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London, Three Weeks after the Apocalypse
Crowley lifted the box from the top bookshelf and carefully walked back down the ladder. It felt promisingly heavy, but when he looked inside, the demon found not the expected collection of century-and-a-half old newspapers, but three large hard-bound volumes.
“No, this really doesn’t look like The Gardener’s Chronicle. Are you sure?” He glanced over his shoulder at where Aziraphale sat on the sofa, paging through a book.
Blue eyes quickly flicked over, then back down. “Yes, I am, but you have the wrong box.”
“It says ‘Victorian Periodicals, Horticulture.’”
“Yes, those are the indices chronicling the periodicals. You want the box labeled ‘Flowers and Ferns’ over there, next to the poetry.”
“Why? How does any part of that make sense?” For good measure, Crowley pulled out one of the books and rifled through it. Yes – small print, listing thousands of issues from each of several hundred weekly publications. The book itself was at least a century old. “And why would you need three copies of the same index? Look, they aren’t even different volumes!”
A loud sniff and a decisive page turn. “Crowley, this is my shop, you are a guest here. Do I come into your space and criticize your hobbies?”
“Yes.” Crowley pulled out the second copy and flipped through it: completely identical. “All the time.”
“The Bentley doesn’t count, and I’m only telling you to drive safely.”
Before he could think of a response, a single piece of paper – tightly folded and sealed with red wax – tumbled out from the pages to land at Crowley’s feet.
It looked innocuous enough – a letter, perhaps, an invitation to some social event a century in the past. But Crowley knew it wasn’t.
He picked it up, the vellum smooth, soft, almost like velvet under his fingers. Not dried out or torn by the passage of time. Of course not; he could feel the bit of magic that kept it preserved – a time stop. One of his own.
He turned it over, looking at the seals he knew would be there: two large drops of red beeswax and resin, a thin strand connecting the two. They were placed on either edge of the uppermost flap, where the calfskin, folded in on itself like an envelope, would open. One was pressed with the elaborate sigil that was his name, the other a complex geometric figure that was Aziraphale’s.
--
An Ancient Long Barrow, Mercia, 1020 CE
The oil lamps created a greasy, guttering glow, throwing light and shadows across stone-lined walls carved with symbols whose meanings were long forgotten. Two figures, one light, one dark, crouched on the earthen floor of the long-forgotten structure, half tomb, half temple.
It was the best compromise they could reach.
Any public location was out of the question, and of course Aziraphale would insist on a place with history and… spirituality to it. Even after three thousand years of abandonment Crowley could still feel the lingering belief of long-dead worshipers, an unpleasant tingle like hot embers on his skin.
A sacred space, but also a chthonic one, buried deep into the hill. Nothing remained of the original burial, but something of the underworld still hung in the air. Aziraphale could sense it the same way Crowley sensed the belief, and the angel kept rubbing at his long, narrow sleeves as if to wipe away the feel of it.
The two natures met, creating a liminal space, reality stretched thin by possibility. For the first time in centuries, Crowley could manifest his wings – heavy, warm, but insubstantial to the eye, just two more long black shadows in the gloom. Aziraphale’s were hardly any more distinct, just lamplight reflecting off the mist gathered behind him.
Once, such liminal spaces had been common. Every crossroad, every boundary. But the humans were more rational now, the world more logical. The Unknown could be held a little further at arm’s length, the boundaries pushed farther afield. The world was changing; Crowley was ready to change with it.
Aziraphale, as always, was not so eager.
Crowley fidgeted, fingers absently preening his feathers as the angel studied the vellum with pursed lips.
The demon had spent two years on it. Not just the fine calligraphy – it was some of his best work – but the language, the weaving of oaths and conditions, of legal and spiritual and infernal language to seal both parties to secrecy, to loyalty, to the terms of the deal. It was a work of art, unique among all the Contracts on Hell or Earth.
“I’m still not sure,” Aziraphale said slowly, “that the Arrangement need be so…formalized.”
“Fifteen years ago,” Crowley snapped, sweeping his wing behind him, “you said you weren’t sure you were comfortable with a nebulous agreement. I don’t know what more you want from me, Angel.”
“But it’s hardly appropriate for an angel to enter into a contract with Hell.” Aziraphle carefully placed the document to the side. The angel’s hands jumped up to adjust the white wool cloak clasped over his right shoulder, then smoothed the cream-colored fabric of his tunic, tugged at the blue embroidery on the cuffs of the sleeves, and finally re-tucked the hem below him where he knelt.
Funny how in five millennia, the nervous gesture hadn’t really changed, just adapted itself to each new outfit.
“It’s just the language,” Crowley softened his voice into the calming tones that usually helped sway Aziraphale. “Hell and Heaven don’t enter into it. Just you and me. Under all that, it’s very simple. We tell each other about our assignments. We don’t pass that on to our superiors. We lend a hand now and then to keep things running smoothly.”
Aziraphale bit his lip again, as if he’d never considered it before, as if they hadn’t been discussing the possibility for centuries, easing themselves – easing Aziraphale – into the idea of an Arrangement.
He’d thought this would be enough. They’d spoken about it – Aziraphale had seemed happy with the idea of a contract – but now, here, when the moment had come, he was all anxious uncertainty. Again.
What would it take to convince the angel to trust him?
Crowley clenched his fist, fighting the urge to leap across the narrow space and grab his shoulders. It wouldn’t help anything, and he’d only regret it later.
“I…I think…” Aziraphale was now staring at his own hands, twisting in his lap, tugging once more at the embroidered cuffs. “It would help if we had…I don’t know…an exchange of gestures first. Ah. A ritual, if you will, before signing and sealing.”
Crowley grinned fiercely. “I know just the thing.” And he drew the single-bladed knife he carried on his belt, taking care to roll back the long draping sleeve of his fine black bliaut, exposing the deep red that lined the inside. “A blood oath.” Thrusting the long, narrow seax deep into the cold mud between them, he tried to cut out a rectangle of earth. “I’m a little rusty, but I think the first step is to raise the ground in an arch, then pour the blood into the space below –”
“Crowley!” Aziraphale waved his arms frantically. “That’s not what I had in mind at all!” The demon drew back his knife, feeling slightly foolish. “I just meant, well, a gesture of agreement.”
“Ah. Of course.” Crowley sheathed the knife across his stomach and sat back, fine silk of his gown catching against the ancient stone, cursing himself. The whole point was to make the angel more comfortable, not scare him off with talk of pagan blood rituals. “So, ah, do they still shake hands on this island?” He’d spent most of the last decade traveling from one end of the continent to the other on assignments. “Or is it that wrist clasp again?”
“I believe it is current custom to, ahem, to seal business arrangements with a kiss.”
--
“Ah,” said Crowley. “Oh,” he added. “Nh. Uh, mh.”
Now Aziraphale had said it, it seemed so foolish. Oh, for the past…month? Year? How long? ...he’d been running it through his head. It seemed so logical; he hadn’t even bothered to consider his motives. Rather, what his motives would appear to be to Crowley, who would surely assume something.
Whatever Crowley was assuming, he was rapidly preparing to jump to a conclusion. The angel stared into the lamps on the floor of the barrow, face burning.
“Well, obviously,” Aziraphale rushed in, trying to cut off whatever Crowley might say, “if it’s that offensive to you, I can just –”
“No,” Aziraphale tried to meet those golden eyes across the dim barrow, but the demon had turned away, fading into the shadow of his wings. “No, it’s – if that’s what it will take, I’ll…Yes.”
--
Crowley’s mind raced, too many thoughts at once, his heart skipping and shuddering, trying to keep up. Is this real? Is it actually happening?
Aziraphale settled near him, so close his nostrils were filled with the scents of ink and parchment and Heaven. Crowley pulled his wings away, instinctively, so they wouldn’t even brush by accident.
He always did that now, always made sure to keep his distance, made sure there were no little touches to send the wrong message, or betray the right one, which was all rather redundant and pointless if they were about to –
Crowley turned his body, crossing his legs tailor-style, to try and face the angel. There was less than an arm’s length between them, and his eyes were drawn to Aziraphale’s lips, white teeth catching the bottom one nervously.
Crowley tried to keep his own expression blank, to not let on how he’d been imagining this moment for two thousand years.
Imagining his hand brushing across that cheek, soothing the worries away, fingers tangling in those soft curls to pull him closer, wings winding around them both –
He stamped every trace of the image out of his mind, hooking his thumbs through the deep red leather of his belt to keep his hands from betraying him.
As Aziraphale settled closer, Crowley didn’t move.
He didn’t even dare breathe.
--
Aziraphale’s heart raced, until he couldn’t tell one beat from the next. Crowley’s face was so blank, so detached. This meant no more to him than the signatures and seals they would place on his contract. Just another piece of business.
Wasn’t that best? Wasn’t that the entire point of bringing this up now? To ensure Crowley acted, well, suitably? Would he prefer a lustful smirk or a rude comment?
He certainly wouldn’t prefer that, but he’d never seen the demon sit so still before. It somehow made this even harder.
Aziraphale edged a little closer, until his knees were just short of the hem of Crowley’s gown, until he could smell the warm spicy scent of calamus oil, the heavy floral notes of orris, lavender and rosewater, and beneath it all, so carefully hidden, brimstone and ash.
He folded his wings behind his back, placed his hands in his lap. Was that right? Was he just supposed to lean across the distance? Should he put his hands on Crowley’s shoulders for balance? No, that blank expression was too forbidding. Best to keep it simple.
“Now this,” he forced the quiver out of his voice, smoothing his tunic again, “this is purely business, you understand. I won’t have you making suggestions in the future or inappropriate jests or – or thinking this changes the nature of our relationship in any way. Do you understand?”
Crowley swallowed, but his gaze never moved. “Of course, Angel. I’ll never mention it again.”
--
Crowley’s stomach dropped. Purely business.
Did it matter? He got what he’d been longing for, and it would make Aziraphale trust him, and wasn’t that enough?
He’d been listening to far too much poetry from the east. Romantic verse full of strange new notions that had no bearing on his relationship with the angel which was, apparently purely business.
Aziraphale, pale blue eyes closed, face backlit by the misty glow of his wings, was close enough now that Crowley could feel the warm breath on his own lips. He bit his tongue to keep from making a sound.
Don’t scare him away don’t ruin this
Please
Let me have this just for a moment
Please
Not like this.
--
Before Aziraphale could touch him, Crowley flinched away. The angel sat back, opening his eyes in surprise.
Crowley was looking to the side, fidgeting, appearing ready to stand up and leave.
“Crowley, my dear? Are you alright?”
“’S fine,” he muttered, eyes studying the ground. “It’s just…I don’t like…kissing…”
“Oh.” Something in Aziraphale’s chest plummeted. “Oh, I see.”
Now he felt a complete fool. Why had he suggested this? Why had he ever assumed that Crowley –
No, it didn’t matter. Aziraphale quickly rose to his feet, wiping the earth from the barrow floor off his white tunic. This whole farce should end here. There was no point in any of it now, it would only make things more awkward.
Except.
Except that Crowley looked so vulnerable, still sitting in the dirt, fading into the shadows of his feathers. As if what he’d said had been some sort of horrible revelation, or painful secret. Aziraphale couldn’t imagine why, but all he needed to know was that Crowley was in pain. Aziraphale could never stand to see anyone, especially this demon, in pain.
He held out a hand, fingers pointed downward, knuckles exposed. “I believe, Crowley, that, ah, that this is also acceptable.”
Crowley looked at the hand for a moment, but Aziraphale could see, in the dim light, the slow smile spreading across his features. He could never resist a chance to show off.
Taking his hand, Crowley leapt to his feet, performing an elaborate bow that would have fit the halls of any king on the continent, rather than a cold abandoned tomb in Mercia. He even added an extra flourish of his shadowy wings. Then, scraping his right foot back, he sank to his knee and brought Aziraphale’s hand to his lips, carefully wrapping his fingers so that the kiss landed on his own thumb.
It should have been nothing – there was no more contact than a handshake, less, just a careful pressure around Aziraphale’s fingers. But those golden eyes raised to meet his and, oh, just for a second he felt strangely light, a smile he had no control over growing across his lips.
Then Crowley released the hand and stood up, once again turning his face away. The angel thought that was the end of it but – no, he wasn’t turned away. He was offering his cheek.
“Are – are you sure?”
Crowley nodded, eyes flicking over and away.
Aziraphale leaned close, almost resting a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, then quickly tucked it behind him. Less touch was probably best just now.
Taking a breath, he pressed his lips into the soft warmth of Crowley’s cheek. He misjudged slightly, his mouth catching the very corner of Crowley’s, but the demon didn’t object or turn away, so he held it a few seconds longer.
It wasn’t how he’d pictured the moment, but a strange tingle spread through his lips, his mind, his heart. It was…indescribable, really. Pleasant…a bit thrilling…and quite nearly overwhelming.
He pulled back and paused, letting their breaths mingle one last time. “Thank you.”
--
Divine.
There was no other word for it, the feel of Aziraphale’s warm lips against him, just there at the corner of his mouth. Light, soft. A blessing carefully laid on his unworthy skin and he welcomed it greedily.
He’d said he didn’t like kissing and it was true, but he knew if he turned his head now, he’d very much enjoy this one. He no longer questioned why. When it came to Aziraphale, there was no reason, only…
All too soon it was over, and it took every last bit of willpower not to lean forward, to chase those lips and their warmth and try to hold on forever.
But that wasn’t what Aziraphale wanted. And if he didn’t, neither did Crowley.
With a whispered, “Thank you,” the angel stepped away. But the heat of his presence lingered in Crowley’s hand and on his face, and somewhere deep in his broken soul.
The demon stood there, eyes still shut, basking in it, not even trusting his voice.
When he was sure everything in him that had come undone was back in place, he finally turned back to the lamps. “Alright. Now are you ready to –”
Aziraphale already knelt on the ground, eyes scanning the contract one last time. He pulled from his belt a white quill that seemed to be made from one of his own feathers. “Sign on the inside, seal on the outside, correct?” How could he be so calm?
Crowley circled around him in the narrow space, then knelt beside him, pulling out his own black quill. “Are you sure?”
“Share our orders. Don’t tell Gabriel. Keep out of each other’s way.” The angel nodded, then frowned. “As for ‘lending a hand,’ I do hope you’re not planning to ask that of me too often.”
“Minor temptations only. Unless of course you enjoy them?” He fought back a smile at Aziraphale’s indignant look. “Fine. Not too often. And I won’t ask you to do anything you’d disapprove of.”
“I know, Crowley,” he said with a smile. “I trust you.”
Trust.
He could have discorporated on the spot. Never mind warm hands and soft lips, this was the one thing he’d ever truly wanted and Aziraphale had handed it to him so freely, so openly.
He couldn’t speak now – his throat was tight – but there was no need. Aziraphale’s quill glided over the vellum, leaving a trail not of ink but of brilliant holy light, tracing a complex geometric figure. When the light faded, he raised the vellum to his lips, pressing them to the signature, then passed it to Crowley.
The black quill created a line of fire, circling up and down the parchment. It didn’t represent his name, exactly, not Crowley or even Crawley. The sigil was the mark of his soul, or what was left of it. The last tiny fragment of Self left to him when he was thrown from Heaven. He’d clung to it in Hell as he tried to become someone – anyone – in order to survive. It was the cornerstone of his new identity; it was the sign of everything he hoped he’d outgrown.
He loved it, he hated it.
When the fire died, he raised the document, brushing it with his lips, sealing his signature – his self – to the contract.
He could feel it settle into his soul, become part of him. Unlike most infernal contracts, there was no punishment woven in – if the terms were violated, the whole Arrangement was Void, and the vellum would be destroyed.
Its only purpose was to secure Aziraphale’s trust. It had worked, and Crowley would do anything, anything to keep that trust.
They folded the vellum carefully, creating an envelope with the words inside.
Two drops of vermillion wax sealed it shut, hiding the agreement for all time. They pressed their thumbs into soft wax – Crowley on the left, Aziraphale on the right – marking it with their sigils. Crowley noticed a small trail of red, an extra drop, connecting the two, as if to tie them closer together.
Finally, Crowley cast a time stop over it, ensuring the contract would never age or decay, so long as the terms were met. He placed the sealed document into Aziraphale’s hands.
--
“I-It’s done?” Aziraphale didn’t feel any different. Guilt at consorting with a demon warred with a strange sense of peace and relief, but that was how he always felt around Crowley lately.
“It’s done.” Crowley faded back into the shadows of his wings.
“What do we do with this?” The document lay across his palms like an offering.
“It’s yours to do with as you like.” Golden eyes glinted in the darkness, unreadable. “I’m in your hands now, Angel.”
Aziraphale pressed it to his still-racing heart. He could hardly believe Crowley was trusting him with something like this. “This contract is too…I can’t just leave it anywhere. I shall find it a safe place.”
For a second, he almost thought Crowley smiled.
--
London, three weeks after the Apocalypse
Aziraphale heard footsteps approaching the sofa. “Yes? I can’t imagine you found it already.” He glanced up from his book to find Crowley standing over him with a tight frown. His dark glasses were back on, shoulders hunched, one hand shoved into the front pocket of his trousers. The shop was wide open behind him, but he still managed to look cornered. Defensive.
Crowley flicked his free hand, dropping a single page of sealed vellum onto Aziraphale’s lap.
“Ah.”
“Ah? Is that all you have to say? I thought this was too dangerous to just leave lying around.”
“Well, yes.”
“You said you’d find a safe place. You promised.”
“I did at that.”
“I thought you’d lock it in a box. Or put it in a safe. Or do anything other than stick it in a random book anyone might look through.”
“My. Dear. Fellow.” Aziraphale snapped his book shut and placed it on the small table to his right. “I hope you aren’t assuming this document was in that box for nine hundred and ninety-nine years. Since before I owned this shop, before that book and the journals it documents were written, and before the invention of cardboard.”
“Nh,” Crowley conceded stubbornly.
“I’ll have you know,” Aziraphale took off his reading glasses, folding them in his hands, “I went back to the barrow the very next day with a spade and buried this five feet deep. As it was a place unfriendly to the denizens of Heaven and Hell, it seemed the safest location.”
“Then why is it here, now?” He didn’t seem angry, exactly, but he still hadn’t relaxed. Aziraphale reached for his hand, but Crowley jerked back, moving half a step further away.
“Progress.” The angel rested his hands on his knees, giving Cowley his space. “The villages at the bottom of the hill were getting larger, new roads and rail lines were being built, and antiquarians were getting downright aggressive in their hunt for artifacts.” He sniffed disapprovingly. Some so-called historians had no more respect for true history than fanciful taxidermists had for the mice they arranged into little tea parties. “Five feet would no longer be deep enough, so in 1903 I funded a small archaeological dig where we uncovered this, as well as quite a few Neolithic trinkets, which are now in various museums.”
“But you didn’t hide it again.”
“No, dear.” At last Crowley sank onto the sofa, slouching in a way that suggested he still might get up and run if needed, not quite allowing them to touch. Aziraphale placed his glasses on the table and turned toward Crowley, keeping the contract where they could both see it. “By then you were gone. We were fighting, you were sleeping, I was…sulking, I suppose. But I missed you. So much.”
Carefully, Aziraphale lay his arm across the back of the sofa. This time Crowley didn’t pull away. “I’d been so careful over the centuries. Destroying any evidence of us, anything that might point back to our time together. Every letter, every dinner bill, every flower petal dropped from a lapel. And suddenly you were gone, and there wasn’t a single trace of you in my life. Then I found this…” he ran a hand over the vellum, soft as velvet, smooth as silk, without a tear or a mar to be found. “Still whole, our Arrangement unbroken despite everything. I couldn’t bear to part with it again. So, for the last century, I’ve been hiding it here, in places no one but I would even think of.”
“Then, it’s only been in that book…”
“Three and a half weeks. When Gabriel and Sandalphon came by the shop, I panicked and moved it again. No one has ever taken a second look at my collection of Victorian-era horticulture journal indices.”
“Because it’s a stupid thing to collect.”
“As you say, darling.” He smiled gently, but Crowley continued to frown sullenly. Slowly, giving Crowley plenty of time to pull away, he lifted his hand from the back of the sofa and touched the frame of the dark glasses. Aziraphale lowered them, pulling them off, but Crowley didn’t quite meet his eyes. “What’s the matter? Are you still angry?”
“No,” Crowley grumbled, twisting where he sat. “But. Nh. I said I wouldn’t talk about that day, so…”
“Oh, my dear Crowley.” Aziraphale took the demon’s hand in his, squeezing it tight. “I release you, of course.” It still caught him off-guard, how seriously Crowley could take promises that Aziraphale thought nothing of. “Say whatever you want.”
“Why did you want to kiss me back then?” The question was out so fast he could hardly have had time to think.
“Oh.” Aziraphale had thought he was done blushing at every mention of physical intimacy – they’d kissed more times than he could count in the last three weeks, but now once again the heat of his face was almost unbearable.
“Well. I. You know. Kissing had become quite the thing the last few millennia and I wanted…well…I wanted to find out what all the fuss was about. You were the only being I felt any real…affection for even then. So I…um, well I thought you’d be more likely to go along if it was part of…you know. Business.”
“So, you’re telling me you made up the part about humans kissing before signing agreements?”
“N-no, that…there are circumstances, I just…oversimplified.”
“Oversimplified.” Now Aziraphale could hear the laughter he was struggling to hold back. “Angel, the next human I was sent to make a contract with was very confused, I’ll have you know.”
Aziraphale buried his face in his hands as peals of laughter burst from Crowley. Then he felt warm, gentle arms wrap around him, pull him close to the uneven beat of the demon’s heart. Lips pressed to the top of his head, but he didn’t lift his face to meet them.
“I was. Ah. I was embarrassed. When I realized you had been…when you said you didn’t like…well, I assumed you’d think I was foolish for…abstaining.”
“Why?” At the genuine confusion in his voice, Aziraphale sat back up, meeting Crowley’s eyes. “You are not missing anything, I promise you. Human poets can go on and on, but it is just lips and spit and yealch.” He shuddered. “But kissing an angel, now,” Crowley smiled, it was so lovely how he let himself smile now, didn’t try to fight it back, just let it grow across his face like a blossoming flower. “That I like. That is something I can see myself doing in the future.”
“Hm.” Aziraphale placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do you suppose the difference is that unlike those humans, you’re in love with me?”
“Oh,” Crowley’s hand cupped his face, his jaw, fingers brushing the cheekbone. “If you want to be logical, I suppose.”
“Is that why you didn’t want to kiss me back then? You thought you wouldn’t like it?”
“Mm, no. I just knew, when I kissed you, it wasn’t going to be in a tomb, as part of a business deal I wasn’t allowed to talk about.” His voice was so soft now.
“I was sure I’d never have another opportunity.”
“I never doubted it.”
Aziraphale held that golden gaze for a long moment, then closed his eyes, leaning forward.
His lips found the spot that had been burned into his memory a thousand years before, between the crease of Crowley’s cheek and the corner of his mouth.
--
It was just as Crowley had remembered, the warmth, the soft glow of happiness spreading through his face, his body, his soul.
This time, when Aziraphale pulled away, he followed, catching the angel’s mouth with his own, pulling him back into the embrace.
It wasn’t the shy, anxious brush of their first kiss in the park, the day of their trials: hesitant, unsure what came next.
Nor was it the frantic, almost desperate hysteria of their second, later that same day, back in the bookshop: six thousand years of longing finally released.
This was slow, tender, guided by the familiarity, the trust, the love that had grown between them, would keep growing, binding them together for all time.
It was everything he’d wanted to give Aziraphale nine hundred and ninety-nine years ago, when neither of them had been quite ready yet.
When they finally parted, Aziraphale rested his forehead against Crowley’s. “I love you,”
“I hope so, because you’re stuck with me.” He wrapped his arm around his friend, his heart, his soul, pulling him close, feeling all the soft curves pressing against him. Holding on as if he would never let go.
“I suppose,” Aziraphale placed the contract on Crowley’s lap, “since there’s no need for secrecy anymore, we can open this.”
They settled a bit more comfortably on the sofa, Crowley sprawled in the corner, Aziraphale sitting upright, but leaning just lightly into Crowley’s side. The demon manifested a silver letter opener and Aziraphale slid it under the top flap of the closed document, carefully prying up the two seals, merged into one, without breaking them.
The ink inside looked as fresh as the day Crowley wrote it down, a thousand years ago, blacks and blues and reds and golds in big fancy Gothic font, still shining as if wet.
“This is lovely,” Aziraphale said. “Why do you never write like this anymore?”
“Because it’s exhausting. We have mobile phones now, much easier.”
“Hmm, your Latin seems to have been a bit rusty.”
“No, it was the eleventh century. Badly written Latin was the style.”
Aziraphale gave him one of those smug looks, little bastard grin growing on his face, making Crowley’s heart judder and skip. “I’ve never seen your illuminated letters in this much light before. There are an awful lot of snakes and feathers and, Good Lord, this ‘T’ is just me with outstretched wings, and what is that red and black line wrapped around my –”
“Enough!” Crowley pulled it out of his hands, even as Aziraphale giggled, burrowing deeper into the curve of his arm, hooking his own arm around Crowley’s waist.
“It is beautiful. You should be proud of it, dear.”
“I am. And the words. I spent years working in Contracts just to learn how to make this. I’ve got bits of business contract, bits of diplomatic treaty, and – oh.” He gave Aziraphale a bastard grin of his own, ready for a chance to tease him back. “You see this part here? That’s from the adelphopoiesis ceremony. You know what they call that today.”
“Crowley…” Aziraphale warned him sternly, sitting back a little.
“I mean, you signed it, and you kissed me, so arguably that means we –”
“Don’t say it!”
“It’s just an economic arrangement, Angel. Though it does mean the shop is half mine. Can I pick which books I get, or do we just draw a line down the middle of –”
“Still your tongue, Serpent,” Aziraphale growled, pushing himself upright.
Crowley gave his biggest smile. “That’s no way to speak to your husb –”
“Crowley, NO!” The pain in his voice was more than either of them had expected. “When I marry you it’s not going to be in a forgotten tomb, in a ceremony so secret I don’t even know about it!”
“I – y – wha –” Crowley attempted to keep up with this conversation, but his brain had latched on to four words he’d never considered before.
When I marry you.
Because marriage was a legal contract, a way to share property and produce heirs and things that didn’t matter to immortal beings. But suddenly a new possibility was unfolding in his mind, something bright and glorious and brilliant he had never suspected –
He smiled, opening his mouth.
And Aziraphale pressed his fingers across Crowley’s lips. “No, no, I don’t know, don’t ask me, I didn’t…I don’t know what I meant and I can’t…”
It was the same panic in his eyes when he’d admitted to giving his sword away, when he’d stood in the bandstand and said they were over, and a thousand other times in between. Fear of Heaven, fear of the unknown, fear of his own heart.
Even now, they weren’t free of it.
Crowley closed his eyes, took one look at the dream he’d never imagined he would have, then carefully packed it away and put it aside.
He looked into Aziraphale’s blue eyes and kissed the fingers still pressed to his mouth until they released him.
“One day, Angel, when you’re ready. Until then, my lips are sealed.”
Aziraphale fell into him, a hug so tight he could hardly breathe.
Perhaps he should feel disappointed, but he didn’t. He felt happy, almost more happy than he could stand. They would return to this, one day. There were things worth waiting for, however long it took.
“So,” Crowley began when his angel finally released him. “What do we do with this?” He held up the contract, which had started to slide off his lap.
Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the vellum vanished with a pop, reappearing in an ornate frame hanging in one of the few stretches of wall not covered in bookcases and angel figurines. “If anyone asks, we’ll say it’s the incorporation document for our bookshop.”
“Which is in Medieval Latin bec – our bookshop?” This day was giving him too many unexpected emotions.
“Yes. A.Z. Fell and Company. You can be Company.”
Crowley closed his eyes, stammering for a moment before he managed, “And I’m, what, your clerk?” He knew it wasn’t so, but this was too much.
“You’re my partner, Crowley.” A warm hand running across his cheek. “And you always have been. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize.”
Crowley grabbed the hand, pressing it between both of his. They were shaking, his hands, his arms, his everything. He couldn’t take another word, another look, another touch, another emotion or his heart would burst, his soul collapse, and he would die of sheer bliss.
Untangling himself, Crowley leapt to his feet, taking a few steps away, breathing deeply. Waiting for any sort of equilibrium to return while unshed tears burned in his eyes.
After a moment he turned back to where Aziraphale still sat on the couch. The angel smiled and stood up to join him, standing a comfortable distance away. Never crowding, never pushing, always there.
Crowley nodded and cleared his throat. “Alright. Why don’t you show me around our shop so I can find the bloody horticulture section when I want it?”