When it was all over, they returned to the bookshop.
For the first three days there was hardly a sign of them, just the occasional sound of voices in soft, earnest conversation followed by long intervals of weary silence. The Bentley, parked just outside, was beginning to worry. Crowley had been known to nap for months at a time, it was true. That in itself wouldn't normally have been enough to make her worry. But the ordeal of averting Armageddon a second time had tested him and Aziraphale in a way nothing else ever had.
Perhaps they weren't all right this time.
On the fourth day, however, there came the lightning bolts that started exploding out of the bedroom window at frequent intervals, causing the whole block to lose power. (It happened so many times that a crew had to come in to Whickber street to reinforce the electrical grid). The couple had gone in exhausted, spent, and in shock. Two months later they emerged looking much restored.
Crowley still looked rather shocked, but in a very different way, a decidedly happier way. His hair was rather singed at the ends. Aziraphale, as ever, was looking fresh and innocent as a rose.
And now, very smug.
He had tugged Crowley along to a bakery, then Crowley had driven him, an enormous bag of croissants (it was a sign he was changing, that he was willing to allow food into her cab; the Bentley found she didn't mind smelling like pastry), and a cup with eleven shots of espresso to a marriage office. From thence, they ventured to a travel agent's and booked a honeymoon cottage on Brittany's Pink Coast - La Côte du Granis Rose - within a convenient distance of what was said to be the oldest crêperie in the world.
The marriage would be merely a formality, you understand. Just for the paperwork. It saved them money on taxes. And Aziraphale needed to keep his taxes in order. (Crowley had not resisted the temptation to point out that forging a birth certificate, which they had to do to make it happen, was at least as serious an offense as tax fraud. Aziraphale had merely laughed and kissed him, always an effective way of shutting him up.) They didn't need to prove anything to anyone, they both agreed.
The ceremony was supposed to be a quiet affair. They had invited Muriel - "because they're underfoot so much of the bloody time that we couldn't avoid it", as Crowley put it- and Nina and Maggie (who were, for the moment, officially just friends, but had been spending an awful lot of time together the past few weeks), and that was it. End of the guest list. Absolutely no exceptions, angel. But Mrs. Sandwich, sensing that something was up, had pried the story out of a certain loose-lipped scrivener with admirable skill. Within half an hour, the entirety of the Whickber Street Shopkeepers' and Traders' Association had found out not only the good news, but also the date and time of the happy event.
To Crowley's great distress, the RSVP's were swift and enthusiastic. Most of the local business owners had won and lost considerable sums of money speculating on the precise nature of Mr. Fell's relationship with the mysterious, handsome stranger in the dark glasses - many for the past ten years or more. (Mrs. Sandwich had related this information to a giggling Aziraphale and seething Crowley without a flicker of shame.) They weren't going to miss a chance to see this.
Aziraphale was delighted by the response, and of course Crowley could not refuse his beloved anything that made his eyes light up that way. It had only ever been a matter of how long he could hold out for (and, if one were honest, what favors he could get in exchange for agreeing to it, though he expected Aziraphale had enjoyed that part of the negotiations and it had all gone exactly the way his fiancé had planned the entire time). When Aziraphale alluded to possibly sending an invitation to Gabriel and Beelzebub, however, Crowley put his foot down. Much as he loved his angel for his forgiving nature, he drew the line at inviting anyone who'd tried to execute them.
Thus, on the appointed day, not only Nina and Maggie, but Mutt and his beloved spouse, Mr. and Mrs. Cheng and their children, Justine and her fiancée, Mr. Brown and his new boyfriend, Mr. Arnold and his Doctor Who Annual, and of course, Mrs. Sandwich along with several of her young ladies, had all crowded into the little office, over the unheard protestations of the furious clerk. Jesus and Saraqael were present as well, though not in their corporeal forms, which was perhaps for the best, as the tiny room couldn't hold any more physical beings; they were on the verge of a fire code violation as it was.
The ceremony itself passed quickly. It was all such a blur that Crowley couldn't remember any of it afterwards. He definitely didn't remember crying. Which he hadn't. ("Of course you didn't, dear.") Neither of them got the smallest thrill from putting a ring on the other's finger. Not at all.
Altogether, it had been a most happy occasion, followed by a round of Jane-Austen style dancing in the bookshop afterwards - rather clumsy this time, as everyone had to learn the steps unaided by any surreptitious miraculous activity. The festivities had gone on til the wee hours, with those persons who were too young, or fancied themselves too old, for such exertions, slowly drifting away as the party went on. It was a celebration not just of the long-overdue marriage of the first couple ever to fall in love, but of love in general, of life, of the world.
They had all survived Armageddon together. They all understood what could have happened were it not for their ineffable saviours. Everyone, down to the the smallest children, fully understood the significance of this moment.
When they all at last ventured out on to the pavement, Crowley, in an almost unheard-of fit of high spirits, had broken a bottle of champagne over the Bentley's bonnet. Aziraphale, looking almost painfully handsome in a beautifully tailored cream tuxedo with a yellow rose in his buttonhole, had written "just married" on the Bentley's rear window in letters that glowed so bright you could probably see them from space, and then the three of them had driven off at top speed. Someone - probably Mutt and his spouse, if Crowley had to guess - had tied cans to her bumper, and they trailed after them making a most satisfying racket all the way out to the M25, before Aziraphale reluctantly decided they had to miracle them off.
It had all been great fun. Now, however, a few hours later, the Bentley's mood had turned thoroughly sour. The warmth and color of Whickber Street was far behind them and there was nothing but concrete and metal and expanses of cold grey water.
A ferry. They were taking a ferry. There was a perfectly honest, sensible tunnel that she could have driven through on her own four wheels like a decent, respectable English car, and they were putting her on a boat. She had never been on a boat and she would have been perfectly happy for it to stay that way.
Being driven through fire had been bad enough. Water was yet another thing altogether. The Bentley couldn't stand the feeling of not having solid ground beneath her wheels. She was determined to spend the next three hours - three hours! - enjoying a resounding sulk. But to her great annoyance, once they were parked in the automobile bay, neither of her parents took the slightest notice of her.
"I didn't realize it would be so dark in here," Azi said with relish, tugging Crowley over to the passenger side.
"Ngk!"
For a few minutes there was quiet.
Crowley sucked in his breath. "Eh, what're you doing?" he said, albeit in a very flattered tone of voice. "Keep m'trousers on, thankyouverymuch."
"Is that a permanent request?" Aziraphale said with a grin in his voice.
"Ha-ha. Just until we're not in public, angel. Then I'd appreciate you taking them off as fast as possible."
"I did a little miracle - no one would notice us." But Aziraphale relented.
"Still. It's the principle of the thing," Crowley said between the sound of kissing.
"Hm. Yes. Well. A pity. You have such a nice rear end. As I know you are very well aware, in fact."
"Mmh, doesn't mean I want the whole world seeing it," Crowley said, shifting in the seat so they were nestled comfortably together. "Or, y'know, French ferry operators. Just you, angel."
"That's very flattering. Although, you know, if I recall correctly, they don't care about that sort of thing in France. In fact, I believe exhibitionism is encouraged."
"Technically, we're in-between," Crowley said.
"Are we?"
"Sort of in France, sort of in England. And in England, having confidence in one's earthly corporation is against the law."
Aziraphale kissed the top of his head. "Oh, do be quiet, you ridiculous being."
"Mmh. You know, kissing's all right," Crowley said. "You can keep doing that, angel."
The next few minutes passed in very agreeable silence. Or they would have, if not for the waves. They were well out in the Channel now, and the currents were having their mercy with the vessel.
The constant tossing about may have added a pleasing element of unpredictability to whatever discreet marital activities were transpiring in the cab, but for the Bentley, the motion was enormously unpleasant. She didn't need gas or oil or transmission fluid, but if she had, she was sure all of them would have been sloshing around inside her machinery in a nauseating way.
"Are you all right, my dear?" came Aziraphale's voice a few minutes later. "You're looking rather green."
The Bentley wondered how that could be possible - she had never turned green in her life - until she realized, with great amusement, that he was addressing Crowley.
"I can be green if you want me to, angel. Didn't know your interests tended that way, but hey, if you like it... urgh." Crowley broke off with a decidedly unhappy note in his voice.
"-You look seasick," Aziraphale clarified, a gentle note of reproof in his voice. "Don't prevaricate."
"Don't be ridiculous! 'M'not seasick! I'm an enormously powerful supernatural being. I made a nebula." Crowley gulped.
"You did. A very beautiful one," Aziraphale soothed. "Perhaps we should go upstairs."
"What for?"
"A change of scenery?"
"I'm not leaving the Bentley. God knows what they'd do to her." Crowley was still getting used to being able to use the word 'God' without looking over one shoulder.
"But we could enjoy looking out the window. At the horizon?" Aziraphale added, with just the faintest hint of teasing in his voice.
" M'fine, angel! Bloody heav- bloody hell." Crowley was getting used to being able to say that, too.
"I'm sure you are, my dear. I wouldn't say no to a glass of wine, however. There must be a café of some sort on a vessel this size. Let us go in search of one. Do you suppose they have crêpes?"
"We're going all the way to Brittany to go to the place where crêpes were invented, and you want to try the crêpes on the ferry? It's an abomination," Crowley growled, tumbling out of the car after his husband and slamming the door behind them. "How can you look like that?"
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, my dear." Aziraphale tugged smugly on his bowtie.
"You do. Fresh as a bloody daisy, even though this bloody boat has been throwing us around like a... like a something. S'not fair. S'bloody indecent, is what it is." Crowley leaned against the Bentley's roof and took a few deep breaths.
Aziraphale merely hummed happily to himself.
"What happens if the boat sinks?" Crowley said suddenly, gripping at the Bentley's door handle with one hand and Aziraphale's arm with the other, as though to protect them from any harm.
"Pardon, my dear?"
"If this bloody boat sinks," Crowley said, gulping. "What happens?"
"It wouldn't dare."
"But what if it did?"
"We'd stop it, of course," Aziraphale.
"But what if we... I dunno, couldn't stop it or something?"
"Oh, Crowley-"
"-D'you suppose if you drown..."
"Oh, my dear. But we can't drown, remember?" Aziraphale reminded him. "Eternal life on earth - it's written in the Book of Life."
"Yeah, but can our corporations drown?" Crowley said. "What happens if you need a new one, now that the archangels aren't running things anymore? What are the new rules about that? Could they give you back the same one?"
"Is that what this is about?"
"I've gotten use to you having that face," Crowley said. "I'd miss it. I've spent six thousand years waiting to kiss it. I don't want to stop now."
"Oh." Aziraphale blushed. "It's nothing special."
"Shaddup. It's perfect. Have you even seen your nose? 'Sthe cutest thing I've ever seen. And your eyes, angel. Bloody heaven. I mean, bloody hell."
"Ohhh," Aziraphale sighed happily. "That's very good of you, dear. You have a number of excellent features as well, I might point out-"
"-Yeah, yeah, yeah," Crowley said. "What happens? If we can't drown, would we just be stuck underwater floating around in the Channel for the next billion years?"
"I'm sure we could miracle ourselves out."
"Not worth the risk," Crowley pronounced darkly. "Next time we're taking the Chunnel, angel."
"Oh, but this way is much more fun." Aziraphale decided he'd had enough of this discussion, and marched off toward a door which he thought said "Stairway to passenger lounge".
"I hate ferries. Who invented them? Must have been one of my old lot's." Crowley jogged after his husband to catch hold of his hand. (Crowley strongly disliked not holding Aziraphale's hand. In fact, it was ranked near the top of his least favorite activities. He had been doing it for six thousand years. He was blessed, or damned, or something, if he was going to keep doing it now.)
"Yes, but if you hadn't gotten seasick, we could be canoodling in the back seat right now," Aziraphale pouted.
"Canoodling? Did you seriously just say 'canoodling'?"
"We can't do that in the Chunnel," Aziraphale pointed out. "Taking the ferry was an excellent plan. It's not my fault you spoiled it."
"I'm not seasick! 'Ey, angel, that's the way to the mechanics room."
Aziraphale drew up, looking miffed. "Well," he said, clinging to his dignity, "perhaps that's what I want."
Crowley laughed. "Why won't you just admit you're terrible at French and go back to speaking it the celestial way?"
Aziraphale reared back in outrage. "Not on your life!"
They strode off, holding hands and grumbling blissfully.
They did, in the end, find their way to the passenger lounge (after several wrong turns). The Bentley was left to think grumpy thoughts by herself in the darkness. It gave her time to formulate a little plan.
At last they reached the French coast, and it was with enormous relief that she felt the boat's forward motion cease. Aziraphale and Crowley returned shortly afterwards. Time to have a little fun, the Bentley thought, and she swerved out of their parking place and zoomed away, her engine humming.
"Are kidding me?" Crowley roared, and she hummed to herself as she heard his footsteps smacking frantically along the ground behind her, out of reach.
It was great fun zooming around the bay. She scared several ferry operators out of their wits. All good things must come to an end, though, and she was obliged to skid to a halt at the edge of the loading bay before she landed herself in the water. Crowley would have miracled her out, of course, but he got testy about that sort of thing. She didn't care in the slightest about irritating him - it was one of the great pleasures of life, in her estimation- but she would hate to spoil Aziraphale's honeymoon.
They sorted things out eventually. Aziraphale had to drive her out onto the docks and negotiate with the customs officers - "Upon my word, what a mess Brexit has made of everything!" - as Crowley was still too busy not being seasick. From Dieppe it would be an easy enough five-hour journey to their destination.
As soon as they reached somewhere remotely pretty and secluded they had to pull over, however; apparently all the not-just-kissing that hadn't been able to happen on the ferry couldn't wait any longer. Normandie had favored them with pleasant weather. Enjoying the warmth of the rising sun on her roof, the Bentley contentedly dozed off.
"We should have some music!" Aziraphale said an hour or two later, as they were speeding along the coastal road.
"Whatever you like, angel." Crowley had regained his usual equilibrium, as well as his place in the driver's seat, and was grinning to himself, presumably as a result of whatever canoodling they'd been up while she was napping.
Aziraphale popped in a CD and selected a track. The strains of Joshua Bell playing Saint-Saëns on the Gibson ex Huberman 1713 Stradivarius blessed the cab.
" 'The Swan'?" Crowley snorted. "Next you're going to make me drink rosé."
"Oh, pray don't say that," Aziraphale said, looking wounded. "You know I'd never dream of making you do such a thing."
"This is worse. Eugh."
"Indulge me just this once, dearest," Aziraphale purred. "We're driving along the French coast in springtime, on our honeymoon."
"Yeah, doesn't mean I have to let m'brain turn to sludge."
"After our activities in the bookshop this month, I'm not sure you can claim to merit the title of intellectual." The corner of Aziraphale's mouth twitched with the pleasure of remembrance.
Crowley hissed and glared at him appreciatively.
"I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that, dearest," Aziraphale said with a smug little smile.
"Pfff. Why not some Mendelssohn?" Crowley said. "Something with a little meat to it, at least. You love Mendelssohn."
"We both are perfectly well aware you like this record."
"CD," Crowley growled.
"Yes, that's what I said. You like it."
"How could you possibly know that?" Crowley scoffed.
"Because, I note, the Bentley has not attempted to turn it into one of young Mister Farrokh's recordings-"
"Did you seriously just refer to Freddie Freaking Mercury as 'Mister Farrokh'?-"
"-Well, that was what I knew him as, dear," Aziraphale said. "A very nice young man."
"Yeah."
"I am glad we were able to sort things out so he and dear Jim have a pleasant afterlife together."
"Me, too."
"Anyway, what I was getting at is, I rather think all this evidence adds up to suggest the Bentley knows this record is important to you," Aziraphale said. "Otherwise, she would have turned it into-"
"-That's only because it's been in the car less than two weeks," Crowley said.
Aziraphale pounced. "Ah! You must have bought it recently, then?"
"Wot?"
"Well, I haven't seen it around the shop, so if it wasn't in the car, you must have bought it within the last few days, while we were packing." Aziraphale smiled.
"Not everything is a Clue, angel."
"You couldn't have bought it last week. After all, you were very much otherwise engaged." Aziraphale grinned.
"Euh... Maybe I went out and bought it while you were sleeping."
"Ah, but you see, the flaw in that argument is that I don't sleep," Aziraphale said.
Crowley turned and stared at him. "Wot?"
"Try to look at the road occasionally, dear. You'll find it helpful when trying to steer."
"Pfff."
"Why do you look surprised? You know I don't sleep."
"B- but that was before," Crowley said. "You figured it out."
"When?"
"These past couple weeks," Crowley said. "When we were in bed. Obviously."
Aziraphale looked at him in surprise. "What on earth makes you think that?"
"I've seen you, dozens of times." Crowley ventured a glance over at him. "Hate to break it to you, angel, but you definitely do sleep. You look so bloody cute."
This earned him one of Aziraphale's prettiest smiles, just as he'd been hoping. "Well, thank you. But I'm not sleeping. Sometimes I do lie with my eyes closed and allow my breathing to relax. And I also very much enjoy- what is that lovely human expression?"
"Which one?"
"Oh, you know, where you lie close together and hold one another, usually while in a recumbent position?"
"Snuggling," Crowley hissed, imbuing the word with more menace than had ever been achieved before.
"Yes, precisely," Aziraphale said happily. "You sleep and I snuggle against you. It's remarkably pleasant."
Crowley growled, begrudgingly conceding that snuggling was, indeed, an excellent invention.
"It is certainly relaxing, but I remain fully conscious throughout the duration," Aziraphale said.
"Okay, that's creepy, angel."
"I'm sorry," Aziraphale said sincerely. "I won't do it anymore, if the idea bothers you."
"No, no. I like snuggling. Snuggle as much as you please. M'just surprised, is all. I'll get used to it."
"Very well. Anyway," Aziraphale said, "My point is, if you had attempted to sneak out, I would have noticed."
"Yeah, that's even creepier."
"You're being silly." Aziraphale's voice was so full of affection, the Bentley could practically see little cartoon hearts exploding out of him.
"Am not," Crowley said.
"That's even sillier."
"Arghhhh."
"You know how much I've always adored Joshua Bell's playing."
"I still think Hilary Hahn's better," Crowley grumped.
Aziraphale smiled. "In case I haven't made myself clear, I am officially accusing you of buying this record for just this occasion."
"Nahh. Maybe someone broke in and left it in the cab. Maybe you did, angel. Wouldn't put it past you. Remember, I know what a devious little bastard you can be."
Aziraphale giggled. "It was certainly you. 'Romance of the Violin', indeed."
Crowley snorted.
"You always were a romantic," Aziraphale said, warming to his theme.
"Me? Nahh."
"Rescuing my books. Rescuing me."
"Mm," Crowley said. "Didn't have a choice, did I?"
"Of course you did," Aziraphale said. "You could have left me to be discorporated and you didn't."
"Well." Crowley smiled. "I thought it was hot that you tried to double-cross some N*zis."
"That's very kind of you. You looked very dashing hopping up the aisle, you know."
Crowley chuckled.
"I could scarcely contain myself," Aziraphale said. "I would have thrown myself at you without restraint if we hadn't had an audience."
"Ooh."
"Have you considered wearing a hat like that again?"
"Don't be ridiculous." But Crowley was smiling. These days he did almost nothing but smile.
"Be quiet, you impossible thing, this is the best part." Aziraphale closed his eyes and hummed along blissfully.
It was all too much, the Bentley thought. The world wasn't ending, her dads were married, they were listening to violin music in France. In springtime, for goodness' sake. A warmth flooded through her that had nothing to do with the fine weather, and before she knew it she had broken out in a cheerful buttercup-yellow that glowed in the the morning sun.
"Agh! What the hell is this, angel?"
"I don't know. I promised you I would never do that again. She must have done it all on her own." Aziraphale smiled like a proud father.
"You- you put her up to this!"
"I did nothing of the sort." Aziraphale, gloating unbearably, popped a travel sweet into his mouth.
"Not this again! We've been over this!" Crowley smacked her dashboard irritably.
"You're very handsome when you're angry," Aziraphale remarked pleasantly around a mouthful of sweets.
This did not discourage Crowley. "I'd sell you if there were anyone stupid enough to buy a car this color!" he cried. He was in fine form, seething and growling while Aziraphale watched appreciatively. "No, y'know what? I'm gonna give you away, to some ch'ti who just got his license!"
She let out a throaty purr and continued to hum along, totally unbothered.
Aziraphale stifled a giggle. "If you want to find any ch'tis, you'll have to turn around and drive in the opposite direction."
"I am prepared to do that, angel."
"You should be nice to her. She's looked after you faithfully all these years."
Crowley grinned. "I don't know how to be nice."
"You seem to be doing a rather good job in spite of that," Aziraphale said.
"Never tried it."
"Of course you haven't, my dear."
"Rrrgh."
"There, there. When we stop for breakfast, you can sit facing the opposite direction while I admire our beautiful, yellow Bentley," Aziraphale gloated.
"What about me? Don't you want to admire me?" Crowley pretended to look wounded.
"Why would I? You are not remotely interesting to me." Aziraphale cast him a flirtatious glance.
"What'd I pay all this money to take you to a bloody honeymoon cottage in Brittany to go to the oldest crêperie in France for if you're not even going to look at me across the table?"
"We paid it. It's our money now, remember. We're married." Aziraphale couldn't keep a blissful smile from stealing over his face. "Husbands! Think of that!"
"Mm. It has a nice ring to it." Crowley turned and gazed at him adoringly, and then had to frantically jerk the wheel to avoid turning the Bentley into a festive yellow splatter against a cliff.
It went on that way for the next several hours.
Showing admirable restraint, the couple stopped for only two romantic seaside picnics with cheese and wine. Crowley still took a peculiar fascination in watching his beloved eat, and this remained the principal appeal of food as far as he was concerned. Lately, though, he had begun to enjoy it for his own sake as well, and he did considerable damage to a rather excellent wheel of tête de moine while Aziraphale swooned over a perfectly baked baguette and some fresh mirabelle plums.
The cottage, when they finally arrived, proved to be as adorable as it had appeared in the travel agency's photos. Built of grey stone and overlooking the sea, it was almost too small to actually live in - just right for a couple so besotted that they couldn't stand to be more than a few inches apart from one another. Crowley parked the Bentley under a flowering pear tree ("I like pears", Aziraphale had sighed upon seeing it, whereupon Crowley had snapped his fingers and several splendid, perfectly ripe yellow specimens instantly appeared among its branches, giving a family of skylarks the shock of their life). The husbands disappeared inside, and that was the last she saw of them for the day.
The next afternoon was when they had reservations at the crêperie. This being Brittany, Crowley had suggested they speak to the staff in Breton in the hopes of wrangling a discount. (One of the conditions of their new life on earth was that they actually had to pay for things now. Both of them had more than enough saved to live comfortably on for the next several hundred years at least, considering they didn't have to pay rent or a mortgage, and that wasn't even including their income from Aziraphale's tenants or the interest on their investments. But Crowley still refused to spend money on anything if he could possibly dream up a way to avoid it. And he'd gotten remarkably good at doing that over the past few millennia.)
However, Aziraphale had insisted on whipping out his time-worn book of traveler's French phrases from Monsieur Rossignol, and ignored the employees' increasingly pointed attempts to communicate with him in their perfectly adequate English. Crowley watched it all, leaning back in his chair with an unsettling grin and doing nothing whatsoever to help. The staff's patience soon wore thin, and it finally snapped after Aziraphale devoured, at record speed, so many jambon-fromage and saumon fumé and crêpes suzette that they had had to shut down for the rest of the day. The owner-cum-chef kicked him and his husband out with some remarks the spirit of which had been very clear even to someone with Aziraphale's inadequate grasp of the language.
Crowley, on the other hand, not constrained by having learned French the hard way, had responded with admirable fluency. He began with a medically inadvisable suggestion about where the man could insert his toque, and followed up with an insinuation that the architectural attractions of his restaurant, the customer experience, and, indeed, the quality of the food, could be improved by the judicious application of open flame, before storming off in a cloud of menace. Looking intimidating while getting into a bright yellow car was an uphill battle, even for someone with six thousand years' worth of practice being frightening. But Crowley managed it.
Well, nearly.
"That was fun," Aziraphale said as they drove away. "Shall we try the next place on the list?"
Crowley looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "Do you mean the food was fun, or the part where I threatened to burn down the restaurant?"
"Hm?" Aziraphale said sweetly. "I don't know what you mean. Crowley - do you suppose if we went back tomorrow as women, they wouldn't recognize us? Those saumon fumé really were divine!"
Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Knew I liked you for a reason."
Aziraphale giggled, and the Bentley hummed with contentment. She hadn't felt like this since before the war. No, since the moment she'd rolled off the showroom floor and her new owner had snarled at her that she was going to live to the end of the world, bless it, and longer if he had anything to say about it, and she'd known at once that she was in the best possible hands.
The cottage was not far away, though thankfully distant enough to avoid any awkward encounters with disgruntled restauranteurs. Over the next month, they visited every crêperie and vineyard in the area, most more than once.
The days flowed by like wine.
Aziraphale filled several sketchbooks. He made an extensive series of studies of Crowley's physique, Crowley in an array of compromising attitudes, Crowley in various states of undress. But mainly, Crowley as he was.
Crowley enjoying himself, smiling and laughing, dozing peacefully in the flowerbeds. Crowley looking peaceful and at ease and happy, the weight of six thousand years of secrecy and even more years of loneliness and damnation fallen from him at last. Not to be outdone, Crowley started a series of ridiculous cartoons with the two of them as stick figures, which sent both of them into peals of uncontrollable laughter far beyond anything they actually merited.
Most of the time, though, they were in the cozy little attic bedroom of the cottage, much too preoccupied to give the smallest attention to what the Bentley was doing. One could not make up for six thousand years of deprivation in a few weeks, after all. There was much to be done, and forever seemed not nearly enough time to do it in.
The Bentley took the opportunity to go for some solo drives, terrorizing the wits out of a number of unsuspecting Breton villagers. She was having the time of her life. Her spirits had never been so high. Even the moment when she'd met her other, nicer dad - "Oh, Crowley! She's magnificent! She suits you perfectly! You two will be such good friends!" - shortly after she'd watched the two of them pledge their love for each other in the ruins of a bomb-shattered church, hadn't been quite as lovely as this.
Admittedly, she always felt spiffing after a good long drive through beautiful scenery. Especially if there were dirt roads, which this place had. She loved dirt roads. Crowley never normally let her go on them, so this was a treat.
But this was something more than that. Things had been going downhill since that night in 1941, Armaggedon looming ever closer in her rearview mirror, and now finally, for the first time, they were going uphill instead. She had spent ninety-five years watching her parents beam adoring glances at each other when the other one wasn't looking, with the sole exception of that one occasion.
Seeing them do it to each other at the same time, seeing them be able to see it, knowing they knew it and would never have to hide it or doubt it again, because the power of their love had saved them, saved everything... it sent a warmth through her that went all the way to her transmission. Things were very good. Very good indeed.
Marriage (combined, of course, with the relief of no longer having Armageddon weighing on them and the freedom, finally, to acknowledge his love openly, and receive Aziraphale's love in return) was changing Crowley for the better. He seemed lighter, somehow. He laughed more; he was less guarded.
He was still sarcastic, thankfully. A Crowley without his sarcasm would be like a unicorn without its horn. But his sarcasm wasn't as biting.
He'd taken to wearing a hat again. She didn't know what that meant, exactly, but she knew it was good.
Aziraphale, on the other hand, remained much the same as ever, merely... moreso. The warmth of his personality glowed brighter than ever.
One afternoon they were relaxing on a hillside above the cottage, looking out past it to the sea. It was as perfect as a postcard. And indeed, Aziraphale had had just that idea, resolving to make a drawing of it and have it printed for that year's Christmas card. He sketched and Crowley sprawled contentedly with his arm round his waist, ostensibly looking at the scenery but really sneaking frequent glances at his beloved's profile.
He was very fond of that profile.
As Aziraphale studied the view, his eyes suddenly lit up, glowing like topazes. He gasped and grabbed his husband's arm. "Crowley!"
Crowley flipped up his sunglasses - these days, he only wore them to shield his eyes from the sun - propped himself on his elbows, and squinted at him. "Wot?"
Aziraphale smiled teasingly. "What do you mean, 'wot'?"
"You're making that face again. The one where you've got an idea." Crowley was using the disgusted voice that came out when he found his angel most enchanting and was pretending to try to hide it.
Aziraphale kissed him and smiled one of his most heavenly smiles, the one the Bentley knew was a sure sign Crowley would delightedly do whatever he asked. "I think we should buy a cottage!"
Notes:
I have it in my head that the Husbands needed some time to just hold each other and rest and talk and process what just happened to them after preventing Armageddon 2.0. After which, of course, they bang for about two months straight. :)
"Dear Jim" is referring to Jim Hutton, Freddie Mercury's husband, not Jimbriel. In case you were worried XD
The Pink Granite Coast is very pretty: wiki/C%C3%B4te_de_Granit_Rose#/media/File:C%C3%B4te_de_granit_rose_
If you ever get the chance to try mirabelle plums, I can't recommend them enough! It's like eating sunshine :) Also tête de moine. It's the most delicious cheese ever invented, period, end of story. You're welcome.
Jambon fromage = ham and cheese, saumon fûmé = smoked salmon (Brittany, aka Bretagne, is known for its seafood as well as for crêpes). Crêpes Suzette contain carmelized sugar, butter, orange juice, and various orange liquors. Yum!