Chapter Text
April 2024
Crowley hesitates at the gate, stopping short of the graveyard entrance by a few feet. They look uncomfortable, tugging at the sleeve of their black suit, sunglasses very much covering their eyes. Aziraphale gave in and had let them weigh in a little on his choice of clothing in the end, at Anathema’s request, which is how he ended up in a suit of pale sage green, with Crowley sporting a pocket square to match, contrasting starkly against their customary all black. The nod to outfit coordination fills him with pride, a little sign that Crowley is his, and he is Crowley’s, to everyone else at the wedding. They’ve also added a pride flag pin to their lapel, just to really drive the point home, stripes of black, grey, white and green glinting in the spring sunshine, wearing their queerness outwardly as an act of defiance.
“A church.” They mutter under their breath with significant derision. “What on this green fucking earth possessed Anathema Device to get married in a fucking church? She’s an occultist. Who has a church wedding these days? It’s bizarre. Ridiculous, even.”
“I don’t know, my dear. You’ll have to take it up with her.” And then he immediately retracts that statement, because Crowley absolutely will hunt her down later to ask her that exact question, and it’s hardly what Anathema needs on her wedding day, Crowley going off on some long atheistic monologue about organised religion and cisheteronormativity and the like. Aziraphale has heard the speech enough times already, and he can’t really recommend it for entertainment value, though of course he nods along in all the right places because he finds Crowley so endearing that he’ll listen to anything they say, no matter how overly dramatic.
That said, he hopes the actual wedding toasts are snappier. And ideally with a few more jokes.
“We don’t actually have to go to the ceremony.” He reminds them, for what must be the fiftieth time in the last week. “We could just go to the reception bit after. They would understand.”
“But we’re already here.” They point out, gesturing at the tiny village church right in front of them, other guests snaking their way past and up the path. “Feels silly not to go, just because I don’t like—” By the arched stone entrance to the church itself, he can spy Newt greeting guests, smothered in hugs from everyone who passes him, and it occurs to him that Anathema would have loved doing this bit, the meeting and greeting, the hugging and the schmoozing, but is instead stuck inside somewhere, probably with her mother panicking over her hair and make up. As if Anathema could look anything other than spectacular in a wedding dress. “Shit. Fuck. Okay, no, I’m fine, I can do this, it’s fine. It’s just a building, for fuck’s sake.”
“You sure?”
“For Anathema. And Newt, obviously. But let’s be real, mostly Anathema.” They take a deep breath, and step towards the gate. “Just so you’re aware, after this, I’m never setting foot in a church again. It’s a one time thing. Don’t think this means you can spend every holiday we ever go on dragging me around boring cathedrals, just because I set foot in a village church one time, for a good cause.”
“Noted.” Aziraphale says. “I’ll be sure to delete all the church inspiration photos from my wedding Pinterest board.”
Crowley splutters at that, and Aziraphale doesn’t stop long enough to find out if that reaction was to the idea of him having a wedding Pinterest board in general, or at the specifically implied notion of them getting married .
It’s probably both. He is joking though, and has a strong suspicion Crowley wouldn’t be the type for covenants anyway, even ones marked by a purely civil ceremony.
When they reach Newt, he looks nervous and sweaty and excited. He’s had a haircut and properly shaved for the occasion, which gives him a sort of uncanny valley energy. He looks like someone who looks like the Newt they know, but just subtly different enough that it is confusing.
“You look very nice, Newton.” Aziraphale beams, pulling him in for a hug.
“No need to sound so shocked.” He says when Aziraphale lets him go, pretending to be affronted. “Ana wasn’t going to let me turn up looking like a scruffy nerd, was she?”
“Back to that tomorrow, though?” Crowley asks.
“Of course.” He laughs. “Thanks so much for coming, both of you. Means a lot.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Crowley says airily, sounding far more calm and casual about this than they had a few moments ago. “Seen her yet today?”
Newt shakes his head. “We’re being traditional. Slept in different beds last night and everything. Weird.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re very excited to finally consummate your relationship after all these years.” Crowley says with a perfectly flat deadpan, and Aziraphale snorts with laughter and tries not to think too much about the loud, sexually charged experience of living with the two of them in the early days of their relationship. There’s a few other guests lingering behind them for their chance to congratulate Newt before heading inside, so Aziraphale makes their excuses to move on.
“Well, we best find a seat. Congratulations again, Newt.”
“Yeah, good luck up there, Pulsifer. If it makes you feel better, not one single person in there will be looking at you once Anathema shows up.”
“Oh, I know.” He says, sounding overwhelmingly relieved at the very idea.
Aziraphale steers Crowley towards the door, pausing just before the threshold. “Sure?” He checks one last time, and Crowley rolls their eyes, then takes a deep breath and slinks into the church. They don’t burst into flames or start screaming from eternal damnation, and no member of the clergy pops up to spray them with a bottle of holy water, so it’s all going swimmingly so far. Aziraphale takes their hand, intertwining their fingers. “You okay?” He asks.
“Holding my boyfriend’s hand in a church.” Crowley grins, looking down to stare at their fingers. “That’s new.”
“I could kiss you too, if that would help? Really stick it to God or whoever?” Aziraphale grins, squeezing Crowley’s fingers ever so slightly. Crowley’s eyes go wide, looking vaguely scandalised, and Aziraphale raises their hand to his lips and kisses the back of it instead, baby steps. “I’m really proud of you.”
“Yeah, okay, leave it out, angel.” They say dismissively, scowling a little, but their eyes are warm and brighten notably at his words. He’ll never get over how Crowley looks when he says something nice about them. “I’m not singing any fucking hymns though.”
Aziraphale starts crying when Anathema walks down the aisle, glowing in an off-the-shoulder dress that emphasises all of her best assets, the veil defying gravity to float ethereally behind her like a prolonged Marilyn Monroe air vent skirt moment. Newt’s mouth falls open at the sight of her, which is nothing new, since general awe and wonder is his default when she is around, always has been, always amazed that this is the woman he gets to spend his life with.
He roots around in his pockets, desperately searching for a tissue to dab his eyes as Anathema reaches the front and Newt takes her hand so tenderly, and she stares at him as if it’s the first time she has seen him in weeks, months maybe, rather than the mere hours that have actually passed. He doesn’t have any tissues. How did he forget tissues ?
“Angel.” Crowley whispers, and Aziraphale glances at them and they are holding out a little packet of Kleenex, and he sniffs gratefully and takes one, and then reconsiders and takes the whole packet. Crowley won’t need them, they’re not a crier; they brought them only for him.
Aziraphale cries a bit more at that, stupid, joyous, happy tears, because two of his best friends are in love and getting married to each other, and his other best friend is in love with him , and today is already the greatest day of his life so far, and it’s only 11.30 am.
Crowley, true to their word, refuses to sing along to Morning Has Broken or One More Step Along The World I Go, but they do keep looking at him during the latter, slipping their fingers between his as Aziraphale belts out the words with enough gusto for both of them despite the fact his singing voice is quite horrible.
Crowley, ironically, sings beautifully, though doesn’t like to flaunt it — it’s only catching snatches of them singing in the shower over the last seven years that means Aziraphale knows their secret.
As they wait outside the church, lining the same path they walked up an hour earlier with sweaty palmfuls of dried flower petal confetti ready to throw in front of (” In front of, ” The wedding photographer insists, her tone suggesting she has done this many times before, and many times before no one has listened to her. “ Not at their faces. Not in their hair. In front of. ”) the newly married Mr and Mrs Device, Crowley leans down and kisses him, just briefly, on the lips, and Aziraphale thinks he might faint, his emotions too big to know what to do with in the moment. “Oh, please don’t start crying again, angel.” Crowley says exasperatedly, fondly, but it’s far too late for that, so they use their sleeve to carefully dab the tears away from his cheeks, Aziraphale’s hands too full of confetti to do it himself. “You’re ridiculous.”
Newt’s groomsmen throw the confetti right in his face, of course, and a little extra in his hair for luck, and Anathema is laughing hysterically and looking like a goddess doing it, somehow. Aziraphale throws his confetti dutifully in the air in front of them, as he was told to do, and gives them both a big, if teary, smile as they walk past. Crowley chucks their handful in the right general direction, but a perfectly timed gust of wind sends most of it back at them instead of towards the newlyweds, and now there are tiny lilac and periwinkle petals tangled in Crowley’s curls that Aziraphale carefully picks out one by one, and if he leaves a few there, because he thinks it’s adorable, that can be his little secret.
*
The day drifts from the ceremony to the wedding breakfast to the evening reception, hosted at a very fancy hotel nearby, without a hitch. Aziraphale is full of good food and better wine, relaxed, meltingly soft and joyously happy to be here, to have Crowley here, to feel their hand resting on the small of his back through the ridiculous green suit, to not have to hide how he looks at them during the sweet, romantic bits of the speeches that immediately have him weepy again.
It’s good. They’re good. It’s been eight months, and yet every time Crowley introduced themself as his partner (for want of a better word), he gets the same overwhelming sense of disbelief and pride as he did on day one, knowing how excruciatingly lucky he is to be here and for things to have worked out like it did, despite both of their best efforts.
Crowley brings him a gin and tonic from the bar, grumbling about the extortionate wedding venue prices but in good humour, a whiskey for themself. They clink their glasses, and Aziraphale smiles to himself as he takes a sip, thinking back to the first time Crowley bought him a gin and tonic, and themself a whiskey, in a shitty student bar, a lifetime ago, where they chatted for hours on end, and then never really let each other go again.
“And now, I’d like to introduce for their first dance as newlyweds, Anathema and Newton Device!” The DJ yells, his microphone peaking from over-excitement, sending a shiver down Aziraphale’s spine. Newt steps out onto the empty dance floor, but Anathema is nowhere to be seen, and for a moment there is a collective whisper, that something in this wedding had to go tits up at some point, and that it’s so unlike Anathema to get her timings wrong. Then, the whisper turns into a staggered gasp, spreading through the crowd like a Mexican wave at a football stadium, as Anathema emerges dramatically from a door at the back of the function room.
To say she has changed outfits is an understatement. The big white dress has gone and in its place, a slinky jumpsuit covered entirely in tiny silver-white sequins, so she glitters and gleams like a disco ball as she meets Newt in the middle of the dance floor. He leans down to whisper something in her ear and she laughs gently, leaning into him for a quick kiss before she takes his hand in hers as the music starts.
Newt is a horrible dancer, to the point where Aziraphale reckons he even might do a better job, but Anathema dances for both of them, swirling around in her new, party-friendly look, spinning under Newt’s arm, and Aziraphale wonders if maybe rehearsing this might have been a good idea until he notices Newt counting out the beats as he shuffles and clocks that this had been rehearsed and this is still the best Newt could manage.
It’s delightfully sweet, and Aziraphale cries again.
When the first dance is finished, the music picks up and other people start rushing on to the dance floor, surrounding Anathema and Newt in a swarm of merry faces and terrible dance moves. Aziraphale goes to find a seat at one of the tables around the edge of the room to watch, but Crowley shakes their head, a mischievous grin on their face. “You’re not getting out of this.”
“Crowley, please .” Aziraphale whines. “Can we just accept I’m a rubbish dancer?”
“I accepted that long ago.” Crowley says seriously. “Doesn’t mean you get to opt out of dancing with me, angel.”
He can’t hold out when they look at him like that, the easy confidence, the warm smile, the love that radiates from every inch of them, and he can’t deny this person anything, even when the one thing they want is inexplicably to subject everyone to his crappy dancing. “Oh, fine, then.” He relents, and lets Crowley drag him into the throng of people, and lets them guide his hands to Crowley’s waist, their arms wrapping around his back and holding him as close as they could while still giving them enough room to slowly spin. Aziraphale leans into the embrace and he can smell Crowley’s perfume, feel their breath against his neck, their lips millimetres from his ear when they breathe “ Fuck, I’m so far gone for you, angel. ” so softly that even he can hardly hear it, and his knees go weak, only Crowley’s arms wrapped around him that hold him up.
“You can’t just say things like that to me, Crowley.” Aziraphale hisses, heart hammering in his chest.
“Why not?”
“Because we’re in public , and you saying things like that makes me want to do some very not-public-appropriate things to you.”
“Well, we are paying for a ridiculously overpriced room upstairs.” They point out, still leading them in their loose circle, swaying to the music in a tight embrace being as close as Aziraphale is ever going to get to dancing. “Could go make use of it?”
“I’m not missing any of Anathema and Newt’s literal wedding because you can’t behave yourself for a few hours.” He says tersely, though honestly Anathema would probably be proud of them if they disappeared for a hasty shag, and would absolutely lord it over them for years. Crowley points out as much, and Aziraphale forces himself to stand his ground. “Later.” He promises. “I’ll make it very worth the wait.”
When the songs ends, Aziraphale makes to pull away, having fulfilled his commitment to one awkward slow dance and ready to retire to the edge of the room to watch until everyone is drunk enough for the Grease medley and Robyn’s Dancing On My Own, at which point no one will be showing him the slightest bit of attention. Crowley doesn’t let him further than arm’s length though, their hands clasped at the small of his back, and they stare at him like he’s a goddamn miracle for long enough that the attention starts to get uncomfortable for Aziraphale, who is never going to get used to Crowley looking at him like this. He does what seems like the sensible plan of action and closes the space between them once again, pulling Crowley towards him by the lapels of their jacket. He kisses him as the next song starts to play, soaking in the feeling of Crowley smiling against his lips as they kiss him back.
“This is it.” A voice says from behind them, fighting against the music. “This is the greatest wedding gift anyone could have given me.” It’s Anathema, of course, standing behind them and gawking and looking extremely pleased with herself. “You should definitely grab their butt, don’t hold back, Zira. You know you want to.”
Aziraphale pulls away from Crowley and glares at her. “You just ruined a perfectly nice moment.” He says, swinging to face her but keeping one arm around Crowley’s slender waist, holding them close. “Hope you’re proud of yourself.” He says, and then bites down a yelp when Crowley’s hand drifts down to squeeze his ass, only the tiniest smirk on their face betraying them, and if Anathema doesn’t notice, then that’s her problem.
“You two are so adorable it actually hurts.” Anathema looks annoyed at the very idea, like it has inconvenienced her somehow to see them together. She gestures at the two of them wildly. “How are the rest of us meant to compete with this?”
“With extreme difficulty, I suspect.” Crowley says, settling their hand on the small of Aziraphale’s back. “Though you don’t look half bad yourself, Device. Marriage looks good on you.”
She holds out her left hand to show them the ring glittering on her fourth finger, the engagement ring stacked on top. “Don’t let him see, he’ll start crying again.” Crowley teases.
“Oh, shush.” Aziraphale says, taking her hand delicately in his and admiring how the metal glints in the light. “It’s beautiful, Anathema. The whole day has been so beautiful. Thank you so much for letting us be a part of it.”
“As if I’d ever get married without you two idiots here. Aziraphale was the first person I told about fancying Newt, for God’s sake. He is responsible for this, basically.”
Aziraphale flushes when he remembers the other half of that particular conversation, and hopes it never, ever comes up. “Now, now, I don’t want to take too much credit.” He says hurriedly.
“Or blame.” Crowley chips in.
“Oh, there you are. Hi, you two.” Newt says breathlessly, appearing at Anathema’s side. “Uh, your grandma is looking for you? Think she wants to do some ancient ritual to bless our union or something? Didn’t get the details but she said you said she could do it after the first dance and she’s taking that very literally, keeps telling me we’ll suffer an eternity of torment if she doesn’t do it like, right this second, apparently.” Newt seems very relaxed about the idea of whatever elaborate rite Anathema’s grandmother wants to perform, whereas it’s enough to have Aziraphale and Crowley make concerned eye contact.
“Sounds about right.” Anathema said brightly. “Not ever been entirely convinced, but I’m not going to run the risk of eternal torment, am I? I’ll catch up with you two later.” She beams, and disappears in a swirl of silver sequins, swallowed back up by the crowd.
Aziraphale laughs, because he’s too bemused by the whole thing to do anything different. “Do you want to go for a walk?” He asks, not fancying the dance floor for much longer, and knowing that with the bride and groom engaged in some definitely not suspect ritual, they are unlikely to miss any momentous wedding events in the next twenty minutes. “Could do with some air, I think.”
“That sounds like a great idea.” Crowley agrees, looking a little relieved, and Aziraphale lightly tells them off for not just saying they needed a little break from proceedings instead of waiting for Aziraphale to suggest it first.
They slip out of the side door, out of the function room and into the hotel grounds, taking a winding footpath down to a small pond. Twilight is settling quickly over the water, silhouetting the trees beyond in inky blackness against the darkening blue sky. There is just enough light that Aziraphale can still make out Crowley’s soft smile, and he wonders if they even know they’re doing it, or if that’s just how their face arranges itself now. He certainly notices Crowley smiling a lot more these days, and is big-headed enough to give himself a sizable amount of the credit.
There is a bench, just on the edge of the pond, and they sit, knees touching. “This has been such a beautiful day.” He says, at the exact same moment that Crowley says, “I love you.”.
Aziraphale presses his lips to Crowley’s, pulling them in with a hand on the back of their neck, fingers tangled in their curls, and Crowley kisses him back. I love you I love you I need you I love you , he thinks.
“You’ve got me, angel.” Crowley says back, and maybe those weren’t thoughts after all but words, mumbled against their lips, and he’s had one too many glasses of wine with dinner, one too many gin and tonics, to tell the difference. “You’ll always have me.”
“Always?” He asks, sounding teasing and flirty, where he might have once just sounded needy. “Is that a promise?”
Crowley rolls their eyes. “Just you try getting rid of me.”
Aziraphale considers the feel of Crowley’s fingers between his, the warmth of their skin, the light in their amber eyes when they’re excited and the way they cling to each other when they’re sad. He thinks about how these eight months have been the best eight months of his life and how he longs for another eight hundred months to follow, knowing they won’t be the same people but knowing that he will still feel the same, exactly the same, about Crowley then as he does now.
“I wouldn’t dare.”