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And so it came to be that the archangels Uriel and Michael, being in dispute with each other over the rules of a game of chess, agreed to refer the matter to the Metatron. And the Metatron, having already gone to great lengths to avoid taking sides, then invoked the Seventh Rule of the Game of Chess, which states that if you find yourself in a game that cannot be won, you can change the rules. He declared himself to be the winner, beaming in an avuncular manner at them both.
While they had not heretofore been in accord with each other, the Conqueror of the Dragon (that is named Satan) and the Prince of Peace felt their hearts and souls meet as one, and sought the Supreme Archangel Aziraphale to register their plea that the Metatron really was getting to be too big for his boots lately, couldn't Aziraphale do something about him, as they were apparently best friends now?
And the two archangels sought their Supreme Archangel in all the levels of Heaven, yet sought him in vain. Until eventually they found a desk, a material object that Aziraphale had brought from Earth, and found on it a note. Michael raised it in trembling hands, and read aloud:
"Be right back. Getting married. A."
Three days ago
Every part of Heaven seemed empty to Aziraphale. Of course, it was quite empty; Heaven had snagged the best office space in the War, and light and space were two for a penny. But what it was most empty of was a grumpy, redheaded, provocative, sarcastic, unutterably dear demon. Aziraphale felt like Crowley had stolen part of his soul away with his terrible, clumsy, wonderful kiss, and that he would never stop bleeding internally from the wound.
He tried to be positive, and focus on the important work, and the fact that as long as he was Supreme Archangel, he would never let anyone threaten Crowley again. He was in Heaven's good graces in a way he never had been. Even Sandalphon was respectful, and Aziraphale sometimes caught himself thinking Michael was quite a dear, until he would suddenly remember her expression as she poured holy water into a bath to destroy Crowley and all his goodwill dried up. He missed Earth terribly, and food, and decent tea, and even with access to all the writings of the world, he missed his bookshop. Heaven had installed a brilliant celestial sound system, but music didn't feel the same when it was pristine and clear and not from a creaky gramophone, with the softening hiss of static, or human imperfection of players.
But most of all, he missed Crowley. The need to tell him about his day was almost a physical pain, all the words bottled up inside him. His worries, the really terribly clever things he did, but most of all that, he wanted to tell Crowley that however lonely he had been on Earth, it was as nothing compared to the loneliness of being in Heaven in a state of love and Grace without him.
Even God didn't speak to him. He'd been desperately looking forward to some recognition, to hearing Her beloved voice again, to be told he was doing the right thing, but She was silent. Testing him, he supposed. She did love Her little tests.
Aziraphale worked hard, and everyone was nice to him, at least to his face, and his mind replayed the last scene with Crowley over and over, everything Aziraphale had said that had come out wrong, everything Crowley had not quite managed to say, the kiss, oh, the kiss.
Aziraphale had imagined many times since 1941 how Crowley would kiss him, but he had always imagined Crowley would have vast experience and would teach Aziraphale how to kiss, and doto more. He had never once imagined that Crowley would kiss like someone who had not only never kissed someone but had never really thought about the possibility of doing it before. Somehow, the sheer ineptness of the kiss had pierced Aziraphale's heart like no seductive embrace ever could.
And then, right in the middle of a conversation with Saraqael about the moral acceptability of 360 degree staff performance reviews, Aziraphale realised he couldn't let things stand. Crowley was right. They never talked, not properly. They should talk, or risk losing each other forever.
"Communication is terribly important," he said softly.
Saraqael pursed their lips in annoyance. "That's what I've been trying to tell you, Supreme Archangel. You need to accept suboptimal feedback in a spirit of help and mutual encouragement, to help you become the best you can be."
"That sounds like something Gabriel would say. But I don't think he actually did welcome criticism, did he?"
"Well, no, but..."
"Tell you what, I'll institute a Suggestion Box. And now, if you don't mind, I have paperwork to get on with. Terribly important, paperwork. Where would we be without it? In a paperless office, I suspect." He chucked at his own little joke and Saraqael, their expression thunderous, glided away. he was deeply relieved. Let them all vent their nastiness and their opinion of him on little slips of paper and put it into a box. He had tired of jostling for their approval right about when Sandalphon had punched him in the gut. And maybe some of the minor angels would have something actually interesting to say.
Aziraphale quietly filled out a leave application, and signed permission himself. He'd learned some tricks from humans.
Today
"Who on Earth would want to marry Aziraphale?"
"Who do you think, Sandalphon?" Uriel's face was rigid, which suggested they were very angry indeed. "The traitor has run to his demon boyfriend."
"And just after Gabriel and Beezlebub, too." Michael was too elegant enough to show many signs of distress, but their voice was pained. "One Supreme Archangel running off with a demon is enough. Two looks like—"
"An institutional problem, yes," the Metatron said. He alone in the room seemed entirely unflustered. "I knew that it was always a risk, where Aziraphale and his friend were concerned."
"Then why," Michael asked sweetly, voice dripping with poisoned honey, "was he your pick over many more qualified angels?"
"I am merely the Voice of God, my dear. No, we need to do our best with what She gives. And that, right now, involves making sure that whatever else happens, we do not lose another Supreme Archangel." The Metatron smiled placidly at them. "At least, not while Hell is watching."
Two Days Ago
Aziraphale had spent considerable time planning it all out. What to say, how to say it. How to explain his point of view to Crowley, without upsetting him as much as possible, and admit where he had handled things badly and was terribly sorry, and where Crowley had handled things badly, and how they could get to the point where they really listened to each other and found a way forward, together. Like millennia old grownups.
Then he had taken one look at Crowley, arrested in mid-grumpy slouch in the background of the bookshop, and staring at him in shock that was surely about to turn into closed-off anger, blurted "You stupid demon!" and burst into tears.
Crowley stared at him in horror, then, to Aziraphale's surprise, he took a deep breath and came around the desk to hug him. Aziraphale felt himself being pulled into a tight embrace. He'd never been hugged like that before. Brief embraces from humans, that generally left him feeling stiff and awkward, but never, ever held close and long as if he was precious and important. Crowley could not be very practiced at this either, he thought, and made sure he wrapped his own arms around Crowley, and tried to project his love through his whole body into Crowley's thin one.
"What have those done to you?" Crowley was tense with rage, but it wasn't at Aziraphale, no, not with one hand buried deep in Aziraphale's curls now, fingers massaging his scalp soothingly. Rage against anyone who would hurt Aziraphale, which somehow made it feel a little better that they had hurt each other so very much. "Oh, Aziraphale, I tried to warn you."
Aziraphale clung to Crowley's shoulders. He tried to think of what outrageous things Heaven had done to him, when he was feeling all protected and relaxed and yet couldn't stop crying. He had never really cried like this, not gentle weeping but shaking with sobs, and it felt like a long-needed release.
"Non-corporeal tea tastes like weak rooibos!" he wailed.
Crowley started to shake too, but all the tension in his body faded, and Aziraphale realised he was silently laughing, in a way that was close to weeping himself. "Oh, angel. Need me to make you a cup of tea?"
"No. Yes. Later." All his carefully rehearsed words had deserted him. Aziraphale sobbed into Crowley's shoulder. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I was stupid enough to think you could go back there, I'm sorry I said I forgave you, I'm sorry I hurt you. I miss you so much, please don't be so angry with me. I'm sorry."
"Angel, I'm not angry with you anymore." Crowley swallowed hard as if trying to clear the hoarseness from his throat. "I'm angry with myself, for being such a wanker. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I didn't tell you how I felt before, I'm so sorry I let you go back to Heaven alone, I'm so sorry I forgot how hard it would be for you there, I'm so sorry about the crack about the nightingales. I wake at night and remember what I said about the nightingales." He stroked Aziraphale's hair gently. "I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry." His voice broke, and he sounded so sad that Aziraphale lifted his head and kissed him. It wasn't a very good kiss, Aziraphale was still crying, and it was wet and sloppy and perfect and Aziraphale's heart sang like when light had appeared on the first dawn.
"I just want to be with you," they both said when the kiss broke, and maybe that was what all Aziraphale's planned speeches had come down to after all. There was more kissing after that, and after a while they both seemed to get better at it, lips moving in harmony. At one moment Aziraphale opened his mouth at just the moment Crowley's tongue came forward, and that was a new delight, more exquisite than his first taste of food.
When they came to themselves, they were tangled up together on the couch, and gradually aware that Muriel was sitting across from them, watching with an open, curious smile.
"Hello, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale. I made you a real cup of tea. It's not rooibos."
"Th-thank you, dear." Aziraphale tried to compose himself again under her bright, warm attention.
"Are you coming back to the bookshop?"
"I..." His voice faded, his misery flooding back. Crowley loved him, he loved Crowley, and that changed everything, but it changed nothing at the same time.
Crowley's arms tightened possessively around Aziraphale. "You're not coming back to Earth, are you," he said. It wasn't a question, and there was still bitterness and loss behind it.
Aziraphale's misery flooded back. "I love you, I do. Oh, so much. But I must go back."
"You don't, you... you... you owe nothing to them, and the Earth owes us!"
Aziraphale flinched at the raised tone, and Crowley softened. "I don't agree, but I do understand, angel. But I can't go back there. I can't."
"You can help me from down here. I've thought it all out," Aziraphale said eagerly. "The Earth needs a guardian."
Crowley looked blackly at you. "I'm no kind of guardian, Aziraphale."
"You are the best. A demon who was terrified of Hell and still went against them to save it. A demon who made me go against Heaven. I still need your help, if you can give it." He looked into that beloved face, loving every plane and line and wrinkle. "I need you," he said, this time without a desperate plea, just a statement of fact. "If I'm without you, I'm no longer myself. Not the me I like Not a me I can bear being."
Crowley was quiet for a long time, but his grip was too tight. "I am so fucking bad at saying no to you. The one time I did, I broke my own heart. just... don't stay away too long next time."
"I won't. Oh, my love, I won't." A thought hit Aziraphale. "Why are you at the bookshop anyway?"
Crowley groaned. "It's the Bentley. What did you do to her, angel? No matter where I try to drive, we end up here, while she plays bloody Gershwin or something. She's turned yellow without permission twice."
"Oh. She must miss me." Aziraphale couldn't repress the very corners of his mouth turning up.
"Don't be so smug." Crowley's point was undermined by a kiss on one of the upturned corners.
"I gave Mr. Crowley your old room," Muriel said. "He's very grumpy, but he's company and he's useful in scaring customers away. Like a big guard snake."
"She learned her understanding of the purpose of a book shop off you," said Crowley. "How long do I get you, angel? Aziraphale angel," he added, with a pointed look at Muriel.
"Forever." He caressed Crowley's jaw. "But right now, we get a weekend together."
"Oh, what are we doing?" Muriel asked eagerly.
"Not you," Crowley snapped. Then he sighed and said more gently, "I'll take him to a hotel, little angel. You can look after the shop."
"You're doing a wonderful job, I am very pleased with how well you've been looking after it," Aziraphale said, and Muriel glowed at the praise.
They probably weren't very used to praise, Aziraphale realised. He'd put it in his notes for Saraqael. Praise the junior angels more. Don't let them feel lonely and unloved in the middle of God's grace.
He smiled at Crowley. "Where are we going, my darling?"
Crowley grinned at him. "The Green Park Suite at the Ritz just had a sudden cancellation. Let's see if we can make the nightingales sing."
The Next Morning
They couldn't hear nightingales. Too tucked away in luxury for that. But the master bed was large and comfortable and covered in pillows, and the champagne was cold and delicious and the butler easily dismissed.
Not that they made it to the bed for some time. They fell on one of the pink couches, trying to make up for thousands of years of missed practice kissing, until they got very good at it indeed. Afterwards Aziraphale lay back on the green pillows, Crowley plastered on his bare chest, as if their skin was trying to meld into each other.
"So that's why the humans make such a fuss about sex," Crowley said, his yellow eyes glazed. "Never was quite sure it would be worth all the mess."
Aziraphale, who had often thought it might be, especially in regard to Crowley, kissed him again. He would never get tired of the taste of Crowley, and the taste of himself delivered that way was entirely new and fascinating.
"I don't want you to go back. The Bentley will pine."
"Darling, I really must. But I will always come back to you. I'll find a way."
"Be—be careful." Crowley's fingers dug into Aziraphale's shoulders, far too hard, really, but Aziraphale didn't wriggle away. "I didn't warn you, and I've been sick about it. If you piss them off enough, they'll erase your name from the Book of Life." His face twisted in raw pain.
Oh, how had Aziraphale ever doubted Crowley's love? His heart brimming with his own love, he kissed Crowley's sharp nose. "They'd have to find it, first."
"Angel? What did you do?"
Oh, he'd missed that particular lift of Crowley's lips, the impressed fondness when he surprised him. It made him wish he had indeed done something very clever.
"Not me. Gabriel knew something was coming and wasn't going to risk erasure. He's really more intelligent than he looks."
Crowley snorted. "You're not selling him at a high price. But you're safe?"
"I think so. The others don't know it's missing. The Book of Life was in the Metatron's charge, and he doesn't want, I think, to let them know his weakness. I wonder why he entrusted me with the knowledge, and what he wants out of me from it. But I'm more concerned with keeping you safe. My darling heart, my beloved..."
His lips began to move down Crowley's sensitive neck, to explore the truly entrancing way it made Crowley stammer incoherently and arch his neck, and they lost the thread of the conversation.
Today
The Metatron gathered the other archangels in his office, which was one of the warmer, more sunshiny areas of Heaven, and the Metatron sat behind his desk, smiling benevolently at them.
"Friends, we have a problem."
"Yes, we do," Michael agreed. "Aziraphale has gone to the demon Crowley and betrayed us all. Again." Their voice was bitter. "As I warned."
"I'm sure he didn't mean to betray us," Saraqael said. "He's just confused. We need to help him understand his duty." They looked around at the others who stared back, trying to decide what Saraqael meant. Dominions tended to "help" people learn moral correctness by destroying their cities.
"We need to show strength," Uriel said. "We cannot let Hell think we are weak."
"But we also need to be careful," said Sandalphon. "We don't want to start another war until we are sure of winning." He sounded wistful. "I was looking forward to the last one one."
"I'm sure Crowley can be made to see reason," said the Metatron. "He's a bit prickly, but I've always felt that if he was handled differently, he wouldn't have Fallen."
"He told the Almighty the Great Plan was a fucking stupid idea. Or he would have, if we had swear words back then," Uriel said. "I don't have much faith in him being sensible."
"Then we will deal with it." The Metatron's smile was serene. "But for now, we must be patient. Aziraphale is our Supreme Archangel. He has committed no crime. We will welcome him back with open arms."
"And if he doesn't come back?"
"Dearest Sandalphon, have a little faith. He said he'd be right back. Why would he lie? He's an angel."
A Day Ago
"Darling?"
"My angel." Crowley resumed kissing Aziraphale's belly, which was nice and full after dining on the Ritz's best breakfast at their private dining table in their suite.
"I... it was terribly rude of me, but I did want to give them a shock... put something on my leave application... and my desk... It was petty of me, really..."
"What terrible thing did you put? Going to Earth to seduce a demon? Because you do seem to have pulled that off." Crowley's kisses dipped lower. "Always were a hard worker, you."
"Close."
"Close? I'm getting very close to something interesting, I think. Oh, angel..."
"Elopement."
Aziraphale waited, cheeks burning, for Crowley's reaction.
It took a while, but eventually Crowley looked up, his yellow eyes blurred with tears. "Y-yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes, fucking yes. So even when you go back, they'll know you're mine." There was a small break in his voice at that, but Crowley resumed what he had been doing, and speech was mutually impossible for a while.
When matters had resolved himself, he curled himself around Aziraphale. "It's a nice day to get married, I s'pose." His voice was so elaborately casual it was an almost incomprehensible drawl, but there was a desperate quiver in his voice, and a tightness to his fingers on Aziraphale's hips, as if afraid he would slip away and it would all turn out to be fake. "Got to fake the papers, ugh, hrrrnh, hope that won't get you in trouble up there, because I don't see how else we can get married in a registry office on a Sunday without notice, yeah? S'pose you won't order yourself disciplined anyway. Shift some appointments around and cram ourselves in. Write our own vows or make them up as we go?"
Aziraphale tried to picture Crowley making up his own vows on the spot. He would wager an entire set of first-edition E. F. Bensons that Crowley would make a lot of interesting noises and be incapable of finishing a single sentence before trailing off and starting new ones. He personally though his demon's ineloquence under emotion was utterly adorable, but it might be trying on the officials. "Better use standard vows, I suppose. Do you really think we can pull this off, my dear?"
"We helped save the world, you successfully fought off a rather small demonic army, and you literally rebelled against Heaven and still managed to make Supreme Archangel. If we can't elope without getting discorporated, we don't deserve to get married." He hesitated. "Unless—" He made an assortment of noises not unlike a trapped badger. "In case you had second thoughts, yeah, you didn't actually, um, propose, if I... I mean of course ti was a joke, the reason and I jumped... always going too fast..."
Aziraphale kissed him to shut him up. It was a new tactic, and one he was becoming very fond of using. "Crowley, will you do me the honour of being my husband? Today?"
"Yeah. Yeah, all right."
"Then an eternity with you is worth any fuss. Even if Michael and Shax gatecrash the ceremony." He sighed. "You know, I always imaged getting married and having a nice reception here. With tiny quiches."
Crowley gave Aziraphale an incredulous look. "You always imagined?"
Azirpahale wriggled uncomfortably. "Well. You do look very dashing sometimes." He sighed. "I imagine all of Heaven and Hell lining up to do our love honour."
"I'm sure Hastur and Ligur would have enjoyed the tiny quiches as they dragged me down for eternal torment."
"I suppose..." Aziraphale felt something light him up from inside. "We could get married here, at the Ritz. Right now. No need for paperwork."
"Hmm?"
"Don't you remember George Fox?"
"Oh, right. Your lot was afraid he was the Antichrist, and our lot was afraid he was the Second Coming. Good days." Aziraphale and Crowley had been appointed by their own sides to investigate, compared notes, and spent a happy week getting roaring drunk together and reporting back their "investigations", stressing their great peril in investigating a possible being of great power. Humans. "What's he got to do with it?"
Aziraphale quoted softly, "For the right joining in marriage is the work of the Lord only, and not the priests' or the magistrates', for it is God's ordinance and not man's."
Crowley shifted uncomfortably. "Angel, do we really need to bring Her into it? Especially after that thing you did with your tongue?"
"But that's the point. Heaven can object to faked papers. But who married Adam and Eve?"
"No one. There wasn't anyone, remember?"
"Exactly." Aziraphale beamed. "There's a whole contingent of Quakers in Heaven. Sandalphon was complaining only the other day that they were making a nuisance of themselves, staging sit-ins for the right to sensible shoes and Earth leave to attend climate change protests. They can't possibly complain if we just..."
"Let Her decide we're married? Ugghngh, angel, I'm not sure if that's a good—"
Azirphale sat up in bed and looked down at Crowley, naked and beautiful, his delicate ribs and scattered red hair and the trace of scale in certain places, eyes flooded with yellow and wide with caution. Perfect. Aziraphale shook his shoulders in a long slow motion, and allowed his wings to spread. He wanted to be himself as he married.
"I, Aziraphale, angel of the Lord, take my beloved, the demon Crowley, as my husband, him and only him, for all time, in the eyes of the Almighty."
"Hunh." Crowley sat up, and his own wings spread like a dusty black orchid opening. "Yeah. Um.. Me... me too." His mouth worked and a few more sounds came out, followed by: "Love him, y'know. 'Ziraphale. Always." He suddenly glared at the ceiling. "And You better accept that we're fucking married!" He shifted his gaze to the floor. "And You, too."
It was exactly not as Aziraphale had ever imagined it, and it was exactly perfect. Except one thing. Somehow, he had forgotten to say so, yet Crowley just had.
"I love you," Aziraphale said, and then it was perfect.
Today
"Hello." Aziraphale stepped off the lift, smiling with the brightest and most genuine smile he had shown since returning to Heaven. By his side slouched a dark, glowering figure with flaming red hair. "I'm sure you've all met my husband, Crowley."
"Aziraphale, I'm sure you know you can't bring a demon up here," Michael said, through their smile.
"Oh, I can, I think you'll find. He's married into the family, in a way. And it seems the current Supreme Archangel made certain provisions for visas for spouses. Just the other day, in fact."
"You're raising him to an angel after all?"
Crowley returned her smile with an even sharper one. Between them, it was as if rapiers had crossed. "I'd rather take a bath in holy water, Michael. Gosh, I forgot, I already have."
They did not step back, but Aziraphale suspected it was a near thing. "Then what precisely are you doing here?"
"Well," Aziraphale said, "that's an interesting question. He won't be residing here, but I'm sure you'll be glad to know you'll be seeing him quite frequently. He's graciously accepted the role of the head of the committee on preparing for the Second Coming, as the representative of Earth. Actually, he was gracious enough to accept being the head of nearly every committee we have, except the cleaning roster. We'll all be seeing quite a lot of him." He beamed happily around. "I'm sure we're all very grateful. He's chosen some really lovely tunes for the choirs to work on, he tells us, though I don't understand be-bop myself."
"On what grounds?" demanded Uriel.
Aziraphale tilted his head to regard his husband, whose glowering countenance softened into one of radiant adoration when their eyes met.
"I believe one of the reasons I was elevated to this post was my understanding of Earth traditions and culture. Well, there's one tradition I want to introduce to you right now." He kissed Crowley, open-mouthed and passionately, in full view of Heaven, and felt a twinge of satisfaction at the rustle of the gasps going around.
"Nepotism."
~
And so it came to be that the Supreme Archangel installed his beloved demon in the hierarchy of Heaven, and instituted compulsory frequent Earth leave for all the Hosts, especially himself.
And while some of the rank and file rejoiced and learned the delights of coffee and cinema theatres and dancing, no Archangel was happy about this, except perhaps the Metatron. And who knew what reason the Metatron had for his delight? One can't spend so much time close to Her and learning Her Ineffable plan, the Prince of Peace and Conqueror of the Dragon (that was named Satan) secretly agreed, without going a little oddball yourself. Honestly, he was getting intolerable, he was worse than—
No. Absolutely no one less tolerable than Aziraphale.
Except his husband.