Chapter Text
“Who is this?” Lucia asked. “Because he saved all our arses out there yesterday.”
“Lucia Archoness, meet Bennet Dagoner,” Evander said, inclining his head politely without ever letting go of Bennet’s hand. “My partner.”
–Excerpt from ‘The Forgotten One’, A. Z. Fell, Starburst Publishing, c 2019
***
Aziraphale stood just inside the patio doors, watching Crowley in the garden. Crowley’s movements had always been a magnet for Aziraphale’s attention. But the pull was especially strong on these long summer afternoons, when the air was golden and the minutes glimmered with potential.
Crowley had planted himself in Aziraphale’s bed that first night in the cottage; morning had found them a tangle of legs and sheets, their lives inextricably entwined. He hadn’t moved in so much as taken root.
Now, even flitting in a circle, bare toes in the grass and surrounded by his things–his flowers and his camera–Crowley looked delightfully settled. His hair had grown long and ran rogue, damp curls escaping his ponytail to slither down his neck. Every once in a while he’d absentmindedly slick one behind his ear, lost in concentration. He wore a thin-strapped top that dipped temptingly low in the front. Aziraphale knew that if he stood close enough he’d see a spatter of freckles along Crowley’s collarbone, extending up the slope of his shoulders.
He sighed and took a sip of lemonade, torn between wanting to move closer and simply enjoying the view.
The transformation in Crowley over these last four months of cohabitation had been gradual, a shedding of the scale formed by years of nervous hesitation to reveal the gentle confidence beneath.
Aziraphale thought the new attitude suited him.
As if called, Crowley looked up, frowning at the patio doors. The man had a blasted sixth sense for when Aziraphale was ogling him, not that either of them minded.
His smile unfolding like a blossom, Aziraphale rattled open the door and walked toward his chair, eyes never leaving Crowley. “I brought you something sweet.” He held up a second glass of lemonade and set it on the table.
“Brought yourself, that’s sweet enough for me.” The compliment was, as usual, easily given and wonderful. Crowley underestimated the depth of his effect, how his unwavering validation had tempered the spine of Aziraphale’s self-worth into something more sturdy.
Crowley was still looking through the viewfinder of his camera; it was mounted to a tripod and pointed at a long, swaying red flower edged with brilliant yellow. In the brandied sunlight the blossoms seemed to glow from the inside.
“Flatterer,” Aziraphale huffed, pleased. “What are you working on?”
“I thought a couple of the pieces in the show were a bit lackluster. And the light today is just, ah…” His voice trailed off as he leaned slightly to the right, echoing the motion of the flower he was photographing.
“...divine,” Aziraphale finished for him, staring at Crowley as his long body bowed, haloed by light.
Lilith had suffered for her misuse of Crowley. Sandy made good on his promise to deal with her in a way that only the highly influential and deeply offended could accomplish. It was possible that she would have been found innocent in the intentional harm suit filed by his solicitors, if not for Tracy delivering the knock-out punch. She invited Lilith’s former bandmates to join her on the show under the guise of a reunion. But it was soon apparent that Lilith had screwed all of them over in her bid to become a ‘serious solo artist’, and none were shy about spilling some very old, very stagnant tea regarding the way Lilith treated her friends, ex-husband included.
Public opinion had judged Lilith irredeemable, and she’d settled quietly out of court, paying Crowley a significant amount of money to make the ignominy disappear.
He’d put most of it in the bank, only splurging on a very expensive camera. Crowley had taken up botanical photography and, no surprise to Aziraphale, was a whiz at it. His first show in Haslemere had been a roaring success, enough to catch the interest of a gallery in Soho.
With just the right angle and framing, Crowley could turn something ordinary, extraordinary. His works were a window to another world, a tactile alien landscape of swooping lines and breathtaking color.
Crowley still had his landscaping business; he still spent most days with his fingers in the dirt. But now he’d found a way to immortalize his passion, to capture the beauty of the flowers he lovingly cultivated and then share it with others. As a result, Crowley’s photographs were saturated with emotion as opposed to the cool abstraction usually found in similarly detailed works; everyone who looked at them walked away feeling like they’d been bathed in the warmth of a summer afternoon.
Aziraphale had left Crowley’s first show beaming with pride for his startlingly talented partner.
Crowley glanced up from his camera, frowning. “Could you come over here for a minute, love? I can’t seem to get this one right, and I’d like your opinion.”
“I’m no artist,” Aziraphale protested, albeit halfheartedly, tugging on his waistcoat as he headed toward Crowley.
“You’re a creative spirit.” Crowley’s lips turned up, teasing. “And you appreciate pretty things.”
“That I do.” Aziraphale gave him a deliberate once-over, hair to toes. Crowley’s cheeks pinked under his attention. “What do we have here?”
Crowley was set up in front of a plant with spiky leaves and long, cylindrical blooms; the centers of each flower were fiery red, fading to gold at the tips of the petals.
“Kniphofia…red hot pokers,” Crowley answered. Aziraphale chuckled, biting back a juvenile reply. “There’s a variety that’s this solid, vibrant yellow.” He smiled widely and waved his hands in circles, animated, the movement charged with possibility. “I would have planted some, I know how you fancy yellow, but they’re less tolerant of the cold.”
“These are divine.” Aziraphale had noticed the plant from inside the cottage, its flowers like flames that danced with each gust of wind.
“Something’s not right with this composition.” Crowley indicated the image on his viewscreen. “Have a look?”
“I’m sure it’s brilliant.” Aziraphale stepped in front of the camera, humoring Crowley. “Certainly beyond improvement by anything I could…” His voice trailed off, lagging behind his eyes. The image was striking: the strong-colored plant taking on an unreal quality when contrasted with mirror-like slivers of blue sky peeking out from between each stiff-edged petal. “Honestly, my dear, I can’t find anything to comment on. It seems perfect.”
Aziraphale looked up to find Crowley kneeling. There was a gold ring balanced on his palm where it trembled slightly.
“Did you…is that…?” Aziraphale’s gaze moved from Crowley’s hand to his face, fighting the wetness that immediately threatened to blur his vision.
“You said once that the other ring wasn’t from me. And I didn’t pick it out, or pay for it–”
“Crowley, I never meant–”
“No. You were right, it wasn’t. But this one is.” Crowley swallowed and extended his arm, encouraging Aziraphale to take it from his palm.
The ring was strikingly unique, heavy in Aziraphale’s hand. A deep groove spanned nearly the entire width of the band and it was filled with raised gold feathers; each one different, intricate and so very delicate, a master’s touch in the execution. A rich purple amethyst was set in the center; it shimmered with shadows of lavender twilight.
Aziraphale had been holding his breath. He pulled his eyes away to stare at Crowley, who appeared to be in a similar state; with a puff Crowley asked, “Do you like it, angel?”
“Like it?” It came out as a squeak. Aziraphale started again, remembering to breathe this time. “Good lord, Crowley, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen…present company excluded.” Crowley flushed, joy and relief coloring his cheeks. Aziraphale added, “Mr. Bailey’s work, I presume.”
“Poor bloke might never speak to me again.” Crowley grinned, embarrassment adding to his giddy-pink glow. “It was quite the project.” He waved a hand in the direction of the ring, hesitantly asking, “Would you like me to continue?”
“Yes.” Aziraphale’s heart skipped into double-time, fingers clenching. “...please.” He hurriedly handed the ring back, struggling not to forgo manners altogether. There was a heartbeat where he seriously considered cutting to the chase and tackling Crowley to the grass so that he could kiss him senseless.
Crowley extended his empty hand, waiting for Aziraphale to step forward and take it.
“Crowley.” Aziraphale couldn’t keep idle any longer. He crowded into Crowley’s space, brushing his fingers over his thumb, running them up his forearm.
“Thought it would be fitting, y’know…here, where we met.” He nodded, indicating the flower bed.
Aziraphale frowned for a moment, then his face cleared with a breathy, “Oh.” The thriving, red-flowered plant filled a space that once had been overgrown with weeds. Behind it, Agnes’ hellebore huddled at the base of the ancient brick wall, drooping in the heat. Aziraphale had first found Crowley right here, a stranger on all fours, parting the knee-high grass and peeking under the shrubbery.
Crowley looked up, asking with barely checked wonder, “Do you believe in fate, Zira?” Aziraphale quickly nodded yes. “Well, I didn’t, not before you…even though I drove past this garden wall a hundred times, and each time it called to me a little louder. I just knew there was something important waiting on the other side. The day I crept in I didn’t even notice the moving lorry, only that the gate was finally open.”
“I’m so thankful it was.” Aziraphale’s voice was a croak as he shifted back and forth, swallowing hard.
“I never thought I’d fall in love again, and part of me was glad for that. Love had no place in my newfound peace. It wasn’t worth the pain. But then I looked into your face, and it was so open and so kind…and I trusted you. Not a doubt in my mind. Like magic.”
“Magic,” Aziraphale echoed. It thrummed around them, the lifeblood of the garden.
“You were nothing that I expected and everything that I needed. All my beliefs turned inside out.” Crowley’s voice cracked, overwhelmed.
“Go on, darling.” Aziraphale’s heart quivered. He was gripping Crowley’s wrist, a tether for his fierce longing, and Crowley’s pulse pattered like moth wings beneath his fingertips. It was hard watching him work to find the right words, but Crowley pushed forward determinedly. This was something he was doing for himself as much as for Aziraphale.
Crowley took a deep breath, then let it flow out slowly, steadying himself. “So I’m offering to stick by you and do the work of growing together rather than apart…symbiotic…whole. Our own brilliant ecosystem.” He glanced around them, smiling proudly. “Just look at what we’ve already made.”
And Aziraphale knew that Crowley meant more than just the plants, that he was remembering sweaty days spent with their heads bent until touching as Aziraphale worked to turn his novels into screenplays; that he spoke of innumerable cups of tea with honey and breakfasts of slightly burnt toast…and the more recent addition of rapt kisses and devout hands; the touch-close memory of two bodies moving as one in the dark of the garden wall, with only stars as witness.
“Yes!” Azriaphale exclaimed, unable to help himself.
“Zira, will you…” Crowley stuttered to a stop and frowned. “Wha–Yes?”
“Yes, I’ll marry you. Yes, I adore you. Yes, I can’t imagine my life without you.” Aziraphale went to his knees facing Crowley, and in his cheekiest voice added, “Assuming that’s what you were eventually getting around to asking.”
“Sassy bastard.” Crowley’s voice dropped to a purr, smiling wide and predatory. With gentle insistence he forced Aziraphale back onto the grass. His head bounced against soft earth and Crowley’s thighs bracketed his hips, pinning him in place.
“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was too high. He had trouble concentrating with those clever, hungry eyes bearing down on him. “What the devil?”
“You need to learn patience.” With an insistent grumble, Crowley covered Aziraphale’s mouth with his, his tongue lazily gliding past Aziraphale’s panting lips.
For a few moments, Aziraphale was lost in the feel of Crowley’s thin body pressing him into the yielding soil; the smell of grass crushed beneath strong knees and the cup of long fingers holding his chin.
Too soon Crowley pulled away, and Aziraphale lifted his head with a whine, chasing, whispering, “Don’t…”
Crowley nuzzled beneath his jaw. “Patience.” It was more suggestion than sound, embossed on Aziraphale’s skin.
Aziraphale splayed across the grass with a dramatic sigh of surrender. Crowley took his hand and slid the ring into place. It nestled perfectly against the plain gold band that Aziraphale had never taken off. Crowley’s weight settled onto Aziraphale, his points and hard angles cushioned by Aziraphale’s softness.
Humming contentedly, Crowley pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s throat and set about slowly taking him apart.
***
Aziraphale watched people shift and settle in the white folded chairs on either side of the runner leading from the patio doors to an archway in the center of the garden. Crowley had insisted on decorating it himself, painstakingsly tucking hundreds of flowers into the wooden latticework.
Crowley’s hands were nicked and rubbed rough from working with wire and stems, but it was nothing that a few days coated in sunscreen and salt water wouldn’t cure.
The blooms he’d chosen were old friends, the same ones that filled their cottage’s flower beds.
“Second thoughts?” The rumble of Crowley’s voice flowed over Aziraphale’s shoulders followed by long arms, gently circling.
“And third and fourth.” Aziraphale nuzzled the side of Crowley’s head where it peered over his shoulder.
“Yeah?” Crowley didn’t sound concerned. He kissed the hinge of Aziraphale’s jaw, a smile in the press of his lips. “All wicked I hope.”
“As if you don’t already know what you do to me, darling.” Aziraphale sniffed, attempting prim but failing miserably. “...and those trunks. It was dreadful timing–”
Crowley barked a laugh, loud enough for their guests in the back two rows to hear. Tracy shot them a knowing grin.
“You like them?” Crowley truly was a fiend, choosing the morning of their wedding to model the tiny, tight swimming trunks he’d bought for their honeymoon.
Sandy had gifted them the use of his fully stocked yacht and a small crew for a private tour of the Greek Isles. Crowley had spent the morning traipsing around in those sinful trunks, swinging his hips and throwing sundresses and tees into a carryall as he sang/hummed a warbly version of Take A Chance On Me.
Aziraphale had simply stared, grinning incredulously, wondering how this was his life, how he’d stumbled into this much happiness.
“You know that I do,” he whispered back, certain Crowley had seen the evidence of how much Aziraphale had wanted to drag him back to bed and show his appreciation. But they’d been on a schedule, and caterers might be forgiving but not to that extent.
Beez stuck their head in the door, wearing their usual to-the-point expression. “Are you two going to stand around flirting all afternoon, or can we get this show on the road? It’s bloody hot out here.”
Beez was standing up for Crowley, and Sandy for Aziraphale. They’d decided to walk down the aisle hand in hand, both long past needing someone to give them away. Besides, this whole affair was more pageant than pronouncement; they’d filed papers at the registrar’s office the week before. In the eyes of the government they were already married.
If Aziraphale thought about that for too long his heart started pounding so quickly he felt faint.
“Ready to make an honest man of me?” Crowley’s eyes sparkled and he gave Aziraphale’s hand a squeeze.
“Of the two of us, you’ve always been the honest one.” Aziraphale’s voice was hushed, too serious for the setting. His insecurity flaring in the face of nerves.
“And you’re brave and patient. We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t pushed us to be more and then given me leeway to sort out what I was feeling…but look at what we found, Zira.” As if on cue, the quartet started playing and their guests stood. Aziraphale met their smiles with one of his own, and Crowley leaned close to whisper, “Our happily ever after is waiting, A.Z. Fell. Let’s go write it.”
Aziraphale nodded, and together they walked into the garden.