"It looks like they're at it again," Anathema said, as she parked Dick Turpin in the open spot on the opposite side of the Bentley from Adam's Citroen, and the music from the courting cars was loud enough that she had to raise her voice over it.
"I guess weddings put everyone in the mood for a little romance," Tracy said.
Anathema let out a jaw-creaking yawn. "I could have done with a bit less romance last night, and a bit more sleep instead. Certainly fewer abductions."
"I'm sure they'll have tea and coffee set up for us." Tracy gave her a pat on the shoulder. "Let's get you a little fortification."
As they made their way toward the tents, Dick Turpin's electronic voice said, "Roaring your engine, burning heart of a great beast. I combust for you."
Anathema just kept walking.
Tracy did find tea in Aziraphale's tent, along with her bouquet, and a frantically fretful angel.
Crowley magicked up a cup of coffee for Anathema, dosed it with a generous pour from his flask, and allowed her to straighten a few of his bent feathers.
Their duties to the grooms temporarily dispatched, they left them in the hands of the best men and rejoined near the bandstand, ready to direct guests to their seats, and head off any trouble of the Armageddon variety.
They didn't have to wait long, but thankfully it was the Them that arrived first— all three of them in matching pinstripe suits, Pepper's tailored to her figure and accompanied by a pair of black pumps. They chatted for a bit, and found seats somewhere in the middle.
Newton and Shadwell arrived next with the children in tow. Shadwell hadn't foregone his trademark dirty mackintosh, despite the formal occasion, and Madame Tracy had to chivvy him out of it, while he grumbled about it being October, and cupped a cigarette out of the wind.
Anathema didn't really think that the brown suede suit he was wearing beneath the coat was much of an improvement, but she had her own problems to worry about. Newton had his usually happy but exhausted expression, as he tried to wrangle the children on his own. They ran up and down the aisle, full of boundless energy, while poor Newt chased after them, fruitlessly begging them to behave. Anathema did her best to try to pretend that she had never met any of these people before in her life. The illusion was spoiled as Agnes and William both slammed into her hips, one on each side, and started babbling about how Grampy Shadwell had almost gotten them kicked off of the bus, and how daddy had taken his pin away.
oOoOoOo
Warlock Dowling wasn't entirely sure why he had been so quick to RSVP his acceptance of his invitation to the wedding.
He had fond memories of his nanny and the gardener, to be sure, but he was busy with his own dissertation at Harvard, and in order to attend he'd had to spend the whole night on an airplane. It was just an awful lot of trouble to go to for the wedding of two people that he hadn't seen or heard from in thirteen years. But, he couldn't ignore the feeling of joy that he'd gotten when he'd received their invitation.
Of course, he'd had no idea who Anthony J. Crowley and Aziraphale were when he'd opened the envelope and pulled out his invitation to a wedding in London. He kept in touch with a few old friends in London, via Facebook, but he hadn't been back since his father's job had returned them to The States, ten years ago. The letter attached to the invitation had cleared up a few things, but had by no means explained everything.
Warlock,
We hope you are doing well, and apologize for our sudden and unexplained departure after your 11th birthday. Events beyond our control required our presence elsewhere. We do hope that you'll be able to attend our wedding, as we would very much like to see what an undoubtedly fine young man you've grown into.
All our love,
Brother Francis
All of this was written in a neat copper plate- the signature embellished with little swoops and curls. Beneath it, scratched out in a meandering scrawl, was:
& Nanny Ashtoreth
p.s. We've changed a lot. Won't be exactly like you remember. I'm sure I raised you better than to be a little twat about it.
He remembered both of them fondly, and with no small amount of bemusement, and he'd formed many theories about them over the years. He was half convinced that Nanny Ashtoreth had been some kind of spy, or a member of a strange cult. He hadn't thought twice about her odd behavior, as a child, but looking back as an adult, he realized that he hadn't received an exactly normal upbringing. Brother Francis was as much of a mystery—like some cross between the wizard Radagast and an old county parson, but with the attitude of a Greek hedonist.
So, it had been mostly curiosity driving him back to London- a need to see them again, but this time through a filter of age and experience, to try to put his strange childhood into some kind of perspective.
He wasn't at all sure what to expect when he arrived by cab at Battersea Park and followed the signs to the wedding location.
A pair of women in black dresses were handing out programs and directing seating. A little over half of the chairs were filled, and the younger woman asked, "Are you here for Crowley or Aziraphale?"
"Both, I guess," Warlock answered. The bride was my nanny, growing up, and the groom was our gardener."
The younger woman gave him a puzzled look as she handed him his program, but the older woman said, "Oh, you must be Warwick."
"Warlock," Warlock corrected with a sigh. He'd grown quite accustomed to teachers, baristas, telemarketers, and random strangers making a hash of his name by now.
An old man in the back row, wearing a dirty coat and smoking a cigarette, spun around to give him a squinty-eyed, suspicious look. "Whas tha ya say?"
"Er, Warlock Dowling."
"Leave him be, Shadwell," the older woman said. "And, I thought I told you to take that filthy mackintosh off. You're at a wedding. I don't see why you couldn't have worn that nice wool coat I bought you for Christmas last year."
"Mind yer own business, wumman. I's culder than a witches teet ou' here."
The older woman sighed, her fond look of exasperation morphing into a kind smile as she turned back to Warlock. "You sit wherever you like, dear."
Warlock took his program and, distancing himself from the strange old man, chose a seat on the opposite side of the aisle, near the only other guests who seemed to be close to his own age.
oOoOoOo
"Shadwell does have a point," Anathema said, looking despairingly up at the overcast sky. It looked to be threatening rain. "I wouldn't mind a coat of my own. I don't think Crowley even bothered to consider for an instant how cold an outdoor wedding at the end of October would be for us mere mortals, when he chose these dresses."
The dresses were shoulder-less, black, A-lines, with a floor-length, gauzy, tulle skirt, and as good as she might look in it, Anathema was freezing.
"I wouldn't mind a shawl, but I have my thermals on underneath." Tracy hiked her skirt enough to show Anathema her ankle-length thermal underwear.
"I don't know why I didn't think of that," Anathema said in wonder. "I'm frozen down to the bone." As she said it, she let out an involuntary shiver.
Even as she did, the clouds cleared, and the sun seemed to shine a bit brighter. The air was suddenly warm, and there was a flash of white light before them as two women materialized out of nowhere.
"I hope that's better," the older one said. "Crowley never has been very considerate of others, but I would have expected better from Aziraphale."
She smiled at Anathema. She had kind, but careworn, features. Her white hair was cut short. Her suit was impossibly white suit, the jacket buttoned to show just a sliver of the pale pink camisole she wore beneath.
The woman on her arm was younger, Middle Eastern, with warm brown skin, and glossy, thick, black hair that fell in waves down her back. She wore a richly coloured, blue dress, belted at the waist with a sash of white silk. Where the older woman wore no jewelry, the younger had heavy, gold earrings and bangles, and a small ring in her right nostril.
Something deep inside of Anathema seemed to unravel at the sight of the two women. "Are you?" she asked in an awed voice, but that's all that she could manage to get out.
The older woman smiled her kind smile. "I think know our son, Yeshua."
Anathema silently held out a program to God, while Tracy gave one to The Virgin Mary.
"Och," Shadwell grunted in Scottish. "Warlocks and lesbeen witches. Where's tha' blasted private wi my pin."
"You're retired," Madame Tracy told him, firmly, from the side of her mouth- not daring to look away from the Creator and the Mother, while she maintained a smile to hide her embarrassment.
oOoOoOo
Crowley was sprawled out in his chair, still sulking, and watching Yeshua in silent recrimination, as he sipped at his bottomless flask. They had twenty minutes until the ceremony, and Crowley would need to sober up soon, but not yet.
"My Dad is here," Yeshua said, from his post at the tent flap.
Crowley stiffened, a sudden feeling of dread constricting his chest. "That's it," he hissed out in a numb whisper. "The beginning of The End. Who thought this would be a good idea, anyway?" He took another slug from the flask.
"Oh, fuck!"
Crowley sat straight up and looked at Yeshua with wide, terrified eyes. "What is it?"
"He's brought my mother."
Yeshua shot a quick glance at Crowley and then focused all of his attention back outside again.
"What's going on?"
Yeshua looked at him again quickly. "Just… just STAY HERE. I'll be right back."
And then, Crowley was alone in the tent.
He rose slowly to his feet.
He gave his wings a shake to ruffle his feathers, so they would lay flat.
He walked over to the mirror—fluffed his hair a bit in the front, and gave the red tartan bowtie he was wearing a disparaging glare.
Then, Crowley made a break for it, slipping silently out of the tent flap, and only sparing the gathered guests a momentary glance, as he made a beeline for Aziraphale's tent. He stuck his head in for only a second, long enough to catch a glimpse of Adam sitting in a chair, tapping at his phone, and Aziraphale, with his back to the door, fussing with the lapels of his jacket in the mirror. He saw Aziraphale's eyes widen in the reflection, and then Crowley quickly pulled back from the flap, and spun away from the opening, breathing heavily with his back to the side of the tent.
Aziraphale was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
oOoOoOo
The earth shook and rumbled.
Anathema and Tracy only had time to take a few steps back as a dark chasm opened directly before them. Steam vented up from the vast hole in the earth, in a wash of heat, and the smell of rotten eggs. The sound of displaced air, and the flapping of wings, heralded their arrival, as Lucifer and Azazel rose out of the pit in a mass of black feathers and well-tailored formal attire.
They landed lightly on the ground in front of Anathema and Madame Tracy. Lucifer made a hand-gesture behind them, and the chasm closed, leaving no evidence that it had ever been there at all.
"Hey, Anathema," Azazel said, her voice and aspect noticeably more feminine than it had been the last time they'd met. "You aren't going to hit me again, are you?"
"She isn't going to what?" Lucifer asked in a darkly threatening tone.
oOoOoOo
Crowley only just managed to stumble around the side of the tent, and out of sight, as Adam poked his head out of the opening, and the scent of sulfur wafted by on a warm breeze.
He ended up sprawled, in the wet grass, on his backside, and quickly struggled up into a standing position. He miracled away the damp patch on the back of his trousers, and tried to pretend that he still had some dignity left to maintain.
"I'm just going to check on everything," he heard Adam say. "I'll be right back."
Crowley smoothed down his suit, shot his cuffs, and after a deep breath, sauntered confidently around the side and into the tent.
Aziraphale looked up at the sound of him entering. His eyes crinkled, and his face softened, and he looked Crowley up and down as he favored him with that bright, angelic smile.
"Hey, angel," Crowley said, smirking. "Looking good."
Aziraphale looked down at his shoes- pleased little smile and a slight flush to his cheeks. "So do," he started, but then his head snapped up, and he gave Crowley a horrified look. "We aren't supposed to see each other before the ceremony!"
Crowley shrugged. "Aren't supposed to do a lot of things. It's never stopped us before."
"But it's bad luck, Crowley."
"Luck. Schmuck. I wanted to see you."
The look Aziraphale gave him then was the same one he'd given Crowley a million times before— an oh we shouldn't, and a you old serpent, and a temptation accomplished.
The look Crowley gave him back was the hungry look of a demon who knew that he'd won, and was about to reap the rewards of a bad job well done.
They closed the distance between them in an instant, and their lips met in a kiss that was tender and full of six millennia of denials, five years of practice, and an eternity of love.
oOoOoOo
While Yeshua assured his mother that he'd been eating properly, denied all wrongdoing, and assured her that he was quite capable of looking after himself, God just smiled knowingly to Herself.
