Chapter Text
One Year Later
“Ready to go, love?”
Aziraphale’s voice, though gentle, is full of excitement. Crowley smiles to himself in the mirror as he puts the finishing touches on his hair gel.
“Be right there, angel,” he calls through the bathroom door.
He gives himself a once-over, making sure nothing is sticking out or looking ungainly, and heads into the main part of the bookshop.
“You look wonderful, darling,” Aziraphale says, placing a hand on Crowley’s lower back and a kiss on his cheek.
“So do you, angel,” Crowley says, “as always.”
Aziraphale blushes, which he does often, and Crowley finds himself delighted, which is also a regular occurence.
Aziraphale has a cream-coloured suit and a blue bowtie and a tartan waistcoat and deep brown shoes and Crowley wishes that they could stay home so he could unwrap his boyfriend like the best kind of Christmas present.
He can’t, though. They are going to an antique book auction, and Aziraphale has been talking about this for months , and Crowley would never do anything to deny him pleasure. So instead of pulling Aziraphale closer to himself and settling in for a good long cuddle (which he would like to do), Crowley kisses the top of Aziraphale’s head and says, “shall we go?”
“Yes,” says Aziraphale, giving a full-body wriggle, and Crowley is thoroughly, overwhelmingly, painfully fond.
The drive is more or less uneventful, with Crowley humming along to Queen and Aziraphale asking him about the lyrics.
The auction is quite crowded and Crowley threads his fingers through Aziraphale’s, anchoring himself in the throng of people.
"All right, darling?" Aziraphale asks in an undertone. Crowley squeezes his hand, grateful for the check-in and amazed that he has someone to care about him so much.
“All right, angel,” he returns. “It’s just a lot of people.”
“Quite,” Aziraphale agrees. “I appreciate you doing this for me.”
“I’d do anything for you,” Crowley tells him, and he means it from the bottom of his heart. “Anything you wanted, always.”
Aziraphale is the one to squeeze his hand, this time, and they weave their way through the people until they find seats next to one another.
“Are you hoping for something in particular this time?” Crowley asks Aziraphale, who “hmm”s thoughtfully.
“No,” he says. “I’m just waiting for something to catch my eye. A silly system, really.”
“Makes sense to me,” Crowley says loyally.
“Everything makes sense to you,” Aziraphale says fondly, “because you are incredibly imaginative and empathetic. I don’t know what I’d do without you constantly supporting my choices.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you to constantly support,” Crowley returns, “so we clearly need each other.”
“Clearly we do,” Aziraphale says, and looks like he’d say more except that Anathema and Newton drop into chairs on either side of Aziraphale and Crowley, respectively.
“Hello,” Newt says. “How’s the art going?”
Crowley blinks. He would have expected such a straightforward question from Anathema, not Newton, but he appreciates the courage and he’s about to answer except that Aziraphale, excited by the question, says “I am so proud of him! He has a full blown business! Now he works full time!”
“Yup,” says Crowley, amused. “I do.”
“Well done,” says Newton.
“I want to commission a piece,” says Anathema.
“Oh, are you redecorating?” asks Aziraphale.
As he and Anathema start debating the virtues of maximalism and “prettified clutter,” Crowley turns his attention to the ball of anxiety sitting beside him.
“And you, Newt?” he asks, enunciating the “t.” “How are you?”
Newt startles, like he wasn’t prepared to be asked something like this. (Most likely he wasn’t.)
“Oh, I’m fine,” he says. “Good. Busy, you know. Good. I’ve been running the front desk of Anathema’s shop. It’s been good, yeah.”
“Great,” says Crowley, and is about to ask if Newt thinks that Anathema would like to keep a basket of postcards (say, postcards designed by a local artist) on said front desk when the auctioneer starts calling out information. Crowley settles into his chair and tries to focus.
*
Six Months Later
Newt is pacing like a man possessed and Crowley is at his whit’s end.
“It’s going to be fine, mate,” he says, wondering how he somehow became a Pulsifer confidante. “She’s going to say yes.”
“How could you know ?” Newt says wildly.
“Because I see the way she looks at you,” Crowley informs him. “It’s in her eyes. Eyes are the window to the soul, or whatever.”
“You only know that because you’ve heard it from Aziraphale,” Newt wails.
“It’s a very popular quote, Newton,” sniffs Crowley, who in fact heard that quote for the first time two weeks ago when Aziraphale was admiring a stray cat. (Said stray cat now sleeps on Crowley’s face most of the time. Her name is Antoinette. Crowley is begrudgingly endeared.) “And it’s true. And she’s going to say yes.”
“But —“ Newt begins, and is interrupted by Aziraphale and Anathema entering the room. Anathema is deep in conversation with Aziraphale about astrology — or rather, she is until she catches sight of the room, which is littered with candles and crumpled-up love notes. (Retrieved from Newt’s waste basket by Aziraphale, who insisted that they would be perfect. This is a minor fire hazard, but Crowley is fairly confident that they’re all adults enough to come out of it unscathed.)
“Newt?” Anathema says. “What is this?”
Crowley knows that she already knows, so he takes Aziraphale’s hand, kisses it, and leads him from the room. Aziraphale puts up the tiniest bit of a silent struggle until Crowley glares at him.
“C’mon, angel,” he laughs, holding open the front door of the Device-Pulsifer household. “Give them their moment.”
“Fine,” Aziraphale says with faux-peevishness, brushing past Crowley on his way out.
“You wouldn’t want everyone looking at you if you were on the spot with a question like that, would you?” Crowley says, amused that Aziraphale is so put out over missing the moment when Newt pops the big question. He gently closes the door, muffling the sounds of Newton stumbling over his words, and follows Aziraphale towards the car.
“Well, no,” Aziraphale admits, waiting for Crowley to open his door. Crowley’s heart bursts with happiness at the small gesture “But it’s such a special time! It’s such a precious moment!”
“Which is why we’re giving it to them,” Crowley says, tugging on the door handle. “What is this about?”
Aziraphale mumbles something, and Crowley doesn’t catch it, so he closes the door and jogs around to the other side. When he slides into the driver’s seat and turns to Aziraphale, his boyfriend is holding a ring.
Crowley hasn’t always been the best at picking up on signals, so he doesn’t gasp with excitement like other people might. He just feels confused.
“What’s this?” he asks, fumbling in his pocket for his keys.
“Marry me,” says Aziraphale.
Crowley freezes. He turns to look at Aziraphale, and the gears in his brain start to shift. Aziraphale looks nervous and excited and anxious and in-love, and Crowley’s heart starts to pound.
“What?” Crowley says weakly. His voice is faint, and Aziraphale smiles.
“You’re the love of my life,” he says simply, reaching for Crowley’s left hand. Crowley lets him take it, feeling stunned and limp. “I never want to be without you.” He kisses Crowley’s wrist. “I want to know that you are mine and I am yours.” He kisses Crowley’s palm. “So I am asking you to marry me.” He kisses the tip of Crowley’s ring finger, and then looks up, meeting Crowley’s gaze.
There’s vulnerability in his eyes, and Crowley thinks about how that’s a window into his soul. He thinks about how he always thought he’d want to cry if someone asked him to marry them. He doesn’t want to cry. He wants to scream and shout, laugh and yell. He feels himself breaking into a smile, the kind that is so wide you think your face is going to crack.
“Thought you’d never ask,” he says roughly, and Aziraphale rolls his eyes.
“You’re unbearable,” he says, and slides the ring onto Crowley’s finger.
*
One Year Later
It’s early morning, and Aziraphale is in a hotel room in Paris, being thoroughly kissed.
Crowley never likes to stop kissing Aziraphale, and it turns out that being married doesn’t change that. Not even a little bit. Aziraphale pulls back, and he chases his lips, and Aziraphale laughs.
“Beloved,” he says, “you may be my husband, but I just woke up. Let me out of bed.”
“Noooo,” Crowley whines, burying his face in the crisp white pillow. Aziraphale smiles tenderly and kisses Crowley’s temple.
“I’ll be right back,” he whispers, and then slides his legs over the side of the bed.
As he finishes brushing his teeth, he thinks about how lucky he is. He thinks about how much he loves Crowley. He thinks about how their wedding was full of love and laughter and the people in their lives that matter the most. He thinks about how Gabriel and Bee danced together, and what a shocking sight that was.
He thinks about Crowley, resplendent in his black tux, and how thoroughly enraptured he was with Aziraphale’s every move. He thinks about the pieces that Crowley made for the event, the smaller prints that every guest got to take home.
He thinks about how glad he is that he asked for hot chocolate at a coffee shop.
He emerges into sunlight. Crowley has opened the curtains but is nowhere to be seen. Aziraphale crawls back into bed, reluctant to truly start the day, and is just dozing off again when the door to the hotel room opens again.
“Where have you been?” he asks without opening his eyes, and he hears Crowley set something down. Aziraphale forces himself to open his eyes and look at what Crowley has bought him.
“Getting breakfast,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale finds himself with a lapful of plate. On it are crepes, made just the way Aziraphale likes. They look delicious.
“Oh, thank you, my love,” Aziraphale says, delighted.
Crowley smiles at him and passes him a paper cup, swaddled in a cardboard sleeve.
“And some cocoa,” he says, smiling. The corner of his eyes crinkle, and Aziraphale loves him desperately.
“Exactly what I wanted,” he says. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Crowley says. He gives Aziraphale a kiss and then tucks into his eggs and bacon. Aziraphale watches the sun hit his red hair, turning it into a golden-orange halo, and takes a sip of his hot chocolate.