Title: Beautifully Imperfect
Author: Azrael
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to the geniuses known as Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.
Note: Like a lot of my stuff, I first visualised this, so the end result seems clumsy to me. :(
Summary: To Crowley, it is those little imperfections that make Aziraphale beautifully imperfect.***
Most people have gotten it wrong, Crowley thinks, as he looks at the paintings in the 'Angels Over England' exhibition.
He likes to think of these as 'poster angels'. Oh, the angels are beautiful, alright, with their smooth alabaster skin and flowing golden or black hair. Grey or blue eyes gaze dispassionately at the beholder. The facial expressions are gentle and benevolent but still strangely detached. And it's always the same, Michelangelo-perfect bodies clad either in Roman-style armour or in those stuffy, boring white robes. It's always either a sword or a spear or a flower. And really, what is with the halos that look as though someone stuck a brass plate behind them?
Crowley turned from a particularly clichéd painting to see the real thing running his fingers delicately over an exhibit, and his (unnecessary) breath catches in his throat.
Aziraphale's eyes are the clear, light blue of the summer sky, when the late afternoon sunlight turns the trees to gold, and they can convey so much more emotion. They crinkle slightly at the corners, especially when the angel laughs, usually at something Crowley has said.
The demon has seen Aziraphale look gentle, or benevolent, or loving, countless times, and yet somehow he knows that it is not because angels dutifully love all of God's creatures; no, Aziraphale truly cares about things – his emotions are genuine.
Crowley is forever needling Aziraphale about his fashion sense, but the truth is that if the angel were ever to update his wardrobe, Crowley would long for the tartan and tweed and other monstrosities. The angel and tartan are intrinsically linked in his mind, so much so that whenever he sees tartan anywhere, he immediately thinks of Aziraphale. Aziraphale would probably look good in, say, khaki slacks and a beige turtleneck sweater, but it wouldn't be him.
Aziraphale tugs his tartan sweater down from where it clings to the slight bulge of his tummy. He's always been pudgy, ever since the garden itself, although noticeably less so then. And, like the tartan, although Crowley teases him about it, if Aziraphale ever turned up in a new, more buff body like Michael's, he'd probably force-feed the angel clotted cream and the like.
Most people wouldn't imagine angels to have laugh lines or be plump and wear dreadfully outdated fashions, but to Crowley, it is these little flaws that make Aziraphale beautifully imperfect.
Crowley isn't sure if it is Aziraphale's actual halo or the late afternoon sunlight coming through the window and reflecting off his golden-brown curls, but Aziraphale seems to be glowing faintly. The angel looks up and smiles, and Crowley feels blessed.
***