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It used to be a given that nosy Archangels and pesky Dukes of Hell could drop in on Aziraphale and Crowley at any moment. But the two of them have been playing this game for a long time. They know how to avoid suspicion about their Arrangement.
That’s why Aziraphale has always worn his wedding ring on his pinky. Even if Gabriel doesn’t even know what toilet paper is, let alone what a ring worn on a certain finger symbolizes at this point in human society, Aziraphale won’t take any chances—not with this. He’s currently on the 889th replacement ring Crowley’s given him. Constant brushes with near-discorporation makes it easy to lose things.
But since Crowley is more careful with his possessions (and more sentimental than he’d ever admit), he’s only on his fifth replacement ring in six thousand years. He wears his on a silver chain around his neck, always tucked under his shirt. He keeps his secrets close to his chest.
But one afternoon, almost a year after the whole business with Armageddon’t and tricking Heaven and Hell, Crowley wanders into the bookshop’s back room to see Aziraphale studiously cleaning off his ring. “You know you can keep it clean miraculously, right?”
Aziraphale gives him a Look over the rims of his spectacles, before refocusing on sliding a rag across the little band of gold. “Yes, but there’s something to be said for doing it the human way.” He blows a fleck of dirt from the ring’s surface. “I could do yours too, if you’d like.”
“Doesn’t need it,” says Crowley. He fishes the silver chain out from under his shirt. The little band of silver that hangs on it gleams in the light—absolutely flawless. “Some of us miracled their wedding ring three thousand years ago to always stay clean.”
(With any other piece of jewelry, he could’ve just periodically yelled at it to never tarnish. But not with this. This is the ring Aziraphale gave him, the one tangible piece of him he could hold onto when they would spend hundreds of years apart. It was something to subconsciously clutch close to his chest in the darkest nights, not something to hurl verbal abuse at.)
Aziraphale, still focused on his own ring, absently hums in approval at Crowley’s solution. He sets down the rag and his spectacles, and holds the gold band up to the light, turning it over to check for further smudges. Finding none, he puts the ring back on his pinky.
At least, he starts to. Before the band makes it onto his finger, he pauses, and gives his ring a thoughtful look. A look Crowley knows well.
Aziraphale’s next words are carefully measured: “We don’t…have to hide them anymore, do we?”
Something stutters in Crowley’s chest. He looks at Aziraphale’s ring, an inch away from the angel’s pinky. But it’s also an inch away from the finger next to it.
“Yeah, I guess not,” Crowley says, as nonchalantly as he can manage. It’s still a hard concept to wrap his head around; hiding for six thousand years makes the act second-nature. Whenever his heart speeds up when he’s near Aziraphale, it’s always pulsed in time with the mantra of Don’t let them see.
But then Aziraphale smiles.
He holds his ring up to Crowley. “Would you care to do the honors?”
Crowley exhales through his nose. He can pass the sound off as irritation at the sentimental request, rather than the fondness it really is. He obliges: the ring in one hand, Aziraphale’s hand in the other, sliding the gold snugly onto the angel’s fourth finger.
It’s a simple gesture. Easy, mundane. But it means so much more; it feels like so much more.
Aziraphale turns his hand over, admiring the way it looks now. Crowley can’t take his eyes off it. That’s the ring I gave him, I put it there, he’s wearing it, everyone will know—
“Crowley?"
Crowley snaps back to the moment. “Wha?”
Aziraphale is holding his hand out, palm-up. “May I?”
Crowley has to stare at the hand for a second before he understands. With a miraculous chime, he’s able to pull his own ring off its chain without undoing the necklace. Bit frivolous, but who the Heaven cares about conserving miracles at this point?
Though neither of them uses their powers for it, the next moment feels just as miraculous. Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand, slides the ring on. And just like that, the world will know they’re husbands. Poof. Ta-da.
“Well,” says Aziraphale softly. “There we are, then.”
Yes. Here they are. Making themselves able to be seen.
Crowley’s hand is still in Aziraphale’s. Still, he tries to be casual about it all. “So, should we, uh…say vows, or something?”
Aziraphale laughs. “We’re already married, my dear.” But as he looks at their hands, a fond look crosses his face. “Do you remember what our vows were, that first time?”
Crowley scoffs. Like he would ever forget that day, after the first rainstorm had slowed to a trickle, after he and the angel had spent long hours huddled under each other’s wings, talking and laughing and…doing a few other things ending in ‘ing.’ He’ll forget his own name before he ever forgets that promise.
He supposes he and Aziraphale technically invented wedding vows. Adam and Eve had just taken one look at each other, smiled, and proceeded to get on with things like wild rabbits. The first two humans were literally made for each other, no words needed. An angel and a demon together, on the other hand…that required more work. They had to say something to commit to this.
It hadn’t been flowery, gushing with purple prose and dramatic declarations. Just three simple words. Words Crowley recites to Aziraphale now: “I’m yours, always.”
He can never help the softness in his voice when he says those words. He’s tried.
But what’s the point, when Aziraphale smiles so brightly when he hears them? It’s a wonder Crowley doesn’t go blind from it. “And I’m yours, always,” Aziraphale murmurs back. The words are as sweet as when Crowley first heard them. As sweet as how Aziraphale kisses him now. Almost as sweet as how Crowley kisses back.
Aziraphale chuckles into it. “I would say ‘till death do us part,’ but as we’ve learned, not even that stops us from finding each other again.”
“Don’t tell me you’re planning some reckless endeavor that’ll get you discorporated,” Crowley chides. “I’ve got something on this evening, I don’t have time to run around saving your neck.”
Aziraphale draws back. “Oh? What do you have on this evening?”
“Dinner with you. What would you say to the Ritz?”
Aziraphale brightens up at that. “That sounds just splendid.”
And so it is. That evening, they dine at the Ritz, stealing glances at their rings shining in the candlelight. They have some more drinks at the bookshop, nestled side-by-side on the sofa, Crowley absently spinning Aziraphale’s ring around his finger. They slow-dance in the sitting room to every quiet 70s love ballad on Crowley’s Spotify, and keep swaying together even after his phone’s battery dies. They make love in Aziraphale’s bed, nothing but breath and hands and lips, whispering “dearest” and “angel” in the dark.
It feels almost celebratory. And why shouldn’t it? This is the start of a new chapter for them. It’s not every day you wear your wedding rings in public for the first time.
Sure, they’ve been married for six thousand years. But tonight is the first night they let the world know.