Archive of Our Own

“Merci,” Crowley says with a quick smile for their waiter, sitting back and snatching his elbows off the table to make room for his Crêpes Suzette. A Tarte Tatin joins it in the space next to him and their waiter departs again with a smile and a nod. Both desserts look fantastic, and though Crowley’s sweet tooth is like a distant relative that only visits around the holidays, even he’s excited to taste a little of each. 

Picking up his champagne flute, he takes a lazy sip, reclining back in his chair to wait for Aziraphale to get back from the loo. Content to give his stomach a few more minutes to stow away his dinner so that he might have a little more room to spare for the decadent confections before him.

He uses the moment to himself to people-watch: a couple of sharp-dressed gentleman at the table in front of theirs laughing together about something over their Salade Niçoise, the father of a small family to his right coaxing a reluctant girl of not more than five to finish her Soupe à l’oignon, another couple beyond them toasting with glasses of red and holding hands over the tablecloth.

Crowley swallows thickly, eyes flicking to his own hand curled loosely on their table, the warm, comforting ghost of Aziraphale’s still echoing over the top of his knuckles where it had been resting earlier. Running fingers reflexively over his waistcoat pocket and absolutely refusing to spiral into loops of doubt or anxiety, he swallows the rest of his wine. If the right opportunity presents itself, he’ll know it when he feels it. Right? Right.

For now, they’re in fucking Nantes, three days into a vacation that felt like a pipe dream all those months ago on their first official date in Portland. Crowley’s still fully expecting to be shaken roughly awake from this fantasy at any moment. It’s been unbelievable and amazing and so good to be back in France. And this time, he’s with Aziraphale. It’s bloody unreal, he’s still trying to wrap his head around it. Trying to get used to wanting things and getting to have them.

He’s still getting used to the idea that he’s graduated, riding the high of having finally made it. He’s still getting used to having been accepted into Nightingale Bay Philharmonic as their concertmaster with Dowling taking a sabbatical. He’s still getting used to the fact that when they fly back to the states in eight more days, they’ll be going to a home that’s theirs; the previously rented house that Crowley had lived in during school, and that they decided to purchase from B’s folks after they announced they were going abroad indefinitely. They’ll be returning to a life and a future that they’ve been writing the lines of together.

It’s been a whirlwind. A chaotic, frantic, wonderful whirlwind that Crowley’s been—fuck, there’s gotta be a stronger word than grateful out there somewhere—anyway, he’s fucking unbelievably grateful and just… staggered by it and it’s a beautiful and mind-blowing storm that he still can’t believe he’s been swept away by. It’s surreally real (is surreally a word? Gotta be… maybe he ought to slow down on the champagne).

He’s pulled from his introspecting as Aziraphale returns, sliding in next to him on their little bench seat and immediately lighting up at the presence of the desserts, tongue darting over his pink lips. He wiggles excitedly, clasping his hands together as he looks between them. Crowley’s as gone on it now as he was the first time he bore witness to it over the cinnamon rolls at Rise and Grind almost a year ago.

“There was a line for the loo, you ought to have started without me, these look absolutely divine.”

“Encouraging me to eat desserts without you angel? You’re unhinged.”

Aziraphale leans in then, expression a sweep of soft adoration as he pecks Crowley on the cheek before picking up his fork, loving him in public like it’s the most natural thing in the world and his heart surges with it. Crowley’s hand sweeps over his pocket again.

Then the rest of the terrace disappears into white noise as Aziraphale takes his first bite. Crowley braces for it, but the soliloquy of sounds more conducive to the climax of a porno that tumbles from Aziraphale’s lips is no less effective at wiping the slate of Crowley’s mind blissfully clean now than it was the first time. Sending a blessing to whichever deity is on duty tonight for the length of the tablecloth (he keeps thinking that the more he spends time around Aziraphale savoring desserts the more he might, y’know, become desensitized, but it hasn’t happened yet), Crowley picks up his own fork and cuts into his crêpes.

“Oh… oh, oh, oh… this is positively transcendent, my dear. Here, try…”

Crowley leans in to eat a bite of tart off of Aziraphale’s fork just as the angel’s phone buzzes from inside his pocket where his leg is pressed against Crowley’s.

Wiping his hands fastidiously on his napkin, Aziraphale pulls out his mobile and swipes it open to a text message. Crowley leans back a bit, not wanting to appear snoopy but nonetheless curious as his angel’s face lights up.

“It’s Tracy. She’s got an interview with a committee from the university for the department head job!”

With Starches-his-balls and Sandalfucker out of the picture on multiple counts of fraud, the search for their replacements has been in full swing, and Crowley’s still not done celebrating. The tradeoff is that it’s made Aziraphale busier this summer holiday than he ordinarily would have been, helping screen and interview candidates, but Crowley is absolutely not about to complain.

“That’s wonderful! She’d be great at it. Also, tell her I say hi, and to thank her cousin Brenda again for letting us use her house.” Reaching for the champagne bottle, Crowley refills their glasses while Aziraphale fires off a response.

Crowley really is happy for Trace, she’d be aces at the job, but there’s something he still wants to be absolutely sure of. “Know I’ve said it before, but you’d be a great department head too, angel. You’re already a great leader. You’re sure you feel good about not applying? There’s still time to go for it.”

Tucking his phone back away, Aziraphale turns that beatific smile that makes Crowley’s chest feel like it’s been pumped full of helium on him.

“There isn’t a doubt in my mind, dearest. I’m perfectly happy teaching. It’s my first love, after all. That, and… I think a part of me has grown covetous of the freedom that comes without taking on that sort of responsibility, if I’m honest. I’m at the height of exploring so many new joys in my life, and building it out in the way I’ve so often wanted and… never really thought I would. The dawning of a new era, if you will. I’m quite ready to dedicate more time to that… to us.” 

“Me too, angel. Me too.”

Crowley raises his flute to Aziraphale’s and they share a toast (D#). His pocket absolutely doesn’t feel like it’s about to catch fire, nope.

“Besides, Tracy is far better suited to the job than I am. You know how I cringe at the word budget. Furthermore, I truly despise confrontation. And while I may be a good leader, I’m a born peacemaker and not that much of an authoritarian. ” Exchanging his glass for his fork, Aziraphale turns his attention back to his dessert as the moment decompresses.

Crowley swears the atmospheric pressure comes down with it. Fuck he’s terrible at this shite.

“I dunno angel, I think you can be quite authoritative when you want to be,” Crowley murmurs, seizing the opportunity for a saucy retort as much to get ahold of himself as anything else and relieved that his voice doesn’t betray the frenetic sizzle of his nerves. Because why not be bollocks at mainstream romantic gestures and predictably avoidant. Wahoo.

“Bossing you about a bit in the bedroom is decidedly not the same, dear.” Aziraphale meets him on level ground, delivering a bit of tart to his mouth (a tart for a tart, convenient) and pulling his fork between his lips with a deliberate slowness, following it up with a sinful flick of his tongue over an errant smear of caramelized sugar. The glint of mischief in his eye as he does tells Crowley, as per usual, the beautiful bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. Knows he is absolutely aware of his effectiveness at obliterating Crowley’s internal diatribe and replacing it with a pleasant static instead—takes an endearing sort of pride in it, in fact—even if he doesn’t know what the diatribe pertains to in this case. Crowley love-hates it, it’s infuriating.

Catching himself from touching his pocket again, Crowley picks his fork up once more and tries to keep the focus of his brain off the object within it and all the delicious ways he adores being bossed about a bit (not that it’s a bad train of thought, but the goal is to appear more competent and in control of his disaster thoughts not less).

“Well, as long as you’re sure, I’m sure. I’m glad you’re where you want to be, Aziraphale. Particularly glad you’re where you want to be with me, and… you know I support you.” Lifting his crêpe-laden fork, Crowley holds the bite out for his angel, hoping his smile comes out as affectionate and not fixed or cagey like one gets when one’s been trying to keep a big, dopey, important, frustrating secret for nearly four months and it’s finally starting to outgrow one’s willpower.

“Thank you my darling.” Aziraphale moans appreciatively around his bite; that throaty, velvety, borderline indecent sound he makes that once again leaves Crowley feeling supremely thankful he’s sitting down.

Dabbing at his lips, Aziraphale picks up his champagne flute, taking a delicate sip. “And you? Are you where you want to be, Crowley?”

“Pffff, are you kidding? I’m about to move into the first house I’ve ever owned with a man I can’t stand being more than two feet away from. I have Some of Them, I have an orchestra, I have that recording deal in Portland when we get back. I have hopes and plans and dreams and all that cliché rubbish. I’m sitting here in a rooftop terrace restaurant on the Loire drinking champagne that I still don’t know how we’re going to pay for with the only person I ever want to do it all with. M’all set.”

A simple yes might’ve sufficed, but… for the first time in Crowley’s life, he’s incredibly, blissfully, exactly where he wants to be. And reaffirming it all out loud helps it feel real. Like it’s something he gets to frame up and keep instead of shattering like a dream.

“Oh my love.” Aziraphale intertwines their fingers on the table, his expression shifting into one of nostalgia. “Do you remember that night… at C’est Si Bon! when this all still felt like a mere fantasy?”

Oh Crowley remembers. He remembers being a ball of anxious knotted yarn and excited, nervous needles with how much he had been looking forward to it. He remembers Aziraphale’s bloody tweed suit, the way they hadn’t been able to take two steps in any direction without pawing at each other and—

“I remember you propositioning our waiter in your valiant but tragic attempt at French and the smoke from the poor lad’s ears that nearly set off the fire alarm in the process.”

“Now, really. I’m trying to be sentimental,” Aziraphale sniffs, sipping prissily at his champagne as his cheeks color pink. 

“So am I!” Crowley laughs. “That’s a perfectly sentimental memory. Lives in my head rent-free. Definitely one for the grandkids.”

Aziraphale manages to look down on him regardless of their equal height, regarding him with an unimpressed look belied by the way it twitches with amusement. It’s far too adorable. Like everything else Aziraphale does. Crowley’s pretty much given up trying to resist it at this point.

He smiles, squeezing Aziraphale’s fingers where they’re laced together upon the tablecloth. “I remember, angel.” (How could he forget? Crowley’s fairly sure the memory will outlive his physical body at this point.) “I remember being so stupidly in love with you even then that I was likely to set off the alarms myself.”

Aziraphale’s mood ring eyes soften then, the gentle and sensual flicker of the candle on the table a liquid reflection of light and warmth. It catches in the summer wheat blond of his hair until it glows golden. The beloved lines of his face multiply as he smiles back in earnest, his fingers tightening where they’re twined with Crowley’s and it makes his breath catch. Because he’s so goddamn beautiful and Crowley still sometimes (always) needs a moment for it, it’s ridiculous.

“I think I knew—fuck, can’t believe I’m about to say this, but—I think I knew you were like… the one, or something. Which is such garbage romance film rubbish, yeah? But… I dunno, it was just like something clicked, and I knew that you were different. Fuck, I’m doing a rubbish job of explaining this, but… I knew that it was special, and no matter what, I had to hang on to it, I couldn’t let you go. And every moment that we spent together from then on just sort of, cemented it further in my head. Even when everything blew up with Gabriel and my past demons and all that pig shite, and I was so afraid that I had… pushed you away. Even then, there was this little voice that kept insisting; it’s not over. That we could be—and were—the victims of our own grueling circumstances, but… it wasn't the end. And I held onto that. And now I’m rambling because this champagne is going down faaaar too easily.”

Reaching out with his other hand, Crowley picks the bottle up out of its ice bath and tops them both up for something to do that isn’t continuing to spout the gooiest, cheesiest drivel ever served (now with even more cheese!) and to maybe wash down the immense feeling piling up in his chest that’s been pressing the advantage most of the evening, pushing him toward action. It’s thrilling and terrifying and he thinks he knows what to do with it, but… shit, is this it? Is this just what it feels like?

The fingers not held by Aziraphale’s hand clench around the champagne bottle as the weight of Crowley’s waistcoat pocket doubles.

And then Aziraphale; his darling, beloved, beautiful bastard angel with eyes like aquamarines and the face of a cherub that belies a devilishly clever streak that knows no bounds responds before Crowley can make any other move.

“Oh Crowley… oh my dearest, darling Crowley. I have absolutely no clue what you’re talking about.”

“Wh—ssssnnnggh—I—!!”

“Joking, dear. Turnabout’s fair play.” Aziraphale giggles as he takes a sip of wine and it’s horrible and wonderful and why… how… how is it possible to love someone this much?

“Oh fuck right off…” Plunking the bottle back into its bucket, Crowley slouches back against the bench seat, cradling his champagne glass and willing his heart to stop that hammering racket, it’s really distracting.

“I know exactly how you feel darling. Take it from the man who sat on the receiving end of your audition, and knew unequivocally—upon seeing you for the very first time—that somehow it was the catalyzing moment from which his life was about change.”

Setting down his wine glass, Aziraphale collects Crowley’s and sets it aside as well before taking both hands in his own, bringing them to his lips to kiss across his knuckles. And what starts out as an argument that his spine remain engaged enough not to simply deposit him on the floor under their table ends with Crowley half-melting sideways, leaning in to capture his angel’s lips with his own. He can feel Aziraphale’s gentle smile against his mouth as he teases at the seam of his lips, lazily chasing the taste of him there.

“We’re absolutely disgusting, aren’t we?” Crowley murmurs against the corner of his mouth.

“Yes dear, I’m afraid we are.”

It’s disgusting and thrilling and terrifying and beautiful and perfect and ours. And I only want it with you.

“Right.” Breaking away, Crowley reaches back over, picking up his flute for a sip of liquid courage as the overwhelming, anticipatory tuning fork thrum in his chest threatens to rattle him apart. This is it, this is right, it’s what he wants and he’d best just out with it. “In the—in the spirit of that—not in being disgusting, literally, but from… y’know. Yeah. Anyway. Right. I have something… well, more of a-a concept sort of thing that I wanted to get your, uhm… opinion? On? Yeah, like… a goal-ish… type…thing. Imean it’s like conceptual right now, but like, deeply symbolic and like, meaningful all at once s’what I mean. Fuck, sorry that doesn’t—lemme start over. Basically, I’ve been thinking about this important… nnnnnfffffnnghlike, y’know it’s this—this—”

Fuck.

“Do you need to write it down?” Aziraphale’s brow tilts in concern, and Crowley tries to screw his face into a reassuring smile as his brain skips and jumps like a scratched record.

Breathe. Just say it.

“Nnnope. Nope. Good. All good, jusssst… sorry, the thing is, is that it’s new for me. And big, and-and-annnnd representative of a certain… crucial point thatttffffpppssshh—” Shitting Christ, how do people do this. “Duets. S’like a duet… a song. A big, important, song-duet-thing. Wanna learn. Been giving it a lot of thought. Think I finally have the skills to be—to be decent at it, even, and… and…”

He’s gesturing now… madly gesticulating… hands flying wildly right along with his mouth, Jesus. Maybe he should have written it down…rehearsed it first. Fuck’s sake.

“Darling, I’m losing the thread… Do you need help learning a song?” Aziraphale’s fingers are twisting uneasily in front of him now, twiddling with the gold signet ring on his pinky and Crowley’s mouth suddenly feels like two sheets of sandpaper.

“No.”

“Do you need an accompanist?”

“No… well, sort of, yes.”

“Do we need to go back to the house so you can lay down and I can make you a nice cup of tea?”

“Rrrffffnnk, okay, look. Forget the metaphors.” Crowley takes a deep breath, then another, pushing a hand through his hair before forcing both into timeout upon his knees.

Across from him, Aziraphale’s eyes continue to flick over him worriedly as though cataloguing his distress and Crowley can see the concern etched there, the need to comfort. Reaching out, Aziraphale reclaims his hand, and it’s such a simple gesture, but the strength in it, the way it grounds out the anxiety and allows him to breathe is more profound than any words. The understanding in it… the way it’s exactly what he needs… the way Aziraphale is always exactly what he needs…

“You remember that we had that old piano of B’s hauled away to make room for yours in the house?” Reaching up, Crowley tugs off his sunglasses, blinking a little against the soft incandescent glow of string lights illuminating the navy blue of evening around them.

“Yes.” The worry upon Aziraphale’s brow gentles a fraction, his eyes wide and dark like moonlit pools as Crowley holds them with his own.

He squeezes the hand in his, and if Crowley thought his heart was making a ruckus before… 

“Right. Well, before they did, I nicked one of the keys off it. At first, it was just… sentimental rot… a keepsake, or whatever. Because that night—that night you played for me on that shitty piano was, and still is, one of the best—best—fuckIcandothis—best nights of my life. And then… I got to thinking… which is dangerous for me at the best of times.” He blinks furiously as a certain dampness streaks his cheeks, and there’s not a cloud in the sky to blame it on. But he refuses to look away, to hide. “I started researching, talking to some people. Eventually I found someone who does custom work.”

Reaching into his pocket with shaky fingers, Crowley withdraws from it at last a smooth, polished ring of mostly wood and crowned with a white layer of ivory.

“Crowley…” His name rushes out on a gust of air as though his angel had been holding his breath. The hand not clutching Crowley’s as if for dear life comes up to cover a gasp of surprise as Aziraphale’s wide eyes alight on the ring in Crowley’s fingers.

Crowley’s gonna take it as a positive response thus far.

“I just… I’ve been faffing about with it for months, trying to intuit the right moment to give it to you because I know there’s symbolism and implication here, but I’m a mess at that shit. And to be honest it feels good, and right and… as natural as anything to simply be able to give it to you now. Because the only thing that matters is that being with you is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. What matters is that I love you… and I can’t wait to see what’s in store for us.” 

The part of Crowley’s brain responsible for facilitating speech abruptly catches up and ricochets against the part that’s been watching, waiting and spinning on Aziraphale’s reaction since he revealed the ring; eyes riveted to it, cheeks stained pink and fingers trembling slightly over his parted lips.

Fuck, is it too much? Christ, how do people manage this? It’s insane. The ads make it look far too easy. Though they wouldn’t sell engagement rings half as well if they cast nothing but sniveling, dithering, irredeemable disasters as their proposees, he supposes.

Shit.

“Just… it’s just a gesture, nothing more, okay? It can mean anything we want, angel. Or nothing.”

The gentle tinkling of a Haydn string quartet playing in the background fills the space between them, and it’s a tribute to Crowley’s nerves that he can’t even pinpoint which one because fuck, his ribcage feels like a kickdrum, his pulse is deafening in his ears, why are his palms so sweaty? His jaw hurts—oh, because he’s clenching it hard enough to crack his teeth, why is it so hot they’re outside for christ’s sake, he should put his sunglasses back on. Stupid, leaky face. Stop fidgeting… no, don’t say anything else either, just—

“Do you want it to?” Aziraphale says quietly, tentatively, hopefully.

“Want it to what?” Crowley asks, not because he didn’t hear, because he did, he did, he just—fuck it’s a lot, and he feels like he’s on a tightrope wire here, nearing the other side but trying desperately not too celebrate too soon. He could still fall.

“Mean something?” Aziraphale’s eye flick back up to Crowley’s, glistening with unshed tears of his own, beautiful and gently considering, and—calm. Bloody anticipatory even. Not a shred of fear or uncertainty about him throughout this entire exchange, and that… that’s—

Crowley clears his throat in an attempt to dislodge the ball of emotions wadded up there. “I mean, I—I’ve certainly thought about it. A lot. So. Yeah. I guess I do. At the end of the day. But that doesn’t mean you—hhnngngffff!”

And then Crowley’s closing his fist around the ring to keep it from flying as Aziraphale surges against him, hands seizing handfuls of his jacket as their lips crash together. Frantic tendrils of heat and staggering relief spiral in tandem through Crowley as Aziraphale kisses him and kisses him until he’s dazedly wondering just how many of the restaurant’s patrons are now staring.

Fuck ‘em, Crowley thinks brazenly, wrapping both arms around his angel’s back and pressing in closer. Their combined tears smear across heated cheeks, lips aching against the mirrored tug of unrestrained smiles—of sheer bliss—as two hearts take flight, beating out the rhythm of this transcendent and unified love, this declaration of forever.

Happily ever after, fucking help, he cannot cope.

“Me too, my dearest love. Oh, Crowley, me too.” Aziraphale breaks away, breathless, finding Crowley’s eyes once more, his pink cheeks tear-stained and smiling with the strength of a thousand bloody suns at him. The same way he did backstage when he’d surprised Crowley at his recital, and—fuck, shit, is he saying yes? Is this a fucking yes?

“Fffffff—fffuck, fuck, shit! Okay—okay, wait, lemme—” After a bit of scooching, encouraging and only a little flailing, Aziraphale stands so that Crowley can slide out of their booth, and thank fuck he doesn’t have far to go because his legs are shaking and his chest feels like it’s stuffed full of marshmallows, and the balcony is all floaty and spinny and no, he’s not still bloody crying, shut up. But… bloody hell, he’s got one shot at this—a shot he never thought he’d have—and he’s gonna do it right. 

So he goes on one knee—that absolutely doesn’t crack with an audible pop, nearly sending him sideways as he does, fuck’s sake. 

“Aziraphale Zephyrus Fell, will you marry me?”

“Yes, darling. Yes, yes, yes.” It’s absolutely criminal that anyone should look so beautiful while cry-laughing, but that’s Aziraphale for you. Happy tears trickle down his apple cheeks and disappear into the dimples of his smile as Crowley slides the ring onto his finger. “I can’t believe you—I can’t—please, come here—here, I need—” Then he’s tugging Crowley up and back into the booth to snog him senseless. 

If the rest of the terrace hadn’t been staring before, they are now as a round of whoops and scattered applause reaches Crowley’s ears, and now he’s cry-laughing too. Damp lashes flutter against his cheeks, a zing of salt on his tongue as their tears run together, breaths puffing hot in the space between them suffused with sheer unmitigated joy. It feels like a dream.

“It’s absolutely beautiful, my love.” Aziraphale lets go of him to raise his left hand between them, nimble fingers fluttering, showing off a bit.

Crowley’s heart feels like it’s going to drum its way right out of his chest, fuck.

“Glad you like it.”

Okay, so he might be a little proud of the piano key ring idea. He had to hang up on Anathema when he told her about it because nearly a minute straight of high-pitched squealing was starting to hurt his ears.

“Like it? I love it… it’s the most thoughtful… the most tender… not to mention the most creative… I—I can’t believe you, I’m simply… at a loss for words.”

Crowley reaches up, catches a fresh tear that spills over Aziraphale’s cheek with his thumb.

“Yeah, hang out right there for another hour or so and you’ll be about where I was that night you played for me.”

The moment stretches comfortably between them as Aziraphale turns his hand over and over, admiring the ring. Crowley’s hands may as well have minds of their own at this point the way they’ve been stroking and rubbing over his fiancé’s shoulders, gently comforting and processing. And Crowley knows he’ll be processing this for days; knows it’ll continue to hit him in increments. He gets to spend the rest of his life with his angel.

“Darling?” Aziraphale is looking back at him now, both hands twining together with Crowley’s. His tears have been replaced by a look that Crowley has been on the receiving end of enough times now that he’s already reaching for his wallet and thinking of the fastest route to get home by.

“Sssnghnyeah?”

“Did we just get engaged?” A warm hand slides against Crowley’s cheek as Aziraphale’s eyes darken and glitter with a hunger that an entire table of Crêpes Suzette and Tarte Tatin would be powerless against, and Crowley shivers with it. 

“Yeah angel, I think we did.”

An anticipatory heat crackles along the seam of Crowley’s lips as Aziraphale leans in, slotting them together once more. The wet slide of his tongue flickers against his mouth and Crowley opens to him as a low moan rumbles in his throat. Aziraphale’s broad palm slides up the length of Crowley’s thigh under the tablecloth, pausing just shy of where his growing interest is beginning to make itself known embarrassingly quickly against the tight black denim of his jeans.

“What would you say to relocating the celebrations home?” The words tumble hot against Crowley’s ear and he sucks a sharp breath as Aziraphale places a kiss against his lobe next. “I’m afraid if we remain here much longer, they might bar us from coming back, and that would be an awful shame. I should like to spend more time with their crêpes.”

“You read my mind angel. Besides, the privilege of seeing my fiancé in naught but his engagement ring is far too great a luxury for these simple plebes,” Crowley breathes, hands palming soft handfuls of his beloved’s hips beneath his jacket.

Fiancé… he’s someone’s fiancé.

“Scamp. I love you, my darling.”

“Love you too, angel.” Straightening, Crowley raises a hand to flag down their waiter. “L’addition, s’il vous plaît.”