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The late January sun’s rays filtered through the half-open curtains of the bedroom in the cottage. It was that faint warmth that woke Aziraphale. As always, as had happened for several years now, he moved his hand beside him, expecting to find his husband curled up next to him like a snake.
He was surprised when, instead of the usual heat of the body he was used to, he found a cold space between the sheets.
Strange, very strange.
It was usually Aziraphale who got up first, struggling against Crowley, who would hide his face in the hollow of his neck, murmuring something like, Mmmm do you really have to get up? Stay hereee with meee , or Mornings shouldn't even exist, they’re a social plague , or at least that’s what Aziraphale thought he had learned to decipher among the various incomprehensible sounds Crowley made.
He abandoned his side of the bed, took his tartan robe from the wardrobe, put it on over his pajamas, and went downstairs.
Maybe he didn’t sleep well? Is he making breakfast?
But he was wrong. The kitchen was empty and tidy, with no signs of used dishes or utensils, no coffee cups left on the table.
He headed to the back door leading to the garden, the one Crowley tended to with such care and devotion.
Crowley loved his plants dearly; after all, they were the focus of his studies and research, so much so that he had earned a reputation as a highly renowned botanist at the university where he taught.
As soon as Aziraphale opened the door, he saw Crowley hunched over in the middle of the garden, his elbows resting on his knees, his head on his arms. His long, light red hair, streaked with a few darker strands, was loose, barely pinned up by a black clip at the top of his head.
Aziraphale tried to follow his gaze, so clearly melancholic even from a distance, and saw that it was fixed on a plant in the garden: one of his favorites, which hadn’t survived the particularly harsh winter, despite all the love and care Crowley had poured into saving and protecting it.
Aziraphale wrapped his robe tighter around himself and walked across the lawn. “My dear, are you okay? What’s the matter?” he asked, crouching beside his husband and resting a hand on his. He was cold and trembling.
Crowley exhaled sharply but didn’t look at him. “Couldn’t save it. The plant. Did everything I could. But it died anyway.”
The frustration in Crowley’s words struck him, making his heart ache. Taking care of what he loved was one of the main things that had made Aziraphale fall in love with him.
At that point, Aziraphale sat down beside him and wrapped an arm around the shoulders of the redhaired man.
“Oh, my love. You care so much. You did everything you could, it’s not your fault” he tried to reassure him, tracing gentle, soothing circles on his hand.
“Doesn’t change anything, angel. It’s gone,” Crowley replied, letting out a quiet huff.
Aziraphale didn’t argue. He knew there were no right words to change his mind. Instead, he cupped Crowley’s pale face in his hands and turned it towards him, gently stroking his cheeks with his thumbs.
And only then did Crowley look at him: his eyes were glossy, veiled with tears, reddened—a sign that he had just stopped crying and was struggling to hold back the ones that still wanted to fall.
“Come here, Crowley. Come here, sweetheart,” Aziraphale murmured, and as soon as the words left his lips, Crowley buried his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, wrapping his arms around his back, holding him tight.
Aziraphale returned the hug, inhaling that scent of aromatic herbs that, in his mind, now belonged solely to Crowley. One he would recognize anywhere.
He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t stand seeing those honey-colored eyes he adored so dim and sad. He wanted him to be happy.
An idea struck him.
“My dear, it’s a bit cold out here,” Aziraphale whispered gently in his ear. “How about going inside? I can make you a nice cup of coffee. Hmm? Would you like that?”
Crowley nodded, still clinging to Aziraphale’s robe.
Moments later, they were sitting on the white leather couch in the cottage—Aziraphale leaned against the backrest, sipping his hot white tea from a matching cup, one hand holding it while the other absentmindedly traced along Crowley’s legs, which were curled up beneath his own. Crowley, in the meantime, had finished his coffee.
“I was thinking,” Aziraphale said, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them, “what do you say we take a break today?”
Crowley lifted his head from the empty cup he was still holding, tilting it slightly in surprise as he looked at him. “Uhm? What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Aziraphale explained, leaning in and brushing a stray strand of hair behind Crowley’s ear, “let me pamper you for once. We’ll do something nice, something you like. A bit of self-care.”
Aziraphale saw hesitation flicker across Crowley’s face, accompanied by a few moments of silence.
“It’s not a bad idea, angel. I wouldn’t mind a nice hot bath,” Crowley finally replied, taking Aziraphale’s wrist and pressing his lips to the delicate blue vein there—a small, sensitive spot for Aziraphale. In response, he moved closer, pressing a soft kiss to Crowley’s temple, which was still a little cool.
“Wonderful, then. Come along, my dear.”
They spent the early hours of the morning in the bathroom. Aziraphale had drawn a warm bath, adding natural bath salts and arranging a few scented candles around the tub.
Crowley had closed his eyes, fully relaxing as Aziraphale, seated on a small stool beside the tub, lathered and rinsed his hair, the silky strands slipping effortlessly between his fingers.
After helping him into a bathrobe and gently drying his hair with a towel, Aziraphale picked up a brush and began weaving a delicate braid, securing it with tiny daisy-shaped clips they had bought together a few months ago at an artisan market.
He briefly glanced up from his work and noticed Crowley watching him in the mirror, lips slightly curved, his expression softened.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, angel?”
“Oh, terribly,” Aziraphale admitted, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s shoulder. “You have such lovely hair.”
A faint blush colored Crowley’s cheeks, and he turned just enough to steal a quick kiss.
Once he finished with the braid, Aziraphale suddenly stood up, walked over to a cabinet, opened it, and pulled out one of the many bottles of nail polish neatly arranged beside various other cosmetics. Turning back to Crowley, he grinned. “Hands?” he asked. “Black?”
Crowley smirked but held out his hands, palms down. “You’re a menace.”
“And you love me for it.”
“Hmph.”
It wasn’t the first time they had done this.
Aziraphale first filed each nail carefully before painting them with precise strokes, gently blowing on the polish to help it dry faster. One coat, then another. He could feel Crowley watching him so intently that he spoke without even looking up. “Yes, darling? Something on your mind?”
He could practically picture the corner of Crowley’s mouth twitching upward.
“You’re very meticulous,” Crowley noted.
“Of course, my dear. Only the best for you.”
When the last nail was done, Aziraphale leaned back, admiring his work. “There we are. Perfect.”
Crowley was still looking at him, golden eyes glimmering under the warm light of the room, but he said nothing.
“Well then,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his hands together and standing up to stretch his legs, his gaze never once leaving the man he loved, “what would you like to do now?”
The man in front of him considered for a moment, then smiled. “Mmm, why don’t we go for a walk? St. James’s?”
Aziraphale felt his stomach tighten slightly before he smiled. St. James’s Park was where they had met for the first time.
“Of course, my dear, why not? It’s cold, but it’s a beautiful day.”
***
A smile spread across Aziraphale’s lips, and his breath caught when he saw Crowley coming down the stairs.
He was wearing a black, glossy leather skirt that hugged his slim waist and reached down to his calves, a black turtleneck, and boots with a small heel. Around his neck, as always, was the delicate gold chain with a small snake pendant—the anniversary gift Aziraphale had given him on their first wedding anniversary. From that day on, there had never been a moment when he wasn’t wearing it. To complete the look, he had added a touch of color to his lips with a dark red lipstick that accentuated his face beautifully.
“How do I look?” Crowley asked, spinning on his heel and winking.
Aziraphale was still staring, mouth slightly open. It took him a moment to recover before he finally stepped closer. “My goodness, my dearest Crowley, just look at you. You’re stunning,” he murmured, barely a breath away from Crowley’s lips before closing the distance between them. “Shall we?”
They grabbed their coats, got into the Bentley (Crowley’s second love after Aziraphale), and drove to London.
After parking, they strolled along the familiar paths of the park, the scent of damp earth and fresh grass filling the air. Aziraphale reached out for Crowley’s hand, intertwining their fingers. Crowley squeezed back in response.
They stopped at a small kiosk for lunch, ordering white and dark chocolate crepes as they always did before sitting on their bench, the one overlooking the pond where the ducks gathered.
Aziraphale watched the people around them: lovers holding hands, children playing with their parents, friends chatting. Then, he felt a warm presence press against his side. Without even turning, he lifted his right hand to grasp the one dangling from the arm now draped over his shoulders.
It was faint, almost imperceptible, but he heard the soft chime of two rings. Their wedding bands.
“Do you remember, dear?” Aziraphale asked, resting his head on Crowley’s shoulder.
Crowley smirked. “’Course I do. You were feeding them bread.”
“And you told me, ‘Frozen peas, angel.’”
“And you looked at me like I was mad.”
“Well, in my defense, it was an unusual introduction.”
Crowley chuckled, rubbing his thumb over the back of Aziraphale’s hand. “Yeah. But it worked.” He turned and pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple.
Aziraphale beamed. “It did indeed.”
“And the first time you brought me to your bookshop? Talking for hours about your books and complaining about the people who wanted to buy them?” Crowley added.
“Oh, yes. That’s when I realized how much I loved you. What kind of person who doesn’t like books would listen to someone talk about them for hours?” Aziraphale turned to him, eyes warm. “Only someone who truly cares. And do you want to know something else?”
Crowley turned, and Aziraphale saw how his golden eyes sparkled in the sunlight. “What, angel?”
“Your taking care is what made me fall in love with you,” Aziraphale said, squeezing his hand so tightly he almost feared he’d crush it.
“I love you,” was all Crowley managed to say as he pulled him close.
“I love you too, my dearest.”
***
By the time they returned home, Crowley was visibly more relaxed. He looked better.
“Thank you, angel. For today.”
Aziraphale turned to him, an expression of tenderness settling on his face. “Always, my dear.”
Crowley hesitated, then leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to Aziraphale’s lips. When he pulled back just slightly, his voice was low, almost a whisper. “I don’t say it enough. But I hope you know.”
Aziraphale smiled, gently brushing his fingers along Crowley’s cheek. “I know, my love, I do. And I hope you know it too.”
Later that evening, just before bed, Crowley stepped out into the garden once more. When he returned to the house, Aziraphale noticed that his eyes were brighter, softer.
He had found it.
He held a small yellow flowerpot close to his chest, wrapped with a red ribbon. “What is this?” Crowley asked simply.
Aziraphale took off his reading glasses and smiled. “For you. Do you like it? Actually, I thought we could plant it together. New beginnings. What do you think?”
Crowley stared at him for a moment, unable to speak. Carefully, he set the pot down on the table, sat beside Aziraphale, and took his hands in his own. “Angel, I—I have no words. It’s beautiful.” His voice trembled slightly before he kissed Aziraphale’s knuckles. “Tomorrow? Shall we plant it tomorrow?”
Aziraphale leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to Crowley’s lips. “Tomorrow,” he promised.
And as they stood there, hands entwined beneath the soft glow of their cottage lights, Aziraphale knew—this, here, with Crowley, was his forever.