he spends the whole first summer in the cottage at the south downs trying out new ones. “anthony jonathan” he says one morning, coming down the stairs.
“what’s that, darling?” aziraphale calls.
“nothing,” he says. “wasn’t quite right.”
“anthony jeremiah crowley,” he says, while replanting an azalea bush. the bush tries to bloom in response, but doesn’t manage it convincingly. “no, you’re right,” crowley says. “that’s not it either.
“anthony jane crowley,” he says, while stirring the white wine into what is going to be a very good mushroom risotto in about an hour.
“jane who?” aziraphale says absently, having not really heard him, without looking up from his book at the table.
john. julian. jessica. jude. january. jersey. janice. joyce. joplin. juniper.
“has it occurred to you,” aziraphale says one night, when they’re tucked up in bed together, “that instead of trying on all these new names, you might just, well–wait for it? what’s the rush, anyway?”
crowley shifts to look at him from across the pillows. “how did you know i was looking for a new name?” he hadn’t told aziraphale–not that he didn’t want aziraphale to know, really, but just that it was something he felt like he had to sort out on his own.
“bit obvious,” aziraphale says. “you left nameberry.com up on your phone the other day when you handed it to me so i could look up that picture of the dog we saw on the way home.”
aziraphale rolls over, putting a hand on crowely’s chest. “it’s all right if it takes a little time, you know,” he says.
“taken me six thousand years to figure this one out,” crowley points out, a little despondently.
aziraphale shrugs. “took me six thousand years to say i was in love with you,” he responds. “took me six thousand years to realise heaven and hell weren’t all that different. six thousand years to realise you loved me back. some things just…take time to figure out. it’s all right.”
crowley sighs, but he knows aziraphale’s right. “i just want to know all of myself already,” he says, scooting over into aziraphale’s hold. “i want to know everything i can be.”
“oh, my love,” aziraphale says, breathing into his hair. “i don’t think we ever know all of that about ourselves.”
he finds the name in december.
it’s a good month for name-finding. the end of something, the beginning of another. a goodbye and a remembrance, but also a facing forward into the future.
they’re dancing in the kitchen, and aziraphale is singing along to la vie en rose on the radio; they’re laughing, and the light is low but the oven is warm where they’re just waiting for a coq au vin to finish up.
il me l'a dit, l'a jure pour la vie, aziraphale sings, in a very bad french accent, pink-cheeked and beautiful, and crowley kisses the next line out of his mouth.
“je t’aime,” he tells aziraphale, as the song ends, and then he thinks, oh.
“je t’aime aussi,” aziraphale returns awkwardly, and then he catches crowley’s look. “what?” he asks.
“j’aime,” he says. “i love. j’aime.”
aziraphale’s cheeks turn a little pinker. “do you think so? but in french?”
“i like french,” crowley shrugs. “do you remember the bastille? that was when i first thought, maybe, you know? maybe you too. when was that, 1793? 1791?”
“haven’t the faintest,” aziraphale says. “it’s a very you thing, though. full of love, but secretly, only if one knows where to look. in english it’ll get pronounced as jaime. jay-me.”
“anthony jaime crowley,” he tries out. “that’s not bad, actually.”
“oh, do you like that as well?”
“i think i do,” crowley says. “anthony jaime crowley. and only you would know the real truth. only you and i would know j’aime, angel. it would be mine, but–it would be ours, a little bit. and that’s me, i think–my own, but yours too, a little bit.”
aziraphale is grinning a bit madly, and he holds crowley that much closer. “a secret middle name. how dashing of you. how entirely debonair.”
“i could go with james, if you like.” he puts on a ridiculous, affected accent, missing pierce brosnan by a mile and ending up somewhere closer to roger moore. “crowley, james crowley.”
“no,” aziraphale laughs. “no, i think i quite like jaime. anthony jaime crowley.” the radio starts playing la vie en rose again, just because aziraphale wants it to, and he holds crowley close, cheek to cheek. “is this the one, darling?”
“yeah,” crowley says. “for now, this is the one.”
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