Chapter Text
Isle of Skye
14 October 2025
“Why is it taking her so long?” Crowley grumbled for the fifth time from where he was slouching on the bench right outside the only car rental in the village, sunglasses trained on the offendingly blue sky. “She’s been in there for bloody ages.”
Even in the face of his obvious suffering, the only sound he got in response was a pleased little hum, and since he’d become quite the expert at interpreting a certain someone’s non-verbal cues, he knew Aziraphale wasn’t listening to him.
And sure enough, when Crowley looked down and sneaked a glance in his direction, he found the angel happily nibbling on the cream croissant they’d bought at the bakery nearby for breakfast (the middle-aged woman behind the counter had welcomed Aziraphale like a long lost childhood friend, with honest-to-god tears in her eyes. Needless to say, the little scene had almost resulted into Crowley eye-rolling himself into today’s very Unscottish sun).
Aziraphale was quite busy licking off the cream from his index finger, a look of deep concentration levelled at the dollop of filling threatening to escape its pastry-prison. Judging by the determined set of Aziraphale’s jaw and the stern expression in his eyes, its futile attempts would soon be thwarted by his steely angelic will.
Despite his grumbling, Crowley’s stomach swooped, as it always did, the bloody bastard. But he was used to it by now. Liked it, in fact. Welcomed it, even. No matter how on edge he’d been lately.
Not to be a nostalgic sap or anything, but this particular version of the angel, the one casually dressed for a day spent enjoying the great Scottish outdoors, the very same who’d spectacularly fucked him over their first time on Skye, forever changing his life in the process, was doing very weird things to him. The mushy, disgusting, sentimental kind.
He couldn’t be blamed, Crowley decided. Not his fault his mind was playing cruel tricks on him.
Aziraphale was wearing a ridiculously soft tan jumper with some sort of baby blue pattern – one of those Crowley loved to steal when he was sure Aziraphale wasn’t looking – over a collared white shirt, sensible corduroy trousers in beige, a baby blue windcheater that ought to be displayed in an 80s museum and those awful hiking boots Crowley was unfortunately already familiar with.
Without quite realising it, he twisted his body on the bench to stare at him more comfortably – in the past year, angel-watching had become his favourite pastime after all – until the croissant was no more than a fond memory and Aziraphale finally saw fit to acknowledge his presence. Hadn’t it been so damn entertaining, Crowley would have hated sharing his boyfriend’s (ew) attention with sweet treats of all things, but how could he possibly hold it against him when he looked so bloody invested in the thing?
(Even more damningly, Crowley had bought one extra blueberry muffin, currently hidden in the inside pocket of his jacket, just in case Aziraphale would get hungry later. Angel-watching was a thing, Hangry Angel-watching not so much. That was a smiting hazard, nothing more.)
“Do I have something on my face?” Aziraphale asked, evidently perplexed by Crowley’s attention.
“Several somethings.”
The angel looked appalled and immediately proceeded to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, which he checked with way more care than necessary. “I have not.”
“You have. Pair of passable eyes, questionable nose, mediocre lips…”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes with a little scoff that Crowley would have loved to suck right into his mouth for safekeeping. “You’re terrible.”
“And you weren’t listening.”
“To what?”
“Exactly.” The nerve, really. “Why is it taking your editor so long to rent us a sodding car to take a walk through– what was it?”
“The Fairy Glen.”
“Right.”
“It’s where you almost lost one of your precious boots last year.”
“Explains why I don’t remember any of it.” That’s what you do with traumatic memories, you suppress them. “But not why we’re going back there.”
“Sorry it’s not the gay club you thought it was,” Aziraphale said with an honestly insulting pat on Crowley’s knee, which became ever more insulting when he dared remove his hand to wipe more flakes from the front of his jumper.
“Should have known. You don’t need hiking boots for a gay club,” Crowley grumbled, digging his brand new black boots in the gravel. “Knee-pads, maybe.”
Aziraphale smiled to himself, still busy with the painstaking process of bringing the biggest crumbs back to his tongue. It was like watching someone do acid, only loads better. “I must say, I’ve had a marvelous influence on you.”
“My outfit would beg to differ.” He looked like the hiking version of the grim reaper. He still wasn’t sure what had possibly convinced him to step out of the little flat they were renting from Mrs Sandwich instead of, say, hiding in the wardrobe.
“Oh, shush. You’re stylish as usual.”
Suddenly reminded he’d opened his mouth to make a bloody point, Crowley straightened against the back of the bench. “Stop distracting me. What’s up with your editor?”
This was just one of the many questions Crowley would have liked to ask about Anathema Device, along with: why was she so involved in one of her author’s upcoming novels? Why was the publishing house covering Aziraphale’s share of the travel expenses to Skye? Why would they splurge on plane tickets? And how the fuck had Anathema known Crowley was thinking about taking the kids up on their invitation to visit them so he could secretly talk with Shax before she suggested the research trip to Aziraphale?
“Honestly, Crowley, her name is Anathema.”
“Fitting, if you ask me.” What with her being a curse and a disturbance on his peaceful existence and everything.
“I know you like her.”
“Do not. It’s her fault we came back here for no reason at all.” If you didn’t count the fact that he had been already thinking about it, but Aziraphale didn’t need to know that. Especially after the whole reason Crowley had wanted to come back in the first place had failed so spectacularly last night. Another thing Aziraphale didn’t need to know.
“We’re scouting locations for my next novel, and you know that, plus–”
“You don’t need to scout locations for a novel about a sexy Scottish farmer with kinky tendencies,” Crowley interjected. “That’s what the Internet is for. And your filthy imagination.”
“Plus,” Aziraphale repeated, stubbornly soldiering on, “the kids have been inviting us here for some time now, and we decided–”
“You decided.”
“We decided it would be the perfect opportunity to visit the island properly and replenish Miss Pott’s wine collection so she can stop slandering us on the Tick Tock.”
“It’s one word, angel. TikTok. We’ve been over this.”
Aziraphale waved him off. “Either way, I distinctly remember you agreeing with me.”
“‘Cause you wore me down. Had I known hiking boots would be involved I would have said no.” Everyone knew that once Crowley had set his mind to something, nothing and no one could make him budge. He was unmovable like that. A man of integrity and solid principles.
Aziraphale’s no-doubt bitchy response was cut short by Anathema emerging from the car rental.
“Oh, thank fucking someone,” Crowley growled, jumping to his feet. All this sitting around doing nothing was messing with his already pretty shot nerves. “Oi, Book Girl! Where’s the car?”
She stuck her head through the door. “Newt is having some trouble with it, I’m going round the back to help him.”
“It’s not that yellow crock from last time, is it?”
Anathema ignored him. “We should be ready to go in ten minutes. Fifteen tops.”
“Did you hear me?”
“Wait.” She stilled, narrowed her eyes.
“What?”
“Do you hear it?”
“Hear what?” A shiver inexplicably ran down his spine. “It better not be that hunk of yellow metal trying to come back to life.”
Anathema glanced up as though seeing something invisible floating in the air. As if on cue, the wind began to howl, but not enough for her inscrutable words to get lost in it.
“Wedding bells.”
This said with unnecessary seriousness, she once again disappeared behind the glass door covered in stickers, leaving Crowley to turn back to Aziraphale with a flabbergasted expression.
“What the fuck does that even mean?”
Aziraphale, who didn’t seem particularly worried about the missing gears in his editor’s brain, shrugged. “I don’t think there are any nightingales in Scotland.”
Crowley drew back. “Who said anything about nightingales?”
“She did.”
“She said ‘wedding bells’.”
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose, confused and yet clearly not invested enough in the mystery to shed some light on it. “I wouldn’t know. Could she have developed a pash on young Newt?”
“And she’s already thinking about marrying him?” Further proof she was off her rocker. “They literally just met.”
Aziraphale huffed. “What’s it to you?”
“It’s just… I dunno, weird. And I’m bored.” As well as in a terrible mood. “Only thing that could make this thing worse is a wedding. I bloody hate weddings.”
“Why, have you been to many?”
“Nah. Less than a dozen… probably was pissed drunk for half of those.”
Aziraphale’s right eyebrow slowly but surely climbed up his forehead. “Probably.”
“Yeah. What’s with the face? Don’t tell me you like weddings.”
“I have no opinion about them.”
Sour mood momentarily forgotten, Crowley cackled. “Yeah, right.”
Safe to say, Aziraphale didn’t care for it, at least judging by the prissy way he held himself a little taller. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You not having an opinion on something? The world must be coming to an end.” He slipped his hands in his pockets as insufferably as he could. “I’ll tell you what, though. Would be nice if it ended before we went on our hike.”
“Staying here by yourself is also an option, you know,” Aziraphale chided, accompanied by one of those slow-blinks that made him look like a fluffy, hyper-judgy owl.
“And leave you all alone with her? She’s probably going to sacrifice you to the fairies to propitiate the publishing goddess of spicy books or something.” He shrugged with all the fake nonchalance he could muster, then tried to focus again. “So, what’s with you and weddings?”
“Not all weddings are the same. And marriage, well…”
“Well?”
“It’s not intrinsically bad or good, is it? It’s an empty box, if you fill it with nice enough things, it can be. Good, I mean.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. Love? I guess it’s also a way to announce to the world that you belong with someone. That you’re family. A unit.”
“You don’t need a piece of paper to be a family.”
“Of course you don’t.” Aziraphale sighed and smoothed his hands down his thighs, looking slightly uncomfortable. (Something Crowley had zero concerns about. Yep, not one. It’s not like he’d been studying the angel with meticulous attention for the past– er, give or take three months.) “It just…”
“Just?” Crowley prompted, unable to hide his impatience.
“I suppose it feels a bit like writing your name on something to claim it as your own.” The words must have taken him by surprise, because his lips parted on a sigh and his cheeks blushed. “What I’m trying to say is,” he continued before Crowley could gather his thoughts about what the hell was happening, “I know it’s silly, but when I was a kid it gave me great comfort. Putting my name on things, that is. Granted, it didn’t protect them from being stolen or hidden by my siblings, but it did provide me with some peace of mind. I rather think there’s some power in it.”
“Wot?” Had Crowley lost the plot or was Aziraphale comparing marriage to one of those ridiculous hand-stitched labels with his name on them that he liked to sew on his clothes?
“Claiming things as your own. Or people, in this case. Consensually, that goes without saying.”
“It’s just a piece of paper.”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly.”
“Wait.” Here we go again… “What does your ‘exactly’ mean?”
“It’s just a piece of paper. Nothing to be scared of.”
“Who says I’m scared?”
“Your body language? You’re doing that twisty eel thing you do when you’re nervous.”
“Shut up. I’m not scared. Or an eel. I just think feelings and bureaucracy have nothing whatsoever in common.”
Aziraphale straightened against the bench, putting on his best absolutely-unruffled air. “Fair enough.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend to end the discussion while what you are actually trying to do is bait me into admitting you’re right.”
“We can also skip that dreary middle part, if you’d prefer. There’s no shame in being scared of paperwork. I do hate it, you know. But marriage…”
“Wot?”
“I don’t know. What does it matter anyway?”
“‘M not scared of getting married.”
“Darling, I promise it’s fine. I’m not–”
“For fuck’s sake! You don’t believe me, do you?”
Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. “It’s not a matter of believing you–”
That’s when Crowley’s brain wisely decided to put itself offline, resulting in him blurting out, “Let’s do it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Right now.”
Aziraphale snorted. “You’re joking, surely.”
“Ha!” Crowley burst out, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Who’s afraid of getting married now?”
“What a load of old tosh,” Aziraphale mumbled, too scandalised for proper enunciation. “I’m not afraid of getting married, it’s merely not something you do on a whim.”
Crowley, who was pacing in front of the bench like a sexy caged beast (definitely not an eel), waved both hands towards him. “‘Cause you’re shitting your tartan pants.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To get married!”
“Crowley, you can’t just suddenly decide to get married. There’s stuff you need to do first, procedures to follow and–”
“Sounds like a bunch of excuses to me.”
Aziraphale tilted his head, the pink in his cheeks as well as the steely glint in his eyes giving away how irritated he was. “You’re not being serious.”
“Oh, I am. Dead serious. This village has a bloody carpet shop, I’m sure they also have a town hall or something.”
“I can’t believe you hate hiking so much you’d rather go get married instead.”
“Wh–” Talk about utter nonsense! “You think I’m bluffing to get out of hiking?”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“Fuck, no.” Well… “Though I’ll admit that’s the best reason I’ve ever heard in favour of marriage.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“There’s no shame in being scared of commitment, angel.” To a person or a house or the house you’re supposed to share with said person. (Very hypothetical scenario, of course.)
“I am not scared of commitment. I must say, though, your lack of it towards seeing reason is nothing short of astounding.”
“Is it? Say you’re scared and we’ll leave it at that.” (After a thorough follow-up interrogation, of course.)
“I am not scared.”
“Then marry me.”
That made Aziraphale blush oh so deliciously.
“Oh, bother,” he scoffed rather forcefully, then patted his thighs with an air of finality before standing up. “Fine.”
“Fine?” Crowley asked as obnoxiously as possible.
“Yes. But do feel free to regain your senses any time.”
“I am in full possession of all my senses, thank you very much. And you know what? Some of yours too.”
Aziraphale sniffed. “Somehow I doubt it.”
“Watch me.”
“Oh, I am monitoring you for any sign of illness, that’s for sure.”
“My only illness is being in love with you.” His own words brought him to a sudden stop. He whipped out his phone. “I should write that down for a song.” Thankfully, he could now recognise a banger when he heard one.
“Or A&E. I’m sure the doctors will find it very enlightening as well as greatly amusing.”
“Shut it.”