"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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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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.