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There are many things in Aziraphale’s bookshop that no one else knows about. Some of these things are books, like old annals no one cares to look through, or his secret stash of guilty pleasure YA fiction. Some of them are trinkets from his long-lived time on Earth, like the set of paintbrushes he got from Renaissance Italy that he swears he’ll learn to paint with someday.
But the most special of all these unknown things is an antique chest from the 14th century. The chest itself is rather plain: oak wood shaped into a box with four legs and a metal latch. Aged, like everything else, but well-maintained. The outside holds less importance than the inside, which houses the largest collection of love letters known to humankind. Aziraphale has gone to great lengths to preserve and organize these letters. They line the chest in perfect rows, ordered from oldest to newest, a lovely spectrum of murky yellow to bright white. There’s more romantic history in that box than anywhere else in the world. Any museum would be lucky to have it in their collection.
But no museum will ever get their hands on them because they belong, fundamentally, to Aziraphale.
After all, every single letter is addressed to him.
The first letter arrived in 1320. It was a time before the bookshop, and post offices, and basically usable pens, so it didn’t find its way to Aziraphale in the way most modern humans are familiar with. It appeared, most literally, out of thin air.
It was a calm day. The Black Death hadn’t quite reached Britain yet, so beside a spot of dreary weather, there wasn’t much to complain about. Maybe a nip of social inequality, but nothing so severe as bodies lining the sides of the road. Usually.
Aziraphale went about his normal business that day: giving out blessings, performing minor miracles, “thwarting” the odd wile whenever need be. Following a particularly convoluted blessing, he decided to reward himself with a small break, so he took a book and a snack to his favorite lounging tree and sat beneath it to relax. The ground was slightly wet, and the air was even more wet, but being an angel meant none of those things had to apply to him unless he wanted them to. And he didn’t. So he and his belongings were dry.
He’d just gotten to a rather rousing passage when a piece of parchment fluttered down like a leaf and landed right into his open book. He blinked in surprise, his eyes immediately focusing on the bright red wax of the seal and the raised image of a perfect apple.
Looking left, then right, then up, he couldn’t spot anyone who might have dropped the parchment. And he’s not one to open letters that don’t belong to him, but given how it landed, how could it be meant for anyone else? With that in mind, he broke the seal and unfolded the letter to read it.
My Dearest Angel,
I am well-acquainted with stars. Long have I gazed at the resplendent, shimmering beauty of the cosmos, and I will be the first to say it is dim and dull compared to the radiance of your eyes. A single glance fills my heart with unbridled adoration. Oh, how I long to view them more closely, if only to determine their proper shade so I may complement them more precisely. Please know I count each waking hour until I am blessed by the sight of those enigmatic eyes once again.
Eternally Yours,
Anonymous
Aziraphale scanned the note, perplexed. Again, he looked left, then right, then up, narrowing his eyes to try and catch sight of anything in the tree above him. He swore he saw a flicker of movement -- a small rustle and a vague inky shine, but nothing he could be certain of. So he looked back down at the note, appraised its calligraphy, and read through it again. Judging from the quality of the presentation, whoever wrote it undoubtedly put in their best effort. And their writing was… very passionate. And it was difficult for Aziraphale to read it and not feel at least a little moved. If someonethought his eyes to be more beautiful than all of space…
He sighed, an unintentionally wistful noise, and stroked the edge of the paper with his thumb. Then, he folded it, stuck it into his book, and stood up to make his way back to his lodgings. He wanted to store the note in a safe place, if not for his own interests, then to respect the intentions of whoever sent it off with the breeze.
Not that he would have any idea who that could be.
The four hundred seventy-second letter arrived in 1792. At that point, Aziraphale was quite used to receiving them at least once a year, so its appearance didn’t catch him by surprise. He thought it hard for his secret admirer to surprise him any further when they left the letters in all manner of interesting places for him to discover. One letter had been left out in the middle of an empty walkway. Another had been tucked discreetly into his coat pocket while he was wearing it. Yet another was carried to him in the bill of a duck. That one was quite a lot more trouble to get to, but after reading the extensive and extremely flattering compliments his admirer wrote, he couldn’t find it in himself to be more than slightly irritated.
No, the appearance of the letter wasn’t surprising at all. It was honestly rather anticipated. The surprising part of that letter was its contents.
After finding the letter placed carefully into a flower bush, Aziraphale took himself to his usual lodgings and sat, cup of tea at his side, to read it. He’d gotten into a habit of peeling off the seal - it was always so well-formed, it felt wrong to damage it. Once he’d done that, he got comfortable and unfolded the parchment. He smiled as soon as he saw the familiar calligraphy.
My Dearest Angel,
I think of you so frequently it’s as if your figure has been burned into my mind. Visions come to me in the dead of night, visions of you, of us together, joined in the most religious ways. I imagine taking you into my arms and--
“Oh, my…”
Aziraphale felt his body temperature rise about twenty degrees in a fraction of a second. What a departure from the usual fare -- the short, innocent notes of adoration he’d come to expect and even love. The letter went on, at length, about everything the sender would like to do with him. So much of it was achingly tender, but just as much was so blatantly intimate it took him several tries to make it through the whole thing. He’d read a few sentences, grow flustered, then stand to pace or refresh his tea before returning to try again. He had to commend the sender’s imagination. They included such vivid descriptions… Linking hands, touching one’s lips to another’s… Embracing… Just the thought of such things was enough to overwhelm him. He couldn’t imagine trying to write them down.
By the end, by the signature ‘Eternally yours,’ he was seized by an odd trembling at the very center of his being he didn’t quite understand, but vaguely enjoyed. Most letters were put away as soon as he was finished with them, for the sake of preservation and order, but something compelled him to keep that letter out, and it stayed in a special corner of his top desk drawer until the next letter arrived.
He spent a lot of time re-reading that letter, conjuring images he’d never share with another soul. A flash of auburn hair, a glimpse of intense eyes focused solely on him, a hint of an impish grin…
He’d caught himself daydreaming more than once, but more embarrassing were times when he was caught by others.
Especially when those others were sitting right across from him.
“What are you staring at?”
Aziraphale snapped back into reality at the sound of Crowley’s voice. His eyes focused on the demon who looked… not necessarily grumpy, but perturbed, which was justified by Aziraphale looking right at him for the past five minutes instead of eating his crepe. He raised an eyebrow, expectant of an answer, and Aziraphale characteristically floundered.
“Nothing,” he said finally. He set to work cutting out the perfect bite of crepe, trying his best to ignore Crowley’s gaze burning into him.
“It’s as if your figure has been burned into my mind…”
He drew a shaky breath in through his nose and placed the bite in his mouth, chewing very slowly as he exhaled. He kept his eyes trained low until he swallowed, and when he looked up, Crowley was still watching him. Still perturbed.
“Something on your mind?” he asked. He’d long finished his crepe. He always finished first, but he never said a word about it. He seemed content to wait for Aziraphale. He seemed content to watch Aziraphale enjoy each individual bite of food, knowing he would catch up eventually, once he was ready. In the meantime, he nursed a cup of a sickly sweet syrup that could no longer be considered coffee. He took a sip, then licked his lips. A thoughtless, meaningless gesture that made Aziraphale’s breath hitch.
Aziraphale dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “No. Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“You sure? Not still disturbed because you almost lost your head?”
Aziraphale scoffed. “Oh, no, it’s not that.”
“But it is something?”
Leave it to Crowley to scope out any and all inconsistencies. Curiosity killed the cat, but what about the snake? Would the snake ever learn?
Aziraphale didn’t answer him immediately. He filled up as much time as he could by fiddling with all his eating utensils and his own cup of actual, unaltered coffee, but eventually he sighed and said, “It’s nothing dreadfully important. I’ve just been receiving letters from an anonymous source, and they… do quite a lot to hold my interest.”
Crowley hummed. No readable emotion showed on his face. “Anonymous letters? That’s weird. What’s in them?”
“Oh, you know…” Aziraphale said, not elaborating. He committed himself to cutting the next perfect bite, praying, against all odds, for Crowley to drop the subject.
“Are they bothering you?”
Aziraphale’s head snapped up. The lowness of Crowley’s voice made him sound angry, threatening, but the quirk of his lip told a completely different story. Aziraphale was speechless -- not because he didn’t know what to say, but because Crowley was rarely so genuine with him, and he wanted the moment to last.
“No,” he managed to say, his voice soft. “No, I… I actually rather enjoy them.”
Crowley nodded a bit stiffly and stirred his coffee, maybe just so he had something to do with his hands. It was otherwise pointless because he didn’t, and physically couldn’t, add anything else to it. “No harm, then, right?”
“Right,” Aziraphale agreed. He took his next bite, and after chewing thoughtfully, he said, “I do hope I’ll be able to meet the anonymous sender someday, if only to tell them how much I appreciate their work.”
Crowley raised the cup to his lips, hiding his mouth as he said, “I’m sure he knows.”
And Aziraphale looked into Crowley’s sunglasses, right where he suspected his eyes to be, and said, “I do hope so.”
The five hundred forty-second letter did not arrive in 1862. Or 1863. Or any of the almost eighty years between 1862 and 1940. The first few years were the hardest; the nights Aziraphale spent alone, replaying their conversation over and over again.
“Fraternising.”
The way Crowley spit that word out, the way he hissed it. It was entirely justified, but it still made Aziraphale’s skin crawl. Of course it was more than that. Of course their relationship ran deeper. But what else could he say? It was either make a poor word choice and risk hurting Crowley’s feelings or say something impulsive and risk never seeing Crowley again.
Although, at the rate things were going, it seemed the two options weren’t as different as he first thought.
“I have lots of other people to fraternise with, angel.”
“I don’t need you.”
Those words stung more than any other. Aziraphale reacted… poorly. He reacted poorly to the whole situation, but storming off only made it worse. What would have happened if he’d stayed? What would have happened if he’d decided discussion wasn’t pointless? Maybe they’d still be talking. Maybe Aziraphale wouldn’t torture himself by thinking of all the people Crowley might be “fraternising” with.
He’d always read “Eternally yours” as a promise. Was he wrong?
Or did he convince someone it wasn’t a promise worth keeping?
The five hundred forty-second letter arrived in 1941.
My Dearest Angel,
I must extend my sincerest apologies for the delay between my last letter and this. I could offer any number of excuses for my absence, but instead I will give you the shortest explanation possible: I was asleep. I was asleep, and I could not stop dreaming of you. To neglect you in the waking world was an idea too difficult to bear, so I awoke, and I sat down to write to you. I hope I have not lost too much of your trust. And if I have, I suppose I must continue writing so I may prove to you I have no intentions of neglecting you again.
Eternally Yours,
Anonymous
Aziraphale held the letter to his chest, and he’s not ashamed to admit he wept.
The six hundred ninth letter arrived in 2008. Aziraphale found it on the doorstep of his bookshop when he got back from dinner. Nothing quite like sushi with a side of the archangel Gabriel and just a hint of the end of the world. He was sure he would be in a bad mood for the rest of the night, but seeing red wax and folded parchment put a real skip in his step. He rushed inside to read it, then decided he’d better get comfortable before he did. No sense in keeping his coat on and not making himself a cup of tea when he didn’t intend to go back out.
He placed the letter on his desk and went about making the tea. Then he removed his coat, hanging it on the coat rack with a jolly little gesture. Just as he moved to sit down and start reading, the phone rang.
Thoroughly displeased to be bothered, he picked it up and said, “I’m afraid we’re quite definitely closed--”
“Aziraphale, it’s me.”
The voice on the other end of the line stopped him dead.
“We need to talk.”
The six hundred twentieth and final letter arrives a year after the end of the world and seven hundred years after the first letter, in 2020.
Without any fear of being turned into demonic goo or angelic ash, Crowley and Aziraphale have been going steady for nearly a year. They were practically married before, so it wasn’t a difficult transition. Mostly just more kissing and cuddling, and beside a bit of preliminary shyness, both angel and demon were eager to engage in such activities. Maybe, in some cases, a little bit too eager. But who cares? They don’t have to answer to anyone but themselves now.
Which is why they feel free to spend the afternoon in Aziraphale’s bookshop, curled up together on the couch. Azirapahle lies across the couch with his head supported by a small pillow. Crowley lies across Aziraphale, settled between his legs in such a way that he can use his chest as a pillow. They hold each other and chatter idly, Aziraphale running his fingers slowly through Crowley’s hair, much to the demon’s delight. They talk about nothing. They talk about everything. Mostly, though, they talk about nothing, and they have a fantastic time of it. Who knew talking about sports and the weather could be so fun when you do it with the love of your life?
They’ve just started making some anniversary plans when Crowley says, “Hey, angel, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“What’s that, dear?”
Crowley shifts his head to look Aziraphale in the eyes. He’s gotten into a habit of taking his sunglasses off when they’re alone, per Aziraphale’s request. Not only does the angel love looking into them, but it also makes it easier for him to see, in moments like this, when there are cogs turning in Crowley’s head.
“You remember those letters you told me about? From the anonymous sender?”
Aziraphale can’t help but chuckle. “Almost three hundred years ago? Yes, I remember. Why?”
“What ever happened with that? You ever figure out who the sender was?”
If Crowley wasn’t Crowley, he would almost look innocent enough to convince Aziraphale he’s clueless. But, since he is Crowley, his own ruse is ruined by the slight mischievous tilt of his lips and eyebrows. It barely takes a second for Aziraphale to determine he’s absolutely teasing him.
Well, two can play at that game.
“As a matter of fact,” says Aziraphale, “I did. I learned his identity a number of months ago, and I’ve been courting him ever since.”
Crowley grins a bit. “Is that right?”
“I’m afraid so.” Aziraphale pushes down the urge to smile and instead puts on a very remorseful face. “I’m terribly sorry you had to find out this way. I do hope we can still be friends.”
“Of course we’re friends!” Crowley says. “Best friends. We always have been. Nothing will change that.”
Crowley lifts himself up and scoots forward a bit, stretching his lips out with the obvious intent to give Aziraphale a kiss. He falls just short of getting there, and after watching him struggle for an amusing amount of time, Aziraphale unleashes his smile and meets Crowley halfway. The kiss is short and sweet, and when they separate, he says, “That’s such a relief to hear. I don’t know what I’d do without a best friend like you.”
This makes them both burst out laughing. Crowley nuzzles into Aziraphale neck, and Aziraphale sighs in contentment as he continues to stroke Crowley’s hair. Then, after moment, Crowley looks up again and asks, “Just to be clear, you were talking about me, right? I’m the one you’re courting--?”
Aziraphale nods without hesitation. “Yes, darling, I was talking about you.”
“Okay, okay, good. Just checking.”
Crowley nuzzles back in and they cuddle quietly for a time.
Then, Crowley asks, “You didn’t happen to save any of those letters, did you?”
“Of course I did,” Aziraphale says.
“Could I see them?”
“Only if you’re willing to move off of me.”
Crowley grumbles to himself a little, then says, “Five more minutes.”
Aziraphale nods. “Five more minutes.”
Twenty minutes later, Aziraphale wiggles out of Crowley’s grip and heads to the most private corner of his shop. He comes back lugging an antique wooden chest. Still oaken. Still very well-maintained. Crowley watches in awe as Aziraphale sets the chest down and opens it, revealing six hundred nineteen letters all tucked away in neat, organized rows. Crowley kneels down on the floor in front of the chest and hovers his fingers over each row. He counts under his breath, then looks up at Aziraphale with tears glistening in his eyes.
“All of them? You saved all of them? Every single one?” he whispers.
Aziraphale kneels next to him and miracles a handkerchief to dab at the corners of his eyes. “Well, don’t look so shocked, dear. Do you really think I would throw out something you gave me?”
There are times when Crowley looks at his boyfriend with such adoration that it appears his pupils have taken the shape of hearts. This is one of those times.
Crowley takes Aziraphale by the face and kisses him deeply, the kind of kiss that aims to connect souls as much as it connects bodies. Aziraphale makes a noise that’s almost a giggle and wraps his arms around Crowley, intending to bring him closer but losing his balance in the process. He ends up falling back and pulling Crowley into his lap, but the demon doesn’t seem to mind. He just keeps kissing Aziraphale like it’s the only thing he’s meant to do in this world, so Aziraphale returns the kiss with enthusiasm.
When they part, the very first thing out of Crowley’s mouth is, “I love you. Have I told you how much I love you?”
Aziraphale eyes the chest with a grin. “Once or twice. I love you, too.”
Crowley looks ready to kiss him again, but instead he also eyes the chest. “Angel?”
“Hm?”
“Do you think I could borrow these letters? I haven’t seen them since I sent them. It’s be nice to give them a read.”
Aziraphale knows Crowley isn’t normally one for reading, but maybe the sentimental value of the letters makes them more appealing.
So he smiles and says, “Absolutely. They’re all yours.”
Crowley looks thoughtful for a moment before saying, “No, I rather they’re they’re ours .”
Which makes Aziraphale smile wider. He kisses Crowley on the cheek. “Right. Ours.”
Crowley hauls the chest into his Bentley later that night. Aziraphale waves him off as he drives away, then heads back inside to start planning his anniversary present.
A few weeks later, the day finally arrives, and they both agree it’s strange they’re just now celebrating a year together. It feels like it’s been more. At least six thousand more. And they both agree it’s sad they had to wait so long, but they’re together now, and if that doesn’t warrant a dinner at the Ritz, they don’t know what does.
After securing a legitimate table and splurging on the most decadent items on the menu, they hold hands and sip wine and put all the rest of the couples there to shame with their raw romantic energy. Crowley proudly displays the gift Aziraphale got him: a pair of reflective rainbow-tinted sunglasses. Aziraphale figured Crowley would appreciate a new look to sport in this new chapter of their lives, and Crowley is delighted his boyfriend would put so much thought into his habits and interests. The sunglasses also make him look rather dashing, which is certainly a big plus.
Finishing the last of his wine, Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hand and says, “This has been so lovely. I’m glad we did this.”
Crowley squeezes back, then leans down to brush his lips against Aziraphale’s knuckles. “Me too, angel. Are you ready for your present?”
“My present?” Aziraphale blinks. “I thought my present was dinner.”
“It is, but I couldn’t just get you one thing.” Crowley reaches under the table and pulls out a rectangle covered in Christmas wrapping paper. Aziraphale gives him a look, so he shrugs and says, “Finding anniversary paper is hard, so I used what I had on hand.”
Aziraphale snorts and takes the present. Despite being a good size, it’s remarkably light. He tears the paper off the front, revealing a leather bound book titled Love Letters Throughout the Ages .
“It’s a first edition,” Crowley says. “Dates all the way back to the fourteenth century.”
Aziraphale grins and hurries to remove the rest of the paper. Leave it to Crowley to know exactly what he’d like. “Oh, my dear, this is simply marvelous--”
He turns the book to inspect its spine and finds, in lieu of a title, a perfectly formed wax seal stamped with the image of an apple. He stares at it a moment, shocked speechless, and looks up at Crowley in disbelief. He turns the book back to the front and opens it. Past the dedication page and the table of contents, Aziraphale finds the same calligraphy he’s stared at for the last seven hundred years.
“I am well-acquainted with stars. Long have I gazed at the resplendent, shimmering beauty…”
It can’t be...
He starts flipping through the pages, desperate to see the rest, to confirm it’s all really there.
“It’s as if your figure has been burned into my mind…”
“I was asleep, and I could not stop dreaming of you…”
His breathing grows heavier and his eyes steadily fill with tears until he reaches the last page. It’s a new letter. Everything about it matches the others, but Aziraphale is sure he’s never seen it before. He would remember seeing it. He would remember the exact day, hour, minute, and second he read it if he had seen it before. But this is the first time. And he has to read it several times before the words sink in.
My Dearest Angel,
Will you marry me?
Aziraphale rubs his eyes, wondering if his tear-blurred vision has caused him to read it wrong. But it hasn’t. No matter how he looks at it, the words stay the same, and when he looks up from the book, Crowley is kneeling in front of him with a ring, and the entire world is holding its breath, waiting for Aziraphale’s answer.
Three eternity-sized seconds pass. Everyone in the restaurant is dead silent. Crowley’s hands tremble with nerves. The tears in Aziraphale’s eyes slowly collect to the point of overflowing, and he releases all of them, letting them run freely down his face along with all the love and vulnerability in his heart, by sobbing and saying, “Yes.”
Crowley’s shoulders relax. “Yes?” he breathes.
Aziraphale sobs again and says, louder, “Yes!”
The tables around them erupt into applause as Crowley shoots up to embrace him. They hold each other so tightly it’s almost painful, then they’re kissing, and normally Aziraphale would loathe being so obnoxiously affectionate in public, but this is the happiest moment of his life and all he wants to do is kiss his future husband for everything he’s worth. So he does, and he enjoys it without an ounce of shame.
Crowley moves away just enough to slip the ring onto Aziraphale’s finger. Then he presses his forehead against Aziraphale’s and whispers, “Eternally yours.”
Voice thick with pure love and joyful tears, Aziraphale whispers back, “Eternally yours.”
And it’s a promise they both intend on keeping.