might i request a super fluffy ineffable husbands fic where aziraphale is just carrying crowley around in his arms bridal style? bonus points for him sweeping him off his feet haha thank you!
Will I do you one better, anon? Yes. Yes I will.
The cottage in the South Downs is at least ten minutes from the road, will assuredly cause the postman the literal devil of a time in finding it, and is set bucolically among the green rolling hills and chalk cliffs of the Seven Sisters, a breeze whipping off the Channel and gulls circling and screeching above. It is all so quintessentially British that you can doubtless step out your front door and meet a chap named Nigel in tweed and deerstalker within moments. It is, to say the least, quite a change for two ineffable beings who have lived in London since the whole place was regularly dying of the plague, and both of them sometimes miss the city noise. But this, as with it all, they have gotten used to.
The Bentley sits in the narrow lane, bedecked with paint and cans and streamers. Just Married, reads the back window, where it was painted on by the Them (even Pepper, overcoming her deep-seated objections to the patriarchical, sexist, and heteronormatively hegemonic institution of marriage in this one instance). Crowley can, of course, miracle it all off with a snap of his fingers, but that didn’t stop him fussing about it as if they’d taken a cricket bat to the thing. They have gotten out of the Bentley five minutes ago, and indeed should be well inside by now, except they’re having (it is only fitting) a small argument first.
“It’s tradition,” Aziraphale says stubbornly. “It’s rather nice.”
“Angel.” Crowley resists the urge to roll his eyes. “We’ve been living here for three years already. Just because we went and signed some human bits of paper and had a nice do and were forced to behold the awful spectacle of Newton Pulsifer on the dance floor does not mean that one of us has to carry the other across the threshold.”
Aziraphale looks wounded. He is still wearing his top hat and tails, spent so much time planning the menu that it’s amazing he let anyone else eat a bite, and doubtless told the Them exactly where Crowley had hidden the Bentley in a futile attempt to forestall its current decoration. “Yes, well,” he says. “We haven’t yet lived here while we’re married, have we?”
“Oh? Going to complain about our immoral cohabitation now?” Crowley leans on the garden wall and flashes a trolling grin. He wore a tux for the ceremony, but he changed into a stunning crimson-and-black dress for the reception, because really, why not have both? (Warlock Dowling, who spent the whole wedding in a state of mixed confusion and vindication, hugged his old nanny afterward and told her that he was very happy for her and Brother Francis, leaving them with many questions.) “Bit late for that, don’t you think?”
Aziraphale takes that in, then sets his jaw, having reached an executive decision. “I’m going to carry you.”
“You are not going to carry me.”
“There’s nobody here to see.”
“Right this minute.” Aziraphale holds out his arms and looks expectant. “Go on, Crowl – you know, I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to call you now. Mr. Crowley? Mrs. Crowley? Mr. Fell?”
He is skewered with a look that is nonetheless not at all convincing in pretending that it hasn’t used at least several notebooks’ worth of paper to doodle Anthony J. Crowley-Fell in moments of passing boredom. Aziraphale himself, for that matter, might not mind being Mrs. Crowley, but he decides that they can sort out the nomenclatorial difficulties later. He in turn gives the look that has always gotten him exactly what he wants before, and it works no less splendidly this time. Crowley sighs deeply and permits himself to swoon into Aziraphale’s waiting arms, Aziraphale smiles broadly, hefts him up, nearly drops him (“don’t you dare, angel”) and decides that, his arms being full, it’s safest to miracle the door open rather than risk calamity. He does so, strides triumphantly across the threshold, and stands inside the dark cottage like a victorious conqueror, his blushing demon bride clasped more or less safely in his arms. “There,” he announces. “That wasn’t that hard, now was it?”
Crowley sighs again, then turns his head, and the two of them kiss for a long moment. Then Crowley springs free, takes Aziraphale’s hand to lead him toward the bedroom, and murmurs, in a dark and very promising voice indeed, “You know, it is really more than past time for the good bit.”
