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True to his word, Aziraphale had planned a beautiful wedding.
He’d called in a few professional favors to secure an event room at the Ritz, which was miraculously free for their chosen date, September 5th, 2020. He’d arranged the guest list, written his vows, picked out a white tuxedo, and planned what they would walk down the aisle to (a tasteful cello arrangement of "In My Life"). He’d spent weeks perfecting the floral arrangements -- chocolate dahlias, black calla lilies, and cream-colored roses, all shot through with tiny daisies and draped with sprigs of amaranthus. He’d designed the invitations and save-the-dates, and put together an exquisite menu that accommodated all of their guests' dietary restrictions. He’d prepared a Just Married sign for the back of the Bentley (to be attached with fishing line and a series of complicated knots, because the thought of adhesive tape on her immaculate paint job gave Crowley stress hives). He’d planned all the details for their honeymoon in Greece, and had even pre-booked a snake-sitter for Alastor.
Having seen his fair share of disastrous weddings, he had also planned for just about any possible hiccup -- rain, sleet, snow, drunk and belligerent relatives, car trouble, food poisoning, transit worker strikes. He really had planned for just about every possible eventuality, with one glaring exception:
A global pandemic.
In March, they hadn’t thought twice about the wedding. He and Crowley both closed down their respective shops and began adhering to strict social distancing guidelines. Crowley called in his own professional favors to have crates of rubber gloves and cleaning solution delivered to local hospitals, while Aziraphale donated dozens of floral arrangements to help brighten up the plastic-draped COVID-19 wards. They kept themselves busy during the days, and at night they held each other close, whispering sweet words of comfort to each other.
As spring melted into summer, they began to have doubts. Cases began to decline, but the yoyo-ing restrictions and recommendations were confusing at best and offered no clear picture as to what the fall might look like. Not to mention the fact they’d both lost their income, and their (well, Crowley’s) savings were beginning to dwindle. Aziraphale was plagued with bouts of insomnia, and more often than not he would crawl out of bed in the middle of the night to go pore over his beloved wedding binder. With a cup of cold cocoa at his elbow, he would flip through the pastel pages, running his fingers across the delicate calligraphy samples and magazine cutouts of beaming grooms. Over the years, he had spent so much time building up the perfect mental image of what their wedding should have looked like, and he wanted more than anything to be able to finally, finally make it a reality.
By early August, they knew they had to make a decision. They sat in front of the television, balefully watching the newreader go over the latest restrictions, while their plates of takeaway curry grew cold on the coffee table.
Crowley leaned back and exhaled slowly through his teeth. “Thirty person cap for weddings and funerals. Think that’s just guests, or does the thirty include caterers and the like?”
Aziraphale shook his head, not taking his eyes off the screen. “I don’t know. I don’t think they know either,” he said, making a sweeping gesture towards the television to indicate who they were.
The pair sat in relative silence for several minutes, until the newscaster began talking about the nation’s falling GDP.
Crowley hit the mute button on the remote and scrubbed a hand down his face. “It’s your call, angel,” he said quietly. “You’re the one who put in all that planning, I think it’s up to you if you want to redo it for thirty. Maybe the Ritz would cut us a deal, lower the overall price a bit.”
Aziraphale chewed his lip, fighting back tears. He continued to stare at the screen, knowing full well that if he looked at Crowley he’d start to properly sob. He remembered the night of their engagement, how exuberant they had both been at the idea that marriage was finally, finally in their grasp. It was technically still within their grasp, but the potential cost was far too high.
“No,” he said quietly. “I, I don’t think we can do that in good conscience. Anathema will be in her third trimester by then, and Tracy and Shadwell are both well over 65. I just don’t think it’s worth the risk right now.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “We can just postpone until, until things get better.”
He felt Crowley’s hand come up to rest on his knee. “Okay, angel. If that’s what you want.”
“It’s not a matter of what I want.” Aziraphale’s voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat and covered Crowley’s hand with his own, still unable to fully look his fiancé in the eye. “What I want is to stand in front of everyone we know and tell them how much I love you, and that I’m not...that I’m not frightened anymore.”
That was the heart of it, really. As much as he loved the planning and the pageantry of a wedding, it had never truly been about that. He’d seen this as his one chance to be spectacularly brave, to prove to Crowley just how much he’d changed and how committed he was to living the rest of their lives without fear. It was why he had pushed for such an unnecessarily large guest list, why he had gone out of his way to say “oh this is my fiancé, Crowley” to so many acquaintances and strangers over the past several months. Their wedding day was supposed to be the culmination of it all, something so grand and wonderful that Crowley would never need worry about Aziraphale’s commitment to their relationship ever again.
“Angel.” Crowley shifted closer on the sofa, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and pulling him to his chest. “You don’t have to prove anything to me anymore. All I care about is the fact you said yes, and that you let Alastor and me come home. Don’t care if it’s sanctioned by God ‘n the government. It’s sanctioned by us.”
Aziraphale burrowed his face into Crowley’s chest, swallowing back a sob. He knew Crowley wasn’t being disingenuous, that he was just happy Aziraphale had been willing to go through with the wedding. But he shouldn’t have had to settle for that. They shouldn’t have been in this situation in the first place. If Aziraphale had just said yes way back in 2004, if he had spoken up at any point during the past fifteen years, they would have already been married by now.
He knew full well that as far as tragedies went it was very, very minor in comparison to what others were experiencing. A canceled wedding was nothing in comparison to an eviction, or to the death of a loved one. He knew that in the grand scheme of things, they were lucky to be even having this problem. But still, they’d already been through so much heartbreak. It seemed like a cruel cosmic joke to have finally gotten their act together, only to have their dreams dashed to the ground once more. The very moment he had decided to stop standing in the way of his own happiness, something else had swooped in to take his place.
“It’s okay, angel,” Crowley said again, kissing Aziraphale’s temple. “We’ll try again next year. Or the year after that. We’ve got the rest of our lives to sort out the paperwork.”
They broke the news to Anathema the next day during their weekly Zoom call.
“Shit Zira, for real?” Anathema asked. She had her hands clasped over her belly, which had begun to protrude from under the voluminous folds of her dress.
Aziraphale nodded. “I’m afraid so. It’s just not worth the risk, having that many people indoors. We’ll just have to try again, as soon as we can be sure it’s completely safe.”
“Completely safe? You could be talking another year, even two or three years.”
Aziraphale blanched and looked down at the keyboard. “I know. It just kills me that Crowley has been waiting for this for so long, and now he’s just going to have to wait even longer.”
“I’m fairly certain that man would be happy to wait for you until the end of time,” Anathema said gently.
Tears pricked at the corners of Aziraphale’s eyes. She was right of course, but hearing it said out loud just made him feel worse.
“Hey, hey, don’t cry. We can figure this out.” Anathema quirked her lips and drummed her fingers on her kitchen table. “How important is it to you to have it at the Ritz, and with that many people?”
Aziraphale shrugged. “It’s never been about all that, not really. It’s about standing up there, declaring to the world how much I love him.”
She rolled her eyes affectionately. “I think the world already knows. You look at him like, I dunno. Like he hung the stars or something. You get all glowy and soft.”
Aziraphale flushed, but didn’t deny it. After all this time Crowley’s smile made him go weak at the knees, and he’d never had much of a poker face.
“Anyway,” Anathema continued, “what if you just simplified the wedding? Have it outside, take a hatchet to the guest list, and make everyone wear masks and socially distance?”
Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I suppose that could work in theory. But it’s far too late to put something like that together.”
“And yet you didn’t think it was too late to save my wedding last year.”
“That was different—“
“It really, really wasn’t. You know Tracy and the kids would be delighted to help pull this together too.”
Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off as a stream of expletives came from the kitchen.
“Oh you worthless overgrown mass of bacteria! Miserable excuse for a starter, smelling like bloody fucking ACETONE.”
Despite the heaviness in his heart, Aziraphale couldn’t help but giggle. Like many others, Crowley had become obsessed with baking sourdough bread during quarantine, and he’d taken to verbally abusing his poor jar of starter as a way to blow off steam.
“Outghta pour you down the drain, let the garbage disposal have its way with you. You think you’re worthy of being baked into a loaf, well you’ve got another think coming!” There was small metallic bang, likely his measuring cups connecting with the butcher block countertop, followed by the slam of a cupboard door. “FERMENT BETTER!”
After this final outburst the kitchen went quiet, and Aziraphale knew this meant he was now meticulously measuring out half of the starter to discard and replace with fresh flour and mineral water.
Aziraphale bit his lip. Heaven help him, he did love that man, and wanted nothing more than to be able to call him his husband.
And here was Anathema, offering him the opportunity to be able to do just that.
Aziraphale shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. “What did you have in mind for a venue?”
Where Anathema had been relatively inept at planning her own wedding, she seemed to be a miracle worker where others were concerned.
It turned out that her family owned a cottage out in Tadfield, which was situated near a picturesque little grove that would allow for as much social distancing as necessary. She sent out cancellations to most of the guests, and had Wensleydale set up a website where they would be able to do something she called a “live-stream,” which sounded very exciting to Aziraphale.
Bit by bit, the plan started to come together. Aziraphale didn’t dare allow himself to get his hopes up just yet; if nothing else, the past six months had been an exercise in dashed hopes.
But then it was September 4th, and no calamity had befallen them. It was only as he was packing up his ivory suit and his nighthings that it truly hit him — he was getting married. To Crowley. Finally. The mere thought brought tears to his eyes, undoubtedly the first of many that would occur over the course of the next 24 hours.
At his own insistence, they stayed apart the night before the wedding. He was determined to maintain some element of tradition, despite how unorthodox the rest of the ceremony would be. (And after everything that had happened this year, it seemed silly to do anything that might invite more bad luck.) So he opted to spend the night at Jasmine Cottage, while Crowley stayed at the flat with Alastor.
The cottage was charming, if a bit eclectic (a few too many raven skulls for Aziraphale’s tastes.) Anathema and Newt were spending the night in the city, so Aziraphale had dinner alone before curling up in an overstuffed armchair with his old copy of Maurice.
Though he could feel the faint undercurrent of anticipation humming through his veins (by this time tomorrow, Crowley will be your husband), he was able to lose himself in Forster’s world for a while, until the clock stuck eleven.
He changed into his favorite tartan pajamas, brushed his teeth, and said his prayers before settling into the ancient featherbed in the guest room. He pulled up the quilt, turned over onto his left side, and waited for sleep to come.
Sleep did not come.
He tried turning onto his right side. Then his back. Then his left side again, this time with his legs at a different angle. Then his back again, with one hand under the pillow.
Sleep still did not come.
He tried a few breathing exercises. He tightened and loosened every muscle group in his body. He silently recited the first several stanzas of Endymion.
As the clock struck one, he realized what was wrong. This was the first night he had spent apart from Crowley in nearly a year.
He knew it was silly. He’d slept alone every night for the previous fifteen years, and had rarely had a problem with it. But over the past several months he’d grown so used to the soft, even cadence of Crowley’s breathing, and the gentle heat that radiated off of him in the night. He’d grown used to the way Crowley would reach out in the night and lay a hand on his chest or under his arm, as if to reassure himself that Aziraphale was still there. Attempting to sleep alone only served to remind him of all the nights he’d spent on his own, tossing and turning and wishing Crowley was there to hold him.
In just under a year, Aziraphale had forgotten how much it hurt to miss Crowley. He felt tears begin to prick at the corners of his eyes, and turned to wipe them away with a corner of the pillowcase.
As if on cue, his mobile lit up on the nightstand.
Crowley: You awake?
Aziraphale fumbled with the phone, hastily hitting the dial button.
Crowley answered on the first ring. “Didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No, no. I’ve been struck with an inconvenient bout of insomnia, it would seem.” Aziraphale traced a finger over the edge of the quilt.
“Me too, must be contagious.”
Aziraphale instinctively wanted to parry the comment with a joke, strike up some sort of light banter or meaningless back-and-forth. Something about the lateness of the hour, coupled with the looming anxiety he knew they were both experiencing, felt terrifyingly intimate beyond words, enough to make his mouth dry and his palms clammy.
Old habits died hard. Even after a year of openness and love, he still found himself struggling to say the things that needed saying. As frustrating as it was, there was still a part of him that feared rejection from Crowley and worried that exposing his fears and neuroses would drive the other man away again. He knew what it was like to lose Crowley, and the fear of it happening again still lingered in his mind, no matter how many soft and loving assurances he received. He supposed it would likely always be there, even after the wedding, and it was just something he would have to grapple with.
But they had wasted so much time not saying these things. If this hellish year of uncertainty had taught him anything, it was how unpromised their future was.
“I miss you,” he said quietly. “I know it’s ridiculous, but I do.”
Crowley exhaled softly. “ ‘S not ridiculous, angel. Or maybe it is, but I miss you too, so it doesn’t matter.” There was a rustling sound, presumably as he sat up in their bed. “Do you want me to drive up there now? Could probably be there in an hour and a half.”
“No, no,” Aziraphale shook his head, forgetting for a moment that Crowley couldn’t see. “It’s too late for that, and we really should try to get some sleep.”
“Alright.” More rustling as Crowley lay back down. “Gotta admit, this ‘traditional night apart’ wasn’t one of your better ideas, angel.”
Aziraphale chuckled. “No, I’m afraid not. I’m sorry, my love.”
“Nah, don’t be. We’ll live. What’s one night, when we’ve got the rest of our lives ahead of us?”
A soft flush crept across Aziraphale’s cheeks. “I do quite like the sound of that,” he said, snuggling a little deeper beneath the covers.
“Me too. Rest of our lives.” Crowley was silent for nearly a minute, and for a moment Aziraphale wondered if he’d fallen asleep. But when he did speak it was in a small, awestruck voice. “We finally got it right, didn’t we?”
“We did, my love.” Aziraphale smiled into the darkness. “We really did.”
They were quiet for several moments as the power of that truth washed over them both. It was the night before their wedding day. Nearly sixteen years since Crowley’s first proposal, and they were finally, actually here.
“Will you stay on the phone?” Crowley asked, breaking the silence. “Just, you know. Put me on speaker, prop the phone up on the other pillow. Think I’ll be able to sleep better if I know you’re there.”
“Of course, my love.”
Eventually, Crowley’s breathing evened out into something soft and staticky, though not unpleasant. Aziraphale closed his eyes, and fell into an easy, dreamless sleep.
The next morning saw a flurry of activity as Anathema and Madam Tracy arrived, both with their respective husbands in tow. Fully-masked, Aziraphale was finally able to give his dearest friends their first hug in months, which set off the first of many tears that day. Anathema was showing all eight months of her pregnancy and was immediately ushered to a chair, though that didn’t impede her ability to direct everyone else. In a little over two hours the lawns of Jasmine Cottage had been completely transformed, decked out with sumptuous floral arrangements, garlands, and pearly-white bunting. The chairs were assembled in socially-distanced clusters for the respective pods of guests, and little cafe tables were set up with pre-ceremony hors d'oeuvres.
A few minutes before the ceremony was to start, Aziraphale slipped off to the kitchen for a glass of water and a moment alone. His hands were shaking in desperate anticipation, and he knew he needed to steady himself before the big event.
As he sipped his water he stared out the window at the lawns, which were now fully decked out for the wedding. His wedding. To Crowley. He still couldn’t get over the wondrous impossibility of it all — he wanted to pinch himself, but he also didn’t want to wake himself if this all turned out to be a dream.
Just then, his reverie was interrupted by the object of his dearest dreams and desires.
“Angel.”
Aziraphale started and turned towards the familiar voice. Crowley was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing a black-on-black three-piece suit that was tailored sinfully well. Between his mask and his sunglasses his face was completely obscured, but Aziraphale knew that Crowley was just as wonderstruck as himself.
Aziraphale swallowed thickly as his eyes began to water. After their breakup, he had imagined this moment countless times, always in mourning for what had been lost. But now it was happening, and he kept waiting for the bubble to pop, the illusion to drop. But no matter how hard he blinked, Crowley was still there, looking solid and warm and like home.
“Pretty sure this is bad luck, but, uh…” Crowley cleared his throat. “You look… Angel, you look amazing.”
“Oh my darling, so do you.” Aziraphale strode across the small kitchen and pulled Crowley into the tightest hug he could manage. The tears began to flow freely as he burrowed his face into the corner of the other man’s neck.
“Hey, hey. It’s okay, angel,” Crowley soothed, though he sounded close to tears himself. “These are happy tears, yeah?”
“The happiest,” Aziraphale said, a little too fiercely.
“Good.”
From somewhere behind Crowley came the sound of a slight fake cough. Both men turned, not letting go of one another, and saw Anathema impatiently tapping her foot.
“You kids ready to get this show on the road or what?” she asked, aiming for feigned annoyance and missing by a mile. The corners of her eyes crinkled hard, betraying the irrepressible grin beneath her onyx mask.
Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, whose sunglasses were now perched on top of his head. His amber-colored eyes were shining with unshed tears, and Aziraphale didn’t think he had ever seen a lovelier sight.
“I’m ready,” he whispered.
It was clear that the gravity of that statement was not lost on Crowley, for a few traitorous tears began to creep down his cheeks. “Me too,” he rasped.
The next several minutes were a blur as Anathema stage-directed them and got the photographer into place. Both men were placed on either side of the cottage so that they could enter from opposite sides and meet in the middle — a sweet and meaningful gesture, though both were loath to let the other one go.
And then the music started, and Aziraphale’s feet began to carry him forward of his own accord.
But of all these friends and lovers
there is no one compares with you.
And these memories lose their meaning
when I think of love as something new…
They hadn’t been able to book the cellists, but the speakers that Newt’s colleague had lent them were very high quality. As Paul McCartney’s voice filled the air Aziraphale looked out on the friends that had gathered, each with their own pod. (The Them had meticulously arranged the clusters of chairs and measured out exactly six feet in between them, even spray-painting the boundaries on the grass so that there would be no confusion.) Anathema was leaning heavily on Newt with her hands folded over her protruding belly, and she gave Aziraphale two thumbs up as he walked past. Each of the cheering children were accompanied by a parent, who all wore varying expressions of pleasant confusion (it was still hard for them to comprehend why their twelve year-olds had decided to befriend a mismatched pair of middle-aged homosexuals, though they gamely supported it all the same). Crowley’s cousin Lilith and her wife Val were off to the side cheering wildly (Crowley had recently reconnected with Lil through Facebook). Closest to the altar was Tracy, who already had mascara stains along the top edge of her kn95. Aziraphale reached out a hand and squeezed her forearm as he passed. He might have paused a little longer but his gaze was drawn back to Crowley, who was now just a few steps in front of him.
Though I know I'll never lose affection
for people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them.
In my life, I love you more.
His hands found Crowley’s seemingly of their own accord. Aziraphale had the overwhelming urge to kiss him but fought it, unwilling to break that part of tradition. But Crowley’s hands were warm and sturdy and grounding.
This is it, Aziraphale thought. It’s finally, finally happening.
Reverend Shadwell cleared his throat and thumbed through his script.
“Dearly beloved,” he said. “We are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of this company to join together these men in holy matrimony, which is commended to be honorable among all men; and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly – but reverently, discreetly, advisedly and solemnly. Into this holy estate these two persons present now come to be joined. If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together – let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”
The assembled party was silent save for the soft sniffles of Madam Tracy, who was already crying. A gentle breeze crept across the lawns, tickling the back of Aziraphale’s neck and causing him to shiver. Crowley tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s hands.
“Ah, good.” Shadwell cleared his throat again. “I understand that the grooms have chosen to write their own vows, which is some newfangled nonsense if you ask me—“
Madam Tracy made a chiding hum in the back of her throat.
Shadwell stopped himself and sighed. “But I’m sure they’re…lovely,” he forced out. “Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale regretfully released Crowley’s hands and reached into his breast pocket, where he had stashed the little white notebook that contained his vows. The cover was a buttery soft hand-cut leather with the date embossed in shining gold letters. His hands shook slightly as he flipped to the first page. He had been agonizing over these vows for the better part of a year, had even been fiddling with them that morning. He hoped beyond hope that he had gotten them just right.
“Crowley.” Tears immediately sprung to his eyes and he gave an embarrassed chuckle. “Oh dear, this may be more difficult than I expected.”
The assembled guests laughed softly.
“You can do it, Mr. Fell!” Pepper called from somewhere in the back.
Despite his nerves, Aziraphale grinned beneath his mask. He swiped the back of his hand at the corner of his eyes, then continued.
“Crowley, my dear. I met you when I was twenty-three years old. I was a hopelessly lost young man with no idea of who I was or what I wanted in life. I was completely unmoored. And then I met you, a chain-smoking, rough-around-the-edges bartender who drove a horrendous little Volkswagen Beetle like a veritable bat out of hell. I have no idea what you saw in me at the time, but despite our differences you befriended me at a time when I so desperately needed a friend. I couldn’t tell you the exact moment that I first fell in love with you, because simply knowing you felt like loving you. Here I was being told every day how unnatural it was to love you, but I felt and knew in my heart of hearts that it really was as natural as breathing. You gave me the strength and support to turn my back on everything I had ever known and to become the man I was always meant to be.”
He turned the page and sucked in his breath. This was the part he had been most anxious about, the part he had practiced the most in the mirror. But it was also the most important. He exhaled slowly through his nose and reached out his free hand. Without prompting, Crowley took it and squeezed it tightly.
“When I rejected your first proposal, I did so out of pure cowardice. I was afraid of what people might think, of what they might say, of what they might do to us if we announced ourselves so publicly as a couple. But I quickly learned that the price I was paying for safety was much too high. There is not a piece of me or a part of my life that you have not touched, and to deny you is to deny myself.” His eyes were blurring with tears now. He blinked them back, unwilling to let himself choke up now. “So today, the most solemn vow I can make to you is one of bravery. I promise to always hold my head high and to eschew the judgment of others. I promise to take your hand in broad daylight, to dance with you at every given opportunity, to joyfully introduce you as my husband to anyone we meet. I promise to love you as loudly and as proudly as I can every day for the rest of our lives, and to make sure you always know just how cherished and adored you are. Because words could never do justice to how much I love you, and that fact doesn’t scare me anymore. I love how much I love you, and I love how much you love me. To paraphrase Ms. Brontë, whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” He closed the book with a definitive snap and looked up at Crowley, whose shoulders were shaking slightly.
Out of the corner of his eye Aziraphale saw Wensleydale put his hands up over his heart. Tracy was audibly sobbing now, and Anathema wiped a surreptitious tear from under her glasses.
Even Shadwell seemed mildly touched. He nodded twice. “Very good, very good. Mr. Crowley?”
“Angel, I’m not as good with words as you are.” He cleared his throat and released one of Aziraphale’s hand momentarily in order to adjust his sunglasses. Once satisfied that his watery eyes were covered, he took Aziraphale’s hand back and cleared his throat again. “But anyway, you’ve had me, all of me, from the moment you told me you gave away your bloody coat and were pretty much ready to freeze to death so that someone else could stay warm. I’ve known that I wanted to be able to call you my husband long before that was even a thing we knew we could hope for, and it’s, uh, still hard to believe it’s actually happening now. I’ve loved you for nearly thirty years, and I plan on loving you for at least another thirty more. I promise to care for you and protect you and make sure you always feel safe. I promise to be your shoulder to cry on, and to always give you an honest opinion when you’re dithering about whether or not you’re doing the right thing. I promise to spoil you rotten with those fiddly little pastries you like so much, and to sit through as many operas and philharmonic performances as your heart desires. And er, yeah. I think that’s it.”
By the time he finished his voice was nearly hoarse from holding back tears. Aziraphale could feel the other man’s hand trembling in his own, and he squeezed it as tightly as he could.
Shadwell chose to make no further comments on their newfangled vows. He flipped the page in his book and squinted. “Ah, right. Er, Aziraphale Zacharias Fell, do you take Anthony J. Crowley to be your lawfully wedded husband? Do you promise to love, honor, cherish and protect him, forsaking all others and holding only to him forevermore?”
“I do.” Aziraphale’s voice was louder than strictly necessary, but he would have shouted the words from the rooftop of the cottage if decorum had allowed for it. He had been dreaming of saying them for so long, had gone so far as to practice them in the mirror in the weeks prior. He wanted there to be no room for confusion or denial of his utter and total commitment to this marriage.
“Anthony J. Crowley, do you take Aziraphale Zacharias Fell to be your lawfully wedded husband? Do you promise to love, honor, cherish and protect him, forsaking all others and holding only to him forevermore?”
“I do.” Crowley’s voice was still hoarse, but Aziraphale had never heard a lovelier sound.
Reverend Shadwell said something else official to wrap up the ceremony, but the words were lost on Aziraphale. He was too busy staring at his beloved. His husband. Even in the midst of so much wrongness, they had finally gotten it right.
And then:
“You may now kiss the, er, groom.”
Reverend Shadwell stumbled over the unfamiliar wording, not that either of them noticed. Aziraphale and Crowley lowered their masks at the same time, stepping forward so they were toe-to-toe. Aziraphale raised his hands to Crowley’s face, slightly damp with tears he would later deny, and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.
He’d intended for it to be a chaste peck, but Crowley had other ideas. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and deepened the kiss, holding him close for a good five seconds longer than appropriate.
“Fiend,” Aziraphale whispered as he pulled back.
“Your fiend.” Crowley was smiling far too hard to try and pull a smirk. “You’re well and truly stuck with me now, angel,” he said, pulling his mask back into place.
Aziraphale didn’t have a retort to that. Beaming, he pulled up his own mask and took Crowley’s arm. Around them, their guests erupted into boisterous cheers and whistles.
It wasn’t the picture-perfect magazine spread-worthy wedding they had envisioned. It was quiet and messy and more than a little awkward. But it was theirs, and it was a celebration of the next phase of their lives together, and in Aziraphale’s eyes that made it perfect.
As they began their walk down the center aisle, this time arm-in-arm, their motley crew of guests showered them with dried petals and seeds (Aziraphale had read somewhere that throwing dry rice was dangerous for birds, and the masks made blowing bubbles nearly impossible).
Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, who was looking back at him. He knew the other man was beaming just as widely as him, though his entire face was covered by his mask and slightly-fogged sunglasses. As they made their way forward, Aziraphale felt something begin to bloom in the center of his chest, something he hadn’t felt in months.
It was happiness. It was light and warmth.
More than anything, it was hope.