Aziraphale presses another kiss to Ashtoreth's cheek, careful not to smudge any of her cosmetics, and then miracles himself into Francis. He looks like he's been sitting in the sun, he has ridiculous overgrown teeth and funny sideburns, and a cute little ascot and hat. He reaches for Ashtoreth's hand, clasping it in his own, smiling at her with his whole face. Such a shame that Francis is in love with Ashtoreth as well, when she loves another. But it's hard to compete with an angel, isn't it? And harder yet to compete with yourself.
Later, when they're walking around the market and he's lost himself in a stall of flowers, he'll pick out a bouquet of roses for her, deep red, and purchase them while the cashier takes a glance at the both of them and calls him a lucky man. And he'll feel a little wriggle in his heart and reply that yes, yes he is, dropping his Francis accent entirely in the exchange, and tipping the man a twenty quid that he'll unsuccessfully try to return to the lovesick Francis.
And then he'll trot off to where Ashtoreth is and present them to her and offer his arm and a buss to her cheek. And when they next pass the flower vendor, all his flowers will miraculously, despite the stark improbability, be in full bloom.
As they walk through the market, the sight of Nanny and the gardener arm and arm may catch eyes, but most of the villagers will think of it as only a harmless romance between two eccentrics employed by the American diplomat. What could be sweeter or more wholesome than the pair of them strolling along, making quite the contrast: the gardener in his pale overcoat and dusty boots, his lopsided hat and big toothy smile, and the nanny so tall and straight and severe in her black sweater and skirt, scarlet lips curling in a faint smile whenever Francis points out something pretty among the wares or feeds her a bite of pastry purchased from one of the stalls. Their eyes will be turned elsewhere, their attention caught by something else, during the moments when Ashtoreth leans in to mouth hot and wickedly at Francis’s ear or throat, fingertips and a casual miracle delicately rubbing away any smear of lipstick that might be left behind, or when she leans her chest into his shoulder or back and snakes her black-gloved hand around to the front of his trousers. They may notice when Francis presents her with a bouquet of deep red roses, but they will certainly be looking somewhere else when she tugs the gardener behind a stall and kisses him thoroughly, with sinfully red lips and a clever tongue.
In short, Nanny enjoys herself extremely during their outing, making no effort to hurry them back towards home as the hours of the sun-drenched afternoon pass. Teasing and flirting as much as she’d threatened to, but also thoroughly appreciating being romanced, a smile lingering on her lips as she carries the bouquet of roses in the crook of her arm, the other tucked in Francis’s. She may be in love with an angel, but her sweet gardener makes quite a go for her affections.
Aziraphale is starting to regret the dentures by the second time that Ashtoreth steals a kiss, because it severely impacts his ability to kiss her. In the narrative, of course, Francis loves her, but he is a lovesick fool, struck by her beauty, slave to her every want and whim. Every smile she casts his way, every glance of perfectly-lined eyes and bat of her lush lashes, he feels his heart float towards the heady clouds. But when she whispers in his ear or pulls him into a kiss, he's no longer a gardener but an angel, one who's duties happen to fall in line with stealing demonic kisses whenever the opportunity presents itself, and he would never let it pass him by.
He peppers kisses on her neck by the time she pulls away and acts like nothing had happened, reaches for her leg when she rubs the seat of his trousers but finds that she, like a wisp of perfume, wafts away as soon as he gets a taste. Oh, she is a clever one.
And yet, when she returns to browsing stalls, he becomes Francis once more: poor, dopey Francis who would worship the ground Ashtoreth walks on, who steals bashful glances but turns away blushing if she ever should acknowledge him, who is wrapped around her little finger and longs to be the glove that touches her hand, the hat sitting atop her perfect curls. The poor gardener would think nothing untoward of his Ashtoreth, his gentle melodic lilt like rolling hills alongside her rough-and-tumble brogue.
This, quite possibly, is the first date that he's ever been on, as she is the first woman to make him look up from his blooms. The most perfect flower herself, he couldn't possibly find another as beautiful or smelling as sweet, but still he tries, picking a daisy and offering to tuck it into her hat. With his love flowing over, encircling her like a gentleman who rounds the carriage to guide his lady out, like a mantle draped over her shoulders to guard her from rain, it's hard to tell at the moment which of the roles he plays.
Of course, it's only to be expected that the gardener's crush on Nanny has never developed into anything more than that, at least until now. They are both solitary people dedicated to their work: Ashtoreth with precious young Warlock in her charge, needing the tender attentions of his nanny, and Francis with the gardens and grounds to care for, quite the occupation for any one man to take on by himself (though somehow all the flowerbeds seem miraculously to flourish, even the under-watered ones). But if they should happen to spend an afternoon together in the village, what's the harm? No one else needs to know there is a third party to this romance, an angel who loves Ashtoreth with all his heart, who Nanny is so thoroughly, impossibly enamored of that she is like a woman possessed, every glance of lips or brush of her fingers weaving a spell to make her angel fall ever more in love with her.
Meanwhile, the village market, its proprietors and patrons, have the best afternoon they can remember. Flowers bloom extravagantly, pastries and bakery goods taste sweeter, people smile at one another more readily and marvel at the genial goodness of the world under a love that extends like wings over the whole village.
Even Ashtoreth smiles sweetly when Francis tucks a daisy in her hat, vivid yellow and white against her wine-red curls and dark garments. She offers Francis a soft kiss pressed to his cheek, his bristly sideburns tickling her lips, and when they turn a corner down a little side street and no one is looking, a much more wicked imprint of her lips and teeth and tongue left throbbing on his tender throat, beneath the collar of his shirt that she tugs down. Love surrounds her, its source unmistakable, and leaves her heart fluttering.
Francis, of course, turns pink and looks to Ashtoreth with the most open of love in his eyes, which he never is so bold as to show her in public, or let anyone see when they are behind closed doors at the Dowlings. No one need know that this is how the angel looks at her, when the two of them are alone, like the dawn rises to greet her instead of the other way round. He reaches for her hand, and places it in his, fingers finding their place within the crevices of each of hers, feeling the warmth of her touch only through the fabric between them. He's a silly man indeed.
But if they turn heads as a pair, Ashtoreth decidedly turns more of them on her own and the gardener couldn't blame anyone. She was a lovely figure of black and oxblood, striking in appearance. On their bout around town, with Aziraphale holding their basket filled with fruits and vegetables and baked goods, they happen across a jeweler. Aziraphale practically presses his nose up to the glass and his heart flips when he sees a display of rings. But no - too much, too soon, too fast. Still, another gift might suffice. "Would you like to take a look, dear?" He asks, not sounding very much like the gardener.
Truth be told, he isn't sure they'll find anything suiting either of their tastes, Crowley's skewing alternative and Aziraphale's traditional, both things not entirely available at any old shop in the middle of high street, but he does like to dote. So rarely does he get to dote.
Francis tucks her hand into his, and smiles at her with such open adoration, such bashful sweetness that it could melt even Nanny's rigid spine and unbending demeanor. So perhaps she leans into him more than she ordinarily would as they amble along together, one of her long spindly arms threaded through his. Sweetly, almost girlishly, flirting and murmuring secrets in the gardener's ear designed to deepen his blush, ignoring the gazes that turn to her as unimportant: certainly no one else captures her attention as the man on whose arm she strolls.
When they stop at the jeweler, she watches with some amusement as her companion's attention is thoroughly captivated by the display, arching an eyebrow inquisitively when he turns back to her with far more of Aziraphale's demeanor and voice. "Why not?" she answers in her lilting brogue. The display really is magnificent; her eyes, too, glance briefly to the rings behind the dark spectacles, but it's probably foolish to hope--or not foolish, maybe, too soon. Regardless, she leads the way inside, a bell ringing above the door to announce them.
Aziraphale does take a lingering look at the rings, trying not to glance over in Crowley's direction; but oh, how wonderful it might be someday to recognize their love, if only for a select few people to do so. But no, he would not want to be married if he could not tell the world, and tell God. The only other person so important as that already knew his feelings, because he was the object of them. What else did he even need?
He makes his way over to the bracelets and the necklaces, leaving the ring case for now. A shame, because they are very beautiful, but they carry such heavy meaning and it's not something he can currently offer.
Instead, he selects a necklace, with a little ruby red heart surrounded by a pair of angel wings. It's on a thin chain, a white gold, and small and delicate. He gestures towards it. "Do you like that one? I think you should try it on," he says, giving her an encouraging look. She's beautiful, without adornment. Without dark glasses, without perfectly curled hair, lying naked in his bed without as much as a single care in the world weighing on her.
Ashtoreth looks over the glittering finery with a discerning eye, while the staff watch her discreetly: here, surely, is a woman of quality and taste, though her current occupation as a governess would lead most to believe she couldn't afford jewels such as these. Or that the gardener could afford to purchase them for her--yet somehow they will manage. "Isn't that lovely," she purrs of the necklace Aziraphale has found, making the jewelers beam. "Yes, let's try that."
Once it's out of the display case she lifts the delicate chain in her features, a faint tender smile on her face for the shape of the ruby and the glittering wings, and then beckons to Aziraphale. "You'll help me with the clasp, won't you, angel?" Ashtoreth turns her back, sweeping her red hair aside and offering her long slender neck for the gold chain to rest around, the pendant falling just below the wings of her collarbones when the necklace is in place. Turning to a mirror, she admires the stark red of the ruby against the black knit of her sweater. It's a dramatic look, but perhaps it would look even better if, indeed, she was naked in Aziraphale's bed, with no adornment other than this.
"What do you think?" She turns to Aziraphale inquisitively, seeking his approval.
Against all her black it does stand out nicely, and he does know her to prefer accessories in a wine red that play off her hair. Of course, any piece of jewelry here would be befitting of her, and look good on her: a yellow, perhaps, to match her eyes, or a contrasting blue, gold or silver-colored. Even rose gold might be nice, though extremely trendy. He's surprised to see so much of it, considering he hasn't been to a jewelry shop yet this century.
But this one had caught his eye for a reason. A deep red jewel encased in two angel wings, pale in color? Yes, he would want to see this around her neck, perhaps around the house, perhaps just in his bed. And maybe, if he were so lucky, after all this was over: after this, when they won't be able to live under the same roof, he would still want to look over at lunch and spot a familiar-looking chain hiding a jewel at the end of it, telling the story of how they met.
"It's beautiful," he says, in his sing-songy lilt, and although a genuine response, there is a hint in his voice and demeanor suggesting that it would be the only answer given for anything else she may want to select. "Let me gift it to you, dear?"
Poor Aziraphale, forever stuck in the nineteenth century in his sartorial choices, not even to know that rose gold is so popular now. But though Crowley isn’t married to tradition the way he is, he likes the drama of classic gold, even the icy sheen of silver or white gold or platinum, though such colors would look better on his angel. Perhaps some evening he’ll steal back here, shed of his Ashtoreth disguise lest the shopkeepers recognize him, and come later to the cottage with a gift: something pale and delicate to drape around his angel’s throat, like a silver chain or a strand of pearls.
But at the moment it is Aziraphale’s pleasure to give his dear Ashtoreth the beautiful necklace, and her pleasure to receive it. “Oh, thank you, angel,” she breathes out, her arms winding around his neck, her scarlet lips pressed to his in a thoroughly beguiled kiss, not caring about the onlookers a bit. “I can’t wait to wear it for you. I’ll keep it on all day...” Her fingers play delicately at his collar as her voice lowers. “Perhaps all night, too.”
Oh yes, she very much hopes for the opportunity to model it for Aziraphale in their bed this evening. And that they might soon be back in their cottage so that she can show her appreciation to the fullest. Leaving a last sweet kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek, she turns back to the mirror to admire herself.
With his mouth and his cheek now reddened rouge, he smiles after her in a most peculiar way, with one of the shopkeeps finding it adorable and the other one finding it disgustingly sweet. He absentmindedly passes a credit card to one of them, and doesn't let them tell him how much the necklace costs. Despite his outward appearance of someone who looks like he may not have enough to afford such a luxury, the only thing he cares is that she is happy. And if she is happy, then she can spend him out of house and home.
Sickeningly sweet.
"Yes, yes," he says, reluctant to take his eyes off of her. "I'll take a box for it. No receipt, just the box and a bag, if you will. Thank you kindly." Once he's gotten the items and rubbed the lipstick off with a provided tissue, he makes his way over and gently rests a hand on her arm. Standing so close, it's only then that one of the shopkeepers even notices that it's not that he's very short, but that she's very tall, especially in those lovely snakeskin heels. And, really, how could she afford such exquisite shoes?
"Dearest, is there anything else you would like to look at?" he asks, so sweetly, so casually, which has both of the workers politely trying not to look agog, and tabulating in their heads how much they could possibly be making tonight on commission off of this foolish gardener they thought initially might pick up one of those keychains or perfume samples at the front for "cheap".
While Aziraphale is paying for the items, receiving the box for the necklace and a bag, and stunning the shopkeepers by taking no notice of what it all costs, Ashtoreth admires the glitter of the jewels against her severe black and then, when she tires of this, wanders along the display cases to eye more of the jewelry. One of the jewelers watches her out of the tail of his eye, apparently having decided this woman must be something more than the stern governess she appears, just as the gardener is not at all what he expected to purchase such a necklace without batting an eye. He sees her pause by the rings display with a brief wistful glance and wonders if they will soon be witnessing a proposal, but she has moved on by the time the gardener rejoins her at her side and throws them all again by asking if there's anything else she'd like.
"Ah, well." Ashtoreth links her arm with Aziraphale's and leans against his side, with a little moue and a sigh. "Wouldn't like to be greedy..." But then, greed is one of her trades. Greed, lust, temptation, and she performs them all so well. "But I was just thinking, a matching bracelet might be a nice touch." There's one she's gazing at right now, rubies and tiny diamonds with gold links shaped a little bit like feathers. She extends one of her black-gloves hands, displaying her slender wrist. "Don't you think?"
The shopkeepers, staring at all this as though it's a play, can't help but sigh a little. Her wrists are very long and rather elegant--as though made to be draped in gold and precious jewels.
It's a beautiful bracelet, matching nicely with the necklace, both delicate and dramatic at the same time. And, naturally, it looks splendid on Ashtoreth's wrist, gleaming against her pale skin and slender sharp shape. Come to think of it, one of the shopkeeper thinks, they do make an interesting pair of opposites, the severe woman in deep, rich colors, and her marshmallow wallet of a boyfriend in muted pastels and beige.
He had noticed, or maybe he'd dreamed, that Crowley would be looking over at the display of rings; Aziraphale's heart squeezes in his chest and when Crowley looks away, Aziraphale looks after him with such a longing that the people behind the desk assume he might purchase an engagement ring right then and there. Perhaps this is a long setup to asking for her hand, but also letting her choose her own ring. But then he comes round to look at the bracelet, all thoughts of the ring shelved for now.
He considers it a moment but everyone in the room knows his answer before he says it, the way he can't keep his eyes off of her. "Yes, I think it does look well. And I do think you should have the set. We'll take it," he adds, taking out his card again and handing it to the attendant.
It's a short process to pay, and they hand him several certificates for the stones. Then he goes to her, and circles an arm around her waist, and leans his head against her shoulder for a turn. Yes, they are an odd couple indeed.
With the bracelet clasped around her wrist, Ashtoreth looks even more elegant and dramatic, magnificence draping her wrist and throat. It ought to look out of place with her plain clothes and the demeanor of an ordinary nanny, but somehow she catches all eyes, hearts and minds following her or the man she so clearly adores. When he comes to her after purchasing the bracelet and receiving the certificates of authenticity, leaning into her with his arm around her waist, her own long arms snake exuberantly around him and her cheek rests against his hair. “My angel,” she purrs as they leave the shop arm and arm, one of the shopkeepers hurrying to open the door for them, and all of them staring after the pair in captivated wonder.
Outside gazes follow them as well, the gold and rubies too eyecatching to be ignored. A little miracle will ensure they forget noticing the jewelry itself, only the pair of them strolling together, lest it get back to the Dowlings and they begin to wonder just how much they’re paying their gardener.
The afternoon is growing golden, the shadows beginning to lengthen over the charming village, and Ashtoreth walks pressed against her beloved’s side, lifting her hand to admire how the bracelet catches the light. “What else would you like to do today?” she asks Aziraphale curiously, having very much enjoyed their last unplanned stop.
The golden light plays on her hair and sets it afire, but softly, and casting a lovely orange light to her skin. Aziraphale is again entranced by her beauty, jewelry or not, bespectacled or no. In fact, he has half a mind to send the people around them moving past and taking those glasses off, looking into those gorgeous eyes. He loves to be able to look at Crowley with nothing in between them, no pretense and no hiding and absolutely no obscuring objects.
"What else? Hm, I don't know. Whatever your heart desires, love," he answers. They could make a drive to the beach, or he could follow her into one of the many cosmetic shops in town, or she could follow him into his favorite used bookstore here, the one that had a store cat, where he could spend hours paging through every shelf. It had been awhile since he'd been last, so he'd definitely need those hours. Or they could catch a movie, whatever was playing, perhaps a show. Buskers, maybe would miraculously sing Ashtoreth's favorite songs even if they'd never been able to before, and the fountain at the park could come to life despite not being planned to have done so.
The possibilities were truly endless. "No need for a new pair of shoes, darling? Or glasses?" he asks.
The late afternoon light is kind to Francis, too--if it doesn't exactly draw out the gardener's hidden beauty (though Ashtoreth knows there is indeed an angelic beauty concealed beneath that disguise) it softens his face and lends an extra sparkle to his gentle eyes. She tickles his whiskers affectionately with her fingertips, considering the offer to spoil her some more. "Well..." Now that he mentions it, a new pair of shoes would not go amiss, and her spectacles are quite plain, the frame could use some filigree. But then, she decides, she's been indulged quite a bit already: she'd rather like to do something for her companion instead.
Draping herself over his shoulders, her head tilts close to his and her mouth is near his ear when she murmurs, "What about dinner? I hear there's a new restaurant nearby, French cuisine. We could dress up." Her fingertips play at his collar as she thinks of them shedding their disguises...well, Aziraphale shedding his, but perhaps she'll stay mostly Ashtoreth, all the better to wear her lovely new jewelry. They could be an unrecognizable but striking couple out on a date, the tall red-haired woman and her boyfriend dressed in cream and white, with an exquisite taste for fine food and wine. "I'll wear something slinky," she goes on, tempting, "and some heels. Something no one will recognize dear old nanny in."
Something about a tall red-haired woman with dark glasses and a comparatively stout man with fluffy clouds for hair might stand out; it is a little recognizable, but they could just will the humans to think of someone else. No, not the Dowlings' nanny. Just a coincidence. There's no way, they'll think, she would wear such a dress.
And Aziraphale can imagine it too, hugging against Crowley's skin, shimmering, cut of the dress drawing attention to her décolletage, painted wiry curve on her lips and gliding around more than walking, hips taking up five places at any one given time. Yes, he imagines it and it's a lovely thought. He pulls Crowley closer to him, arm around his waist, and presses a kiss to his cheek. Out in broad daylight, no less, Gardener Francis making the most bold move he'd made this entire day. But he thinks Nanny likes him, he's made such a good impression.
"Should we go home and drop these off first?" he asks, gesturing towards their bounty. Of course, they could send them home miraculously, and then get changed that way too. Which, also of course, Crowley would have to take care of for them.
The kiss to his cheek is so unexpectedly charming, Crowley wants to pull Aziraphale homewards right then and there. There is something about being kissed in broad daylight, exchanging these gestures of affection and love that resonate in him, that he thinks of and cherishes when they are apart, each attending to their tasks. In the long span of their history together, it's only quite recently that they've been able to show such expressions of love out in the open, even if they are in their nanny and gardener disguises, and why shouldn't they? Who can stop them, who would dare come between them?
Ashtoreth, however, demurs to go home just yet, miracling their purchases on ahead of them when no one is looking. "Let's not yet," she tells Aziraphale gently, a flash of yellow eyes gleaming behind her dark spectacles. "I wouldn't want us to get distracted, and miss our reservation." Because they will have one when they arrive, under the name of Mr Fell, for a table with a thoroughly charming view of the twilit village. And Ashtoreth is enjoying their waiting game, building desire and anticipation, too much to let it end prematurely. "Let's walk a bit more, and then I'll make sure we're dressed for the occasion."
It isn't quite evening yet, so they can take their time strolling along the village lanes to the restaurants, stopping to admire displays in shop windows, and take a detour through the park to stop and admire that fountain that isn't supposed to be running yet. As the dusk falls she miracles attention away from them and changes them into clothing suited for a fancy evening: a three-piece suit for Aziraphale, and a silky, slinky black dress for herself that hugs her narrow frame intimately and is slit up the side to bare a good bit of leg. It needs no extra embellishment, for she already has the gold and rubies at her wrist and throat, and her black kitten heels show a splash of crimson along the sole.
The strolling around town is quite lovely in the warm glowing sunset, and Aziraphale could spend hours upon hours into the evening just walking alongside Ashtoreth, not even needing a word between the two of them. Though, of course, they somehow manage to fill the space with many words, Francis animatedly talking about this and that and any old thing.
He looks down at himself and finds that he's Aziraphale again, or at least, mostly, in a nice light suit, crisp but comfortable. Then there is Ashtoreth, beautiful, jaw-dropping Ashtoreth in a tight dress that drapes just so and moves with her like inky shadow. He longs to run a hand up that exposed leg, see where it may lead him, but he refrains.
"You are... stunning," he settles on, his throat a little dry, his expression softening into a fond smile. The dress is so simple, but on her form, she doesn't need excessive decoration to exaggerate any of her features, to give herself a little extra. He reaches for a lock of hair and curls it around his finger before letting it go, watching as it bounces back into place. God had loved her once, had gifted her with such a beauty. "Come, let's not be late for our reservation."
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.
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Later, when they're walking around the market and he's lost himself in a stall of flowers, he'll pick out a bouquet of roses for her, deep red, and purchase them while the cashier takes a glance at the both of them and calls him a lucky man. And he'll feel a little wriggle in his heart and reply that yes, yes he is, dropping his Francis accent entirely in the exchange, and tipping the man a twenty quid that he'll unsuccessfully try to return to the lovesick Francis.
And then he'll trot off to where Ashtoreth is and present them to her and offer his arm and a buss to her cheek. And when they next pass the flower vendor, all his flowers will miraculously, despite the stark improbability, be in full bloom.
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In short, Nanny enjoys herself extremely during their outing, making no effort to hurry them back towards home as the hours of the sun-drenched afternoon pass. Teasing and flirting as much as she’d threatened to, but also thoroughly appreciating being romanced, a smile lingering on her lips as she carries the bouquet of roses in the crook of her arm, the other tucked in Francis’s. She may be in love with an angel, but her sweet gardener makes quite a go for her affections.
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He peppers kisses on her neck by the time she pulls away and acts like nothing had happened, reaches for her leg when she rubs the seat of his trousers but finds that she, like a wisp of perfume, wafts away as soon as he gets a taste. Oh, she is a clever one.
And yet, when she returns to browsing stalls, he becomes Francis once more: poor, dopey Francis who would worship the ground Ashtoreth walks on, who steals bashful glances but turns away blushing if she ever should acknowledge him, who is wrapped around her little finger and longs to be the glove that touches her hand, the hat sitting atop her perfect curls. The poor gardener would think nothing untoward of his Ashtoreth, his gentle melodic lilt like rolling hills alongside her rough-and-tumble brogue.
This, quite possibly, is the first date that he's ever been on, as she is the first woman to make him look up from his blooms. The most perfect flower herself, he couldn't possibly find another as beautiful or smelling as sweet, but still he tries, picking a daisy and offering to tuck it into her hat. With his love flowing over, encircling her like a gentleman who rounds the carriage to guide his lady out, like a mantle draped over her shoulders to guard her from rain, it's hard to tell at the moment which of the roles he plays.
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Meanwhile, the village market, its proprietors and patrons, have the best afternoon they can remember. Flowers bloom extravagantly, pastries and bakery goods taste sweeter, people smile at one another more readily and marvel at the genial goodness of the world under a love that extends like wings over the whole village.
Even Ashtoreth smiles sweetly when Francis tucks a daisy in her hat, vivid yellow and white against her wine-red curls and dark garments. She offers Francis a soft kiss pressed to his cheek, his bristly sideburns tickling her lips, and when they turn a corner down a little side street and no one is looking, a much more wicked imprint of her lips and teeth and tongue left throbbing on his tender throat, beneath the collar of his shirt that she tugs down. Love surrounds her, its source unmistakable, and leaves her heart fluttering.
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But if they turn heads as a pair, Ashtoreth decidedly turns more of them on her own and the gardener couldn't blame anyone. She was a lovely figure of black and oxblood, striking in appearance. On their bout around town, with Aziraphale holding their basket filled with fruits and vegetables and baked goods, they happen across a jeweler. Aziraphale practically presses his nose up to the glass and his heart flips when he sees a display of rings. But no - too much, too soon, too fast. Still, another gift might suffice. "Would you like to take a look, dear?" He asks, not sounding very much like the gardener.
Truth be told, he isn't sure they'll find anything suiting either of their tastes, Crowley's skewing alternative and Aziraphale's traditional, both things not entirely available at any old shop in the middle of high street, but he does like to dote. So rarely does he get to dote.
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When they stop at the jeweler, she watches with some amusement as her companion's attention is thoroughly captivated by the display, arching an eyebrow inquisitively when he turns back to her with far more of Aziraphale's demeanor and voice. "Why not?" she answers in her lilting brogue. The display really is magnificent; her eyes, too, glance briefly to the rings behind the dark spectacles, but it's probably foolish to hope--or not foolish, maybe, too soon. Regardless, she leads the way inside, a bell ringing above the door to announce them.
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He makes his way over to the bracelets and the necklaces, leaving the ring case for now. A shame, because they are very beautiful, but they carry such heavy meaning and it's not something he can currently offer.
Instead, he selects a necklace, with a little ruby red heart surrounded by a pair of angel wings. It's on a thin chain, a white gold, and small and delicate. He gestures towards it. "Do you like that one? I think you should try it on," he says, giving her an encouraging look. She's beautiful, without adornment. Without dark glasses, without perfectly curled hair, lying naked in his bed without as much as a single care in the world weighing on her.
But it is a nice necklace.
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Once it's out of the display case she lifts the delicate chain in her features, a faint tender smile on her face for the shape of the ruby and the glittering wings, and then beckons to Aziraphale. "You'll help me with the clasp, won't you, angel?" Ashtoreth turns her back, sweeping her red hair aside and offering her long slender neck for the gold chain to rest around, the pendant falling just below the wings of her collarbones when the necklace is in place. Turning to a mirror, she admires the stark red of the ruby against the black knit of her sweater. It's a dramatic look, but perhaps it would look even better if, indeed, she was naked in Aziraphale's bed, with no adornment other than this.
"What do you think?" She turns to Aziraphale inquisitively, seeking his approval.
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But this one had caught his eye for a reason. A deep red jewel encased in two angel wings, pale in color? Yes, he would want to see this around her neck, perhaps around the house, perhaps just in his bed. And maybe, if he were so lucky, after all this was over: after this, when they won't be able to live under the same roof, he would still want to look over at lunch and spot a familiar-looking chain hiding a jewel at the end of it, telling the story of how they met.
"It's beautiful," he says, in his sing-songy lilt, and although a genuine response, there is a hint in his voice and demeanor suggesting that it would be the only answer given for anything else she may want to select. "Let me gift it to you, dear?"
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But at the moment it is Aziraphale’s pleasure to give his dear Ashtoreth the beautiful necklace, and her pleasure to receive it. “Oh, thank you, angel,” she breathes out, her arms winding around his neck, her scarlet lips pressed to his in a thoroughly beguiled kiss, not caring about the onlookers a bit. “I can’t wait to wear it for you. I’ll keep it on all day...” Her fingers play delicately at his collar as her voice lowers. “Perhaps all night, too.”
Oh yes, she very much hopes for the opportunity to model it for Aziraphale in their bed this evening. And that they might soon be back in their cottage so that she can show her appreciation to the fullest. Leaving a last sweet kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek, she turns back to the mirror to admire herself.
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Sickeningly sweet.
"Yes, yes," he says, reluctant to take his eyes off of her. "I'll take a box for it. No receipt, just the box and a bag, if you will. Thank you kindly." Once he's gotten the items and rubbed the lipstick off with a provided tissue, he makes his way over and gently rests a hand on her arm. Standing so close, it's only then that one of the shopkeepers even notices that it's not that he's very short, but that she's very tall, especially in those lovely snakeskin heels. And, really, how could she afford such exquisite shoes?
"Dearest, is there anything else you would like to look at?" he asks, so sweetly, so casually, which has both of the workers politely trying not to look agog, and tabulating in their heads how much they could possibly be making tonight on commission off of this foolish gardener they thought initially might pick up one of those keychains or perfume samples at the front for "cheap".
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"Ah, well." Ashtoreth links her arm with Aziraphale's and leans against his side, with a little moue and a sigh. "Wouldn't like to be greedy..." But then, greed is one of her trades. Greed, lust, temptation, and she performs them all so well. "But I was just thinking, a matching bracelet might be a nice touch." There's one she's gazing at right now, rubies and tiny diamonds with gold links shaped a little bit like feathers. She extends one of her black-gloves hands, displaying her slender wrist. "Don't you think?"
The shopkeepers, staring at all this as though it's a play, can't help but sigh a little. Her wrists are very long and rather elegant--as though made to be draped in gold and precious jewels.
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He had noticed, or maybe he'd dreamed, that Crowley would be looking over at the display of rings; Aziraphale's heart squeezes in his chest and when Crowley looks away, Aziraphale looks after him with such a longing that the people behind the desk assume he might purchase an engagement ring right then and there. Perhaps this is a long setup to asking for her hand, but also letting her choose her own ring. But then he comes round to look at the bracelet, all thoughts of the ring shelved for now.
He considers it a moment but everyone in the room knows his answer before he says it, the way he can't keep his eyes off of her. "Yes, I think it does look well. And I do think you should have the set. We'll take it," he adds, taking out his card again and handing it to the attendant.
It's a short process to pay, and they hand him several certificates for the stones. Then he goes to her, and circles an arm around her waist, and leans his head against her shoulder for a turn. Yes, they are an odd couple indeed.
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Outside gazes follow them as well, the gold and rubies too eyecatching to be ignored. A little miracle will ensure they forget noticing the jewelry itself, only the pair of them strolling together, lest it get back to the Dowlings and they begin to wonder just how much they’re paying their gardener.
The afternoon is growing golden, the shadows beginning to lengthen over the charming village, and Ashtoreth walks pressed against her beloved’s side, lifting her hand to admire how the bracelet catches the light. “What else would you like to do today?” she asks Aziraphale curiously, having very much enjoyed their last unplanned stop.
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"What else? Hm, I don't know. Whatever your heart desires, love," he answers. They could make a drive to the beach, or he could follow her into one of the many cosmetic shops in town, or she could follow him into his favorite used bookstore here, the one that had a store cat, where he could spend hours paging through every shelf. It had been awhile since he'd been last, so he'd definitely need those hours. Or they could catch a movie, whatever was playing, perhaps a show. Buskers, maybe would miraculously sing Ashtoreth's favorite songs even if they'd never been able to before, and the fountain at the park could come to life despite not being planned to have done so.
The possibilities were truly endless. "No need for a new pair of shoes, darling? Or glasses?" he asks.
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Draping herself over his shoulders, her head tilts close to his and her mouth is near his ear when she murmurs, "What about dinner? I hear there's a new restaurant nearby, French cuisine. We could dress up." Her fingertips play at his collar as she thinks of them shedding their disguises...well, Aziraphale shedding his, but perhaps she'll stay mostly Ashtoreth, all the better to wear her lovely new jewelry. They could be an unrecognizable but striking couple out on a date, the tall red-haired woman and her boyfriend dressed in cream and white, with an exquisite taste for fine food and wine. "I'll wear something slinky," she goes on, tempting, "and some heels. Something no one will recognize dear old nanny in."
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And Aziraphale can imagine it too, hugging against Crowley's skin, shimmering, cut of the dress drawing attention to her décolletage, painted wiry curve on her lips and gliding around more than walking, hips taking up five places at any one given time. Yes, he imagines it and it's a lovely thought. He pulls Crowley closer to him, arm around his waist, and presses a kiss to his cheek. Out in broad daylight, no less, Gardener Francis making the most bold move he'd made this entire day. But he thinks Nanny likes him, he's made such a good impression.
"Should we go home and drop these off first?" he asks, gesturing towards their bounty. Of course, they could send them home miraculously, and then get changed that way too. Which, also of course, Crowley would have to take care of for them.
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Ashtoreth, however, demurs to go home just yet, miracling their purchases on ahead of them when no one is looking. "Let's not yet," she tells Aziraphale gently, a flash of yellow eyes gleaming behind her dark spectacles. "I wouldn't want us to get distracted, and miss our reservation." Because they will have one when they arrive, under the name of Mr Fell, for a table with a thoroughly charming view of the twilit village. And Ashtoreth is enjoying their waiting game, building desire and anticipation, too much to let it end prematurely. "Let's walk a bit more, and then I'll make sure we're dressed for the occasion."
It isn't quite evening yet, so they can take their time strolling along the village lanes to the restaurants, stopping to admire displays in shop windows, and take a detour through the park to stop and admire that fountain that isn't supposed to be running yet. As the dusk falls she miracles attention away from them and changes them into clothing suited for a fancy evening: a three-piece suit for Aziraphale, and a silky, slinky black dress for herself that hugs her narrow frame intimately and is slit up the side to bare a good bit of leg. It needs no extra embellishment, for she already has the gold and rubies at her wrist and throat, and her black kitten heels show a splash of crimson along the sole.
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He looks down at himself and finds that he's Aziraphale again, or at least, mostly, in a nice light suit, crisp but comfortable. Then there is Ashtoreth, beautiful, jaw-dropping Ashtoreth in a tight dress that drapes just so and moves with her like inky shadow. He longs to run a hand up that exposed leg, see where it may lead him, but he refrains.
"You are... stunning," he settles on, his throat a little dry, his expression softening into a fond smile. The dress is so simple, but on her form, she doesn't need excessive decoration to exaggerate any of her features, to give herself a little extra. He reaches for a lock of hair and curls it around his finger before letting it go, watching as it bounces back into place. God had loved her once, had gifted her with such a beauty. "Come, let's not be late for our reservation."
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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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