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Aziraphale can’t really say why he stepped into the jewellery store on that specific Thursday morning, but it sure as Heaven happened.
He never noticed the little shop before, cooped-up between a small pharmacy and a flashy estate agency, and he probably would’ve walked by that day like so many times before. However, confronted with a huge tourist party trying to wrestle the streets of London and keeping so close together to each other not even the armies of Genghis Khan would have been able to march through that wall, Aziraphale sees himself pressed against the window of the jeweller all of a sudden in his effort to avoid certain death and is immediately captivated by the glamorous display.
Before he even knows what’s happening he steps inside and lets his gaze wander over all the wonderfully scintillant pieces. Humanity had always quite a knack for turning something as ordinary as a stone in something so exclusively extraordinary and even six thousand years later Aziraphale can’t help feeling impressed by it.
He admires all the watches and necklaces and bracelets in different shapes and forms and wonders once more how humans can create something like this only with their bare hands, a lot of skills and maybe some few machineries helping them out a little.
Aziraphale at least is very sure he would never be capable achieving something remotely like this without his heavenly powers for support.
“May I help you, sir?” the man behind the main counter - David Reese, according to his name tag - asks with a kind smile. He subtly assesses Aziraphale from top to bottom, most likely attempting to determine what sort of tactic to use to get the most money out of this new customer, and leans a tad closer. “We have some very exquisite items in our collection and I would be happy to show you.”
Aziraphale is already considering indulging in a new pocket watch and is just on the verge of asking to see the store’s selection when suddenly something else catches his eyes. It’s a collection of wristbands, lying right in front of David in the showcase. The ribbon is a fine leather cord and a couple of dark, flat stones are interwoven into the material, making the entire composition appear fairly special. Aziraphale can’t say he’s seen something like that often before (at least not in these times anymore) and he finds himself enthralled before he can help it.
He’s actually not one for much jewellery and whatnot, but somehow the sight of this makes him nostalgic all of a sudden.
Not to mention that the stones are surrounded by an interesting aura. It seems they have been close to extraterrestrial contact before eventually ending up processed, probably innocently living next to the sight of a meteor crash, and Aziraphale can still lowly feel it.
“Would you like to purchase one of the items?” David obviously smells a good sell in his future and ups his customer smile to a few degrees until it’s almost as blinding as the big diamant displayed right beside him. “I could engrave them for you if you like.”
Aziraphale raises his eyebrows at that. “Engrave?”
David nods and points to an accumulation of different mechanical devices behind him on a small desk. “Right here and now,” he promises. “Doesn’t take long.”
Aziraphale is even more intrigued now. A personal item, unique in its kind. Not even the majority of the most precious books in his shop can say that about themselves.
“What would someone have engraved?” the angel wonders, leaning closer to inspect the material more intently. It’s looks delicate, almost too sensitive to even touch it in the first place, but once again he feels something strong vibrating from it. Something eternal .
Aziraphale can’t help sensing a somewhat odd connection to it.
“It depends,” David answers, meanwhile. “Most people take their name or initials.”
It seems a bit weird, carrying jewellery with your own name around, however, humanity has always been a little strange and despite everything Aziraphale loves to endorse it.
“Some use their birthdate,” Daniel adds helpfully.
Aziraphale chuckles awkwardly. “I imagine that wouldn’t be a great idea,” he mutters, shaking his head instantly. People might react hesitantly around someone claiming to have seen a good number of millennia already. Not to mention that back then things like days and months hadn’t really any names yet and the angel isn’t sure THE ULTIMATE DAWN OF TIME ITSELF would fit on the band anyway.
“Or something simply meaningful to you,” David continues. “A place, a phrase, the name of your first pet. I’ve done it all before.”
Aziraphale hesitates. His brain starts to work in overtime, thousand different quotes from all his favourite books over the last centuries making a surprise appearance in his mind and demanding his full attention. It’s so much , so much genius, so much art, and the angel knows right away that he could never focus on one instance only. It simply wouldn’t be fair to all the other magical words in the world.
So maybe the easy solution it is.
“It’s a common occurrence amongst humans to carry your own name with you then?” Aziraphale asks, instantly receiving a confused look from David in return, and hastily corrects, “Um, people , of course. A common occurrence amongst people ?”
David stays silent for a moment, eyeing the angel a little on the wrong side of intently all of a sudden, and Aziraphale already begins to wonder whether he accidentally revealed himself as non-human again (it seriously wouldn’t be the first time, far from it) and whether it should be advisable to quickly retreat and avoid this certain area of the city for the next decade, just to be safe.
But then David only smiles at him, either deeming Aziraphale merely a bit odd or simply not being willing to lose a potentially paying customer, no matter what, and says, “Yes, many people carry their names with them.”
Aziraphale releases the breath he had been holding. “Excellent,” he states. “Then I believe I would like to be one of them.”
As promised it honestly doesn't take long. David takes one of the bracelets and after checking if it fits properly and then Aziraphale writing down his name to avoid any misspelling, the jeweller goes to work and just about ten minutes later presents Aziraphale with the result.
The angel can’t help feeling impressed by the artistic skills of the man as he had not used bland letters but a special form of calligraphy which makes Aziraphale’s name look like a masterpiece.
“I hope it’s to your satisfaction,” David asks, almost sounding bashful although he most likely can read Aziraphale’s admiration very easily.
“It’s wonderful,” the angel reassures, suddenly feeling giddy to try it on and show it around for the rest of the world to see. “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome,” David says. “Would you like to purchase anything else or should I wrap it up?”
Aziraphale opens his mouth, about to tell him that this would be all, when he suddenly pauses and stares at the wristband. It’s beautiful and unique and all of a sudden he feels this strong urge to share this with someone.
Someone special.
“Could I maybe have another one?” he asks. “For … for my friend.”
David shoots him a warm smile. “Of course, sir.”
And when sometime later he boxes up two ribbons, one reading AZIRAPHALE and the next one CROWLEY, looking so right lying beside each other like that, the angel senses a powerful wave of elatedness running through his body.
-----
Aziraphale doesn’t have to wait too long to present his gift.
Only a few hours, to be precise.
These days, after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t, Crowley pays him visits on a daily basis, sauntering through the entrance without any care in the world and acting like he owns the place. It’s a new kind of confidence Aziraphale instantly declared rather fascinating and loves to watch. It’s a demon being free of Hell’s supervision (and Heaven’s in a way as well) and enjoying every second of it.
It’s a fairly nice sight.
“Angel, I’m in the mood for some scotch,” he announces straightaway, getting right to the point instead of wasting his time with things like manners and pleasantries.
Soon enough he’s sprawled on the couch in the back room and they find themselves drinking and laughing and talking about nearly anything that comes to their minds.
It’s always easy with Crowley. Aziraphale seriously struggled for a long time to admit this to himself, but there’s probably no one on the entire planet he’d rather be with. Over the centuries and millennia he met many intriguing men and women who challenged and inspired him in all different sort of ways, however, not one of them holds a candle to Crowley. Not even close.
The demon is intelligent and witty and entertaining and though their opinions clash more often than not, Aziraphale would always seek his company above anyone else’s.
They understand each other on a level apart from them nobody would be able to even comprehend.
So, as usual, time flies by, afternoon turns into late night, and at some point Crowley scrambles back to his feet, looking for some unfathomable reason both stiff and graceful in the process.
“You should invest in a more comfortable sofa,” Crowley says, grimacing at the couch. “In my age permanent back pain is a common and serious problem.”
Aziraphale scoffs. “Is that a typical ailment in Hell these days?”
Crowley puts his sunglasses back on his nose before shooting the angel a quick grin. “It will be their downfall, mark my words. Hell, crippled by disfigured spines.”
“And I’m sure you will be the first to succumb to it due to my sofa, serpent .” He flashes Crowley a toothy smile. “What a tragic way to go.”
“You’re a right bastard, mocking the elderly like that.”
“I aim to please.”
Even with those sunglasses Aziraphale just knows there’s a twinkle in the demon’s eyes as he assesses the angel one last time before he chuckles to himself and turns around to leave.
However, before he’s able to even set into motion, Aziraphale suddenly remembers his interesting morning at the jewellery store and hastily exclaims, “Wait a moment, dear.”
Crowley instantly halts and looks back at Aziraphale. “What?” He lifts an eyebrow, a smile tugging at his lips. “You wanna offer me a massage for my back pain? I’d be open to that.”
Aziraphale feels something weird fluttering in his stomach at that image and hurries to shoo it away. “Actually I have a gift for you.”
Curiosity flickers over Crowley’s features. “A gift?”
Aziraphale nods enthusiastically and pulls the box out of his desk. At the corner of his eye he notices Crowley watching him with rapt attention as he fights for a moment with the unyielding lid before it eventually pops open and reveals the two wristbands lying side by side, their names shining so prominent most likely even Above has no trouble spotting it.
Crowley steps closer and for a minute says nothing as he inspects the items. Aziraphale can’t really tell what he’s thinking - his body language is unreadable and the sunglasses are covering any kind of clue that might appear in his eyes -, so he sets on straightening his jacket and appearing as casual as possible.
And in the end Crowley smirks at him. “So we’re at the stage in our relationship where we give each other jewellery now?”
Aziraphale shifts awkwardly as he notices his chest clenching at the demon’s amused tone. “Well, my dear …”
“It’s a pity, I don’t have anything for you, though,” Crowley cuts in, pulling his features into a mock-sheepish expression. “I could get something on short notice, however, if you like. Maybe an amulet with our pictures inside? Or even some rings?”
Aziraphale presses his lips into a thin line and tries his best to glare at Crowley, even though he’s fairly sure he rather looks like a man with ugly indigestion than anything else.
“I was just trying to be considerate,” he defends himself. “I got myself one at the jewellery store and figured you would perhaps like your own as well. But if you don’t like it, just say so, and I’ll give the bracelet to someone else. Whoever.”
He points at a random man who just walks past the shop’s window to get his point across.
The demon tilts his head. “You’re in the habit of distributing such personal gifts to whoever people?”
Aziraphale pulls at the seam of his jacket, avoiding Crowley’s intense look. Not even those sunglasses are able to hide the power behind them, it’s always like the demon’s gaze digs itself right into Aziraphale’s soul and the angel since long has given up telling himself to get used to it. For some reason he was never really able to quite adjust to the vigour that is Crowley, even after all these millennia.
“I’m fairly sure I would be capable of finding at least one far more grateful creature who would be delighted to receive such a thoughtful present,” Aziraphale says as he straightens his back. “So if you wish to continue mocking me -”
He reaches for the box, every intention of taking it back and cursing the day he met Crowley, but then suddenly the demon covers Aziraphale’s hand with his own, his touch surprisingly gentle, and the angel can’t do anything else but freeze in time and choke on air.
“Aw, don’t be like that,” Crowley says with a chuckle in his voice. “You know I don’t mean it, I’m just a bastard.”
Aziraphale swallows audibly and tries to ignore the pleasant tingle where Crowley’s skin touches his. “Well …”
Crowley squeezes his hand softly, nothing whatsoever about this gesture reminding the angel of the merciless depths of Hell, before pulling back and focusing on the box once more. Without any preamble or snarky words the demon grabs inside and nonchalantly takes the wristband with Aziraphale’s name on it.
Though still a bit shaken up about his body’s weird response to Crowley’s closeness, the angel finds himself perking up nonetheless. “That’s my name.”
Crowley scoffs. “I know. I can read.”
“But … this is not how it works.”
“Oh, angel, trust me, I know exactly how it works.”
However, he doesn’t halt in his motions but instead wraps the ribbon around his wrist, a pleased smile on his lips as he looks at it with rapt interest. He turns it around to have it glisten in the bright light of the table lamp next to him and runs his fingertips over the engraving, paying close attention to every single letter.
Every single letter of Aziraphale’s name.
“This is really quite nice,” he assures the angel, grinning crookedly. “Thank you.”
Aziraphale’s stomach gets a bit jittery at the earnestness in the demon’s voice and gives it his best attempts to disregard it entirely by concentrating at the issue at hand. “But this is not how it’s supposed to be handled -”
The demon continues to ignore his protests as he takes the leftover bracelet and carefully puts it around the angel’s wrist, the name CROWLEY shining broad and almost excited against Aziraphale’s skin.
“Perfect,” Crowley mumbles, gazing at his work with a wide grin. “Right where it belongs.”
And then he pulls his sunglasses down, winks at Aziraphale and walks out of the bookshop like the whole thing had been an absolutely regular interaction.
And the angel can do nothing else but stare after him in utter confusion and wonder when the world stopped making sense.
-----
During the first week Aziraphale still keeps to his belief that Crowley just thoroughly misunderstood the concept of the entire gesture and on several occasions tries his best to clarify his reasonings.
But the demon merely continues to ignore or interrupt him, even once or twice rolling his eyes so hard that Aziraphale can actually feel it despite the sunglasses covering everything up, obviously not at all interested to hear the angel’s explanation.
When the second week begins Aziraphale starts to consider that Crowley is playing some sort of prank on him.
He never really understood the demon’s humour and most of the things Crowley did in jest over the last few millennia went straight over Aziraphale’s head. He’s pretty sure he missed at least 80% of Crowley’s shenanigans because he had no idea that they were happening in the first place.
Perhaps it’s the same right now. Aziraphale can’t grasp why making him wear the wrong name ought supposed to be amusing in any way, but the demon’s constant smile is wide and bright, so possibly the angel is seriously the one missing something here.
By week three, however, he gets the impression there is more to it than meets the eye. Something deeper .
Aziraphale is able to sense it, with every fibre of his being, and it seems to become stronger and stronger every day.
The problem is, however, he’s got no idea what this profound meaning might be.
Has it something to do with the apocalypse-that-didn’t-happen and the change of their relationships with their respective Head Offices? Is Crowley attempting to establish his allegiance to Aziraphale, in clear opposition to Hell, by carrying the angel’s name with him at all times, making his loyalties constantly apparent in the process, and wishes for Aziraphale to do the same? Did he switch the names for strategic reasons only?
Or is there something else? Something on an even more personal level?
Something Aziraphale is unable to fathom, no matter how hard he tries?
So in the end, when the fourth week begins, he seriously doesn’t know what to think anymore.
-----
“Am I making too big a deal out of this?”
Aziraphale has really no idea. He feels kind of helpless in a way he never experienced before.
Mrs. Cuttler, however, who sits right across from him on the sofa in his bookshop’s backroom, only looks at him like he is an endearing idiot.
“You’re an idiot.”
And she obviously has no intention whatsoever to keep herself from heralding her opinion in a very blunt way.
Aziraphale met her a few years back when she entered his store with a curious expression and started to browse straightaway. The angel, as always, hadn’t been thrilled about the company of customers luring at his prestigious possessions and, like many times before, began to plot some strategies to get her out, preferably to never return, as soon as possible, with as little mental and physical damage as manageable.
Mrs Cuttler, though, was much different than his other customers, as Aziraphale quickly learned. She brought her own gloves every single time she came by - the idea of touching the books with her bare hands completely scandalous to her -, she never had the audacity to ask to buy one of the items, seemingly just happy to admire them, and - the most important part, from the angel’s point of view - she always had some delicious homemade biscuits stashed in her purse which she loved to share.
How was Aziraphale supposed to resist?
Even now he nibbles on one of them, the flavours of walnut and cinnamon creating a wonderful dance on his tongue, as he depicts his current dilemma to her.
He figured a second opinion might be productive and before he even knew what was happening he began to talk, describing everything in great detail.
“How can you be so oblivious?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re even worse than my grandson and that stupid lad once didn’t even realize he was dating a girl for three whole months.”
Aziraphale huffs. “So what am I missing then?”
She sighs deeply, like she is carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. “I assume we’re talking about your gentleman friend here?” she asks. “The one with the sunglasses I’ve seen around a few times?”
Aziraphale nods in confirmation. At the beginning Crowley had been very puzzled by the angel’s unusual affection for one of his ‘customers’, but after watching her scold a young man for daring to breathe onto a rare Charles Dickens edition, calling him a ‘buffoon’ several times in a row and eventually shooing him out of the shop with an absolutely terrifying scowl on her face, the demon never asked any questions again.
“The whole debacle is actually pretty simple,” Mrs. Cuttler states. “It’s kindergarten niveau, to be precise. Granted, on a higher level, but still …”
Aziraphale frowns at her. He’s not sure he’s able to follow. “What do you mean?”
“Back in kindergarten I shared these friendship bracelets with my mate,” she says, a fond smile on her lips now. “It had an amulet broken in half and only when we were together, it made sense.”
Aziraphale finds himself intrigued now. “So you think this is what Crowley has been intending to achieve? Friendship bracelets?”
Well, from all the possibilities that had been running through the angel’s head in the last few weeks this seriously seems simple and harmless enough.
Even sort of sweet, if he’s being honest.
Mrs. Cuttler, however, scoffs. “It’s more than that, love.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I have eyes !” she insists. “I haven’t seen your Crowley that often around, but it was still more than enough. This ,” she points at the ribbon wrapped around Arizaphale’s wrist, “is a bloody declaration.”
Aziraphale wrinkles his forehead in bewilderment, fairly sure that he would suffer from an unpleasant headache right now if he were human. “I don’t understand …”
Mrs. Cuttler’s expression switches between exasperation and sympathy. “Then how about you answer me a question?” she wonders. “Why do you keep wearing this band with his name?”
Aziraphale gazes at his wrist, Crowley’s name still looking bright and a tad supernatural in the light. At first he had seriously considered putting it back into the box, but every time he even vaguely thought about it his mind found itself invaded by the rather lively memory of Crowley’s touch as he wrapped the ribbon around Aziraphale’s arm and his gentle smile while gazing at it like he couldn’t imagine anything more fitting.
And every single time after that, whenever Crowley noticed the angel still wearing the bracelet, the corners of his mouth tugged upwards for a second, obviously happy about the sight.
So in the end Aziraphale never really got around to remove it.
Because he didn’t want to see that smile vanish. And because it felt right , as odd as that epiphany has been.
“I figured as much,” Mrs. Cuttler chimes in, jerking the angel out of his thoughts. It seems she doesn’t require a verbal answer to her question, as she obviously sees everything she needs to know on Aziraphale’s face. “And I can assure you your Crowley feels the same.”
His Crowley.
That has a very tempting ring to it, Aziraphale has to admit.
“Just think about how you feel seeing your name attached with Crowley in such a way,” she urges him.
Feel?
Aziraphale creases his forehead as several images flood in front of his inner eye. Since Crowley put that wristband on himself he made extra sure to have it visible for everyone at all time. Rolled-up sleeves, t-shirts, no jackets or anything else that might hinder the view. He’s showing it off, obviously pleased about it. Obviously proud about it.
And perhaps not only because it’s been a gift but because it features Aziraphale’s name in clear connection to him.
And Aziraphale … well, he wasted that much time figuring out what the demon’s intentions concerning the whole affair may be, he actually never really paused to consider how he felt about it.
His name as kind of a representation of himself, with Crowley the entire time.
As some kind of declaration, like humans seem to do it for such a long time. With tokens and seals and a pair of rings shared between two people in matrimony …
And …
“He chose your name,” Mrs. Cuttler says with emphasis. “He chose you.”
Oh .
-----
OH .
-----
It’s not like Aziraphale never thought about it.
He did. A lot, to be perfectly honest.
But what was he about to do? He was confused by his own emotions, his weird body reactions. He didn’t need to breathe, he didn’t need a pulse, but that didn’t stop his system from having his heart jumping wildly in his chest and at the same time his respiration stopping altogether a lot of times in Crowley’s presence.
And it’s been happening almost frequently in the last few weeks since the ribbons came into their life.
Seeing it with Crowley, so close and personal, and experiencing the demon being so happy and comfortable with it - it did weird things to Aziraphale.
Very weird things.
That’s why, in the end, he subconsciously decided to focus on the why and ignore the dangerous what is even happening ?
He told himself the usual along the way. That Crowley didn’t feel the same, just couldn’t with him being a being of Hell, that their sides wouldn’t approve, that Crowley might even end up dead in the process …
But as Aziraphale is sitting here, right now, with an half-eaten biscuit in his hand and Mrs. Cuttler still looking at him like he is an endearing idiot, he suddenly properly realizes what it even entails that after the apocalypse-that-never-was everything is different now.
The possibilities Aziraphale didn’t even consider.
Out of habit. Out of fear. Out of uncertainty.
Oh indeed.
-----
Aziraphale has no idea how much time has passed after Mrs. Cuttler patted his shoulder reassuringly, whispered, “Good luck, my friend”, and eventually left him to his own thoughts.
Minutes maybe.
Perhaps even hours.
Aziraphale can’t really tell.
His brain is way too preoccupied processing moments from his past and all their lost opportunities, wondering when it started that he missed the obvious that badly. Has it always been this way?
He only finds himself jolted out of his train of thoughts when he’s suddenly met with a pair of golden eyes right in front of his face studying him intently.
“You’re really lost in your head there, huh, angel?” Crowley sounds fond as he takes a seat on the chair Mrs. Cuttler previously occupied - minutes ago? Hours ago? Days ago? -, dragging it closer to Aziraphale so that there’s not much space between them left.
Aziraphale merely blinks. He honestly didn’t notice Crowley approaching - usually he always does - and now he feels weirdly caught. He senses heat blooming in his cheeks, probably tinting them red, and wonders whether that ever happened before. If so, it most likely occurred in the demon’s company.
“Crowley …” Aziraphale whispers, lost for words.
Crowley, however, seems perfectly relaxed as he leans back in the chair. “You fancy some pastries?” he asks, as though it’s an absolutely normal day and not a moment of great epiphanies. “Just got an insider tip about a new bakery not too far from here. Couldn’t help thinking about you.”
He sounds nonchalant, as usual, but Aziraphale suddenly notices a certain heaviness in his tone. He can’t help wondering if this has been there before.
“We could pay it a quick visit,” Crowley suggests. “See if they have anything good there -”
“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale finds himself blurting out, abruptly cutting off whatever Crowley was about to say. “I’m really sorry.”
Crowley lifts a brow. “About what?”
“I didn’t understand.”
“You didn’t understand what?”
Instead of answering Aziraphale leans forward and, in a sudden wave of boltness, rests one hand gently on the demon’s cheek while the other one skids over Crowley’s bracelet, feeling every single letter of his own name under his fingertips.
Crowley freezes on the spot and stares at the angel quietly for a long while. Aziraphale is unable to decipher his look, even without the sunglasses, and soon enough he can’t keep himself from starting to squirm in his seat confronted with such scrutiny. But he forces himself not to back off, to stay where he is and face the consequences.
However, just as he begins to consider that he (and Mrs. Cuttler) completely misinterpreted the entire situation and already starts to wonder what to do next, Crowley’s features suddenly turn impossibly gentle.
“You seriously took your sweet time, Aziraphale,” he says, a fond smile on his lips. “How can someone so smart be so oblivious?”
Aziraphale clears his throat. “Well, in my defence you could have been clearer.”
Crowley rolls his eyes. “ How ?” he wonders, laughing hoarsely. “I was already starting to considering slapping a sledgehammer over your head -”
Aziraphale frowns. “What good would a sledgehammer have done?”
Crowley merely grins and suddenly dives in to kiss Aziraphale right on the mouth, his lips warm and safe and perfect, just the way the angel imagined them to be and at the same time so unpredictable and exciting he finds himself making a noise he didn’t even know he was able to produce.
Why the hell did he have to be so clueless not to have this sooner?
“I’m glad you finally figured it out, though,” Crowley whispers, their faces probably not even an inch apart. His hot breath skids over Aziraphale’s skin, making him shiver pleasantly all over.
Aziraphale’s head is still way too dizzy to form coherent thoughts, so it takes him a moment to answer, his tone quite croaky, “Well, Mrs. Cuttler helped me a great deal with that.”
Crowley huffs, his lips grazing the angel’s in that motion. “That old grandmother who’s always chases off your customers?” He smirks crookedly. “You should give her your whole bookshop as a gift.”
And when he kisses Aziraphale once more, this time much deeper, their whole beings so interwoven it’s hard to tell them apart, the angel can’t help thinking that he might just do that.