"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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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.