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They’re halfway back to London when Aziraphale suddenly bolts upright in the passenger seat and says, “Oh no.”
“What?” Crowley demands, alarmed, because for Aziraphale to drop his customary death-grip on the Bentley’s ceiling bar suggests that something really worrying has just happened. “What, what’s wrong?”
“If you didn’t-– and we’re not-–” Aziraphale turns in the seat and stares at him, wide-eyed, and Crowley braces for any number of horrible possibilities, none of which are even close to what Aziraphale actually says next, which is, “Oh, my tax forms!”
“Your what,” Crowley says flatly, taking both hands off the wheel.
“Taxes, Crowley, it’s-– I’ve been filling them out as married for ages!” Aziraphale wrings his hands and doesn’t even protest about Crowley’s hands-free driving, which suggests he is actually this upset about tax paperwork. “Oh, and that’s not the only thing, there’s all this other paperwork-– oh, Lord, the property insurance on the bookshop-– stop laughing!”
“You fraudster,” Crowley wheezes. “The world’s only angelic con artist.”
“It isn’t funny! I’ve been lying on every bit of human paperwork I’ve filled out for... good grief, for as long as paper has existed!”
“It’s not lying if you don’t know it’s not true,” Crowley points out. “And it sort of was true, wasn’t it? I mean, if we both thought...”
An idea occurs to him.
It’s probably a bad idea. Aziraphale will sit back and say absolutely not, Crowley, don’t be ridiculous. Or maybe worse, Aziraphale will think he’s joking, and laugh it off. But–-
Two thousand years, Crowley reminds himself firmly, and says in an extremely casual sort of way, “We could, y'know, have it done properly.”
Aziraphale goes still and says, “What?”
“I mean. For the sake of your tax forms, and all.” Crowley shrugs, one-shouldered, still very, very carefully casual. “Make an honest angel of you.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and then, hesitantly, “Er. It’s not... I mean, if it’s only the tax forms...”
Crowley turns fully in his seat to stare at him. Aziraphale looks genuinely uncertain, which is somehow both infuriating and enormously endearing at the same time.
“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, with what he feels under the circumstances is extraordinary patience. “I’ve just told you that I’ve thought we were already married for, what, fifty years-– you can’t possibly really think-– of course it’s not about the tax forms, you unbelievable nitwit-–”
He’s cut off, before he can explain what it is about, by Aziraphale leaning across and kissing him, a sure, warm hand wrapped around the back of his neck. For a few seconds he forgets about the car entirely; then he pulls away with a gasp, fumbles for the steering wheel and manages by sheer luck to pull off to the side of the road without hitting anything.
“Now who’s going to get us inconveniently discorporated,” he says, breathing hard.
“You know,” Aziraphale says, ignoring him, “that was by far the least romantic proposal of marriage I’ve ever heard."
“I’ll try it again later,” Crowley promises, and draws him in for another kiss. “I’ll do it properly. But-– angel, tell me you’ll say yes.”
“Mm,” Aziraphale says against his throat, and Crowley can hear the smile in his voice. “Did you miss the part about ‘two thousand years,’ darling? I think it’s well past time we made it official.”
“Oh,” Crowley says, and the last bit of nervous tension drains from him, leaving him grinning stupidly. “Well. Good. ‘Cause you’re enough trouble as it is, you know, the last thing I need is to have to break you out of prison for tax fraud.”