The duo take a trip to the barbershop, and another creature comfort... this time, it's one they have had in common all along (besides drinking). But conflict has been brewing all day between them (unbeknownst to Crowley) and it's about to come to a head! (No pun intended.)
Please excuse the protracted descriptions of Cedric's place, and of Aziraphale's creature comfort. I'm trying to build a mood, and a contrast between their two experiences.
Not much dialog, and no smut. But sensation and tension abound! Enjoy.
TEMPTING VINCENZO
Bizarrely, upon arriving at Cédric's Tonsorium, Crowley and Aziraphale discovered they'd been frequenting the very same hair-care institution for the past fifteen years, without knowing it.
They had both chosen Cédric's establishment for the same reason: it was a salon, masquerading as a barber shop. It had the red and white spinning pole that looked like a peppermint stick. It had black leather and chrome chairs, distressed mirrors that looked as though they had been rescued from a rubbish heap (but only around the edges), and unfinished concrete floors (but with a high shine). Each "barber's" station was a naked wooden square, complete with combs floating in alcohol, an old-school brand of mousse, several pairs of silver scissors (also dipped in alcohol), and a shaving kit with a rough-bristled brush. On the walls were vintage posters marketing high-end whiskey, cigarettes, and cologne.
But, it was impeccably clean, and had a nonchalant independence about it. It was non-commercial (at least in theory) and non-conforming, although it was amply clear that the whole "barber shop" motif was just that: a motif. It had all been done quite on-purpose, not so as to fool anyone, but so as to be hipsterish, quirky, not like a sell-out froufrou salon for the vapid pretty people.
But the upscale brands of shampoo and aftershave on shelves round the till rather betrayed the underlying snobbery. The dead-giveaway, though, was the staff. Besides Cédric, who was the 66-year-old, very gay, very French owner who only "worked" (read: came in to be seen, and chat up the clientele) on Thursday afternoons, there were six employees. All of them looked twenty-five (though some were a right sight older), were of course well-coiffed, and drop-dead gorgeous. There was a mix of men and women, but they all walked and talked the same way, wore all black, and gossiped like Desperate Housewives.
Aziraphale liked the place because its barber shop qualities gave it an air of old-fashioned no-nonsense. It seemed to be a place where he could get a haircut, a shave, the occasional new aftershave, no fuss no muss. But, he had always been an angel of discerning tastes, and was now a man of discerning tastes, who could plainly see that the place was not your average roughly-hewn, hole-in-the-wall hair-cuttery. He would never admit it, but he rather liked the understated snobbish flair that purportedly stayed below the radar, as if winking from behind the trendy Monstera in the corner, potted in a square chrome planter.
Crowley liked it because, well, it was a hipster joint, and he was a hipster. He liked things classic, but stylish – like his Bentley, and the music he listened to. He gravitated toward things that were masculine, but cool rather than coarse – like his clothes and his demeanour, and his flat, and just about everything about him. He wouldn't have been caught dead in a salon that had been set up to look like a hotel lobby, or a yoga studio, obviously. However, he had some fairly specific requests concerning his hair, and he did need someone other than a barber trained by his father to shave heads and give bowl haircuts.
Cédric's Tonsorium was the perfect balance for the two of them.
When they walked in, Crowley's regular stylist was standing at the front.
"Mr. Crowley," said the man (who could have been twenty-eight or forty-eight) with a little bow, understatedly, as he had been expecting him. "Lovely to see you, as always."
"Hi, V.," Crowley said, with a little wave.
V. was short for Vincenzo – the nametag on his workstation said Vincenzo Peruggia. Upon seeing it, nine years ago when V. started at Cédric's, Crowley had decided he absolutely could not call this man by that name. It was clearly an affectation. Crowley had known the real Vincenzo Peruggia, and had, in 1911, tempted him into stealing the Mona Lisa. V.'s real name was probably Brian Johnson or something, but he had decided to adopt the most audacious Italian name he could think of.
Though, Crowley couldn't quite blame him. If he had, indeed, been born with a boring, pedestrian English name, it would not suit him. The man was conventional beauty personified – square jaw and a closely-sculpted, barely-there beard to match it. Light brown, crystalline eyes, a perfectly tanned, non-English skin tone, and of course, a muscular (but not overstated) physique.
Crowley had never been much of a fan of "conventional" beauty, especially in humans, but he definitely knew it when he saw it.
V.'s gaze shifted to Crowley's right. "And Mr. Fell, lovely to see you, as well! I'm so sorry, did we lose your appointment?"
"No, no, Vincenzo," said Aziraphale. "I'm just, you know… tagging along. Hoping you'd have time for a walk-in."
V. smiled, and began to point back and forth at the two of them with his index finger. "Wait a minute. You two know each other?"
Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a look. "Yeah," Crowley said. "For… oh, a long time. A very, very long time."
"Aeons," Aziraphale chimed in.
"Well, fancy that!" V. said, with a delighted smile. "And are you two… you know… a thing?"
Once more, the two of them looked at each other. Aziraphale said, uncertainly, "Erm, a thing? Does that mean..."
Crowley cut in, "Again, yes. For aeons. Do you have a second opening just now, or not?"
"We do," said V. "Mr. Fell, go ahead and sit down in your usual chair. It just so happens that Mister Harold is here, and has had a cancellation this afternoon."
"Wonderful, thank you." Aziraphale said, as he went off to the left and settled into the chair he had been occupying for approximately a half-hour, once every nine weeks, for the past fifteen years. V. called into an adjacent room for a second stylist, and escorted Crowley to a chair on the opposite side of the room from Aziraphale.
The two of them began tittering immediately about the sort of cut Crowley wanted (just a trim in the back and sides, maybe tame the front just a tad), countered by suggestions from V.
"I'm telling you, a closely-shaved militaristic look, it would make you irresistible," V. was saying.
Aziraphale thought, "Because six thousand years of successful tempting wasn't enough, and now Crowley needs help being irresistible. Right."
"Do you know," V. said to his irresistible client at some point just after fastening the plastic cape round Crowley's neck. "I don't think I've ever seen you without those yellow contacts."
Crowley smirked. "Oh, really?"
"Soulful brown eyes suit you, my friend."
Before a minute had gone by, an efficiently gorgeous man with yellow hair turned up behind Aziraphale, excited to see him. He began draping a plastic cape over his client, as they greeted each other, and he asked after the bookshop.
Fastening it, Harold asked, "A shave and a haircut, yes?"
"Of course."
And so it went. Harold tipped his chair back, and immediately, Aziraphale felt more relaxed. He reclined, knowing that he didn't have to do or say anything more, that this lovely, generous, professional person would take care of him for the next half-hour, and he'd come out of it feeling clean and fresh.
Harold began by laying a hot, moist towel over Aziraphale's face. It was bracing at first, but the sting turned to a penetrating warmth, and the client could practically feel his pores opening one by one. His eyes remained closed, and he began to hear a rhythmic scraping sound. He knew that it was his barber, sweeping the razor back and forth over a long piece of metal, sharpening it for the shave. It was a satisfying sound, the sound of prepping, ramping up to something else even more satisfying. It was akin to the chesty sputter of a vintage car starting up (a Bentley, perhaps?) or the pick-up note at the beginning of a concerto.
After another minute or so, he felt the towel removed, and cool air caressed his face. Next, he felt Harold's hands begin to rub moisturiser into his skin. The man's fingertips dug into the muscles of Aziraphale's cheeks and jaw just so, and as usual, the latter realised he'd been quite tense. He envisioned his face as a wad of dough, and Harold as the baker, kneading out the stubborn clumps of flour. It felt cool, fresh, soft, and the mini-massage was exactly what had been needed on a day like today.
The moisturiser was left this way for a few moments, and then Harold used a second hot towel to clean off the excess. Once again it was bracing, but it opened up the pores, and allowed the comforting heat to infuse his skin.
Aziraphale stayed in his laid-back position while listening to another soothing sound. The barber was now mixing the foam he would put on Aziraphale's face as a shaving cream. The former angel knew that 3,000 years ago or so, people in the aesthetics trade had begun to use animal fat for this task; frankly he was more fond of the recent trend of using water, glycerin, and a cocktail of other modern chemicals, in spite of himself.
And then, Harold used a rough brush to spread the shaving cream over his client's face, anywhere that facial hair might be wont to grow. Aziraphale rather enjoyed the brush massage as well, as Harold was careful not to get any of the white substance on his lips, nose or ears, using a certain precision. He paid special attention to the chin, where most of the stubble was, and whose curve was likely to give the razor the most challenge. It always surprised Aziraphale how long this particular process took, but he didn't mind. It was a bit of pampering, and he'd never been one to shy away from that. Within reason, of course.
Harold then proceeded with the razor. He pulled all the parts of Aziraphale's face satisfyingly taut before dragging the razor sideways down over the slightly rough skin. The sound it made could have been unpleasant, but instead, Aziraphale focused on it as a sound of cleanliness. Each movement it made over his cheeks and chin resulted in a bit of his skin exposed to cool air, and it felt quite lovely.
As usual, the most difficult bit was the chin and the area just below his lip. He knew that Harold needed him to relax and utterly not participate in the process, and so he did. He liked to pretend that his face was made of jelly, and it was Harold's job simply to mould it – he had no control.
Finally, with another hot towel laid over his face, Harold's hands massaged the excess shaving cream away, and sighed, "There we go, now."
The entire process took about fifteen minutes from beginning to end, and when the barber tilted the chair back upright, Aziraphale already felt fresher than when he had arrived.
And then, Harold set about cutting his hair. They did not speak – they never did. It was a comfortably silent affair. Harold merely clipped while Aziraphale allowed himself to be attended-to. And he could see in the mirror, on the other side of the room, Crowley being coiffed by Vincenzo. That is, whenever Harold was not in the way.
"Nearly done, Mr. Fell," Harold said, after another fifteen minutes… and then the phone rang. "Oh, damn. I'm so sorry – do you mind if I get that?"
"Not at all," Aziraphale said. "Do what you need to do."
"Back in a jif," the stylist promised, tossing the scissors into alcohol and hurrying off to the front desk. "Cédric's Tonsorium, how may I assist you today?"
Aziraphale's eyes were then drawn over his shoulder, as he now had an unobstructed view of Crowley and Vincenzo.
The former angel was naïve at times, but he was no fool. He knew that a large part of the "service" industry in the last couple hundred years was superficial – niceties, compliments, appealing to vanity. He knew that probably a large part of Vincenzo's job was flirting with the clientele, or at the very least, making them feel welcome in an appealing, sexy way.
And yet, watching him lay hands on Crowley, and behave in a way that suggested completely that he fancied his client… Aziraphale felt a flush of something. It was completely familiar and a bit foreign, at the same time.
The familiar bit was the surge of love, and of feeling so very lucky to be loved in return, and wanted, touched, handled, made love to, by such a magnificent specimen – supernatural or mortal, demon or man, whatever he may be. He gloated a bit inside, and relished in the idea that Vincenzo, beautiful though he was, would only ever be Crowley's stylist. He would only ever touch the silky red hair, and perhaps the scalp and shoulders, whereas Aziraphale… well…
And he blushed a bit. He could see himself blushing in the mirror.
But the unfamiliar bit was a stronger version of something that had been brewing slowly over the course of the day. It was not unrelated to the love he felt, but there was an uneasy aspect to it. Being who he was, or rather, who he had been for most of his life, he could not put his finger on it.
They'd spent more time than usual today talking about Crowley's carnal history – the widow on the French Riviera, Romans settling Provence, and the handful of places where he had not actually seen any "action" of that sort. Not to mention, the discomfort of being chatted-up by the man from the cheese shop and having Crowley joke that they might like to invite him along on their holiday…
…Aziraphale's stomach did a flip. A name for this feeling was on the tip of his tongue…
And then both Vincenzo and Crowley stopped talking. For about a minute, the stylist moved around his client with scissors, examining, adjusting, making tiny snips here and there, concentrating on a job well-done. Then, he decided he was finished, and asked, "Do you like it?"
"I do," Crowley answered. "Thank you."
"Want some mousse?"
"'Course I do," Crowley said flippantly, in his Crowley way. "What kind of a question is that?"
So, V. sprayed a mound of mousse into his palm, the rubbed his hands together. With that, he reached forward and brought all ten fingers across Crowley's scalp and through his hair. As he did this, Crowley's eyes closed, and something like a vindicated grin spread over V.'s face.
And there was that pang in Aziraphale's gut again.
Then, Vincenzo repeated the action, pulling both hands through Crowley's hair, only it seemed to Aziraphale that this time, he did it more slowly, and with stiffer fingers.
In response, Crowley didn't just close his eyes, he also let out a long exhale. He was barely suppressing the noise from his throat that comes with that sort of exhale…
On the third pass, as he got about halfway through, V. pressed his fingers taut together and pulled, just hard enough to slightly bend Crowley's swan-like neck.
And Crowley gave surprised, but not dismayed, grunt.
Vincenzo tugged again, harder this time, and Crowley smiled. Out of his mouth came his favourite expletive, a curt, sweet, "Fuck!" in the form of a half-groan, half-laugh.
"Mm, you like it rough, yeah?" Vincenzo muttered to him.
V. thought he was being discreet, but Aziraphale could hear every disgusting syllable.
And the former angel, who had never confronted this emotion before, thought he might break into sobs. He understood now. He had a name for it.
This 'jealousy' was so acute, and so big, and so unknown, he had no idea where to place the explosion in him, waiting to happen. His breath hitched in his throat, and he held it, determined not to make a show of this sudden pain.
He knew his lover well. He knew that expletive. He knew that half-groan, half-laugh. And he knew what happened when Crowley got his hair pulled. The rougher the better.
He reckoned V. probably knew what happened as well. As did literally tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of people, throughout history.
Aziraphale's head spun.
"Sorry about that," Harold chirped behind him, returning to his work station.
Aziraphale stood up, and shed the plastic cape currently draped over his shoulders and chest. He pulled a long, flat wallet from a pocket inside of his suit coat, and extracted two hundred-pound notes, and held them out to his barber.
"Thank you, Harold," he said. "Well done, as usual."
"But I'm not quite finished," Harold protested, not taking the offering.
"That's quite all right. I find that I don't feel very well."
"I'm sorry to hear that. But this is too much money…"
"Just take it!" Aziraphale said, louder than necessary.
And much to his chagrin, both Crowley and Vincenzo's attention was drawn by this outburst.
"O-okay," said Harold, taking the money. "Was it something I did?"
"No, nothing you did," Aziraphale said, making a brisk break for the door.
"Shit! Shit, shit, shit!" he heard Crowley spitting as he moved. He heard the rustle of another plastic cape being wrestled with.
"Mr. Crowley, I'm so sorry," he heard Vincenzo whine, just before the Tonsorium's door slammed behind him.
In the old days, if he didn't want to be caught, he would have been able to snap his fingers and disappear, reappearing back in the safety of his bookshop. It would have taken an enormous amount of energy to do so, but it would have been possible, and worth the reprimand he might have received.
But as things stood, he simply had to walk efficiently around the corner, and hope not to be seen.
Folks, quarantine is kicking my ass. Feedback motivates me to keep going... and right now, I'm really looking for motivation.
Thank you for reading!