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the edge of the forest, the edge of a desert (203X CE, part i)
Partners was the word they had come around to using, at this point. It felt like more than friend or best friend, not as modern as boyfriend. It was vague in a way they both appreciated, for all the time they had been unable to define their relationship even to themselves, but it sounded more committed than they'd ever been able to claim before.
It was still thrilling, though, to hear it said by other people, so casually. People who came into the bookshop sometimes asked after Mr. Fell's partner, if Crowley wasn't looming over Aziraphale's shoulder at the time, and when Nina handed Crowley two drinks, she made sure to point out which one was for his partner, so Crowley didn't accidentally take a sip from the wrong cup and complain about it vehemently, which he had done several times before she had instituted the practice.
Sometimes Nina would tease Crowley and ask him when he was going to make an honest man out of Mr. Fell. Eventually she even explained the euphemism, but he had no answer for her. Marriage wasn't for them, probably. They had already made so many other commitments to each other, commitments sealed in magic and blood, in holy water and hellfire. It didn't really seem necessary to do things the human way.
"It was five years ago when Mr. Fell caught Maggie's bouquet," Nina said to him one morning. "I know you two move slow, but we had kind of expected you to beat us to the altar, after everything."
Crowley made a face.
"Yes, I know, I know, no altar," she said, rolling her eyes. "Have you thought about it?"
"Well, you keep bringing it up," Crowley said, a bit defensively. "'Course I have."
"Have you--"
"No. We haven't talked about it," Crowley said. "Put an extra shot in mine for pestering."
Nina handed him the cup without an additional shot, and he grumbled but took it, waiting for the other drink.
We have all the time in the world, he thought about saying, but swallowed it, because really, he knew better than that. Although things were as settled as they could be with their former sides at this point, that could change. It wasn't likely to change until sometime much closer to the heat death of the universe, but even if it did, would a human institution benefit them then?
Of course, did it need to? Could it just be something they gave themselves? Like moving out of London for a while.
"Meeting the estate agent this morning," he said instead, and Nina actually smiled, handing him Aziraphale's drink.
"Good luck, not that you need it," she said.
He made a hmph sound instead of saying thank you.
*
There was apparently no escaping the question. They went into the estate agent's office and laid out their requests: a place near the sea, large garden, space for a library, bickering and interrupting each other in their comfortable way. When they finished, the woman, whose name Crowley had already forgotten, said, "I'm sure we can manage that. And are you married?"
Aziraphale had taken a seat in the uncomfortable guest chair in the office, while Crowley had been circling around him as they spoke. He paused as Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley's wrist, glancing up at him sideways and lifting his eyebrows.
"Would that make things easier?" Aziraphale asked.
Crowley could see it then: how easy it would be to say yes, to have one of them reach for their power and file backdated paperwork in the register's office. And just as easily, somehow, he knew that wasn't what he wanted.
He reached down and covered Aziraphale's hand with his own, as a signal to prevent the angel from completing the miracle with a customary snap.
(There was something to be said, too, about the way Aziraphale had considered it, that he knew and they both understood the concept of "all but in name," and that neither of them would be opposed to the idea, not really. It was comfortable in a way it would never have been even just a few years ago. They'd gone slow, but they'd gotten here. As partners.)
"Haven't gotten around to it yet," Crowley said casually to the estate agent.
"It just changes the options as to how you hold the property, love," the woman responded to Aziraphale's question. "No worries, we'll still work it out."
Aziraphale unwrapped Crowley's fingers from his fist and took his hand properly, and the conversation moved onto possible locations.
*
They didn't discuss it again until that night, but the thought of marriage been chasing through Crowley's head all day, underneath discussions of home inspections and distance to nearest shops and all the practical considerations of homebuying, which were delightfully excessive in a way that Crowley might have taken some credit for, had he Hell to report to still.
Underneath all that, he had been thinking. They were lying in bed together, Crowley stretched on his back all the way across the bed, on top of the counterpane, in the way he liked to unfold himself before he actually considered sleeping. Aziraphale had been reading, but was now dozing, a hand holding the book to his chest, breath gentle and slow. He was turned on his side, facing Crowley. Aziraphale usually came to bed with Crowley for a while, to talk or read or otherwise spend time together, but he often got up again after Crowley was asleep, unless Crowley had wrapped his arms around his angel and refused to let go. They were comfortable either way.
There wasn't enough natural light to read any longer, and the bustle of activity and lukewarm pretense of humanity all day had worn Aziraphale out, Crowley could tell. But he wasn't deeply asleep. The moon through the little round window cast pale light over Crowley's long, bare legs, like he was pretending at his own angelic glow. He didn't mind it so much here with Aziraphale, in the little bedroom above the bookshop, which no longer collected the dust of neglect like it had for so many years. But it was still easier for Crowley to have these conversations in the dark, where his eyes could not betray him so much. This was the time.
"Angel," Crowley said.
"Hmm?" Aziraphale said, opening his own eyes, crinkled in delight as if it were the first time he'd seen Crowley here in his bed, instead of the most recent time of so many. "Yes, dear? I wasn't asleep."
Crowley snorted. He glanced over at Aziraphale, and then back at the ceiling.
"You can't get out of it so easily," he said, amusement and fondness in his voice. The right amount of lightheartedness, too, because they'd gotten a lot better at saying important things to each other, but some habits were hard to break.
"Get out of what?" Aziraphale said, propping himself up on an elbow and yawning. The angel was definitely going to sleep tonight, and Crowley was going to enjoy that. Sleeping, and then waking up with him in the morning, even if Crowley put himself back to bed after a cup of tea (the angel's) and a couple of what he expected to be very good orgasms (for both). Something to look forward to.
"Proposing," Crowley said, not letting himself choke on the word. "You can't just do a miracle for that, it's not romantic at all. Quite unlike you to miss an opportunity."
Aziraphale's smile was like the sun rising in the middle of their quiet night.
"I suppose you're right," he said, matching Crowley's casual tone, but probably also Crowley's heightened emotional state, with the way he shifted in the bed, reaching for him. Aziraphale's thumb traced over the serpent tattoo gently.
"Maggie has been asking me when I was going to get around to it," Aziraphale said fondly, and Crowley just had to laugh.
*
not a house or even a tent (1928 BCE)
"Crawley!" Aziraphale hissed, and Crawley reluctantly opened his eyes. He immediately had to fling his hand up over his eyes in defense. Either the sun had come up, or Aziraphale was glowing with angelic anger, or both potentially, but either way, he had a headache. He must have forgotten to sober up last night.
His legs reported that they were itchy, and his sense of smell reported nearby goats. Had he passed out in the goat pen? That really must have been some wedding.
"Crawley!" the angel said again, and Crawley groaned.
"What? Forgot to sober up, might discorporate from this hangover."
"A victory hangover?" the angel said, and his tone was that certain kind of silky that promised immediate danger. The last time Crawley had heard it, Aziraphale had tossed him in a river (and Crawley couldn't at this moment remember why, some kind of mischief he probably had managed that was apparently deserving of very cold water).
Crawley rubbed at his face. It didn't make him feel any better, really.
"Is it a victory that they finally got married? Of course it is, I'm well sick of sheep by now, aren't you?"
Aziraphale sniffed. "He was supposed to marry Rachel!" he said.
Crawley ran that statement back again, his tongue testing the inside of his mouth as if he could determine why everything tasted terrible. He made no conclusions.
"Yes?" he said. "That was the whole point of the seven years, wasn't it?"
"It was--" Aziraphale peered down at him. Crawley did his best to appear pathetic (which didn't take much) so he didn't get thrown into another body of water. Drowning in front of the angel would be embarrassing.
"You don't know, do you?" Aziraphale said.
Crawley groaned very loudly.
"Just tell me, angel," he said.
"It was Leah!" Aziraphale said, hands on his hips and eyes wide with indignation. "Laban gave Jacob Leah instead of Rachel!"
Okay, Crawley really was in trouble now. He dared a demonic miracle on the hangover and it abated enough for him to find his feet and start pacing.
"That's not good," Crawley said. "It was definitely supposed to be Rachel. She's…" he lowered his voice, "barren. Trying to stop the bloodline early. My orders were pretty specific on this one. Oh, Downstairs is not going to be happy."
He whipped around and squinted at Aziraphale. "Did they…" he made a rude gesture and Aziraphale huffed.
"It seems so," the angel said.
"I mean, didn't he notice which sister he had?" Crawley said. They looked at each other. Eventually Aziraphale looked away, flushed.
"Anyway, your intel is wrong, because I know for a fact that he was supposed to marry Rachel," Aziraphale said. "It was in my orders."
"My orders," Crawley mocked. "I guess we're both screwed then. Not in any fun way."
Aziraphale sighed. "Really, Crawley."
Suddenly, they could hear shouting from over the hill. Jacob and Laban were arguing. The goats were bleating loudly. A woman was sobbing.
"Marriage is a scam," Crawley pronounced, and he had no reason to doubt that further for several millennia.
*
the edge of the receding glacier (2019-2023 CE)
After the world failed to end, things began to change between them, little by little. It started on the bus ride home from Tadfield, when Aziraphale sat down next to Crowley in a seat Crowley had unconsciously left absent, and then, with barely a hesitation, he took Crowley's hand.
Crowley was exhausted, but the touch helped. It grounded him in his corporation, which stank awfully of smoke and burning rubber and terror. His wings felt close to the surface, uneasy and cramped in the bus. He wanted to shake them out and run his fingers through the feathers, setting everything to rights, which would feel like the beginning of the emotional cleanup left to him, if there would be anything left to him after Hell got through with him.
Aziraphale's grip was firm, firmer than it had been in previous times when it had been commonplace for men to go around on each other's arms as they spoke. He'd always barely brushed at Crowley's elbow, a presence only noted for the warmth that somehow slipped beneath Crowley's skin, despite the layers of cloth between them. Aziraphale had always been ready to let go before, in case someone saw them.
This wasn't a grip of letting go. It hurt a little, in fact, but Crowley wasn't going to try to extricate himself from it. The angel had been discorporated, possessed a strange human, and now had his body back, or at least a body that looked to Crowley to be the same. It would have been disorienting under the best of circumstances. If he needed Crowley's hand, Crowley would give it.
Crowley would give him everything, including walking that new body into Heaven and then back out again. The intimacy of the act was not something they talked about afterwards, not even deep in their cups, because they'd both agreed that talking about it was dangerous. If anyone Above or Below ever learned their trick, they'd be summarily disposed of. Their best option was to hope the sting of their triumph would fade enough in time, Heaven and Hell distracted by other work, that they'd be left alone.
Crowley thought about it, of course. Hell couldn't read his thoughts. He thought about how warm he felt in Aziraphale's body, how what they'd done was a more intimate thing than probably any celestial being had ever done. How it had felt for their metaphysical feathers to brush in the process of the switch. How his true self had responded like a lightning strike to Aziraphale's touch: almost painful, but so treasured.
It was like a marriage, really. The humans had explained it, in their clumsy way, two people becoming one entity. This wasn't quite that, but the same type of closeness. He had felt known in a profoundly intimate way.
So they didn't talk about it, but Crowley suspected that Aziraphale had felt similarly, because after that, the angel started to touch him a lot more. It was, perhaps, a way to acknowledge what they had done was much closer than the occasional brush of a hand. Crowley had perfected the art of not physically reaching out to Aziraphale long ago, due to gentle but firm rebuffs (sensible ones, given that even standing next to each other peacefully had been enough for the archangels to be suspicious). But now Aziraphale might place a hand at the small of his back when trying to guide him somewhere, or even take his hand when they were out together in a crowd.
Crowley tried not to look surprised or pull away when Aziraphale touched him. He tried to seem welcome and calm. He could go slow. It felt like maybe now they were pointed in the same direction, which mattered.
And then everything had stopped abruptly when Pestilence came back into the world, perhaps taking the opportunity with Pollution lying dormant. Crowley sulked for a while, he could admit to himself. Obviously the rules shouldn't apply to them; neither of them ever got sick. But he did know that Aziraphale was tying himself up in knots of anxiety over the humans, and with no way he could help them himself, beyond giving whatever blessings he dared, the angel had to release his tensions with what he could control. And he could control whether he let Crowley come over and flout social distancing guidelines, so he did.
If they'd talked about their changing relationship at this point, only a few months after Armageddon, Crowley might have pointed out that romantic partners were allowed to bubble together, and that's what most of the humans assumed they were, with the Bentley parked out front the bookshop more days than not before the plague began, but that was going too far too quickly. He wasn't going to ruin this life growing up around them by naming it, in case it scared Aziraphale.
(Maybe it scared Crowley more than it scared Aziraphale, even. To maybe have what he wanted, after all this time. To be had, in turn. After all, the angel said our car, our peaceful, fragile existence… but that was later.
Anyway, after lockdown ended and Hell sent someone new, that was why he stayed in the Bentley, temporarily, after being turfed out of his own place. He wasn't going to tell Aziraphale and make him feel worried or obligated. Once Crowley was sure of Shax, once she owed him for his help, then he'd find a new place to sleep.)
So Crowley didn't protest much when Aziraphale turned down a visit. He let himself sleep instead, days and weeks passing, months, trying to feel like he wasn't wasting time so much as letting it drift by. Before the Antichrist had been born, sleep had been more restful, easy, because he'd known they'd be around until the Big One. For the eleven years between the delivery of the Antichrist and the failed Apocalypse, time had flowed through his grasp like running water, like something unstoppable entirely. In its aftermath, it was hard for Crowley to adjust. The sleeping might have helped him readjust to the true pace of reality, but he would rather be sleeping in the back of the bookshop on Aziraphale's settee.
But not yet. They weren't ready to claim that with each other. Crowley breathed a sigh of relief when the lockdown lifted and they were finally able to resume spending time together in person, and to his surprise, the angel took up right where they'd left off. Crowley had worried a little that they'd be back to their pre-Apocalypse status, which had been fairly comfortable up until it very much was not, but Aziraphale was still touching him. They'd relax in the back of the bookshop together, joking and drinking, and Aziraphale might brush his knee with his hand when he came back from fetching another bottle. Or he'd grab Crowley's hand when they were crossing the street, one time swinging their arms and beaming (Crowley was going to remember that face forever).
Crowley began to leave his sunglasses in the front of the shop when it was just the two of them. He'd done it first on a lark, amused by the way they fit perfectly on the horse statue, but then it became a comfortable habit. Aziraphale didn't mind his eyes. He didn't need to hide himself in front of the angel. It was something he could offer in return for Aziraphale's touch freely given. He thought Aziraphale understood the gesture.
The words would come later.
*
at having survived even this far (2013 CE)
"If she were anyone else," Crowley declared, slumping bonelessly into an irritatingly rustic chair in Aziraphale's irritatingly rustic garden's cottage, "I'd find a divorce lawyer for her myself."
She slipped off her heels and rested her elbows on the table, leaning forward so she could rub her forehead with two fingers. She heard Aziraphale make a clucking sound and felt the warmth of his body behind her, close enough to touch, but he hovered instead of actually reaching out for her. It was nice, still, to have her hereditary enemy, her closest conspirator, at her back.
"I take it the benefit didn't go well?" Aziraphale said, and because they were alone, he didn't bother with the accent. (Crowley had bullied him relentlessly until he'd given it up in private, and she stood by that. She only wished she'd had the foresight to insist on pre-approving his costume.)
"The benefit went great. All the tots will have toys or whatever it is they were performing charity for," Crowley responded. She'd been dragged along because Warlock would need minding after he'd been properly shown off, and that was neither unusual or unexpected. After the photos were done, she'd taken him into a disused room in the event space so he could run around and burn off some energy, and that's when she'd heard Thaddeus and Harriet arguing. Apparently they'd had the same idea to slip away for a moment of privacy, although Crowley was using her moment to repress the urge to do some non-demonic wealth redistribution and the Dowlings were fighting over the way Harriet hadn't faked niceness enough to some important wanker's wife and that was bad for Thaddeus's career.
Mr. Dowling spent as much time as possible in America, so the president didn't forget who he was, and when he was at home, there was often an undercurrent of tension between the Dowlings that the household staff tried valiantly to ignore. The tension had come with them to the charity benefit too, sitting thickly in the car on the way to the event. They'd turned it off like the professionals they were, all smiles, during dinner, but it hadn't lasted long, as usual.
Crowley didn't send Warlock in first to break up the argument; she was a demon, sure, but her charge was old enough to form permanent memories now, and this wasn't one he needed. She slammed open the door, holding firm on the back of the child's shirt as he squirmed, and then she said loudly, "Oh, Warlock, where have we gotten to, poppet?" before releasing her hold.
"Hey champ," Thaddeus said, as his son slammed into his knees, Crowley holding up a hand as if he'd just escaped her grasp as she followed him into the room. Crowley watched Harriet put away her frustration again, like she'd tucked it into her expensive purse, and she ruffled her son's hair. The four of them returned to the benefit for more smiles and gladhanding. They stayed way too late for Warlock; he'd missed his afternoon nap and had a meltdown in the car home. Crowley did her best to soothe him, wishing she dared perform a miracle to calm him, but she and Aziraphale had agreed not to do any miracles on his person, just in case. Thaddeus put on his noise-canceling headphones and read his emails on his cell phone. Harriet looked from her husband to her sobbing son, shook her head, and shut her eyes. She faked sleep all the way home, her forehead wrinkled with frustration and anger, even after Warlock stopped crying.
"It took ninety minutes to put Warlock to bed," Crowley said. "He doesn't understand what's going on between them, but he knows there's something not right." She sighed.
Aziraphale had been puttering around during the whole story, putting the kettle on, washing the dishes from his lunch, and hanging up Crowley's coat, which she had dropped near the door of the cottage. Finally he set a teacup in front of her and sat down in the other kitchen chair. Crowley looked up into his unfamiliar face, the ruddy face and the sheepish sideburns. Still, Aziraphale's eyes were unmistakable and steady, and they calmed her. She opened her mouth and breathed in the scents of this place: the bergamot tea, blending with the roses on the table between them, and the old paper smell that managed to cling to Aziraphale, no matter who he was pretending to be.
"If he doesn't see love in them, we'll have to show him other ways," the angel said. His gaze was too soft; Crowley glanced away.
"That's your job," she grumbled. "I just do the voices at storytime."
From the corner of her eyes, she saw his smile.
*
where painfully and with wonder (203X CE part ii)
Crowley could have created a spectacular proposal. He kept track of Aziraphale's favorite things and places and loved giving him gifts. The angel's pleasure gave him so much in return.
But he'd planted a seed and wanted to see what would grow. It often took a while for Aziraphale to ease into an idea: hundreds of years in the case of the Arrangement, decades in the planning of his bookshop. Compared to that, they were moving lightning-fast in the transformation of their relationship into a romantic one, although it helped that they'd both hoped and fantasized about it for so long beforehand.
Buying and renovating a home to be theirs together was a big step, and time-consuming, even with the use of minor miracles to ease the way. This soon overwhelmed any wondering that Crowley might have done about a theoretical proposal anyway. Aziraphale picked furniture like he expected it to last centuries, with great deliberation and much scoffing at the idea of pressed wood. This made sense in the case of the library bookcases, but by the time he was sending Crowley fifteen different options for the sitting room coffee table Crowley was over it.
It turned out that keeping a home in strict style with current trends hadn't really allowed him to develop his own style, beyond a desire for a place with lots of windows and a low-to-reasonable amount of clutter. Most of his "choices" involved saying no to yet another knickknack or furniture piece crowding the space. And in limiting the use of tartan.
Crowley had invented Pinterest, and like many of the mildly demonic things he talked a human into implementing, it backfired on him massively. He'd been thrilled when Aziraphale agreed, reluctantly, to start carrying a cell phone during the whole Apocalypse round two snafu, in case of emergencies, but now the angel was sending him carefully labeled moodboards for each room of their home when all Crowley wanted to do was sit in his new garden and plot its future.
It was nice to know Aziraphale was thinking of him, though. The closer they got to moving, the more time they were spending apart out of necessity. Aziraphale was organizing and packing the bookshop by hand, which meant Crowley was the one speeding down the road between London and the Downs to supervise deliveries and workmen. He found himself cursing the weather with some violence, raindrops sizzling away rather than touching the Bentley's paint, on one Monday morning not long after the break of day, for yet another one of those errands. He'd been forced to abandon their nice warm bed, even though there had been a lightly snoozing angel in it, because the painters were coming at the God-and-Satan-forsaken hour of eight a.m.
It might have been easier if the two of them had been willing to leave a key under the mat, but part of what Crowley was doing when he was on site involved warding, because although Heaven and Hell as wholes were no longer threats, they had both been looking over their shoulders for six thousand years, and it seemed silly to stop now when they still had something to protect (each other). It was easier for Crowley or Aziraphale to let the humans in and avoid any potential hubbub. Plus, Crowley was working on a setting that would cause humans to ignore their place entirely, for when they went on vacation, and he was still fine-tuning it, which had caused a delivery driver to call him crying last week.
He let the painters in, nosed around in the paint colors the angel had picked and made a few minor alterations he thought he could get away with. Aziraphale would like the warmer gray in the bedroom, and Crowley knew better than to interfere with the bright yellow kitchen his partner had plotted, even though seeing the paint still made his cheeks warm a bit, remembering the day that Aziraphale had explained exactly why yellow was his favorite color, kissing Crowley's eyelids in emphasis.
There wasn't a lot of furniture yet in the house (the painters had to come first), but there was a loveseat in the library that Crowley had discovered was incredibly comfortable, despite its frilly Victorian appearance. He flopped down onto it, started an argument on Twitter, and fell asleep to the sound of the rain. When he woke, pinged by the feeling of a celestial being crossing their wards, the room was entirely dark and he was momentarily disoriented. But the being who had crossed the wards was one of two celestial exceptions to them (the other being Muriel) so Crowley simply yawned and got to his feet to greet Aziraphale.
"Crowley? Oh, you are still here," Aziraphale said, sounding relieved. He was standing just inside the front door, the warm glow of the lamp gleaming against his pale curls. Crowley opened his mouth to say that Aziraphale could have called -- the angel's calls always rang through, loudly enough to wake him from hibernation -- but he was distracted by the little white basket tucked against Aziraphale's side. He watched as Aziraphale folded his umbrella, already miraculously dry, into the umbrella stand, and then clutched at the basket with both hands. He had a nervous look on his face that Crowley disliked immediately.
"Where else would I be?" Crowley asked, gently, trying to seem reassuring while still half captured by sleep fog.
"I brought -- well -- I guess it doesn't matter, but I do wish the weatherman had been more accurate, a clear night, he'd said, but it's still pouring down out there --" Aziraphale began.
Either of them could do a miracle to push the clouds away, but when Adam had agreed to help with the Second Coming, he'd made them promise not to mess with local weather anymore, because it was bad for the climate or something (per Anathema) and emotionally manipulative (according to Maggie, who Adam now called Auntie; near-world-ending adventures created deep bonds). Crowley didn't often regret that promise, but he watched Aziraphale's knuckles whiten on the basket's handle and he did now.
"We don't have to tell," Crowley said, but Aziraphale shook his head.
"It's all right," the angel said with a sigh. "I just thought it would be nice -- there's supposed to be a meteor shower tonight and I thought we could go out in the backyard and watch it together. I brought a picnic."
Crowley relaxed, then. Wicker baskets tended to give him Antichrist flashbacks, but this was just Aziraphale being disappointed about their evening not turning out the way he'd hoped. That absolutely wouldn't do, in Crowley's opinion, but it also wasn't earth-shattering.
"Let's have a picnic then," Crowley said, reaching for the basket. "They didn't paint the library so the smell in there is probably bearable. And there are no books to spill wine on. Come on."
He smiled and Aziraphale smiled back, giving Crowley his hand instead of the basket, but the angel followed him back through the house to the library, which hadn't been worth painting since there wasn't really any wall space between the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The basket was carefully emptied onto a tartan blanket and its contents duly admired. Crowley still didn't tend to eat much, but Aziraphale had brought a few of his favorite things -- a favored wine, a fancy egg dish from a Soho restaurant they'd been frequenting for decades, and a slightly lopsided angel cake, the shape suggesting Aziraphale had made it himself. There was a ridiculous battery-powered candelabra that made Crowley laugh as Aziraphale settled it just outside the boundary of the blanket, turning it on to light their meal with artificial candlelight instead of using electric lighting.
They had had a few picnics over the past few years, fulfilling Aziraphale's promise from 1967. If one disregarded the itchy grass and the determination of ants and the food trying to melt or leak, the picnics had even been pleasant, especially the one over which Aziraphale had kissed him for the second time (for the first real time, as they liked to count it) and Crowley had been so lost in his angel's mouth that he'd had to miracle an enormous wine stain out of Aziraphale's picnic blanket later, because he'd forgotten he was holding a glass.
It was the same blanket, in fact, and Crowley could see the irregular shape of the stain if he looked with his occult gaze in the right way. He hadn't vanished it with his usual method, down to the atoms, in the way that made it invisible even to Aziraphale. He'd wanted to be able to see it later, as a reminder of that day.
Aziraphale was now sitting in the middle of what had once been a wine stain, spreading butter onto a piece of bread, and Crowley was grinning, his irritation from the early morning gone entirely.
"What are you looking at?" the angel said, pausing in his ministrations.
"Think that wine stain is still there," Crowley answered, just to tease, and he picked up a grape and popped it in his mouth. Aziraphale looked around himself, squinting at the blanket suspiciously, before clearly deciding that Crowley was teasing. He sighed, glancing out the nearest dark window.
"We're not going to be able to see the stars at all," he said.
"There will be plenty of other times for that," Crowley said, enjoying the thought. One of the reasons they'd decided to settle down in the South Downs (for now, anyway, there was a big world out there) was for the stargazing opportunities. Even if most of Crowley's prettiest works couldn't be seen from Earth, he still liked to watch the little points of light as they whirled through the sky, and he learned the human names for constellations as they changed. Now he was going to share that with Aziraphale whenever they liked and the weather cooperated.
"It would have been so perfect," Aziraphale said, and he was fretting again, so Crowley leaned over, and then slithered a bit, until he could fit his head into Aziraphale's lap. Aziraphale set down the knife and the piece of toast (Crowley was glad that he didn't have to dodge crumbs) and began combing his fingers through Crowley's hair.
"Are you okay?" Crowley asked, meeting Aziraphale's eyes despite the somewhat difficult angle. "Packing and renovating and moving -- it's a lot," he added. Aziraphale smiled, still petting him. Crowley didn't think the house was the cause of all of Aziraphale's nerves right now, but maybe it could give him a starting point.
"It's a lot of decisions," Aziraphale said. "And you've left them mostly to me. Will you be happy here?"
He waved his free hand as if to encompass the space. Crowley looked around at the bookshelves, waiting for Aziraphale's favorite volumes, the elaborate loveseat that wasn't quite as nice as the sofa he'd made his own in the bookshop (that one would arrive later), the way that they were settled into this little patch of light in the midst of darkness. The rain sluiced against the house in a soft rush.
"If you're here," Crowley said. "'Course I will be."
He let Aziraphale pet him a moment more, feeling the tension fade out of both of them, and then they resumed their picnic, laughing and joking and passing the bottle back and forth. It could be any of a thousand nights they'd spent together, although no the less precious for it. Finally, warmly drunk and satisfied, Crowley heard the rain come to a stop, and the two of them meandered outside. Aziraphale even managed to put on his coat at the door, although it took longer than usual.
There was a chill in the air and the grass was wet, dampening the bottom of Crowley's jeans. The clouds had only cleared enough to show part of the full moon, but it was enough for them to be able to see each other. They stood there for a moment gazing up into the night together, before Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's hand and let go of his grasp. In a rush of air, the angel's wings appeared, one settling warmly around Crowley's shoulder.
Crowley looked over at him in surprise. This was another reason they'd decided on a home far back from the road, to have enough privacy to get their wings out on occasion, but usually Aziraphale announced his intention before doing so, given the amount of space needed to accommodate their enormous wingspans. Aziraphale's wings were white, mostly, but in the right light, they gleamed like opal, and the feathers were incredibly soft. Crowley had just groomed him not even a month ago, but he itched to bury his fingers in his feathers again.
"Crowley," Aziraphale said, "would you sober up, dear?"
Crowley blinked and he was sober. The action made him shiver, which made Aziraphale fold his wing more firmly around him, a gesture he appreciated. He reached out his hand to stroke at Aziraphale's primaries, but paused as he saw Aziraphale reach into his jacket. The angel turned toward him and then dropped to one knee in the damp grass.
"Aziraphale," Crowley said, his own knees wobbly, his voice hoarse.
"Thank you," Aziraphale said, and he was sober too, his consonants crisp. "I'm so glad that you let me thank you for things now, you know," he said, conversationally, as if he wasn't down on one knee with a little velvet box in one hand. "For so many years, you were kind to me and I had to pretend it was just a convenience or part of the Arrangement, instead of one of the ways you showed me that you loved me. I don't want to ever have to do that again. And I want to keep doing things for you too -- not because I'm trying to settle up, not because we owe each other anything -- but because I love you, and you deserve the world, everything I can give you. I can't wait to move into this house together and make it our new home, and I want -- I need you with me always. Crowley, will you marry me?"
He opened the little box, and its contents gleamed gold up at Crowley, who opened his mouth and had no words, just the hiss of his breath.
Thunder crashed and water slammed down on them, the wind whipping through Aziraphale's feathers, and Crowley pitched forward into Aziraphale, twisting around to confront whoever had come for them, grabbing Aziraphale's arm hard, his heart rabbiting -- but no one was here. There were no archangels, no Hellish dukes -- just the two of them in the middle of a completely normal British thunderstorm.
"Yes," Crowley said, laughing and releasing Aziraphale's arm so he could grab his face in both hands and kiss him. "Yes, angel, yes!"
"I didn't do that, with the rain, I promise," Aziraphale said breathlessly, clutching at Crowley's hip with his free hand. Crowley was still laughing.
"Vavoom," he whispered into Aziraphale's ear, and he let the angel put the ring on his finger before they scrambled back into the house, dripping all over the recently refinished floors.
*
where we squat outside, eating popcorn (202X CE)
"I double-checked: it's the right bride. Brides," Crowley corrected himself, sprawling down onto the chair beside Aziraphale's. It had become an in-joke to them after Leah and Jacob's wedding, and the angel smiled back.
"It's gotten a lot easier to tell now that veils have gone out of fashion," Aziraphale agreed. Crowley leaned over the table to grab the placecards in front of the other seats. He could have gotten up and walked around, but then Aziraphale wouldn't have huffed at his rudeness, and Crowley liked his huff. They were settling slowly into their new normal and that still included, as far as Crowley was concerned, a certain amount of angel-bothering. He flicked his wrist to show the cards to Aziraphale.
"They seated us with those two!" he said indignantly. Beelzebub's name was spelled wrong, not that they would notice, and someone had drawn little angel wings on each side of Gabriel's card. Crowley had liked the little snake on his until this moment.
"They probably thought it was rude not to invite the rest of the Second Coming Prevention Club," Aziraphale said, somewhat mournfully.
"First of all, we never called it that," Crowley began, but before he could continue the argument, the couple in question appeared and Gabriel leaned down and gave them both very firm hugs, despite their attempts to deter him. He then sat down and started telling them about how much he enjoyed America and how it just felt right to be there now that their former sides weren't holding swords to their necks.
"You should see what they call a salad over there. Fish!" Beelzebub added gleefully, and Crowley met Aziraphale's eyes for a split second of wordless communication.
"Excuse us, we must go say hello to the Antichrist, be respectful, you know," Aziraphale said, almost knocking over his chair as he hurried to stand. Crowley caught Aziraphale's chair and followed the angel's pointed finger into the crowd of mostly humans.
Adam was here somewhere, but his parentage still masked him from occult (slash celestial) forces. The excuse mattered more than locating him. They'd seen Adam at the ceremony, reading a Pablo Neruda poem. One of them had cried. (The other promised not to tell anyone else.) Adam would eventually turn up in that unexpected way he had, probably to try to convince an angel to linedance. Crowley thought Adam could probably talk Gabriel into it, actually.
Nina and Maggie were still getting their photos done and most folks in the reception space were wandering around with drinks in hand. Crowley plucked up a couple from a passing waiter and continued following Aziraphale, who was managing to navigate the crowd with aplomb despite pausing to say hello to apparently every single human currently living. Some of them Crowley even recognized, but he made a point of not learning names, so he just lurked in Aziraphale's wake.
Finally they reached a little side door, which opened onto a narrow alley next to a dumpster. He handed Aziraphale the second wine glass, and the angel took it with a grateful smile.
"Shut your eyes a minute," Crowley suggested, and when Aziraphale did, he continued. "Could be back at Versailles right now, couldn't we? It's almost the same stench."
Although Crowley was usually excluded from weddings once humans started insisting on having them in churches, he and Aziraphale had attended hundreds of wedding receptions in their time, and they'd both been present for some of Louis XIV's excesses, including his wedding to his Spanish queen. Aziraphale had been one of the queen's ladies in waiting, encouraging temperance in the midst of decadence, and Crowley had mostly been hanging around taking credit for sinful things, as he liked to do.
Aziraphale opened his eyes, nose wrinkling, and the dumpster ceased stinking, much to its surprise.
"Let's think of happier unions, Crowley," he suggested. "Of all the couples we've had to… Encourage over the years, I have a very good feeling about Maggie and Nina."
"They mostly did that themselves," Crowley pointed out.
"Which is for the best," Aziraphale said firmly. "But think of Arthur and Guinevere--"
"You got reassigned before that went tits up," Crowley said. He glared at his glass of wine until it refilled, leaning back against a wall that wouldn't dare muss his jacket.
"Adam and Eve were really quite sweet," the angel continued.
"It wasn't as if they had a lot of alternatives--"
Aziraphale's eyes flashed irritation and Crowley stopped talking and let his angel go on.
"Henry and Anne--"
"You must be doing this on purpose?" Crowley couldn't resist the interruption. He refilled the angel's glass in penance.
"David and Jonathan," Aziraphale said firmly. "Oh, how much they loved each other…"
"I missed most of that one. Saul kept me busy. Did try to talk him out of that… foreskins thing," Crowley answered. He had seen the two men together only once, on a day that David had returned from battle, worn but victorious, and Jonathan had pressed his fingers into the dents on David's breastplate and whispered prayers of thanks that Crowley certainly wasn't meant to overhear.
Aziraphale twisted the wine glass around in his fingers. "They keep on living, even when they lose each other," he said, his eyes on his glass. "Promising forever like it's theirs to give."
"Of course they do," Crowley answered, waving a hand to make sure the door they'd exited from was locked. He took Aziraphale's glass and banished both pieces of empty glassware into the ether. It seemed that Aziraphale understood him, because the angel came closer, pressing a kiss into the curve of Crowley's jaw, sliding a hand up to touch the arm of Crowley's glasses. Crowley nodded, letting Aziraphale pull the glasses off and lean in close again. Crowley liked the feeling of Aziraphale's body against his -- it anchored him, like always. It would take time for them to feel completely safe, but with Aziraphale's arms around his neck, Crowley couldn't worry too much. Not anymore.
"When your time is limited, you give what you can," Crowley said, turning his head to kiss the corner of Aziraphale's mouth. "Haven't we always done that, angel?"
"Mm," Aziraphale said in agreement, and there were a few long moments of pleased silence before someone banged loudly on the door from the inside. They sprang apart, startled, but then were not entirely surprised when Adam opened the door.
"Auntie Mags needs your stain removal services," he said with a grin. "Anathema's daughter put a big chocolate handprint on her dress."
Aziraphale laughed, and Crowley shook his head in dismay.
"This is what we've been reduced to," he grumbled, taking the doorknob from Adam's grip and putting his sunglasses back on. "Occult dry cleaners. They'll owe me for this."
Aziraphale followed him inside, looping his arm around Crowley's. "A gift for the bride, dear," he said to his partner. "At least this time we're not delivering goats."
"Goats?" Adam said with delight, and Crowley only half-listened to Aziraphale tell that old story as they made their way back towards the party. He was more focused on the angel's hand, warm and wide on his elbow, and how precious it felt to touch him like this in public, how right.
*
learning to make fire (203X CE part iii)
They found, in the end, that they were perfectly in agreement. Over the past few years, love and cohabitation had burnished their edges together, softly, until they knew what each other needed, and how to ask for it. They agreed that simple was best. This was for them, after all, and they already had so much. They'd long ago stopped standing on ceremony, unless that ceremony was a long-held joke between them.
The day they picked was the longest day of the year, but they didn't step out into their garden until well after dark. The twinkling stars would be their witnesses. Crowley's hand was gentle at Aziraphale's elbow, since the angel was not nearly as good at seeing in the dark as the demon was. Still, they both knew this little path so well they could walk it blindfolded, and there was no hesitation between them. The touch was nice, though.
Both sets of feet were bare, even if one set was more scaly than most human feet, and the stones along the path were cooling now that the sun was at its rest. They walked together in comfortable silence to the little gate in their fence that stood between an apple and a pear tree. It was the perfect place.
There, they turned toward each other and took each other's hands. There was not much space between them, but they both leaned forward into each other, their foreheads nearly touching. Crowley squeezed Aziraphale's hands. Aziraphale squeezed back. The sky was unclouded, but the moon was only a sliver.
Aziraphale said, "Let there be light," and then there was a tiny glow above them, like the pinprick of a star hovering a few feet from the ground.
"I thought we said no miracles," Crowley said, but there wasn't any real censure in his voice, just a hint of amusement.
"I want to see you," Aziraphale answered, looking into his partner's golden gaze, and Crowley looked back steadily.
This certainly could have evolved into one of their fond, rambling disagreements, but they had other plans, other things to say.
"You see me," Crowley said instead. Aziraphale smiled.
"I see you," Aziraphale said. "And it would be my greatest honor, and pleasure, and joy, to go on seeing you for the rest of our shared existence. I love you, Crowley, and I hope you feel that every single day."
Crowley's chin tipped up toward the sky as he broke their eye contact, his neck a pale column in the dimness. Aziraphale waited patiently for him to compose himself.
"I do," Crowley said finally, his voice a little gravelly. He looked again at the angel. "And I have loved you for so long that... "If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me." That's a promise."
Aziraphale was grinning so much it felt like his muscles should be aching. "You know Emma is my favorite," he said.
"I know all your favorites, angel," Crowley said.
Aziraphale sighed. It was the same pleased sigh he gave when an exceptional dessert was served and he prepared to taste it for the first time.
"Nothing but truth is something I intend to earn," he said, lifting their joined hands to press a kiss to the back of Crowley's, one after another.
"None of that," Crowley said. "No more keeping score. We did that for long enough." He lifted his eyebrows, but said nothing further about Heaven or Hell. They'd both agreed that this ceremony would have nothing to do with either.
"You're right, my dear," Aziraphale said.
"Oh, you are in a good mood," Crowley said, smugness creeping into his voice, but before Aziraphale could protest (or agree, because of course he was in a wonderful mood), Crowley let his wings out into the world, spreading them wide around the two of them. Aziraphale did the same, letting their feathers touch, feeling the invisible sparks between the two sets of wings where they brushed.
They let go of each other's hands long enough for rings to be located: one that had had a previous life as a golden signet ring for a number of years, reshaped to fit a smaller hand; the other featuring a shape like a Celtic knot, nearly, except for the hint of scale and the snake's head on one side.
They promised themselves to each other, then, mostly with words and feathers and rings, but also with the way that Aziraphale's halo glowed, peeking through the crown of his hair, and the way that Crowley's feathers caught the reflection of that light and the deep, oil-slick colors hidden in the black were revealed. They invoked neither God nor Satan, and did not ask any blessings from either.
And when they were done, they held each other close, hands on shoulders and hands on hips, heads tucked into each other's necks. They were both here, solid and warm and real, and Aziraphale let the little bit of divine light go so they could look up at the stars instead. They did, for several long minutes, before taking each other's hands again and heading back inside.