Chapter Text
The young waiter set down the two glasses of complimentary champagne and the plate of pastries, his hands visibly shaking as he whispered, "Enjoy your... eternity."
Aziraphale watched the poor boy back away toward the bar with wide, terrified eyes. The reality of what Crowley had just blurted out hit the angel like a bucket of holy water.
Six thousand years. And also immortal.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale hissed, snapping his head around, his voice a frantic stage whisper. "Have you completely lost your senses?! Immortal? In a crowded Soho pub in the twenty-first century? We are under strict, non-negotiable orders to blend in! If the humans start talking, if someone posts this on the internet, Heaven and Hell will descend upon us before last call!"
Crowley, who had taken a sip of champagne, merely grinned around the rim of the glass. "Relax, angel. Humans don't believe in the supernatural. Tell a mortal you're an immortal demon who watched the universe get built, and they just assume you’re an eccentric eccentric with an expensive therapist."
"He looked like he was about to phone an exorcist or the psychiatric ward!" Aziraphale adjusted his bow tie with trembling fingers. "We must fix this immediately. We are ordinary mortal men. Decidedly, undeniably human. If anyone asks, we pay council tax, we complain about the tube, and we certainly do not live forever."
"Right, right. Utterly mundane," Crowley agreed smoothly, though his golden eyes glinted with mischief from behind his dark lenses. He leaned forward across the small table, lowering his voice into a warm, conspiratorial purr. "And what better way to prove our perfectly boring humanity than by acting like an excessively devoted, happily married couple enjoying our special promotion?"
"Crowley—"
"I’m serious, angel. Look at him," Crowley tilted his head toward the counter. The waiter had cornered the manager, gesturing anxiously in their direction with a notepad. "If we act suspicious or run away, they’ll call security. If we sit here, drink their free bubbly, and pretend it was all a flamboyant lover's joke, our cover remains entirely intact."
Aziraphale swallowed, his throat dry despite the wine. "A joke?"
"A metaphor," Crowley supplied helpfully. "Humans love metaphors. Very poetic. Very romantic."
Before Aziraphale could argue the theological ethics of lying to a hospitality worker, the waiter was already hurrying back toward the table, followed closely by a plump, middle-aged manager wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.
"Good evening, gentlemen," the manager said with a polite, inquiring smile. "Young Toby here tells me we have a rather... extraordinary milestone celebrating tonight? Something about six thousand years?"
Aziraphale forced a bright, utterly charming, and desperately human chuckle.
"Oh, goodness me, no!" Aziraphale exclaimed, waving a hand airily. "My husband—" the word still felt like a tiny electric shock on his tongue, but he soldiered on, "—is an actor, you see! Well, theater director. Always so relentlessly dramatic! He was exaggerating. Extravagantly. It’s an inside joke between us, because our first date felt like an eternity ago!"
Crowley let out a soft, amused snort, immediately sliding an arm over the back of Aziraphale’s chair. He leaned in until the rough fabric of his leather jacket pressed against Aziraphale’s tweed shoulder, playing along with effortless ease.
"Guilty as charged," Crowley drawled, flashing his most disarming, harmless mortal smile at the manager. "Pure artistic license. Time flies when you're head-over-heels, right? It was our sixth anniversary, actually. Six years of absolute marital bliss. Toby here just misheard."
The manager’s shoulders visibly dropped, relief washing over his face. "Ah! Six years! Well, that makes much more sense than whatever gothic vampire nonsense Toby was babbling about. Congratulations to you both!"
"Thank you so much," Aziraphale said, letting out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since the French Revolution. "Six lovely, mortal, earthly years."
"Splendid," the manager beamed. "Well, every anniversary couple gets a photo for our Romance Wall! Toby, get the camera."
Aziraphale’s polite smile froze. "A... a photo?"
"Just a quick instant snap for the board by the entrance," Toby said, pulling a vintage-style instant camera from behind his back, looking much happier now that he was no longer facing potential creatures of the dark. "And a little card for the date and how you met! What did you say before, sir? The Garden of Gloucester?"
Aziraphale’s mind scrambled for a completely mundane, unsuspicious human narrative. "The... the community allotment! In Gloucester. Where we... volunteered. With the marigolds."
Crowley had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud. He tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s shoulder, pulling the angel flush against his side.
"Very romantic, wasn't it, sweetheart?" Crowley murmured, his breath warm against Aziraphale’s ear. "You dropped your trowel. I picked it up. Classic modern romance."
"Quite," Aziraphale squeaked, his cheeks flushing pink. He didn't pull away. In fact, under the scrutiny of the staff, it felt alarmingly natural to lean back against Crowley’s solid frame, letting the demon anchor him.
"Alright then, smile!" Toby announced, raising the camera. "Show us that six-year spark!"
Crowley didn't just smile; he turned slightly, pressing a lingering, affectionate kiss to the crown of Aziraphale's soft white hair just as the shutter clicked.
Click-whirrr.
Aziraphale sat entirely still, his brain practically fizzing. The mechanical hum of the camera felt miles away. The only thing real was the firm warmth of Crowley’s arm, the faint scent of old smoke and good vintage clinging to him, and the way Crowley’s thumb was casually, rhythmically brushing against his shoulder.
"Brilliant!" Toby caught the white square as it slid from the camera. He handed Aziraphale a small cream card and a pen. "If you could just sign your names and the date, we’ll mount it right away!"
The manager congratulated them once more before retreating to the kitchen, leaving Toby to tend to other patrons.
Aziraphale looked down at the blank card. His hands were still slightly unsteady.
"October 21st," Crowley murmured, his voice softer now, devoid of the teasing theatrics. He stayed right where he was, his arm heavy and protective around Aziraphale. "Keep the date. It's safe enough for mortals."
"And the names?" Aziraphale whispered, looking at him sideways.
"Anthony and Ezra," Crowley offered with a half-shrug. "Or whatever mundane alias you fancy, Mr. Fell."
Aziraphale pressed the pen to the card. Carefully, neatly, he penned:
A. Fell & A. Crowley
October 21st — 6 Wonderful Years.
"There," Aziraphale murmured, admiring the neat ink. "Completely plausible. Unremarkable. Safe."
"Tragic, really," Crowley muttered, though he was looking at Aziraphale’s profile with an expression that was entirely too fond to belong to an evil entity. "After six millennia, reduced to six years and a community garden in Gloucester."
"It keeps our secret," Aziraphale insisted firmly, turning to look Crowley in the eye. "And that is what matters. Discretion."
"Right. Discretion." Crowley reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. There was no theatrical shimmer, no burst of unearthly energy. Discreet as a card sharp, he pulled his hand out and took Aziraphale's left hand under the edge of the table, entirely out of sight of the room.
Before Aziraphale could ask what he was doing, Crowley slipped a cool, thin band of silver onto Aziraphale’s ring finger.
Aziraphale gasped softly, looking down beneath the wooden tabletop. It was a simple, elegant mortal ring—no divine glow, no demonic brimstone, just perfectly polished silver.
Crowley held up his own left hand. An identical silver band sat quietly on his third finger.
"You told that pest your ring was getting polished," Crowley said casually, leaning back into his own seat at last, though his eyes never left Aziraphale's. "Can't have anyone at the bar noticing you're bare-handed after making such a fuss about maintaining human appearances. We have to be thorough, angel."
Aziraphale stared at the ring on his finger. He ran his thumb over the smooth, cool metal. It fit with impossible precision.
"You had these?" Aziraphale asked, his voice barely a breath.
"Carried 'em for a while," Crowley muttered, suddenly finding the remaining foam in his champagne flute extraordinarily fascinating. "Just in case a cover story required it. Strictly practical."
Aziraphale felt a slow, helpless warmth bloom in his chest, so bright it rivaled any miracle he had ever performed. He curled his fingers over the ring, keeping it safe in the palm of his hand.
"Strictly practical, of course," Aziraphale whispered softly. He lifted his glass, a gentle, genuine smile curving his lips. "To our... six very convincing years, my dear."
Crowley looked up, his smirk softening into something entirely unguarded. He tapped his glass against Aziraphale’s with a delicate clink.
"To blending in, husband."