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BOOK OMENS DAY SEVEN: SOUTH DOWNS
(I couldn’t think of anything I had time to write for Role Reversal. Hangs head in shame. But here is the rest of the marriages of convenience stories, all happy endings and sap and a dash of romance!)
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It is only through the miraculous nature of ethereal and occult memories that Crowley and Aziraphale keep an accurate count of the number of times they successfully use marriage to avoid general inconvenience.
There’s 1056, in the years leading up to the Arrangement, when they dream up not only a marriage but a divorce, which allows a monk in a monestary in Scotland to keep up steady correspondence with a semi-satanic Nun in Wales. (The resultant legend of the Monk and the Sister is achingly romantic only because none of their actual letters are ever found; primarily, the monk complains about the food and the Sister complains about the dress code and they both complain about the weather.)
There’s the second century BC, when Aziraphalius insists on spending two decades puttering around organizing the Library of Alexandria, and his slender wife is allowed visitation rights most women would be denied. (This is the first time the marriage vows involved saying, “I love you,” which is awkward for everyone involved, but Aziraphale shimself with the fact that not all love is romantic. He would only realize this love was in the wake of a certain Apocalypse, and by then, why worry about it?)
There’s the 18th century, when Crowley is a sort of fifth prince of the seven seas, well known enough not to be scoffed at but hardly a Blackbeard or Mary Read. He has a solid ship, though, and occasionally offers trips to a certain blue eyed gentleman who is thoroughly protected from any sort of molestation by his mateloge with the Black Crow’s captain.
There’s World War I and World War II, when marriage isn’t just a cover but the best way to know if the other is alive as their offices send them across the theaters of war – they are brothers, or husband and wife, or uncle and nephew, whatever they need to be that the other will be told if one of them is killed in all the fighting. It is stubbornness and the Arrangement and luck that keeps them alive.
It’s a good con and good insurance, and somehow they keep getting away with it, year and year, century after century. Almost like Someone is looking out for them. But…nah. They wouldn’t. The creator doesn’t pay attention to angels and demons these days.
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It’s May 29, 2014, and Crowley actually has a ring when he asks.
He doesn’t get on a knee, of course, or hide it in a pie, or anything else too cliché. Being the cool, collected person he is, he’s sprawled on the sofa in their living room, head being thoughtlessly petted, when he says, “Let’s get married.”
Aziraphale doesn’t immediately look up from his book. “We could bury a wall in marriage certificates, dearest.”
“Yeah. But let’s get married for real, on purpose, just to get married.” He reaches awkwardly (but coolly) over his head to hold the simple gold band between Aziraphale’s eyes and the words on the page.
The angel turns the page right into his knuckle before letting out a startled “Oh!”
Finally, storm cloud eyes turn to bright yellow. The latter is the color Aziraphale insisted on painting the kitchen (“I like seeing it in the morning, it makes me happy,” he’d bossed as he picked it out, and it had taken two weeks for Crowley to suddenly realize it was the same shade as his own eyes); the former the inspiration for the new, shared bathroom and its ridiculously large tub.
(They vehemently deny sappy sentimentality, even as they practically luxuriate in it.)
“I know you know what tomorrow is,” Crowley continues, giving the ring a shake. This isn’t the most comfortable position to keep his arm in. “And I know all your little trips have been blessings and temptations in Parliament.”
The angel pinks a little. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“’Course not,” the demon agrees. “We told Adam we’d stop ‘messin’ about’ with humanity, and you are an angel of your word.”
Their smiles are conspiratorial.
Aziraphale gently takes the ring, manicured hands as soft as ever. Crowley squirms to a sitting position with all the grace allowed in a spine that wouldn’t pass a basic x-ray, but works well enough for him. “Where should we go?”
“Well, here, of course,” Crowley says, sharp gaze on the ring. “And then…anywhere you like. Cardiff. Edinburgh. London. Get hitched as many times as we want. Drink all the celebratory champagne and cut a dozen cakes.” He pauses. “You do have to say yes first.”
Aziraphale laughs. It’s a rare, open laugh, not one of his usual low chuckles. His face lights up with it and sets off an embarrassing warmth deep in Crowley’s cold chest. “While I maintain it’s too late to say no,” he says with a smile that literally brightens the room (like his touch, Crowley once thought that kind of holy exuberance would burn him, but it doesn’t, not at all; it is like coming home, like being on their own side, like heaven and hell don’t matter but this does), “but for the sake of your demonic pride, I’ll say yes.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” Crowley smirks back, definitely not resisting the urge to shout a little “wahoo!”
“I never do.” This is a lie. They’ve been doing each other favors longer than humans have been counting in years instead of moons.
Aziraphale brushes his fingers along the ring. It’s very simple, very human, but cool to the touch, and the Sense of letters along the inside can’t be inscribed or comprehended by any mortal. A demon’s True Name, as a ward and promise.
He hands it back. “Give it to me tomorrow,” he says with certainty, “and I shall give you yours.”
“As many times as you like,” Crowley reminds him.
“I’m holding you to that,” Aziraphale grins back, and his lips are still curved in that smile when he kisses one demonic cheek.
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There is a cottage in the South Downs that is bigger on the inside. It has to be, to accommodate a library, an unreasonably large and luxurious bathroom, and a bedroom designed perfectly for two. The two beds sit close together, in proud 1950s sitcom style, though they are doubles rather than singles – the demon likes to sprawl, and the angel has a regrettable tendency to stack books over half his bed. This is fine. The demon doesn’t mind the angel sharing his bed when needed, all that lovely angelic warmth to cuddle up with, soft hands to pet his hair, the occasional warm kiss to his temple. What a delightful temptation for them both.
The décor is eclectic – one bed pristine white, the other an eye-boggling quilt of tartans. There’s only one wardrobe, as only one of them owns actual clothing, which leaves more space for their shared knick knacks on an ancient shelf. There are works of art each worth more than the house and all the land around it (most with oddly religious themes for a bedroom, including several plump angels with satisfied looking snakes, but to each their own), and verdant green plants that are no longer terrified, but certainly experience a great deal of Pride.
It’s the wall across from the bed that draws the eye. Almost every inch of the old-fashioned wallpaper is covered with something. In the center, a pair of paintings that immediately remind the viewer of the works of Leonardo da Vinci. They hang so close that they share one frame, a merchant and not-quite-lady watching each other boldly. In a special glass case is an ancient square of stone covered in neat scratch marks. And around the paintings – beautifully illuminated certificates, simple registry forms, unrolled scrolls and delicate papyrus. Each carries two signatures, one purposefully messy, one perfectly embellished.
If you happen to visit after March of 2014, you will find a selection of modern registry forms from no less than thirteen major cities throughout the UK (Crowley insisted on the thirteenth, barely before midnight and both of them tipsy and happy and tired), each one covered in colorful signatures of other couples, other men, other women, other nonbinary couples. Love and celebration are in the molecules of the ink – held there by both a demonic miracle and an angelic one.
The photograph is from London. Rainbow confetti and flags fly behind an odd but charming pair: a slightly older gentleman, plump and proper, his dark blond curls tangled with bits of paper, his smile somehow bright in a way that is not at all metaphorical; and a slender fellow with fine cheekbones and dark sunglasses and a smile that is a little too-broad and a little too-sharp but perfect just the same. They are in each other’s arms, surrounded by joy, and on their fingers are matching rings rich with power and protection. With a promise first shared in front of a woman long, long forgotten by everyone else in the world: to protect, to support, to keep each other safe.
There is a cottage in the South Downs where a demon and an angel live in comfortable retirement. The garden incites envy from every gardener in town, and the car out front from every automobile enthusiast, and there are snakes in the garden and tea cups occasionally cluttering the little table under the apple tree, and humor, and history, and love in every stone.