Chapter Text
Anathema Device & Newton Pulsifer kindly request
the presence of Aziraphale and Crowley at their engagement party
on Saturday 17th June 2023 from 2pm at their home in Tadfield.
Dress code: Impress Me
The invitation to Anathema and Newt’s engagement party has been stuck, by means of a novelty magnet of St Stephen's Cathedral in Vienna, on their fridge for weeks now. It was delivered through the post, in an envelope, with an actual stamp, printed on excellent quality card stock and handwritten in Anathema’s sweeping, bold pen. Their old housemate always has had a flair for the theatrical, and Aziraphale appreciates her commitment to a good bit of stationery.
“Fuck, sorry, angel.” Crowley says, finally emerging from their bedroom fifteen minutes after the time they agreed they would set off. They hold themself awkwardly, the expression on their face entirely unconvinced. “I’m having a fashion nightmare . Like, I don’t want to look like I’m going to a funeral, but also...” They trail off, gesturing down at their outfit choice. “You think this is okay?”
The root of the problem is pretty obvious, in that are dressed almost head to toe in black. Given Aziraphale has never seen anything lighter than navy blue in Crowley’s wardrobe in seven years of knowing them, this isn’t a surprise, but the outfit has occasional accents of silver, in the suit trim, the buttons, chrome frames of his sunglasses, that brighten it up enough that it’s positively seasonally appropriate for them. Aziraphale swallows noticeably at the silver chain hanging around their neck, visible underneath an open-necked shirt that they only bothered to button the bottom half of. It draws attention to their chest in a way that makes Aziraphale’s knees feel like they might buckle, all sharp angles with jutting collarbones that he has never thought about pressing tiny kisses along. Not ever. Not once. Their hair falls in loose curls, long enough to reach well past their shoulders, and is dyed several shades darker than their natural ginger into a deep, coppery red.
Crowley looks unfairly, outrageously gorgeous, and Aziraphale tries his best to push the thought out of his mind. He is well used to it by now -- them existing around him, and them being ridiculously attractive -- and most of the time has developed a thick enough skin that after this many years it doesn’t usually take him by surprise, but Crowley in formal wear ( or at least in their own slightly slutty style of formal wear) has knocked him for six.
“Ah, not at all funereal. I think you might cause a riot, actually, if you wore that to a funeral. Some moral panic, at the very least.”
“Shit, is it too much?” Crowley asks, looking down at themself again in a panic now for entirely different reasons. “Anathema said impress me , and I wanted to make an effort, even if it’s still, well, mostly black, and this seemed—”
“Oh Crowley, hush. You look… I think you look rather nice, actually. Anathema will definitely be very impressed.”
They raise an eyebrow, but smile softly, pleased that they haven’t entirely missed the mark on the dress code. “You look very nice too, angel.” They say.
Aziraphale beams, smoothing down the front of his new suit. It’s a slightly more out-there shade than he would usually go for, a warm, dusky pink. Tan, or maybe cream, is traditional for summer, but Crowley had come shopping with him and picked this ensemble out, right down to the bow tie, and when Aziraphale tried it on, trying not to dwell on the fact Crowley knew his exact size, right down to this trouser in-seam measurement, it had felt like it was put there for him, somehow, even though it wasn’t something he’d have necessarily chosen for himself. Crowley reaches out to adjust the angle of his bow tie, their fingers brushing ever so gently against his throat, and Aziraphale’s breath hitches slightly. “Right-oh, shall we get going then? Otherwise we’re going to be late.” He squeaks.
“Angel, relax. There’s literally no chance we’re gonna be late.”
They’re right. The two hour drive to Tadfield takes more like ninety minutes the way Crowley drives. Their car might rattle ominously like it’s going to fall apart at any moment, but it doesn’t stop them sailing past expensive sports cars on the motorway with a savage disregard for road safety, or indicators, or the speed limit, and they take every bend on the narrow country lanes leading into Tadfield so fast that Aziraphale is crushed into the passenger side door from the force of it.
Crowley loves old cars, but Aziraphale doesn’t think that’s supposed to extend to this crappy 2005 Nissan Micra, with peeling fake leather on the seats and a constant whiff of tobacco (courtesy of its previous owner) that Crowley has never been able to shift, no matter how many times they have it valeted. But it’s a car, and some vintage motor isn’t exactly in their budget right now, so it has to do. Aziraphale never learned to drive, wouldn’t even know where to begin, so its particular quirks (broken radio, dodgy aux connection, temperamental air conditioning) are tolerated, as long as it saves them from the complicated train - bus - taxi route between London and Tadfield.
“I’ve always wanted to meet some of Anathema’s family.” Aziraphale says, when they’re fifteen minutes away and are now, as Crowley predicted, at risk of being early. “I imagine they’re quite the interesting bunch.”
“Anathema’s family interacting with Newt’s family is gonna be so good. They should have sold tickets.” Crowley grins. “You’ve never seen two people so right for each other, with so few things in common. The Devices are going to eat the Pulsifers alive, just you wait.”
“What do you mean? Of course they have things in common.” Aziraphale defends.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know!” Aziraphale says, his brain suddenly having gone totally blank. “They both like fantasy stuff?”
“Anathema is an occultist and Newt plays D&D online with people he only knows from Discord. That’s not the same.” Aziraphale frowns, desperately trying to come up with something, but Crowley has a point. Anathema has described their relationship as ‘doing our own thing, together’, which makes perfect sense to him, though he still thinks there must be something that bands them together. “There’s nothing wrong with it, but they really, seriously, don’t have a single thing in common, beyond that they went to the same university and had the same address for two years. But that’s fine. It’s not like we have anything in common, either.”
Aziraphale hums, and doesn’t think about Crowley drawing a parallel between them and their very in-love, very engaged ex-housemates. “We both like wine?”
“Well, that’s just being human.” They reply.
*
November 2021
“I still don’t understand why anyone would ever live somewhere like this.” Crowley said as the car ricocheted down the winding country lanes of Oxfordshire on the way to Anathema and Newt’s housewarming party.
Frost settled in the hedges lining the roadside, and it was half-dark already despite being the middle of the afternoon. The road was barely wide enough for two cars in most places, and Aziraphale’s heart leapt to his mouth every time they went around a corner and saw the lights of another vehicle coming the other way. It was the first time they’d driven to Tadfield, first time Aziraphale had spent more than forty-five minutes in Crowley’s car, and it certainly took a bit of getting used to.
“Well, I imagine some people rather like it. Quieter, a slower pace of life, you know.” Aziraphale replied, but privately agreed with Crowley’s expression of disbelief in the driver’s seat. “I’m not saying I would do it myself, but I could see the appeal for certain people. Clearly it suits them.”
“This is literally the middle of nowhere, angel.” Crowley gesticulated wildly at the acres of open field on the other side of the hedge, and Aziraphale bit his lip to stop himself telling Crowley to keep their hands on the wheel. “Why the fuck would they leave us to live here?”
“You left London too.” Aziraphale reminded them. He noticed they had said leave us , like despite the four of them going their own way after university, Crowley really had thought they would all end up back in London together eventually, their house-share reunited.
“Only for a year, and I came back. They’ve been here two years already! Now they’ve bought a house here! What if they get married? What if they have kids ? We’re never going to see them, ever.”
“We’re seeing them today, aren’t we? Come on, you can at least pretend to like all this, just for a few hours, can’t you?” Aziraphale said primly, privately rather exicted to see Anathema and Newt’s new life, and for an excuse for a little jaunt out of the city. “You know how happy they are here.”
“They left us behind.”
“They’re adults, Crowley. People move on.” Aziraphale said gently. He hummed quietly under his breath and left slightly too long of a pause before adding, “And you’ve still got me, haven’t you? I’m not going anywhere.”
Crowley drummed their fingers against the steering wheel, a deep thud thud thud thud noise in tempo with the rattling in the glove box that they both chose to ignore. “It’s just so rural .” They spat eventually, like that was a dirty word, and didn’t acknowledge Aziraphale’s last few sentences at all. “Parochial. All small C conservatism and… Well. Big C Conservatism, probably, and ngehk, I don’t know, WI and village fetes and Bake Off and… and… It’s just not for people like, like me.”
Aziraphale didn’t ask which bit of Crowley’s personal brand (’anxious gothy agender ginger communist’, as stated in their bio on every social media site) they reckoned the people of Tadfield would object to most.
He thinks the communism, actually.
“Crowley, we didn’t have to come to this party if you didn’t want to. We still don’t. We could turn around, just go home.”
Crowley grimaced, almost baring their teeth, at the suggestion they might turn around now when they were so close to seeing Anathema. It had been a few months already since they last set eyes on her and they both miss her more than they were willing to admit, still making up for years of lost time in lockdowns, confined to laptop screens and WhatsApp messages. Anathema took parties seriously, and she wouldn’t want to celebrate without them, even if Crowley would prefer they had nothing to celebrate.
Crowley didn’t reply, so Aziraphale forged on. “But for what it’s worth, I hardly think Anathema is setting you up for a pitchfork-wielding mob of angry hicks, dear. And besides, anyone who has ever met Anathema wouldn’t be at all surprised that she might have a… what is it, an anxious gothy agender communist friend now, would they? I’ll be there the whole time, I promise. We can get through it together.”
“You forgot ‘ginger’.”
“Ah, well, they might draw the line there actually. Maybe you’re right, maybe we should go home after all.”
The actual sight of Anathema and Newt’s new home, a rustic little cottage covered in the wintery remains of climbing plants, with a front garden overflowing even in the winter, silenced many of Crowley’s objections immediately. “Oooh, I bet this place is gorgeous in the spring.” They cooed, trailing long slender fingers over frost-tipped bushes and peering into barren flowerbeds, like they could gauge what might be hiding in there ready for the weather to improve. “You know this garden is wasted on them.” They said ruefully. “This place needs love and attention. Newt couldn’t keep a spider plant alive.”
“I’m sure they’d appreciate some pointers.” Aziraphale said. “Come on, let’s get inside. I’m freezing.”
The cottage itself is eclectic and cosy, and it’s very them, Newt and Crowley having to duck to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling beams, squishy sofas and lots of cushions and a wood-burning stove tucked into the corner of the living room.
“It’s a shame Furfur couldn’t make it.” Anathema lied, having greeted them both at the door with an enormous hug, half jumping into their arms, and then fielded twenty seven questions from Crowley about the state of the garden. They were even more gobsmacked to find out that was just the front garden, and another patch of verdant green existed behind the house too.
“Yeah, it was nice to finally meet them, the other month.” Newt added, after greeting them with slightly less physical force than Anathema, going for a more demure handshake instead. “He seems nice. Couldn’t stop talking about you, Crowley. Wanted all the stories from our uni days, couldn’t stop asking questions.”
Anathema and Aziraphale exchanged a look. She disliked Crowley’s boyfriend almost as much as he did, and to say Furfur ‘couldn’t make it’ was an overstatement, given he was only invited begrudgingly because Anathema didn’t want to look rude, and Furfur himself never had any intention of making a four-hour round trip to Oxfordshire to spend the day with two of Crowley’s old friends that he’d only met once. It just wasn’t the sort of relationship they had, Furfur happy to excuse himself of any of the obligation of being Crowley’s plus-one to these sorts of things.
“Eh, well, it’s his loss. More party for the rest of us.” Crowley said flippantly, not seeming too put out by their boyfriend’s absence, or willing to comment on his inquisitiveness into their past. On the contrary, Aziraphale thought, they had looked almost relieved when Furfur had scoffed at the invitation. Aziraphale was certainly relieved, both because he didn’t have to spend the whole day listening to Furfur make thinly veiled jabs at his expense, but also because he didn’t have to sit in the backseat of Crowley’s car, where their driving would absolutely have made him car sick.
It was striking, Aziraphale thought, how quickly their dynamic flipped back to how it used to be, the second they were all together (without Furfur). Before Crowley moved to Bristol, and Anathema and Newt moved to Tadfield, before they all graduated and grew up and changed, it was rare they’d even go a day without talking, the four of them, even if it was just a quick chat over a cup of tea in the evening, catching up on their days. But now seeing Anathema and Newt was a total novelty, and even having a conversation with Crowley, one on one, was an increasingly rare thing, and so Aziraphale was determined to make the most of it.
However, the problem with it being Anathema and Newt’s party was that neither of them actually had much time to chat, Anathema bustling from one group to another in full hosting mode, with Newt trailing along in her wake, happy to follow her lead. He and Crowley were the only people who had made the trip from London, no other familiar faces from university. Most of the other attendees were Anathema and Newt’s friends from around Oxfordshire, plus a couple of Anathema’s friends from her PGCE, and so Crowley and Aziraphale spent an awful lot of time together, occasionally making small talk with strangers when the need arose, but never leaving each others’ side.
As he predicted in the car, there were no pitchfork-wielding mobs, but he couldn’t not notice that Crowley looked like they were itching to get out of their skin the whole time, like they wanted to peel it off and reveal literally anything else that might lie underneath. They spent a lot of the evening gripping onto Aziraphale’s hand like they might drown without it, like it was the only thing keeping them above the surface, and Aziraphale spent a lot of the time reminding himself this was just how Crowley’s multitude of anxiety issues manifested around new people, and it was instinctive, and that he absolutely shouldn’t read anything too much into it, especially since Crowley had Furfur now, and definitely didn’t think of him like that, even if the consequence was they looked incredibly couple-y to all the people here they didn’t know, and even if he enjoyed that knowledge a little more than he should.
Crowley’s hand squeezed a bit harder every time they noticed someone misgender them, but they didn’t say anything to any of the party-goers and so Aziraphale didn’t either. “Do you want me to… To correct people?” Aziraphale asked quietly, when they had a moment to themselves. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Whatever you prefer.”
“I don’t want to make a scene.” They muttered. “It’s fine, I’m fine, I know it’s just— this fucking body — I’ve got used to, you know, people — it’s only one night, I’m okay, I’ll survive.”
By nine in the evening, Aziraphale’s hand felt bruised. “Crowley, okay, come on, we’re leaving.”
“No, I’m… Nnng, I’m fine, angel, I’m okay— We don’t have to go.” They insisted for the tenth time, but their hands were stiff and clammy and clenched tight around Aziraphale’s, and they looked pale, nauseous, and Aziraphale had had enough of seeing them like this.
“I’m tired.” He said firmly. “I want to go home.”
“You’re just saying that—”
“Don’t tell me what I’m saying, or how I’m feeling.” Aziraphale said. “I want to go home now.”
And so Crowley did their duty and drove them home, for Aziraphale’s sake rather than their own, of course. “Thanks.” They were sitting in an empty Costa at a service station on the A40, a slice of millionaire’s shortbread for Aziraphale, a peppermint tea for Crowley, waiting for their hands to stop shaking. “I didn’t realise I’d got so— well. Just. Thanks.”
“It’s quite alright, dear. That’s what I’m here for.”
*
Thanks to the shockingly nice weather, the engagement party is largely being held in the back garden. Anathema is wearing an enormous, poofy gown in a midnight blue so deep it almost matches Crowley’s black. His two favourite witches, Aziraphale thinks fondly, watching as Anathema fusses over Crowley’s hair.
He has been on the receiving end of Crowley’s newfound enthusiasm for heatless curls many times before, but Anathema wants all the details. The process involves Crowley having their hair twisted around a set of oversized pipe cleaners overnight, strands of red curled up like resting vipers on top of their head. It’s a ridiculous sight, but every time Aziraphale sees it he thinks it is excruciatingly adorable, and then chastises himself again for having those sorts of thoughts about Crowley at all.
Aziraphale takes an interest because he loves to see Crowley excited, but this is definitely more Anathema’s area of expertise, and she’s lapping it up. “Okay, you’ve got to send me a link. I need all of this in my life, like, right now. I’m obsessed with you like this.” Anathema says, winding her fingers in the deep red ringlets, the only person who ever dares to touch Crowley’s hair. Not that he’s ever tried, never exactly had a reason to, but he thinks about it more than he should, what it would be like to see his fingers disappear into the flame-red, how soft it would feel, how Crowley would react if he pulled, just a little.
“And Aziraphale, this suit . Oh my god, the colour. I can’t remember the last time I saw you in an outfit that wasn’t some shade of brown, and I swear, it’s… chef’s kiss .”
“Did you really just say the words ‘chef’s kiss’ out loud?”
Anathema ignores him.
“I picked it out, so I’m taking all the credit.” Crowley purrs, their fingers brushing against Aziraphale’s shoulder as they touch the fabric, and he can feel the light pressure of it even through the jacket. “Doesn’t he look so good?”
“Soooo pretty in pink.” Anathema agrees, looking only slightly taken back that Crowley has been shopping for him, an eyebrow raised in his direction that Aziraphale really wants to make disappear. “You should let Crowley dress you more often.”
“They did not dress me .” He protests. “Merely made a few… sartorial suggestions, that I decided whether I would take on board, or ignore.”
Crowley looks smugly at him, everyone in the vicinity knowing that he had very much taken them on board, that this outfit has their influence written all over it. “Didn’t I say? Pink really suits your colouring. You can do neutrals without it being boring, angel.”
Anathema nods seriously. “You should let Crowley shop for you all the time. In fact, I’m officially making it their job to dress you for my wedding. I’m thinking sage green, maybe? Or maybe a soft powder blue? We can talk about it later, put a moodboard together.”
“I’m not some doll for you two to play dress-up with.” Aziraphale huffs, arms crossed tightly across his chest. “I rather wish I’d never introduced you, sometimes.”
She laughs at that, throwing an arm around his waist. “No, you don’t, Zira. You love us. Now, neither of you are currently holding a drink, which I’ve officially declared a criminal offence at this party, so we need to do something about that right now. Signature cocktail, whaddya think?”
Aziraphale thinks he would much rather drink the expensive wine they brought, but Anathema won’t hear a word of it. “Come on, I swear it’s not poisonous this time, I promise. See, Newt’s got one.”
Newt genuinely would drink poison if Anathema had made it, so Aziraphale doesn’t stake too much on that in particular. Also, the drink is a suspiciously vivid lilac, which is not a colour that any alcohol should be in his eyes, so he can’t help but be wary.
“Crowley will have one, won’t you, Crowley? They aren’t such a wuss.”
“Sorry, better not. I’ve got the car.” They don’t sound sorry. At all.
Anathema pouts. “Crowley, nooooo. You guys should stay here tonight, crash on the floor. Or we might have an airbed, somewhere, I think.”
“Ah, that’s very kind of you, but—” Aziraphale says, glancing at Crowley, knowing that once they start drinking, they’ve closed the door on the option of a short-notice exit if Crowley gets overwhelmed and wants to leave early. But Crowley looks back at him, and shrugs, head tipped to the side like I’d be down if you are , and Aziraphale is incapable of resisting that look, so he shrugs back, and they smile.
“Forgot how annoying you two are with your secret non-verbal conversations.” Anathema grumbles. “So is that a yes? We don’t mind, do we Newt?”
“Course not.” He calls back. “Wait, what don’t we mind about?”
“Aziraphale and Crowley are crashing here tonight. There you go. It’s official. Now you can actually have a few drinks and have some fun.”
And she presses her ‘signature cocktail’ into their hands and disappears almost immediately in a poof of navy tulle and lace. “You… Really don’t have to drink that.” Newt says apologetically. “It’s basically just vodka and Rainbow Sourz with like, a tiny bit of lemonade in it. It’s kind of disgusting.” But he manages to sound fond when he says it.
Crowley winces as they take a precautionary sip. “You need to control that woman.” They say, but don’t mean it.
“Trust me, I’ve tried.” Newt replies. He doesn’t mean it either.
*
“So how do you know Anathema and Newt?” An older woman asks, the large glass of red wine in her hand sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Aziraphale had been hopeful that his new suit will survive the day unscathed, but it is getting less and less likely the longer they chat. At least the pink shade means he has a little more leeway on removing stubborn red wine stains.
“We went to university together.” Aziraphale says smoothly, taking his natural role as Official Charmer of Elderly Friends and Family. “Crowley and I lived with Anathema and Newt for two years, when we were all students.”
“That’s sweet.” She beams, looking from one to the other, eyes lingering on Aziraphale’s bow tie and Crowley’s long hair for enough time to add two and two together, and naturally get five. “And how long have you two been a couple?”
“Oh, I—” Aziraphale panics. “Ha, well, that’s a funny… We’re not actually—”
“We’re just friends.” Crowley says, their voice clear and calm and lightly amused, either because of or in spite of Aziraphale’s flailing attempts to divert the conversation.
“Ah, yes, quite.” Aziraphale says, then takes a sip of his drink just for something to do, instead of focussing on the way Crowley said just friends , and how it causes a painful throb in his chest that he has never fully gott used to. Friends. Friends. Come on Zira, get a hold of yourself. His memory can only scrabble at the edge of a time where being just friends with Crowley didn’t feel like a particular form of torture. “One couple in a houseshare was already more than enough, so we thought we’d sit this one out.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, my mistake. You two just seem very close, that’s all.”
“We are.” Crowley confirms, glancing over at him and looking a little uncomfortable. “Close friends .”
“I didn’t mean to offend.” She continues, ignorant of the achey fluttering in Aziraphale’s chest that her words, and Crowley’s glance, had caused. “I just assumed, because you’re both, well… Ahem. You know. And you seem very close. My apologies.”
“So are you on Newt’s side of the family?” Aziraphale interrupts, taking an educated guess from her appearance, dress sense and overall demeanour that this woman shares exactly no familial or friendly ties with Anathema Device. To his relief, she needs no more encouragement before launching into an excruciatingly detailed account of the Pulsifer family tree that immediately puts Aziraphale to sleep, and he makes a mental note to not ask any other members of Newt’s family any detail about themselves for fear of excruciating boredom.
“Okay angel, drinking game idea.” Crowley steers him towards the drinks table as soon as they could escape from Newt’s great aunt Helen, who had switched from recounting the family tree to asking increasingly leading questions about their sex lives (or lack of, in Aziraphale’s case), picks up two more glasses of questionable mixed drink, and passes one to Aziraphale.
“Your drinking games usually end up with me entirely inebriated and making myself look an idiot.”
“That’s because you’re crap at them.” Crowley points out. “And also that’s what makes them fun for me, of course.”
“Of course.” He agrees.
“Okay, someone asks how you know the bride or groom? Drink. Someone asks what you do for work? Drink. Someone asks what you think of Tadfield, drink.”
What Aziraphale thinks is: Someone asks how long we’ve been a couple? Drink, and then die a little inside at Crowley’s immediate, insistent denial. What he says is, “Crowley, that isn’t a drinking game. That is just drinking while making small talk at a party.”
“You can make up rules too.”
“Why don’t we just drink and not bother with the rules?”
A smirk. “When have you ever not bothered with rules?”
“When the rules are silly!” Aziraphale says. “Drink every time Crowley is being snarky and antisocial.” And then he takes a long swig from his vodka Rainbow Sourz concoction. It sort of tastes like eating a bag of Skittles, immediately after cleaning your teeth. Fruity and minty, but in the worst possible way.
“You’re no fun, angel.” Crowley pouts.
“I’m heaps of fun, that’s why you love having me around.”
Accidentally say the L word in front of your best friend slash pathetically long-term and devastatingly unrequited crush? Aziraphale takes another nervous sip.
“Okay, fine. You win. Let’s just get drunk.” They agree, not reacting to the word if they even noticed it at all, and knock back the rest of their purple drink in one gulp.