Chapter Text
“I’ve got it!” Adam cried, stopping in his tracks mid-pace. Pepper, pacing behind him, had to scramble to avoid him, contorting her feline body in a way that would be impossible for any other creature.
“What?” she said testily.
“The dungeon,” Adam said, pointing at the thin, squat tower where their friend had been dragged soon after his transformation the night before. “If there’s water in the dungeon, that means there’s a hole. We find the hole, we make it bigger, and then we bust the Princess out. Then he can go to the ball.”
“That won’t help if he’s still a swan, actually,” Wensleydale said.
“No moon, remember?” Brian added from his perch on top of Wensley’s head.
“Well, at least he’ll be out, and maybe Aziraphale won’t mind having to confess his love to a swan,” Adam said. “Brian, you’re smallest and fastest, so you should go scout around the bottom of the tower for the hole. Then Wensley can help you dig it out a bit.”
“And what about Hastur and Ligur?” Pepper asked, indicating the lake, where two deceptively calm log-shaped predators floated. They had been particularly nasty all day, no doubt due to bruised pride from the menacing they’d received from Crowley the day before.
“I’ll distract them,” Adam said confidently. “Pepper, you can too, but I know about you and water.”
“I’ll sit this one out, thanks,” Pepper shuddered. “Only fair, since Wensley missed yesterday’s fun.”
“Will you be alright, Adam?” Brian asked.
“Of course I will be,” Adam said, with the kind of brash confidence of the very young and the presumably correct. “Just find the hole, Brian. Then we can move on from there.”
“You’d best lure them away first,” Brian said, hopping towards the shoreline. “They’re hovering by the dungeon awfully close.”
“No problem,” Adam said, and took off. Brian waited, hearing Adam’s loud taunts, and eventually saw the dark shapes of Hastur and Ligur peel off, following Adam’s low-flying form. Then Brian hopped into the water and started swimming.
.
Inside the dungeon, Crowley was aghast to realize it was Newton Pulsifer, of all people, who had been thrown in here with him. Newt didn’t appear to recognize him, but he had at least stopped thrashing around, once Crowley, tugging on his tunic, had led him to a low-hanging piece of scaffolding that was still solid enough to support his weight and keep his head out of the water.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a black swan before,” Newt said, and of course, of course he was making conversation at a time like this. “Do they all have yellow eyes like you?”
Crowley considered talking back. He was fairly certain he could, and be understood when he did, since he could talk to the others in his human form, but that may have just been because they were all cursed by the same person. He decided he wasn’t up for the disappointment and merely gave a soft honk.
“It’s funny,” Newt continued, “they sort of look similar to someone else I used to know. You couldn’t be him, though, he’s long gone. Everyone knows that.”
Crowley resisted the urge to hiss.
“Do you suppose they’re coming back? The sorcerer?”
Crowley wouldn’t presume to know, but it was likely. Probably after making whatever mischief they were going to do at the ball, too.
There was a curious grinding, digging sound, and suddenly a frog hopped up onto the scaffolding near Newt’s hand.
“Gah!” Newt flailed, losing his grip and splashing around.
“Brian, what are you doing here?” Crowley asked, content to let Newt flounder for a bit while he had this conversation.
“Made an escape route,” Brian ribbited. “Come on, Adam and Wensley are holding off Hastur and Ligur, so we should go.”
“Right,” Crowley nodded, and ducked his head under the water to grasp at Newt’s sleeve and pull him back over to the scaffolding. He was making small, frightened mewling sounds, his eyes squeezed shut. Crowley hesitated. Then he grabbed Newt’s sleeve again, and began pulling him in the direction Brian disappeared down.
“No! Go away!” Newt yelped, and Crowley let him go. Suit yourself, he thought, and dived down into the water.
Brian was right; there was a sizable hole in the tower that was letting lake water in, just big enough for a swan to swim through. Crowley did so without delay, swimming for the surface.
A set of wide jaws came out of nowhere, clearly aiming to clamp down on his throat.
Crowley twisted out of the way, swallowing some water in the process; he scrambled his wings and his webbed feet in tandem, swimming as best he could as physics buoyed him up and Hastur’s many, many teeth chased him down. Physics won by a hair as Crowley popped out of the surface of the water like a cork, and he beat his wings hard, heavier with the water but in his flight-or-fight panic, it didn’t matter much, really.
There was a lot of roaring, a splash, and a sickening crack, and Crowley twisted in the air just in time to see Hastur and Ligur sinking into the water, stunned; from what he could tell, Hastur had leapt up after him and Ligur had leapt at the same time for Adam, flying nearby, and the two idiots had collided skulls in midair.
“Ha!” Crowley honked.
“Go, Princess!” Adam urged.
“Right!” Crowley saluted with his wing. “Thanks, you lot! For everything!”
“Thank us later, just go!”
Crowley didn’t need to be told twice.
.
“Something about you…it seems different, my dear,” Aziraphale said.
Crowley hadn’t said much since walking in fashionably late, merely cast him shy, often soppy glances. Not that Aziraphale was complaining, but it was a bit irregular, compared to their usual back-and-forth. Crowley had even been the one to suggest that they dance together, for the first time ever. And what a dance! Aziraphale himself was no great dancer, but it had been his impression for several years that Crowley wasn’t much for it, either; he had refused Aziraphale every time Aziraphale had been pressed to ask him, and it had been some small comfort to Aziraphale that he himself wouldn’t be subject to that particular embarrassment. But tonight, somehow, he was dancing with perfect form, not even snapping at him when Aziraphale accidentally trod on his toes.
At his words, Crowley seemed to stiffen, then relaxed and smiled at him, closed-mouthed. “It’s alright,” Crowley said, and freed one of his hands to dip into his bodice and draw up the locket, not secured around his throat. Aziraphale relaxed. If the locket was here, then Crowley must be fine. “We’re together now. Everything will be perfect, starting tonight.”
“I’ll settle for slightly less abnormal, frankly,” Aziraphale said, accepting the locket from Crowley’s hand and unclasping it to draw about his neck. Crowley tittered, and when the locket was in place, they resumed dancing.
Aziraphale was aware that there had been a hubbub ever since Crowley entered, but part of him was just a little smug at the thought of parading his beloved around, when every single other person in attendance had thought Crowley gone for good. Aziraphale had never lost hope. Aziraphale had known, all along, that he would see Crowley again one day, and that they could figure out any arrangement between them, marital or not, so long as he was here and alive and back where he belonged as a fixture in Aziraphale’s life, in one way or another.
Speaking of which.
Aziraphale drew Crowley aside and signaled to the orchestra, which stopped playing at his request.
“Esteemed guests,” Aziraphale said loudly, calling attention to himself as the room stilled and quieted, “beloved friends…Mother.” Aziraphale inclined his head at Madam Tracy, who was still staring at him in flabbergasted incredulity. “Thank you all for attending this little soiree, on behalf of my family and kingdom.
“We are gathered here tonight…”
.
In all the things that Crowley had thought to complain about regarding being turned into a swan, the coloration had never been one of them. He thought he looked rather sleek and handsome, actually, a standout specimen. Flying desperately towards Aziraphale’s castle, a black bird in a moonless night, he was starting to get an inkling that maybe, for once, black was not his friend in this instance (leaving aside brushes with heat stroke from stubbornly refusing to wear any other color in the summer heat in his adolescence). Perhaps white would have been easier, for this particular part; easier to be seen, to make a ruckus, to be got out of the bloody way of, should it come to that.
There was some trickery of distance afoot, likely having to do with the cloaking spell unraveling, because it seemed like no time at all that Crowley saw the glimmering lights of the castle, parting the sea of trees. Under normal circumstances, Crowley would have whistled at the sheer amount of carriages and people milling around; Madam Tracy had outdone herself on this one. As it was, he couldn’t whistle with a beak, and he had other things on his mind, besides. Like getting to his true love, getting the curse taken off of him, and living happily ever after with lips that could whistle. Crowley was also aware of minor hysteria causing him to go off on random whistle-related tangents, but it distracted from the panic somewhat.
Crowley’s first plan was to barge in through a window. He was large enough, strong enough. But as he approached one of the exquisite, tall double windows, he saw with dismay that it was latched tight—and more than that, inside, all attention was on Aziraphale, and on his arm—what the unholy bloody heaven?
Crowley didn’t have time to feel more than a flush of horror and hatred at the ginger interloper with their hands on his beloved, because his desperate rattling of the window had attracted only one soul’s attention—and it was his own face looking up at him through the window, looking surprised and then smirking. Crowley beat his wings against the glass, but his doppelganger’s eyes seemed to glow faintly blue for a moment, and the windows appeared to solidify further. Crowley went to a different window, and it was the same thing. He flew to a window where Aziraphale was facing as he talked, and the copy pulled Aziraphale around and out of range, under the guise of snuggling him.
“—gathered here tonight as I prepare to undertake the most sacred duty of my life,” Aziraphale was saying, somehow amplified through the magically-reinforced glass. “I here declare my intent to make a vow, a vow above all vows. A vow to shake the very powers of the earth…”
Crowley swore, and dived, swooping around the castle towers. There had to be something—some unattended window, some cellar left ajar, something. Everywhere Crowley looked, he came up with latched and locked points of entry, the whole castle bundled up against the early autumn chill. Desperate, he flew into the mouth of a gargoyle, dripping water from the eaves, and found nothing but a solid grate.
Crowley flew back to the great hall windows, intent on beating his body against them until he was bloody, but it seemed even Aziraphale’s bloviating had its limits, because he arrived just in time to hear, “And so, before all these witnesses, I here make this vow now, a vow of everlasting love—”
“Aziraphale!” Crowley cried. His heart stopped. His breath seized. The imposter wearing his face looked up at him, directly in his eyes, and gave a feral grin.
“—to the Princess Crowley.”
The air punched out of his lungs. Crowley was aware of falling, before his wings automatically stretched and he caught himself, unsteadily. He felt, all of a sudden, like an hourglass with the sand about to run out, something vital trickling out of him and away.
The lake. He had to get back to the lake. It was a prison, but in this form, it was the only place he could be safe, regroup, talk to his friends and figure something else out.
With labored breathing and heavy wings, Crowley turned himself around to start flying back. He didn’t know what would happen when that trickling feeling finally emptied him, but he knew he didn’t want to be here when it happened. He didn’t want Aziraphale to see him like this, weakened and woozy and a bird, right after making the right vow to the wrong—the wrong—
It was intentional, Crowley realized as he flew, and nearly dropped out of the sky at the weight of it. This was the work of that wretched sorcerer, it must be. Beelzebub hadn’t wanted the curse to be lifted, had probably grown tired of waiting, and done…something. A disguise, perhaps. Would’ve been easy enough for them to magic themself into looking like him, and with the locket, fooling Aziraphale would have been…would have been… It was getting hard to think, harder to breathe. He didn’t want to think it, but…but he thought he might be…
Sorry, Aziraphale, Crowley thought as his vision started to go dark on the edges. At least I got to see you, one last time.
.
As soon as Aziraphale’s ringing declaration was made, a wind whipped throughout the grand hall, extinguishing lights, throwing open windows and double doors. The gathered crowd shrieked, bunching together for safety. Crowley’s hands on Aziraphale’s arm tightened, and Aziraphale covered them with his own, tensing.
“The vow has been made,” a booming, sourceless voice cackled in the sudden gloom. “Well done, princzzzzeling, you’ve killed your beloved.”
“You,” Aziraphale glared into the darkness, staring around for the figure making it. He recognized that voice from the lake, calling Crowley’s name in harsh tones. “You have no power here, sorcerer. Show yourself!”
“Went and pledged yourself to another, didn’t you? That’s cruel, even for a future monarch.”
“What are you talking about?” Aziraphale cried, though there was a swooping pit in his stomach. “This is—” He looked down to Crowley, whose hair had fallen into his face, and gently brushed it back. The face that greeted him was pallid and pointed and certainly not his Crowley. They bared their teeth at him in a wild rictus smile, their hands on his arm crushing. Aziraphale reared back, shaking his arm loose. “Who are you? Where’s Crowley?”
“Call me Beelzebub,” the imposter leered. “Aszzz for Crowley, why don’t you look yourself, princzzeling?” They pointed, no longer clad in white but in a shabby dark suit, and Aziraphale didn’t have time to waste brainpower on figuring out the hows and whys, because in the dark sky, Aziraphale could just barely make out a darker shape, still airborne but clearly limping along as it flew.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped, and ran for the stables. At this distance, he would need some help to catch up, and depending on what he found when he did, Aziraphale had a feeling he would need some help in carrying Crowley home. For he was bringing Crowley home safe this time, no matter what it took.
“He’s fading fast, princzeling,” Beelzebub’s booming voice followed him as Aziraphale tore into the woods on horseback. “If you’re quick, perhapszzz you can get a goodbye in.”
“He’s not going to die,” Aziraphale snarled to himself as he rode, keeping his eyes on the black swan as it weaved through the sky. Without a moon, it was difficult, but it helped that Aziraphale somewhat remembered the way to the lake where Crowley had been kept, and could conjecture that was where Crowley was flying, back to somewhere relatively safe for him in swan form. The same determination that had kept Aziraphale going for months pulsed behind his eyes, white-hot and desperate. “He’s not. He won’t. I won’t let it happen.”
Please, please don’t let him die.
.
Pepper, Wensleydale, Brian, and Adam, all recovering from their efforts in helping Crowley escape on the shores of the lake, heard the echoing cackles in the woods.
“Oh, that doesn’t sound good,” Brian winced.
“I think something’s gone wrong,” Adam fretted, puffing up his feathers.
Anxiously the four of them looked around, until Pepper gasped.
“Up there,” she pointed with her tail. “It’s Crowley, he—”
Crowley was more gliding than flying as they watched, dipping one wingtip into the water, then the other, but not quite landing.
“He just has to make it onto the lake, and we can try again tomorrow,” Adam said, his voice sounding high and cracked even to himself.
“Actually…actually, I don’t think he’s going to make it,” Wensleydale observed, as the black swan let out a croaking honk and overshot the water entirely, passing out of sight.
“Come on,” Pepper said, leaping to her feet. “We’ve got to see if we can help.”
.
Newt, shivering in the chilly water of the dungeon he’d found himself in, heard the supernaturally loud voice, too.
The swan with the familiar golden eyes was long gone, but Newt, now that he’d passed from worrying about how he’d gotten here to worrying about hypothermia, remembered that before the swan disappeared, it had tugged him towards something under the water. Well, surely, if there was water, there had to be some sort of leak—maybe one big enough for Newt to fit through, if he held his breath long enough and there weren’t things like leeches or crocodiles or something. And that voice sounded like bad news. Actually, it sounded like the mysterious figure who had trapped him here, but it was the same thing.
Newt was still armed, and he was still fit enough to swim, so he took a deep breath, held his nose, and ducked under the water.
It was murky and dark, but some feeling around the walls and several trips back up for air revealed the exit soon enough. It was small, but with some jostling—yes, success, Newt cleared out a few loose bricks and it was just big enough for him now. He went back up for air.
He heard the voice again, saying something indistinct.
Newt steeled his courage, plugged his nose, and swam for the hole in the dungeon. He didn’t want to be back here when the sorcerer returned.
.
By the time Aziraphale caught up to the badly-listing black swan, it had turned back into Crowley, lying pale and gasping for breath at the foot of a tree on the shore of the lake. Aziraphale threw himself from his horse and ran, sliding on his knees to Crowley’s side and gathering him up in his arms.
“Oh—oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale choked. “Crowley, my dearest, I—I’m so sorry—”
“S’alright,” Crowley croaked, his skin cold to the touch already. “Beelzebub…cheated.”
“They should never have got the opportunity, I should’ve—oh, this is all my fault,” Aziraphale said, and would have said more but for a wracking cough from Crowley that clenched Aziraphale’s throat tight. He held Crowley close, trying to work warmth back into his skin, failing to do so as that unearthly chill remained.
“You…never asked,” Crowley wheezed against Aziraphale’s throat.
“Never asked what, darling?” Aziraphale asked, his voice breaking.
“Why…you had to…be the one to…make the vow,” Crowley gasped. Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s body weakening, could feel the increasingly shallow depths of his breath, and his shattered heart broke further.
“Why…why did I have to make the vow?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley grinned, his eyes sliding in and out of focus as Aziraphale stroked his crimson curls back.
“B’cause,” Crowley panted, “b’cause…vow had…to be made…by someone…someone I love. With m’whole…whole heart.” Crowley’s dimming eyes locked on Aziraphale’s and one of his weak, trembling hands touched Aziraphale’s cheek. “Love you, angel. So…so much. Would’ve…would’ve married you…in a…heartbeat…if you wanted…”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale cried as Crowley’s eyes slid shut and his fingers slid from Aziraphale’s cheek, “Crowley, I—please, Crowley, don’t—”
Crowley’s body went limp and still. Aziraphale buried his face in Crowley’s hair and gasped raggedly in short bursts, trying to contain his scream of agony and keening instead.
“For you,” he sobbed, “it was—for you, you have to know, I—I made that vow for you, Crowley, please, please come back—”
“Oof. Made a bit of a misstep, did we?” the booming voice from the palace said from behind Aziraphale, and Aziraphale clutched Crowley’s body to his chest and whipped around, a snarl building in his chest. The sorcerer, Beelzebub, stepped from behind a tree, smirking at him.
“Bring him back,” Aziraphale said, in a low, dangerous voice he didn’t recognize from himself. “Bring him back this instant. You have the power.”
“I do,” Beelzebub nodded. “But I won’t.”
Aziraphale gently laid Crowley to the forest floor, brushing back his hair, tracing the outline of that dear, dear face with his fingertips. Then he stood and marched towards Beelzebub, who watched with something dark lurking behind their ice-blue eyes.
“Bring him back!” Aziraphale snarled, his hand going for his sword. “Or I swear—”
“I don’t take orders from princzzelings,” Beelzebub said, and a curious crack began to trace itself outward from the middle of their face. “He got what he deszzzerved, according to the terms of the curse.”
With a wild cry, Aziraphale unsheathed his sword and swung out at Beelzebub, who moved unnaturally fast to the side to avoid him.
“The vow I made was for him!” Aziraphale shouted, slicing out at Beelzebub’s diminutive cloaked form again, though as he watched…were they growing larger? “Only for him, as the curse stated! It didn’t apply to imposters!”
“Hardly my fault you can’t tell when you’re being hoodwinked, now is it?” Beelzebub replied. Their face was now breaking out in a mottled patch of pustules, and they were definitely taller. “But I’ll tell you what, princzeling. If you can best me, I’ll call the terms of the curse fulfilled. You’ll get your happy ending and your fairy tale wedding and you can spend your aging years disappointing each other and contemplating divorce once the shine wears off.” Beelzebub’s form lurched, and suddenly a crucial piece of the puzzle clunked into place in Aziraphale’s mind—it’s not what it seems.
“But only if,” Beelzebub buzzed through great, dripping mandibles, “you can beszzzzt me.”
The Great Beast wasn’t an animal at all. It was a sorcerer—and moreover, a sorcerer changed into a hulking, dangerous-looking insect.
Aziraphale readied his sword and charged.
The fly was fast, and it was vicious as it met Aziraphale’s charge head-on, its chitinous hide knocking aside Aziraphale’s blade as he thrust into it. Its enormous mandibles clamped down on Aziraphale’s shoulder, slicing through his clothes and biting into skin and muscle. Aziraphale screamed as he was tackled to the ground, and in desperation grabbed a handful of sand and pebbles as he worked to kick the fly off of him. His sword managed to cut through a limb, and the fly made a buzzing roar as it retreated, just far enough for Aziraphale to throw his handful of sand into its unblinking red compound eyes.
The fly roared again, its legs working to clear the obstruction from its face, and by the time it did, Aziraphale was already behind it, launching himself at its back and going for the enormous double set of wings. He managed to tear through one before the fly rolled and tangled him in its legs’ grip; then the wings began to buzz, lifting him bodily from the ground and carrying him into the trees. Aziraphale’s stomach swooped as the ground fell away; he had the sense to not swing his sword at the thing currently keeping him aloft, but when he felt the legs around him starting to loosen in preparation for dropping him, he did take that chance to lop off a couple more on his way down.
In the drop, Aziraphale’s sword clattered away, as both of his hands were busy desperately grasping for branches to break his fall. He landed on a solid-enough branch at last and scrambled atop it, keeping close to the trunk and looking wildly among the trees, listening for buzzing. Where had it…?
The fly barreled into him out of nowhere, and Aziraphale screamed as he fell the remaining fifteen feet to the forest floor. Dazed, he laid there, trying to listen for buzzing but also trying desperately hard to not black out.
Something wet and small landed on his face.
Aziraphale pried open his eyes, his vision swimming, and saw what appeared to be a frog, sitting on his nose.
“Don’t stop now, wake up!” the frog said.
Aziraphale blinked.
“Here! The bow!” someone else nearby said, and something hard prodded into Aziraphale’s cheek. He turned his head, dislodging the talking frog, and saw a turtle and a cat, the cat soaked to the skin, batting a wet bow towards him. Hang on…this was his own bow, the one he’d lost when he had found Crowley again…
“They’re coming back! Get up! Fight!” the cat hissed at him, and Aziraphale resolved to think about this later. He scrambled upright, ignoring his throbbing head and screaming body, and grabbed the bow. His shoulder ached, but he could draw the string, at least. If only he had an arrow…
“Oh, please,” someone Aziraphale recognized sobbed, but before he could turn around to look, the fly reappeared, circling him, buzzing menacingly.
“Newt?” Aziraphale called instead, keeping his eye on his target. Newt hadn’t been seen since yesterday, what was he doing out here?
“Look out!” Newt screamed, in a familiar sort of yelp, the kind that had Aziraphale tensing and counting—two, three—and turning, grabbing an arrow from the air before it hit his back, and he had it re-nocked, aimed, and loosed within seconds. The arrow flew, true and straight, right into the fly’s eye.
The fly screamed.
Then it exploded in a puff of sickly green smoke and ash, the remains falling to the forest floor with a surprisingly wet thump. Soon after, something small and golden landed right in front of Aziraphale’s feet—the locket, he realized, snatching it up. There was some sort of other commotion behind Aziraphale, but he didn’t have time to notice, he had to—he had to—
He scrambled back across the clearing, throwing down his bow, and scooped Crowley’s body into his arms, checking him for signs of life. Crowley remained still and deathly pale, and Aziraphale’s restraint, or what was left of it, broke.
“Oh, Crowley,” he sobbed. “Crowley, of course I love you, too. I always have, always.” He ran this thumb along the sharp jut of Crowley’s cheekbone, the razor line of his jaw. “Your courage, and your kindness, your—your mischief and how you drive me to distraction. You show me how to have fun, you make me think and ask questions I never would have asked before. It was never just about duty, it was never about the obligation. I didn’t deserve you, darling, I could never, but I—I love you, I’m so sorry, I love you.”
Aziraphale kept up this mantra, rocking Crowley’s body, weeping, kissing his forehead. He’d never said it. Aziraphale had never said it to Crowley, and now Crowley was gone, and it was all Aziraphale’s fault—
Crowley made a soft sound, like a whimper.
“Crowley?” Aziraphale gasped, drawing back, and as he watched a pale flush began to leak back into Crowley’s cheeks, and his chest rose and fell. Aziraphale hardly dared breathe until Crowley winced, scrunched his face as he did when waking up, and blinked open his wonderful, beautiful, unique yellow eyes.
“Angel?” Crowley murmured.
“Darling,” Aziraphale breathed, “Crowley, I—I love you. Very much.”
“Do you, now?” Crowley sighed. “Convenient.”
“Convenient?” Aziraphale sputtered, half-laughing and still more than half-crying. “In what way, dear boy?”
“I love you, too,” Crowley smiled, his hand curling against Aziraphale’s bloodied and dirtied waistcoat. “So ‘s convenient we’re getting married, huh?”
“If you’ll have me,” Aziraphale smiled back. “No arrangement or anyone forcing us, just—just because I love you and you love me and that’s that.”
“What ‘bout duty?” Crowley croaked.
“Hang duty,” Aziraphale said, and hoisted Crowley further up in his arms to give him the most fervent kiss on the lips he was capable of. “I love you,” he repeated against Crowley’s mouth, and Crowley’s tiny sigh of happiness remade Aziraphale’s heart entirely.
“You love me,” Crowley whispered, weakly clutching at Aziraphale’s injured shoulder. Aziraphale hissed, and Crowley frowned, blinking at him. “You’re hurt.”
“One tends to do foolish things when they’re in love,” Aziraphale informed him. “Like fighting powerful sorcerers.”
“They’re gone?” Crowley asked.
“They’re gone,” Aziraphale nodded. “And nothing shall ever separate me from you again, if you don’t wish it.”
“I don’t,” Crowley smiled, closing his eyes. “Love you. Carry me home?”
“As you wish,” Aziraphale murmured. “I love you, too.”
.
There was much to sort out, in the aftermath.
With Beelzebub gone, Crowley’s young friends turned from assorted animals back into children, and Aziraphale took personal responsibility in reuniting them with their families. Crowley did too, of course, but as they weren’t technically his subjects yet, Aziraphale was the one with the resources at his disposal.
Newt returned home, to little fanfare, though the searching once-over and tight hug from Anathema was all the fanfare he needed, in the end.
“Told you I’m not entirely incapable,” Newt said, a bit breathlessly.
“Never doubted you for a second,” Anathema informed him, and kindly didn’t call him out when Newt took the smallest liberty of a tiny kiss to the top of her head.
As promised, Newt served as Aziraphale’s best man, though it wasn’t done quite as quickly as a typical happily ever after would have readership believe. There were still actual hurdles to be overcome, conversations to be had, options to be considered, once the excitement of nearly dying had passed. Crowley did have to go home for a time to restore order to his kingdom, and came back some weeks later freshly-crowned and ready to merely pledge his support as sovereign of an ally kingdom to Aziraphale’s ascension, should that be what Aziraphale wanted.
As it turned out, what Aziraphale wanted, given a healthy amount of space and time to sort out his own heart sans traumatic separation, was Crowley, however Crowley wanted to give of himself. Aziraphale didn’t go around killing Great Beasts willy-nilly for just anyone, after all, and moreover, he didn’t allow just anyone to mishandle his books without banishing them. And so Aziraphale asked properly this time, with better humility and a great deal more depth of feeling: would it be acceptable if the arranged marriage between Aziraphale and Crowley proceeded as planned after all?
This was amenable to all parties involved, especially Crowley himself.
The royal wedding of the century was elegant, exclusive, and simple, which was just fine, in the estimation of Madam Tracy (to the surprise of all). Aziraphale wore his old waistcoat, and Crowley wore breeches and a coat with an extravagant train, trimmed in feathers that looked like scales. Along with the traditional exchange of rings came another gift from Crowley to Aziraphale: a golden locket with miniatures of their eyes painted inside, this one adorned with a swan.
“Really, darling? A swan?” Aziraphale asked around a watery smile.
“Eh. It grew on me,” Crowley mumbled. “’sides. It’s a reminder.”
“Of—what, exactly?”
Crowley flushed, but Aziraphale and Aziraphale alone heard his mumbled reply: “Vow. That first one. I did hear, y’know.”
“I know.” Aziraphale, contrary to tradition but in keeping with their own personal history, kissed Crowley’s hand, right over the new ring on his finger.
The ceremony was private, but the reception was a bit more boisterous; at last, Crowley and Aziraphale were forced to dance together in public, and it was an unmitigated disaster. However, both Crowley and Aziraphale were laughing so hard throughout that it was chalked up to marital glee, rather than the rather more truthful fact that they were both abysmal dancers. When they both looked so happy, did it matter?
Eventually, the newlyweds retired to their favorite spot, the empty library balcony overlooking the garden, where so many haunts from their childhood were visible—the treehouse, now hosting new occupants in Adam and his friends, and the pond, and a flat stretch perfect for practicing swordplay, and a hundred other sites of a hundred other small battles and victories and slow growing of true feelings.
“Rather took the long way around on this, didn’t we,” Crowley sighed, leaning into Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale wound his arms around Crowley’s waist and beamed.
“We got there eventually. And it didn’t take all that long, my darling, considering.”
“Mm.”
Together they watched the Them ignore the gravitas of the event in favor of playing some sort of game with sticks and lots of shouting.
“Angel?” Crowley murmured. “Will…d’you think maybe…if it’s alright…just between us, not in front of witnesses or the world or anything…”
“Yes?” Aziraphale chuckled, waiting patiently while Crowley got his tongue under control.
“Will you really love me?” Crowley asked, voice soft as a whisper. “Until the day I die?”
Aziraphale exhaled slowly. Then he turned his head, cupping Crowley’s cheek to get eye-to-eye with him.
“Much longer than that, I should think,” Aziraphale promised, and kissed him. “Much, much longer than that.”