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.
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."
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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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"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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