Disclaimer: I don't own Good Omens in any of its incarnations. Duh. It'd have 900% more angst otherwise. A.N. For the prompt "Colorful". I struggled with this like crazy, but thanks to my beta, I'm pretty happy with the result. You're inspirational, Chrwythyn, love!
Eye of the beholder
Crowley likes himself. Mostly. Whatever gender or shape or clothes he decides to wear, it's always only a question of convenience or mood. Nothing to scoff at, really. Fine, when the people you meet at work are Hastur, Ligur and Beelzebub, it's easy not to develop image issues. It should be even easier because of a certain thing – that is, perversely, the one that Crowley hates the most. His eyes. They're too weird, for someone who plans to mix in with people as much as he can. Tempting anyone is kind of hard to do from the middle of a desert (unless they obligingly stay there). And worse than that, they're half-useless.
Of course, he twists weakness into a boast. He can't see red, so what? There must be a reason people eventually decided it was the perfect signal for 'stop,' 'forbidden,' and similar...and it is obvious it does not apply to him. Never did. He literally doesn't see the problem. Green everywhere. That's green, that's green, and that's green too. Everything's you can talk him down from something, of course...but it will require engagement, and for you to actually be able to stop him from talking circles around your argument. Frankly, if you manage to, you deserve it. (Or, of course, you can just pout to have your way...but there's only one creature in the universe it works for.)
Still, he might have pushed for the invention of glasses. Slightly. Or not so much. It's much less awkward when he doesn't have to look down to hide his...problem. Besides, inventing glasses also meant accidentally inventing losing them. One more permanent source of frustration for an ever growing part of humanity on his shining curriculum.
Ever since, for some inexplicable reason, it seemed like one of the main goals of his angel was to make him drop them, whenever they could scrape some time together. Sure, Aziraphale knew, and wasn't about to be startled or scared. But as someone who enjoyed using his eyes so much (it's not that Crowley can't read; it's just too much of a headache, as a prolonged exercise, to be worth it), why would he want to see the evidence that the other is...defective? If it was Gabriel, or Michael, or one of the other bastards from upstairs, Crowley wouldn't wonder. He'd assume any excuse to gloat is a good one, and be right. But Aziraphale isn't like that, at all. No, he's a mystery, and one that would require much more than 20/20 perception to be solved.
And for the longest time, that's it. There are so many other things to worry about. Hiding the arrangement. Whatever the humans will concoct next, and if he can lay claim to it. The literal end of the world. Aziraphale's...obsession for getting rid of his glasses doesn't even register on the scale of concerns. He simply learns to have a great amount of replacements always handy. There's been more than one pair 'accidentally' broken, or so utterly misplaced only a miracle could possibly bring them back, or...he really doesn't know what happened to at least half of them.
But then the apocalypse comes (or tries to) and goes, thank the Them (and Anathema, and Newt), blink and you'll miss it – and most people on Earth do, indeed, completely miss that they've been a handful of minutes from annihilation. And after making their point (he's done enough blessings in Aziraphale's stead that he can say it, bless bless bless Agnes Nutter), they're on their own. Free. He doesn't even remember who actually suggested moving in together, he knows they both meant to, and does it matter who actually gave it voice? But now they do. Are. Same home. Same bed. Same same same. And sometimes he wonders if he's fallen asleep, and someone will kick him awake sooner or later. A century was bad enough, can't skip work forever!
Crowley isn't snooping, per se. He's just...looking for something, and he's already forgotten what when he finds the thing in one of the drawers of Aziraphale's desk. A nosy guest would assume it was just a souvenir from an old trip. Maybe a friend's gift after a holiday. Sure, the angel on the small icon does look remarkably like one of the residents, but that's why it was bought in the first place, right? A curiosity.
Crowley wishes he could be a guest, and human, and unaware, because that would mean not having to deal with the burning wave of jealousy. That's a portrait. A fucking portrait Aziraphale posed for, and kept all along – how much along? The Byzantines found what they liked, and stuck to it, and their heirs too. It could have been last year. It could have been a thousands years ago. He's not sure what would be worse. Because – Aziraphale is not vain, definitely not, so this is a reminder of its author. Has to be. And recently making 'friends' without breathing a word to him about it, or holding onto a memento for centuries, maybe, taking care of it, not losing it...He wants to crush it into fine powder, but he's not going to. First, he's going to extract the truth.
The way Aziraphale reacts at his striding into the kitchen (the angel is stubbornly trying to recreate some recipe without miracling anything) doesn't help. One look at what he's brought along, and he blushes. Awkward. Embarrassed. Guilty.
Crowley takes a deep breath. He's not going to assume. He'll just – ask. "Care to tell me a story, angel?" Voice as soft as he can keep it. He doesn't even have a right to be angry. It's a wonder he's here at all. But questioning what would better be left alone...well, he's never been able to help himself.
His lover doesn't throw accusations back, demand to know how Crowley got his hands on it. It's obvious anyway. A hob is turned off, a spoon falls into...whatever is in the pot, and Aziraphale turns fully towards him. "Ah. That." Then silence stretches, and Crowley's not going to help him out of it. "It was very silly of me. Not the first time, not the last."
"When?" He's not even sure it matters, but he can't keep quiet.
"Uh...when did they start that whole gold backgrounds in icons thing? It might be – in a way – my...fault?" His angel is rubbing his hands on the apron - the one Crowley got him, with 'Kiss the cook' and damn, he wants to, because he hates seeing Aziraphale uncomfortable and even worse uncomfortable because of him.
He's going to drop this. He's absolutely going to drop this, put it back and ignore everything. Instead, he asks, "Why?" and he's not even sure what he's asking. Why you started it. Why you kept it. What was the plan. Was there a plan?
"It was just a simple misunderstanding, nothing more." But there's a shadow of a smile on his beloved's mouth, the barest hint of mischief.
So Crowley ends for him. "One you didn't see any reason to correct."
Aziraphale shrugs. "All I said was that I wanted – me, and gold all around. Because it'd remind me of – happiness. Not my fault if they figured that had to be what heaven was like." His smile widens.
Crowley blinks. And blinks. And – where the hell would Aziraphale even have seen gold everywhere...?
The angel sigh distracts him. "We can throw it away, if you want. I get it all the time now." Aziraphale's staring at him, really staring, and – oh.
He drops it on the table – as delicately as he can in his surprise – and shakes his head. And swallows Aziraphale's laugh, because some signs are worth following after all.