Father Paul stared at the two men in front of him and tried to work out exactly what God was punishing him for. Not that the men themselves had done anything -not yet anyway. Even if one of them did look like a very thin caveman, with a perpetual stoop, deep black rings around his eyes and the sort of gaze usually found on those freakish china dolls -or a new cadaver.
"Well?" said the man in a flat monotone.
"Be patient," said the second man, flashing his partner a warning look. "If you keep interrupting, we'll never get anywhere." He smiled reassuringly at Father Paul, which somehow made him feel even more uneasy. He had only seen that sort of smile once before, when a young man had burst into the church declaring himself the resurrected Christ. Fortunately, some men in white coats had grabbed him and pulled him outside, apologising for any upset their charge had caused.
All in all, he was getting so many warning prickles he felt like he had full-body pins and needles. Why was he even here anyway?
"Get on with it," grunted the voice behind him, slightly muffled as though the speaker were talking around something in his mouth. The nose of the gun he held prodded Father Paul in the back, who squeaked and tried not to drop his notes. Aah, that was why.
"Mello," chastised the man with the disturbing and disheveled black hair. "You should not frighten the man."
'Mello' grunted and adjusted his angle so that Father Paul could see his profile. Rather long blond hair and lots of leather -the man who had picked him up right after Sunday morning service with nothing but a gun-cock and a terse order to bring a wedding certificate.
He'd seen him before, sitting in the back row every week, alone -no matter how crowded the church was -on the wooden pew except for a redhead with goggles. Possibly he only came to keep his redheaded friend company, as his sole contribution seemed to be unsettling any visiting speakers and leaving notes in the Visitor's Suggestion box that unfailingly read, "Get some chocolate communion wafers, you assholes". He did it religiously -which was, as far as Father Paul could see, the only remotely pious thing about him besides the rosary he wore.
The gun currently held against Father Paul's spine certainly didn't feel too holy.
"Dearly beloved," he began in a voice that was almost steady. "We are gathered here to bear witness to the union of these two young . . . people . . ."
In the front row, a woman wearing rather more black lace than was considered acceptable for a wedding was bawling her eyes out, mascara running down her face in two long streaks. As Father Paul let himself fall into the pattern of the wedding service, he noticed she wasn't the only one. A stately black-haired woman in a fur coat and stilettos was glaring at the panda-eyed man with unconcealed hatred, and the man in glasses behind her looked like he was ready to burst into tears himself.
"Marriage is what brings us together today. Marriage, that dream within a dream . . ."
"DIE!" a sudden voice yelped from the third row. The redhead, his fingers busy pressing keys in rapid-fire sequences, ignored the disapproving looks shot at him as a tinny musical tone blared from his Gameboy.
"So treasure your love . . ." Father Paul tried to continue manfully -only to be interrupted by a gunshot. He froze and was only slightly relieved to find the gunshot had not come from the man behind him.
"What the hell?" complained the redhead, pushing his peculiar goggles up to look at the shattered gamestation in his hands. "Watari, I know you like to practice sharp-shooting, but this is ridiculous!" He glared vaguely in the direction of an old bell tower, but there was no reply.
"What are you waiting for?" demanded Mello from behind him. "And shut your whining Matt," this pitched to carry to the redheaded boy now slumped dejectedly in his seat. "We'll buy another one when this is over. I told you not to bring it anyway. You know what Watari's like with a sniper rifle."
'Matt' made a noise that might have been "harrumph", but stopped slouching quite so much.
Father Paul abruptly lost his nerve. As he broke out in a cold sweat, he decided that whatever he thought about the soothing effect of ritual and ceremony, short and sweet was required in these circumstances.
"Do you, Raito Yagami," he said with just a little desperation in his voice, "take this man . . ." he looked down at the piece of paper he had been handed just before the ceremony and fumbled. There was a whole list of names. He flipped the piece of paper over -only to find more names in neat, tiny print across the back. He looked up in blind appeal.
"Oops," said Mello from behind him. "Sorry, L. I was meaning to ask you -what alias are you using for this?"
The man with eyes like a drowning victim took the piece of paper from Father Paul, hanging it in front of his face by his thumb and index finger, as though he were afraid it had germs.
"What do you think, Raito-kun?" he enquired. "Would you like to marry Hideki Ryuga?"
There was an extravagant eyeroll from 'Raito-kun'. "Just pick one already," he said. "We have to be back by seven so we can monitor the Yotsuba group for Kira activity, remember?"
"That's right," L tilted his head sideways, still staring at the paper. "Ryuuzaki," he decided. "Today I shall be Rue Ryuuzaki."
"Take Rue Ryuuzaki," Father Paul battled on, despite his growing conviction that he would be leaving this place in either a body bag or a straight-jacket, "to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
"I do," said Raito in a firm voice, "and for God's sake, leave out the bit about 'speak now or forever hold your peace'," he added in an undertone, "or we'll have a riot."
Father Paul just nodded. "And do you, Rue Ryuuzaki," he continued gamely, "take Raito Yagami to be your husband?"
"There is a eighty-seven percent possibility -oof!" L broke off, glaring at his partner as he rubbed his ribs. "Yes," he said sulkily. "Now where is the cake?"
Father Paul ignored him. Just a little longer, he thought, holding the thought like a lifeline.
"You may now kiss the -the other groom."
Raito grinned the sort of smile that was at once incredibly charming and blood-chillingly ruthless as he leaned towards his new spouse, claiming his lips to the usual catcalls and slightly less usual fired salute.
"Finally," said Matt, who was apparently trying to put his gameboy back together -and doing surprisingly well, from what Father Paul could see. "Can we go now?"
"No," said L firmly. "We must eat cake first. It is traditional."
Father Paul staggered past the members of the reception, catching small snippets of activity from the corner of his eye as he went. Raito, earnestly assuring the girl in black lace that it wasn't legal because L hadn't used his real name "and there isn't any need to kill me or L, honestly" while Matt and Mello grinded together to something with a thumping beat that was almost certainly inappropriate music for a wedding reception. A man with a bob of black hair and a wide grin was distributing punch, while the only normal-looking members of the wedding party -all men in their thirties or older, with the exception of a middle-aged woman and a teenager -looked relatively resigned to the chaos around them.
"They can get a bit much sometimes, can't they?" said a bland voice.
Father Paul turned around, but there didn't seem to be anyone there -until he looked down and found himself standing into the pupil-less black gaze of a slight albino boy in white pajamas. He was sitting on a small picnic blanket, surrounded by Lego bricks and model airplanes.
"Umm, yes," he said, even as he realised the boy was probably not a boy. "How old are you exactly?" he asked, too emotionally raw for tact.
"I am eighteen," said the boy -man -matter-of-factly. "And Optimus Prime is four. He is an extremely rare model and could sell for several million yen in an auction with the right sort of people." He held up the toy, as if inviting him to shake hands.
"Near seems to have taken a shine to you," said Raito's voice. Father Paul was relieved to be rescued -or he would have been, if he hadn't remembered the smile. "Let me help you to your car, Father . . ." he trailed off in an obvious prompt.
For reasons that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with a sudden and all-pervasive sense of self-preservation, Father Paul said, "Dominic. Father Dominic Cheston."
"Let me help you to your car, Father Dominic," said Raito with a warm smile. "Thank you very much for coming. We will be making a substantial donation to your church of course, to cover its loss."
Father Paul smiled dumbly and slid into the back of the car. "That won't be necessary," he said automatically.
"But we want to," Raito assured him, then looked up into the driver's compartment. "Make sure you take Father Dominic straight back to Saint Mary's, Aizawa," he directed. "After all, we don't want him to miss the evening service, do we?"
"No sir," said the chauffeur with a quick, reassuring smile at Father Paul. Raito nodded with satisfaction and closed the door.
"Thank you again," he said through the open window as the car pulled away. Looking back, Father Paul saw him turn to speak with the man in glasses who had been so visibly upset during the service. Eyes glowing with devotion that was obvious even from this distance, Father Paul saw him produce a slim black book from his briefcase and hand it to Raito -presumably, a memory book for all the guests to sign.
As the curve of the road blocked the wedding party from sight, Father Paul slumped in his chair, feeling his muscles relax, very slightly.
"Can we make a detour?" he asked Aizawa suddenly.
The man shrugged. "Sure. Where do you want to go?"
"Saint Mary's hospital," said Father Paul calmly. "I think I shall have a nervous breakdown."