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Chapter Text

Aziraphale set the last stack of clean plates in the cupboard and sighed.  He didn’t quite know how a household of only four people managed to use so many dishes, but after every meal there was a fresh mountain of them to wash, and on nights like this when the cook went home early the whole job fell to him.

He supposed it was because his stepfather insisted on the closest approximation of the nobility’s multicourse meals that their finances would allow.  Gabriel had never really gotten used to the change in status that had come with his marriage to Aziraphale’s mother.

Aziraphale paused in the middle of wiping down the kitchen table, closing his eyes against the prickle of tears.  It had been nearly ten years since his mother disappeared on one of her trading voyages; everyone else had given her up for dead, even Gabriel, but Aziraphale still held out hope that one day she would return and everything would be set right.

“Slacking again, Aziraphale?” an all-too-familiar voice boomed. 

Aziraphale started violently.  He hadn’t heard Gabriel come in. 

“No, no, of course not,” he said with a nervous smile, turning to face his stepfather.  “I’m, er, I’m almost finished.”

“Good.  Can’t have an untidy kitchen, can we?”  Gabriel gave him a clap on the shoulder that made him stagger.  “We all have to pull together, don’t forget.”

I’m scarcely likely to forget, considering how often you say it, remarked the tart little voice in the back of Aziraphale’s head that he tried not to listen to.

“Er – about that –”  He swallowed and gathered his courage.  “Could – could Michael possibly go into town to do the marketing tomorrow?  I’m always glad to do it, you know that, but I do so want to finish that research I’m working on for Mr. Shadwell…”  He became aware that he was twisting the dishcloth in his hands and forced himself to stop, flattening his palms against the curve of his belly.

Gabriel’s eyebrows shot up.  “What?  Don’t be ridiculous, Aziraphale.  Michael’s much too busy to run errands.”  His mouth stretched into one of his broad, false smiles.  He was quite handsome, Aziraphale supposed – tall and broad-shouldered, with unusual blue-violet eyes and an elegant streak of silver in his dark hair – but somehow everything about him seemed like a façade.  “It’s nice that you’ve got your little side business, but family comes first.  You understand that, right?"

Oh, yes, he understood, Aziraphale thought glumly when Gabriel had left.  He understood that the things he loved weren’t important to anyone else.  There was no reason that they should be, really – what use were books and scholarship when it came to keeping a household running? – but the dismissive tone still hurt.

He took one last look around the kitchen, making sure everything was in order for the morning, then went down the hall to his bedroom.  It wasn’t the room he had slept in as a boy, with its big windowseat perfect for curling up with a book; his stepbrother Sandalphon had that room now.  Aziraphale had been moved to what had once been the housekeeper’s quarters, back when they had more servants than just a cook who came in by the day.  The bedroom was small and plain, but comfortable enough, and he could keep his books and papers in the housekeeper’s tiny office next door.

Aziraphale sighed, thinking wistfully of his unfinished research project.  Another few hours of work would finish it, but where would he find the time between errands and chores?

Several years ago he had begun offering his services as a scholar to the residents of the nearby town; some of his business came from reading and writing letters for those who couldn’t do so themselves, but his favorite jobs involved going through the dense old books that people gave him and condensing the most important points into an easy-to-understand form. 

Not only did this let him get his hands on books he might never have been able to read otherwise, it also gave him the too-rare opportunity to exercise his mind.  His mother had always told him he was clever, and while those might have been merely the views of a fond parent, he knew he was good at searching out information and putting it into words.

His latest commission was from old Mr. Shadwell, who was always suspecting his neighbors of something; he had unearthed a huge old tome on witchcraft and asked Aziraphale to make him a list of how to tell when someone was a witch.  Aziraphale didn’t really want to add fuel to the man’s wild theories, but the book was fascinating, and he didn’t think Shadwell could do much harm with it (except perhaps getting himself slapped for asking someone how many nipples they had).  He wished he could keep reading it instead of going to the market tomorrow.

The next day began, as usual, with Aziraphale rising early to feed the chickens and the pony, then doing his best to help the cook as she bustled about the kitchen preparing breakfast.  She was a cheerful older woman named Tracy; her brightly colored scarves and henna-dyed hair made her look a little out of place in the kitchen, but she was unfailingly kind to Aziraphale.

“Here you are, love,” she said, putting the big serving tray into his hands.  “Mind the teapot, it’s a bit full.  And tell them the bacon will be ready in two ticks.  I’ll bring that out myself.”

“Thank you, Tracy,” Aziraphale said, smiling at her.  Carefully balancing the heavy tray (laden with platters of toast, eggs, and sausages as well as the teapot), he made his way up the stairs to the breakfast room.

His stepfamily was already there, Gabriel seated at the head of the table with Michael on one side of him and Sandalphon on the other.

“There you are,” Michael said, raising one of her perfectly groomed eyebrows.  “What took you so long?”

It wasn’t more than a minute or two past their usual breakfast time, but Aziraphale knew better than to say so.  “I’m sorry,” he murmured, setting the tray down on the sideboard and beginning to transfer its contents to the table.  “Tracy says the bacon is almost ready, and she’ll bring it out shortly.”

As he leaned forward to place the teapot on its mat, a sharp jab to his ribs made him gasp and double over, involuntarily sloshing tea from the spout of the pot onto the tablecloth.

“Clumsy, clumsy,” Sandalphon said with his oily smile.  “You’d think after all the practice you’d had, you’d be more competent at this.”

Aziraphale fought down a rush of humiliation that made his face burn.  He couldn’t show any reaction; that was what Sandalphon wanted.  “So sorry,” he murmured again.  “I’ll – I’ll just fetch something to mop that up, shall I?”

Once he was out of sight in the hallway, he allowed himself to run the sore spot where Sandalphon had jabbed him.  Even with his natural padding, that was going to leave a bruise.

He wished he didn’t have to go back in there, but Gabriel always insisted on his eating with them (so he can keep up his pretense that we’re a family, muttered that voice in his head).  He sighed resignedly and went to get a cloth to wipe up the tea.

“So you’re off to the market after breakfast, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said jovially once they were all seated.  Aziraphale had prudently taken the chair next to Michael; intimidating as she was, at least he had never known her to stoop to petty bullying like her brother.  “While you’re there, make sure to get me one of those apple pastries.  It’s amazing what can be done with a little confidence and determination.”

“Yes, Gabriel,” Aziraphale said quietly, keeping his head bent as he poked at a breakfast he no longer had any appetite for.  He wished he had had more time to appreciate the seasoning Tracy had used on the sausages.

Mrs. Tyler’s pastries, made with apples from her husband’s jealously guarded orchard, always sold out quickly, and after the last market he had made the mistake of admitting to Gabriel that he hadn’t liked to shove his way to the front in order to buy one.  This was Gabriel’s way of telling him he needed to do better this time, or else.

When breakfast was over, Aziraphale escaped to the kitchen to collect Tracy’s list of things they needed in town, then went out to hitch up the pony.  He wasn’t very good at driving the little pony cart, but walking back from town with a week’s worth of supplies simply wasn’t possible.

Despite the bumpy ride, he always enjoyed the drive into town; the road ran through a shady tunnel of trees for most of the way, and the quiet of the woods soothed nerves stretched tight from interacting with his stepfamily.  By the time he reached the market square in the middle of town, he almost felt relaxed.

Aziraphale tied the pony to the hitching rail where several other carts were lined up, took his big wicker shopping basket from the back, and set off into the crowded square.  Mindful of Gabriel’s orders, he made for Mrs. Tyler’s stall first, where he was just in time to purchase the last apple pastry (although he refused to actually push in front of anyone to do so; there was such a thing as common politeness, after all).  The rest of the shopping could be done at his own pace.

He made a leisurely circuit of the square, loading his basket with vegetables, cheese, sugar, soap, and various other supplies.  Most of the stallkeepers were people he had known all his life, and he chatted happily with them about the state of business and the latest town gossip. The last item on his list was a goose for tonight’s dinner; it was too big to fit in the shopping basket, so he gave the butcher’s apprentice a coin to carry it to the pony cart.

As Aziraphale turned to follow the girl, he was abruptly descended upon by a swarm of children.  In reality there were only four of them, but they had the energy and volume of twice their number.

“Mr. Aziraphale!” one of the boys, Brian, shouted.  “Look what we found!  Is it pirate treasure?  Is it?”

“’Course it isn’t,” Brian’s friend Adam said scornfully.  “I told you, it’s from a civilization that lived here hundreds an’ hundreds of years ago.  Probably really valuable.”

“So which is it?” asked Pepper, the only girl in the group, fixing Aziraphale with a penetrating stare.

Aziraphale hid a smile and solemnly examined the “treasure” (which was, in fact, quite an ordinary brass belt buckle that looked to have been buried in the dirt for a month or two).  “We’re too far from the sea for pirates, I’m afraid, Brian,” he said.  “As for how old this is, or how valuable, I really couldn’t say for certain, but it very likely did belong to someone who once lived right here in this place.”

That was almost certainly the exact truth, he reflected, unless the thing had been lost by a passing visitor.

“Then we’ll keep it and put it on display,” Adam said with a decisive nod, taking the buckle back from Aziraphale.  “We’ll look around for other old stuff and make a whole museum, and people’ll pay us to come see it.”

“Do let me know when your museum is finished so I can visit,” Aziraphale said, smiling. 

Glancing at the other children, he noticed that Wensleydale, never the most boisterous of the group, was looking downright glum.  “Is something the matter, dear boy?” he asked.

Wensleydale sighed.  “Actually, yes.  My mum gave me money for a treat because it was my birthday yesterday, and I really wanted one of Mrs. Tyler’s pastries, but they were all gone when we got here.”

“We were late ’cause there was a dog doing tricks down at the other end of the market,” Pepper explained.

Aziraphale thought quickly.  If Gabriel knew what he was about to do, he would be furious… but Gabriel didn’t have to know, did he?

“Here,” he said, extracting the paper-wrapped pastry from beneath a bunch of carrots.  It was cool by now, but the outer layer of dough was still crisp and flaky, with a mouthwatering aroma of sugar and cinnamon.  “Take this one, Wensleydale.  I really don’t need it.”

All four children’s faces lit up.  “Thank you, Mr. Aziraphale!” Wensleydale exclaimed, darting forward to hug him around the middle.

Aziraphale smiled fondly after them as they hurried off, dividing the pastry into four pieces as they went.  They were such dear children; he was glad to have been able to do them a good turn.

“Nice of you,” remarked an unfamiliar voice behind him.

Aziraphale turned, startled, then got a good look at the man standing there and froze.  He tried to say something, but all that came out was an undignified squeaking noise.

Even to someone who got out as little as Aziraphale did, Prince Crowley, heir to the throne, was instantly recognizable.  That lean, angular face, framed by shoulder-length waves of dark red hair, looked out from countless engravings in the society papers (which Aziraphale always snagged when Gabriel was finished with them, because any reading material was better than none).

But the engravings didn’t show how tall he was, or his easy, loose-limbed stance, or – dear God – how very handsome he looked when he smiled like that.

The smile tilted into wry amusement as Aziraphale continued to stare, speechless.  “Yeah, it’s me,” he said.  “Just don’t make a fuss about it, all right?  I’m trying to be incognito here.”

Aziraphale realized that the prince was alone, wearing what he probably thought of as casual attire: close-fitting breeches, a full-sleeved, high-collared shirt, and an unbuttoned waistcoat, all in black and all finer quality than anything Aziraphale owned.  He also realized that the other marketgoers were tactfully pretending not to notice that there was royalty in their midst.

“I do beg your pardon,” he said, pulling himself together.  “You took me by surprise, that’s all.  What were you saying?”

Prince Crowley’s amused smile widened into a crooked grin.  “Just said it was nice of you to give that kid your pastry.  You were probably looking forward to eating it yourself.”

Aziraphale eyed him sharply in case that was a crack about his weight, but the remark seemed to have been an innocent one.  “Oh, I wouldn’t have eaten it in any case,” he said.  “G – my stepfather asked me to bring home one of those pastries.  I’ll simply tell him I wasn’t in time to buy one before they sold out.”

“Wait, what?!” the prince exclaimed, straightening abruptly.  “You gave away someone else’s pastry?”  His eyes (a striking amber that hadn’t come across in the engravings either) were shining with astonished delight.

Aziraphale felt his cheeks warming.  “Young Wensleydale deserves that treat far more than my stepfather does,” he said stiffly, straightening his much-mended waistcoat.  “It seemed the right thing to do.”

“You won’t hear me arguing with that,” the prince said.  He extended a long, thin hand.  “Probably time we introduced ourselves properly.  I’m Crowley.”

Aziraphale blinked, then cautiously took the offered hand.  “A pleasure to meet you… Crowley.  My name is Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley repeated.  His voice was a pleasantly rough drawl, not at all what Aziraphale would have expected from a prince.  “D’you live here in town?”

Aziraphale shook his head.  “We – I live a few miles outside the town, but I come here at least once a week to run errands.”

“So that’s how you know those kids,” Crowley said, nodding.  “They obviously like you a lot.”

“Adam and his friends consider me the font of all knowledge for some reason,” Aziraphale said.  He suspected he was blushing again.  “I must admit, they ask rather more interesting questions than the adults who come to me for research.”

He looked at Crowley.  “And you?  What brought you here today?  I know the palace is quite near, but this doesn’t seem… well… a usual setting for someone in your position.”

“Tactful,” Crowley said with another grin.  “I don’t know, guess I just… needed some space.  Everyone’s been on at me lately about my ‘proper role’, and I wanted to get away and just be me for a bit, y’know?”  He shrugged in a way that seemed to involve more joints than it strictly should have.  “Usually I go for a long drive, but I didn’t feel like it today.  Thought I’d try coming to town like I used to do when I sneaked away from my tutors.”

Aziraphale thought of how he felt an invisible weight slipping from his shoulders every time he drove into town.  Different as their responsibilities undoubtedly were, he could fully sympathize with Crowley’s desire for escape. 

“I wonder if we ever saw each other here as boys,” he remarked.

Crowley looked intrigued.  “You grew up here, huh?  I played with the local kids now and then when I got the chance.  Maybe one of them was you.”

Aziraphale, remembering his own childhood, gave a little rueful laugh.  “I doubt it.  I never really joined in the other children’s games, even before –”  He cut himself off.  “If you ever saw a chubby boy sitting off to the side with a book, however, that was almost certainly me.”

“Can’t say I remember noticing anyone like that,” Crowley said.  There was an odd note in his voice, almost gentle.  “But now I’m thinking that was my loss.”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say to that, so he lowered his eyes to where his hands gripped the handle of the shopping basket.

After a moment of awkward silence, Crowley cleared his throat.  “Erm.  So.  You said you do research?”

Aziraphale brightened.  “Oh, yes!  People bring me books, you see, and…”

He launched into a detailed description of his research business that lasted until a shift of Crowley’s weight reminded him that he was probably boring the poor man senseless.  He stopped midsentence, flushing.  “Oh, dear, I do apologize.  I’ve let myself run on for far too long.”

Crowley scoffed.  “No such thing.  Try sitting through a royal council meeting sometime – now that’s running on too long, without being half so interesting.”

He cocked an eyebrow thoughtfully.  “Y’know, I should introduce you to my friend Anathema.  You’d have a lot in common with her.”

Aziraphale felt an unexpected lurch of dismay.  Was Crowley trying to set him up with this friend?  Quite apart from its being an odd thing to do on less than half an hour’s acquaintance (not to mention that it was reasonably obvious to most people that Aziraphale’s romantic preferences didn’t tend towards women), it felt… disappointing, somehow, that this whole conversation might have been only a means to an end. 

Some of this must have shown in his face, because Crowley went red and made a sputtering noise.  “Wh – no, wait, this isn’t me trying to, to matchmake or something!  It’s just, Anathema reads more than anyone else I know, and I thought you’d like talking about books with her, is all.”

“Oh.”  Aziraphale relaxed.  “Yes, that does sound enjoyable.  I don’t know that I’d be able to get away from my chores long enough to meet with her, but I do thank you for the thought.”

Reminded of his duties, he glanced up at the town hall clock and gasped.  “Heavens, the time!  Oh, dear, whatever will Gabriel say – I’m so sorry, Crowley, it was lovely to meet you, but I really must go –”

“S’fine, go on,” Crowley said, waving a hand.  “Don’t want you getting in trouble.  Will you be here next market day?”

Aziraphale blinked, momentarily distracted from his panic.  “Er – yes, most likely.”

“Good.  Then so will I.”  Crowley grinned at him and sauntered away through the crowd. 

It wasn’t until Aziraphale was seated in the pony cart, heading for home at a brisk clip, that he had the leisure to think over the surprising encounter.  That last remark about meeting him again at next week’s market had surely been mere politeness, but Crowley, against all odds, had seemed to enjoy their conversation. 

As for Aziraphale, he knew he would treasure the memory for the rest of his days – not only having the prince speak to him as an equal, not only being smiled at by the handsomest man he had ever met, but feeling seen and understood for the first time in years. 

“Well?” Gabriel said when Aziraphale went to his study to return the change from his purchases.  “I hope you at least got me that pastry after being gone so long.”

Aziraphale swallowed and clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from fidgeting.  “I’m terribly sorry, Gabriel.  I-I’m afraid I wasn’t able to.  There was an accident on the road into town, you see – a wagon had broken an axle, and – and no one else could get past for quite some time.  By the time I got to the market, all the pastries had gone.”  He had come up with that story on the drive home and rehearsed it over and over in his head, and he was thankful to have gotten it out with only a little nervous stammering.

Gabriel shook his head with a disappointed sigh.  “Aziraphale, Aziraphale.  You’ll never get anywhere in life if you let every little mishap hold you up.  Next time I want that pastry, and no excuses.”

Aziraphale left the room almost dizzy with relief.  He didn’t care if Gabriel thought he was incompetent; that was hardly a new experience.  What mattered was that he didn’t suspect either of Aziraphale’s secrets: giving the pastry away to Wensleydale or the meeting with Crowley.

Aziraphale went downstairs to help Tracy unload the supplies he had bought, smiling to himself at the thought of Crowley’s sparkling amber eyes.

Chapter Text

Crowley slid through the gap in the tall hedge that surrounded the palace grounds, ducking under the branches of a spreading willow tree to emerge next to the decorative fishpond. 

He knew the grounds like the back of his hand, and over the years he had made or discovered several different routes for getting in and out unobserved.  This one was the most reliable, thanks to that tree shielding the gap in the hedge from view, as long as he timed it so nobody was in that part of the gardens.  With luck, he could make it in the side door and up the stairs to his chambers without being noticed.

His luck, however, didn’t last.  As he eased the side door closed behind him, someone cleared their throat pointedly and said, “You might at least warn me when I’m going to need to cover for you with your father.”

Crowley groaned.  “C’mon, Anathema.  The whole idea is that no one knows what I’m doing.  It’s not rebellious if you arrange it ahead of time.”

He turned as he spoke to see Anathema, the palace witch and his best friend, perched on a windowsill with a book open on her knee and giving him a stern look through her large, round spectacles.  He didn’t wonder how she had known to wait there for him; Anathema had an uncanny intuition, passed down, she said, from her great-grandmother.

“Maybe so, but the king has been asking for you for the past hour,” Anathema said, slipping from her perch to walk up the corridor beside him.  “I told him you were out in the gardens, and it wasn’t easy to talk him out of sending a footman to look for you.  You owe me one, Crowley.”

Crowley sighed and ran a hand through his hair.  “Yeah.  Thanks, Anathema.  I really do appreciate it."

"Just remember that next time I need to take something for a spell from one of those precious plants of yours,” Anathema said, smiling.  “So how was your little outing?”

Crowley felt himself break into an involuntary grin.  “Very good.  I went down to the market in town and got talking to this man – damn, he’s pretty, and I don’t think he knows it.  Looks like he wouldn’t say boo to a goose, but there’s a streak of bastard in there.  Smart, too.  I think you’d like him.”

Anathema’s eyebrows went up.  “Crowley, am I going to have to cover up a secret romance for you now?”

“S’not like that!” Crowley protested, going red.  He tried not to think about his promise to meet Aziraphale at the market again next week.  “Just… I really liked talking to him.”

Anathema fixed him with another look.  “Considering that the very first thing you said about him was how pretty he is, you’ll pardon me if I don’t believe you.”

Crowley’s spluttering attempts to refute this lasted until they reached the stairs, where they separated, Crowley to change into something more formal and Anathema to inform the king that his wayward son was back and would be with him shortly. 

When Crowley walked into his father’s study (now dressed in a slim black coat and breeches with a dark red brocade waistcoat), King Lucifer was standing by the window with his hands behind his back.  The light was behind him so that Crowley couldn’t see his expression properly, but the set of his shoulders boded no good.

“And where have you been all this time?” he demanded.

“Just took a walk around the gardens,” Crowley said, sprawling into a chair with deliberate casualness.  “Sorry, I didn’t know you wanted me.”

Lucifer stiffened as if about to explode, then visibly decided to let the matter drop, relaxing his posture slightly and moving away from the window.  “Very well,” he said, sitting down at his big desk.  “Now that you’re here, I have a matter to discuss with you.”

This alarmed Crowley more than any display of temper would have.  If his father passed up an opportunity to shout at him in order to discuss whatever this was, it must be serious – and probably not something he was going to like.

“What is it?” he asked warily.

King Lucifer regarded him in silence for a moment.  His face was lean and sharp like Crowley’s own, but his hair and his neatly trimmed goatee were black frosted with silver. 

“In two months’ time you will be twenty-five and of full age,” he said.  “You are more than old enough to begin assuming some of the responsibilities of ruling, but you have yet to show any sign of taking your role as heir seriously.  If you won’t do so of your own volition, then I have no choice but to force your hand.”

Crowley sat up with a jerk, more alarmed than ever, but the king was still talking.  “You will choose a spouse by your birthday, as a sign of your commitment to ruling this country with a loyal partner at your side.  If you do not do this, your cousin Beelzebub will take your place as heir to my throne.”

Crowley’s mouth dropped open.  “Ngk – ghh – what?!  You, you want me to go out and get myself betrothed to some random person to prove that I’m fit to be king?  How does that even make sense?”

“It doesn’t have to make sense,” the king said dryly.  “I’ve told you to do it, and you will do it or lose the throne to your cousin.  Have I made myself clear?”

Crowley wasn’t done arguing.  “Okay, but what does being married have to do with being a ruler?  Suppose I didn’t want a romantic partner?”

“And is that the case?” Lucifer inquired, raising an eyebrow. 

“…No,” Crowley admitted reluctantly.  If he was being honest, he quite liked the idea of having someone he loved by his side, even if the whole business of making heirs didn’t appeal to him.  For some reason, an image of Aziraphale’s sweet smile flickered across his mind.  “It was, y’know, a hypothetical question.”

“Well, I suggest you leave hypothetical questions to the philosophers and take some concrete action for once in your life.”  King Lucifer rose to signal that the discussion was at an end.  “You have two months to select a spouse.  The announcement will be made at your birthday ball.”

Alone in his private sitting room, Crowley paced from the window to the fireplace and back in long, fierce strides.  Where did his father get off just, just ordering him to get married?  Fine, he was the king and his word was literally law, but what right did he have to run Crowley’s personal life along with the affairs of the kingdom?

Crowley had never wanted so badly to just throw the whole thing over and run away.  Maybe he could get work as a gardener somewhere that nobody recognized him from those bloody society papers.

You could give it up, a dark corner of his mind whispered.  That was one of the options.  Refuse to marry and Beelzebub gets the throne, leaving you free.

Crowley considered his cousin Lord Beelzebub, child of King Lucifer’s younger sister.  Beez wasn’t a bad sort overall – they were small and intense with a quick temper, and they had been Crowley’s chief partner in mischief when the two of them were children – but something in his gut told him that it would not be a good idea to give them unfettered authority over the kingdom.  He had witnessed their cruel streak more than once, and he didn’t like to think what that might develop into with a ruler’s power behind it.

He stalked back to the window and glared at the row of plants that stood on the sill, just to make sure they knew the whole thing was their fault.  “Ugh, fine,” he said aloud.  “I’ll find somebody to marry.  Happy?”

The plants did not answer.

Crowley gave up on them and flopped onto the sofa with his legs draped over the arm.  Tomorrow would be soon enough to start spouse-hunting, he decided firmly.  Right now he was going to think about something more pleasant instead.

He closed his eyes, the better to picture Aziraphale’s fluffy pale blond curls, pink cheeks, and round, soft-looking body.  (And yes, he was pretty, thank you very much, Anathema, so what was wrong with saying it?)  He had looked so stunned when he recognized Crowley, and then so adorably flustered, but once he was used to the idea of talking to a prince he seemed to enjoy himself. 

Crowley smiled, remembering how he had lit up when he talked about his research.  Not to mention that anyone who, just to make a kid happy, could give away an item specifically requested by a stepfather whose anger he obviously feared and coolly plan to lie to said stepfather about it was someone Crowley would like to know more of. 

The following day Crowley made a point of noting all the members of the royal court who were unattached and in the right age range.  Unfortunately, the results were not encouraging. 

Unless he wanted to marry someone like Beelzebub’s cronies Duke Hastur and Duke Ligur (who always made Crowley feel like he needed a bath after talking to them) or Lady Carmine (who was downright terrifying), his only options at court were the hangers-on and nonentities whose names he could never remember.  There was Anathema, he supposed, but she was more like a sister than anything else, and in any case she had recently started seeing Newt, one of the footmen. 

So much for marrying inside his father’s court; he would have to expand his search outside it. 

Crowley wandered into the palace library one afternoon with a vague idea of searching for inspiration in a map of the neighboring kingdoms and saw a head of lank dark hair bent over the table in the corner.  He grinned and sauntered across to peer over the boy’s shoulder.  “More mathematics?” he remarked.  “Your tutor’s working you too hard, Warlock.”

Warlock turned to give him the kind of withering look only a twelve-year-old could manage.  “I like mathematics.  It’s a lot more interesting than history and geography and all that stuff.”

Crowley shrugged.  “To each their own, I guess.  Never could get my head around it when I was your age.”

Warlock was the son of an old ally of King Lucifer’s, orphaned several years ago and now being fostered at court.  Next to Anathema, he was Crowley’s favorite person in the palace.

Warlock fiddled with his pen.  “Crowley?” he asked suddenly.  “Is it true you’re getting married?”

Crowley sighed.  He wasn’t surprised that the inevitable palace rumors had reached Warlock’s ears by now.  “Yeah, it’s true.  Don’t know who I’m marrying yet, but it’s going to happen.”

“Make sure it’s someone nice,” Warlock said seriously.  “You deserve to marry a nice person.”

Crowley had to swallow an unexpected lump in his throat.  “Thanks, kid,” he said, ruffling Warlock’s hair.  “I’ll try.”

As the rumors of Crowley’s impending marriage spread through the court, he had to put up with a steadily increasing number of speculative glances and whispered conversations that stopped abruptly when he came within earshot.  He had always hated court intrigue, and being at the focus of it made him want to crawl out of his skin.  All that got him through that week was the thought of escaping to see Aziraphale again on the next market day.

Before sneaking out of the palace this time, he slipped a note under the door of Anathema’s workroom: Going into town.  Back in a few hours.  See how responsible I am? – C.

The market was just as busy as before, crowded with people going briskly about their business or loitering to chat.  Crowley craned his neck, looking for white-blond curls.  Had he missed Aziraphale, or – no, wait!  There he was, engaged in an animated discussion with the proprietor of a used-book stall.

Crowley sidled closer, taking the opportunity to study him in more detail.  He was several inches shorter than Crowley and much rounder, with a generous middle and a soft double chin.  Just like last time, he wore plain, practical clothing: tan breeches, an undyed shirt buttoned up to the throat under a neatly-tied neckcloth, and a brown linen waistcoat that was nearly threadbare in places. 

He was leaning forward a little as he talked to the bookseller, gesturing with the hand not holding his shopping basket, and even from off to the side Crowley could see his face alight with enthusiasm.  The sight made Crowley smile in turn.

At last Aziraphale turned away from the stall with a satisfied expression, tucking the book he had just purchased into his basket.  When he saw Crowley, he jumped and let out a gasp.  “Crowley!  Er – ah – I-I mean, Your Highness!”

“Crowley,” Crowley corrected.  “Told you I’d see you here, didn’t I?”

“Yes, of course, but I didn’t think you –”  Aziraphale cut himself off, blushing.  “That is to say, I’m glad to see you again, Crowley.”

Didn’t think you meant it, Crowley mentally filled in.  He was a little hurt, but it was pretty clear Aziraphale was more conscious of their difference in rank than Crowley was; he’d probably thought a prince wouldn’t bother with someone like him.  Well, Crowley would just have to show him how untrue that was.

“Bought yourself a new book, I see,” he said, indicating the basket.  “What’s it about?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened.  They were an indefinite color somewhere between blue and grey, Crowley noticed.  “You… you want to hear about it?”

“’Course I do,” Crowley said, frowning.  “Why wouldn’t I?”

Aziraphale dropped his gaze to his hands.  “No one ever asks me about my books,” he said softly.  “My stepfamily doesn’t care, and my research clients are only interested in the subjects they’re paying me for.  Miss Bilton at the book stall is the only person I can talk to about what I’ve been reading.”  He sounded so forlorn that Crowley had a sudden irrational urge to hug him. 

“Well, now you can talk to me too,” he said instead.  “C’mon, let’s find somewhere to sit down.  Unless you have to get home right away?” he added, remembering Aziraphale’s panicked departure last week.

Aziraphale shook his head.  “No, I finished the shopping more quickly than expected today, so I have a little time to myself before I’m due back.”  He looked around.  “If I remember correctly, there’s a bench just over there with some lovely trees for shade…”

The bench proved to be off to one side of the market square, not far enough away to be really private, but out of the direct line of traffic.  Crowley settled onto it in his usual sprawl, and Aziraphale sat primly upright beside him with his laden shopping basket by his feet and his hands folded in his lap. 

“So tell me about that book,” Crowley said, tilting his head back for a better angle on Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale smiled and wiggled a little in his seat.  “It’s one I’ve been wanting to get my hands on for quite some time.  I’ve read several other books by this author and enjoyed them very much; this one was her first published work, and if what I’ve heard is true, it introduces early versions of several characters and plot elements that she later refined and adapted into a different novel.  It should be fascinating to compare the two.”  His smile slipped a bit.  “If I can find the time to read it, that is.”

“Stepfamily keeps you busy?” Crowley asked, trying for a neutral tone.

Aziraphale’s plump hands twisted together nervously.  “Well, I – I’m responsible for a great many of the household chores as well as the marketing, but it only makes sense.  After all, I’m the one who grew up here, so I know the house and the townsfolk.  And – and as my stepfather says, we all have to pull together.”

Crowley had to clamp his jaw shut to stop himself from saying That’s not “pulling together”, that’s exploiting you in your own home.  He wasn’t sure how Aziraphale would take that from someone he barely knew.” "Sounds tiring,” he said.  “D’you have any help?”

“Only Tracy – she’s a lovely woman who lives nearby and comes in to do the cooking.  I’ve never quite gotten the hang of cooking myself, which is a shame, as I do enjoy good cuisine when I have the opportunity.”

Aziraphale hesitated, looking at him.  “Crowley… do forgive me, but are you quite well?  I don’t recall you looking quite this… this strained when we met before.”

The concern in his voice was genuine, but it was also a blatant attempt to change the subject.  Crowley decided to let him.

“Yeah, I’m all right,” he said.  “Things’re just kind of difficult with my father right now.” 

He hadn’t intended to say any more than that, but something about those soft, worried eyes made his mouth keep going of its own accord.  “He gave me a bloody ultimatum – told me I have to find a spouse in the next two months or lose my place as heir.  What am I meant to do with that?  Does he seriously expect me to, to fall in love to order?”

“Oh, my dear, no wonder you’re upset!” Aziraphale exclaimed, raising a hand to his mouth.  “It’s perfectly dreadful of him to put you in such a situation.  I know I oughtn’t to say such things about the king, but really–!  What if you were the sort of person who prefers not to marry at all?”

Crowley, despite himself, burst out laughing.  It was such a relief to hear someone else react the same way he had.  “That’s exactly what I said!  He just told me not to ask hypothetical questions.”  He sighed and slouched lower on the bench.  “Don’t really have a choice except to go through with it.  Now I just have to find somebody I can live with who’s willing to marry me.”

“I shouldn’t imagine you’d have much difficulty with that last factor,” Aziraphale said, then went beet red and looked as if he wished he hadn’t said anything.

Crowley grinned, suddenly feeling better.  So Aziraphale found him attractive too, did he?  “Nah, it’s the part about finding somebody I can live with that’s the problem.  D’you have any idea what most of my father’s courtiers are like?  Blech.” 

They sat and talked for almost an hour, moving on to lighter topics like Crowley’s plants (“I keep them in my sitting room so I can watch what they’re up to.  The gardeners just aren’t tough enough on them, y’know?”) and some of Aziraphale’s odder research commissions (“She wanted me to go through every word of this old Bible and look for misprints, of all things.  I believe she said they would make it more valuable, though I can’t imagine why.”).  Crowley was delighted to discover that when Aziraphale let himself relax, he had a quick, occasionally biting wit and was quite ready to toss Crowley’s teasing back at him.

“See you again next week?” Crowley asked when Aziraphale reluctantly rose to leave. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said at once.  His smile was as bright as the sun overhead.  “I’ll meet you right here when I’ve finished my shopping.”

Crowley returned to the palace feeling happier than he had all week.  It felt so good to talk with someone who wasn’t angling for royal favor or laying verbal traps or lecturing him about his responsibilities.  With Aziraphale he could just relax and be himself, and Aziraphale obviously wanted to spend time with Crowley as much as Crowley did with him. 

Crowley’s imagination leapt ahead to next week: to sitting on that bench talking and laughing with Aziraphale; watching his smile light up his eyes and hearing him say Crowley in that soft, fussy voice; maybe daring to slip an arm around the comfortable width of his waist…

Crowley stopped dead halfway up the grand staircase.  “Oh, hell,” he said aloud, drawing odd looks from several passers-by.  “Anathema was right.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale sat at his desk in his little office, gazing dreamily out the narrow window into the chicken yard.  There was a history book open in front of him and a partial page of notes by his right hand, but his thoughts were far from his work.

Instead of the smudged, dusty windowpanes, he saw Crowley’s engaging grin, Crowley’s sauntering, hip-swinging walk, Crowley’s gaze focused on him as if he was the most important thing in the world.  He could barely remember the last time anyone (except perhaps Tracy) had listened to him that way, as if what he had to say mattered. 

It was easier for him to believe now that Crowley wanted to see him again.  Princes weren’t supposed to befriend the sons of impoverished merchant families, but Crowley didn’t seem to care a bit. 

Aziraphale leaned his head on one hand and closed his eyes, letting a smile touch his lips as he replayed their last meeting in his mind.

“If you have time to waste on napping, I’m sure we can find you something more to do,” a crisp voice said.

Aziraphale jerked upright, the pleasant images dissolving in a wash of alarm.  He turned to see Michael standing in the doorway of his office.

“I – I wasn’t napping,” he said, attempting a placating smile.  The last thing he needed was for his stepfamily to decide he wasn’t busy enough.  “Just, er, thinking something over.  For my research, you know.”

“Hm,” Michael said, sounding unimpressed.  She was the elder of Gabriel’s children, tall and remote with an elaborate arrangement of curls piled on her head.  Aziraphale didn’t think he had ever seen her looking less than perfectly polished.

The silence lengthened as Aziraphale tried not to squirm under Michael’s gaze. 

“You’ve seemed off ever since you went to the market yesterday, Aziraphale,” she said at last.  “Is there something you aren’t telling us?”

Aziraphale felt himself blanch.  “What?  N-no, of course not!  Everything’s simply – simply tip-top.  Why would you think something had happened?”

Michael’s eyes dropped briefly to his hands, and he realized belatedly that he was rubbing them against his broad thighs in an unmistakable nervous gesture.  “Glad to hear it,” she said.  “I hope that state of affairs continues.”  She turned and strode away.

Aziraphale sagged in his chair, letting out a shaky breath.  Michael was far more perceptive than Gabriel or Sandalphon, but he generally managed to stay beneath her notice.  Why did her attention have to fall on him now, when he actually had something to hide?  He hoped she had read his flustered manner as merely part of his usual nervousness around his stepfamily, but he didn’t dare count on it. 

What if she – if all of them – found out about Crowley?  As the prince, Crowley was probably safe from any reprisals, but Aziraphale had no such protection.  At the very least Gabriel would forbid him from going to town again, thereby taking away his only opportunity to breathe freely for a little while.

He would have to tell Crowley they couldn’t see each other any longer, Aziraphale decided.  It would hurt to lose Crowley’s friendship, but better now than after he’d grown even more attached.

He closed his eyes for a moment until the tears that threatened to well up at the thought had subsided, then picked up his pen again.

Aziraphale found himself half looking forward to and half dreading his next trip to the market.  Despite everything, part of him yearned to see Crowley again… but this time, seeing Crowley meant having to ask him not to come back.

By the time Aziraphale arrived at the market square, his nerves were wound up to such a pitch that any glimpse of red hair in the crowd made him start and clutch at the handle of his basket.  None of them were Crowley, of course; Crowley would be waiting on the bench, as he had promised.

Aziraphale took as long as he dared over his shopping, but at last there were no more items on the list and no excuse to delay further.  Straightening his waistcoat for courage, he made his way toward the little clump of trees that sheltered the bench.

Crowley was there, slouched back with his long limbs disposed at improbable angles.  He looked up as Aziraphale approached and broke into a smile.  “Hey there, angel,” he said.

Aziraphale blinked, thrown off his planned script.  “Er – pardon?”

Crowley blushed slightly.  “Well, just – the way the sun catches your hair from behind, looks like a halo.  You’re as pretty as an angel, too.”

This was too much to endure.  “Oh, Crowley, don’t!” Aziraphale cried out, then burst into tears.

There was a scrambling sound, then an arm around his shoulders, guiding him to a seat on the bench.  “Hey, no, Aziraphale, I-I’m sorry.”  Crowley’s voice was rough and gentle at the same time.  “Didn’t mean to upset you.  I won’t call you that if you don’t like it.”

Aziraphale tried to drag his mind away from the feeling of Crowley’s hand rubbing slow circles on his back.  “No, I – l-like it,” he choked out between sobs.  “That’s – that’s just the trouble.”

Crowley was silent for a moment, though the comforting movement of his hand didn’t pause.  “Look, Aziraphale, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he said.  “But I l – I like you a lot, and if something’s upsetting you, I want to help if I can.  D’you think maybe you could tell me what’s wrong?”

Oh, this hurt even more than Aziraphale had thought it would.  Why did Crowley have to be so kind?  Why couldn’t he have been offended by Aziraphale’s reaction instead, so that it would be easier to push him away?

Aziraphale gulped and managed a shaky nod.

Crowley waited patiently until Aziraphale at last succeeded in pulling himself together.  He dried his eyes and blew his nose, then sat up straighter, folding his hands over his belly to keep them from trembling.  “Thank you, Crowley,” he said quietly.  “I’m – I’m very sorry for behaving like that.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Crowley said.  He had withdrawn his hand when Aziraphale sat up, but his arm still lay along the back of the bench, and Aziraphale tried very hard not to think about how easy it would be to lean back into it.  “You ready to talk now?”

Aziraphale drew a deep breath, his hands gripping each other more tightly.  “Crowley… I came here to tell you that we shouldn’t see each other anymore.”

Crowley stiffened, but his eyes stayed steadily on Aziraphale’s face.  “Why?” he asked.  “’Cause I’m pretty sure it’s not that you don’t want to see me.”

“My stepsister guessed that I was hiding something about my last trip to the market,” Aziraphale said miserably.  “I told her I wasn’t, but I’m not at all sure that she believed me.  If my stepfamily finds out I’ve been meeting you like this –”  He had to stop and swallow hard.  “I want to spend time with you, Crowley, more than anything, but it’s simply too great a risk.”

Crowley took in a breath as if about to say something, then let it out again.  “You’re the one who actually knows your stepfamily,” he said after a moment.  “But seems to me like the risk couldn’t be much worse than what they’re doing to you right now.  If you give up things that make you happy just because you’re afraid of them finding out, it’s like – ngh –”  He made a frustrated gesture, groping for words.  “Like you’re punishing yourself before they can, y’know?  You’re doing their work for them.”

The words hit Aziraphale like one of Sandalphon’s punches.  He put a hand to his mouth, tears welling again.

“Sorry, angel,” Crowley said softly, touching his shoulder.  “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Aziraphale shook his head.  “No,” he said hoarsely.  “No, you were right.  And I think – I think I needed to hear it.”  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.  “I’m not brave like you, my dear.  But I’ll try to be, I really will.  It’s the least I can do in return for your kindness.”

Crowley scoffed.  “’M not kind.  I’m being very selfish here, talking you into staying around just so I can enjoy your company.”

Aziraphale gave a watery chuckle.  “Oh, yes, of course.  A positively fiendish plan.”

“That’s me, a foul fiend,” Crowley said, grinning at him.

“S’cuse me,” a young voice said from unexpectedly close by.

Aziraphale looked up, startled, to find Adam and his friends standing in front of the bench.  Adam had his hands on his hips and was glowering at Crowley.  “Did you make Mr. Aziraphale cry?” he demanded.

“Oh, no, not at all, dear boy,” Aziraphale said quickly.  He was warmed by this unlooked-for defense, but he couldn’t have the children thinking badly of Crowley.  “He was helping me to feel better, in fact.  Crowley, I’d like you to meet Adam, Pepper, Wensleydale, and Brian; my dears, this is my friend Crowley.”

He was aware in the back of his mind that calling Crowley his friend out loud felt significant, as though he had crossed some invisible border.

Pepper looked Crowley up and down.  “My mum says you’re the prince,” she remarked.

“Yep,” Crowley said with his crooked smile.  “Not much I can do about it, though.”  He studied the children in turn.  “Think I saw you lot talking to Aziraphale the other week.  Gave you a pastry, didn’t he?”

All four children nodded enthusiastically.  “Yes, and it was delicious,” Wensleydale said.  “He’s really nice, actually.”

“An’ he knows everything, or else he knows where to find out,” Brian put in.

Aziraphale could feel a blush heating his cheeks.  He wasn’t used to hearing himself praised, and it was especially disconcerting when the praise was directed to Crowley’s ears.

“Yeah?” Crowley said, sending him a sidelong grin.  “Guess I’d better keep him around, then.”

For some reason, this made Aziraphale’s breath catch and his face burn even hotter.  He knew Crowley was only teasing, but to hear him say so easily that he wanted to keep Aziraphale around… oh, he couldn’t possibly give up this friendship, Michael or no Michael.

“What’s it like at the palace?” Adam asked.  “We play kings’n’knights sometimes.  It used to be kings’n’queens, but Pep said she wouldn’t play anymore.”

“It’s not fair making people be queens just ‘cause they’re girls,” Pepper said with a sniff. 

“The palace is pretty boring, really,” Crowley said.  “Y’know how you have to dress up and mind your manners when your parents have company?  Imagine living like that all the time.  Your games’re probably a lot better than the real thing.” 

He nodded to Pepper.  “And king and queen are just names of jobs, you know.  If you ask me, there’s no reason boys have to be one and girls the other.” 

Pepper looked intrigued.

“But did you ever fight somebody with a sword?” Brian demanded.  “Or kill a dragon, or rescue a princess?”

Crowley put up his hands, laughing.  “Oi, hang on, one question at a time!  Sorry to disappoint, but I’ve never seen a dragon, and I’m no good with a sword.  Fighting’s not really my thing.”

Aziraphale thought wistfully of his brief course of fencing lessons when he was fifteen.  Even then he couldn’t imagine himself attacking someone with a real blade, but he had enjoyed the controlled, stylized movements of fencing.  He rather thought he might have become good at it if his mother had let him continue the lessons… but then Gabriel had come into their lives, and suddenly Aziraphale’s dreams and desires were of little consequence.

“What about the princess?” Adam persisted.  “My dad says you’re getting married soon.  Did you rescue a princess from a tower, and now you’re going to marry her?”

Crowley went an impressive shade of scarlet and sputtered out half-syllables for a good ten seconds before managing something coherent.  “Wuh – ghk – where the hell did you get that idea?  I didn’t rescue any princess!”

Aziraphale tried not to giggle.  It wouldn’t be polite to laugh at Crowley’s discomfiture, but the poor fellow looked so thoroughly nonplussed.

“That’s how it always happens in stories, isn’t it?” Adam said, shrugging.  “Thought maybe you had and you just weren’t telling anyone ‘cause then the dragon that was guarding the tower would come an’ capture her again.”

Crowley started to protest again (or at least made a complicated noise that might eventually have become a word), but then a different thought visibly crossed his face.  “Maybe I have, then,” he told Adam, leaning back on the bench.  “Couldn’t tell you, though, could I?  Don’t want any word to get back to that dragon, if there is a dragon.”

This was all the confirmation the children needed.  “Wicked!” Adam exclaimed, his face lighting.  “Don’t worry, Mr. Crowley, we won’t tell anyone.  C’mon, everybody, I’ve got a new idea for a game!” 

They rushed off again, chattering excitedly, Brian already making dragonlike growling noises. 

Once they were out of earshot, Aziraphale was finally able to give in to his pent-up laughter.  “Oh, gracious, you’ll never convince them now that there’s no dragon or princess,” he chuckled.  “But thank you for playing along with them, my dear.  It was good of you.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley muttered, blushing again.  “Didn’t even have to lie, did I?”

Before Aziraphale could ask what he meant by that – surely there wasn’t really a rescued princess waiting for his hand? – he added quickly, “Anyway, I like kids.  There’s this boy my father’s fostering – Warlock, must be about the same age as that lot – and he’s the next best thing to a little brother, honestly.  Smart as hell, and not scared to say what he thinks.”  He cocked his head thoughtfully. “"Y’know, he could use some other kids to play with.  I ought to see about bringing him down here sometime to meet Adam’s gang.”

Aziraphale felt a fresh surge of affection for him.  He really was very kind, even if he tried to pretend otherwise.  “That sounds like a splendid idea,” he said warmly.  “I’m sure they would like to meet him.”

Crowley turned to look at him directly, his amber eyes suddenly serious.  “That reminds me, you and I need to figure out what to do next.  We both want to keep meeting, that’s not a question, but where?  Is it safer for you if we meet somewhere else without other people around, or is here in town better so you’ve got, what’s it called, plausible deniability about why you’re here?”

Aziraphale looked down at his hands, clasped over the soft expanse of his waistcoat.  How odd it felt to have someone take his concerns seriously and trust that he knew what was best for his own situation. 

“I think,” he said slowly, “perhaps we should find a different meeting place.  Adam and his friends won’t be the only ones who have noticed us together, and people talk.  The more time we spend here, the greater the chance that my stepfamily will get wind of the gossip.  Do you have any ideas for an alternate location?”

“Actually, yeah,” Crowley said, drumming his long fingers absently on his knee.  “One time I was wandering around in the woods between here and the palace, and I found this place – must have been an apple orchard once, but now it’s all overgrown and gone wild.  Still apples on the trees, though.  What if we met there?”

Aziraphale sat up straighter with an excited little wiggle of his shoulders.  “Oh, that sounds simply perfect!  And it’s apple season now, so if I pick some to bring home to Tracy, I can tell my stepfather honestly that that’s why I’m going out.”

“And we won’t be limited to meeting on market days,” Crowley finished with a grin.  “I think we’ve got it, angel.”  The grin faded suddenly.  “Ergh.  Sorry.  Didn’t mean to, uh…”

Aziraphale was momentarily confused, but then his mind registered what Crowley had just said.  His cheeks warmed.  “It’s… it’s all right to call me that now,” he said shyly.  “I don’t mind.  In fact, I-I quite like it.”

Aziraphale drove home in vastly better spirits than when he had gone out.  Crowley had given him directions to the old apple orchard, and they planned to meet there two days from now.  The thought of seeing Crowley again so soon made Aziraphale feel as if something bright and warm was bubbling up inside his chest.  He supposed this must be what happiness felt like.

As he and Tracy were putting away the things he had bought at the market, Aziraphale debated how to broach the subject of apple-picking.  Perhaps he should work around to it gradually by asking what dishes Tracy had planned for the week.  Yes, that would be best.  He cleared his throat, preparing a casual question.

“Out with it, love,” Tracy said, looking up from refilling the tea canister.  “I can tell you’ve something on your mind, so lets’s have it.”

Aziraphale nearly dropped the sack of flour he was carrying.  He cleared his throat again, trying to collect himself.  “Erm, well, yes.  It’s, ah – do you happen to know of a former apple orchard in the woods east of here?”

Tracy smiled.  “Oh, yes.  I’ve picked apples from there a time or two.  They aren’t as pretty as Mr. Tyler’s, but they’re lovely and sweet.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath.  “I – I thought perhaps I might go there now and then and bring you some apples for the kitchen.  Would you have any objection to that?”

Tracy gave him a long look, and Aziraphale had the uneasy feeling that her shrewd eyes could see right through him.  “That sounds like a fine idea, love,” she said.  “You do that as often as you like – I’ve plenty of recipes for apples.  And don’t worry if it takes a bit longer than you thought.  If Gabriel asks after you, I’ll let him know you’re out doing some gathering for me.”

Well, that could hardly be clearer, Aziraphale thought.  Whether Tracy actually suspected that he was meeting someone or just thought he was slipping away to read in privacy, she was plainly willing to cover for him, and he was deeply grateful for it.

Somehow Aziraphale got through the next two days without his stepfamily suspecting that anything out of the ordinary was going on.  He still had to deal with Gabriel’s condescending remarks and Sandalphon’s sly pokes and jabs, but they were no worse than usual, and Michael seemed to have gone back to ignoring him.

The only interesting thing to happen during this period was the arrival of an invitation to Prince Crowley’s birthday ball.  Gabriel’s status as a lord – even one who had come down in the world by marrying a merchant – meant that the family regularly received invitations to royal balls.  Aziraphale had never attended one with them; Gabriel always insisted that he wouldn’t enjoy all the crowds and commotion, and he was usually too glad for the chance of a quiet evening alone to bother arguing.

Perhaps he would ask to join them this time, he thought idly.  The chance to see Crowley and wish him a happy birthday would be worth braving the crowd.

At last it was the appointed day for the meeting in the orchard.  After the lunch dishes were washed and put away, he found a basket for the apples and set off on foot.

Crowley’s directions proved easy to follow, and twenty minutes’ walking brought him to the old orchard.  There were perhaps half a dozen apple trees left, gnarled and weatherbeaten, but still stubbornly putting out leaves and fruit.  Brambles and vines had grown up around them until they looked more like part of the forest than the well-tended orchard they must once have been.

Aziraphale only had a few moments to take all this in, however; a familiar voice called his name, and there was Crowley, coming toward him between the trees with that long, loose-jointed stride of his.  His eyes were bright, and he wore an exuberant grin.

Aziraphale just barely managed not to drop the basket and run forward to throw his arms around him (and where had that impulse come from?).  “Crowley!” he exclaimed.  “It’s so lovely to see you, my dear.  How are you?”

“Much better than before you got here,” Crowley said, taking the basket from him.  “C’mon, I’ll help you pick some apples, and then we can sit down and relax.”

Between the two of them – Aziraphale picking from the lower branches of the trees, Crowley with his longer reach taking the higher ones – it wasn’t long before the basket was full.  They found a clear patch of grass under one of the trees and settled themselves comfortably, each with an apple to munch on.  The fruit was small and lumpy, but had a delicate, almost spicy flavor.  Aziraphale decided he wouldn’t mind at all if these apples featured prominently in Tracy’s cooking for the next several weeks.

“How’ve you been, angel?” Crowley asked, leaning lazily back against the tree trunk.  “Read anything good lately?”

“Mmmm,” Aziraphale murmured, swallowing a bite of apple.  “I’m nearly finished with one of my research commissions.  It’s a book about the conflict between this kingdom and the one to the north during the previous century, and I must say, the author was quite extraordinarily biased.  It’s been a challenge to separate the actual facts from the patriotic ranting.”

Crowley laughed.  “Sounds like some of my father’s council meetings.  Too bad I can’t bring you along to help me figure out what the hell they’re actually talking about.”

“Do you attend those meetings often?” Aziraphale asked.  “Forgive me, but I’ve realized I have very little idea of what the day-to-day business of being a prince involves.”

“Long as you don’t expect me to be fighting dragons,” Crowley said, grinning.  “Yeah, my father wants me to sit in on council meetings, but they’re so boring that I skive off whenever I can get away with it.  The public audiences where people come and present petitions to the king are a lot more interesting, because there’re actual, y’know, people involved.  I never get to handle the petitions, though – my father asks for my opinion sometimes, but then he just goes ahead and makes his own decision regardless.”

“That seems counterproductive, if you’re meant to be learning how to run the kingdom,” Aziraphale observed.

“Right?  He’s always on at me about taking my responsibilities seriously, but he doesn’t give me anything to do that actually makes a difference.”  Crowley let his head drop back and sighed heavily.  “Figures that when he finally does, it’s getting bloody married.”

Aziraphale felt an odd twist in his stomach.  This was the first time Crowley had mentioned his impending marriage since he had first told Aziraphale about it – joking with Adam about rescued princesses hardly counted – and the idea felt very different now. 

Originally he had merely been indignant on Crowley’s behalf that the king should give him such an outrageous order; now the thought of Crowley marrying someone made him feel lost and miserable.  The little voice in the back of his head that usually commented on Gabriel’s behavior was protesting No, no, he can’t do that, not my Crowley–!

Aziraphale firmly silenced it, as he had done so many times before.  Crowley was hardly his; friendship or no, Crowley was still a prince, and Aziraphale was very much not.  They were on different sides of a boundary that could only be crossed so far.

Aziraphale pushed those thoughts away; it was no good wasting his precious time with Crowley on pointless regrets.  He asked another question about court life, and soon he was laughing at Crowley’s description of the political maneuverings amongst the courtiers, but it couldn’t quite dispel the unexpected shadow over his heart.

Chapter Text

The next few weeks were some of the happiest Crowley could remember.  He and Aziraphale met in the old orchard as often as they could both get away; sometimes Aziraphale would bring one of his books and read aloud, but most often they just sat under a tree, talking about everything and nothing for hours on end.

Crowley told him all about Anathema and Warlock; he wanted his three favorite people to meet someday, but for now description would have to do.  Aziraphale eventually, shyly, began to talk about his mother – how she had raised him alone and cosseted him lovingly throughout most of his childhood; how she had remarried when he was sixteen and begun to grow strangely distant; how she had disappeared less than a year later, leaving him to the dubious mercies of his stepfamily. 

“But she’ll come back one day,” Aziraphale insisted, raising his chin.  “She’ll come back, and then everything will be the way it used to be.”

Crowley tactfully pretended not to notice the shine of tears in his eyes.

One day Crowley brought a picnic blanket and a basket of nibbles he had wheedled out of the head cook.  “Thought you might like to try some fancy palace food,” he explained.  “You mentioned once you like that kind of thing.”

Aziraphale gave a delighted gasp, his eyes sparkling.  “You remembered!”

“’Course I did, angel,” Crowley said, smiling down at him.

They spread the blanket on the grass, and Crowley opened the basket with a flourish.  Aziraphale looked over the offerings, which ranged from finger sandwiches to miniature pastries, with great deliberation.  At last he chose a lemon tartlet with a raspberry on top and took a delicate bite. 

His eyes closed, and he made a soft humming sound in his throat.  “Oh, that is scrumptious,” he murmured.  “Thank you, my dear.  I can tell already this will be a simply marvelous treat.”

Crowley had to swallow before he could say anything.  The look of sheer bliss on Aziraphale’s face was doing funny things to his heart and lungs.  “You.  Uh.  You’re welcome.”

Life at the palace wasn’t nearly so enjoyable.  It was less than a month now till Crowley’s birthday ball, and King Lucifer kept asking him pointedly whether he had made any progress on selecting a spouse.

“I’m working on it,” Crowley told him every time.  “It’s a big decision.  Have to make sure I get it right.”

In reality, he had almost stopped thinking about it unless he was forced to.  Somehow the idea had become even more repellent than when the king first brought it up.

When he wasn’t out with Aziraphale, he spent most of his time fussing with his plants, pestering Anathema in her workroom while she tried to assemble charms for the courtiers, or teaching Warlock the best ways to get into mischief around the palace.

“My tutor says you’re a bad influence,” Warlock remarked as they crouched on the musician’s gallery overlooking the banquet hall, a heap of screwed-up paper pellets between them.

“Somebody’s gotta be,” Crowley said, grinning.  “Can’t have you growing up all self-righteous like him.  Quick, here comes Lord Dagon – see if you can get them!”

Warlock grabbed one of the little paper balls and dropped it just as Lord Dagon passed beneath the gallery.  It bounced off their shoulder, and they jumped, looking fruitlessly around for what had hit them.  Crowley and Warlock managed to stifle their laughter until Dagon had gone on their way, muttering in annoyance. 

“Beez and I once did this for an entire banquet, before we were old enough to attend them,” Crowley said, propping his back against the gallery railing.  “Got caught in the end and dragged off to bed without supper, but it was worth it.”

“I wish I had somebody my age to do things with,” Warlock said wistfully.  “Everyone else at court is grown up, and the kids who’re servants don’t have time to play.”

Crowley thought again of Adam and his friends.  “I met some kids around your age one of the times I went into town,” he said.  “Think you’d like them.  What say you and I slip out sometime and let them take a turn being a bad influence on you?  ‘S too big a job for one person.”

Warlock’s face lit.  “Really?  Yes, please!” He paused, glancing sideways at Crowley from under his dark fringe.  “Will I meet your friend too?”

Crowley blinked.  “My…?”

“Your friend in town,” Warlock said.  “You go out a lot more now than you used to, and you always look really happy when you come back.  Obviously you’re going to see somebody you like.”  His tone held a touch of adolescent impatience at having to explain something so self-evident.

Crowley thought fast.  He wouldn’t get in trouble the way Aziraphale would if their friendship was discovered, but a life spent at court had taught him to keep anything he cared deeply about private so it couldn’t be used against him.  But this was Warlock; he never lied to Warlock if he could help it, and he wasn’t going to start now.

“Yeah, I made a friend in town,” he admitted.  “I don’t know if you’ll get to meet him this time, but I’d like you to someday.  He’s – he’s something special.”

“Good.  You need more friends too.”  Warlock picked up another paper pellet and peered down through the railing.  “Here comes somebody with a glass of wine.  Want to bet I can drop this right into it?”

“Well, this looks familiar,” a dry voice said behind them before Crowley could reply.  “Busy corrupting the youth, Crowley?”

Crowley turned his head to grin up at his cousin.  “C’mon, Beez, it’s important to keep the old traditions alive.  Were you looking for me?”

“Yes, and when Dagon said they’d been hit by something invisible while crossing the banquet hall, I knew just where to look,” Beelzebub said.  “Crowley, I need to talk to you.  Privately.”

Crowley sighed and got to his feet.  “Right.  Sorry, Warlock, duty calls.  You can stay here if you want – just try not to get caught.  If you end up in trouble for this, we might not be able to do that other thing we talked about.”

“Yes, Nanny,” Warlock said, rolling his eyes.

Crowley laughed and ruffled the boy’s hair before following Beelzebub out of the musician’s gallery.  They led him down the hall to a small parlor and closed the door behind them. 

“Have you found someone to marry yet?” they demanded without preamble.

“Not you too!” Crowley groaned.  “I’m working on it, all right?  It’s an important decision.”

Beez eyed him shrewdly.  “So that means you haven’t.  And it’s, what, three weeks to your birthday?”

“Two and a half,” Crowley said sullenly.  “Look, I know I’m cutting it fine here, but I already have my father on my back about it.  I don’t need you going on at me too.”

“I won’t, then,” Beelzebub said.  An odd little smile touched their lips and was gone before Crowley could interpret it.  “I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”  They turned and left the parlor.

Crowley stared after them.  What had that been about?

An unpleasant feeling grew in his stomach as he realized something he should have thought of much sooner: namely, that Beelzebub had a vested interest in Crowley not being betrothed by his birthday.  They had been checking on whether their own chance at the throne was in any danger.

And the worst part, Crowley thought, was that right now it wasn’t.  If he didn’t want to watch his cousin turn into a tyrant and the kingdom suffer under their rule, he needed to get serious about this marriage thing, no matter how unappealing the idea was.

“What’s on your mind, my dear?” Aziraphale asked.  They were sitting under their usual tree in the old orchard; Aziraphale had moved close enough to rest his plump shoulder against Crowley’s bony one, but Crowley was too distracted to appreciate it properly.  “You’ve been quieter than usual ever since you arrived today.”

Crowley sighed.  “’M sorry, angel.  I’m not being very good company here, am I?”

“Oh, I don’t mind that,” Aziraphale said quickly.  “Please don’t feel that you have to – to entertain me or anything of the sort.  I only wondered if there was anything wrong, and if perhaps I could help in some way.”  His round cheeks had gone just a little pinker than usual.

Crowley struggled with himself for a moment.  His first instinct was to throw himself and all his problems onto that staunch, unquestioning support; on the other hand, the particular problem occupying his brain was one he didn’t really want to discuss with Aziraphale (for reasons he still hadn’t let himself examine too closely).  Eventually the first part won out.

“It’s my cousin,” he said, shifting a little so he could look at Aziraphale straight on.  Those blue-grey eyes looked back at him, steady and sympathetic.  “Well, sort of, anyway.  I told you about my father’s conditions, right?  If I’m not betrothed by the deadline, my cousin Beez – Beelzebub – inherits the crown instead.”

Aziraphale’s hands, folded on top of his belly as usual, gave a little spasm, but his voice was calm.  “I do recall that, yes.  It seems an unnecessarily harsh punishment for something that isn’t entirely within your control.”

“Yeah, but that’s not even what’s bothering me the most.”  Crowley shoved a hand through his hair.  “It hit me yesterday – Beez knows the conditions too.  They’re hoping I won’t find somebody to marry.  And I – they – argh –”  Crowley couldn’t sit still anymore; he jumped to his feet and began pacing back and forth through the long grass, waving his arms.  “Angel, I don’t want to get married to some stranger!  But Beez’d be a terrible ruler, worse than my father – at least he doesn’t dish out punishments just because he feels like it – and I can’t let them inherit if there’s something I can do to stop it.  And, and I have to decide in the next two and a half weeks, and I don’t know what to do!”

Aziraphale rose and stepped in front of him, taking hold of his arms to stop their flailing.  “Crowley,” he said gently.  “Crowley, look at me.  I know it seems as though all your options are bad just now, but I have faith that you’ll make the right decision, whatever that may be.  You are a good man – yes, I know you don’t like to hear that, but it’s true – and you will find a way through this.”

Crowley took a deep breath, then another, trying to calm himself.  This was a side of Aziraphale he hadn’t seen very often: patient and grounded, without a trace of fussing or fretting.  He felt the turmoil inside him beginning to settle in response.

“Don’t know why I’m even doing this,” he muttered.  “I don’t even like being a prince, never mind a king.  Why’m I going to all this trouble for a job I don’t bloody want?”

“Because you care about your people,” Aziraphale said.  His hands moved up Crowley’s arms to rest on his shoulders.  “I don’t mean the royal courtiers or the members of your father’s council, but your people.  I’ve heard the way you talk about wanting to help the petitioners who come to court, about wanting to do things that matter.  What you said just now, that you couldn’t let a cruel ruler take the throne if there was a way for you to prevent it – that alone proves that you’d be a far better king than your cousin or your father.”

Crowley let out a shaky breath.  No one had ever said anything like that to him before.  He had always been the irresponsible prince, too wild to concern himself with his duties, and after so long he had come to accept that view of himself as the truth.  But Aziraphale – clever, thoughtful Aziraphale who had never been near the royal court – had seen through him to another self that Crowley hadn’t even realized was there.

He suddenly became aware of how close together they were standing.  Aziraphale’s hands were warm on his shoulders, and his face, tilted up towards Crowley’s, was barely a foot away.

As if it belonged to someone else, Crowley saw his own hand rise to cup that round, soft cheek.

Aziraphale gasped, but he didn’t pull away.  Instead he leaned into the touch, his eyes wide with shy delight.  “Crowley,” he breathed.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley managed hoarsely.  “Angel.”  One of Aziraphale’s hands was tentatively stroking his hair now, which made it hard to think about anything else, but he knew there was something very important he needed to ask.  “Can – can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered.  “Oh, yes, please.”

Crowley had thought from the first that Aziraphale looked wonderfully soft; their occasional moments of physical contact over the past weeks had shown him he was right (shoulders and hips bumping as they sat next to each other; Aziraphale’s hand grasping Crowley’s knee to make some point; Crowley’s arm around him that time he had started crying in the marketplace), but nothing compared to the experience of having all of Aziraphale in his arms.  Wide, round stomach like a cushion that he could lean into, padded back under his hands, plump arms wrapped around his neck… and when Aziraphale’s lips met his, they were the softest of all.

The kiss was warm and gentle, lasting maybe half a dozen heartbeats, but Crowley was still breathless by the time they separated.  He stood gazing down at Aziraphale, wearing what was probably a big, silly grin.  Aziraphale smiled back up at him, eyes shining. 

Then his expression suddenly changed, and he drew back a step, wringing his hands the way he did when he was worried.  “Crowley, there’s – there’s something you ought to know.  That kiss was simply lovely, but… I would very much prefer not to do anything further.  I don’t care for – for the usual, ah, bedroom activities.”

Crowley broke into an even wider grin, because he couldn’t help it.  “Angel,” he breathed, stepping forward to capture Aziraphale’s twisting hands between his own.  “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.  I’m not interested in that stuff, too.  Either.  Whatever.”

Aziraphale’s round face brightened like the sun rising, and he went up on tiptoe to kiss Crowley again.

Eventually they wound up sitting under the tree where they had been earlier, but this time with Aziraphale leaning his head on Crowley’s shoulder and Crowley running lazy fingers through his curls (just as soft as the rest of him).

“That’s more like it,” Crowley murmured.  “Been wanting to do this for a while now.”

Aziraphale hummed contentedly and nestled a little closer to his side.  “So have I, to be quite honest.  But I never thought it would really happen outside my daydreams.”

Crowley was torn between delight – Aziraphale had daydreamed about cuddling with him? – and mild offense.  “What, you thought I, I wasn’t attracted to you or something?  You didn’t notice how I’ve been looking at you for weeks?”

“Of course I noticed,” Aziraphale retorted a little tartly.  “I do have eyes, Crowley.  But I’m not – well – not precisely a suitable person for you to flirt with.  I didn’t expect that matters would progress beyond looking.”

“You’re-?”  Crowley blinked.  “Aziraphale, you’re beautiful, clever, and the kindest person I know.  How’re you not suitable?”

Aziraphale sat up, forcing Crowley to drop the arm that had been wrapped around him.  He was fidgeting with the worn edge of his waistcoat.  “Even if you would prefer to forget it, you are a prince, my dear,” he said quietly.  “If – if my mother were still here, I would at least be the son of a prosperous merchant, but as things stand now I’m scarcely more than a servant in a household that’s run through most of its money.  There’s simply no question of a serious relationship between us, no – no matter how much I wish there were.”  His voice wavered on the last words.

Crowley cursed himself for ruining the moment by asking too many questions.  Aziraphale wasn’t wrong, either; that was the hardest thing to swallow.  He imagined King Lucifer’s reaction to this relationship and winced. 

“Yeah,” he admitted.  “Guess I’ve been just… trying not to think about it.”  He swallowed.  “But – God, I wish things were different, angel.  For you, or me, or both of us, doesn’t matter.  Anything that’d let us be together.  I l – I love you so much.”

Aziraphale gave a tiny gasp, and his hand rose to cover his mouth.  His eyes were shimmering with tears.  “Oh, Crowley,” he whispered.  “Oh, my darling…”

Before Crowley had fully taken that in (my darling!  Not my dear, which Aziraphale used for nearly everyone, but darling!), Aziraphale flung himself into Crowley’s arms and buried his face in his shoulder.  Crowley could hear his breath trembling.

He held Aziraphale as tightly as he could, stroking his hair and murmuring comforting nonsense.  “Shh, angel, it’s okay, I’ve got you.  I’m right here.  It’s all right, angel…”

Aziraphale was talking too, his voice muffled against the fabric of Crowley’s waistcoat and half-choked by tears.  Most of it was indistinguishable, but Crowley could make out phrases like dearest and my Crowley and love you more than anything.  He hugged Aziraphale even harder, overcome by too many emotions to sort out.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured at last, lifting his head.  “I’ve spoiled your lovely waistcoat by crying on it.”

Crowley glanced down at his own shoulder; it did look a bit damp, he supposed.  “Never mind, angel,” he said, dropping a kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead.  “Nice thing about black clothes is that they don’t show stains as much.”

Aziraphale giggled; it was a little shaky still, but he sounded more like himself.  “Oh, is that why you always wear black, then?  And here was I thinking it was because you look so marvelously dashing in it.”

Crowley’s face heated, and he made a noise that was mostly consonants.

Aziraphale giggled again and kissed his cheek.  “I do love you, Crowley, in case you didn’t hear me say so before,” he said softly.  “Even if we may never be in a position to be together properly, I want you to know that."

It occurred to Crowley then, like remembering something he had known for a long time, that he wanted to marry Aziraphale.  He wanted to have his angel beside him every day; to find out all the things that made him light up and wiggle with excitement; to comfort him when he was upset and be comforted in turn; to just be able to take his hand any time for no reason at all.

He wanted to get him away from that damned stepfamily of his and never let them near him again.

But he couldn’t say any of that, not right now.  They had both had enough emotional upheaval for one day, and Aziraphale was the kind of person who needed time to process things.  Crowley would let him settle into this new phase of their relationship before he said anything.

Maybe by then he would have found some way around the barrier of class that, like it or not, still stood between them.

Chapter Text

It must have been well past midnight by now, but Aziraphale still lay awake, staring into the darkness of his little bedroom. 

Crowley had kissed him.  Crowley loved him.  If someone had told him this morning that both those things would transpire before suppertime, he wouldn’t have believed a word of it.  And yet here he was, still feeling Crowley’s bony arms holding him close and Crowley’s lips gentle on his. 

To other eyes Crowley might look like a rake, with his lazy saunter and wicked grin, but Aziraphale knew instinctively that Crowley would always be gentle with him.  And – an involuntary soft smile spread over his face – there would never be any pressure to do those intimate acts that he found so unappealing.  He remembered the delight on Crowley’s face when he had confessed his particular limits, and the flood of relief and happiness that had filled him on learning that Crowley shared them.

“My Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered to himself, relishing the sound of the words.  “My love.”

The circumstances that prevented them from truly being together still existed, but just for tonight he would pretend otherwise, enclosing himself and his memories of the afternoon in a private little bubble where the real world could not intrude.

“You’re looking a bit peaky this morning, Aziraphale,” Gabriel commented over breakfast.  “Not coming down with something, I hope?”

Aziraphale, whose mind had been very pleasantly elsewhere, blinked and sat up straighter.  “Ah – no, I-I’m quite well, thank you.  I, er, had a rather late night, that’s all.”

“Staying up reading those books of yours, I suppose,” Sandalphon said with a sneer.  “No wonder you’re so useless, with all that rubbish filling up your head.”

“Now, now,” Gabriel chided.  “Aziraphale’s allowed to have his little hobbies.  Just don’t let them interfere with your real work, hmm?” he added, turning to Aziraphale again.  “After all, we all have to –”

“Pull together, yes, I’m aware,” Aziraphale said, more waspishly than he had ever spoken to Gabriel before.  “Though I must say, it often seems as if I’m the only one pulling.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could snatch them back.  He shrank down in his chair, face hot with shame, staring fixedly at his plate to avoid meeting Gabriel’s eyes.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, shaking his head reproachfully.  “After all I’ve done for you, that’s the thanks I get?  Of course we all do our part to keep things running here.  Our tasks may be a bit more… administrative than yours, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t working just as hard.” 

He glanced at Michael and Sandalphon as if for corroboration, and they nodded and murmured agreement.

“Don’t worry, I’m not angry with you,” Gabriel continued.  “You’re overtired, so it’s no wonder if you aren’t thinking straight.  But maybe it would be best if you go downstairs now.  Take some time to collect yourself.”

Aziraphale was near tears by this point, his hands gripping each other so hard that his fingernails bit into the soft flesh.  “Y-yes, Gabriel,” he mumbled.  “I’m terribly sorry, I-I-I don’t know what came over me…”

“Well, never mind, everyone has bad days,” Gabriel said.  “Just don’t make it a habit, all right?  Off you go.”  He waved towards the door.

Aziraphale didn’t trust his voice, so he just nodded and stumbled out of the room, leaving his breakfast unfinished on the table.

“Gracious heavens!” Tracy exclaimed when he came into the kitchen.  “Whatever’s happened, love?  You look like you’re in a right state!”

Aziraphale dropped into a chair at the kitchen table and buried his head in his hands.  “I talked back to Gabriel,” he managed.  “I didn’t intend to, it just – it just happened, and he – he said –”

“He said something to make you feel like you’re the only one to blame, when he likely deserved every bit of whatever you said to him,” Tracy finished grimly.  “Oh, yes, I know.”  She patted Aziraphale’s shoulder.  “Try not to take it so hard, love.  That man’s never happy unless he has someone to look down on.  If you hadn’t answered him back, he’d have found some other excuse to treat you like the dirt under his shoes.”

“But I really oughtn’t to have given him that opening,” Aziraphale said, wiping his eyes.  “I don’t know what happened – I’m usually much more careful about how I speak to him.  It must be Cr-”  He just managed to stop himself from saying Crowley’s influence.  “Ah, that is, it must be caused by my not getting enough sleep last night.”

Tracy eyed him skeptically, but let it pass.  “What you need is a nice cup of tea,” she said, bustling over to the stove.  “That’ll make you feel better.”

Aziraphale was vaguely surprised by how quickly she returned with a steaming cup – he could have sworn there hadn’t been a pot brewing already – but he wasn’t in a state of mind to pay much heed.

Sipping the hot, sweet tea, made just the way he liked it, did make him begin to feel more like himself.  Tracy poured herself a cup and sat down next to him. 

“Have you ever thought of leaving?” she asked.  “You’re – what is it now?  Twenty-six, twenty-seven?”

“Twenty-six last spring,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Yes, that’s right.  You’re more than old enough to make a life of your own.  You could live in town and do your research work there, or even travel farther away.  You needn’t stay here under Gabriel’s thumb all your life.”

The mere idea made Aziraphale feel as if the solid floor were shifting precariously beneath his feet.  His hands came up to wring nervously together.  “Oh, no, I – I couldn’t possibly!  This is my home, it’s all I know – I wouldn’t have the first idea how to find a place to live on my own.  And who would look after the house if I wasn’t here?”

Tracy sighed and gave his shoulder another pat.  “All right, love, don’t fret yourself about it.  It was only an idea.  Drink up your tea, and then we’ll start on the breakfast dishes.”

It wasn’t until Aziraphale was standing at the sink, scouring out the frying pan, that it occurred to him how odd that conversation had been.  He knew Tracy disapproved of the way Gabriel treated him, but he didn’t recall ever hearing her speak quite so bluntly against her employer before.

“Er – Tracy?” he said.  “I hope this isn’t an impertinent question, and – and you needn’t answer it if you’d rather not…”

Tracy, who was putting the silverware away, laughed and shook her head.  “Aziraphale, I’m an old woman who’s had an adventurous life.  There’s no such thing as an impertinent question anymore.  Let’s hear it.”

“Why do you work here if you dislike Gabriel so much?” Aziraphale blurted out, half-turning to face her.  “It isn’t that I want you to leave, I’d miss you dreadfully if you did, but – but why?”

Tracy was silent long enough for Aziraphale to begin worrying that he had been impertinent after all.  “Your mum was a friend of mine, a long time ago,” she said at last.  “We’d drifted apart by the time she married His Loftiness upstairs, but she asked me once to keep an eye on her boy if anything ever happened to her, so… here I am.”

Aziraphale caught his breath sharply, his eyes prickling with sudden tears.  He’d had no idea that Tracy knew his mother, much less that Mother had arranged for him to be looked after in her absence.  The knowledge felt like a warm, protective arm around his shoulders.

“Thank you, Tracy,” he said softly.  “For – for everything.  I’m so grateful that you’re here.”

The contretemps with Gabriel had rattled Aziraphale badly enough to chase Crowley and his kisses from his mind for a little while, but as he drove to the market later that day, he let himself indulge in the memory of those sweet moments cuddled against Crowley’s side under their apple tree.  Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he did so wish that Crowley wasn’t obliged to marry.  If only they could simply go on as they were now, Aziraphale thought he would be perfectly, blissfully content.

He was selecting potatoes from Mrs. Pulsifer’s vegetable stall, half listening to her chatter about her son’s job as a palace footman and half thinking about how good the potatoes would taste when Tracy roasted them with butter and rosemary tonight, when Adam, Pepper, Wensleydale, and Brian descended on him.

“Mr. Aziraphale, is it true whales can sing?” Pepper demanded.  “Wensley says he read it in a book, but I don’t see how.  They’re underwater, so wouldn’t it just come out like bubbling?”

Aziraphale couldn’t help smiling.  The endless curiosity of these children was a delight to him.  “It’s quite true, dear girl,” he said.  “But it doesn’t sound like the kind of singing you’re thinking of.  The books I’ve read describe it as a sort of crooning.”

The children were quiet for a moment, evidently trying to imagine this. 

“We could try it in the bath and see,” Adam said.  “Or maybe the pond, that’s bigger.”

“My mum says it’s getting too cold to swim,” Wensleydale objected. 

“We aren’t swimming, we’re doing a scientific experiment,” Adam said firmly.  “It’s educational.  Grown-ups like educational things.”

“Did Mr. Crowley come with you today?” Brian asked Aziraphale.  “I wanted to ask him about dragons.”

Aziraphale had to suppress an instinctive flinch at hearing Crowley’s name coupled with his in a public place.  “I’m afraid not,” he replied.  “He, ah, has his own affairs to attend to.”

“Yep, and today they’re here,” a very familiar voice said behind him.

Aziraphale’s heart jolted in his chest, from alarm or joy or both, he couldn’t tell.  He whirled to see Crowley standing with his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his breeches, grinning at him.  Beside him was a gangly boy of eleven or twelve, looking out warily from behind a shock of dark hair.

“I brought Warlock along this time,” Crowley said, giving the boy’s shoulder a squeeze.  “Warlock, this is my friend Aziraphale.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, dear boy,” Aziraphale said warmly.  “Crowley’s told me a great deal about you.”

Warlock studied him intently for a moment, then nodded.  “Yeah, you look nice,” he said, half to himself.  “Pleased to meet you too.”

“Oi, you kids!” Crowley called to Adam and his friends.  “C’mere a minute.  Got somebody I want you to meet.”

The children, who had been arguing quietly about the best place to experiment with whale noises, came trotting over and looked curiously at Warlock.

“Warlock lives at the palace, like me,” Crowley told them.  “Not much to do there for a kid, though, so I thought you lot could show him what you do for fun.”

As he introduced each of them to Warlock and reeled off their names without hesitation despite having met them only once himself, Aziraphale fell a little more in love with him on the spot.

“We’re going to try singing underwater like whales,” Adam told Warlock.  “D’you know how to swim?”

“’Course I do,” Warlock said.  He glanced down at his shirt and breeches, which were appropriately simple for a boy of his age, but as well-made as Crowley’s.  “I didn’t bring anything to swim in, though.”

Adam waved a dismissive hand.  “We go in the pond in our clothes all the time.  ‘S just water.”

“And mud and pond weed,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Meet me back here in two hours,” Crowley reminded Warlock.  “We’ll have to get cleaned up before that thing tonight.”

“I will,” Warlock promised.  He gave Crowley a quick hug around the waist.  “Thanks for letting me come.”

Crowley’s face softened, and he ruffled the boy’s hair.  “Any time, kid.  Now go have some fun.”

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here today, Crowley,” Aziraphale said as the five children dashed off.  “Did you make a special trip to introduce Warlock to Adam’s band?”

“Partly that,” Crowley said, grinning down at him.  “Partly I just wanted an excuse to see you.”

Aziraphale felt his cheeks warming.  “W-well, I do still have the shopping to finish, but after that we could, er, talk.  Somewhere… less public, perhaps?”

“Don’t worry, angel, it’s all taken care of,” Crowley said with a wink.  “Once you’re done, leave your stuff in the cart and meet me at that crossroads just outside of town.  Got a surprise for you.”

He disappeared into the market-day crowd before Aziraphale could ask any more questions.

When the shopping was complete, Aziraphale made his way on foot to the crossroads Crowley had indicated, feeling a mixture of trepidation and excitement.  Crowley was waiting there for him, standing at the heads of a pair of black horses harnessed to a smart two-wheeled carriage (a curricle, Aziraphale thought, though the names of vehicles had never been his strong point).

“Hop in, angel,” he said, gesturing grandly at the carriage with his free hand.  “I’m taking you for a drive.”

Aziraphale approached cautiously; the horses looked considerably more spirited than his placid old pony.  “Is this your own carriage?” he asked.  “It looks very elegant.”

“Yep,” Crowley said proudly.  “The curricle was a present from my father when I turned eighteen, and I bought these horses myself last year.”

Aziraphale shrugged mentally and hoisted himself up onto the seat of the curricle, scooting over to leave space for Crowley.

Crowley released the horses’ heads and ran back to swing easily up beside him, catching the reins before the horses had time to do more than shift their feet restlessly.  “Off we go!” he said, flashing a sidelong grin at Aziraphale. 

With no more warning than that, the horses leapt forward, their pace quickly increasing to a gallop. 

Aziraphale clutched the edge of the seat in terror as the trees flashed by, certain he was about to be thrown headfirst onto the ground.  “Crowley, slow down!” he gasped.  “You’ll run someone over!”

“Nah, there’s no one on the road right now,” Crowley said, sounding far too relaxed for Aziraphale’s comfort.

“We’re on the road!  What if you crash the carriage?  This isn’t safe!”

“I do this all the time.”  Crowley actually let go of the reins with one hand in order to wave it dismissively in the air.  “Haven’t crashed yet, have I?”

“Crowley, please!”  Aziraphale could hear that his voice had gone high with fright, but he was beyond pride.  “Please stop!  I can’t bear this!”

Crowley turned to look more closely at him; then he reined in the horses, slowing the curricle to a halt.  “I’m sorry, angel,” he said gently, taking Aziraphale’s trembling hands between his.  “Didn’t mean to scare you.  I forget not everyone likes going fast as much as I do.”

Aziraphale took several deep breaths, trying to steady himself.  “I forgive you, if you promise to go at a respectable pace for the rest of the drive,” he said.

Crowley’s expression lightened; evidently he had been half-expecting Aziraphale to climb down from the curricle and walk straight back to town.  “No faster than a trot, I swear,” he said, laying a hand solemnly over his heart.

Once they were moving at a more reasonable speed, Aziraphale found himself enjoying the drive.  It was pleasant to be a passenger for a change, and Crowley really was a very skilled driver.  The curricle seat was a bit narrow for the two of them, given that Aziraphale took up rather more room than Crowley did, but Aziraphale certainly wasn’t going to complain about that – not with the warmth of Crowley’s side pressed against his from shoulder to knee.

“What’s happening tonight that you and Warlock need to clean up for?” Aziraphale asked as they trotted along the shore of a small pond.

Crowley made a face.  “A banquet for some visiting dignitary.  I have to be there, of course, and Warlock’s old enough now to go for at least the first part of the evening.  Sure to be boring as hell.”

Aziraphale’s interest was piqued.  “Oh?  Who’s the dignitary?”

“Testing me now, are you?” Crowley grumbled.  “Her name’s… ghh, what was it, something weird… Mary Loquacious.  Think they said she’s a representative from this religious order that my father wants to establish good relations with or something.  I don’t know.”

Aziraphale thought of their conversation (gracious, had that been only yesterday?) about how Crowley had the potential to be a better ruler than he believed.  Perhaps Aziraphale could do his bit to help that happen by nudging him to take more interest in the “boring as hell” parts of the job.  It would need to be done subtly, though, so as not to make him feel that Aziraphale was pestering him like everyone else…

He thought for a moment, then suppressed a smile.  Oh, yes, he knew exactly what tactic would work on Crowley.

“That sounds very interesting,” he remarked wistfully.  “I really don’t know as much as I would like about the different religious orders we have here.  I wish I could attend the banquet to talk with her.”  He hesitated.  “Perhaps… no, I shouldn’t ask.”

“What is it?” Crowley asked, turning to look at him.  “You can ask me anything, angel, you know that.”

Aziraphale ducked his head just enough to look up through his eyelashes at Crowley’s face, letting his gaze turn soft and pleading.  “Would you talk to this… Mary Loquacious?... for me, please?  Ask her about her order and tell me what she said next time we meet?  I would so love to learn more about it.”

Crowley swallowed visibly, looking rather like someone who had just been hit over the head.  “Y-yeah.  ‘Course I will.  It’s – I – yeah.”

Aziraphale beamed up at him and squeezed his arm.  “Thank you, my dear.  That’s terribly kind of you.”

Crowley made one of his garbled noises.  “Wh – I’m not kind, you can’t go round saying things like that just because I agree to do one little favor for – for –”

“For the man you kissed yesterday?” Aziraphale suggested archly.

Crowley drew the horses to a halt and smiled softly down at him.  “Yeah, that’s the one,” he murmured, cupping Aziraphale’s cheek in one long hand and brushing a kiss across his mouth.  “No trouble at all to do favors for him.”

It was some minutes before they started driving again.  Aziraphale leaned against Crowley’s shoulder and watched the scenery sway past, feeling so dreamy and contented that he didn’t realize at first where they were.

Then a familiar landmark – an unusually-shaped spruce tree – caught his eye, and he jerked upright with a gasp.  “Crowley, wait!  Stop!”

Crowley hauled on the reins, making the horses toss their heads indignantly.  “What’s wrong?” he asked, sounding alarmed. 

Aziraphale twisted his hands in his lap, his eyes darting frantically about for any sign that they had been spotted.  How could he have let Crowley come so close to his home?  And what was he to say now?  He had been so careful not to let slip any details about where he lived or the names of his stepfamily – nothing that would let Crowley find him there.  At first it had been merely habitual caution, but lately the idea of Crowley seeing him as he was at home had become too painful to bear.

“I, ah – T-Tracy’s cottage is just round the next bend,” he managed.  “She might be outside and, and see us driving by.  I – she doesn’t – it – it – it really would be much safer if we went another way.”  Crowley would have no way to know that Tracy lived almost a mile from here, or that at this time of day she was busy in the kitchen of Aziraphale’s own house.

Crowley gave him a penetrating look, but began the process of turning the curricle in the narrow lane.  “Probably about time I went back to collect Warlock anyway,” he said easily.  “Want me to drop you at the market or the crossroads?”

“The crossroads, please,” Aziraphale said faintly, almost dizzy with relief.  “I’ll walk back to my cart from there.”

When Aziraphale had climbed down from the curricle, he reached up to hold Crowley’s hand between his for a moment.  “Thank you for that lovely drive, my dear,” he said, smiling.  “I had a perfectly splendid time – well, except for the terrifying bit at the beginning.”

Crowley chuckled and turned his hand to clasp Aziraphale’s.  “I’ll teach you to appreciate fast driving yet, angel, just you wait.  Meet me tomorrow in the orchard?”

“Yes, of course, and you can tell me all about the banquet tonight.  I hope it won’t be too dreadfully boring."  Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s knuckles with his thumb, a brief secret caress, before letting him go.  “Drive safely, dearest.”

He returned to the marketplace and retrieved his abandoned cart and groceries (thankfully he hadn’t bought anything that would spoil in the sun), giving the very bored pony an apologetic pat on the muzzle. 

As he was leaving, he caught a glimpse of Crowley and Warlock on their own way out of the market.  Warlock was very muddy and damp, but positively glowing with happiness, and Crowley’s face as he smiled down at the boy was warm and open in a way that made Aziraphale’s breath catch in his throat.  Oh, he loved this man so much.

“If I’ve gone deaf in one ear, it’s all your fault, angel,” Crowley announced the following afternoon as he flopped dramatically to the ground under their tree.  “This favor better have been worth it.”

Aziraphale started guiltily.  “Oh, dear, was the banquet very bad?  I am sorry.”

“Nah, it actually didn’t feel quite as boring as usual.  But that Sister Mary does not stop talking once you get her going.”  Crowley nudged Aziraphale’s shoulder with his.  “Hope you’re ready to hear everything there is to know about the Order of St. Beryl.”

He hadn’t been exaggerating, Aziraphale soon realized; Sister Mary Loquacious had apparently lived up to her name.  She had told Crowley about everything from the history of the order to its daily routine to which pieces of the habit were itchiest.  Aziraphale had been prepared to feign interest if necessary in order to encourage Crowley, but he found it all genuinely fascinating.  He wished he had a pen and paper to take notes.

Between Aziraphale’s eager questions and Crowley continually remembering just one more detail of what Sister Mary had said, the topic lasted them nearly an hour, but at length it was exhausted. 

“Thank you, darling,” Aziraphale said, stretching up a little to kiss Crowley’s cheek.  “That was just what I’d hoped for.  I’m sorry to have put you through such an ordeal, though.”

Crowley flushed.  “Ngh, well, it wasn’t that bad,” he muttered.  “Kind of interesting, really.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Aziraphale said, trying not to smile.

At some point Crowley’s hand had found its way into his, and now he was rubbing his thumb back and forth over Aziraphale’s palm in a very distracting way.  “Your hands’re so soft,” he remarked idly.  “Feels nice.”

Aziraphale sighed, spreading out his free hand to survey the scraped knuckles, the ragged cuticles, the faded burn scar from the first time he had tried to light the fire by himself.  “Not as soft as I’d like, I’m afraid.  I do try to keep my hands nice, but cleaning and kitchen work make that very difficult.”

Crowley raised their joined hands and kissed the tips of Aziraphale’s fingers.  “Poor angel.  Wish I could spoil you the way you deserve.  All the books you can read, all the pastries you can eat, manicures any time you want…”

Aziraphale blushed and drew his hand gently from Crowley’s grasp, trying not to show how very tempting that sounded.  “Yes, well, perhaps one day.  I have too many responsibilities at the moment to indulge in that sort of thing.”

“But when won’t you have responsibilities?” Crowley asked bluntly, turning to look at him.  “From what you’ve said about your stepfamily, it sounds like they’d be more than happy to leave you with all the dirty work forever.  What do they even do all day, anyhow?”

Aziraphale stared blankly back at him, unable for a moment to think of a single concrete thing that Gabriel, Michael, or Sandalphon did.  “W-well, my stepfather manages what’s left of Mother’s business, and my stepsister helps him.  I think she writes letters to clients and the like.  My stepbrother…” He faltered there, because he had never really been sure what Sandalphon did when not tormenting him.  “Er, he helps as well, I suppose.”

Crowley, looking deeply skeptical, started to say something, then abruptly broke off.  He sat up with a jerk, eyes narrowing.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale exclaimed.  “What-?”

“Ssh.  Think I heard something.”  Crowley came to his feet in one lithe movement and stalked toward a clump of bushes just outside the orchard clearing.  Aziraphale was torn between alarm and an odd thrill at how unexpectedly dangerous he looked.

Crowley circled the bushes, then prowled around the edge of the clearing, head cocked for any sound.  Aziraphale watched him, twisting his hands together against his belly.  The alarm had quickly won out over the thrill, and he felt almost sick with fear.  Had someone passed by and seen them there?  Or – far worse – had someone been spying on them?

At last Crowley came back to sit beside him.  “Nothing,” he said.  “Must have been just a deer or a fox or something.”  He was clearly aiming for a casual tone, but it didn’t quite ring true.

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale agreed, forcing his hands to release each other.  “That must have been it.”  Even to his own ears he sounded as though he were trying to convince himself.

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“Well, if someone was watching, there isn’t a lot we can do about it now,” Crowley said at last.  “Unless you think we ought to change meeting places again.”

Aziraphale considered the question.  “No,” he decided.  “Perhaps it would be safer, but… well, I’ve grown quite attached to this place, and I’d be sorry to leave it.  We’ll simply have to be more careful when coming and going.”

“Whatever you say, angel,” Crowley said.  He slipped an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, and Aziraphale leaned into him with a soft hum of pleasure.

And if they both glanced warily around before doing so, neither one pointed it out.

Chapter Text

A startled silence fell over the council chamber as Crowley sauntered in and dropped into the chair on his father’s right.  Several of the councillors seated around the big table frankly gaped at the sight of him.

King Lucifer raised an eyebrow, but said only, “How good of you to join us, Crowley.  Let’s begin with the state of the treasury, if you would, Lord Sable…?”

Crowley leaned back and let the droning phrases flow over his head.  If you believed Lord Sable, the kingdom was perpetually on the brink of starvation and only kept afloat by his clever management of funds.  Crowley had heard it all dozens of times before.

As Lord Sable’s report was followed by an equally boring discussion of road repairs, he began to wonder why he had come to this meeting instead of slipping off to do something more interesting the way he usually did. 

No, he knew exactly why he was here, and it was all the fault of those damn puppy eyes of Aziraphale’s.  The way his angel had glowed with delight when Crowley reported his conversation with Sister Mary Loquacious had apparently softened his brain, causing him to willingly attend the next council meeting on the chance that they would discuss her visit and give him more material to make Aziraphale smile like that.

They were halfway through the meeting before the subject came up, and to Crowley’s disappointment it was only dealt with briefly.  Approval of a gift that was to be given to Sister Mary when she left, a dry comment from the king about how long her formal thanks was likely to take, and the council moved on.

Crowley was thinking gloomily about the gardening he could be doing right now when a remark from Lady Ash caught his attention.  “Hang on, which bridge did you say is being taken down?” he said, sitting up straighter.

Lady Ash blinked.  “The… the old wooden bridge where Farlow Road crosses the river, Your Highness.”

“Which was mentioned earlier in the meeting, as those who were paying attention might recall,” King Lucifer put in pointedly.

Crowley ignored this.  “Yeah, but why that bridge?  That’s the way most of the farmers to the east bring their goods into town.”

“Because it’s falling into disrepair, and quite out of the way to boot,” Lord Dagon said, gesturing at the map spread out on the council table.  “If you’ll look here, Your Highness, you’ll see that it would be much more efficient for all traffic to cross the river at the newer and larger Brass Bridge.”

Crowley leaned over to study the map, glad of all the hours he had spent driving around the countryside in his curricle.  “Not with the hill right here,” he said, pointing.  “You can’t tell on the map, but the road slopes pretty steeply down to the Brass Bridge.  Hell to drive down with a loaded wagon.”  Or if you were trying to drive very fast in a curricle, he thought, wincing at the memory. 

Lady Ash frowned down at the map.  “The engineers we consulted didn’t mention this.”

“Maybe they were just looking at the actual bridge,” Crowley said, shrugging.  “Anyway, why not rebuild the Farlow Road bridge instead of taking it down?  Then people can keep using whichever route works better for them.”

“We’ll take that into consideration,” the king said in a tone that suggested the subject was closed for the moment.  “Thank you for your contribution, Crowley.”

Crowley sat back again as the council went on to discuss something about purchasing extra place settings for banquets.  Yeah, he had contributed, he thought defiantly, even if his father wasn’t impressed by it.  Nobody else here had actually gone out and looked at the roads, had they?

When the meeting finally ended, Crowley headed for his rooms to change into his gardening clothes and try to salvage what was left of the afternoon.  About to start up the nearest staircase, he caught a glimpse of his cousin coming down and hastily retreated around the corner.  He had been avoiding Beez ever since that uncomfortable realization the other day.  Besides, it looked like Duke Ligur was with them, and Crowley certainly didn’t want to talk to him. 

“– a very useful contact,” Ligur was saying as the pair of them exited the staircase and headed off down the corridor (away from where Crowley lurked, to his relief).  “I think it would be worth enlisting her in this matter, even if her goals aren’t quite the same as yours.”

Beelzebub gave a sharp nod.  “See to it, then.  This… fraternizing needs to be dealt with, one way or another.”

More of Beelzebub’s political schemes, Crowley thought, slipping out of his hiding place and continuing up the stairs.  He didn’t envy whatever poor sod would be on the receiving end this time.

To King Lucifer’s evident surprise, Crowley appeared at the following week’s council meeting as well.  He did his best to look as if he was only there because he didn’t have anything better to do, but he wanted to make sure that the council hadn’t just brushed off his suggestion about the Farlow Road bridge.

They hadn’t; in fact, Lady Ash had apparently spoken sharply to the engineers about not mentioning the hill by the Brass Bridge.  Crowley enjoyed the feeling of having actually done something useful for a change.

Now that he was paying closer attention, he found that there were other matters where his wandering habits let him add a different perspective to the council’s discussions.  After his fourth or fifth interjection, the king even began to listen to him with interest instead of impatience.

“And he actually thanked me later for ‘providing a valuable insight’,” Crowley told Aziraphale the next day.  “You know, I think I’ve been missing something by skipping out on the council meetings all this time.  Not that I care what Father and the councillors think of me, but maybe there were more things I could’ve helped with and didn’t even know about.  If you hadn’t made me talk to Sister Mary that time, I’d never have –”  He broke off abruptly.  “Wait – you – Aziraphale, did you plan this?!”

“I can’t imagine what you could possibly mean, my dear,” Aziraphale said serenely.  His tone was at odds with the smug little smile curling the corners of his lips.

Crowley made an exasperated noise and flopped sideways with his head in Aziraphale’s well-padded lap.  “Bastard,” he mumbled.  “Go and fall in love with a man who looks like a literal angel, and he turns out to be just enough of a bastard to trick you into being a good person.”

Aziraphale chuckled, sounding much too pleased with himself, and ran his fingers through Crowley’s long hair.  “You like it, though.”

“I do,” Crowley admitted, smiling up at him.

When Crowley returned to the palace several hours later, Anathema was waiting for him.  “Come with me,” she said, catching hold of his wrist.  “We need to talk.”

Crowley didn’t try to resist; there was no point when Anathema got like this.  She dragged him upstairs and into her workroom, where she closed the door firmly behind them. 

“Have you asked him yet?” she demanded.

Crowley blinked, confused.  “Uh – asked who what?”

Anathema clicked her tongue in exasperation.  “Asked your Aziraphale to marry you, of course!  You only have a week left before your birthday ball; if you wait much longer, you’ll run out of time.”

Crowley stared at her for a moment, then slumped forward with his elbows on her worktable and his face buried in his hands.  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he mumbled.  “How the hell do you always know this stuff?”

“It wasn’t exactly difficult this time,” Anathema retorted.  “You’ve talked to me about him often enough, and it’s perfectly obvious you’re in love with him.”  Her tone softened.  “I don’t think he’d say no, if that’s what’s worrying you.  Judging by what you’ve told me, he loves you as much as you do him.”

“He does,” Crowley agreed, unable to suppress a sappy smile at the memory of Aziraphale’s curly head resting contentedly on his shoulder.  “But it’s… nrgh.  It’s complicated.”

Anathema folded her arms and trained a sharp gaze on him through her spectacles.  “How so?”

Crowley sighed, shoving both hands into his hair.  “Eeugghh… well, look, I’m a prince, right?  And he’s really not.  I don’t give a damn about that, honestly, but he does, and my father sure as hell would if he knew.  Feels like it’s not fair to ask him to marry me unless I’ve figured out some way around that first.”

“Then we’ll find a way around it,” Anathema said briskly.  “What is his background, exactly?”

Crowley felt the first stirrings of real hope.  Anathema was the cleverest person he knew next to Aziraphale himself; if anyone could come up with a solution to their problems, she could.

“His mother was a merchant,” he said.  “Pretty well off, by the sound of it.  She disappeard on some voyage about ten years back.  His father died when he was too young to remember, apparently, so now all he’s got is this awful stepfamily who treat him like a servant.”

“Hmm.”  Anathema tapped a finger against her lips.  “Did he inherit anything from his mother?”

Crowley shrugged.  “If he did, he hasn’t mentioned it.  Sounds like his stepfather took over the business and proceeded to run it into the ground, so even if there was something for an inheritance once, it might not be there anymore.”

“So we can’t count on the king overlooking his lack of title for the sake of a fortune,” Anathema said, frowning.  She paced in a circle around the worktable, pausing to stare intently at her shelves of imposing leatherbound books as if they might transmit an answer directly into her mind.  Which they might be able to for all he knew, Crowley thought.

“I really need to get you and Aziraphale together to talk about books,” he remarked idly.  “I swear he knows more about politics than I do just from reading so much, for all he’s never been to court in his life.”

Anathema turned sharply to face him, skirts swirling.  “What did you say?”

Crowley opened and shut his mouth once or twice.  “Uh – that you and Aziraphale would like talking to each other about books?” he tried.

“No, not that,” Anathema said impatiently.  “The last bit, about how he’s never come to court.”

“Well, yeah,” Crowley said, more confused than ever.  “He’s not exactly in a position to, is he?  I mean, I think he’d like it if he ever got the chance, he likes fancy things, but –”

Anathema advanced on him and took hold of his shoulders, staring him in the eyes.  “Crowley.  He’s never been to court.  No one in the palace has ever met him except you and Warlock.  You can tell your father anything you want about him.”

Crowley gaped at her, his mind suddenly racing.  It had never occurred to him to try passing Aziraphale off as someone of high enough rank to marry a prince.  But it could work, he realized.  Aziraphale with his fussy manners, his educated speech, his love of the finer things in life – given the right clothes, he could imitate a nobleman with no trouble at all.

He broke into a wide, disbelieving grin.  “Anathema, you’re a genius,” he said fervently.  “Damn.  If this really works, you’ve got lifetime permission to take clippings from my plants whenever you need them, no questions asked.”

Crowley’s next meeting with Aziraphale was set for two days later, and he spent the intervening time driving himself and everyone else mad by pacing the halls impatiently, unable to attend to anything that was said to him or sit still for more than a few minutes.  Even Anathema, who knew precisely why he was so restless, finally lost patience and ordered him out into the gardens.

Crowley stalked up and down the paths between flowerbeds, trying to compose the perfect proposal in his mind.  It was hard; he had always been better at doing things than putting them into words.  Aziraphale was the word person.  Aziraphale…

Oh God, what if this didn’t work?  What if Aziraphale turned him down, or wouldn’t go along with the pretending-to-be-a-nobleman plan, or he did agree and the pretense got found out?  Now that Crowley had spent two months with Aziraphale in his life, he found that he was unable to imagine what that life would be like without him.

The next day Crowley arrived at the old orchard almost an hour early.  His pacing had worn a path in the scrubby grass around their usual tree by the time Aziraphale appeared.

Aziraphale took one look at him and hurried forward with concern all over his face.  “Crowley!  My dear, whatever’s wrong?  Is it your cousin again?”

This threw Crowley off enough that all the clever opening lines he had been rehearsing disappeared from his mind.  “Ngk,” he managed.  “It’s – I – nothing’s wrong, I’m just –”

Looking down into those wide, worried eyes, he realized there was no point in trying to muster any kind of elegant speech.  Even if that had been his style in the first place, thinking coherently with Aziraphale looking at him like that just wasn’t going to happen.

Without further ceremony, he dropped to one knee and clasped Aziraphale’s soft hand in both of his.  “Angel,” he said, a little hoarsely.  “Aziraphale, will – will you marry me?”

A cascade of emotions flooded across Aziraphale’s expressive face: shock, disbelief, joy, comprehension, hurt.  “Oh, Crowley, please don’t,” he whispered.  “We can’t, you know that, it’s just not possible, and I-I can’t bear to pretend…”  The hand in Crowley’s was trembling.

This wasn’t a reaction Crowley had anticipated.  “I’m not pretending, angel, I swear I’m not,” he said urgently, gripping that hand tighter.  “Anathema and I thought of a way to make it work.  All we have to do is tell my father you’re nobility.”

Aziraphale blinked.  “You mean… lie to the king?”

Crowley nodded.  “He’ll never know the difference.  Anathema and Warlock are the only other people at court who’re in on the secret, and they’re sure not going to give us away.”

“But – but –”  Aziraphale took a step back, forcing Crowley to release his hand.  His expression had changed to something close to panic.  “It can’t possibly be that simple!  I don’t know the first thing about courtly etiquette – and what if someone from the village comes to one of your public audiences and recognizes me?  The king would be furious that we’d lied to him.  And – and – and what about my responsibilities at home?  Who would take care of them if I went running off to get married?”

Crowley climbed to his feet, feeling as if his heart had turned into a lead weight inside his chest.  “Look, Aziraphale, if you don’t want to marry me, just say so,” he said in a low voice.  “You don’t have to come up with excuses.”

Aziraphale looked stricken.  “Oh – oh, no, Crowley, that’s not what I meant at all!  I never intended to make you feel like – like –”  His plump hands were fluttering about, straightening his already-straight neckcloth, tugging at the hem of his waistcoat, clasping and unclasping in front of his belly.  “It’s only – Crowley, you – you go too fast for me.  I’m not good with change, I never have been.  I love you, truly I do, but this is so big, and I-I-I need time to think.  Please.”

Crowley found himself torn between several conflicting emotions: relief that Aziraphale loved him after all, shame at having thrown this proposal at him without remembering to allow for his more cautious temperament, and a touch of illogical hurt that Aziraphale wasn’t as excited as he was about the idea of marriage.  He stuffed that last one firmly down and sat on it.  Aziraphale didn’t owe him any particular response, no matter how much he might have hoped for it.

“If it was up to me, angel, you could have all the time you need,” he said, gently taking Aziraphale’s hands again to still their fidgeting.  “But the ball where I’m supposed to announce my choice of spouse is in five days.  D’you think you could make your decision by then?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and his hands turned in Crowley’s to return their clasp.  “Yes.  Yes, I’ll do my best.  Thank you for being so patient with me, my dear.”

Crowley kissed his forehead below the fluffy pale curls.  “You’re worth it, angel.  Promise.”

They talked of other things for a while, leaning companionably against their tree and each other.  To Crowley’s surprise, it was Aziraphale who brought up the marriage question again.

“I do hate to ask this of you, dearest,” he said, turning within Crowley’s arm to look up into his face.  “But… would it hurt you terribly if we didn’t see one another again until the ball?  If I’m to sort out the truth of my feelings by then, I think I need space to clear my head.”  He smiled a little and brushed his lips along the angle of Crowley’s jaw.  “You are dreadfully distracting, you know.”

The thought of five whole days without Aziraphale’s company wasn’t a pleasant one, but Crowley could see his point.  “Whatever you need, angel,” he said.  He kissed the soft hang of Aziraphale’s double chin in return, drawing a surprised giggle.  “I’ll miss you like hell, but I’ll survive.”

He paused, forcing himself to really think about the possibility that Aziraphale still might decide not to marry him.  “Actually… can I ask you for something too?  If – if your answer’s no, then please don’t come to the ball.  It’d hurt too much to see you there and know you weren’t – we weren’t –”  He swallowed hard.

Aziraphale met his gaze soberly.  “I understand, darling.  I promise I’ll only attend the ball if I’m ready to accept your proposal.”

Crowley had hoped to reach his chambers without having to speak to anyone, but as he trudged up the great staircase he met Anathema coming down.  At the sight of his face, she changed course and pulled him into the nearest private room.

“Did he say no?” she demanded incredulously.  “Why?!”

Crowley jerked his arm out of her grasp.  “Leave off the interrogating, will you?” he snapped.  “I’m not in the mood.  And he didn’t say no, for your information.  He said he needed time to think.”

“But you’re afraid he’ll wind up saying no in the end,” Anathema said.  She grimaced apologetically at Crowley’s irritated growl.  “Sorry.  It’s the intuition; it doesn’t turn off.”

Crowley sighed, shoulders slumping as his brief flare of temper died away.  “Yeah, I know.  Sorry for biting your head off.  Just – what’ll I do if he won’t marry me?  It’s not even about stopping Beez from taking the throne anymore.  It’s Aziraphale.  He’s – he’s everything I ever wanted.”

Anathema patted his arm.  “I can’t see the future the way my great-grandmother could, so I can’t promise things will come out all right, but I’ll make you up the strongest good-luck charm I know.  It can’t hurt to give fate a nudge.”

Over the next five days, Crowley threw himself into the final arrangements for his birthday ball in a desperate attempt to keep his mind off Aziraphale.  This was only partially successful.  Approving the menu of refreshments, full of tiny, delicate hors d’oeuvres and a towering cake decorated in spun sugar, made him picture Aziraphale trying each one and humming with delight at the taste; hearing the musicians practicing brought up vivid images of what it would be like to spin around the dance floor with Aziraphale in his arms.

Anathema was too busy herself to provide distraction; she was spending most of her time reinforcing the wards around the palace grounds to make sure no assassins slipped in with the party guests.  She gave him a sympathetic glance whenever they passed each other in the hall, but she rarely had time to stop and chat.

The only thing that really helped was working in the piece of garden he had claimed for himself years ago, fiercely weeding and trimming (and shouting at the plants when no one else was around).  He always came indoors muddy and tired, but calmer than when he went out.  He suspected it was because gardening was one of the few things in his life that was his alone, with no connection to being a prince or even to Aziraphale.

At last the day of Crowley’s twenty-fifth birthday arrived. 

It began with stacks of presents from the court and from the foreign dignitaries who had been invited to the ball, most of them far too ostentatious for his taste.  King Lucifer gave him a gold cravat pin with the royal seal picked out in diamonds, and Beelzebub gave him a letter opener shaped like a dagger; both gifts struck Crowley as extremely unsubtle in their implications.

His favorite present was from Warlock, who had drawn a surprisingly good caricature of the two of them on the musicians’ balcony dropping paper pellets on a crowd of guests.  Crowley grinned down at the drawing, wishing he could slip away from tonight’s festivities to do just that.

The main celebration wouldn’t begin till evening, but the rest of the day was by no means empty.  The entertainments planned for the occasion ranged from a riding party to tea in the garden, and as the guest of honor Crowley had to be present and visible at every one.  He made inane small talk until he thought he might fall over from boredom, endured painfully obvious attempts at flirtation from two princesses, one prince, and a duke’s son, and nodded politely to some old general’s rant about peasants belonging under the heel of the nobility instead of telling him bluntly that he was an idiot.  He tried very hard not to think about the peace of the old apple orchard and Aziraphale beside him.

At last it was time to prepare for the ball.  Crowley managed not to fidget while his servants dressed him in his finest clothing, all black silk and red brocade.  They brushed his hair until it shone and tied it at the nape of his neck with a ribbon.

All the while his mind was screaming, This is it!  You’re about to find out if Aziraphale loves you enough to marry you!

He met King Lucifer at the top of the staircase that led down to the ballroom, and they paused there a moment, watching the courtiers already circulating below. 

“The evening appears to be off to a fine start,” the king observed.  Leaning closer, he murmured, “I trust there will be an announcement later on to make it even more memorable.”

“Yep,” Crowley said breezily, resisting the urge to cross his fingers behind his back.  “All sorted out.  Nothing to worry about.”

Much to his relief, before the king could ask any more questions the musicians sounded the fanfare.  Crowley and his father descended the stairs side by side, slow and stately, into a bowing and curtsying crowd.

The next hour was a mad whirl as person after person came up to greet Crowley and formally wish him a happy birthday.  The local nobility and gentry who didn’t live at court had begun to arrive, easily doubling the size of the crowd.  Crowley caught a glimpse of Warlock, cleaned up to within an inch of his life and grinning mischievously at him, but there wasn’t time to exchange so much as a word with him.

Anathema, looking impressive in a sweeping blue taffeta gown, was more successful at forging a path through the throng.  “He’s not here yet?” she asked in an undertone.

Crowley gave a tiny shake of his head.  “Still people arriving, though,” he muttered.  “Could show up anytime.”

“I’ll watch for him,” Anathema promised, stepping aside to make way for the next well-wisher.

Crowley and Beelzebub kept a carefully unobtrusive distance from each other in the crowd, but Crowley was very aware that the courtiers were watching them both and speculating (not always in whispers) about who would be the heir at the end of the night.  He wished like hell that he knew the answer himself.

The nonstop stream of socializing made time pass so quickly that it came as something of a shock to hear the chord that signaled the opening dance.  People moved to the edges of the room to leave the gleaming marble dance floor clear, and eyes turned toward Crowley to see who he would choose as his first partner.

Crowley scanned the room for a head of blond curls, a sick feeling of dread slowly growing in his gut. 

Aziraphale wasn’t there.

Chapter Text

After Aziraphale parted from Crowley in the orchard (with a kiss that Crowley lingered over as if he thought it might be their last one), he went home to do some serious thinking.  Crowley’s unexpected proposal had thrown his emotions into confusion, and he badly needed quiet and solitude to sort himself out.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t easy to come by.  First he had to help Tracy with making supper and cleaning up the kitchen, and then Gabriel and Michael had a seemingly endless series of trivial tasks for him.  It was quite late by the time he was able to escape at last to the privacy of his tiny bedroom.

Aziraphale sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, which creaked alarmingly under him, and dropped his head into his hands.  Crowley wanted to marry him.  Crowley genuinely and sincerely believed it was possible for them to marry.  If anyone had asked Aziraphale yesterday, he would have said that such a thing would be a dream come true, but he was finding now that dreams looked rather different when they became reality.

Could he really throw over his familiar life – small and confined, but safe in its predictability – for life in a palace, of all things?  Was being with Crowley worth such a comprehensive upheaval of everything he knew?

Aziraphale’s thoughts were no more settled when he woke the next morning.  He went about his usual tasks in a kind of daze, with at least half his mind elsewhere.  He was aware of Tracy eyeing him with concern, but his stepfamily didn’t seem to notice that anything was wrong (although Sandalphon did take advantage of his preoccupation to “accidentally” knock him into a puddle of soapy water as he scrubbed the hall floor).

He kept trying to imagine himself impersonating a nobleman as Crowley had suggested.  Some aspects of the idea were dangerously tempting – being able to wear fine clothes every day, having the leisure to do whatever he liked with his time – but there seemed more pitfalls than advantages.  His reading had given him a reasonable grasp of the overall politics of the kingdom, but his lack of familiarity with the intricate web of lesser alliances and rivalries within the royal court would surely give him away at once.  Crowley’s help and advice, while undoubtedly to be relied upon, would only carry him so far.

Aziraphale was almost relieved when a summons to Gabriel’s study gave him something different to worry about. 

Gabriel was seated behind the desk, leaning back in his chair with his legs crossed at the ankles.  “Market day tomorrow, isn’t it, Aziraphale?” he said with that hearty joviality that always made Aziraphale wary.  “I’ve got a little commission for you while you’re there.”

“Oh?  Y-yes, of course, certainly.”  Aziraphale clasped his hands tightly in front of him.  There was a stain on his shirt cuff, he noticed with dismay; he would have to scrub it out tonight.  “What is it?”

Gabriel gestured at the correspondence stacked on his desk.  “I need more sealing wax.  Best quality you can find – and make sure it’s crimson, not scarlet like that rubbish you brought home last time.”

“Yes, Gabriel,” Aziraphale said meekly, while in the back of his head that inner voice (which sounded rather like Crowley these days) scoffed incredulously.  Crimson, not scarlet?  Seriously?  It’s sealing wax – who the hell is going to care exactly what shade of red it is?

But it wasn’t really about the color of the sealing wax, Aziraphale realized suddenly as he left the study, any more than it had been about the apple pastry the day he and Crowley first met, or any of the innumerable other “commissions” Gabriel had given him over the years.  They were all simply excuses for Gabriel to demonstrate his power over Aziraphale, to remind him of who held the upper hand in the household.

An entirely unfamiliar spark of anger ignited in his chest.  Stepfather or not, what right did Gabriel have to – how had Tracy put it? – treat him like dirt under his shoes?  Why had he spent all these years just letting it happen?

Aziraphale didn’t have the least idea whether the sealing wax he purchased from the village stationer was crimson, scarlet, or vermilion, but Gabriel merely put it away in his desk drawer with a satisfied nod.  He’s so sure you’ll obey his orders that he can’t even be bothered to check, the voice in his head remarked dryly.  Serve him right if you were to cheat him one day. 

Aziraphale was beginning to think that perhaps that voice had a point.

As he headed down the hall toward the kitchen stairs, he was too deep in his own thoughts to notice Sandalphon lurking in the doorway of the parlor until the polished shoe thrust out and tripped him.  Aziraphale went sprawling, landing on his stomach hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

He struggled to a sitting position, gasping for breath, and looked up to see his stepbrother wearing his oiliest smirk.  “You really should watch where you’re going, Aziraphale,” he said.  “You could hurt yourself falling down like that, even with all that padding of yours.”

This struck Aziraphale as a bit rich coming from him – Sandalphon’s frame was nearly as broad as his own, although he was thickset and solid in contrast to Aziraphale’s soft spreading roundness – but it wasn’t worth arguing about.  The blatantly false pretense of innocence was another matter.

“I wouldn’t need to worry so much about falling and hurting myself if there weren’t someone ready and eager to help it happen,” he said levelly, climbing to his feet.  The spark of anger from the day before had grown into a small but persistent flame.  “If you must bully me for your own petty amusement, do at least refrain from insulting my intelligence by claiming it was an accident.”

He marched off down the hall, leaving Sandalphon slack-jawed with shock.

The victory might have been a very minor one, but it felt good to have spoken his mind for a change.  Crowley would be proud of him, Aziraphale thought with a smile.

He halted in his tracks two steps up from the bottom of the stairs, the muddle of thoughts that had been churning in his mind for the past few days suddenly realigning themselves.  Why, precisely, was he considering staying here with people who looked down on and bullied him instead of marrying a man who believed he was worthy of love and respect and never hesitated to show it?  Palace or no palace, why was this even a question?

Aziraphale’s jaw set in new determination.  He would go to the prince’s birthday ball the day after tomorrow, and he would tell Crowley in front of king, court, and all that he loved him and wanted to marry him.

Aziraphale made his plans carefully.  The safest way would be to wait until his stepfamily was about to leave for the ball and present himself ready to go with them; if it was a fait accompli, there would be no opportunity for them to try to convince him to stay home.  True, that would mean spending the drive to the palace packed into the carriage with them, but he could put up with worse if it got him to Crowley.

On the day of the ball, Aziraphale was kept busy.  He spent much of the afternoon cleaning and polishing the heavy old carriage that was only brought out once or twice a year nowadays; when the coachman and horses hired for the occasion arrived, he turned the carriage over to them and went inside to run up and down stairs in response to shouts for a new jar of pomade, a last-minute mending job, a mislaid cravat pin.

It was nearly time to leave before he had a moment to catch his breath, much less change his own clothes.  As quickly as he could, he cleaned himself up at the washbasin in his bedroom and ran a comb through his hair, which was in disarray from all his rushing about.

His best clothes were kept safely tucked away in the back of the wardrobe, behind the sturdy, practical things he wore every day.  Working carefully despite his haste, he put on the breeches of fine cream-colored cloth, the brown velvet waistcoat (only slightly worn around the edges), and the long coat that matched the breeches.  They were a little tight – evidently he had gained a few pounds since he last had occasion to wear these clothes – but not unmanageably so. 

He spared just a moment to survey his reflection in the mirror with pleasure.  He did so enjoy dressing nicely – and if all went as planned tonight, he would never need to wear work clothes again.

Aziraphale hurried upstairs to find his stepfamily gathered in the entry hall, preparing to depart.  They were all dressed far more elegantly than he was: Gabriel in grey silk with a lavender waistcoat that set off his eyes, Michael in a sharply tailored dress of paler grey, and Sandalphon in fine tan wool.

Michael was the first one to notice Aziraphale’s clothing.  Her eyebrows rose, and she murmured something into her father’s ear.

Gabriel turned to look him up and down.  “Well, well, don’t you look nice, Aziraphale,” he chuckled.  “Going somewhere special?”

Aziraphale swallowed and straightened his spine.  “Yes, of course.  I’m coming to the ball with you.”

Sandalphon gave a snort of disbelief.  Gabriel waved him to silence, but shook his head sorrowfully.  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.  I’ve told you before, you really wouldn’t enjoy it.  Much better to stay home and have some peace and quiet.”

“Yes, so you’ve said,” Aziraphale answered.  It was an effort to keep his head up and his gaze steady instead of shrinking into himself as he usually did when facing Gabriel.  “But I’ve thought it over, and I would very much like to see it for myself just this once, especially as it’s the prince’s coming of age.  It – it would be a new experience that would aid in my research.”

“A new experience,” Gabriel repeated.  “For your research.”  He folded his arms.  “Well, I’m afraid it’s not an experience you’re going to have tonight.  Your name isn’t on the invitation, after all, and we can’t just go bringing uninvited guests along to a royal ball.”

“My name may not be on the invitation, but neither are Michael’s and Sandalphon’s,” Aziraphale said indignantly.  “I bring home the post, Gabriel.  I saw that envelope, and it was addressed to ‘Lord Gabriel and family’.  As your stepson, I ought to be included in that.”

“And in an ideal world that would be the case,” Gabriel said smoothly.  “But as it is – well, even you can’t deny you just don’t have the proper polish for an event like this.  You don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of the king, do you?”

It slowly dawned on Aziraphale that Gabriel had no intention of allowing him to attend the ball.  No argument of his would make a difference, because Gabriel would merely counter it with another manufactured excuse.  He had always taken that insistence that he wouldn’t enjoy the balls at its face value; now he saw that it had only ever been a way of controlling him.

He felt sick.  Now what was he going to do?

Michael was watching his face.  “Our dear stepbrother seems very set on going to the prince’s ball,” she commented, apparently to Sandalphon, but loud enough for them all to hear.  “Perhaps those books of his have been giving him romantic daydreams.”

Gabriel looked sharply at her, then at Aziraphale, and then began to laugh.  “I think you’ve hit it, Michael!  He’s been dreaming of meeting the prince.  But surely you didn’t really think you would get to dance with him?” he added to Aziraphale.  “Royalty requires a certain style, you know, and no amount of dressing up will hide that.”  He gestured disdainfully at Aziraphale’s chubby figure.

Aziraphale thought of how Crowley looked at him, remembered long fingers gently tracing the soft curves of his chins and loving hands cupping the wide rolls around his sides.  Despite the circumstances, he had to hold back a smile. 

“But perhaps –” he began.

Gabriel cut him off.  “No.  You’re staying here, Aziraphale, and that’s final.  I don’t want to hear any more arguing.”  The violet eyes had gone cold and hard.  “In fact, let’s make sure you don’t try anything foolish after we’ve left.  Sandalphon-?”

Before Aziraphale knew what was happening, Sandalphon and Gabriel had each seized one of his arms and were manhandling him toward the kitchen stairs.  He struggled and protested, but to no avail.  They dragged him downstairs, shoved him into his bedroom with such force that he fell to the floor, and slammed the door before he could scramble up again.  He heard the lock click shut.

“We’ll be sure to tell you all about the ball,” Sandalphon’s voice said from outside, his smirk practically audible.  Gabriel laughed again, and their footsteps faded out of earshot.

Aziraphale leapt to his feet and wrenched at the doorknob, rattling it frantically.  The door remained firmly locked.  He threw his full weight against it again and again, but the house was old and solidly built for all it had begun to slide into disrepair, and the door didn’t so much as shake in its frame.  The bedroom’s one window was far too narrow for him to fit through, even if he had possessed the athletic ability to climb out that way.  He was well and truly trapped.

Aziraphale sank to the floor again, fighting back tears.  All he could think of was Crowley waiting for him to arrive at the ball, Crowley wondering where he was, Crowley coming to the conclusion that Aziraphale didn’t want to marry him after all.  Imagining the look of heartbreak and betrayal in those beautiful amber eyes made him feel as though a sword had gone through his chest.  He had to get out of here, to get to Crowley, but how?

It was perhaps an hour later when Aziraphale, pacing helplessly round and round the room, heard a cautious knock on the door, followed by a familiar voice.  “Aziraphale?  Are you in there, love?”

“Tracy!”  Aziraphale rushed to the door.  “Oh, thank heavens – Tracy, please let me out, I must – oh, do please hurry!”

“Steady now, love.  I’ll have you out of there in a jiffy.  Just let me fetch the spare keys…”  Tracy's heels tapped briskly away down the hall, returning just as quickly.  A rattle of keys, and the door swung open.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” Aziraphale gasped, impulsively flinging his arms around Tracy.  “Whatever are you doing here?”

Tracy patted his back.  “I had a feeling something was wrong, so I came to see what it was.  Did that wretch Gabriel lock you in?”

“Yes, because I said I was going to the prince’s ball with them, and he wouldn’t let me.”  Aziraphale released Tracy and worried the edge of his waistcoat between his fingers.  “I must get there, it’s terribly urgent, but they took the carriage, and I’ll never be let in if I arrive in a pony trap – oh dear, why didn’t I think of that sooner?  I can’t possibly walk all the way to the palace –”

“Aziraphale.”  Tracy caught his hands, reminding him painfully of Crowley doing the same thing when his fidgeting became too frantic.  “Why do you need to get to the ball so urgently?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath.  He had been so careful not to betray his and Crowley’s relationship to a soul, but the time for secrecy was over. 

“I’m – I’m in love with Prince Crowley.  We met by chance at the market, and I’ve been slipping out to see him in that old orchard.  He asked me to marry him, and I was to give him my answer at the ball.”  Tears pricked his eyes again.  “I have to be there, I simply have to, or he’ll think I’ve turned him down.”

“Ah,” Tracy said, smiling.  “I wondered if it might be something like that.  You’re going to say yes, then?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said with certainty.  “He’s – oh, Tracy, he’s wonderful.  He’s so handsome and clever, and kind too, however much he denies it.  He’s always doing things to make the people he loves happy.  And he really listens to me and cares about what I think.  No one else has ever done that except you.”  He gripped Tracy’s hands.  “Will you please help me?  I’ve no idea how to get to the palace alone, and you’re the only one I can trust.”

Tracy regarded him steadily for a long moment; then she gave a small nod, as if coming to some decision.  “I can help you even better than you know, love,” she said.  “How would you like to go to the ball in fine clothes and a fine carriage?”

Aziraphale blinked in confusion.  “Well, yes, naturally I’d like that.  But how could you possibly –?”

Tracy stepped back a pace and raised her hands, her face taking on a look of concentration.  There was a kind of ripple in the air, and before Aziraphale’s astonished eyes his clothing changed.

The cream-colored broadcloth coat became a crisp, heavy silk, trimmed with gold braid and cut like the formal court costume he had seen in the society papers, with full skirts and deep turned-back cuffs.  His breeches were dove-grey silk now, and his brown velvet waistcoat had turned into rich silk brocade with a delicate pink tint.  There were frothy cascades of lace at his throat and wrists.  Best of all, on his feet were shimmering white satin dancing shoes with gold buckles.  The whole ensemble fitted him as if it had been tailored precisely to his measurements.

After several stunned moments Aziraphale tore his eyes away from the beautiful clothes and looked at Tracy, who was wearing a rather smug expression.  “Tracy,” he said slowly, “you’re a witch, aren’t you?”

Tracy chuckled.  “Oh yes.  I don’t put it about much – better if most people don’t realize the eccentric old woman living in her cottage in the woods can do real magic.”  She paused and added more softly, “Your mum knew, though.  That’s why she asked me to watch out for you.”

This was more than Aziraphale could take in at one time.  His spinning brain fastened onto the last sentence.  “Then – if you can work magic, why didn’t you use it to help me before now?” he blurted out.  “Why didn’t you turn Gabriel into a toad, or spirit me away from here, or – or –”

Tracy smiled a little sadly and reached out to touch his cheek.  “Because you had to ask me for it, love.  You had to believe you deserved something better than this before I could help you get there.”

Her tone became brisk.  “Speaking of that, now that you’re properly dressed we need a way to get you to the palace.  Let’s go outside.”

Out in the yard Tracy hitched the pony to the cart, then stood back to look them over critically.  “Not quite enough.  I need something for volume… Ah!”  She dove into the kitchen garden and emerged triumphantly lugging a large pumpkin.  Placing it in the cart, she raised her hands and concentrated again.

Aziraphale, watching with great interest, saw the pumpkin expand and meld somehow with the cart to form a sumptuous white-and-gold coach, its rounded shape and curling vinelike trim the only hints of its vegetable origin.  The old pony had been replaced by a pair of white horses as elegant as Crowley’s black ones.  The finishing touch was provided by a fat grey rat, found nibbling grain in the stable, which Tracy transformed into a stout mustached coachman.

“There,” she said, panting a little.  “Off you go, now.  I can’t keep the magic going much past midnight or so, but that ought to give you time to find your Crowley and tell him what you need to tell him.”

Aziraphale hugged her again, his eyes feeling suspiciously damp.  “Thank you, Tracy.  I really can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

Tracy smiled.  “No need, love.  I understand.”  She straightened his lacy cravat, then gave him a little push toward the coach.  “Now go find your happily ever after.”

The journey to the palace seemed to fly by.  The seats of the coach, upholstered in pale blue velvet, were wonderfully comfortable, and the coachman was a much better driver than Aziraphale would have expected from an enchanted rat. 

Before he knew it they were drawing to a halt in front of the palace, where scores of other elegant carriages were lined up waiting for their passengers to return.  Aziraphale swallowed hard, then opened the door and stepped out.

It was dark by now, and the broad steps up to the palace doors were lined with glowing lanterns hanging from poles.  The doors stood wide open, and just inside them a small, round man in livery – a major-domo of some sort, Aziraphale guessed from the sash across his chest – was speaking to two other late-arriving guests.

He led them across a grand hall to another set of open doors, beyond which could be seen a whirl of color and movement, and boomed, “Lord Lesley and Lady Maud!”  Then he returned to the front doors, where Aziraphale hovered nervously.  “Name?” he inquired.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, remembering what Crowley had suggested.  “L-Lord Aziraphale.”

The major-domo nodded and motioned for Aziraphale to follow him to those other doors, where he stepped aside to let him enter.

Aziraphale scarcely heard the booming announcement of his false title.  The ballroom was immense, alight with hundreds of candles and decked with silk draperies and garlands of flowers.  Its white marble floor was barely visible between the crowds of people in fine silks and sparkling jewels.

He felt a dizzying moment of panic – what was he doing here? – but then the crowd parted, and he saw Crowley hurrying toward him.  Crowley, looking stunningly handsome in sleek black and red court dress, his face alight with joy.

Aziraphale drew a long breath, feeling the spinning world steady and settle.  Yes.  Crowley was the best of all possible reasons for him to be here.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed as he reached him.  “You came.  I didn’t see you, and I – I thought –”

“I know, darling,” Aziraphale said, reaching out to clasp Crowley’s hands.  “I very nearly couldn’t come – I’ll tell you why when we have a moment – but I’m here now.”

He noticed that Crowley had a slender gold circlet on his shining hair; Aziraphale had never seen him wear a crown before.  The shape of it looked rather like two serpents twined around each other.

Crowley drew him toward the center of the room.  “You’re just in time, angel,” he said, smiling down at him.  “The dancing’s about to begin, and there’s no one I’d rather stand up with than you.  Will you?”

Aziraphale broke into a smile of his own, remembering all his daydreams of doing exactly that.  “Yes, of course, my dear.”

A buzz of whispering arose as Crowley led Aziraphale onto the dance floor.  Aziraphale guessed people were wondering who he was and why the prince had reacted in such a way to his arrival.  He didn’t dare look around to see if any of his stepfamily were nearby.

As the musicians seated on a kind of balcony high on one wall struck up a stately melody, Crowley rested one hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and the other at his waist.  Aziraphale mirrored the pose, grateful for his long-ago dancing lessons. 

He followed the sequence of steps and turns with only half his attention; the rest was absorbed by how wonderful it felt to be near Crowley again, to feel the warmth of those slim hands through his coat and see the unmistakable love shining in his eyes.  He was rather startled, when the dance ended, to find that other couples had joined them on the floor.

Crowley swept him an elaborate bow, and Aziraphale returned it, trying not to giggle.  “Another dance?” Crowley asked as they both straightened.

Aziraphale considered.  “Yes, but only one for now.  You really ought to do your duty by your other guests.”

Crowley made a rude noise.  “Not like I invited most of them.  They’re all here for the social cachet, not because they like me.”

“Perhaps, but surely some of them are less unbearable than others.  You could give those ones the extra cachet of a dance with you and spread discontent by making their rivals envious, couldn’t you?”

“Bastard,” Crowley grumbled, but he was grinning as he swung Aziraphale into the lively opening measures of the next dance.

When that dance finished Aziraphale turned to leave the floor, but was suddenly overcome by nervousness at the thought of trying to make conversation with all these glittering nobles.  What could he possibly talk about with people like them? 

Crowley saw his hesitation.  “Look, there’s Warlock over there,” he murmured, nodding toward the long tables where refreshments appeared to be laid out.  “He can tell you which of the little cake things to try while I go find some old duchess to dance with.”

Warlock, bright-eyed and excited about being allowed to stay up late, was indeed delighted to tell Aziraphale all about which of the hors d’oeuvres, in his opinion, were the best.  Crowley stayed long enough to watch with a fond smile as Aziraphale ate one of them (a sphere of featherlight pastry whose cream filling was so delicately flavored with rosewater that he closed his eyes for a moment to savor it properly), then sauntered off into the crowd.  When Aziraphale saw him next, he was dancing with a very young gentleman with an oddly pointed hairstyle who looked positively giddy about the attention.

Aziraphale smiled affectionately and turned away to accept a glass of champagne from the footman circulating through the crowd with a tray.  It wasn’t Newt Pulsifer from the village, he was disappointed to see, although given what he knew of Newt it was entirely possible the poor fellow wasn’t permitted to serve at important events like this one.

He held the champagne up to the light to study it, then sipped it consideringly.  It had been quite some time since he last had the opportunity to drink champagne (gracious, the last time must have been at his mother and Gabriel’s wedding!), and he found that he liked the taste better than he had at sixteen.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. 

Aziraphale whirled, his heart suddenly hammering with the conviction that his stepfamily had found him.  But it was a stranger, a striking young woman with dark hair and spectacles.

“You must be Aziraphale,” she said.  “I’m glad to finally meet you.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.  “And you must be Anathema.  Likewise.”

Anathema tilted her head to study him.  “Where did those clothes come from, if you don’t mind my asking?  There’s something about them…”

Ah yes, of course, Crowley had said Anathema was a witch.  Naturally she would recognize Tracy’s handiwork for what it was.  “My friend Tracy, er, made them for me,” Aziraphale said, touching the smooth fabric of his coat a little self-consciously.  “She’s in the same profession as you, but… unofficially, as it were.”

Anathema looked delighted.  “I thought so!  Transformation, right?  That’s impressive work, changing the nature of an object instead of just its appearance.  Usually temporary, though – did she mention a time limit?”

“Midnight, I believe.”  Aziraphale glanced around for a clock and was relieved to see that there were still nearly two hours left to go.  “She, ah, provided my transportation as well.”

“Then we’ll have to make sure you and Crowley sort yourselves out before then.” Anathema nodded decisively and snagged her own glass of champagne from a passing servant.  “Crowley says you’re a reader.  What are some of your favorite books?”

“Oh!”  Aziraphale straightened with an involuntary wiggle of pleasure.  “Goodness, it’s simply impossible to choose.  I’ve been reading some really fascinating history lately, but I must confess to a fondness for old folk tales as well…”

This subject kept them happily occupied until Crowley appeared beside them and slung a friendly arm over Anathema’s shoulders.  “What’d I tell you?” he inquired, apparently directing this remark to both of them.  “Obsessed with books, the pair of you.”  He moved to Aziraphale’s side and took his hand, tucking it into the crook of his own arm.  “How’re you enjoying the ball, angel?”

“Very much,” Aziraphale said, beaming up at him.  “The company is still a trifle overwhelming, I must admit, but the music, and the food, and the decorations… oh, it’s all just as wonderful as I’d dreamed!”

“I have to warn you, royal balls and banquets get a lot less impressive after you’ve been to twenty or thirty of them,” Anathema put in dryly. 

“Oi!”  Crowley glared at her.  “Whose side’re you on here?  You’re supposed to be helping me, not scaring him off.”

“In that case, I suggest the two of you go out on the terrace and have a talk,” Anathema said, nodding toward a nearby door.  “I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.  And don’t take too long about it – you only have until midnight.”  She turned and swept off. 

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other.  “Witches,” Crowley muttered.  “Well, why not?  It won’t be the orchard, but it’s a hell of a lot better than trying to have any kind of serious conversation in here.”  He began leading Aziraphale toward the door, which stood open to let in a pleasant breeze.  “What’d she mean about midnight?”

Aziraphale sighed.  “That’s part of the explanation I promised you earlier, about why I was so late to the ball.  We can discuss it outside.”

The terrace was a broad expanse of stone paving with a low wall around the edge and steps at one end leading down into the gardens.  Several of those lanterns on poles gave just enough illumination that Aziraphale could see Crowley’s face clearly, while still being dim enough to contrast pleasantly with the blaze of light in the ballroom.

As soon as they were a safe distance from the open door, Crowley caught Aziraphale in his arms and kissed him as though he had been waiting all evening to do just that.  Aziraphale was rather breathless by the time they separated, but he was determined not to be distracted from his purpose.  He reached up and took Crowley’s narrow face between his hands. 

“Before you say anything else, Crowley, there’s something I must tell you,” he said.  “I love you with all my heart and soul, and I want more than anything to be your husband.  I accept your proposal of marriage.”

Crowley made a choking sound and wrapped his arms tightly around Aziraphale again, burying his face in his hair.  “Angel,” he whispered, voice shaking.  “Angel –”

“I’m here, my love,” Aziraphale murmured, gently rubbing Crowley’s back.  His own voice was more than a little unsteady.  “I’m right here, and I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

It was some minutes before either of them was calm enough for the discussion they had some outside to have, but they eventually ended up seated side by side on the low wall at the edge of the terrace, arms around each other’s waists.  Aziraphale, as he had promised, told Crowley everything that had happened to him that evening, from Gabriel locking him in his room to Tracy sending him off in an enchanted coach.

Crowley was so furious that his speech devolved into incoherent sputtering.  “Wh – he – ngph – that – that bloody arsehole!  Just point him out to me and I’ll – I’ll –”

“Sshh.  I appreciate the thought, dearest, but there’s no need.”  Aziraphale kissed his cheek lightly.  “Your starting a brawl on my behalf during your birthday celebration would hardly endear me to your father.”

“Fine,” Crowley grumbled.  “But he’s not getting an invitation to the palace ever again.”  He pulled Aziraphale a little closer.  “Speaking of my father, we should get you introduced to him.  I’m supposed to announce my betrothal tonight, and it’ll go off better if he’s at least set eyes on you first.”

Aziraphale’s stomach tightened with nerves.  “I suppose so.  Er – what ought I to say?  If we’re claiming I’m nobility, won’t he wonder why he’s never heard of me before?”

“Nobody can keep track of all the minor nobles around the place,” Crowley said, waving a hand.  “I’ll just say I met you when I was out rambling the countryside.  No need to tell him it was at the market in town, not on the grounds of your manor or something.”

“Very well, if you say so.”  Aziraphale took a deep breath and straightened his waistcoat.  “Let’s get this over with, then.”

As they rose to go back inside, he thought of something and gasped.  “Oh, gracious – Crowley, it’s your birthday and I didn’t bring you a present!  How dreadfully rude of me!”

Crowley chuckled and tilted his chin up with one finger in order to kiss him again.  “Never mind, angel.  Having you here is the best present I’ve ever gotten.”

In the ballroom, the dancing and socializing were still in full swing.  Crowley led Aziraphale through the crowd straight to a tall, thin man with silvering black hair – King Lucifer, looking even more intimidating in person than he did in the society papers.

“Father, please allow me to present Lord Aziraphale,” Crowley said.  The love and pride in his voice made Aziraphale’s heart turn over in his chest.  “My betrothed.”

“Your Majesty,” Aziraphale murmured, bowing deeply. 

When he dared to glance up, the king was studying him intently.  “Lord… Aziraphale, was it?” he said.  His voice was deeper and smoother than Crowley’s casual drawl.  “I don’t believe I’ve seen you at court before.”

This was it.  Aziraphale had always been a terrible liar, but this time he had to pull it off, for his own sake and for Crowley’s.

“I – I’ve lived quite retired in the country, Your Majesty,” he said, keeping his hands still with a considerable effort.  “But I met Prince Crowley by chance when he was out for a drive near my home, and – and we were both simply smitten.”

“So that’s where you’ve been going off to when no one can find you,” King Lucifer said, regarding his son with a sharp, but not entirely displeased, eye.  “I would have appreciated hearing about this somewhat sooner, but I can’t say I’m surprised that you’ve left things till the last possible moment.  Very well.”

He spoke quietly to a hovering servant, who hastened off; a minute or two later, a trumpet fanfare sounded from the musicians’ balcony.  Conversations around the room fell silent as everyone turned to look at the king.

“My lords and ladies,” King Lucifer called out, his voice carrying easily throughout the ballroom.  “It gives me great pleasure to announce the betrothal of my son and heir, Prince Crowley, to Lord Azir-”

“Stop!”  A slight, dark-haired person pushed their way to the front of the crowd – Crowley’s cousin, Lord Beelzebub.  “Your Majesty, this man is lying to you.  He is not a lord, and your son knows it.”

Beside Aziraphale, Crowley stiffened and hissed between his teeth.  “Beez, what the hell?” he muttered under his breath.

“What are you saying, Beelzebub?” King Lucifer asked, frowning.  “Do you have proof of this?”

“I do,” Beelzebub said.  Their voice was much lighter than the king’s, but equally pitched to carry.  The entire ballroom was listening now.  “Duke Ligur happened to witness them meeting clandestinely in the forest.”

Crowley scoffed.  “You’ll have to do better than that, Beez.  What, it’s a crime now to want some privacy with the man you’re courting?”  His tone was dismissive, but Aziraphale could hear the tension underneath.

A stocky man, evidently Duke Ligur, stepped forward beside Lord Beelzebub.  “My testimony isn’t the only one you have to worry about, Crowley,” he said.  “There was another witness to your little trysts, and she told us all about your ‘Lord’ Aziraphale’s real background.”  He grinned unsettlingly.  “And I’m sure she’ll be delighted to share it with the king as well.”

“Indeed,” a cool voice said.  And to Aziraphale’s utter horror, his stepsister Michael emerged from the watching throng.  She curtsied to the king, then moved to stand on Ligur’s other side.  “Your Majesty, I must apologize for my stepbrother’s presumptuous behavior.  There is no excuse for his deceiving you this way.”

“Who are you?” the king demanded.  His voice had become low and icy.  “What do you know about this man?”

Michael returned his stare, imperturbable as ever.  “My name is Michael, daughter of Lord Gabriel.  Some years ago our family circumstances obliged my father to remarry below his station, to a widowed merchant with one son.”  She indicated Aziraphale, standing frozen at Crowley’s side, with a disdainful flick of her fingers.  “I’m afraid his mother encouraged him to fill his head with all sorts of impractical nonsense.  Since her death we’ve tried to bring him down to reality, but as you can see, we’ve had little success.  I don’t know how he persuaded Prince Crowley to go along with this pretense –”

“He didn’t,” Crowley interrupted urgently.  “I mean, it wasn’t his idea at all.  I’m the one who suggested it so we’d be allowed to get married.”

“You are not helping your case, Crowley,” King Lucifer said levelly.

Aziraphale decided it was time he spoke up on his own behalf.  “Your Majesty, I’m – I’m terribly sorry for lying to you,” he said, meeting the king’s dark eyes for the briefest instant.  Crowley’s red hair and amber eyes must have come from the late queen, he thought irrelevantly.  “But really, the only falsehood I told was saying that I’m a lord.  I have been living a retired life in the country, and Crowley and I did meet by chance near my home.”  He had given up on not fidgeting, and his hands were alternating between twisting together and tugging at his lace cuffs.  “I may not be of noble birth, Your Majesty, but I love him very much.  I would do everything in my power to fill the role that a prince’s husband should take.”

“As if you could,” Lord Beelzebub sneered.  “A soft, foolish peasant like you beside him on the throne?  You’d make him even more unfit to rule than he already is.”

“The hell he would!” Crowley shouted, glaring at his cousin.  “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it, Beez?  You just want the throne yourself, so you’re trying to make us both look like –”

“Enough!”  King Lucifer’s bellow silenced everyone.  “Crowley, Beelzebub, I will speak to you further in private.  Duke Ligur, Lady Michael, thank you for your testimony.  You –”  He directed a scathing stare at Aziraphale.  “You are clearly not a fit person to marry my son.  Lying, encouraging him in deceit, attempting to climb far above your proper place –”

It was all abruptly too much.  Aziraphale knew he ought to stand his ground and fight for Crowley, for their love, but everyone was staring at him and the king was raking him down in public and Gabriel was there, whispering furiously to Michael, and oh, that sound was the clock high on the wall beginning to strike midnight, and any moment now Tracy’s magic would dissolve and the whole ballroom would see that he was even more of a pretender than they knew…

Aziraphale turned and ran. 

He ignored Crowley shouting his name, Anathema trying to catch his sleeve, the masses of goggling well-dressed strangers.  Across the ballroom, through the entry hall, down the lantern-lit steps, sheer blinding panic pushing him faster than he had known he could move. 

His foot caught on something and he went sprawling, struggling back to his feet to find that one of the beautiful satin shoes was missing.  He didn’t dare stop to pick it up; he just pulled the other shoe off his foot and kept running.

By the time he reached the line of carriages he was dressed once more in what had been his best clothes when he put them on, but now seemed shabby and worn.  A battered old cart stood where the gold-trimmed coach had been, with a pumpkin in the back and a very confused-looking pony between the shafts.  The rat, it seemed, had sensibly departed for more interesting surroundings.

Aziraphale leaned against the side of the cart until he got his breath back, then climbed onto the driver’s bench and sat there, staring blankly ahead.  What was he to do now?  Going home was risky – his stepfamily had seen everything that just happened, and would undoubtedly have more than a few things to say about it when they returned – but right now he was too tired and heartsore to think out a different plan.

He made to pick up the reins and found that he was still holding the remaining shoe, and that unlike the rest of Tracy’s transformations, it hadn’t reverted to normal.  He blinked stupidly down at it as though it might explain itself, but the smooth satin surface told him nothing.

Giving his head a quick shake, he laid the shoe safely in his lap and clicked the pony into motion.  And if there were tears on his cheeks as he drove away from the palace, at least no one was there to see.

Chapter Text

As Aziraphale dashed from the ballroom, Crowley paused just long enough to snarl “Now look what you’ve done!” at his father before sprinting after him. 

But Aziraphale had too much of a head start for even Crowley’s long legs to catch up.  By the time Crowley arrived at the foot of the steps, all he could see was a pale flicker disappearing in the direction of the guests’ carriages.

He slowed to a halt, clenching his teeth.  He didn’t blame Aziraphale for wanting to get away from that awful scene in there, but couldn’t he have taken Crowley with him?

God, Beelzebub must have been plotting this for weeks, waiting for the right moment to spring their trap.  Crowley knew his cousin was ruthless, he knew they had hoped he would fail to meet the king’s conditions, but he hadn’t suspected them of actively working to make it happen.

He cursed and kicked the balustrade, realizing that the noise he had heard in the orchard that time must have been Ligur spying on him.  Ligur or that woman, Aziraphale’s stepsister – Michael, that was it.  Remembering the dismissive, condescending way she had talked about Aziraphale made his fury boil up all over again.  He was going to get his angel out of that household, King Lucifer and Beelzebub be damned.

Turning to stalk back up the steps, he saw something glint in the lantern light.  There was a shoe lying on its side near the bottom step – one of the fancy white satin shoes Aziraphale had been wearing. 

Crowley picked it up, swallowing down a lump in his throat as he thought of Aziraphale on the terrace barely an hour ago, bubbling over with delight as he described how Tracy had dressed him in the most beautiful clothes he had ever worn.  He would want this shoe back, so Crowley would keep it safe until he saw him again.

Crowley looked up at the light spilling out the windows of the ballroom and realized he couldn’t bear to go back in.  He couldn’t stand around and listen to everyone gossip about what had happened as if it was just the latest exciting scandal and not Crowley’s entire future blowing up in his face.  He turned and wandered aimlessly off into the darkened gardens.

Anathema found him there a while later, sitting on a bench with Aziraphale’s shoe in his hand.  “Your father and Beelzebub have both left the ball,” she said, sitting down beside him.  “If you go in one of the side doors, you should be able to get to your rooms without having to answer any more questions.”

Crowley nodded his thanks.  “We were so close,” he muttered.  “It really almost worked.  If bloody Beelzebub hadn’t –”  He broke off with an inarticulate noise of frustration.

Anathema patted his arm sympathetically.  “What’s that saying – no plan survives contact with the enemy?  You’ll just have to make a new plan and try again.”

“Yeah, sure,” Crowley grumbled.  “New plan.  Right.  Easy.”

But when he woke the next morning (after far too few hours of sleep), he discovered that a plan had somehow arrived in his head during the night.  He dressed quickly, ignoring the tray of breakfast a servant had brought in, and sent a note to his father asking for an audience as soon as possible.

When Crowley entered King Lucifer’s study half an hour later, the king was seated at his desk, apparently rereading the note Crowley had written.  He looked up and regarded Crowley levelly.  “I’m interested to hear what you feel you can say for yourself after that debacle last night,” he said.

Crowley sat down facing him, careful to sit erect instead of in his usual slouch.  “It’s not for myself exactly,” he said.  “I want to tell you about Aziraphale.  You got a bad first impression of him last night, but that’s not really what he’s like.  Just – just please let me show you how I see him.”

King Lucifer’s expression was unmoving, but Crowley thought there was just a hint of reluctant curiosity at the back of his eyes.  “Very well,” he said after a moment that seemed to last several years.  “I can’t promise that it will change my decision, but you may as well have your say.”

Crowley took a deep breath, trying to channel some of Aziraphale’s own way with words.  “Aziraphale is – he’s had the sort of life that could’ve beaten any kindness or softness out of him, but he didn’t let it.  He cares so much about people, and he’ll turn himself inside out trying to do the right thing.”

Maybe that wasn’t the best place to start, since being kind and soft wasn’t exactly a valued trait in King Lucifer’s court, but Aziraphale’s kindness in giving that kid Wensleydale a pastry was the first thing Crowley had noticed about him. 

Remembering that scene, he also remembered that the pastry had originally been intended for the horrible Lord Gabriel, which gave him an idea for a different tack to try.  “And he’s not afraid to be a bit of a bastard if that’s what it takes to make things happen.  You know how I started coming to council meetings a few weeks back?  Aziraphale basically tricked me into it by asking me to find out something for him, because he knew I’d get interested if I just gave it a chance.  He’s so, so smart – he’ll read anything he can get his hands on, and he’s really good at putting pieces together.  He loves fine things, clothes and food and – and just living.  Give him a little time to learn his way around, and you’ll hardly be able to tell he wasn’t born a nobleman.”

The king’s eyes narrowed at that, and Crowley gulped – had he gotten too far ahead of himself?  But the only way out was through, so he plunged on.  “You told me I had to get married because it would prove I was taking my responsibilities seriously, right?  Well, Aziraphale makes me actually want to be responsible.  He believes in me, and he sees things that make him think I’d be a good ruler.  And I mean, maybe some of that’s just because he loves me, but I-I want to prove him right.”

He swallowed.  “I love him so much.  Please let me marry him, Father.  Please.”

King Lucifer gazed at him in silence, his face unreadable.  The moment stretched longer and longer, while Crowley’s hands clenched on his knees and his heartbeat thundered in his ears.

“You –” the king began, just as someone knocked on the study door. 

The king shut his eyes briefly and muttered a curse under his breath.  “Come in!” he barked.

The door opened, and Beelzebub walked in.  They looked as surprised and displeased to see Crowley as he was to see them.  “Is this a bad time, Uncle?” they asked.  “I need to speak to you, but I can come back later.”

King Lucifer looked from Beelzebub to Crowley and back.  “No,” he said slowly.  “I think it’s best that we have this out now.  Sit down.”

Beelzebub did as they were told, keeping a pointed distance between their chair and Crowley’s.  The king folded his hands on the desk and studied them both again.

“Last night the two of you made some rather serious accusations against each other,” he said.  “Beelzebub, you stated that Crowley had colluded in this Aziraphale’s deception and was unfit to rule; Crowley, you implied that Beelzebub had manipulated the situation to further their own desire for the throne.  I would like to hear the reasoning behind those accusations explained in a less heated manner.  Crowley, you will begin.”

Crowley, who hadn’t expected this, hurriedly tried to pull his thoughts together.  “It’s – look, Beez knew they would be named the heir if I didn’t find a spouse, right?  The whole court knew that.  I’m not blaming them for, for wanting the crown that was being dangled in front of their nose or anything like that.  But that business last night – that was deliberately sabotaging my betrothal.”

He suddenly remembered the conversation he had overheard between Beelzebub and Duke Ligur.  “They had Ligur spy on me and Aziraphale, and then they revealed the information in the most damaging way possible.  The ball was nearly a week after my last meeting with Aziraphale – if they were so worried about me consorting with commoners or whatever, why didn’t they come to you quietly sometime during that week?  Why make it a big public show if not to shame Aziraphale and discredit me?”

King Lucifer regarded him thoughtfully, but said only “Hm,” before turning to Beelzebub.  “And you?”

Beelzebub, who had been glaring daggers at Crowley the whole time he was speaking, smoothed out their expression with a visible effort.  “You heard my evidence last night, Uncle.  Crowley was lying to your face about his so-called ‘Lord’ Aziraphale.  He ignores his responsibilities, he spends his days wandering about the countryside fraternizing with all and sundry, and he leads your ward into his own heedless ways.”

Crowley stiffened at hearing Warlock brought into this.  He thought he could see what Beelzebub was doing: those were more or less the same complaints that the king had repeatedly made himself, which would incline him to agree with Beez on the rest of their argument.  His stomach sank.

“Imagine what he’d be like as a king,” Beelzebub continued.  “If he could even be bothered to see to the business of ruling, he’d squander the kingdom’s resources on ridiculous charitable projects.  And that’s assuming that anyone could find him when they needed him.  The amount of time it took Ligur to locate where he and his peasant lover had hidden themselves –”

King Lucifer’s eyes narrowed.  “Just a moment,” he interrupted, his voice turning dangerously silky.  Crowley could have sworn the room became perceptibly colder.  “Beelzebub, I distinctly recall your saying last night that Duke Ligur ‘happened to’ witness their meeting in the forest.  Now you indicate that he deliberately set out to look for them.  Which was it?”

Beelzebub looked briefly alarmed, but tried to make a recover.  “Well, he was naturally concerned about Crowley spending so much time away from court under the circumstances.  It was only luck that he came across proof of –”

“No, I think not,” King Lucifer said.  “I think that you set him on to watch Crowley, and when you learned what he had seen, you plotted with him and with Lady Michael to engineer that scene at the ball.  If you’d truly been concerned about Crowley’s activities, there were, as he has just pointed out, far more diplomatic ways to handle the situation.”

He stood and leaned across the desk, looming over the seated Beelzebub, and for the first time in Crowley’s life he saw fear flicker in his cousin’s eyes.  “As you well know, Beelzebub, I do not like being lied to.  And while I may not have the kind of soft, bleeding heart that my son apparently values, I do not like calculated cruelty, which is precisely what this scheme of yours was.”  He pointed to the door.  “Leave us now.  I want to speak to my heir alone.”

Beelzebub, looking uncharacteristically subdued, rose and left the study without another word.

Crowley stared at his father with his jaw hanging open.  “Wuh – ngk – really?” he managed.  “You believe me?”

“Do try for a little dignity, Crowley,” the king said wearily, sitting down again.  “Yes, it’s become reasonably clear that you were right in your interpretation of last night’s events, and I must apologize for the way I reacted at the time.  I spoke to you – and to your Aziraphale – more harshly than you deserved.”

A great surge of hope rose up in Crowley’s chest, almost choking him.  “Do – do you mean I can marry him?” he asked hoarsely. 

King Lucifer sighed.  “Against my better judgement, yes, I give you my blessing.  Perhaps he can instill a sense of responsibility in you where I’ve failed to do so.”

Crowley hardly heard the last sentence.  With I give you my blessing ringing in his ears, it was all he could do to remember to gasp “Thank you!” before dashing out of the room.

He had to find Aziraphale. 

Crowley had never driven the road between the palace and the village as fast as he did that day.  He half-expected sparks and flame to fly from the horses’ hooves with their speed.

It wasn’t until he reached the village that it occurred to him that he didn’t know where Aziraphale lived other than “outside of town somewhere”.  He slowed the curricle, looking around for someone who could help him.  It wasn’t a market day, but if he could find one of the regular vendors – maybe the woman from the bookseller’s stall…?

Excited shouts caught his attention, and he saw Adam and his friends running down a side street, swordfighting each other with sticks.  He grinned.  “Oi, Adam!” he called.  “Got a minute?”

The kids broke off their battle and raced over to him.  “Hi, Mr. Crowley!” Adam said breathlessly.  “Is Warlock coming back to play?”

“Not today, but I’ll bring him another time,” Crowley said.  “Look, you kids seem like you know everybody round here.  I need to get to Mr. Aziraphale’s house.  Can you tell me where it is?”

The four exchanged doubtful glances.  “Mr. Aziraphale doesn’t like people visiting him at home, actually,” Wensleydale said.  “He always comes into town instead.”

“Ms. Tracy goes to his house, but it’s her job,” Pepper added.  “Hardly anyone else ever does.”

“But do you at least know how to get there?” Crowley persisted.  When they still hesitated, he leaned down from the curricle seat and lowered his voice, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt.  “It’s really important that I find him.  Remember when we talked about rescuing princesses from dragons?  Aziraphale is my princess, and his stepfather Lord Gabriel is the dragon.  I have to go and rescue him.”

That struck a chord, just as he’d hoped.  “Wicked!” Brian exclaimed.  “Will you fight Lord Gabriel with a sword?”  Then he blinked and frowned.  “Wait – how can Mr. Aziraphale be a princess?”

“He can be if he wants,” Pepper informed him witheringly.  “If a girl can be a king, then a man can be a princess too.”

Adam seemed to come to a decision.  “I’ll tell you where Mr. Aziraphale lives,” he said to Crowley.  “If you’re rescuing him, it isn’t really like telling a secret, is it?  It’s helping with a quest.”

“That’s right,” Crowley agreed, relieved.  “You lot are, I dunno, the elves or something who help the prince find his way to the princess’s tower.”

Armed with Adam’s rather rambling directions, he drove out of town and along a narrow track into the woods.  He wanted to spring the horses again – who knew what Aziraphale’s stepfamily might have done to him after learning what he had been up to? – but the footing was too rough, so he hunched over the reins and fretted.

As he paused for what felt like the dozenth time to check that he was still going the right way, he noticed a big crooked spruce beside the road.  Hang on, he’d seen that tree when he took Aziraphale for a drive, hadn’t he?  And Aziraphale had panicked because his friend Tracy lived just beyond it and he was afraid of being seen.  Maybe Tracy was at home and would help him.

But when Crowley rounded the bend he saw, instead of the cozy cottage he’d been expecting, a big half-timbered house with a going-to-seed air.  He sat staring blankly at it for several moments before it properly dawned on him that Aziraphale had been afraid of passing, not Tracy’s house, but his own.

“Right, then,” he said aloud, making the turn into the cobbled yard.  “Let’s do this.”

It took nearly a full minute for Crowley’s banging with the lion-headed brass knocker to produce results.  At last the door opened to reveal Aziraphale’s stepsister Michael.  The expression of hauteur on her face changed to shock as she recognized him.  “Your Highness!  You – I – ah – please come in.  I’ll fetch my father at once.”

“No need,” Crowley said, stepping into the front hall.  “It’s Aziraphale I’m here to see.”  When she hesitated, he added, “Your stepbrother, remember?  Blond hair, chubby, reads a lot, danced with me twice at the ball last night?”

“Difficult to forget that,” a new voice said.  Gabriel emerged from a door on the left side of the hall, trailed by a squat man with prematurely thinning hair – the other stepsibling, Crowley guessed.  “But I’m afraid you won’t find him here.  Aziraphale didn’t come home last night.”

Crowley gaped at him.  That was the one thing he hadn’t expected.  “He – ngph – what?!”

Gabriel shook his head sadly.  “He must not have been able to face us after that display at the ball.  Where he went, I really don’t know.”

As he was speaking, Crowley glanced past him and saw an older woman with a head of improbably red curls standing farther down the hall.  She met his eyes and held a finger to her lips, then disappeared through a doorway.

Crowley hastily returned his gaze to Gabriel’s face, his mind suddenly racing.  That had to have been Tracy, the witch who helped Aziraphale get to the ball, and the way she had looked at him was an unspoken message if Crowley had ever seen one. 

But what was she trying to tell him?  Was Gabriel lying to prevent Crowley from seeing Aziraphale?  It seemed like the sort of thing he would do.  Better stall for time.

“You, uh, don’t have any ideas about where else he might’ve gone?” he asked.

“None at all,” Gabriel said.  Now that Crowley was looking for it, he could see the tension around the edges of that big toothy smile.  “I’m sorry you’ve driven all the way here for nothing, Your Highness.”

“What about you?” Crowley asked, looking at Michael and her brother (what was his name, anyway?  Aziraphale had never said).  “You’ve been keeping an eye on him lately, right, Michael?  You must have some guess about where he’d be likely to hide out.  Or did you only watch him when he was trying to have a private moment with me?”

Michael looked uncomfortable.  “I really couldn’t say.  He’s always been, ah, secretive.”

Crowley scoffed.  “Right.  Secretive.  ‘Cause that was the only way he could have things for himself without you lot trying to –”

“Crowley!”

Crowley’s head snapped up.  Aziraphale was hurrying toward him from the far end of the hallway, beaming all over his face. 

Crowley shouldered past Gabriel and met him halfway, pulling him into a tight hug.  Aziraphale made a little oof noise, but wrapped his arms around Crowley and held on. 

“He said yes, angel,” Crowley whispered into his ear.  “My father gave us his blessing.  I’m here to take you away.”

Aziraphale clung even tighter and pressed his face into Crowley’s neck.  “Oh, Crowley,” he whispered unsteadily.  “Oh, I surely must be dreaming.  This is too wonderful to be real.”

Crowley kissed his hair.  “It’s real, angel.  Promise.”

After another few moments they released each other and moved back slightly, which was when Crowley got a good look at Aziraphale for the first time.  His face was bruised on one side, and he moved as if his ribs hurt.

“Wha – who did that to you?” he hissed furiously.

Aziraphale’s lips tightened.  “After I got home last night, Sandalphon, er, expressed his opinion of my presumption in falling in love with you.  He’s usually more subtle than that, but this time Gabriel evidently didn’t feel it necessary to rein him in.”

Crowley growled, turning to glare at Gabriel and his children.  They stood clustered together, watching the scene with varying levels of dismay and disapproval.

“How did you get out of your room, Aziraphale?” Gabriel demanded.

“The same way I did when you locked me in yesterday,” Aziraphale said coolly.  “I had help.”

Everyone’s eyes turned to where Tracy stood off to one side, looking composed.  She must have followed Aziraphale in, Crowley realized; he’d been too distracted to notice her before now.

“You!”  Gabriel pointed a finger at her.  “You’re fired!”

Tracy laughed, rearranging her fringed shawl.  “Well, isn’t that a shame?  You know, I only stayed this long to make sure Aziraphale was going to be all right.  Now that he is, I wouldn’t work in a household like this for any amount you could pay me.”

Gabriel and Michael looked at each other, and Gabriel visibly decided to change tactics.  “You wouldn’t go off and leave the house without anyone to look after it, would you?” he said reproachfully to Aziraphale. “If Tracy’s leaving, we’ll need you more than ever.  We all have to pull together, remember?”

“You lying, manipulative –” Crowley began hotly, but Aziraphale stopped him with a hand on his arm. 

“No, let me, dearest,” he said.  “I’ve been wanting to do this for a very long time.”  He stepped past Crowley to face Gabriel directly, back straight and hands folded calmly in front of him. 

“I’ve had quite enough of the kind of ‘pulling together’ that means all the hard work is dropped on my shoulders,” he stated.  “I don’t remember my father, and I would have happily accepted you in that role, but instead you chose to treat me as an unpaid servant and encouraged your children to do the same.  Do you really think that because I don’t fight back, you can do whatever you like to me?  That because I’m soft, I must also be weak and spineless?”  His eyes flicked to his stepbrother – Sandalphon, Crowley assumed.  “I’m not a fighter and never will be, but I’m done with being abused and belittled.  I’m leaving this house today.  I’ll marry the man I love, who loves me in return, and I look forward to never giving any of you a moment’s thought again.”

He turned back to Crowley, leaving his stepfamily open-mouthed with shock.  “Will you come and help me pack, my dear?  I have a few things I’d like to bring along, if they’ll fit in your curricle.”

Crowley didn’t even try to hide the enormous grin he was wearing.  “Anything you want, angel,” he said.  “If they don’t fit, we’ll make ‘em fit.”

Tracy came downstairs with them, and in short order Aziraphale’s tiny bedroom and the equally cramped office next to it were cleared of everything from his old life that he wanted to keep.  Unsurprisingly, this proved to be mostly books, as well as a few trinkets with sentimental value.  It all went into a small trunk that Crowley thought would fit on the floor of the curricle by their feet.

The clothes stayed in the wardrobe, except for his best things, which he put on.  “We’ll get the royal tailors to make you some new outfits as soon as possible,” Crowley promised him.

Tracy closed the lid of the trunk and dusted off her hands.  “Got everything, love?” she asked.

Aziraphale considered.  “I believe so.  Or – oh, I nearly forgot!”  He dove back into the wardrobe, emerging with a white satin shoe in one hand.  “I kept this as a memento of last night.  The other one was lost when I ran away from the ball, I’m afraid.”

Crowley broke into a grin.  “No, it wasn’t,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his coat.  With a flourish, he produced the matching shoe and held it out to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale gasped in delight.  “You found it!  Oh, Crowley, thank you.  I was so sorry to think I couldn’t wear them again.”

Cradling both shoes lovingly, he turned to Tracy.  “That reminds me, I meant to ask you something.  When your spell wore off at midnight, all the rest of my clothes changed back to normal, but the shoes didn’t.  Have you any idea why?”

Tracy looked surprised.  “Didn’t I tell you?  I suppose we must have been in such a rush that it slipped my mind.”  She gestured at the shoes.  “Those were the anchor for the spell.  When you do a big transformation like that, covering a lot of different things at once, there needs to be one piece that’s permanently changed to hold all the other temporary changes in place.  Jewelry is the most common anchor, but since you didn’t have any, I used your shoes instead.”

“So they’ll always look like this now?”  Aziraphale held the shoes up, turning them back and forth so that the satin caught the light from the window.  “Well, I certainly don’t object to that.  They’re beautiful.”

He leaned in to kiss Tracy’s cheek.  “Thank you, Tracy.  For the shoes, and for your help last night, and for keeping me together all these years.”

Tracy blushed and batted him away.  “Get on with you.  You can thank me by having a happy life well away from that lot upstairs.”  She gave Crowley a sharp look.  “Mind you take care of him, now.”

“I’m planning to,” Crowley assured her.  “And you’re welcome at the palace anytime.  Our witch Anathema’d like to meet you.”

Aziraphale brightened.  “Oh yes, do please come visit!  Anathema was quite impressed by your work with my clothes last night.  And I suspect I’ll need a familiar face around now and then as I settle in.”

Tracy smiled at them both, looking a little misty around the eyes.  “I’d be honored, loves.  Now go on.  You’ve better places to be than here, and so have I.”

Crowley lugged the trunk upstairs to spare Aziraphale’s bruised ribs.  When Gabriel met them in the front hall – without Michael and Sandalphon this time – he was seriously tempted to drop it on the man’s foot.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel began, “can’t we talk about this?  You don’t want to do anything rash –”

Aziraphale simply kept walking, brushing past his ex-stepfather as if he weren’t there.  Crowley shot the dumbfounded Gabriel a fierce grin that showed all his teeth and followed him out the door.

As the curricle drove out of the yard, Crowley saw Aziraphale glance back over his shoulder.  “Having second thoughts, angel?” he asked, only half-jokingly.

“Certainly not,” Aziraphale huffed.  “It’s only that… well, that house does still have some good memories attached.  It’s a bit of a wrench to leave those behind along with all the bad ones.” 

He gave himself a little shake.  “But never mind that now.  You really must tell me how you persuaded your father to agree to our marriage after all, you wily creature.”  He was beaming up at Crowley, face so bright and open that it was like looking at the sun.

Crowley caught his breath with the realization that, for the first time since they met, Aziraphale’s barriers were completely down – no fear of being seen together, no second-guessing his own feelings.  He was just sitting at ease on the curricle seat, tucked comfortably against Crowley’s side like he knew he belonged there.

Crowley abruptly halted the horses.  He caught Aziraphale’s beautiful round face between his hands, careful of his bruised cheek, and kissed him fervently.

“Gracious,” Aziraphale said with a breathless giggle when Crowley let him go.  “What brought that on?”

Crowley clicked the horses into motion again, aware that he was grinning like a fool and not caring at all.  “Just thinking about how much I love you,” he said.  “Can’t believe I was lucky enough to find you.”

“I think perhaps I’m the lucky one, my dear,” Aziraphale said, squeezing his arm.  “You’ve rescued me in more ways than one, you know.  If I’d never met you in the market that day, I daresay I would have spent a good deal more of my life under Gabriel’s thumb, slowly dwindling away inside myself.  You made me believe I deserved to be respected and loved as I am.”

Crowley had to swallow down a lump in his throat before he could respond.  “You deserve everything, angel.  Always have, whether you knew it or not.”  He hurriedly cast about for a different topic of conversation; if Aziraphale kept on saying things like that, Crowley was liable to drive into a tree by accident.  “Wasn’t exactly me who persuaded my father to change his mind, I have to admit.  Beelzebub went too far arguing against us, and he realized they were doing it on purpose.  They’re out of the running for heir now.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened.  “Truly?  Oh, darling, that’s such good news!  I know how worried you were about them taking the throne.  And really,” he added (ignoring Crowley’s jumbled attempt to protest that he hadn’t been worried, just, y’know, a little concerned), “I suppose one oughtn’t to be pleased about their misfortune, but they did bring it on themself.”  He ended with an indignant little sniff that made Crowley laugh.

“They won’t bother you again, anyway,” he said, transferring the reins to one hand so he could wrap the other arm around Aziraphale’s plump shoulders.  “I’ll make damned sure of that.”  There were challenges ahead of them, he knew – they still needed to figure out what Aziraphale’s duties as consort would involve, for a start, not to mention what to do about an heir given that neither of them had the anatomy or the inclination to produce one in the usual way – but at least he could ensure Beez didn’t take their resentment out on Aziraphale.

He brightened as another thought occurred to him.  “Hey, what food did you like best at the ball last night?  I’ll have the kitchens send some up when we get home.  There’s bound to be leftovers.” 

Palace gossip was probably running wild by now, he thought privately, and having treats on hand might make it easier for Aziraphale to cope with being the center of attention.

Aziraphale wiggled happily within the circle of Crowley’s arm.  “What a splendid notion!  It was all perfectly scrumptious, but I did particularly enjoy those thin wafers rolled around different fillings.”  He cast Crowley a coy glance from under his lashes.  “Beginning to spoil me already, then, dearest?”

Crowley grinned.  “If you think this is spoiling you, angel, just wait.  I’ve been dreaming about ways to make you happy for weeks, and I’ve got schemes.”

Aziraphale laughed, that high sparkling laugh that made Crowley’s whole chest fill with warmth.  “Of course you have.  Well, I must say, there’s no one whose scheming I’d rather be the target of than you.”

“Good, because you’re stuck with me now,” Crowley said, dropping a kiss on his fluffy blond curls.  “Me and my schemes are yours to the end of the world and beyond.”