his demonic wing had felt. Slowly, Aziraphale reaches out and takes his hand. It's warm, human, but it's still Crowley.

"You love me?" Crowley asks eventually. Perhaps he's suddenly understood what Aziraphale was trying to say.

"It doesn't seem enough, does it? The words, I mean. In every language, they don't feel enough to encompass it." Aziraphale asks.

"I love you too." Crowley tries, in the celestial tongue, and Aziraphale shudders and closes his eyes.

"A little better." He admits. "Try it again?"

Which is a purely selfish request, but Crowley indulges.

"I love you."

"And again." Aziraphale murmurs.

"I love you."

"Once more, please."

"I love you, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale opens his eyes, and smiles. Crowley smiles back, his eyes flickering over Aziraphale's face.

"There are certain benefits to having a human vessel, you know." Aziraphale says. Crowley's eyes, wet with quietly shed tears, spark with hope. "Certain... earthly pleasures."

"Oh?" Crowley raises his eyebrows. "What kind of pleasures, angel?"

He places his cool, slender fingers on Aziraphale's cheeks, and Aziraphale's eyes flutter shut. Behind his eyelids he remembers Crowley's true form, and he feels so filled with longing he wonders how it doesn't split his vessel in two.

"Oh, come on." Aziraphale says. "You know exactly what I mean, Crowley."

"Didn't think you'd go in for that sort of thing." Crowley admits.

"Nor I. But even being so close to your true form, I wanted more. I wanted to be close to you. I, um, I think I wanted to touch you. Is that alright?"

"Yeah." Crowley says warmly. "More than alright. Of course, Aziraphale, way more than alright."

Then Crowley kisses him, light and gentle, his sharp nose brushing against Aziraphale's. The angel has never been so close to anyone, physically or otherwise, but Crowley's closeness soothes him in a way he couldn't imagine. And it feels so wonderful, to touch and be touch, it feels so wonderful to place his hands upon Crowley's chest. To be kissed.

"Profuse are the kisses of an enemy." Crowley breaks the kiss to quote from the book of Proverbs. He runs his hand over the swell of Aziraphale's cheek.

"You aren't funny." Aziraphale says.

"Yeah, I am. Everyone says so."

"And who, may I ask, is 'everyone'?"

Crowley doesn't answer. He kisses Aziraphale again, his mouth open and wet, and Aziraphale, surprised, stumbles against him.

"Have you-" Aziraphale turns his face away to gasp, and giggles when he feels the light brush of Crowley's lips against his cheek. "Have you done this before?"

"Eh, a few times. For work, you know. But it never, uh. It never mattered. It never felt like-" Crowley pauses, gesturing a hand in the air between them. "This."

"Alright." Aziraphale says. "So there hasn't been anyone else?"

"Are you kidding? When?" Aziraphale feels Crowley vibrate against him when he laughs. "You're about the only being in this universe I can stand, angel. No, of course there hasn't been anyone else. Of course not."

"Oh." Aziraphale says happily. "Oh, good. So am I the only one - well, apart from the other demons, of course - who has seen your true form?"

"Obviousssly."

Aziraphale feels a sense of smug satisfaction, at that. Crowley smiles at him and lifts his chin with two fingers.

"You're an insufferable angel, aren't you?" He asks, and gives Aziraphale a long, sweet kiss.

"Oh, indeed." Aziraphale agrees, winding his arms around Crowley's neck. Crowley's hands flutter to his waist. "I want to see you without your vessel again."

"Now?"

"No, no, not now, just... Soon, I think." Aziraphale says.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours." Crowley drawls.

"Very funny, Crowley." Aziraphale scolds. He doesn't mean it, of course. Crowley is practically vibrating with his happiness, his giddy, nervous joy spilling into Aziraphale's hands, his hair, his lips.

"I like seeing you." Aziraphale adds shyly. "Not just in your true form, but- always. I'm always very glad when you show up, however much I pretend otherwise."

"Well, that's good to know." Crowley says playfully.

"You must keep coming. For the rest of eternity. No matter what I say, you must keep seeing me."

"You don't need to ask me that." Crowley says. He grips Aziraphale tighter to him, suddenly, in a full, warm embrace. Aziraphale rests his head on his chest, feeling vulnerable yet loved completely. "I see you, angel."

"I know." Aziraphale murmurs, and holds Crowley tighter too, and there is no more terror in being seen.