Aziraphale had somehow managed to book the entirety of the Ritz's William Kent House for the wedding reception. The three other bookings that had already been scheduled had miraculously needed to cancel just before he had called.
It was opulent in the extreme, and probably would have cost a normal person a fortune, but Aziraphale hadn't given the cost any thought at all. Such mundane matters as bills and finances always had a way of working themselves out when Crowley was involved.
There was more space in the 18th century townhouse than their small wedding party could possibly account for: with a grand hall, drawing room, three dining rooms, music room, and an outdoor garden terrace.
They would only be using one of the dining rooms, of course, but considering everyone that was involved, privacy had been of the utmost concern.
The valets were professionals. What's more, they were professionals who were familiar with Crowley and Aziraphale, so they didn't bat an eye when the large bus arrived, with strobing, interior, party lights, followed by the most stereotypically 60s,Volkswagen microbus imaginable, and a group of rowdy supernatural beings and assorted drunken mortals embarked from one, while two harassed looking men chivvied a couple of children out of the other. They merely exchanged a look of silent confirmation at the strangeness of the situation, and took charge of the vehicles, while their occupants chattered and made their way inside.
Bernard waited at the valet station while his two coworkers took care of the buses. He had been a valet, working for The Ritz, since 1988. That was 43 years of dealing with both Mr. Crowley and Mr. Crowley's rather temperamental 1926 Bentley.
The Ritz's wait staff got used to seeing their regular customers- knew what sorts of wine they preferred, their favorite dishes, got used to seeing couples together, and learned their names. It was the same way with the valets, except that it was the cars and not the people that they became familiar with. They knew if your Porche 911 smoked like a chimney from a faulty oil separator. They knew if your Jaguar XF had a sticky shift knob selector. They knew if you had your car serviced consistently. They knew if you were a smoker and left takeaway crumbs all over the passenger seat. They knew if you drove your McLaren like a complete and utter wanker, burned out the clutch in the first six months, and while you were quite happy with your status symbol and how rich everyone thought you were driving around in your McLaren, you didn't quite have the financial liquidity to shell out for the £10,000 repair to replace the gearbox.
Bernard was very familiar with The Bentley, and it had become The Bentley in his mind. All other Bentleys were just Bentleys, but Mr. Crowley's 1926 Bentley was The Bentley. Over the years of his employment, he'd gained the reputation as the only one who could manage to drive it with any reliable consistency. When Bernard had threatened to retire last year, his supervisor had begged, pleaded, wheedled, and eventually offered him a hefty bonus and salary raise to get him to stay—simply because no one else could drive The Bentley the short distance between The Ritz Dining Room and the parking garage that it employed.
Part of the problem, of course, was that, unbeknownst to Bernard or any of the other valets and staff, half of what kept The Bentley's engine happily chuntering away was simply Crowley's belief that his car was a fine tuned speed machine, and absent its owner and his demonic influence behind the steering wheel, The Bentley was simply less likely to cooperate under its own volition. The rest of it was merely that driving any car that was over a hundred years old was a much more involved process than most drivers, even professional ones, were trained to handle. The Bentley had a fighter jet's worth of toggle switches, knobs, and dials scattered across the dash to contend with. Bernard didn't think any of the other valets would even be able to start the engine—pull out two of the knobs to energize the coils, another knob to switch on the ignition, retard the ignition with one of the levers on the steering wheel boss, and set the hand throttle with the other, then turn the key and press the starter button to the left of the switch panel. Assuming it was running when some other uninitiated valet decided to try his hand at parking the great beast, they would still have to contend with all the idiosyncrasies of The Bentley's gear box—shifting and double-declutching early from first to second, give her some power and shift quick and smooth from second to third (up, right, up,) no flinching from third to fourth, just a hard straight pull down on the gearstick, and hold on to your hat.
It was what Bernard had called job security twenty years ago, and what he thought of as his personal cross to bear- now that he would rather be puttering around his shed and spending time with the grandkids on a well-earned pension. Still, she was a beautiful old car, a marvel of engineering, and she deserved to be treated like a lady. He didn't trust any of these new kids to open her doors.
Bernard didn't have to wait long. The Bentley rolled up with the final chorus of Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy, and her newlywed owner stepped out—looking as young as the day Bernard had first taken his keys, and happier than Bernard had ever seen him. Judging by the steam fogging up The Bentley's windows, he had good reason.
The other one, the fluffy haired companion turned husband, hung back, under the pretense of fussing with his suit, while Crowley gave Bernard the usual stern lecture about the proper level of care that should be taken with his vehicle and all the repercussions of not exercising the necessary caution. Bernard listened with the same bland and attentive expression that he always did, until Crowley had winded himself out.
Before Bernard could get behind the wheel of his charge though, the husband caught his arm. "Park it next to the Citroen, would you? Everyone deserves to find their own happiness, even cars."
Bernard was also familiar with The Citroen, though he wished that he wasn't. The Citroen wasn't a car. The Citroen was a C3 Pluriel that had been mistreated and beaten to a hairsbreadth away from being scrap metal. Why the young man who drove it kept the thing, when he regularly arrived in a Bughatti or a Lamborghini instead, was beyond comprehension. It must have some sentimental value to the kid.
Bernard just nodded and slipped past, with no intention whatsoever of parking The Bentley next to that dented up bucket of bolts, whatever reason Mr. Crowley's new husband had for suggesting such a sacrilegious notion.
oOoOoOo
Aziraphale and Crowley had scarcely stepped foot into the William Kent House's well appointed grand hall, with its dramatic, gilded, wrought iron, Victorian staircase, when they were met by Warlock Dowling.
He stood before them, glaring from the height of a fully-grown man now, instead of with the ire of an eleven-year-old boy, but the look was heartbreakingly familiar and completely unmistakable. "Nanny Ashtoreth," he said. "Brother Francis."
"We're so glad that you could make it," Aziraphale said happily, while Crowley had been struck dumb beside him, just staring. "You've grown into such a fine young man."
"I'm not the only one," he said, looking pointedly at Crowley. "Changed a lot, you said. Won't be exactly like I remembered, you said. Downplayed it a bit don't you think?"
Aziraphale's smile faltered under Warlock's displeasure. "We weren't quite sure how to explain everything in a letter."
"You could have at least tried," Warlock said. "You might have mentioned that the only reason you were even a part of my life was because you thought that I was the antichrist, and you were some kind of Christianic supernatural beings, and the moment that you realized I was just a normal kid, you ran out of there with your pointy tails on fire. I had to find out about all of it from some guy that I just met, who is apparently sort of my brother, but also the actual son of Satan."
"I've never had a tail," Aziraphale said.
Just as Crowley sniped, "Oh fantastic, you've been talking to Adam.
"Not just Adam," Warlock said. "I spent the ride over here getting hit on by Freddie fucking Mercury, while Jesus Christ turned my water into wine."
"Crowley has a tail," Aziraphale added, with his typical lack of care to the progression of the conversation. "When he's a snake, I mean. He's really all tail then, but I don't think it's ever been on fire."
"Glad you cleared that up," Warlock said. "Maybe you could explain why I haven't seen either of you in the last twelve years?"
"We rather thought that we'd done enough damage already," Aziraphale said, apologetically. "We didn't exactly give you a normal upbringing."
"And what about you, Nanny? Were you worried about my fragile child's psyche?"
Crowley shrugged. "Hell stopped arranging your father's appointments, and your family buggered off back to America. Besides, I thought it would be safer if you were off everyone's radar."
"I needed you." Warlock's disapproving tone broke on the words.
Crowley's voice softened into the voice of Nanny Ashtoreth. "I'm sorry, dear. I've missed you as well. I hadn't realized how much."
Warlock rushed him then, all at once, and pulled him into a tight embrace, burying his head against Crowley's chest just as he had as a child. Crowley bent into the hug, letting his nose rest against the top of Warlock's head. "There, there now, dear. None of that. What do I always say about tears?"
Warlock choked on a laugh. "You can't expect anyone to bow at your feet if they catch you crying all the time." He straightened up and rubbed at his eyes. "You know, my dad has it in his head that I'm going to run for the American presidency as soon as I'm old enough. I think he's had it planned since I was born. I'd always thought that was what you were talking about. Imagine my surprise when I actually met the President of the United States, when I was twelve, and no one was bowing at his feet. He didn't have a throne made of the skulls of his enemies. He didn't even have a sword. He was just my dad's weird boss."
"Do you want to be president?" Crowley asked. "We could make that happen. Fixing elections and successions is cake. How many have we done now, Aziraphale? Seventeen? Eighteen?"
"Oh, a score at least," Aziraphale said. "Mine were always for the betterment of mankind of course."
"Oh, is that what you call that time in France? The betterment of mankind?"
"I told you, I had nothing whatsoever to do with that. And, even if I had, any side-effects would have been completely outside of my control."
"That's okay," Warlock said. "I wouldn't go into politics for all the corporate payouts in China—not that I'll tell my dad that."
oOoOoOo
Bernard fluffed the brakes as he pulled around the corner in the parking garage, about to pull The Bentley into a reserved slot right at the front, with open, buffer spaces on either side. When the brakes didn't respond, he gave them a slightly more forceful push. When there was still no corresponding deceleration, he panicked and gave them a solid double-pump.
Instead of stopping, the engine revved a bit higher, and the steering wheel turned under his hands, of its own volition, as the car sped to the other side of the parking structure and came to a halt between a battered, silver, Citroen C3 Pluriel, and a Volkswagen Microbus.
Or, at least Bernard had thought it was a Pluriel, but his mind must have been playing tricks on him, because when he looked again it was a red, '66 Mustang.
Already shaken, he was further distressed when The Bentley similarly refused to acknowledge any of his attempts to turn the engine off. Bernard began to imagine all of the horrendous acts that Mr. Crowley had threatened him with over the years, should anything happen to his precious car.
The Mustang's radio suddenly started playing Wild, Wild Mustang—which really didn't help with Bernard's anxiety levels.
Then the Microbus chimed in with some Japanese poetry.
Take a ride with me.
Pleasure you wouldn't believe.
Machine of a dream.
The Bentley's stereo started then. This was an oddity in and of itself, since Bernard had never been able to figure out where Mr. Crowley had hidden it, despite the fact that he always had Queen blasting out loud enough to hear halfway down the street, when he pulled up.
The music selection was no different, nor was the volume. It blasted out the chorus of Too Much Love Will Kill You.
Too much love will kill you
If you can't make up your mind
Torn between the lover
And the love you leave behind
That was the point that Bernard decided that it was time to get out of the Bentley, whether the engine was still running or not.
As he slowly backed away, wondering why someone had stenciled 'Dick Turpin' across the back of the Microbus, it chimed out another haiku.
Our Hearts sing as one.
The stud duck may have two mates.
Could not we be three?
The radio in the Mustang started playing some pop song that seemed to be more about sex than automobile racing, at the same time Crazy Little Thing Called Love came out of The Bentley, and the Microbus started playing a Korean cover of Baby, You Can Drive My Car.
Beep beep, beep beep, yeah!
Bernard decided, right then, that his retirement was long overdue. It was obvious that The Bentley could look after itself.
oOoOoOo
After reconnoitering the first floor, and not finding any suitably secluded corners or cupboards, Adam had lured Oscar away from the others under the pretense of asking him about a painting upstairs. It was probably a flimsy excuse, as there was no way that he would have had the chance to see any of the paintings before, and couldn't possibly have questions about them. Adam just assumed that everyone would see through it and know what they were up to anyway.
He didn't care. It was the pretense that mattered, not the believability of the excuse. That was just basic manners. When you were dragging your new,19th century, playwright boyfriend off for a quickie in a cupboard, you made some vague excuse about oil paintings and Mona Lisa smiles. It was just the done thing.
There weren't any cupboards upstairs either, but being the Antichrist did have its perks, so Adam made them a cozy, little pocket universe in the shape of a walk-in cupboard with a sign on the door reading, 'Restricted Access,' and a comfortable chaise longue inside, and proceeded to demonstrate the comfort and versatility of elastic waistbands.
Crowley and Aziraphale had arrived by the time they reemerged and went downstairs, now looking as ruffled as either of the grooms, with smiles that were less subtle than Monsieur Da Vinci's masterpiece's.
Adam took up his best man duties again as they proceeded with the scheduled celebrations and tucked into the twelve-course dinner that Aziraphale had arranged, in great detail, with the Ritz's head chef.
It was around the salad course that Adam's happy feeling started to melt away again, replaced by anxiety and uncertainty at the conversation that he needed to have with his father. He knew that it would be best to just get it over with and let the chips fall where they may, but he also dreaded what Lucifer would have to say on the matter of Oscar, and Adam wanted to draw out this moment of happiness as long as he could—which might only be a matter of about eight more hours, by his count.
At least Lucifer and God seemed to be getting along. His father had stopped shooting furtive looks at Her to see if She was watching him, and God had stopped aggressively smiling at him.
Everyone seemed to be enjoying their meal. The food was every bit as good as you might expect, and the Ritz's chefs and staff had really pulled out all the stops for their favorite and oldest patrons. The wine and champagne were flowing freely. Everything was going better than any of them could have hoped for.
And then it was time for the speeches.
Yeshua was a little unsteady as he rose to his feet and raised his glass, calling for silence. "Hello everyone. I'm Yeshua, Crowley's best man." He cleared his throat.
"I met Crowley for the first time, outside a tavern in Capernaum, a couple millennia ago. He was massively drunk, in the guise of a woman, and he'd just stolen a legionnaire's helmet and was trying to hide it inside a wagon load of melons. I was… uh…" Yeshua cleared his throat again, shooting a furtive look at his parents. "Out for a stroll, and I happened to pass by, just as the owner of the cart of melons was stepping out of the tavern. I thought the wagoneer was going to horse whip this poor girl to within an inch of her life, so of course I intervened. I don't think I've ever given a better sermon about peace and forgiveness than I did that night.
"Now, I had no idea, at the time, that I was helping a demon while he was about his evil deeds, and undoubtedly Crowley could have handled the situation on his own, but I just saw a woman in need of assistance, and I wanted to help. Imagine my surprise, when all is said and done, when the woman in question, instead of thanking me for my help, thrusts the helmet into my hands, and runs away, just as a very angry, very drunken, legionnaire steps out of the same tavern to see what all the ruckus was about—minus his helmet, of course.
Yeshua paused, looking thoughtful. "Okay, so maybe my sermon to the wagoneer was the second best speech I ever made about peace and forgiveness.
"I ran into Crowley again a few years later, when I knew exactly who and what he was. I'd been warned that Hell would send its forces to tempt me, and I suppose Crowley tried, in his way. But, I was expecting some cruel and disgusting creature, crawled up from the depths, to offer me power, and corrupted pleasure. Instead, what I got was Crowley."
Yeshua looked over at his friend. Crowley shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and shot a wary glance between Lucifer and Yeshua. Yeshua smirked, worryingly.
"I'm not so sure that my first impression of Crowley was so far off. Instead of offering power, Crowley showed me the world. He tempted me with everything that I was giving up, and in the process showed me everything that I was sacrificing myself for. And, instead of some scheming demon, tempting me with evil, I spent three of the most enjoyable years of my life in the company of a demon who couldn't control his camel, was more interested in enjoying the fruits of humanity than poisoning the apples, and spent his evenings getting drunk and rambling about all of God's creatures and complaining about angels. In short, he was terrible at his job, and one of the best friends I ever had."
Lucifer was giving Crowley an angry look now, while Crowley determinedly looked anywhere other than at his former boss.
"It wasn't until a few months ago that I realized that all of Crowley's complaints about angels were really about one angel in particular." Yeshua turned his attention to Aziraphale. "Aziraphale, you are as little like what I have come to expect from angels, as Crowley is unlike what I might have expected from a demon. I don't think I ever really understood Crowley until I saw the two of you together. You're like two planks cut from the same tree, one stained dark, and one light, but you can't appreciate the beauty of the grain, until you hold them side by side to see where they match."
Yeshua raised his glass. "I wish you another six thousand years of love and companionship on this beautiful planet you've made your home, and I'm honored to have laid witness to your unconventional partnership."
There was applause and the raising of glasses, as all assembled toasted the grooms, and Crowley looked relieved that Yeshua was finished speaking.
Adam took his turn to stand, and looked disbelievingly at Yeshua. "A plank of wood? Really? That's the best you could come up with? I have to say, Yeshua, not your finest parable. Though, I could see how you might mistake either of them for a plank of wood, since some days I wonder which one has more brain cells."
He turned to look at the grooms. "You two are two halves of the same idiot, and I can't imagine how either one of you would have turned out, without the other. You're the two single most co-dependent people that I've ever met. And, I cannot begin to express how relieved I am that you've finally admitted it, officially, in front of everyone.
"I was eleven when I met both of you, and even at that tender age, with everything else going on, on the verge of bringing about Armageddon, I just assumed that you were already married.
"But, no. Six thousand years. Six thousand years, you made him wait, Aziraphale.
"Crowley, you may have been a demon, but you have the patience of a saint, and, Aziraphale, with all the hours you clocked in on that temptation, my father should be giving you a commendation.
"Six thousand years!" Adam shook his head in disbelief. "But, here you are. I don't know if you resigned, quit, or you were fired, but whatever that was, you did it in the most dramatic way possible, and here you are, free agents, on your own side, married with rings on your fingers, and Aziraphale even has a six pence in his glass slipper, so it may have taken six thousand years, but you finally did it.
"And, I can see that Aziraphale is going to discorporate we don't cut that gigantic, fancy cake pretty soon, so I'll wrap this up.
"While we're on the subject of bad parables, Yeshua. It may be easier for Crowley to ride a camel through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, but Aziraphale would watch his bookshop burn to the ground, while Crowley destroyed his own Bentley, before either of them would ever give up on the other."
Adam raised his glass. "So, here's to six thousand years of not giving up, and the cake to prove it."