Chapter Text
Aziraphale tended to feel that the early morning was his favourite time of the day. Of course, these days, every minute was precious and to be treasured, the angel was aware of that. There was so much to be thankful for in a new life made up of days that, after centuries of loneliness and longing, were full of agreeable company, understanding and most importantly of all, love.
Still, there was something about the time around the dawn that was extra special, that occasioned an up-swelling of simple gladness within the angel’s heart. Perhaps it was just that Aziraphale could depend upon the sun, humanity’s special star, to make its daily appearance now that the Earth was safe. Aziraphale glanced at the window of their bedroom where the drawn blind admitted only a small bar of faint light against the sill. He could hear the rain, the soft beat of it pattering against the glass, but the sun was there, nonetheless, rising behind the wall of cloud to lighten the sky in spite of it.
First and foremost though, and relatively new in the angel’s life, was his enduring joy at the miracle of Crowley, lying next to him. So close, his Fallen Angel lay, his tousled head pressed against the softness of Aziraphale’s breast, an arm lax across his belly yet still cradling its expanse, fingers splayed, relaxed against the cotton of his nightwear. A long leg slung over his thigh, the bony ankle of the other pressed close to the angel’s sturdy calf. Aziraphale could not help but feel a tender outpouring of love, an almost physical sensation deep in the very heart of him, at this seemingly ordinary, yet endlessly novel sight. Crowley was so dear, so terribly, wonderfully dear to him. And it was the best of feelings that he no longer had to hide this most fundamental, vitally important, of facts.
Crowley in the morning was a vision. Aziraphale laid aside the book he had been reading since he woke and regarded his love, took in the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the odd snuffling noise he gave as he continued in his slumber. The fact that Crowley was so soft, so open at the time of waking, always, never failed to engender a protective urge deep in the angel’s heart and mind. Most remarkable of all, though, in Aziraphale’s estimation, was the fact that the love that the angel had harboured for almost all of his life was fully and openly returned. Even if Crowley was reluctant to speak too much about it, and claimed to eschew sentimentality, the embraces that he gave when in a state of drowsy half wakefulness, the muttered words of love and appreciation told Aziraphale a very different tale. Besides, there was no escaping an angel’s sense for the emotion. Crowley, half asleep, gentle, soft and sentimental, was a beacon of it, lighting up their shared bedroom with a radiance that would have blinded a mortal had it been on any spectrum that they could perceive.
This particular morning, Aziraphale was feeling especially sentimental. It was their last full day at the bookshop, the next day being removal day. Everything was ready. After their long spell of reminiscing over the box of musical memorabilia, they had both worked hard to pack away all the ornaments and other decorative items collected on his journey through a very long life that Aziraphale had decided he wished to bring with him. The plethora of books had been secured in tea chests in their turn, Aziraphale doing most of the work while Crowley dealt with less delicate items. The erstwhile demon had grumbled and groused throughout, of course, but Aziraphale could tell that his oldest friend, his love, was just as enthusiastic as he was to begin their new life together. Crowley didn’t like to get excited in the way Aziraphale tended to, but there were hints in his demeanour, and Aziraphale knew him well enough to understand when he was in the best of form, as he undoubtedly currently was at the prospect of what lay ahead for the pair of them.
Their recent discussions about the past had made that even more evident. It was another source of happiness to Aziraphale that they were free to do that now. Both of them were reticent through long habit and by nature, it was true, but each time a memory surfaced and they were sufficiently moved to remark upon it, talking, really talking, became easier. The objects in the box had acted as catalysts of a kind, allowing them to bring old hurts to light and examine them in a way that previously had been unthinkable.
It had appeared, when they had come together again during those fraught few days of not so long ago, that forgiveness and reconciliation could be achieved by the mere matter of a few frantic words of apology, of tears and tentative embraces that had appeared at the time to allow all the bitterness and hurt to be put behind them with a necessary haste in the interest of getting on with the job of saving the world again. Now Aziraphale knew better. Forgiveness, true reconciliation and the healing of all the small attendant wounds they had given each other, mistakenly believing they were protecting one another from pain, was happening incrementally. They were living themselves into a new and better way of being, one conversation at a time.
Aziraphale, who would previously have said he was not capable of loving Crowley more deeply, found himself, delightfully, falling a little deeper each day, as conversation flowed between them, and understanding blossomed as if each word were a seed. They would grow a garden together, the angel thought, this excess of early morning emotion making the metaphor he reached for especially sentimental. And where better to do that than in the countryside, on a plot of land surrounding a substantial cottage, that presently was largely just scrub and weeds, waiting to be cultivated.
Entranced, Aziraphale glanced down at the long fingers of his dearest love and wondered whether he would ever gather the courage to ask to place a ring on one of them. It was fanciful of him, he supposed, but for quite a while now, he had secretly understood that the privilege of actually being married to Crowley was one that he was longing for, however human that might make him. Aziraphale felt an urgent desire, that had grown in magnitude over the last few days as they had packed up his possessions, to make promises to Crowley, to say the words out loud in a solemn way that would underline the gravity of every syllable. Perhaps it was because he was, for the first time in his life, in a position to make good on any promise he might care to make. There were no obstacles to stand in the way of marriage vows, of offering to make a gift of his love, his life, to his beloved. For all the previous days of his existence, Aziraphale couldn’t have been said to own himself, he was merely a representative of a higher power to which he owed everything he was and all he had. Any promise he might have made during this time would have been little better than a falsehood; his life was not his own nor was it in his gift. But now it was, and he wanted, more than anything, to tie a bow of love around it, and offer it to Crowley.
One step at a time however. Aziraphale did not wish to push his former demon partner beyond his limits. Crowley could be prickly, it was enough that he had agreed for them to live together. Aziraphale could be content with that for now.
He could.
Perhaps in a few decades a time might come in which it might be deemed appropriate for him to pop the question, as the humans had it. Aziraphale was happy to leave the notion for now, all the fanciful plans he had daydreamed about concerning vows and rings and kisses—then cake, champagne, and perhaps a honeymoon—could wait. He had enough, more than enough, in truth, to satisfy him in the glorious fact that Crowley loved him and wished to stay with him. And patience was a virtue, after all.
Crowley stirred, making more noises that Aziraphale could only mentally describe as adorable.
“‘Ziraphale,” he groaned, “what bloody time d’you call this to be stroking a poor fellow’s hair and waking him up, then?”
Aziraphale, entirely wrapped up in a soft, wistful reverie while he had been contemplating the felicitous state of matrimony, startled a little. When had his hand drifted into his partner’s hair? It must have been while he was fully engaged in his daydreaming, thoughts simply meandering happily across his mind while his wayward fingers had sought and found that softness as if by instinct, letting strands like silk run through them again and again.
“Oh! I am sorry, my dear. Force of habit, I suppose,” he said, stilling the motions of his fingers.
“Nooo…uh, don’t stop,” said Crowley, leaning into his hand, although his face and voice were still largely obscured by Aziraphale’s chest, “It’s fine.”
Reassured by the cat like gesture, Aziraphale resumed his gentle petting, his motions more deliberate now, dragging perfectly manicured fingernails lightly across Crowley’s scalp. His partner gave an endearing little grunt of pleasure and wriggled against Aziraphale, burying his face into the soft expanse of his belly and tightening that long arm against the rolls of flesh at his side.
“We shall have to get up soon though, my darling,” warned the angel. “Special day. Lots to do.”
“Mmmph,” said Crowley, intelligently. “Do we have to?”
“Indeed we do,” said Aziraphale, crisply. “We must dress, then breakfast at that little café that I like…”
“Mmmph,” repeated Crowley, with emphasis on the ‘ph’.
“You love their coffee, you know you do,” cajoled Aziraphale.
“Okay, okay, fine!” said Crowley, indistinctly, giving in, as he usually did, even if it did take a while.
“Then shopping,” insisted Aziraphale, undeterred by his partner’s obvious recalcitrance.
Crowley made another dissenting noise at that.
“It was your idea—and I quote—I can’t live with those terrible cushions in the bookshop, more like stones than anything any decent being would want to sit on. How old are they anyway?”
Aziraphale was quite capable of doing a creditable rendition of Crowley’s voice when he so chose. The erstwhile demon merely made a distinct raspberry noise on hearing it, which resonated against Aziraphale’s stomach and made him chuckle a little. He looked down to see the gleam of Crowley’s eyes regarding him with a certain level of mischief against the trembling slope of his belly.
“Yeah, yeah, alright, you’ve made your point,” came the muffled response, then Crowley buried his face again in the welcoming give of Aziraphale’s flesh. The angel stilled his hands as he continued his delineation of the proposed itinerary.
“Then we must feed the ducks one last time…”
“We can come back, y’know. We’re only an hour or so away, less if you’d stop going on about my driving,” protested Crowley.
Aziraphale ignored him.
“Feeding the ducks, for sentimental reasons,” the angel insisted. “Then a walk around the park. Perhaps an ice cream…”
“’S no ‘perhaps’ about it where you’re concerned…”
“…then back in time to change for our evening out together. My treat,” finished Aziraphale, and smoothed a hand against Crowley’s head once more.
Crowley raised his head at last, resting his chin against the slope of Aziraphale’s stomach and regarding his angel affectionately. His fringe was hanging in his eyes comically, the crown of his hair standing up to complete the look of somnolent dishevelment. Aziraphale could not help but feel yet another rush of love overtaking him.
“What are we doing this evening?” said Crowley, blowing at the fringe, which gusted up, then settled back into his eyes again, “Why are you being so cagey about it?”
“Wait and see-ee,” said Aziraphale in a sing-song voice that he knew would irritate his partner.
“You do know just how bloody annoying that is, don’t you?”
“I might. But nonetheless you will be waiting and seeing,” said Aziraphale, smugly.
Crowley groaned again and rolled on to his back, stretching his arms above his head and arching into a full body stretch that made his spine give little popping and creaking noises to his evident satisfaction. He settled on the mattress and turned his head to face his partner.
“Let’s see,” he said, while Aziraphale, entertained, looked on. “You’ll have booked us in to some little restaurant you are keen to go to before we leave,” he mused. “I’ll hate it, of course…”
“Of course you will, and you will complain vociferously,” agreed Aziraphale.
“The booze will be good, because you don’t stint yourself, you old sybarite,” continued Crowley.
“And you will drink most of it while I enjoy the exquisite food, and you’ll want a brandy at the end with your coffee, knowing you.”
“Yeah. Then it will be on to some terrible show in the West End…”
“You know how I love the West End…”
“I’ll tolerate it…”
“Whilst making the most objectionable remarks about everything…”
“You’ll do your usual thing of clapping for ten minutes when I want to get away early…”
“Of course! It’s important to show one’s appreciation of the sheer hard work that goes in to these endeavours, I mean, the…”
“The actors and the costumes, yadda, yadda, yeah I know. Then back here for a nightcap?” said Crowley, hopefully.
“Of course!” said Aziraphale, “we wouldn’t want to miss that out now, would we?”
Crowley rolled over, grabbing at Aziraphale again then drawing the covers over his head with one long fingered hand.
“Sounds great, angel,” he said, his voice muffled by cotton and feathers, “pretty much everything a man could want.”
“I knew you’d love it,” said Aziraphale shuffling down the bed to wrap his own arms around his beloved.
“Bloody annoying angel, knowing me so well,” said Crowley against the tender skin of Aziraphale’s neck.
“And yet you love me.”
“Do,” muttered Crowley, clutching at Aziraphale tightly, “lots.”
“And I love you, my dearest. Now, we have time for a little cuddle and then we must get up!”
“Shan’t”
“Well then, I will have to resort to more dastardly methods,” said Aziraphale, darkly, placing his hands along Crowley’s ribs ready for tickling.
Crowley wriggled like a snake. Aziraphale held him firm.
“Bastard angel.”
“Just as you say, my love.”
There were many unexpected pleasures that Crowley enjoyed about this new phase of his life. Some of them were the obvious ones—the enjoyment of being with Aziraphale whenever he cared to be, properly together, sharing their love openly. Going to bed and everything that came after, then waking together and exchanging lazy affectionate hugs and kisses every morning, that was what sprung to mind immediately. More than these larger enjoyments, the ones that Crowley would have admitted to, if pressed (but only by Aziraphale), Crowley appreciated the small changes, the more quotidian day-to-day occurrences that might have passed unremarked had either of them been human, and part of a human couple. Watching Aziraphale dress was one such, Crowley found he couldn’t get enough of drinking-in the sight of his angel in every glorious fussy moment of his set and unvarying routine.
At the moment, for example, having pulled on the trousers of his newish suit (the old, much worn and loved garb had gone sometime after the angel’s return to Heaven all those months ago), a rather natty little number in dark green tweed with a barely there check running through the material, Aziraphale was currently buttoning his crisp white shirt, covering up the sweet belly that Crowley loved so much, then the scattering of pale chest hair as he fastened the final few buttons. He then started folding back his cuffs, precisely, and looking for where he had placed the cufflinks before he had departed for his bath. The angel’s routine never varied. Once the cufflinks were in, there would be the ceremonial fastening on then raising of the braces, then the moss green silk waistcoat with the daisy embroidery that Aziraphale wore with this suit would be taken from its hanger and carefully put on and buttoned up, followed inevitably by some more fussing as regards the proper positioning of fob watch and chain across the angel’s ample middle. Then, finally, the very solemn process of The Tying Of The Tie.
Aziraphale caught Crowley’s eye in the mirror as he placed the strip of silk around his collar and beamed at him for a few seconds, then raised his chin, his face becoming serious once more as he looped the length of fabric in deft fingers, tying the necessary knot, then tightening it, lowering the collar, and pulling at both sides of the bow until it was lying to his satisfaction. Crowley watched himself approach the angel in the mirror, saw his face come into focus there near to Aziraphale’s, his two long arms loop about Aziraphale’s waist and his chin come to rest on the angel’s silk clad shoulder.
“Looking good, angel,” said Crowley, giving his partner’s waist a little, additional squeeze, “like that suit on you.”
“Why thank you dear!” Aziraphale looked bashful, a hint of colour appearing on his cheeks. His eyes lowered for a moment, then met Crowley’s gaze directly in the mirror once more.
“You look very dashing, I must say,” he said, turning in Crowley’s arms. Crowley released his hold and drew back to give a slow spin on the heels of his shiny new boots as Aziraphale gave him one of his appreciative once-overs, his eyes twinkling, a small half smile on his face. “Very nice,” he continued as Crowley came to a halt with a satirical little half bow.
“I thang yew,” he drawled. The suit was one that he had seen fleetingly in some magazine or other, black velvet spangled with the shapes of constellations picked-out in silver embroidery, a blood red waistcoat setting off the dark fabric perfectly, and matching his silk tie. “I conjured it up specially for this evening. Didn’t want to let you down on our last official night in the capital.”
“As if you could ever let me down,” Aziraphale said, fulsomely, whilst looking rather proud. Crowley glowed, preening a little more.
Aziraphale approached Crowley now, smoothing both hands down the soft nap of his lapels and looking up into his face with the expression that generally meant I would like to be kissed now, if you don’t mind. Crowley obliged and Aziraphale clung to him for a moment, his body warm and soft close to Crowley’s own.
“You will be the most handsome devil wherever we go, without question,” Aziraphale said once the kiss had broken, and with a final pat of those soft hands on Crowley’s chest, he disengaged himself and went to the wardrobe in search of his suit jacket. Crowley stood there, tragically empty arms by his sides and continued watching as his angel pulled on the jacket, settled the lines of it across his shoulders and fussed a little with his cuffs. Then he was turning, reaching for the familiar glass bottle to give himself a final misting of cologne.
“There,” he said, patting at his hair, “that’s me, all ready to go.”
Crowley approached his partner and placed a hand on each of his tweed clad shoulders, squeezing them a little with all the affection that he felt. Aziraphale smelled, well, heavenly, for the want of a better word. The smile Crowley was treated to as he gazed into those changeable eyes, pale blue now, and brimming with love, was blinding.
“Azitraphale, I…”
Crowley ground to a halt. Aziraphale raised an enquiring eyebrow.
“What is it darling? Will I not do?”
The smile continued after the gently teasing words, but when Crowley could not manage to continue, it faded somewhat.
The thing was…
The thing was that Crowley, since they had closed up the Music Box and packed it away, safe with the rest of Aziraphale’s multifarious paraphernalia, had been doing some serious thinking. There wasn’t much in Crowley’s life that he was prepared to be serious about. Just a few items: his Bentley, his plants, some of the art pieces he had collected over the years that he especially liked. First and foremost in the little mental list of things that were of most importance to him was Aziraphale. The angel had been Crowley’s primary consideration for a long time now. Even when it had been more than inconvenient over the years, that had always been the case. Aziraphale was his number one, his Pole Star, the person to whom his mind turned at every juncture of his life when decisions had to be made. The one who really mattered.
Crowley had waited a long time for their present situation to come to pass, for it to be safe for him to be with Aziraphale openly and to be able to profess all the deep emotions that he felt. The former demon had been good at waiting—mostly, anyway. He was less adept at the professing part of things, that was definitely true, but he reckoned Aziraphale knew how he felt, more or less, even if Crowley did have a tendency to downplay the actual magnitude of his feelings (which was embarrassingly vast), and their nature (which had a tendency to be excruciatingly sentimental, soppy, even). The fact remained, though, that there was still something Crowley longed for, something that he craved.
And he found that he wanted, more than anything, to raise the subject with his angel now, before they set out the next morning. So that everything would be perfect when they arrived at their new home for the next stage of their journey together. Crowley had chastised himself internally about it, but the feeling persisted and would not be chased away.
Crowley knew that he was loved, had been told and shown it many times in a multiplicity of ways. Still, greedy creature that he was, he wanted more. This fallen angel had never really been allowed to be certain of anything in his life. Everything he had ever valued had been conditional on retaining the approval of his infernal superiors, his freedom most of all. Worse had been the perilousness, the fragility of his connection with Aziraphale. Neither of them had been able to own it, and speaking about even friendship in anything other than the most oblique of ways had been terribly dangerous. Crowley had always been determined to survive. Survival, for him, had so often meant the denial of everything he held as the dearest tenets of his life: his moral compass, his affection for humans and the Earth. His love for his eternal enemy most of all.
Now Crowley found he wanted certainty, wanted to be loud and proud about his preferences. To shout up to the Heavens and down to the deepest pits of Hell about exactly how he loved. And exactly who. He wanted to make promises, vows, and keep them. To hear those promises and vows given back to him. Not that he wasn’t sure—of his partner’s feelings or his own—he was. But he needed to hear the words, and he believed that Aziraphale might well need to say and hear them too.
In short – Crowley wanted to get married.
It was a human notion, to be sure. But the pair of them had thrown their lot in with the humans many centuries before. What better way to celebrate their love than with vows and rings and kisses, just like people did? The only problem was how to ask for what he wanted. Crowley knew he wasn’t the best with pronouncing his deepest emotions. Sincerity came hard after six thousand years of pretending not to care that much about anything.
Crowley looked at the angel standing in front of him. Aziraphale, his kind, clever, fussy, exasperating sweetheart, and knew he would have to find a way to try.
“Uh,” he managed, noting the look of consternation that was slowly creeping across those most favourite of features and remembering what he had been asked, found a few necessary words by way of reassurance.
“No, it’s not that, you look terrific—really. It’s just…”
He broke off again. The angel’s face fell a little more. He reached up and lifted Crowley’s two hands from his shoulders, taking them in his own and turning them to hold them gently between their bodies in the warmth of his grasp as they continued to look at one another.
“Angel, I…” began Crowley again, groping around in his head for a way to begin what he desperately wanted to say.
“It’s alright Crowley,” said Aziraphale, patiently, “take your time, whatever it is.”
Crowley thrashed about mentally, failing to hold on to any words that might serve to introduce this most vexed, and vital, of topics. It was so imperative that he get this right. The silence between them stretched on as Crowley floundered.
“Have you changed your mind, is that it?” said Aziraphale, eventually, an awful expression of stoical understanding barely masking the dismay that so obviously accompanied the need to say such words. The angel’s eyes had that glassy sheen that Crowley knew presaged tears. Aziraphale stood up straighter, put his brave face on and spoke again, his voice achingly soft and understanding. “You can tell me, darling, I won’t be angry. We can undo anything we’ve done if this is no longer what you want. Nothing is irreversible, my love. I can put the books back, if you like, I…”
“No!” interrupted Crowley, forcibly, gripping Aziraphale’s hands more tightly. “No,” he said again, more quietly this time. Aziraphale’s face crumpled with his puzzlement and Crowley could not have loved him more. His angel cared for him so much, loved him enough to put Crowley’s interests first and let him go, if that was what Crowley really needed from him. Crowley did not know what he could possibly have done to deserve such a treasure, the many riches that this extraordinary person had come to offer him so freely.
“It’s not that,” he said, almost savagely. “Love you so much, angel. Can’t wait to share a home with you. It’s just that…”
Crowley scrabbled around inside his head some more. What had they been doing recently that had made them both so happy? There had been the packing, of course, which was largely just hard and rather dusty work. Crowley had laughed at Aziraphale, standing with his shirt sleeves rolled up singing a jokey version of Ten Green Bottles the lyrics to which had begun thirty-thousand-nine-hundred-and-seventy-two-brown-volumes-shelved-upon-my-wall, as he began to pack the books from the main part of the shop into the waiting tea chests hired from the removal company that they were using. They had continued, singing the ridiculous lyrics together for a while, making the packing process into a joyful event instead of the slog that it actually was for a few, precious moments.
Wait.
Singing – music, that was it. They had spent hours talking about it over the last couple of days. The conversations over the memorabilia in that box had been wonderful.
Music was the answer.
“Aziraphale,” began Crowley, cautiously hopeful, now that he had found a possible way in, “would you be able to put together a list of your favourite music, just two or three pieces—perhaps for small ensembles, chamber stuff, you know—for me?”
Aziraphale stared at him in amazement at the introduction of what must, to him, have seemed like a total non-sequitur. His mouth worked and he appeared to be recalibrating somewhat.
“I, I, suppose I could,” he said after a while, then paused. “It would be a bit of a challenge…” His eyes took on a faraway look and his grip on Crowley’s hands slackened a little as he clearly started working through the logistics of what his partner had suggested. “… I suppose I could make an initial list,” he said, after some more thought, “then cut it down by increments until I had distilled the works I really do like most, yes. That would probably be the best approach.”
He came-to a little, gripping Crowley’s hands a touch more tightly again as if in reassurance, frowned and then asked the question that Crowley had been expecting and was ready for.
“Why?”
“Well,” said Crowley, managing a smile now that he had the form of words, “it’s traditional to have music at a wedding, isn’t it?”
For only the second time in his life Crowley knew exactly what was meant by the phrase heart in one’s mouth. The unruly organ was bounding up and down in his chest, seemingly making an energetic bid for freedom. Aziraphale went very still, his cheeks flushed violently, and his eyes darkened perceptibly. He looked ardent, slightly scared and very beautiful.
“Whose wedding?” he almost whispered.
“I thought—ours?” said Crowley, carefully, his mouth very dry all of a sudden. He hung on to those angelic hands as if they were a lifeline that was preventing him from going under in the tumultuous stream of his desires for a fatal third time.
“Yes!” said Aziraphale without any further preamble. “Oh, yes please Crowley, I should like that very much.”
Crowley dropped Aziraphale’s hands and surged forward to fling his arms around the angel, pulling him close in one joyful movement. Aziraphale, trembling now, his voice breaking with what sounded like barely suppressed sobs, continued to whisper “yes, oh yes,” over and over into the space beside Crowley’s ear. Crowley for his part found himself unable to stop saying “Angel, angel, angel,” in a manner he at one time would have regarded as idiotic. He examined his present self and realised that he no longer cared about being smooth or suave, or anything really, now that he had what he wanted in the deepest, most truthful part of himself.
Instead of worrying about being cool, Crowley could not help but feel huge gratitude that Aziraphale had understood his tangential question for the proposal that he had very much wanted it to be. Crowley had known he could not possibly have put the question on bended knee in the traditional, time honoured way. It would have been both too sincere for him, and too ordinary. Because nothing about the pair of them was ordinary, not really. As an angel and a demon, their relationship was transgressive by its very nature. And it was a miracle that their devotion had survived so long—bore testament to the depth of both their feelings, really. So this was perfect. Aziraphale’s reaction told Crowley everything he needed to hear about the angel’s enthusiasm to be his spouse, and the kindness he was showing in the moment by not teasing his prospective husband about the manner of his proposal was wonderful, and apt, and everything to Crowley.
“So you’ll marry me then?” asked, Crowley, his voice steadier now that he was sure of the answer. “Want to marry you. Love you so much, angel, want you to be mine for ever,” he finished up, his voice hoarse with the unaccustomed gravity of the subject that it carried.
“I will my love,” came Aziraphale’s tremulous reply. “I want that too. Forever, my dearest one.”
Crowley found, to his surprise, his eyes were brimming too, now, and that he didn’t care. He clung to Aziraphale, who held on to him just as tightly, and they stood and wept together for a little while.
“Goodness!” said Aziraphale, once they had drawn apart after their long moment of mutual emotional unravelment, “I’m all of a dither.” His hands were shaking as he produced a large, snowy white monogrammed handkerchief from the inner recesses of his jacket and dabbed at his eyes. He looked across at Crowley, smiled a watery smile, then snapped his fingers and handed a similarly voluminous article to his new fiancé. Crowley wiped his face, smiling ruefully.
“Husbands,” said Aziraphale, beaming once more, “we’ll be husbands. I’ll be able to tell our new neighbours about all the lovely little things my husband does for me,” he said, triumphantly.
“Yeah,” said Crowley, who found himself, rather oddly, not immune to the novelty of this idea.
A husband. For him. He never would have believed it even a few months ago. “Yeah, you will.” Crowley was grinning now, smiling the kind of smile that made his jaw ache and his eyes water anew. Aziraphale looked so proud and happy, he could barely stand to look at him, knowing at the same time that his own face very probably bore just the same expression of love and wonder.
“Goodness! Just look at the time!” said Aziraphale, as he glanced across to the long-case clock behind them whilst straightening his tie. “We really had better get a move on. I booked the restaurant for six thirty, we’ll have to hail a cab.”
“One minute,” said Crowley, taking hold of Aziraphale’s upper arms, “I think it’s traditional to…” But he was unable to finish that particular sentence because Aziraphale, after an exclamation of “Oh yes, darling, how remiss of me!” was kissing him, deeply and enthusiastically, clinging to him now, his hot mouth as passionate and thrilling as it had been the very first time the angel had kissed him, seemingly out of nowhere, and told him that he couldn’t live without him.
The meal had been everything that Crowley wanted. The food had been excellent, the decor cool and minimalist, very much to Crowley’s taste. Clearly the restaurant, Hide, at the very fashionable end of Piccadilly, had been chosen by the angel with Crowley’s aesthetic preferences in mind. Aziraphale had enjoyed the tasting menu, Crowley the excellent champagne and brandy with his coffee. Now they were walking together along the pavement at Piccadilly Circus towards Shaftesbury Avenue, where the Sondheim Theatre, formerly The Queen’s, was showing the musical that Aziraphale had chosen for the pair of them to see.
Crowley could not stop smiling. He was aware that this was quite unlike him, but he really could not have cared less about that. For they were strolling, hand in hand, their arms pressed together from elbow to wrist and fingers entwined, keeping a leisurely pace, matching each other stride for stride, in total harmony, down one of London’s busiest thoroughfares. It would not have seemed anything out of the ordinary to a human to be so close, so obviously together, not these days, anyway; attitudes towards same sex couples having improved so much over the last fifteen years or so, but it very much was for them. And it was lovely, to be so close, to feel the warmth of the angel’s hand and forearm next to his own, to glance sideways from time to time and catch Aziraphale’s adoring looks directed at him whenever he happened to turn his head.
It was remarkable, really. They were together, clearly, two well dressed, if a little eccentric looking, middle aged men, obviously in love and happy for the world to know it. They had already been grinned at by a couple of teenagers, and a pair of women, arm in arm, had given them the thumbs up, which had made Aziraphale blush, and beam at them, proudly. Crowley had felt the blessing that the angel had sent after them ruffle his hair as it flew past, and had tugged Aziraphale’s arm more closely to his side as the little rush of love had swept over him for his sentimental partner. Aziraphale’s pride in being seen with Crowley was so obvious, and it warmed the erstwhile demon’s heart for this to be so evidently the case.
Crowley could never have imagined this level of elation, not back in the old days. It was so odd to feel the absence of his habitual worries and the subliminal sadness that had underpinned his mood for many a long year. Gone was all the fear—his own angry tension and Aziraphale’s anxiety—for themselves and for each other. Now they could finally be proud of who they were and how they loved. A retired angel and a former demon, supposed enemies who had grown to love each other, and despite the trials of life, the hurts and the separations, had never allowed that love to die over thousands of years.
It had always been about choice, that was the thing. They had both chosen to be different, almost from the start. Then there had been the choice to be friends, against all of their supposed conditioning, going against all the tenets they were intended to espouse. Then there had been the partnership—the Arrangement—and all the other ways, large and small, in which they had supported one another. They had chosen the Earth too, in the end, and the people who shared the planet with them. In a way all the choices led them to be much more human than anything else, the choice to express their love physically, in the human way, to make promises to each other just as the humans did. It was liberating, wonderful. It made Crowley want to shout and sing. They were moving in together. They were going to get married sometime soon. They would be spouses—husbands.
Aziraphale had chattered happily over their meal about the need for rings (they were planning a trip back to London in a week or so to choose their rings together at one of the upmarket jewellers in Hatton Garden), flowers—cake—and was, mentally at least, deep into the planning of the perfect occasion for the pair of them. And here, in this moment, they were doing what they both loved best, going to see a musical performance—Stephen Sondheim’s Company—in a box just for the two of them, at a West End theatre they had both known well since it had been built in the Edwardian era.
They had a clear future, there was no longer any risk that they might be separated, and for once, Crowley was genuinely excited at the possibilities that lay ahead of both of them.
It really could not have worked out better.
Aziraphale, seeming to pick up on Crowley’s mood, squeezed his hand again, then spoke.
“You know, my love, I do not think I have ever been so happy. Thank you, darling, for everything.”
His eyes were bright as he looked up into Crowley’s face.
“A wedding, we’re going to have a wedding,” he enthused.
Crowley glanced down at their joined hands, an enduring symbol of their love over the years and the only connection they had ever allowed themselves to have before these new-found days of freedom, and allowed himself a grin of pure happiness.
“Don’t tell everybody, angel,” he teased, “but, yeah, we really are.”