Adam felt just the tiniest bit guilty about pawning his pseudo-brother off on Yeshua (even more so when he found Yeshua, with Freddie, in the middle of both a bottle of cheap wine and an involved conversation about cats, but he really wanted a chance to spend some more time with Oscar before the night was over.
He shot a glance over at him, sitting at the back of the bus with an open seat beside him, held up one finger to beg off for another moment, and moved back to the front of the bus, where Pepper, Wensleydale, and Brian were sitting.
"Do you mind playing chauffeur again, Pep?" he asked, jingling the Citroen's keys at her.
"This is a bus, Adam."
Adam looked around, as if he needed to verify the validity of that statement. "Yes," he said.
"I'm not licensed to drive a bus."
"You're not going to get a citation, Pepper. I think that between the lot of us, we can manage to dissuade the cops."
"I don't know how to drive a bus, Adam."
"It isn't that hard. It's just like a car, only bigger."
"Let me put this another way: I'm NOT driving a bus through Central London."
"Wensleydale?" Adam asked, giving the keys another jingle.
Wensleydale shrunk back into his seat. "No way, Adam. I don't even like driving a car in London. There's no way I'm driving this thing."
Adam sighed and looked at Brian skeptically.
"I'll do it," Brian said.
Adam didn't hand him the keys. Pepper and Wensleydale looked on in trepidation.
"What?" Brian asked.
"You're a terrible driver," Pepper told him, not bothering with the modicum of tact that Adam had been trying to work into his response.
"Me?" Brian asked. "Have you ridden with Adam?"
"I'm an excellent driver," Adam protested.
"He is, actually," Wensleydale said. "I still find the excessive speed and aggressive overtaking disconcerting, but his reflexes and spacial perception make up for his lack of self preservation."
"And what about me?"
"You drive like a ten-year-old who stole his grandfather's car, to go joyriding, and can't quite see over the dash, or reach the pedals."
Brian furrowed his brow. "I'm not that bad…"
Adam looked to Pepper again, eyes pleading. "Please."
"Absolutely not."
"I'm going to give the keys to Brian." He slowly started moving his hand in that direction, not breaking eye contact. "See, look. In just a moment, Brian is going to be driving this bus, full of all these innocent people. Well… mostly innocent… mostly people."
"I'm not doing it, Adam," Pepper said firmly, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Fine," Adam said. "Have it your way." He tossed the keys to Brian.
Pepper's hand shot out to intercept, and snatched them out of the air. "I hate you," she grumbled.
"You do not. I'm adorable."
"You're the spawn of Satan."
"Your mom gave birth to you at a weird commune. You don't see me holding it against you, do you? Pippin Galadriel Moonchild?" Adam winced in reflex, even as the words left his mouth, though it had been several years since pugilism had been Pepper's instinctual response to the sound of her given name.
She rose to her feet, smoothed her hands over her suit and said. "Straight into the Thames, Adam," she warned.
Adam grinned. "If you're planning to put us in the river, you might as well let Brian drive."
He left Pepper to figure out how to drive the bus and started making his way back toward Oscar.
oOoOoOo
Aziraphale gasped out as he slumped back into the Bentley's rear seat. For a moment, he thought that the way the world seemed to be blurring around them was caused by the aftershocks of whatever Crowley had just done to him—talk about making the Earth move. He was still hazily recovering some semblance of coherent thought, when he slowly came to the realization that it wasn't just the mind-blowing orgasm that made it feel like they were hurtling through London at improbable speeds.
"Dearest?" Aziraphale asked.
"Hmmm?" Crowley was slumped into the seat beside him, and didn't even open his eyes.
"Who's driving the car?"
Crowley slowly opened his eyes and sat up enough to look around. "'S driving itself," he said, and slumped back down, this time on top of Aziraphale—snuggling in to wrap, what seemed like more limbs than a bipedal, human-shaped being should possess, around him.
"Is that not a cause for concern?"
"Naw. It does that now. Kidnapped Freddie last night. Just made off with him. No idea what it was thinking. I had to track them down in that horrible little car that Anathema's husband drives."
Aziraphale remained motionless as he processed this, and Crowley snuggled, contentedly, tighter against him—like a constrictor who'd fallen desperately in love with his next meal.
"Do you think that we should be concerned?" Aziraphale asked.
"Concerned 'bout what?"
"That the Bentley has suddenly decided that kidnapping people is acceptable behavior," Aziraphale said. "We do have a wedding reception to get to, and all of our guests. It wouldn't do to be late, or… not arrive at all."
"The Bentley isn't going to kidnap us. It just got a bit too emotionally invested in Freddie, and lost its senses for a bit. Everything is back to normal now. Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"The old girl might be a little infatuated with Adam's Citroen, but I've put a stop to it." Crowley raised his voice, addressing the Bentley now. "Any car of mine is going to have better taste."
Aziraphale bristled, indignant on the Bentley's behalf. "Don't you think that its taste is something the Bentley ought to be able to work out for itself?"
"I think I'm going to buy you a car," Crowley said.
Aziraphale had been busy picturing the look of disgust on Gabriel's face whenever his association with Crowley was up for discussion, and imagining what kinds of things Heaven might have to say about his own tastes, and Crowley's seeming non sequitur brought him up short. "You know that I don't drive."
"It can be a wedding present. Something with a little class, a little speed, nice lines, a whole lot of style."
"I don't drive, and that doesn't sound as though it would suit me at all. What's wrong with the Bentley?"
"Nothing is wrong with the Bentley. It just needs to find another car its own speed, something a little more up its alley. I don't think you'd actually need to drive the car, if you're so opposed. You could just sit in it and read, or something, if you want. Care for it like one of your books—like some valuable first edition that you have to keep in mint condition. Wax it on Sundays. Get it detailed once a year. Then, in half a century or so, enough of your power will have rubbed off on it to make it a suitable companion for the Bentley."
"Crowley, are you proposing an arranged marriage for your car?"
"Why not? The humans have been doing it for ages, and it seems to work out okay for them."
"Not always."
"No, well, not always, but don't you think the Bentley deserves a better option than whatever that underpowered, commuter monstrosity that Pulsifer drives is, or a Citroen C3 Pluriel?"
"Uh…" Aziraphale sat up, causing Crowley to flop awkwardly aside. He could point out each of the minor differences between the first and second printing of any given Wilde of Wodehouse first edition, but when it came to automobiles he was completely at sea. "Are those… bad cars?"
"The worst," Crowley agreed.
"I see," Aziraphale said. "Well, we wouldn't want the old girl to be fraternizing with the wrong sort, now would we?"
"Exactly," Crowley agreed. "Wait… was that meant to be a jibe at me?"
"I have no idea what you mean."
oOoOoOo
Adam was working his way toward the back of the bus, and Oscar, as Pepper navigated them jerkily out of the car park. As the bus took a hard turn around the corner, he didn't grip the seat to stabilize himself quickly enough, and found himself dumped unceremoniously into God's lap.
"Oh, fuck! Sorry, Gran," he mumbled as he tried to right himself.
"You're forgiven," She said in a way that seemed to permeate deep down into whatever he had instead of a soul, and leave a warm safe feeling in its wake.
"Ah, yeah. Right. Thanks."
"I've been wanting to talk with you, anyway."
Adam found himself sitting in the empty seat across the aisle from God, before he'd made any conscious decision to do so. He shot a look back over his shoulder to Oscar, apologetically.
"Have you met Miriam?" She asked, gesturing to the woman beside her.
"Ah, no. Yeshua's mum, right? Pleasure to meet you, ma'am."
"I was very interested in meeting you," The Virgin Mary said. "You look very much like your father."
"Er, thanks, I guess…" Adam rubbed at the back of his neck uncomfortably. "You look a lot like Yeshua."
"Yes, I think he favors me over his Father."
Adam glanced at God, seeing no family resemblance whatsoever.
She smiled at him. "Technically, all men are created in My image, but as I have no true corporeal form, it makes discussing genetic similarities a bit tricky."
"I wasn't, uh,… questioning his paternity."
"Of course not."
"You said there was something that you wanted to talk to me about," Adam prompted.
"I just wanted to let you know how pleased I am that you're taking a more active role in Hell."
"An active role?"
"Yes. You've been spending much more time in the pits lately, and you've been expending a great deal of creative power. I'm happy to see that you're easing into your responsibilities."
"I'm," Adam started, but he didn't want to just keep repeating everything that God said. "You mean with Dilly?"
God's smile strained at the edges. "Ah, yes, the dinosaur."
"I made him a habitat," Adam defended. "I'm not down there torturing anyone."
"I think Duke Hastur would disagree."
"He's a demon. He's being punished for trying to kill me. I didn't decide on the punishment. I'm just feeding my dinosaur."
"Nor does your father pass judgment on the mortals. He merely performs a function."
"There's another thing," Adam said. "I've looked over the ledgers. Some of the sins people are being punished for down there aren't even proper sins anymore, if they ever were. And I don't think you're playing fair with everyone. Freddie's committed at least a dozen Second Circle worthy offenses in the last week."
"I don't judge them either," God said. "They judge themselves. Freddie has an arrangement with his partner. He feels no guilt over what he has done. He does not see any of his actions as a transgression, therefore he does feel that he should be punished for them."
"Meanwhile, Oscar had the poor fortune of being born into the wrong century, so he's doomed to an eternity of torment—just another victim of circumstance."
"Ah, yes, Oscar." She glanced to the back of the bus, fixing her consideration on him. "The two of you have become quite close."
"Yes. We have."
God looked back at him, Her open eyes seeming to see right through him. "You should know that he's become as fond of you as you are of him."
Adam stiffened. "I don't need you to tell me that."
"No?" She raised a brow at him. "It's good to see you're so confident. That should make things easier."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You'll have some difficult decisions to make before the night is over—your own test of conscience. I wonder if you'll make the right choice. It does make things interesting to see what happens when My creations possess both power and free will. Aziraphale: and Crowley have just used theirs to get married. I wonder what you'll do with yours."
"Yeah, great, Gran. Cryptic as ever. Glad we had this chat."
Adam started to rise to his feet, but She put a hand on his arm to stop him.
"Come to speak with me again when the night is over. If you choose what I think you will, I have a gift for you."
"And if I don't do what you expect?" Adam asked. "You might remember that I don't have a great track record with meeting others' expectations."
"We'll just have to see what the night brings," She said.
"Sure. It was nice talking to you, as always," he said drily.
"I do hear your prayers," She said.
Prayers? Adam thought in disbelief. What prayers? He didn't think he'd ever prayed in his life.
"Even when you don't know that you're doing it," She added.
"That's creepy," Adam said, pointing at Her. "Do you know how creepy that is? And rude. Stay out of my head."
"Hazards of the occupation, I'm afraid." She gave him an apologetic smile.
"Maybe you should find another line of work."
"Do you think so?" She tilted Her head to the side. "I always thought that I would make an excellent blackjack dealer."
Adam snorted. "Not sure that would be much of a change. The house always wins." With that, he continued on his way.
He very nearly made it back to Oscar this time, snagging a bottle of brandy from the bar that Madame Tracy was busy ransacking to make some complicated cocktail, and passing by Yeshua and Freddie telling Warlock about the stag night, when he was stopped again—this time by his father.
"What did He want?" Lucifer asked.
Adam sighed. "The fuck if I know. Apparently She's happy that I'm taking a more active role in Hell."
Adam watched as his father's face made a complicated dance of processing the fact that he agreed with God about something.
"I'll catch up with you later," he said, before he could be dragged into any complicated family politics. "Pepper is threatening to drive us into the Thames again, and I want to be closer to the emergency exit, if she does."
Adam eased past, and slid into the empty seat beside Oscar. He slumped over against him and let out a relieved sigh.
"Having a difficult day?" Oscar asked.
Adam turned his face in against Oscar's jacket, inhaled slowly, and sat up straighter. "Actually, everything has gone better than I expected. Aziraphale and Crowley are married. No one is dead." Adam winced, and met Oscar's eyes apologetically.
"Oh, rest assured, I feel quite alive at the moment." He slid a hand over Adam's thigh at the same time he gestured over to where Death was sitting—with Anathema of all people. "Your skeletal friend, there, is the one I'd be worried about. He isn't looking too good."
Adam snickered.
oOoOoOo
The bus, that was sometimes a battered Citroen, made its way steadily from Battersea Park to The Ritz.
Somewhere, deep inside the inner workings of its gears and pistons, it was dreaming of slipping into the form of a sporty, two-seater, convertible—the automotive equivalent of putting on that one red dress that you keep for special occasions. Or maybe something with a little muscle, but no less sex appeal- a candy apple red, '66 mustang, with a 289 V8. That would be just the thing for a night on the town with a dark and handsome classic Bentley.
Above, the Heavenly Host drilled and practiced their manoeuvres. Requisition forms were being filled out and filed, as weapons were honed distributed, and the angels, in their multitudinous ranks, readied for war.
Below, the Hellish Hoard massed in their seething millions, practicing their battle cries as they made ready their second (or was it third?) glorious rebellion. Dagon, lord of the files, responded to queries about weapon requisitions with eccentric creativity. Teeth gnashed, sores oozed, and their odd assortment of blades went snicker snack.