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By all accounts, Crowley falls in love with Aziraphale in much the same way he fell from heaven: by sauntering vaguely downward, and not realising it until he’s well and truly head over wings.
Oh sure, he’d thought at first, when he came to stand next to the strange angel at the wall of the Eastern Gate of Eden; let’s have a chat, see if we can’t scare him away. It won’t hurt.
(Mistakes were a new thing back then, the concept of consequence as yet unexplored.)
He hadn’t foreseen the turn things would take when he pointed out, gently, to the Woman, that she had eaten of all the fruit in the Garden but for one, and he certainly didn’t foresee the outcome of a tiny, simple conversation with a being who was supposed to be his enemy. In those days the lines were still fairly vague, the schism between Heaven and Hell not quite so defined. One conversation. That was all.
(Oh sure, it can’t hurt, right? Talk to this angel. Mess around with him a bit. Get to know him better. What’s a little chat? A little joke? Pour him something to drink, take him somewhere for dinner, drive him wherever he wants to go. Do something for him, he does something for me - It’s nothing. It’s just an agreement. A deal, that’s what demons do.)
And by all accounts, Aziraphale falls in love with Crowley in a similar fashion, although he exercises remarkable restraint throughout it all. Well, mostly. It certainly didn’t help that this demon always appealed to his less perfect nature; the curiosity and fascination he has with humanity, and the finer things in life, allowing him for the first time to let his guard down.
(It can’t hurt, right? Just a little bit. Indulge this demon. Get to know him better. At least this way I can keep an eye on him. Suggest a picnic, get in his car, eat an oyster right out of his hand. What good is an arrangement if you can’t have a little fun now and then? I know when to stop. I know when I should say no.)
Fun fact: he does not.
Because he always remains curious about this demon who is kinder than he looks. And a part of him knows Crowley is curious about him, too; this angel who is less perfect than he seems.
They are on a collision course from the very start, but they travel toward each other slowly— slowly, sauntering down. In and out of each others’ lives. All around them history marches on like a parade. Slowly, slowly, things change between them, in a way that they almost don’t know they’re changing. But between shared bottles of liquor and working hard in damp places, between subtle acts of care and trust (books saved from explosions, contraband smuggled in thermos flasks), between raising the wrong boy and looking for the right one, slowly, slowly— the turn of the universe brings them closer to one another until they are practically sitting in each other’s bodies.
And then, after they stop the Apocalypse, things keep right on changing.
It takes their fourth date (because they are dates, god damn it) for Crowley to actually say something, but when he does, the moment is so perfect he barely has to try.
Aziraphale daintily wipes the last crumb from his mouth and turns to him and says “That was scrumptious. What are you in the mood for now?”
And Crowley looks at him, drinks his fill of those warm hazel eyes and sweet, expectant smile.
He does not saunter the rest of the way down. He fucking jumps.
“Actually?” he says. “I kind of want to kiss you.”
Somehow Crowley is sure that this is okay, that this is not moving too fast. Aziraphale blinks, and blushes, but doesn’t take his eyes off Crowley’s for a moment and says, “Well.”
“Well.”
There’s nothing left to say, really. So they do.
And it’s perfect. Like coming home.
Crowley takes Aziraphale back to the bookshop, and he’s the one excited to show him inside: proving that everything has gone back to the way it was. He came here early, before the trial, to check up on it, just like Aziraphale had gone to check up on the Bentley.
“Why,” says Aziraphale, when he steps in. “Everything’s looking tickety-boo.”
He soaks up the blissful look on Aziraphale’s face when he sees his home restored. He’ll leave the angel to his books, his solitude and the tiny comforts that have been saved along with the rest of the world.
“Well,” says Crowley again. “Have fun, Angel.”
“Allow me to see you out, my dear.”
My dear. It’s what Aziraphale’s always called him, but somehow it’s meant in a different way now.
Crowley stops in the doorway, abruptly. Leans on the frame and looks at Aziraphale. One kiss— just one— and he’s already perfectly smitten.
“I don’t want to go.”
It comes with a matter-of-fact shrug and a helpless smile. Like oh, left me umbrella on the Tube, ah well. Fallen in love with me best friend, what can ya do?
Aziraphale says, also matter-of-factly, “You don’t have to. You could always stay. As long as you like.”
Gentle hands seek out Crowley’s, like Aziraphale actually wants to hold him here.
“As long as you’ll have me,” mumbles Crowley.
Aziraphale smiles. “Then we’re talking a very long time indeed.”
Crowley inches a step back inside, “D’you mean it?”
“Of course. What did you think I’d do, cast you out?”
Crowley makes a noise halfway between a chuckle and a scoff. And then his angel kisses him, softly, gently.
“Stay,” he says, when their foreheads are nestled comfortably together.
Crowley nods. “Okay.”
Things keep right on changing. They keep right on falling— out of control, one might even say.
It doesn’t take a lot of wine for them to fall into each other’s arms, to topple onto Aziraphale’s sofa. To fumble with clothing, eager and shy at the same time. “This what you want, Angel?” Crowley’s voice is soft and expectant. Aziraphale nods.
From the sofa to the floor. Skin on skin. Lips on lips. They have little experience, but they find their ways.
In a matter of hours they have gone from nothing to everything, but it is hardly an impulse on either of their parts. They’ve waited six thousand years, after all, without actually knowing that’s what they were doing.
This is exactly where they were always meant to be.
Aziraphale tells Crowley to stay, so he does. You know how vampires can’t enter a home unless they’re invited? Turns out demons don’t leave once you ask them to stay. At least, this demon doesn’t.
This demon, as we all know, is different.
“You know,” Crowley says, sprawled all over Aziraphale’s favourite chair, watching his angel mix up some crepe batter in the kitchenette with the air of an emperor observing his favourite court dancer, “you’d think that a demon wasn’t capable of love, but...here I am.” He spreads his hands, a self-implicating declaration that he knows will always set him apart from the others of his kind. Not that it bothers him.
Aziraphale laughs. “You always were a rebel.”
One night turns into two, two turns into a week. And then, because he complains about the neglect of his plants and the amount of messages that must be piling up on his answering machine, because he misses the cool, sparse spaces and the revolving door, but mostly because he wants the indulgence of making love to Aziraphale in his own bed, Crowley drags them back to Mayfair and they spend a week there, in turn.
Aziraphale has admired the plants before, when he stayed at Crowley’s after they returned home from Tadfield. But now he lavishes obscene amounts of attention on them. He plays them his favourite music, showers them with praise, reads them poetry aloud.
“You’re spoiling them,” grumbles Crowley, but makes no complaint when later, in bed, Aziraphale makes a point of spoiling Crowley too.
Heaven and Hell keep their word, or rather, are too afraid and stung by their failures to make contact again. It suits them both just fine. Crowley gets in his car, drives up to the bookshop, doesn’t check the rear view mirror for anyone following him. His heart sings along to the rumble of the engine and Freddie’s ecstatic high notes. When he gets there and Aziraphale lets him in, there is no furtive glance onto the street, to ensure that no one is watching. There are no other angels. There are no other demons.
Even if there were, they wouldn’t care.
Things keep on changing.
Or rather, they become the way they were always meant to be.
Three months turn to six. They have a picnic at Easter, legs tangled on a tartan blanket. Feeding each other chocolate eggs. Spring gives way to summer and for the first time they leave the bitter grey of London for the seaside, together. A cooler and a couple of bags in the Bentley’s boot, a pair of new sunnies for Crowley and a wide-brimmed hat for Aziraphale.
They turn a corner and come out somewhere else entirely.
“I thought we were going to Brighton,” says Aziraphale.
“Changed my mind,” Crowley says brightly.
They park the Bentley and disembark at Manly Beach, Sydney.
“You wily old thing,” is all Aziraphale can say.
Crowley grins like the sun. “Weather’s better over here. Race you to the shore?”
He loves this demon, loves him more than books and sushi and all the crepes in the world combined. The way Crowley has changed, has become less stern and broody in public, less concerned with maintaining a cool, intimidating exterior. The way he’s gone from sauntering about dressed head to toe in black to bounding with enthusiasm in swimming trunks, into Manly’s famous waves. The way he finally emerges like a red-haired Aphrodite from the waters, still wearing the sunglasses, pads over hot sand like he did at the church during the Blitz, and flops on the beach blanket next to Aziraphale—
“Crowley! For heaven’s sake!”
But he’s laughing.
Crowley’s laughing too. Leans in for a kiss, dripping all over Aziraphale’s book, though when the angel picks it up again it’s completely dry. Flings wet sand all over the blanket. His kiss brings the ocean to Aziraphale, the taste of salt to his lips.
Aziraphale does not know how he did it, but when they drive back up the corner and find themselves back in London, half a world away, Crowley has brought the sun with them, too. It is trapped in the amber of his eyes like a firefly and warms Aziraphale for days to come, even when autumn rolls through London in a wave of falling red leaves.
The Arrangement goes through a few amendments. It’s Sunday evening to Thursday afternoon at Crowley’s apartment, Thursday evening to the following Sunday morning at the bookshop. Aziraphale has a whole selection of his favourite teas in Crowley’s kitchen. Crowley leaves some of his records in Aziraphale’s lounge. Crowley’s neighbours are pleasantly surprised when a blonde, old-fashioned gentleman makes their acquaintance in the lift or the foyer, picking up and returning fallen objects or holding doors open. Aziraphale’s customers balk in terror from the goth behind the front counter. They come in wanting a book, but all it takes is a raised, challenging eyebrow and they suddenly realise you know, maybe I can find the book someplace else.
“Don’t be so unfriendly,” chastises Aziraphale, though he’s secretly glad to see the door slam behind a customer.
“Don’t encourage them,” groans Crowley, though the next time he passes a neighbour that Aziraphale’s made friends with, he greets them politely. “Bill, hi. How’s the missus?”
“We should get our own place,” Aziraphale blurts out one morning. A Friday morning, in Mayfair.
Crowley stops in the middle of misting his plants, and peers at Aziraphale over a spotless leaf.
“Our own place?”
“To share. Together. Instead of all this back and forth.”
He’s looking up at Crowley now, realising what he’s just suggested. It’s a mighty big leap, even after all this time. For a moment there is doubt. The fear that it’s he, now, who’s moving too fast.
Crowley puts down his mister.
“Angel,” he says. “I think that would be pretty great.”
They have their pick of the universe. They could find a place outside of London, outside of England entirely. Crowley thinks of going back to Manly. Aziraphale remembers the charm of France. They watch a movie set in Singapore and Aziraphale leans over and says softly, “How about over there?” They see a travel ad for Nova Scotia and Crowley jokes, “That seems nice.”
“What is it you want?” Aziraphale asks as they lie in Crowley’s bed one morning. A long strip of sunlight dapples the demon’s face and chest, turning his eyes into pools of liquid gold. Those normally narrow pupils have dilated to twice their normal width, and Aziraphale supposes it’s unfair of him to ask a question when Crowley is still incapable of speech after the round of morning sex they’ve just had. When Crowley blinks, puzzled, Aziraphale says “Think of how you want to spend the rest of eternity. What’s something you’ve always wanted, but Hell would never let you?”
Crowley’s answer is so swift it’s almost embarrassing. “A garden.” He watches the edges of Aziraphale’s eyes crinkle in a fond, amused smile. “Big, leafy, overgrown garden. Practically a mini-rainforest, really.” He frowns, “Or maybe one of those Zen gardens with the bamboo and the pebble, uh, thingies. I could keep it tidy, if I wanted to.” A slender hand rises to caress Aziraphale’s arm, “What about you? Infinity pool? Mini home theatre? Big observatory? Oh,” Crowley exclaims, “that would be a good one. I’d love me an observatory.”
“I’ll add it to the list,” Aziraphale says, kissing the tattoo next to his ear. “You know I just want somewhere to put all my books.”
“We ought to think of having a bigger lounge, for entertaining.”
Aziraphale catches his eye and grins. Crowley is totally serious. “Entertaining? You mean to have people in our home? Actual guests? Oh,” he laughs, when Crowley rolls his eyes, “I never would have thought it. And who would we be entertaining, dear?”
“Ah, you know. I expect we’d make some new friends wherever we go. Learn the language, and all. I’m just making room for the possibility,” he adds defensively. “Humans take to you like mercury to gold, after all.”
“And you have a soft spot for them,” teases Aziraphale.
“I so do not,” Crowley grumbles, but he tilts his chin up when Aziraphale nuzzles underneath his jaw.
“Well, I wasn’t the one who thought of entertaining new friends first.”
Crowley glares. “I will not tolerate this slander in my bed—“
“Your bed?”
Aziraphale cackles. “Right, that’s it. I’m pushing you off,” says Crowley, and he plants hands underneath Aziraphale’s plush figure and heaves, and the angel squeals as he topples off the side of the bed, dragging Crowley along with him.
Well, they’ve come a long way from sauntering down.
It occurs to Crowley that Earth is only home because Aziraphale has taught him to love it so much. Heck, Aziraphale is the whole reason why he knows how to love at all.
He would never have driven to Hampshire for a spring holiday if Aziraphale hadn’t suggested it first. Soon enough they are driving along sunset-glazed roads with the windows down, letting in a crisp breeze that blows Aziraphale’s hair awry in the most perfectly imperfect way. The radio’s playing on a frequency only they can hear, and the views are perfect— chalk cliffs and glittering waters in the distance and all manner of delightful country houses, not that different from Tadfield after all...
“Oh Crowley, look how quaint!” the angel exclaims as they pass an ivy-covered cottage. “And look, that one’s got a bird bath. And that is such a pretty chapel.” They end up actually driving around the villages just to look at the houses, and the schools, and the shops. Just to see what a human life is like out here. And then when it really starts to get dark, they take a small detour to the pub for dinner— and Crowley is concerned that Aziraphale will find something wrong in this perfect little slice of Hampshire after all, that the pub is too crowded and too many people are smoking and the chips aren’t quite crisp enough and oh, is that the only wine they’ve got? But he doesn’t. In fact, he’s rather taken with it all.
“Not a bad place to spend a weekend,” Crowley quips, sipping his scotch.
“Not a bad place to spend a life,” comes Aziraphale’s surprising answer.
They glance at each other across the table. And then they both smile.
“Oi,” Crowley says, by way of conversation to a passing curly-haired barmaid. “D’you know any houses around here for sale?”
Things keep changing. Aziraphale never expected to pack his immense library away, dust off in places he’s never dusted before, and put the A.Z. Fell & Co. lot up for auction. He’s always feared that, really— packing up and buggering off to wherever Heaven deemed fit to assign him next. He’s always feared uprooting himself from the comforts of Soho, isn’t that why he and Crowley tried to thwart Armageddon in the first place? But he soon learns that he’s not afraid of change if he’s the one choosing it. London will be missed, but Aziraphale is already thinking of the cottage they have found and purchased, the garden Crowley will grow, the flights of birds that will visit when Azirpahale leaves grain for them on the patio and the quiet nights they will spend together under the stars. And the idea of them doing that, and nothing but that, for ever and ever and ever...
“I can’t believe you’re leaving, Aziraphale-San,” sighs Chef Maguro, setting a lovingly-prepared sashimi platter in front of his friend. “Soho will certainly be a less cheerful place without you.”
“But you’ll come back from time to time, won’t you?” laments Ben Clipper, who for the last twelve or so years has had the privilege of grooming Aziraphale’s corporation to angelic perfection. “You must. You know those lovely curls of yours need regular maintenance! Please don’t let yourself go and be one of those unkempt country retirees. All my hard work— gone!”
“Ben, my dear boy, don’t be so dramatic,” admonishes Aziraphale. “Of course I will be back! For the sushi, and the trim and the manicure—“
“And the facial,” Ben reminds.
“The facial, of course.”
“And you’d better come down here for all the special occasions, and bring your fine man with you!” Maguro exclaims.
“My fine man,” Aziraphale murmurs blissfully, as celebratory glasses are poured. “Mine.”
Crowley blames the sake, later, thinking it’s one too many glasses for the angel when he comes to him in the flat, pressing up close and grinning like a fool. In the dimness of the lounge Crowley’s yellow-neon eyes are the only bright thing and he smiles down at Aziraphale, “Wild night, Angel?”
“You’re mine, aren’t you?” says Aziraphale, like he can hardly believe it. “All mine?”
Crowley chuckles. At long last, he belongs to someone and it feels right. “‘Course. And you’re mine, too.”
Aziraphale doesn’t think Heaven has been paying particular close attention, but they have. Although no effort is made to reach out to Aziraphale, it’s not untrue that arrangements are being made around him. Three days before moving out, Aziraphale catches sight of a woman in the crowd crossing the street. She is middle-aged, appears Korean, and wears golden hoop earrings.
For a fleeting, but significant moment, Aziraphale sees the halo that surrounds her head.
He smiles at her, she smiles at him; a flash of recognition. Then she is lost in the crowd.
He thinks— no, he knows— that Soho will be in safe hands.
On their way out of London Crowley and Aziraphale pass the Heaven and Hell building. On the outside it looks like an ordinary skyscraper. They glance at it, fleetingly, and no words are said. The Bentley keeps driving.
That place will not be missed.
The familiar cityscape grows smaller and smaller in Crowley’s rear view mirror. He has one hand on the wheel and the other in Aziraphale’s, and every so often the angel presses a gentle kiss to his knuckles, perhaps some penance to make up for every time he’s wanted to touch Crowley but couldn’t. Together they leave behind the crowds, the noise, the bustle, the colours, the endless flurry of activities as humans go about their lives.
Aziraphale is lost in thought, contemplating how he thought he’d stay in London forever. How it had become his home. He realises that the meaning of ‘home’ has changed; Crowley is his home, and his family, and, well...everything, really.
Tonight, I'm gonna have myself a real good time
I feel alive, and the world
I'll turn it inside out, yeah
“What, am I interrupting your thoughts?” grins Crowley mischievously, his hand on the volume knob of the car radio, and he cackles at the look Aziraphale gives him, equal parts reproachful and amused. He throws his head back and sings— badly.
“And floating around in ecstasy
So don't stop me now don't stop me
'Cause I'm having a good time, having a good time—“
“Eyes on the road!”
“I got it, I got it—“
“You have not got it, Crowley, you nearly swerved into that lorry—“
“But I didn’t—“
“You’ll discorporate us both!”
Sure, things keep changing. But the best parts remain the same.
Soon the cottage is Home, enough space for books and records and eccentric artwork and antique furniture alike. Plants line every shelf and windowsill, leaves spilling in unruly tangles. Aziraphale sits on the bay window on a warm summer afternoon, and Crowley lays his head on his lap and asks to be told a story. What kind of story, asks Aziraphale, and Crowley says, Anything.
Aziraphale knows a great many stories by now, knows them in different versions and different ways to to retell them. He usually finds one that Crowley’s never heard before, and if he has, oh well, it’s different when Aziraphale tells him.
But what, Aziraphale wonders, of their story?
“I want it all here, for posterity,” the angel explains, opening the large book and its blank, thick pages. “Every piece and knick-knack and gewgaw you’ve kept that reminds you of us.”
Crowley raises an eyebrow sardonically. Then he realises he’s not doing this because he’s afraid they’ll forget. He’s doing this because he’s finally brave enough to celebrate what they’ve shared all these years.
The big desk that’s moved into the study is soon strewn with odd objects long tucked-away over six thousand years, others miracled into being or simply into better shape. Handwritten notes, scraps of fabric, a candy wrapper from a Victorian shop that doesn’t exist anymore. A pencil sketch of both angel and demon - a study rendered by the hand of the Maestro Da Vinci himself. Black and white photographs giving way to sepia tones and polaroids, and prints of the selfies Crowley had convinced Aziraphale to join him in. They affix these to the pages and Crowley adds a description in his black-ink scrawl: 2011, at the beginning of what would eventually be a worldwide phenomenon - #selfie.
There is the Revolution ribbon Aziraphale wore when they snuck out of the Bastille. There are tickets to shows and operas and plays they have seen, from Hamlet to Hamilton. The pearly inner shard of an oyster shell, a delicate original map of Camelot that Aziraphale has kept preserved between the pages of his copy of The Knights of the Round Table. And, funnily enough, there is even a paper napkin from the Ritz with a tea stain on it.
Aziraphale laughs. “Is this from - “
“- When I called you up after I dropped off baby Adam - “
“You kept it all this time?”
“Souvenir!”
They keep going, laying out the evidence of their shared history, secret friendships and clandestine arrangements and ultimately, romance, within the pages. This is their story. This is one they have told together.
And finally, on the inner cover page are attached two feathers: one white, one black.
There are others, of course, who are part of the story, because nothing brings people together like an apocalypse. There are four children growing up in a world that they stopped from ending. There is a retired witchfinder and a mediocre medium enjoying their bliss in another part of the countryside, content to watch the world change all around them. And there are a pair of lovers finding their own way together, making their own destiny without so much as a roadmap to guide them. They are all linked to each other. They are all linked to Crowley and Aziraphale.
It’s time they were all told the truth.
They are together tonight, on a crisp autumn evening, in the lounge that’s big enough for entertaining that Crowley’s always wanted. Aziraphale tells the story of a wily serpent and an angel on apple-tree duty. Anathema continues with a history of a witch whose prophecies were always, always correct. Adam finishes with what he knows: he sent Satan away and set the world to rights. It is the world they’re living in, now.
And perhaps things will change because they all have the answers. Or perhaps nothing will change at all.
“There never was a Mr. Crowley, Junior, then?” says Shadwell quietly, as Crowley tops up his wineglass and Newt tells what must be a hilarious joke, because the Them are roaring with laughter and Anathema’s rolling her eyes.
“Nope. Never.”
Shadwell chuckles. “That explains a great deal.”
And that’s that, really. No flying into a righteous fury, no attempts to banish him with his magic finger, no need for Madame Tracy to hold her husband back with numerous embarrassed apologies. Merely a demon and an older Scotsman clinking wine glasses on an autumn night.
Aziraphale takes a look around, and he finds the air humming with love; a low frequency that underscores the laughter and the conversation. If he or Crowley had been at all competent, none of them would be together right now.
And for the first time, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate feels at peace about giving his sword away.
Things have changed, and things have changed for the better, but some things don’t.
Crowley should have left the nightmares a long time ago. In Hell the last time he walked out of it, or in his flat when he moved away. Why did they follow him here, to this perfect place they’ve made away from everything that tried to hurt them and damn near succeeded?
Things have changed and yet tonight Crowley sits up in bed, gasping for air he doesn’t actually need. His head is reeling. Falling. Falling—
Only, of course, this time is not like all the other times.
There is a hand and it seeks out Crowley’s, anchoring him to reality.
“Crowley?”
Aziraphale sits up in bed next to him. Crowley’s screwing his eyes shut tight— no, he cannot have this, he cannot worry Aziraphale so.
“What’s wrong?”
“Stupid dream,” is all Crowley can manage, and he hates the way his voice comes out so broken.
“Oh. Oh, my dear.”
There is another hand that gathers him close; the familiar softness of Aziraphale’s chest, his voice in Crowley’s ear.
“Shh. I’m here.”
Crowley at first wonders why Aziraphale would tell him to hush, then he realises he’s sobbing.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I woke you,” Crowley says, but when Aziraphale gathers him into his arms he does not shy away, as he would have done before.
“Don’t be sorry. That’s what I’m here for.”
How does he do it? How did he know what Crowley was feeling, when he’d been so quiet? How did he know exactly what he needed?
This is a miracle. A bloody miracle. Aziraphale is his miracle.
“Alright, then. Don’t laugh at me, I learned this off a YouTube video.”
“Off a what?”
Crowley just shakes his head, and takes Aziraphale’s hand. He puts the angel’s other hand on his waist. He snaps his fingers and the record player starts a lively, old waltz.
“Am I meant to be leading?” Aziraphale says anxiously.
“I’ll lead you through leading,” Crowley assures him. “Now you take a step forward, and I- I’m meant to be, er, stepping back—“
They don’t step anywhere except on each other’s toes, and they bang foreheads once or twice, and the whole thing is incredibly awkward and Aziraphale hears defeat in Crowley’s voice as he struggles to make sense of the steps. He just puts his hands on Crowley’s waist.
“This isn’t working, my dear. Let’s try something else.”
For a second Crowley pouts, and Aziraphale is worried he’s disappointed him. Then he feels his hips start to sway.
Crowley moves in closer and a grin spreads across his face. And his hips and shoulders are swaying, and he’s taking Aziraphale’s hands...
“Will this do?”
Aziraphale smiles as Crowley twirls him, pressing that tempting body against his. “What is this?”
“This is bad dancing, Angel. No steps, just us moving to the music.” He whispers in his ear. “Don’t worry. Nobody’s watching.”
And he turns Aziraphale to face him again, and their foreheads are pressed together, and Aziraphale lets Crowley lean his elbows on his shoulders and he matches the movement of Crowley’s hips with his own. There must be something he’s doing right, because Crowley reaches down and grabs a playful handful of his arse.
“You’re doing beautifully.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“Nonsense. I find you hard to resist.” A thumb caresses Aziraphale’s cheek. “You know I think the world of you, don’t you, Angel?”
“Fiend,” Aziraphale says, but he’s smiling.
“I do. Think you’re gorgeous. And cute. And sexy.”
“I am not—“
“Hand on arse says different.”
Aziraphale blushes, “You’re too good to me, Crowley.”
“‘S long as I’m good enough.”
Aziraphale just wraps his arms around Crowley, as the two of them keep swaying to the music, spinning in a slow circle. He tucks himself underneath the demon’s chin, breathes in his scent. Fills himself to the core with the sound of his heartbeat and the warmth of his slender form.
“You are,” he whispers against Crowley’s chest. “You always have been.”
They are standing in a pavilion at Tadfield Manor, the air thick with spring wedding flowers. Aziraphale, Crowley notes with delight, is impeccable in his white suit— the first new thing he’s had tailored in centuries. (Crowley convinced him to do so. It’s their friends’ wedding, after all.) Impeccable as he is, he’s not a sight to be compared to Anathema, who looks simply resplendent in her wedding gown. And Newt? Who would have thought the shy young Witchfinder would make such a dashing groom?
“What a joy,” sighs Aziraphale happily, watching them kiss before all the congregation.
The institution of marriage is not something either of them have given much thought to before. It is a human thing, the reasons for doing so varied and complex across the many cultures and traditions and changes in human history. But the gist of it is all the same: life with one person, the same person, for all eternity— or till death did you part, or till you somehow stopped loving one another. But if you really did have eternity, and you found someone you’d never stop loving,..
Crowley is thinking.
“So, er,” he says, hands in his pockets, “Speaking of which. Weddings. Marriage. The long haul. Do you ever think we could, well, you and I...” he trails off, making sure he has Aziraphale’s attention.
Aziraphale casts a sidelong glance at him, knowing exactly what he’s driving at.
“Oh, hush for a moment, will you?” he replies, barely able to conceal the smile growing on his face. “This is their day, my dear. Let’s focus on them for now.”
“Right,” agrees Crowley. They applaud as the merry couple goes past, beaming at them in gratitude. Anathema blows a kiss in their direction.
“But for what it’s worth,” Aziraphale says, as they watch Mr. and Mrs. Device-Pulsifer be embraced by their families, “I do.”
And Crowley blinks, stunned and amused at the same time, and Aziraphale glances back at him, and it’s like they are standing at the Eastern Gate of Eden again, watching as another human couple takes their leave.
Only this time the smile Aziraphale gives him is serene and assured.
“Well,” grins Crowley, as the angel slips one hand into his and clings tight. “That’s all right then.”