Aziraphale is Aziraphale again, tidy and elegant and looking at him with such fondness in his eyes, and for a few moments he is Crowley again, aching with love and desire for him. Tilting his head to the hand that slips into his hair, the fingers that stroke through a rippling curl, he slides the spectacles from his face and holds them in one hand as the other captures Aziraphale's and brings it to his mouth so he can kiss the angel's palm. In the deepening twilight his yellow eyes nearly glow. "A moment, angel," he says, winding his arms around Aziraphale's shoulders and tipping his head to kiss him, deep and lingering. Their table will keep.
At last he moves back, settles the dark round lenses over his eyes again and once more becomes Ashtoreth, slinking to Aziraphale's side and snaking her arm through his. Her hips sway excessively as they walk, the dress seems to ripple around her form like a silken piece of the night sky captured just for her, and Aziraphale makes quite the dashing contrast in her opinion in his crisp suit. At the restaurant the maitre d' is pleased to welcome them and show them to their table, as though it's been waiting all evening just for them. The low lighting within the restaurant and the golden lights of the village all aglow outside the window make for an enchanting atmosphere, Ashtoreth's hand clasping Aziraphale's across the table and her body leaned towards his as though no one in the world is more fascinating company.
He isn't expecting the kiss to his palm, and then neither is he expecting the one to his mouth, but his little gasp of surprise is swallowed and then they're kissing as if they're alone in their little granny flat behind the Dowling's estate. He wants more, as he always does, when Crowley leaves him and his face, struck stunned, always takes a little time to recover. The lipstick, though freshly-applied, only leaves a little bit of a stain, more just to color his lips rather than to leave an impression, and just serve to make his mouth look just a little pink. It goes quite nicely with his cheeks.
They get a table next to a large window tonight, and Aziraphale is glad for it. People bustle about outside and in, but it's cozy in here with the nice lighting and the music they've selected. It's soft and quiet, everyone enjoying their meal without too much of a raucous noise that accompanies restaurants that don't require dressing up. Aziraphale orders a wine without looking at the menu, and the waiter informs him that they don't serve that vintage here, but Aziraphale points out very kindly that it is, indeed, on the menu tonight. What an odd coincidence.
He does look embarrassed, and Aziraphale thinks he'll leave a generous tip to make up for it. Taking a glance around the restaurant, he leans in and whispers into Ashtoreth's ear, "look. They're all envious of me."
Ashtoreth, of course, has every confidence that whatever Aziraphale orders will be on the menu, and is not at all surprised by his kindness in pointing out to the young server that the wine he asks for is indeed available tonight. It's just like him to think of the poor waiter's feelings even while insisting on having exactly what he wants; she's sure Aziraphale will find a way to make it up to him. She hides her amusement behind her dark spectacles, leaning her chin in her hand as she studies Aziraphale intently from her place beside him, not bothering to disguise her fascination as the server hurries away and other diners glance in their direction. She's enjoying it all immensely: the intimate setting, the soft music, the attention surrounding them. "They don't know what a lucky woman I am," she answers, reaching for Aziraphale's hand and stroking his knuckles with her long fingers.
How many times did Crowley sit here in another restaurant, in another time and place, and gaze at Aziraphale, burying a longing to touch him so deep it was hidden even from himself? To be the beauty on the angel's arm tonight, to look at him with his eyes concealed but none of the love and desire in his heart hidden, no more secret yearning between them, is more than he'd thought he might ever have just a few decades ago.
Ashtoreth doesn't take her hand away when the server returns, leaving it resting over Aziraphale's on the table when the waiter returns with the bottle of wine for him to taste, pouring them both a glass when it meets his approval. "Order for me, will you, angel?" she says languidly as she reaches for her glass. "You know I won't eat much."
Aziraphale still has no idea, still in never having asked and not knowing how long it has been since Crowley was in love with him. It hadn't mattered, at all, not really. Since Crowley had come to him that night, and from then on: that was what had mattered. Crowley loved him then, and loved him now, as anyone with eyes and possibly some without could see plaintively before them.
And Aziraphale, returning his attention to his dinner partner, smiles at her like she's given him the world. In a way, she has: this little slice of Heaven on Earth they call theirs, with the things they love best, and the only person that really matters. Aziraphale would feel blessed even if he weren't an angel, just to be here with her right this moment. He supposes that's why everyone else is jealous of him; no one else has her company, no one else has captivated her attention the way he has. What's so special about him, they might wonder. What has he got?
History, compassion, and six thousand years' worth of pining and long nights drinking and giving each other meaningful looks. A long time to pretend. He reaches over and takes Crowley's hand, giving it a little squeeze, and thinking back to the display of rings. Someday, he thinks. Someday, he'll be able to ask Crowley to marry him, under the view of God and Heaven and whoever else may or may not be too interested in the knowledge that a demon could, in fact, love with all his heart.
There's no doubt in his mind that anyone looking their way would be envious of them both, perhaps not for anything particular to either one of them but simply for the clear love that glows between them, like a light that surrounds them both. Like the radiance of wings, black and white feathers entangled, complementing one another. It's wonderful to be able to offer Aziraphale his hand, and feel his fingers tighten around it in a gentle squeeze, a faint smile Crowley's barely aware of lingering on his face as he looks down across the table at their joined hands. At the delicate lacework of gold and rubies hanging at his wrist, his long fingers tangled with Aziraphale's finely manicured ones, the golden signet ring on the angel's little finger. One of his own fingertips rubs at it softly, curiously.
There doesn't seem to be any great need to speak; he's content to let the silence linger, sitting with Aziraphale in harmonious quiet, like any blissful couple. At last, though, he asks in Ashtoreth's feminine brogue, "What are you thinking of, angel?"
No, there's no need to speak between them, though usually it's Aziraphale who fills the empty space with words and thoughts. All he thinks of is Crowley, of Ashtoreth, of how he wants this to go on and on and on indefinitely, for as long as Crowley had illustrated eternity to be. There they will be, at the Ritz, or some other restaurant, Crowley watching intently as Aziraphale enjoys a meal, casting glances over at each other and smiling, perhaps this time with rings on their fingers after the events of Armageddon haven't unfolded.
"Us," he replies, truthfully. "How I adore being here with you." And more locally, their day as well: he reflects how wonderful it had been, waking up, spending so long in bed with Crowley, meandering around a market, being able to hold his hand in public. It was possibly something that any couple had done before, but Crowley and Aziraphale had not been allowed - and he's greedy for more days just as perfect as this.
He squeezes Ashtoreth's hand, with its equally perfect manicure, but missing a ring for him to play with. "And you, darling? What are you thinking about?" He's quite curious to know, as he often doesn't. Or, no, that is to say, he often does know what Crowley is thinking of, but sometimes his train of thought will just veer off and be about ducks or something. He doesn't mind it; it adds a little air of unpredictability to him.
It's true that Crowley's thoughts sometimes veer in unpredictable directions, perhaps because demons are expected to bring a little chaos into the world. At the moment, though, his thoughts are wandering along the lines of a future with Aziraphale, carefully skidding away from any anxiety about the world coming to an end some decade or so from now. They're doing their best on that front, and isn't it only fair to have a dinner, an evening, where they can pretend to a boundless future stretching on before them in which anything is possible?
"I was thinking," he murmurs, still toying with Aziraphale's ring, "next time the Dowlings are on holiday, we go for one as well. Get away from it all." The Antichrist, the approaching apocalypse, not to mention any need for disguises--though perhaps he'll still be the lady on Aziraphale's arm for an evening. Perhaps they can pretend to a different story: one where they're an obvious couple with nothing to hide, a pair of newlyweds, perhaps. It's a silly fantasy, but there's a wistfulness in him as he thinks of it. He draws the signet ring off of Aziraphale's little finger and fits it carefully onto his own, looking at it in the candlelight, an almost unconscious action.
A holiday. He loves the idea. Getting away from it all, the Armageddon, their dual jobs, just Aziraphale and Crowley out on an adventure. If it should have to be their last then at least it would be a good one. They've had six thousand years at this and it's nowhere near enough; Aziraphale would start falling apart soon if he thought the plan wasn't going to work, as they get closer to the date. He'd hold himself together as long as there was still an Earth to be saved, and his relationship to be saved, but he doesn't know how he could fight in the war knowing that he might have to be the one to cut Crowley down. Or worse, to see another angel do it, to see another angel even touch him.
"Yes, a holiday sounds nice, dear, where would we--" He cuts off and his brows knit curiously as the ring slips off of his finger, and he glances down to see what Crowley has done with it when he. "--Go?" He swallows hard and thoughts race a mile a minute in his head, too fast, like Crowley peeling across London, careless of anyone who might be in the way. And like what he'd said once, foolishly, trying to reject Crowley again; they never would've had this, any of this if Crowley had just listened to him that night. And so, Aziraphale decides that, in their possible impending doom, perhaps now is not the time to wait.
"I'd like to get you a real one," he says. "An engagement ring." His voice rises in pitch, slightly nervously, and is quickened. "I know we can't get-- I know it hasn't been very long we've been doing this, but I." It's rare for Aziraphale to not have the words he's looking for, as he looks down at their hands and idly plays with them, trying to find new configurations to hold Crowley's hand. "If we could," he finishes lamely.
Crowley already knows he will never fight in any war if it means opposing Aziraphale, suicidal thought though it may be. Of course he’ll never be permitted to stand on the sidelines, which is why he has the holy water, not to mention a backup plan to flee to the stars if it should come to that, which he hopes it won’t. He quite likes earth, he likes the life he has here (especially in recent years, especially with Aziraphale), not to mention that if he has to run, he’ll have to convince the angel to come with him. He can’t imagine going without him, leaving him to fight a war and worse, maybe to die at the hands of some gloating demon.
“I don’t know—anywhere. Somewhere with good drinks.” A little anxious, recognizing that uncertain tone in Aziraphale’s voice and wondering if he’s pushed for too much, too fast, Crowley is about to slide the ring guiltily from his finger and give it back when Aziraphale speaks again, and his words freeze Crowley where he sits. A real one? ...A real engagement ring? Wonder and a slow unfurling delight comes into him, as Aziraphale fiddles with his hand and keeps talking, hope and longing, a whole tangle of emotion he can hardly begin to sort through. His hand tightening around Aziraphale’s, Crowley asks softly, “You’d really want to? Make an honest demon out of me?”
A wistful smile touches his face. If we could, Aziraphale says, and isn’t that a question that has no easy answer? How can they marry without either of their sides taking notice, realizing at last how far they’ve gone and deciding to make an example of them, as Aziraphale once feared? “You know that I—if there’s any way, we’ll find it. I’ll marry you. And if we couldn’t—“ It’s painful to think of, but he promises, “I would still wear your ring.”
His heart beats furiously in his chest like a caged bird, fighting for its freedom, and his eyes light up with fireworks behind the silvery blue. "You... would?" he inquires, feeling tears come as his lips curl upwards. He would wear Aziraphale's ring, and proudly be his husband. He'd even asked if Aziraphale had really wanted to-- as if the answer would be no, as if he wouldn't want the chance to claim Crowley for his own and "make an honest demon out of him" and do all the things married people do: share a home, share a life, get a dog, argue over in-laws, take holidays, file joint taxes!
"You can-- you can keep this one, if you'd like. It's. I mean, it is my ring," he says. And he couldn't think of another that is more signifying of Aziraphale, because it's old and it's precious to him, and buying a new one would-- well, that would be more of Crowley. And he wouldn't mind that. Sometime, he'd have to purchase a ring for Crowley, matching his style, for him to wear with all his clothes. Surely people will talk if he wears the gold one with the angel wings and the crest.
"Perhaps on a chain around your neck," he adds. "When we can't show anyone." He sounds a bit sad but it's for the best, that they both keep their heads and continue being able to meet like this. "We'll just-- we'll have a long engagement."
There's no hesitance in him, no second thoughts, for all that the idea of a demon marrying an angel seems against the very nature of the universe. Crowley would never have thought...he knows how much Aziraphale loves him, but to want to claim him as his own in this most significant way, to declare them bonded and belonging to one another before all the world, is something he wouldn't have hoped was possible even just a few decades ago. Even if they couldn't do it, even if it would be too dangerous, the very thought of it brings him a painfully vivid happiness.
"'Course I would." He lowers his head to kiss Aziraphale's hand when he sees the tears in his eyes, unable to bear making Aziraphale cry, even if it's joy and not sorrow. But Crowley looks up again when he offers him his ring to keep, eyes widened behind his dark lenses. "Can I really? You don't mind?" Perhaps some day Aziraphale will give him an engagement ring that’s styled just for him, and there’s no doubt it will beautiful, that Crowley will receive it with pleasure and pride and wear it openly as much as he can, but this ring, Aziraphale’s signet, is as much a piece of him as a feather from his wing. It’s been with him through thousands of years, all the time they’ve known each other.
He looks down to again admire its familiar golden gleam. His little finger, though, that's not quite right--Crowley draws it off and fits it properly onto his ring finger instead. "Yeah," he agrees softly, "a chain's good." Looking up at Aziraphale, he smiles tenderly. "Looks best there, though, doesn't it?"
Yes, it does fit nicely around Crowley's ring finger where it would have been too loose on his pinky, and Aziraphale can't take his eyes away. "It's beautiful on you," he says. "Keep it. I'll get you one to replace it someday." Which meant he needed a someday in the future to do it - he has no choice but to believe in their plan, because if he doesn't, then they won't ever get the chance to be free to bond themselves the way the humans find most strong. Angels and demons have no such equivalent bond, because angels and demons are quite content never to picnic together, or dance, or rub cold feet on their partner in bed fully knowing they can miracle themselves warmer instead.
Aziraphale, however, would like nothing more than to get in front of a crowd on a lawn somewhere and tell everyone present that he adores this demon and belongs to him, will love him until the last human on Earth is long gone, until they no longer have colonies in the star systems they've run to in order to expand. When they have all at last expired, and Crowley and Aziraphale return to spirits floating in the sky instead of two bodies, and when they've forgotten all of heaven and hell- he would still love Crowley with all he has.
Which, of course, is when the waiter comes by with the appetizers and offers a heartfelt congratulations once he sees the ring on Ashtoreth's finger. "Oh," Aziraphale replies. "It's been a long time coming."
Crowley's hand tightens around Aziraphale's, trying to express the magnitude of emotion he feels: gratitude, and pure raw possessiveness, and aching love. He loves this ring, loves having a part of Aziraphale that is now his own: a beautiful, golden symbol of him that a demon has stolen all for his own. Let Heaven or Hell try to take it from him. And if Aziraphale does eventually give him one that is styled just for him, if he doesn't want his signet back, then perhaps Crowley can wear both: the engagement ring on his finger and the signet ring on its chain, over his heart.
Ashtoreth smiles beguilingly as the water congratulates them and admires the ring, murmuring her thanks. "It certainly has," she adds to Aziraphale's sentiment, her eyes practically glowing behind her dark lenses. "I've finally caught him."
It's no great surprise when champagne arrives and a pair of glasses for them to toast with. "To our betrothal," Crowley says, lifting the glass, still hardly able to believe it. "And our marriage." He won't say if, only when; won't accept that anything can stand in their way, now that they're promised to one another. "Have you--been thinking of this? Where we'll live, what it will be like?" He's dying to know. The few years of near-cohabitation they've had in employment with the Dowlings have been like a dream--what would it be like to be able to live together all the time?
"Truthfully, no, I haven't given it enough thought," he says. "I suppose that we can't live with the Dowlings forever, and we'll have to find our own place. Perhaps I'll buy out the entire block the shop is on, and we could construct on top of it the sort of apartment you might like to live in. A roof garden, maybe." He thinks Crowley might like that, being able to take care of plants outside. And Aziraphale would too, sitting outside with a book and a sun hat, listening to the dimmed bustle of Soho down below them.
He thinks it might be a little ostentatious for them, because Heaven and Hell were still their employers, but he could always lie and say it was a new housing development and they'd bought the air rights to his shop, and it smelled evil because of course, it was the sort of apartments that attracted lawyers and politicians. Then he'd shoosh Crowley on upstairs. He doesn't even know if Hell has his address on the books.
"But I... I'll think about it," he answers. He toasts to them, and takes a sip of the champagne; it's too dry, for him. He remembers the days when it was sweet as candy; somehow these days people preferred their dessert wines a little less sweet, and their champagne even more so. He supposes he doesn't miss much else about that time. "Where would you like to live? Where would you like to honeymoon, dear?"
It's very touching just to sit here and listen to Aziraphale construct their future, building them a flamboyant home out of an entire block in Soho and even a place for his plants. If Crowley were a sentimental demon (he is) he'd wonder if perhaps Aziraphale has been thinking about this more than he lets on, or at least letting the idea simmer unconsciously in the back of his mind. He strokes Aziraphale's hand with the fingers not holding a flute of champagne, rubbing a thumb slowly and tenderly over his knuckles. "Mm, suppose they'd like a roof. Not sure it'd be properly scary enough for them, though." His teeth glint briefly as he considers it.
He doesn't mind the idea, though. London's been home for long enough to both of them that it makes sense to stay, and Aziraphale of course has his bookshop, which Crowley never again wants to see him deprived of. He can imagine it too--the two of them enjoying some rare sunny day, Aziraphale lying out on one of those old-fashioned deck chairs with his book and perhaps a chilled glass of wine at hand, waiting for Crowley to finish tending the plants and turn to him instead.
"Sounds nice, your block of houses." He hesitates a moment, squeezing Aziraphale's hand. "For our honeymoon we could...get another cottage, one of our own, I mean. Seaside, maybe? Someplace where it's just us alone."
Well, perhaps he had thought about it but never seriously, and all his dreams had been thrown about and dashed, what with their employers being very unsupportive of the two of them together. Aziraphale hadn't even garnered much support for trying to prevent the war - like they wanted it all to end.
Aziraphale can't imagine a place where he can't have this with Crowley, where a future with him isn't possible.
"A seaside cottage," he repeats. "Yes, I'd like that very much. A little cottage we can retreat to when the big city is too much, and just open a window and look out at the water." Maybe Crowley could take up creating again, painting or something. And Aziraphale would recite poetry to him, and possibly get out the harp. Yes, of course he plays harp.
It would be lovely, a permanent place they could go honeymooning. "Yes, let's."
And - after all is said and done, and they're married, Aziraphale will make sure they have the perfect cottage, already bought and paid for, with some of their belongings already moved in, and all they would have to do is lie back and enjoy each other's company. Perhaps, on their balcony, looking up at the stars.
"That's...yeah. That." A cottage of their own--permanently, or as permanent as houses built by mankind can be, anyway. They can make it over to suit their preferences, just like their housing block in Soho. If there's no big window over the water, they can fix that: give it the best view, and gauzy little curtains to drift in the breeze from the sea. They can put in a breakfast nook there, for Aziraphale to enjoy long indulgent mornings while his demon is sleeping upstairs. Or perhaps it can be the view from their bed.
Their plans occupy his thoughts as their dinner is served, Crowley's mouth curved at the edges, his faint smile tender and indulgent to anyone who looks closely enough, as he clearly far more occupied in watching his companion tuck in than his own food. He nibbles a little now and again, and drinks a great deal more, the bottle of wine somehow lasting beyond the usual number of pours. It puzzles their server, who nervously decides that this is all some trick of the light and the young lady can't possibly be drinking that much, though when the bill is signed and he collects it after the couple has left he'll find that the price of three times the expensive bottle is listed on the cheque and reflected in the generous tip.
When he's not drinking, Crowley toys with the gold ring, stroking it or admiring it in the light. "I don't remember wearing one like this, y'know," he says later after a good bit of imbibing.
Throughout dinner, Aziraphale drinks rather lightly in comparison to Crowley but he does end up basically eating both of their meals. They order different things, and oh, several desserts to satisfy him. It isn't every day that he gets to go out anymore, and on the days that it's just him and Crowley stuck at the Dowling estate, he squeezes out every last minute he can with Crowley, and sometimes that means not eating. That's why he feels all the more indulgent tonight, much to more confusion of their astonished waiter who comes by and thinks he must've misremembered who ordered which entree as they were obviously placed in front of different people now.
If anyone would remember them, it would only be as a strange couple who had gotten engaged over the course of dinner, lovely, slightly older, the woman mysterious and the man kindly looking. Gentle. Aziraphale will make sure they forget any sort of important details, such as hair color, the fact that Crowley's wearing sunglasses.
And he does get a little lost in the planning, thinking of all sorts of things from how he'd want the wainscoting to be to how he'd like the windows oriented. Honestly without a canvas to work on in front of him, the house is coming up a bit of a mess in his mind. But no worries, he thinks. Shouldn't be much an issue at the time, and he'll be so excited. To build a place, perfect for the two of them, where they could both call sanctuary and thrive. At least six years off from now.
He takes Crowley's hand and doesn't think he could wait. He looks up when commented about the ring, and responds, "what do you mean? Of course not, dear, I've never let you wear it before."
Crowley's happy to let Aziraphale see to the meal, stealing only a bite or two of the particularly indulgent-looking desserts before sliding his portions over to Aziraphale's side of the table and having do with the wine. There's nothing really different about the dozens of times they've been here before, many meals passed in just this way with Crowley watching Aziraphale from behind his shades when he isn't drinking, devouring the sight of him the way the angel devours the food--not too fast, not bolting it back for the sake of substance but lingering for pure enjoyment, for savoring each and every bite. He watches Aziraphale the same way, fascinated, hungry for him. Wanting to linger over every detail. The difference now is the ring on his finger and the tender, possessive cast to Crowley's gaze. Aziraphale is his now, his most of all. His husband-to-be.
"Not yours," he explains, bringing Aziraphale's hand up to his mouth and kissing the knuckles. Rather tipsy now, Crowley goes on, "Before. Y'know. Before all the..." He waves the other hand, indicating himself. Before he was a demon. Before his Fall. That hazy time, the memories half-forgotten or deliberately pushed out of his mind, when he was an angel of God, when the universe was dark, when the night was still a black velvet sky unpierced by stars, and Crowley helped in the shaping of nebulae, the design of the firmament. "Didn't have a ring like this. Or maybe I did, but I forgot it." He sighs. "Lots forgotten from back then."
Oh, well. This was going to be a conversation, certainly. He'd never asked about it, out of respect for Crowley as a person. Seemed like a hard time for him to talk about, and so he'd never pushed, never asked any details that he thought would be too painful to bring up. "Not all angels get one, darling. Just like not all demons have one of these," he adds, leaning in and kissing Crowley over where his snake tattoo is. Could've been much worse; he could've wound up with a frog on his head or covered in pockmarks and maggots.
"Do you remember anything?" he asks, because maybe Crowley would like to reflect on his time as an angel and Aziraphale would never want him not to do so, would never want to discourage him from anything he might find cathartic. And who better to talk through his past than the one he was going to marry, the only other person on Earth who understood a modicum of what it was like to live as he does? He doesn't know if Crowley still speaks to God or Satan, or if they respond to him. Certainly, God hasn't taken Aziraphale's call in a long time. So that was it, then. All they really had were each other.
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At last he moves back, settles the dark round lenses over his eyes again and once more becomes Ashtoreth, slinking to Aziraphale's side and snaking her arm through his. Her hips sway excessively as they walk, the dress seems to ripple around her form like a silken piece of the night sky captured just for her, and Aziraphale makes quite the dashing contrast in her opinion in his crisp suit. At the restaurant the maitre d' is pleased to welcome them and show them to their table, as though it's been waiting all evening just for them. The low lighting within the restaurant and the golden lights of the village all aglow outside the window make for an enchanting atmosphere, Ashtoreth's hand clasping Aziraphale's across the table and her body leaned towards his as though no one in the world is more fascinating company.
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They get a table next to a large window tonight, and Aziraphale is glad for it. People bustle about outside and in, but it's cozy in here with the nice lighting and the music they've selected. It's soft and quiet, everyone enjoying their meal without too much of a raucous noise that accompanies restaurants that don't require dressing up. Aziraphale orders a wine without looking at the menu, and the waiter informs him that they don't serve that vintage here, but Aziraphale points out very kindly that it is, indeed, on the menu tonight. What an odd coincidence.
He does look embarrassed, and Aziraphale thinks he'll leave a generous tip to make up for it. Taking a glance around the restaurant, he leans in and whispers into Ashtoreth's ear, "look. They're all envious of me."
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How many times did Crowley sit here in another restaurant, in another time and place, and gaze at Aziraphale, burying a longing to touch him so deep it was hidden even from himself? To be the beauty on the angel's arm tonight, to look at him with his eyes concealed but none of the love and desire in his heart hidden, no more secret yearning between them, is more than he'd thought he might ever have just a few decades ago.
Ashtoreth doesn't take her hand away when the server returns, leaving it resting over Aziraphale's on the table when the waiter returns with the bottle of wine for him to taste, pouring them both a glass when it meets his approval. "Order for me, will you, angel?" she says languidly as she reaches for her glass. "You know I won't eat much."
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And Aziraphale, returning his attention to his dinner partner, smiles at her like she's given him the world. In a way, she has: this little slice of Heaven on Earth they call theirs, with the things they love best, and the only person that really matters. Aziraphale would feel blessed even if he weren't an angel, just to be here with her right this moment. He supposes that's why everyone else is jealous of him; no one else has her company, no one else has captivated her attention the way he has. What's so special about him, they might wonder. What has he got?
History, compassion, and six thousand years' worth of pining and long nights drinking and giving each other meaningful looks. A long time to pretend. He reaches over and takes Crowley's hand, giving it a little squeeze, and thinking back to the display of rings. Someday, he thinks. Someday, he'll be able to ask Crowley to marry him, under the view of God and Heaven and whoever else may or may not be too interested in the knowledge that a demon could, in fact, love with all his heart.
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There doesn't seem to be any great need to speak; he's content to let the silence linger, sitting with Aziraphale in harmonious quiet, like any blissful couple. At last, though, he asks in Ashtoreth's feminine brogue, "What are you thinking of, angel?"
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"Us," he replies, truthfully. "How I adore being here with you." And more locally, their day as well: he reflects how wonderful it had been, waking up, spending so long in bed with Crowley, meandering around a market, being able to hold his hand in public. It was possibly something that any couple had done before, but Crowley and Aziraphale had not been allowed - and he's greedy for more days just as perfect as this.
He squeezes Ashtoreth's hand, with its equally perfect manicure, but missing a ring for him to play with. "And you, darling? What are you thinking about?" He's quite curious to know, as he often doesn't. Or, no, that is to say, he often does know what Crowley is thinking of, but sometimes his train of thought will just veer off and be about ducks or something. He doesn't mind it; it adds a little air of unpredictability to him.
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"I was thinking," he murmurs, still toying with Aziraphale's ring, "next time the Dowlings are on holiday, we go for one as well. Get away from it all." The Antichrist, the approaching apocalypse, not to mention any need for disguises--though perhaps he'll still be the lady on Aziraphale's arm for an evening. Perhaps they can pretend to a different story: one where they're an obvious couple with nothing to hide, a pair of newlyweds, perhaps. It's a silly fantasy, but there's a wistfulness in him as he thinks of it. He draws the signet ring off of Aziraphale's little finger and fits it carefully onto his own, looking at it in the candlelight, an almost unconscious action.
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"Yes, a holiday sounds nice, dear, where would we--" He cuts off and his brows knit curiously as the ring slips off of his finger, and he glances down to see what Crowley has done with it when he. "--Go?" He swallows hard and thoughts race a mile a minute in his head, too fast, like Crowley peeling across London, careless of anyone who might be in the way. And like what he'd said once, foolishly, trying to reject Crowley again; they never would've had this, any of this if Crowley had just listened to him that night. And so, Aziraphale decides that, in their possible impending doom, perhaps now is not the time to wait.
"I'd like to get you a real one," he says. "An engagement ring." His voice rises in pitch, slightly nervously, and is quickened. "I know we can't get-- I know it hasn't been very long we've been doing this, but I." It's rare for Aziraphale to not have the words he's looking for, as he looks down at their hands and idly plays with them, trying to find new configurations to hold Crowley's hand. "If we could," he finishes lamely.
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“I don’t know—anywhere. Somewhere with good drinks.” A little anxious, recognizing that uncertain tone in Aziraphale’s voice and wondering if he’s pushed for too much, too fast, Crowley is about to slide the ring guiltily from his finger and give it back when Aziraphale speaks again, and his words freeze Crowley where he sits. A real one? ...A real engagement ring? Wonder and a slow unfurling delight comes into him, as Aziraphale fiddles with his hand and keeps talking, hope and longing, a whole tangle of emotion he can hardly begin to sort through. His hand tightening around Aziraphale’s, Crowley asks softly, “You’d really want to? Make an honest demon out of me?”
A wistful smile touches his face. If we could, Aziraphale says, and isn’t that a question that has no easy answer? How can they marry without either of their sides taking notice, realizing at last how far they’ve gone and deciding to make an example of them, as Aziraphale once feared? “You know that I—if there’s any way, we’ll find it. I’ll marry you. And if we couldn’t—“ It’s painful to think of, but he promises, “I would still wear your ring.”
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"You can-- you can keep this one, if you'd like. It's. I mean, it is my ring," he says. And he couldn't think of another that is more signifying of Aziraphale, because it's old and it's precious to him, and buying a new one would-- well, that would be more of Crowley. And he wouldn't mind that. Sometime, he'd have to purchase a ring for Crowley, matching his style, for him to wear with all his clothes. Surely people will talk if he wears the gold one with the angel wings and the crest.
"Perhaps on a chain around your neck," he adds. "When we can't show anyone." He sounds a bit sad but it's for the best, that they both keep their heads and continue being able to meet like this. "We'll just-- we'll have a long engagement."
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"'Course I would." He lowers his head to kiss Aziraphale's hand when he sees the tears in his eyes, unable to bear making Aziraphale cry, even if it's joy and not sorrow. But Crowley looks up again when he offers him his ring to keep, eyes widened behind his dark lenses. "Can I really? You don't mind?" Perhaps some day Aziraphale will give him an engagement ring that’s styled just for him, and there’s no doubt it will beautiful, that Crowley will receive it with pleasure and pride and wear it openly as much as he can, but this ring, Aziraphale’s signet, is as much a piece of him as a feather from his wing. It’s been with him through thousands of years, all the time they’ve known each other.
He looks down to again admire its familiar golden gleam. His little finger, though, that's not quite right--Crowley draws it off and fits it properly onto his ring finger instead. "Yeah," he agrees softly, "a chain's good." Looking up at Aziraphale, he smiles tenderly. "Looks best there, though, doesn't it?"
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Aziraphale, however, would like nothing more than to get in front of a crowd on a lawn somewhere and tell everyone present that he adores this demon and belongs to him, will love him until the last human on Earth is long gone, until they no longer have colonies in the star systems they've run to in order to expand. When they have all at last expired, and Crowley and Aziraphale return to spirits floating in the sky instead of two bodies, and when they've forgotten all of heaven and hell- he would still love Crowley with all he has.
Which, of course, is when the waiter comes by with the appetizers and offers a heartfelt congratulations once he sees the ring on Ashtoreth's finger. "Oh," Aziraphale replies. "It's been a long time coming."
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Ashtoreth smiles beguilingly as the water congratulates them and admires the ring, murmuring her thanks. "It certainly has," she adds to Aziraphale's sentiment, her eyes practically glowing behind her dark lenses. "I've finally caught him."
It's no great surprise when champagne arrives and a pair of glasses for them to toast with. "To our betrothal," Crowley says, lifting the glass, still hardly able to believe it. "And our marriage." He won't say if, only when; won't accept that anything can stand in their way, now that they're promised to one another. "Have you--been thinking of this? Where we'll live, what it will be like?" He's dying to know. The few years of near-cohabitation they've had in employment with the Dowlings have been like a dream--what would it be like to be able to live together all the time?
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He thinks it might be a little ostentatious for them, because Heaven and Hell were still their employers, but he could always lie and say it was a new housing development and they'd bought the air rights to his shop, and it smelled evil because of course, it was the sort of apartments that attracted lawyers and politicians. Then he'd shoosh Crowley on upstairs. He doesn't even know if Hell has his address on the books.
"But I... I'll think about it," he answers. He toasts to them, and takes a sip of the champagne; it's too dry, for him. He remembers the days when it was sweet as candy; somehow these days people preferred their dessert wines a little less sweet, and their champagne even more so. He supposes he doesn't miss much else about that time. "Where would you like to live? Where would you like to honeymoon, dear?"
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He doesn't mind the idea, though. London's been home for long enough to both of them that it makes sense to stay, and Aziraphale of course has his bookshop, which Crowley never again wants to see him deprived of. He can imagine it too--the two of them enjoying some rare sunny day, Aziraphale lying out on one of those old-fashioned deck chairs with his book and perhaps a chilled glass of wine at hand, waiting for Crowley to finish tending the plants and turn to him instead.
"Sounds nice, your block of houses." He hesitates a moment, squeezing Aziraphale's hand. "For our honeymoon we could...get another cottage, one of our own, I mean. Seaside, maybe? Someplace where it's just us alone."
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Aziraphale can't imagine a place where he can't have this with Crowley, where a future with him isn't possible.
"A seaside cottage," he repeats. "Yes, I'd like that very much. A little cottage we can retreat to when the big city is too much, and just open a window and look out at the water." Maybe Crowley could take up creating again, painting or something. And Aziraphale would recite poetry to him, and possibly get out the harp. Yes, of course he plays harp.
It would be lovely, a permanent place they could go honeymooning. "Yes, let's."
And - after all is said and done, and they're married, Aziraphale will make sure they have the perfect cottage, already bought and paid for, with some of their belongings already moved in, and all they would have to do is lie back and enjoy each other's company. Perhaps, on their balcony, looking up at the stars.
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Their plans occupy his thoughts as their dinner is served, Crowley's mouth curved at the edges, his faint smile tender and indulgent to anyone who looks closely enough, as he clearly far more occupied in watching his companion tuck in than his own food. He nibbles a little now and again, and drinks a great deal more, the bottle of wine somehow lasting beyond the usual number of pours. It puzzles their server, who nervously decides that this is all some trick of the light and the young lady can't possibly be drinking that much, though when the bill is signed and he collects it after the couple has left he'll find that the price of three times the expensive bottle is listed on the cheque and reflected in the generous tip.
When he's not drinking, Crowley toys with the gold ring, stroking it or admiring it in the light. "I don't remember wearing one like this, y'know," he says later after a good bit of imbibing.
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If anyone would remember them, it would only be as a strange couple who had gotten engaged over the course of dinner, lovely, slightly older, the woman mysterious and the man kindly looking. Gentle. Aziraphale will make sure they forget any sort of important details, such as hair color, the fact that Crowley's wearing sunglasses.
And he does get a little lost in the planning, thinking of all sorts of things from how he'd want the wainscoting to be to how he'd like the windows oriented. Honestly without a canvas to work on in front of him, the house is coming up a bit of a mess in his mind. But no worries, he thinks. Shouldn't be much an issue at the time, and he'll be so excited. To build a place, perfect for the two of them, where they could both call sanctuary and thrive. At least six years off from now.
He takes Crowley's hand and doesn't think he could wait. He looks up when commented about the ring, and responds, "what do you mean? Of course not, dear, I've never let you wear it before."
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"Not yours," he explains, bringing Aziraphale's hand up to his mouth and kissing the knuckles. Rather tipsy now, Crowley goes on, "Before. Y'know. Before all the..." He waves the other hand, indicating himself. Before he was a demon. Before his Fall. That hazy time, the memories half-forgotten or deliberately pushed out of his mind, when he was an angel of God, when the universe was dark, when the night was still a black velvet sky unpierced by stars, and Crowley helped in the shaping of nebulae, the design of the firmament. "Didn't have a ring like this. Or maybe I did, but I forgot it." He sighs. "Lots forgotten from back then."
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"Do you remember anything?" he asks, because maybe Crowley would like to reflect on his time as an angel and Aziraphale would never want him not to do so, would never want to discourage him from anything he might find cathartic. And who better to talk through his past than the one he was going to marry, the only other person on Earth who understood a modicum of what it was like to live as he does? He doesn't know if Crowley still speaks to God or Satan, or if they respond to him. Certainly, God hasn't taken Aziraphale's call in a long time. So that was it, then. All they really had were each other.