Archive of Our Own ^beta

Aziraphale loved the colors that were Crowley. There were so many of them, unlike himself. He was much too plain with his whites and off whites. But Crowley, Crowley was bright, out there, diverse. 

First there were the yellow of his eyes. A goldish color that made Aziraphale think of the warm sun, rich honey. He loved those eyes, and the warmth that came from them whenever Crowley would look at him. His eyes were like dandelions on a field. Ones that would be picked on a picnic and brought home to a quaint little book shop in soho. The yellow that reminds you of a long lost desert city in which you found someone to take a moment to breathe with. A deep rich color, one you wish to see forever.

Then there was the red of his hair. It reminds Aziraphale of the fire of Alexandria, of Rome. The red of strawberries. Soft in feel but not always in looks. The red that puts up a warning side. It was similar to the red of scales on a snake, when one chose to be in a simpler form. Red, like the apples in a garden long ago when time first began. A color that brought him back to a tragedy, magma seeping from a volcano where two souls held each other despite how much every fiber in their being longed to stop it. Red like roses when a shop opened, and a position was saved.

Next, the pale color of his skin. So drastically different from the black of his clothes. It made Aziraphale look back to the ivory white statues of Greece and Rome. To a white dove in the middle of what was a seemingly endless ocean, signalling that a long flood was over, and hope was just around the corner. White, quite like what his wings once were, but that didn’t mean they were better then than they are now. It reminded him of warm milk poured into tea on late nights settling on a back couch for a long night of talking. The pale color of sand, the very first time they went to the beach. 

Lastly, raven black. Black like the night sky, nights where they would lay side by side while Crowley showed him the stars. It brought him back to times that were hard, black plagues, black knights. Like crows, ravens, while they watched over a child, even if he was the wrong boy. He thought of soft black wings out, proudly, on display. Black like a pupil that would round out in moments of pure joy and happiness, something he had only seen twice. Black, like a funeral, where Aziraphale learned just how deeply Crowley loved humanity.

But Aziraphale was bland, or at least he thought as much. So he soaked in the colors Crowley gave. 

Crowley, however, loved the colors that made up his angel.

A pure snowy white of clouds in the sky when one could let loose and fly. Like white snow at the top of a mountain, a peak no human could naturally reach. Seafoam when the waves crashed against rocks. Ducks at a pond where a paper fell and burnt. A shade that made Crowley think back to a white statue, at a church, on fire as sirens and people wailed around them. 

Crowley especially loved the blue of Aziraphale’s eyes. When he looked at them, he thought of oceans and skies. Oceans on days where they could rest, and relax. Watch the water recede and wash up. Skys where kites soared in the sky, four children chasing after them. Blue like a diamond Crowley saw and had to buy. 

These colors were a contrast to his black, reminding him of the good in the world. They felt pure, loved, holy. They were his angel. And he loved them.