Chapter Text
"'…and from thence, after staying there a couple of nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town.' Are you even listening?"
"Mm."
"What was the last line I read?"
"I don't want to go." Crowley twisted around in his Queen-sized bed, watching as Aziraphale set the slightly battered copy of Sense and Sensibility onto the bedside cabinet.
"Well that's certainly not it."
"I'm serious, angel. I don't want to go."
"I know, my dear," Aziraphale said, the tip of his fingers ghosting over Crowley's cheek, who fought the urge to shut his eyes. "But it's only a month. It'll pass in the blink of an eye—"
"No, it won't." He leaned back against the headrest. "Why can't you come too?" He knew how childish he sounded. At this point, he didn't have the luxury to care.
"Didn't you ask the King?"
"Yes."
"Didn't he say no?"
"…yes."
"Hmm."
"You know what this is right? This trip?" He readjusted to face Aziraphale.
"I know—"
"They're going to try marry me off, now that I'm twenty-one."
"I know, Crowley"
"You're not upset?"
Aziraphale didn't answer immediately, which was answer enough for Crowley. "Why would I be upset?" he finally said. It sounded flat. Like he didn't believe it himself. "We've been married for almost fourteen years. You couldn't possibly come back with someone else."
A half-smile twisted onto Crowley's face. "That's the spirit."
"Why don't you bring a few books with you to pass the time?"
Crowley scoffed. "It's no fun, reading them by myself."
Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow. "Or are you just too lazy?"
"Shut up."
Aziraphale smiled.
It felt like a dagger had been thrust into Crowley's chest, knowing he would soon be parting with that smile for a full month.
Outside, the clocktower chimed eleven. Aziraphale's smile vanished. "I should go."
He shuffled to the edge of the bed, and the dagger gave a sharp twist. "Wait—" Crowley jerked forward, fingers catching on the sleeve of Aziraphale's shirt.
Aziraphale looked about as wretched as Crowley felt when he turned around. "Crowley…"
"Stay," Crowley whispered, the word falling from his lips almost without permission. "Please?"
Aziraphale's eyes flitted between his. Crowley had never seen him look so torn. "You could get in trouble," he finally said, voice just as soft.
Crowley let his hand drop. "And so could you." He shook his head. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking." He slid down the headrest and under the covers, acutely aware of Aziraphale watching his every move. He closed his eyes. "Goodnight, angel." For a long moment, all was still. Then, to Crowley's right, the bed shifted, and much to his surprise, sank slightly. He opened his eyes as Aziraphale pulled the covers up under his chin.
"I had better not get fired for this."
A grin broke out onto Crowley face. "I will personally see to it that you are not punished in any way."
Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but his cheeks turned a light shade of pink that made Crowley's heart trip. "Goodnight, Crowley."
"Goodnight, Aziraphale."
Fourteen Years Ago
The high-tea table was stacked with every kind of delight Crowley could imagine, from fruits beginning with every letter of the alphabet to breads dusted with sugar and stuffed with cream. He could hardly care less, however, craning his neck around once again, only to slump further into his seat when he realised the heavy wooden doors were still closed. Across the table, the King and Queen were conversing in hushed tones about something Crowley didn't understand nor care to. His kicked his dangling legs erratically; at seven years old, he was just shy of being tall enough for his feet to touch the floor.
"Crowley, remember your manners," came the Queen's voice. He hoisted himself into a more upright position, keeping his head down. But then there was a sort of thunk followed by a heavy dragging sound, and all thoughts of manners flew out of Crowley's head as a mop of shocking blonde curls slipped through the crack, followed by the rest of his best friend.
"Finally!" Crowley beamed, shifting over and patting the now-empty half of his chair.
Aziraphale bounded over. "Sorry I'm late." He clambered onto the chair, then his eyes widened to the size of the dessert plates on the table when he took in the sight of the feast before him.
Crowley pinched Aziraphale's pink cheek. "You're so cute."
"Stop it!" he pouted, swatting Crowley's hand away, which only served to make him try again.
A quiet cough from the head of the table— the pair stilled, hands frozen midair. The King raised his eyebrows and Aziraphale folded his hands into his lap. After a moment, Crowley followed suit.
"What is he doing here?"
Aziraphale shrank backwards.
"I— I invited him for morning tea," Crowley replied.
"He can't have morning tea with us."
Crowley glanced over; Aziraphale's gaze was fixed on his knees, his shoulders curling forward. "Why not?"
"He's not family." The Queen's voice sliced through the fountain of fondue, cutting straight into Crowley's chest.
"Yes he is!"
"No. He isn't."
"He's my family."
"No, Crowley. He isn't." The King's tone was firm. Crowley recoiled slightly. "He's a servant's son, and within a few years, he will be your servant."
Crowley's eyes were wide and prickling with tears when he looked between the Queen, the King, and finally, Aziraphale's huddled form. "But he's my friend. I don't want him to be my servant."
"That's not for you to decide, is it Crowley?" said the Queen.
"Rules are rules," said the King. "Now, send him away, and we can continue with our morning tea."
"But—"
Crowley stopped; Aziraphale had slid down the chair. He wouldn't meet Crowley's gaze. "I'm going. Sorry." He headed for the door.
"What'll he eat?" Crowley asked, watching him leave.
"Bread," replied the Queen. "Like the other servants."
Crowley eyed the apple sitting on the fruit platter beyond his empty plate. He frowned and twisted around. Aziraphale had only just reached the door.
"Crowley, no—"
Already halfway out of his seat, Crowley snatched the apple and ran like his life depended on it, not bothering to stop when he grabbed Aziraphale's hand and squeezed the pair of them out the door.
They were panting hard when they reached the bandstand, Aziraphale clutching at his side. When he'd recovered enough, Crowley straightened up, presenting the apple.
"Here."
Aziraphale took it, frowning. "What's this?"
"An apple, silly."
"I know that. Why—?"
"Why is it an apple—?"
"No! Why are you giving it to me?"
"Because otherwise all you'll eat is bread." Aziraphale stared at him for a moment. Crowley glanced pointedly at the apple. "Go on."
He took a bite, then held it out to Crowley, who shook his head. "It's yours. I get apples all the time."
"One bite."
"Alright." He obliged and handed it back.
"Thank you, Crowley."
Crowley shook his head, hoisting himself onto the stone ledge and crossing his legs. "I'm sorry you have to be my servant and only eat bread."
Aziraphale pulled himself up next to him. "It's alright. I'm used to it."
"But it doesn't make sense," Crowley said, brow knotted. "You can't eat just bread for morning tea."
"We don't get morning tea," Aziraphale said, and took another bite out of the apple.
Crowley ogled at him. "What?!"
Aziraphale shook his head.
"What else don't you get?"
"Afternoon tea."
Crowley's jaw slacked. "Supper?" he asked quietly, afraid of the answer. Aziraphale shook his head again. Something in Crowley's chest tightened. It must have shown on his face because Aziraphale took his hand. "It's not fair," he finally said, talking around the sudden lump in his throat.
"It's alright—"
"No. It isn't—" He stopped, gears in his mind clicking into place. He dragged Aziraphale off the ledge.
"Hey—!"
"Let's run away. Right now."
"But we don't have any money."
Crowley scoffed. "I'm a Prince. I'm rich."
"But do you have any money?"
Crowley faltered. Aziraphale took another bite of the apple. "I'll steal the Queen's purse."
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "You'll get caught, Crowley." He let go of Crowley's hand to push himself back onto the ledge.
"No I won't!"
"Last time you tried to steal from your mother, you got caught."
Crowley's face hardened. "Don't call her that."
Aziraphale met his gaze. "What?"
"Don't call her my mother."
"But she is your mother—"
"I know. Just— don't call her that."
"…okay."
Crowley rejoined Aziraphale on the ledge. "What if… what if I told the King and Queen I don't want a servant?" He turned to Aziraphale. "That way you won't have to be my servant and you can have supper and morning tea and afternoon tea with me."
But Aziraphale shook his head at this too. "They'll just make me be someone else's servant then. And they'll be mean to me. Which is worse."
"Oh." Crowley rested his face in his hands. There was silence for a long moment, save for Aziraphale munching on the apple and the dull thuds of Crowley's heels bouncing off the stone. Then Crowley gasped. "I've got it!"
"What?"
He snapped to Aziraphale, a broad smile forming on his face, prompting a giggle from his friend.
"What?"
"We'll get married!"
Aziraphale stared at him, his jaw dropping in slow motion.
"We'll get married!" he repeated. When Aziraphale still didn't reply, he continued. "And then you'll be a Prince too! And you can have everything I have, and you'll never have to skip a meal or eat bread again!"
"Get married?" Aziraphale said, his voice hushed as though sharing a secret.
"Yes!"
"Can we do that?"
"Why not? People get married all the time!"
"When they're adults."
"Well— well maybe they're just slow," Crowley spluttered. "We can do it right now!"
Aziraphale's smile returned in full force, his face lighting up so quickly it was like Crowley had flipped a switch. "Okay!"
Crowley was beaming so hard it was beginning to hurt his cheeks. "Come on!" He grabbed Aziraphale's hand, pulling him to his feet. "We'll find Pastor Michael. He'll do it for us."
"Wait!"
Crowley spun around. "What?"
"Don't we need suits?"
Five minutes later, Crowley was pulling a blue vest over Aziraphale's head. "There." Aziraphale admired his reflection in Crowley's ornate floor-length mirror, his eyes twinkling. "You always look so nice in my clothes." Aziraphale's cheeks turned a little pink, and Crowley had to twist his fingers into the fabric of his pocket to avoid pinching them again. He grabbed Aziraphale's hand. "Come on."
They were hurtling through the garden when for the second time, Aziraphale yelled out— "Wait!"
"What now?" Crowley called over his shoulder.
"Rings!"
Crowley stopped short and Aziraphale promptly crashed into him, launching them face-first into the grass. They were laughing even before they'd caught their breath. Then Aziraphale's face lit up even further.
"What?"
"We can use these." He reached out and plucked a stalk from the grass around them. On the tip of it bloomed a small, orange flower. He took Crowley's hand. "Which finger?"
Crowley frowned for a moment, remembering his parents' hands, then wiggled his fourth finger. "This one."
Aziraphale had just begun to carefully loop the stem around his finger, when this time, Crowley gasped— "Stop!"
Aziraphale stopped with a jolt. "What?"
"Don't we have to do this bit in the church?"
"Oh. Right." Aziraphale held gently onto the flower as they got to their feet, dusting the grass and dirt off their 'suits'. Crowley took a moment to squint at the grass around them, before plucking a baby blue flower. He nodded sagely.
"Let's go."
They set off at a run again, launching through the church's open doors.
"Where is he—?"
"There!"
Pastor Michael emerged from the back room of the church. "Prince Crowley." He descended from the altar, crossing the aisle. Aziraphale inched backwards. Crowley took his hand. "Can I help you?"
"Can— can you—" Still panting, though from nerves or from the run, he couldn't be sure, Crowley turned to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale, also panting, nodded. "Can you get us married?"
Pastor Michael's eyebrows disappeared into his brown hair. He glanced at Aziraphale for the first time. "Married?"
Crowley nodded.
"To each other?"
"Yes!"
"No."
It felt like the wind had been knocked out of Crowley's lungs. He shot a glance at Aziraphale; he was staring at the ground, looking like he'd already given up. "Why not?"
"Marriage is only for adults," Pastor Michael answered calmly.
"But—" Crowley spluttered wordlessly— "Fine. Get us married when we're old enough."
"No."
"Why not?!"
"Because you are a Prince, Crowley," Pastor Michael announced, as though Crowley had forgotten. "You cannot be marrying the likes of him." He jerked his head in Aziraphale's direction. "You will marry into wealth. Power. Royalty, most likely. You will most certainly not marry your servant."
Something ached in Crowley's chest, but he didn't get the chance to dwell on it, because Aziraphale's hand had slid out of his. He barely met Crowley's gaze before hurtling out the door.
"Aziraphale!" He started to follow, then stopped, turning over his shoulder to stare daggers at Pastor Michael. "I hate you!" he spat, and he was out the door, chasing Aziraphale through the field.
He managed to catch up to him right before he reached the forest, his outstretched fingers catching onto the fabric of his sleeve, sending the both of them staggering, tripping over their feet for a few strides before falling in a heap. Crowley ignored the ache in his side, looking over to see that Aziraphale's face was wet with tears, his breath coming in gasps. He sat up and gathered him in his arms, wiping his cheeks with his fingers, rocking him back and forth.
"It's okay," he whispered into his hair. "It's okay." But now there were tears running down his cheeks too; he swiped them away with the back of his hand. "You know what? Who cares what Pastor Michael says. We don't need him."
Aziraphale, breath still jagged, tore his face from Crowley's shoulder. "But don't we— don't we need a— a pastor— to get married?"
"I'm sure lots of people have gotten married without pastors," Crowley said. "What happens if the pastor is sick and can't go to the wedding? They'll still get married. They'll just do it themselves."
"Really?"
Crowley had no clue. He nodded firmly. "Really." Aziraphale sniffed, then swallowed thickly. Crowley wiped his face again. "We'll just do it ourselves."
A tiny smile had found its way onto Aziraphale's face, and Crowley couldn't help but return it. It was then he remembered the flower, and opened his hand. It was crushed, and so was Aziraphale's, the tiny orange petals torn.
Crowley scanned their surroundings, and a smattering of blue at the edge of the forest caught his eye. Carefully letting go of Aziraphale, who had finally stopped shaking, he made his way over. Forget-me-nots. He plucked a pair of stems, a cluster of blue flowers with their small orange centres poised upon each one, and smiled. Aziraphale smiled too, when Crowley handed him a stalk and took his other hand.
Gently, more gently than he'd ever handled anything before, Crowley tied the stem around Aziraphale's ring finger. A moment later, Aziraphale followed suit.
"There," Crowley said. "We're married."
Aziraphale beamed, and Crowley had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.
Present Day
Outside, the clocktower chimed six.
"Good morning, my dear."
Crowley opened his eyes. Golden light spilled into the room, illuminating Aziraphale with a dull glow. His breath was warm on the side of Crowley's face, the tip of his nose lightly brushing his cheek.
It should have been a good morning. Perfect, even. "No, it isn't." The corners of his eyes had started prickling. He squeezed them shut.
Aziraphale's weight shifted beside him, then his warm fingers were grazing the side of his face. "You'll be okay, Crowley," he whispered. Crowley opened his eyes. Aziraphale had propped himself up onto his elbow, face hovering mere inches above his. "We'll be okay."
Crowley opened his mouth to protest, but a knock at the door cut him off.
"Prince Crowley?" came a muffled voice.
"Yup—!" Crowley shouted, grabbing a wide-eyed Aziraphale by the shoulders and stuffing him under the sheets. "Yeah, I'm up! No need to—" the door swung open— "come in."
A guard stood in the doorway, his back so stiff it looked like his uniform had been soaked in starch with him still inside. Crowley shifted the sheets, piling them over the admittedly rather suspicious mound on the right side of the bed. "The carriage will be ready in ten minutes. The King and Queen want you downstairs before then."
"Ten—?!"
But the door was already shut, the guard's footfalls subsiding down the carpeted stairs. Aziraphale emerged from the voluminous sheets, panting and a little red in the face. "You need to go."
"So do you."
"Right."
Painfully aware of the seconds passing, Crowley watched as Aziraphale untangled himself from the sheets and moved to the door, opened it a crack, peeked out.
"All clear." He turned over his shoulder. "I'll see you downstairs. And if not, I'll see you when you get back."
"Wait—" Crowley was on his feet, crossing the room in two strides. His breath was shallow; his body numb. One hand pushed the door shut while the other found Aziraphale's.
"Crowley—" he whispered, shaking his head ever-so-slightly.
Crowley ignored him. "Angel, please—" His voice cracked. He swallowed thickly. "I lo—"
"Don't. Don't say it." He pulled his hand from Crowley's grip.
He may as well have slapped Crowley across the face. "Wh— why not—?"
"Crowley, we can't— we can't keep lying to ourselves. To each other—"
"Lying?!" He stopped, remembering himself, and lowered his voice to a hiss. "Who's lying? I'm not lying—!"
"You are!" Aziraphale whispered, indignant. "We both are—!"
"About what?!"
"About this! About us!"
"It's not a lie—"
"But it is, Crowley! Be realistic. We can't…" He paused, took a deep breath. "We can never be together."
A large piece of Crowley's heart shrivelled in his chest. He shook his head. "No. Don't say that—"
Aziraphale's eyes were damp. "It's the truth."
"No! It isn't!" He took a step forward. Aziraphale didn't move. "Look at us! We've known each other our whole lives! We were made for each other—!"
"No, Crowley, you look at us!" He pushed forward, their noses nearly touching, his breath hot on Crowley's face. "You are a Prince and I am your servant! Don't you think if we were made for each other things would've been different?"
"But that— that won't be a problem!" Crowley spluttered. "Once you turn twenty-one, I'll marry you, like I promised, and it won't be a problem!"
Aziraphale scoffed and a tear ran down his cheek. Crowley fought the urge to wipe it away. "You really think they'll let you marry me?"
Crowley pressed forward, looking deep into Aziraphale's eyes. "You really think they can stop me?"
They stared at each other a moment, catching their breath. Crowley took this opportunity to commit Aziraphale to memory; every blonde curl, every eyelash… he tried to leave out the tears.
"I just want you to be happy," Aziraphale eventually whispered.
"If you think I'll be happy with anyone else, you don't know me at all."
"CROWLEY!"
Crowley and Aziraphale jumped. The King. Crowley shot a glance at his watch. Six-ten. He opened the door and stuck out his head. "On my way!" He turned back around, opened his mouth, and his breath hitched in his throat. Aziraphale was staring up at him, lower lip trembling, and Crowley wished he could kiss those tears off his face. Aziraphale brought a thumb to Crowley's cheek, and Crowley closed his eyes, pressing his lips to his palm. To his surprise, Aziraphale didn't pull away this time. Crowley drew a shaky breath then opened his eyes— and stepped backwards. Aziraphale's hand fell away. Crowley took one last look at him, eyes red and puffy, cheeks wet, lip trembling—
He turned away and walked down the stairs.
His bags had already been loaded onto a second carriage, which had set off for the neighbouring kingdom a few minutes prior. Crowley joined his parents in the royal carriage, gold plated and needlessly extravagant, and within minutes, they were off, Crowley feeling like he was leaving something very important behind.