Snippet
For switchknife:
Appearances can be Deceptive
Aziraphale knows exactly how people see him. Nicely turned out, well spoken in an old-fashioned sort of way, given to vague and elaborate hand gestures and overly reliant on mild endearments that should have been firmly shelved in the 1920s. He has reflected that the only way he could possibly seem any gayer would be to actually start sleeping with men. People look at him and consign him immediately to the mental box marked 'middle-aged poof.' He is then free to act exactly as he pleases, secure in the knowledge that no one will ever look past the label.
Even Crowley looks at him with fondly amused scorn when he camps it up. You'd think the dear boy would know better. Aziraphale catches the thought. Words have power. Think of Crowley as a dear boy and one sees the youthful appearance, the thin frame, the face that has clearly never needed a shave. Think of Crowley as a rebel, an abomination before the Lord, however, and one sees other things. The way he moves ceases to be graceful or purposeful and becomes more of an insidious slither. The face no longer looks thin and young but inhumanly sharp-edged and ancient. The very slight lisp becomes an audible hiss. The sunglasses are no longer a sign of vanity but a statement of contempt, a sign Crowley can't even be bothered properly hiding what he is.
Aziraphale looks at himself hard in the mirror. He supposes he looks anywhere from thirty-five to fifty. His hair and eyes are non-descript. He puts on a mild expression and a vague smile.
'You old queer,' he mutters fondly at his reflection and winks.
Briefly, very briefly, he looks at himself as he really is, bright and ageless and untouched by human concerns. He sweeps a massive, snow-white wing forward, shielding his nakedness. He is not constrained by human form or human standards of appearance. He is very beautiful. He thinks this quite dispassionately.
The phone rings, making him jump. A picture on one wall is brushed by an out-flung wing and crashes down. He picks up the receiver.
'Hello? Crowley! How lovely to hear from you. Yes, tonight would be fine. I'll meet you there at seven, my dear.'
He hangs up, shakes out his wings a final time and is once again the unassuming bookseller everyone expects.
Maybe he should make a pass at Crowley, he thinks, making a cup of tea. Crowley would mock him for a century at least, and wouldn't take him seriously again for twice as long. He'd get a lot of work done while the demon's guard was down.
Appearances can be Deceptive
Aziraphale knows exactly how people see him. Nicely turned out, well spoken in an old-fashioned sort of way, given to vague and elaborate hand gestures and overly reliant on mild endearments that should have been firmly shelved in the 1920s. He has reflected that the only way he could possibly seem any gayer would be to actually start sleeping with men. People look at him and consign him immediately to the mental box marked 'middle-aged poof.' He is then free to act exactly as he pleases, secure in the knowledge that no one will ever look past the label.
Even Crowley looks at him with fondly amused scorn when he camps it up. You'd think the dear boy would know better. Aziraphale catches the thought. Words have power. Think of Crowley as a dear boy and one sees the youthful appearance, the thin frame, the face that has clearly never needed a shave. Think of Crowley as a rebel, an abomination before the Lord, however, and one sees other things. The way he moves ceases to be graceful or purposeful and becomes more of an insidious slither. The face no longer looks thin and young but inhumanly sharp-edged and ancient. The very slight lisp becomes an audible hiss. The sunglasses are no longer a sign of vanity but a statement of contempt, a sign Crowley can't even be bothered properly hiding what he is.
Aziraphale looks at himself hard in the mirror. He supposes he looks anywhere from thirty-five to fifty. His hair and eyes are non-descript. He puts on a mild expression and a vague smile.
'You old queer,' he mutters fondly at his reflection and winks.
Briefly, very briefly, he looks at himself as he really is, bright and ageless and untouched by human concerns. He sweeps a massive, snow-white wing forward, shielding his nakedness. He is not constrained by human form or human standards of appearance. He is very beautiful. He thinks this quite dispassionately.
The phone rings, making him jump. A picture on one wall is brushed by an out-flung wing and crashes down. He picks up the receiver.
'Hello? Crowley! How lovely to hear from you. Yes, tonight would be fine. I'll meet you there at seven, my dear.'
He hangs up, shakes out his wings a final time and is once again the unassuming bookseller everyone expects.
Maybe he should make a pass at Crowley, he thinks, making a cup of tea. Crowley would mock him for a century at least, and wouldn't take him seriously again for twice as long. He'd get a lot of work done while the demon's guard was down.