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Oh. Oh, he’d forgotten, again, how lovely Crowley was. It should have been impossible, really, by this point; and they’d been together all day, had woken up together in their hotel room, had breakfasted at a lovely cafe, had caught one of those shared rides out to the botanical gardens — they’d barely been out of each other’s sight for hours. There should have been no surprise here at all.
But the sun lit Crowley’s hair up like glorious fire, as he stepped out from the visitor center. It painted his skin in soft, tender gold. He turned back, holding the door open, his strong mouth curved in a smile...
“Come on, angel.” His voice warm, hinting at laughter, with just a little bit of a rough edge. “Let’s show all those fancy roses what beauty really looks like.”
Aziraphale almost didn’t blush at the compliment.
He walked into the same bright sunlight, blinking against it. Crowley, of course, had his sunglasses, so when he took Aziraphale’s hand and tugged gently, Aziraphale followed. His eyes would adjust. He rather thought his mind never would — would never be finished with its shock that the tall, graceful figure at his left was his husband, that Aziraphale had kissed that elegant, sharp-edged face, could in fact kiss it again any time he liked...
“This way, looks like. Also, if you don’t stop staring at me, you’re going to trip.” Crowley’s soft smile was now a smirk. “Rather not have your pretty little behind all bruised up.”
The sentiment was still hard to speak aloud, but less, these days. The painful edges were wearing away with handling, revealing a truth that had no shame in it at all. “There’s nothing little about my ‘behind’.”
“Nope.” Crowley stopped them on the path. “Gorgeous thing, you. All of you.” He moved so they were facing each other, free hand cupping Aziraphale’s cheek. “Really not fair to my old heart, every single inch of you being this pretty. Would it have killed you to have an ugly pinky toe or something?”
Aziraphale laughed at that, and Crowley grinned too. Stunningly handsome, when his face lit up like that. A glowing god in the sunlight, all dashing angles and slender elegance, and his eyes would be shining with joy behind the glasses, framed by sumptuous lashes. Other men wanted him, and women and everyone else; he’d seen Crowley flash his wedding ring with pride and still be pursued by would-be suitors. Crowley would have none of them. Crowley would have eyes only for Aziraphale, waiting for a signal that he could pull Aziraphale close, thin arms winding around the heavy mass of him, hands resting atop his stomach as if it was their home. “My husband,” he would say, “have you met my husband,” pecking a kiss against his head or neck or cheek.
Crowley only wanted him. The most handsome man to have ever lived, and he only wanted Aziraphale.
“So,” he said now, hand tracing the contours of Aziraphale’s soft jaw. “Don’t go and bruise your pretty fat behind. Or any of the rest of pretty fat you.”
He bent down to kiss the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. “Love all of you,” he said softly. “My angel.”
“Sentimental serpent.” Aziraphale twined a finger down Crowley’s tattoo, smiling when it made him shiver. “I promise not to take a tumble between here and the rose exhibition.”
He tugged at Crowley’s arm as they set off again, one of the signals he knew was always being watched for, always a moment from being acted on. That arm went around his back instantly. The hand at the end of it cupped against his side without hesitation.
Aziraphale let himself be pulled close enough that their hips bumped together. Wrapped his own arm around Crowley, around the impossibly small span of his waist, above where his hips curved outward. Aziraphale had never even noticed that curve until his hand had found it. He’d fallen in love with it immediately, though, just like he had with Crowley’s smile, and his eyes, and his wiry, clinging arms: all of the parts that made up the wonderful wholeness of him.
It was his turn to squeeze, now, against the flat plane of Crowley’s side. “It might interest you to know that today I have chosen to love you terribly much.”
“Oh, yeah? ‘S nice.” Crowley grinned up at the sky. “Good choice. I like it.”
“I thought you might.”
It was a lovely summer day, warm but not hot, and they were far from the only visitors to the botanical garden. All around them were other couples, groups of friends, families; probably a hundred strangers had seen them by this point. Dozens upon dozens of people would have seen them walking with hands clasped earlier, with arms around each other now.
The words “Not in public” were simply not in Crowley’s vocabulary. No “Let’s wait until we get home” when Aziraphale offered up a kiss. No “People will see” when Aziraphale wanted to be held.
So strange, that he’d thought that had been love, long ago. So infinitely better, the real thing.
“Crowley,” he said, and this time he was the one to stop them. “I’ve also chosen to kiss you.”
Crowley’s smile went huge and loopy. “What, now?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale replied. He slid both his arms around Crowley’s shoulders, pulling himself up on his toes, and hummed in delighted surprise when Crowley kissed him first.
Those wiry, clinging arms circled Aziraphale’s middle and pulled them even closer together. He was drawn off-balance, had to drop back down again, but it hardly mattered. Crowley followed him. His softly open mouth moved against Aziraphale’s, hands cradling him, holding him breathlessly near. All in public. All very, very much where people would see.
It was Aziraphale who ended the kiss, and only so that they wouldn’t go on so long as to cause a scene. He did have a sense of propriety, after all.
“‘Nother.” Crowley swallowed. “Another good choice. Great choice. On a roll with choosing. Anything else you want to choose while we’re here?”
“Not that I can think of.” Aziraphale smoothed a hand over Crowley’s chest, letting himself smile in a way that probably looked very, very smug. “But I will let you know.”
“Bastard,” Crowley mumbled against his cheek.
They managed the rest of the walk without too much further interruption. The rose garden, with its promised display of loveliness, lay beyond a small pond, and Crowley did need a few minutes to enjoy the ducks. At last, though, they were walking through a break in a tall hedge, and into a riot of blooms.
Aziraphale couldn’t help gasping a little. The staff here had done a remarkable job, and the results were exquisite. Brick pathways wound between huge rosebushes, and small creeping ones, and riotous vines that swarmed over trellises and arches. Nearly everything was in bloom, and the scent of them was heavy in the air. A slow bee droned past. Sparrows talked amongst themselves. A gentle breeze beckoned.
It was terribly romantic. Aziraphale wasn’t sure Crowley had noticed, because right away he’d dragged them over to a particular specimen and was reading the placard with obvious interest. Still. Terribly romantic.
“Tried to grow this variety, once, when I worked for the Dowlings. Got the groundskeeper to lend me a spot in one of the gardens. Difficult buggers, though. Could never make a go of it.”
The hand on Aziraphale’s side shifted. It caressed the heavy roll of flesh there, a softly loving gesture which might have been unconscious, if not for Crowley’s next words.
“Look so pretty, tucked behind your ear.” His tone was so gentle that Aziraphale could barely find his next breath. “Pick one of ‘em for you, pull off all the thorns. Perfect contrast for your eyes today.”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, and Crowley smiled down at him with endless, aching warmth.
There were other varieties Crowley recognized, and more than once Aziraphale was stopped by some particularly lovely example. They made slow progress through the garden. It was more crowded here than the rest of the place, too — peak blooming time for these flowers would only last another week or so, and then they would start to drop out. There would be some types which didn’t show their blossoms for months, but the true show was now, and the locals appeared to be making the best of it. And, of course, visitors such as themselves.
When Crowley stopped them in a secluded corner, Aziraphale thought he knew what was coming. Instead, Crowley let go of his waist and stepped away.
“Hey, angel. Gimme your ring a second.”
“Give you my — oh, darling, again?” Aziraphale wanted to sound exasperated, but he could feel the pleased blush spreading over his face as Crowley pulled off his own wedding ring, kissed it, and then pushed it deep into his pocket. “We’ve done this in half the parks in central London already...”
“Zactly. People are catching on back home. But it’s fresh territory here. Nobody knows I’ve already proposed to you a half-dozen times.” Crowley grinned. “And that you’ve never turned me down yet.”
“Someday I should, just to stop encouraging this nonsense.” But Aziraphale was smiling too. He pulled off his wedding ring, placing it carefully into Crowley’s palm. “My handsome temptation of a serpent. Why can’t I resist you?”
“Because you are a naughty, decadent little angel,” Crowley replied, smacking a kiss against his cheek. “Plus you know people love watching strangers propose. They think it’s cute.”
Aziraphale chuckled. “I expect they find it more strange, in our case. Someone who looks like you, proposing to me.”
Slim fingers settled under the soft hang of his chin. “Beautiful,” Crowley said. “You’re beautiful.” His thumb brushed Aziraphale’s lip, just a feather-light touch. “Gorgeous fat angel, wandered from heaven in search of a good book, but now I’ve caught you and I’ll never let you go.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale managed, before Crowley silenced him for several yearning seconds.
He felt beautiful, for a moment, as Crowley pulled back again. The way Crowley’s smile quivered, his slender cheeks flushed; the way his chest heaved, just a bit, beneath the thin cover of his shirt — and then he pulled off his sunglasses, tucking them into his collar, and his eyes were bright and wondering and full of love. All of this for him, for Aziraphale, and oh, Aziraphale would have to be something himself, wouldn’t he, to get that sort of reaction? It was the same way he reacted to Crowley, after all. And Crowley was magnificent.
“Love making you smile like that.” Crowley held out his hand, and started walking again as soon as Aziraphale took it. “Did something right, making you smile like that. Something good.”
Not long thereafter, a bench opened up along one of the busier pathways. They settled there, cuddled up together, for several minutes before Crowley made his move.
“Aziraphale.”
Crowley took one of Aziraphale’s hands in both his own, kissing the palm of it, eyes closed. Then he opened them again.
Aziraphale knew what was coming, knew exactly what Crowley was going to ask. He also knew just as well as Crowley did that they already were married, it had been an absolutely lovely wedding, Crowley had cried so hard that he’d fallen asleep halfway through the reception, worn out and safe against Aziraphale’s soft chest —
All that and he still felt his heart thundering as Crowley’s beautiful eyes locked on his. They smiled down on him with more adoration than he ever knew quite what to do with.
Then they smiled up at him, because Crowley had slid off the bench. He was down on one knee, now, Aziraphale’s hand pressed between his own, and despite what Crowley knew just as well as Aziraphale did, that hold still quivered as he began to speak.
“Angel.” His voice was barely louder than when he’d spoken a moment ago, but it had roughened considerably. Aziraphale pressed his free hand to his own mouth, not even needing to act. He never needed to act when they did this.
“My angel, my pretty little angel — you’re everything, d’you know that? Do I tell you enough, that you’re everything to me? Should tell you every day. Twice a day.” He laughed weakly. “Shouldn’t ever stop. You’re just so amazing. So brilliant, and so kind, and — gh, and so beautiful...”
He started to cry, his warm, lovely eyes going damp, tears gathering in his long dark lashes.
“Love you.” Crowley rubbed gently at his fingers. The ring was in that grip somewhere, and Aziraphale could feel it against his hand, warmed by Crowley’s touch. “Always have. Always will. Could live for, for thousands of years. Millions. Would love you for all of them.”
Aziraphale’s throat made a strange little noise on its own.
“Love you forever, you bastard. Stupid beautiful bastard.” He released Aziraphale’s hand to knuckle wetness away from his eyes. “Love me too?”
When he reached out again, it was with the ring glinting on his shaking palm.
“Marry me?”
“Beloved.” Aziraphale would shout, would sing out to the world his answer, if he could; but his heart was lodged in his throat, now, and it was all he could do to simply keep breathing. “Oh, my Crowley. My sweet boy. Yes. You must realize, the answer will always be yes.”
He let Crowley take his hand again, felt the ring slide onto his finger once more. It fit perfectly, of course. It came from Crowley, and “too fat” was simply not in Crowley’s vocabulary.
The beautiful eyes gazed up at him, no less full of love than of tears, and Aziraphale smiled down a bit misty-eyed himself. “Come here, you idiot.”
“‘M not the idiot,” Crowley said. He climbed back onto the bench, pressing up against Aziraphale, thin arms trembling around his shoulders. “You’re the idiot. Stuck with me now, you are.”
“My husband,” Aziraphale sighed into his hair.
Crowley burrowed closer against him, face lost against his chest, making a tiny noise that Aziraphale didn’t even try to parse.
There was another sound, he realized: murmuring voices. Scattered applause. Oh. Yes, that was right, they were at the botanical gardens. They were surrounded by other people, and Crowley had wanted to propose yet again despite that — because of that — because he wanted everyone to know that the two of them were together —
Aziraphale felt himself blush positively scarlet. He smiled, though, secret and satisfied against Crowley’s hair, still glowing with bronze fire in the sunlight. “Ridiculous thing, shaking like that. You know it’s really only for show.”
“Isn’t, though.” Crowley’s voice was muffled by Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “I’m asking, every time.”
“Oh, love...”
“Pretty sure you’re answering, too. Not for show at all, is it.”
Aziraphale remembered how his own heart had shivered. How his own voice had caught in his throat. It was caught again now, leaving him with barely a whisper. “No.”
“Well. Reason to shake, then.”
“But I meant what I said.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s sun-warm hair. “My answer will always be yes.”
Crowley’s answer to that was somewhat incoherent, and when Aziraphale leaned down to kiss his temple, coherency was left behind entirely. That was all right, though. The way Crowley clung to Aziraphale’s shoulders had an eloquence of its own. The way he responded instantly when Aziraphale murmured “Please hold me, dearest,” pulling his arms away only so he could wind them even tighter around Aziraphale’s spreading middle — that spoke volumes. Dozens of them, and all in very small type, and in an edition which Aziraphale had never thought he’d procure but now intended to keep on the shelf of his heart forever.
“I have just made another choice,” he said quietly.
Crowley raised his head just a little, looking up at him, eyes half-closed and calm. His handsome face was already marked with red where he’d rested it against Aziraphale’s waistcoat.
“I choose to be the one to propose, next time.” That pulled an inquiring little sound from Crowley’s throat, and Aziraphale nodded, as though to agree with him. “Somewhere very public, of course. Somewhere half the world can see. I’ll hide my ring, and borrow yours.” He cupped a hand against Crowley’s cheek. “And I’ll ask you. Let you hear how very much I love you. Let you see me hang on your response.”
“Oh,” Crowley said.
Aziraphale kissed his forehead. “Would you like that?”
“Like. Y — yes. Yes.”
Crowley blushed brightly, the red mingling with the creases on his cheek. His mouth crooked a tiny smile. His eyes glowed, soft and delicate, so beautiful that it felt, sometimes, almost blasphemous to look at them. They weren’t meant to be seen by mere mortals, surely.
Aziraphale brushed a drift of hair away from the high, thoughtful forehead. He ghosted a thumb down one impeccably well-defined cheek. “So handsome.”
The smile widened. “Don’t.”
He stroked the firm line of Crowley’s jaw. No softness here, not a bit; although if that ever changed, it wouldn’t matter. Whether as slender as he was now or even larger than Aziraphale, Crowley would always be — “Lovely. Such a very lovely man.”
“Yours,” Crowley mumbled. He pulled himself a bit more upright, just enough to rest his head on top of Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Yours.”
“My lovely man.”
“Hmm.”
Aziraphale tucked his hand around Crowley’s waist again, against the curve of his hip, the shape of him. The shape of him, no matter what anyone else had ever tried to claim. Some fool of a doctor’s quick glance in a delivery room, and that was supposed to trump all that Crowley knew in his heart? Preposterous. Insultingly preposterous.
Crowley breathed softly against his neck.
“Darling,” Aziraphale murmured; when there was no response, he stroked the thin arm wrapped around his front. “Darling husband of mine. Are you falling asleep?”
“Sun’s warm,” Crowley mumbled. “You’re soft.”
“True enough. Do you want to sleep?”
A silence, and he almost asked the question again. Then Crowley answered, a bit more clearly: “Get us kicked out. Vagrancy. Public displays of snooze.”
Aziraphale laughed. “I will stay awake, my darling. You’re welcome to take a nap.”
“Nap.” Crowley’s lips brushed his neck. “Soft.”
The sun was warm, the breeze sweet. The roses were very beautiful. The serpent coiled against him was even more beautiful, and kinder too. No thorns on him, no sharpness to his tooth. Aziraphale knew that very well by now.
“I am very soft,” he agreed, stroking Crowley’s side. “And you are very wonderful. And I love you very, very much.”
“Love you forever, angel.” Crowley squeezed him, then relaxed. “Billions of years.”
Such a marvelous thing, to utterly believe him. Such a joy.
Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment, head tilted towards the sun, hardly warmer than the feeling in his chest. Then he looked down at Crowley, gone languid with sleep.
“Rest well, my only.” Aziraphale leaned his cheek on the flaming hair. “Dream of whatever you like best.”