Chapter Text
October 21st. This was the day Aziraphale had decided—or, rather, realized—that he wanted to marry Crowley. It wasn't a big realization, by any means. There was no big revelation, nothing particularly special that caused fireworks to go off in his head. It felt more like a warm, settling feeling that flooded him slowly, much like a blanket that had been draped upon him while he'd been half asleep and had only realized was there when he got up.
It was nothing major at all, because October 21st wasn't a special day. It was just another slow day at the bookshop, Aziraphale passive-aggressively shooing customers away and Crowley lounging around with zero intent other than to make fun of him. Or keep him company. The distinction didn't really matter—they were the same thing either way.
But then Crowley did something so inexplicably Crowley that it made Aziraphale's heart do that blasted thing again. That thing where it felt so full that it almost hurt.
See, it had started off as a bunch of jabs and banter tossed between the two—about what in particular, Aziraphale had forgotten—but he remembered, as he was arranging a new shipment of books, telling Crowley, "You really haven't a clue on the language of flowers?"
Crowley circled around him. "Seriously, angel, when have you ever seen me with a flower? No, I don't have a bloody clue."
Aziraphale made a noncommittal sound, his attention split between Crowley and the books in his hands. "Really, my dear, I always have thought you ought to get flowers. I know you'd take excellent care of them. You know, plant lover and all."
Crowley groaned. "I do not love them—"
"You do," Aziraphale interjected, looking up around Crowley. "What was it that one customer called you?" Crowley raised an eyebrow, waiting for Aziraphale to continue. "Ah! A plantita. "
"I am not a bloody plantita ! And I am not getting flowers! They're useless as anything!"
"Excuse me," said Aziraphale, "I think they're very pretty."
And that was that. Crowley threw something back at Aziraphale to catch, but he can't quite remember the entire afternoon. All he does remember, though, is that Crowley disappeared shortly after, coming back hours later in the late evening to pick Aziraphale up for their dinner at the Ritz. Aziraphale spotted a new cardboard box in the back filled with flowers, and there that feeling was: Oh, of course. I want to spend all my time with him. I want to keep seeing it all with him.
(Aziraphale didn't dare bring the flowers up in conversation that night, and if he had smiled too fondly not to have known, then Crowley didn't dare to bring it up either.)
The rest of the evening went smoothly, as it always did, but if both of their cheeks were tinted a slightly darker shade that night, neither of them mentioned it.
June 13th. Today was the day Aziraphale had landed on—way back in February, when he'd bought the ring—to finally ask Crowley the question. The big question— no! The proposal wasn't going to be a big deal at all. He'd just— be asking (offering, even) the same of Crowley as they'd been planning to do anyway: let's spend the rest of our lives together, which, he'll be honest, they had already been doing for practically six thousand years. So, really, all things considered, today was no special day, it'd be just like any other, and it'd be fine. Normal, even. In fact, would you look at the time—Crowley should be getting here soon. Why doesn't Aziraphale go and make some tea?
As the water begins to heat up, Aziraphale begins to think. He should probably get ready. Or—perhaps not, if he wants things to be... normal. As normal as they can be, at least. He should be cool. Because Crowley's only coming by, just as he always does, and no proposals are happening until later in the evening, and like every time Crowley hunkers down, Aziraphale is not at all filled with a familiar warmth. Crowley's just slithering over for a— a chat, some banter, a quick drink of tea, after all. Aziraphale needn't think on that for any longer. Yes. Right. Cool.
Before he knows it, he's already darting to a particular bookshelf of gems, hidden near the back of the shop. He needs a distraction. He should—
"Aha!"
He pulls out one of his favorite books — reading has always been his favorite distraction (just above Crowley) after all. It's among a collection of numerous first editions that Jane Austen herself had gifted him. He flips to the first page, reading the message aloud.
'To my dearest Aziraphale,
May you love her more,
And may you find yourself talking about it.
Jane'
Ah. Well, perhaps that might not have been the best idea. He tried to read a few paragraphs, but kept thinking about Jane's message.
He thought back to the night he had confessed to Jane of the love he held for his dear friend, the kind of love that most other people wouldn't have understood. Jane had held Aziraphale, and whispered, " Love. What a small word for such a big thing."
And Aziraphale had known, then, that he and Jane were one and the same.
It's a memory that makes him smile, but it aches him to wonder what she'd think if she knew that, yes, he did come to love her more, but no, he never found himself talking about it.
Worse than that, he found himself thinking of Crowley again. Well, he always thinks of Crowley, but that's the opposite of what he needs right now. He's— well, he's nervous.
Aziraphale knows Crowley so well, he'd think he was disciplining his plants right now. Perhaps threatening would be a more accurate word than disciplining, but Crowley insisted it worked. Despite that, he knew Crowley loved his plants—even the flowers which he had been so quick to get after Aziraphale had made a mere suggestion. He wonders vaguely if Crowley would be so pliant if he was given... a different sort of order.
The thought made Aziraphale's cheeks warm, leaving him having to bury his face in his book. He groans. It was stupid, really, the kind of thoughts that entered his head whenever he thought about Crowley a little too long, but he can't control it! His stupid corporation has a tendency to act on its own—he'd been doing a good job at hiding it, at least. He just needs to play the part again. Just for an afternoon. And he can let it go tonight.
The kettle wheezes across the room and Aziraphale thanks the Almighty for interrupting his train of thought before it could snowball any further. Yes. He's cool .
And he manages to stay cool even as the familiar bell of the bookshop dings, ringing through the air, not without something of a particularly demonic feeling weaved throughout. Aziraphale exhales shakily— he's here —sipping his tea to calm himself with no regard for the temperature.
With how often Crowley slithers down, they've both found there's no use in announcing his arrival. He does so anyway...
"Hey, angel," calls Crowley.
"One moment, my dear."
...and Aziraphale is certainly glad he does. It's nice to hear Crowley greet him, especially if it comes with getting called angel .
"Tea?" asks Aziraphale as he brings both mugs out. He finds Crowley sitting on his designated armchair, right by Aziraphale's desk.
(There's really no use in asking the question. Crowley always says yes, and so Aziraphale started making the tea in advance, but it was a nice, familiar gesture—rehearsed and comfortable.)
"Only if it tastes as good as it smells," Crowley says, burying himself in the armchair.
"Oh, hush," Aziraphale replies, offering Crowley his mug. It was identical to his own pearl-white mug, handles formed to look like angel wings, but Aziraphale had made the decision to Miracle Crowley's to be a pearly black a few months ago. It had been a small gesture to say, you have a permanent place here. "You know I'd never serve you anything that isn't up to your standards."
Crowley accepts the mug like second nature, humming. "Nor would I. I know how fussy you get," he says smugly.
Aziraphale resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Well, obviously. I have taste ," he says. He takes a sip of his tea.
"No, no, of course. Wouldn't want to sully that, now, would we?" Crowley sips at his tea.
They didn't have any plans today, but Aziraphale did. "Right. That's why we're going to the Ritz tonight."
This was a situation Aziraphale had rehearsed in his head countless times in the shower. It didn't exactly do much to stop his heart from pounding, though.
Crowley sputtered, an unreadable expression on his face. "Tonight," he echoes.
Oh, what if Crowley got suspicious? Or— or what if he was busy tonight? Aziraphale probably should have told him beforehand. He's messed it all up already. "I just— I wanted to, erm, try something new on their menu, but, but if you're busy—"
"No, right, of course. Tonight, yeah." Crowley leans back in the armchair, getting comfortable.
Aziraphale sighs with relief. "There's a darling." If he didn't know any better, he might have said Crowley was blushing. When Crowley looks vaguely through the window and doesn't say anything else, choosing to sip his tea through the silence, Aziraphale tries to pick the conversation up. "You know, I—"
Crowley looks up at him, big, bright, golden eyes, eyebrows raised with genuine curiosity, as they always are. Aziraphale blushes. Right, well— he forgets the conversation topics he'd been rehearsing for a week, and promptly panics. He looks around for something to comment on, but his eyes fail to land on anything other than Crowley himself.
Crowley's sprawled out on the armchair in what looks like an incredibly uncomfortable position. Aziraphale would be more concerned for Crowley's back if he didn't know this was the standard-Crowley-pose. "However do you get that corporation to move so snake-like?"
"Well, I was the snake that tempted that Eve, wasn't I? Old habits die hard."
Aziraphale hums, thinking back to the beginning. He remembers how Crowley, right after tempting a human, had shown him the first true bit of kindness he'd felt. He thinks he'd have forgotten Crowley were a demon had he not been draped in black.
"You were very good at that," he says, before taking a sip of his tea. "Temptation. You are good at it, I rather meant," he corrected himself. He sipped his tea as he sat on the chair by his desk, sinking into the softness.
Crowley blinks up at him and straightens his back. He laughs, a strained, breathy noise, and Aziraphale can't tell if it's from discomfort or something else. "Like you'd know." Aziraphale sips his tea, urging him with a raised eyebrow to go on. "I mean... angels can't exactly be tempted."
"You'd be surprised," says Aziraphale, and elaborates no further. He knows it's cruel to just leave it at that and move on to a different, random topic, but Crowley never brought it up again, and neither of them ever spoke about the comfortable tension that had always grown whenever the two of them were together, and so things fell into place, as they always had. They talked for an hour about whatever had come to their minds, as they normally did, until Aziraphale had to open up shop. What was different from usual, though, was that Crowley was quick to leave with a, "Right, then, got to get up to some— uh, demonic things—you know me, wily as anything—i, er, tonight—yep—bye," and practically running out the door, rather than staying to annoy some of the customers more than Aziraphale could with his polite rudeness.
Aziraphale almost prays he didn't make Crowley uncomfortable with whatever that was. He really did try his best to act— well, he tried his best to act normal. Or something close to it, at least.
A number of rather unwanted customers being sent away later, and it's about 7:00 — anywhere from a whole hour to half that until the usual time Crowley would pick Aziraphale up. He goes and opens a book near the back of the shop, which had been hollowed-out and turned into a secret hiding place for the red, velvety box that held the ring. He holds it in his hands, rubbing a finger on the surface with a soft look in his eyes which had quickly turned to something that resembled a quiet panic.
Only a bit to go until he pops the question— no, that's not right. Only a bit until he briefly brings up the topic of marriage and Crowley says yes and they continue on having a very normal dinner.
Only— only, Aziraphale never thought of it as that. Marriage? Marriage? What a small word for such a big thing. He was sold on the spending the rest of our lives together bit, and— and he was fairly sure Crowley was, too, but what about the other aspects of marriage? And— oh, that's another thing. What if Crowley said no? What the whole thing made Crowley feel uncomfortable? What if he sees Aziraphale differently after? What if he loses their dinners at Ritz or their outings to go see plays or their monthly shopping for new houseplants? What if he loses his best friend? What if—
"Argh!" He groans out loud, staring out at the window for a moment, and sighs. No . He...
The luxury beep of the Bentley floods into the bookshop, and Aziraphale quickly reaches for his pocket watch to check the time. Already?
"Lord, help me."
Right. He isn't nervous. Not at all. In fact, he's excited. He quickly makes sure he looks presentable, making a point to fix his crooked tie.
Aziraphale won't let his cowardice stop him now. He's come this far. He'd given in to his feelings months ago—he'd loved Crowley even longer. He isn't going to let his fear take away this chance to finally—after all these years waiting for a time safe enough to be loud about it—let Crowley know how much he loves him.
Okay. This is it, then. Just a normal dinner. He makes his way to the door, pocketing the ring as he goes. He doesn't quite get it in until he almost bumps into— "Crowley!"
"Jesus— 's just me, angel."
"Yes, I— I can see that," remarks Aziraphale, who hopes Crowley didn't catch a sight of the box. "Why aren't you waiting inside? You love waiting inside."
Crowley's eyebrows pinch. "Not allowed to get out the Bentley now?"
Aziraphale hums. "As a matter of fact, no."
"What, so I'm just your personal chauffeur now? 'S that it?" asks Crowley sarcastically.
Aziraphale rolls his eyes fondly. "Might as well be. You don't ever let me drive the Bentley—"
"Oh, come on, now—"
"And Hell forbid anyone other than I share a ride with you—"
"Blame the Bentley! She loves you too much—"
"I highly doubt it's the Bentley who—"
"I mean, seriously, she refuses to start unless I tell her we're going to the bookshop—"
"And don't even get me started on my ruined Tchaikovsky tapes—"
"Oh, fuck off—" Crowley said as he smiled, with no real malice behind it.
"Oh, I hate you. Date's off," Aziraphale countered sarcastically. "I'm opening the shop."
"At quarter to eight?"
"Yep. New opening hours."
Crowley throws his hands up. "When'd that happen?"
"Just now, when you swore at me."
"Oh, no," Crowley says, pouting mockingly. "A bad word. However will Mr. Fell, the holiest of all, cope with this one?"
Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, a smirk lifting his cheeks up. The banter with Crowley had always been the easiest part of the day, but perhaps they had better get on with it. He sighs. "With quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol, I should think."
Crowley laughs. "Now, I like the sound of that!" He quickly steps over to the Bentley and holds the passenger door open for Aziraphale.
He smiles appreciatively at the gesture. When Crowley hops in, Aziraphale is quick to thank him.
"Thank you, dear," said Aziraphale, perhaps far too softly to only be about the door.
"'Course," whispers Crowley. "I'm your chauffeur, aren't I?"
A pause. "Right," says Aziraphale, chuckling nervously. "My chauffeur isn't breaking any traffic laws tonight, are they?" Aziraphale asks, already knowing full-well what the answer to that question is.
The soft look on Crowley's face is wiped away by a shit-eating grin. "We'll see about that."
Wait. Did he say date?