This is not something Crowley ever let herself imagine. Not back in the wistful years, where she yearned not quite hopelessly after an angel of the Lord, not in the millennia before she was able to put a name to how she felt, certainly not in that first thunderbolt moment when it began on a wall around a garden. Not even recently, with love open and incandescent between them. She hasn't dared let herself yet want this much. And maybe it's not what Aziraphale meant, even, when he offered her a ring, but Crowley will be damned a second time if she'll miss the opportunity once it was in front of her. It's not as though he can possibly misunderstand what she means.
No planning, no ceremony, no spectators. None needed. Only the two of them. Always and only the two of them, on their own side.
Aziraphale is staring at her face as he puts the ring on her finger, but Crowley looks down at their hands. Hers are long and spindly, the hands of someone who makes things, pries into things, takes them apart and looks at them and then puts them back together differently just to see what happens. His are strong, but the strength has been covered by deliberate softness, manicured, the ages-old callouses of holding a sword replaced by the gentler marks of someone who works with books.
The ring fits her finger perfectly, of course, and glimmers as though it was always meant to sit there.
"Ani l'dodi v'dodi li," she says quietly, tilting her hand to see how the light shines on the ring, to examine this strange, significant new adornment. There could be other words, other vows, but those are the heart of this gesture for Crowley, those words and their meaning in all its terrifying, wondrous simplicity. She finally looks up to meet Aziraphale's gaze. He knows what the sentence mean as well as she does, but she repeats it all the same as she twines their fingers together, gripping his hand. Hers is trembling a little. So is her voice. "I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine."
no subject
No planning, no ceremony, no spectators. None needed. Only the two of them. Always and only the two of them, on their own side.
Aziraphale is staring at her face as he puts the ring on her finger, but Crowley looks down at their hands. Hers are long and spindly, the hands of someone who makes things, pries into things, takes them apart and looks at them and then puts them back together differently just to see what happens. His are strong, but the strength has been covered by deliberate softness, manicured, the ages-old callouses of holding a sword replaced by the gentler marks of someone who works with books.
The ring fits her finger perfectly, of course, and glimmers as though it was always meant to sit there.
"Ani l'dodi v'dodi li," she says quietly, tilting her hand to see how the light shines on the ring, to examine this strange, significant new adornment. There could be other words, other vows, but those are the heart of this gesture for Crowley, those words and their meaning in all its terrifying, wondrous simplicity. She finally looks up to meet Aziraphale's gaze. He knows what the sentence mean as well as she does, but she repeats it all the same as she twines their fingers together, gripping his hand. Hers is trembling a little. So is her voice. "I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine."