The cake was five tiers high, an elegant construction of lacey, white, buttercream frosting. The top tier had been made to look like the planet Earth, with the two figures atop standing in a spot of green frosting shaped like Great Britain. Rather than the typical wedding garb, one of the figures wore a very familiar suit (purchased in 1839, from a decidedly disagreeable tailor) and the other wore tight black trousers, a tailored black jacket, and a thin scarf (stolen, at a party, from Mick Jagger in 1972.) Both figures had black and white, alternating, feathers in their wings, and the little Crowley stood with his arms wrapped around the little Aziraphale, face buried into the fluffy, white curls atop his head.
None of the members of the wedding party had mentioned it, but every single one of them had had the same thought, upon seeing the cake topper: thank God they didn't recreate the "wrestling" statue.
A more accurate thought might have been: thank God that Crowley didn't think of that.
As it was, the cake was lovely, romantic, and the topper could be reasonably categorized as safe for work.
Crowley and Aziraphale stood before it, hands entwined over the handle of the cake knife, while the photographer snapped pictures of them.
"It's so lovely," Aziraphale whispered. "I almost hate to cut it."
"You can't eat it unless we cut it," Crowley pointed out.
"You mean, you can't watch me eat it."
"You can hardly have one without the other." Crowley applied a bit of pressure to the knife.
"Oh, we're just doing it then," Aziraphale said in a slightly distressed tone, as the knife started to cut into the frosting at the bottommost tier of the cake.
"You can look away if it's too much for you, angel," Crowley whispered into his ear in a low hiss.
Aziraphale didn't look away, as the blade cut first one slice into the perfect frosting, and then a second, removing a wedge of the cake to place it onto a ready plate.
"You are going to at least try it, aren't you dear?" Aziraphale asked.
"You know I don't care for sweets."
"That isn't entirely true."
"Well.." Crowley drew the word out reluctantly. "You taste it first then." He took up a forkful of the cake, heavy with frosting, and held it out to Aziraphale.
Aziraphale licked his lips, and leaned in with anticipation.
Just as the morsel was about to reach his lips, the trajectory of the cake changed, and Crowley instead smeared it across the side of Aziraphale's mouth.
Aziraphale spluttered in shock, though he really should have been expecting it, but before he could say anything, Crowley was leaning in to kiss him, and flick his forked tongue out to taste the frosting.
"Delicious," he said, in a sibilant hiss, as he pulled back.
Aziraphale looked at him with exasperated fondness, as he licked some of the remaining frosting from the corner of his mouth.
oOoOoOo
Their first dance was not a gavotte, nor was it a particularly well rehearsed waltz. Crowley's continual insistence that he knew how to dance, coupled with a reticence to attend the dancing lessons that Aziraphale had insisted on, had resulted in one very abbreviated session with a ballroom dancing instructor that had started with an argument over who should lead, and ended with Aziraphale sporting bruised toes and the instructor having no memories of the last hour.
Crowley, wisely, let Aziraphale lead him around the dancefloor this time, and followed his steps, as the band played a rendition of God Only Knows that was more David Bowie thanThe Beach Boys.
"Did you really have to pick this song?" Crowley asked.
"I thought you liked it."
"I… never said that."
"But you do."
"Yeah, well… 'S alright."
"Then what's the problem?"
"God only knows what I'd be without you? Bit of a heavy-handed political statement, given present company, innit? Like to have them at each other's throats."
"Going to dip you," Aziraphale warned, as he was doing it.
"Gah," Crowley complained, as he writhed like a Hognose snake playing dead, and struggled to keep his balance.
Aziraphale pulled him back up, a bit too forcefully, and Crowley was flung into his arms. They swayed a little as the final refrain of God only knows what I'd be without you, came gently from the singer on the stage, and Aziraphale kissed Crowley in the soft light of the dancefloor.
oOoOoOo
"Look how smug He looks," Lucifer said. "As though all of this were His idea."
Azazel shrugged. "Maybe it was."
"Whose side are you on?"
"Yours," Azazel said. "Always."
oOoOoOo
"Lucifer is staring at You again," Miriam observed.
"I know," God said, unnecessarily.
"You should just go and talk to him."
"He is perfectly capable of coming to talk to Me, if he decides that he has anything he wants to say."
"But…," Miriam hedged.
"I already know everything that he wants to say, but he can't possibly have any idea how I feel about it?"
"Well,… yes."
"He is always welcome to ask."
Miriam sighed.
oOoOoOo
Warlock had been sticking close to The Them since the start of dinner. As far as he could tell, they were the only other strictly non-supernatural guests at the wedding—unless you counted the children, or the two odd blokes who said they were retired members of The Witchfinder Army, (which had apparently been a successful line of work, as they had both married witches,) and Warlock wasn't sure that he did.
The Them seemed normal enough, despite being best friends with the Antichrist. Pepper and Wensleydale were both at university (gender studies, and engineering respectively,) and Brian had a hugely entertaining repertoire of stories from his various forays into alternative employment.
As the evening progressed, Warlock was glad that he'd drunk Jesus's wine. He was happily buzzed, feeling loose and relaxed, and he was really starting to enjoy himself. He'd made a few new friends, and watching Nanny and Brother Francis interact as themselves, though strange at first, was about the most adorable thing he'd ever seen. They were so obviously head-over-heels in love, and it made Warlock feel like there was hope for him too.
He surreptitiously glanced at Pepper out of the corner of his eye, as the band's singer invited everyone out onto the dancefloor. She was laughing at something Brian had just said, head tilted back, and her dark curls bouncing.
Warlock opened his mouth, about to ask if she wanted to dance, but he snapped it closed again, as she started to take requests for another round from the bar.
"Yeah," Warlock said, both disappointed and relieved. "Make mine a double."
oOoOoOo
"Care for a dance?" Oscar asked.
Adam grimaced. "Not just yet. I want to talk to my parents, before they actually see us together. Just… let me work up the courage."
"You think they'll disapprove, then?"
"No, just…. Just give me a bit. The whole thing is… it's complicated. I'll… Just give me a bit."
"A bit of Dutch courage, then?"
"Yes, please."
Oscar brushed Adam's arm lightly as he left, and Adam watched him as he crossed the room toward the bar.
Five more minutes. He'd give himself five minutes, and a quick drink, and then he'd talk to Lucifer. There had to be something that he could do about Oscar, and if he couldn't, then Adam would go over his head. He didn't care what God had to say about humanity deciding on their own damnation. That was a load of rubbish. If his Grandmother could create the Heavens and the Earth, then She could give Oscar a fucking pardon.
But, Adam had a sneaking suspicion of just what She would demand as repayment for that sort of favor, and he wasn't going to walk into that conversation lightly. He'd do it, if he needed to, for Oscar. He'd mostly come to terms with the idea that, sooner or later, he'd be down in Hell, clocking in the overtime, but admitting it felt too much like giving in—too much like losing.
oOoOoOo
Crowley and Aziraphale had been joined by a few other couples on the dancefloor: Madame Tracy and a nonplussed Shadwell, Newton with Agnes, demanding to be spun and twirled around, God leading Miriam around, at an appropriately chaste distance (their son would have easily fit between them,) and Lucifer and Azazel, who didn't even leave room for a spare atom between them, and only avoided merging into one being by dint of opposing electromagnetic force of the electrons in their corporeal bodies and the basic rules of physics—which they would have chosen to ignore, if they had understood them.
Despite the awkwardness of their close proximity, Azazel followed Lucifer gracefully in this vertical representation of a horizontal desire.
She slid her leg up, over Lucifer's hip, as he dipped her back, and she caught sight of Adam, standing alone off to the side of the dancefloor.
Lucifer pulled her back up, and she pressed herself to him again, caressing the side of his neck and down the length of his arm with a graceful brush of her hand. His breath was hot in her ear, and she shivered with anticipated pleasure, even as her thoughts had changed focus to concern for her son.
"I wish Adam had found someone to dance with," she said. "I really hoped that he would meet someone new at the wedding, but Crowley and Aziraphale really kept the guest list to the bare minimum, didn't they?"
"He's handsome enough, if he really wanted someone, he wouldn't be here alone," Lucifer whispered into her ear, pausing to suck at her earlobe—not at all distracted by the plight of Adam's love life. "I expect he's still getting over Marcie, or Martha, or whatever her name is."
"Well, that's an idea." Azazel brightened. "Where did Pepper get off to?"
"What's an idea?" Lucifer asked, but Azazel was already pulling away from him.
oOoOoOo
"How have things been going with Adam?" Pepper asked, as she and Oscar both waited at the bar.
"In what regard?" Oscar asked, carefully blasé.
"In regard to the fact that you two are sneaking off upstairs together with stupid excuses, and coming back looking like you've just shagged in a cupboard."
Oscar was taken aback by her bored tone and unabashed directness, and he faltered in his response. "The painting… I…"
Pepper turned to give him an unimpressed look, and Oscar straightened indignantly.
"I think that that is between the two of us." Oscar said in lieu of the flimsy excuse that he'd failed to invent.
"Okay," Pepper said. "Just, you know… I have a shovel, and you're already dead, so no jury in the world would be able to convict me."
"Is that meant to be a threat, so I'll stay away from him? Because, I have to say, given the circumstances, you're not the one that I'm afraid of."
Pepper sighed and gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "If you hurt him, you dolt. If you hurt him, no one will ever find the body. Geez, didn't they have the shovel talk where you come from?"
"Ah," Oscar cleared his throat. "I see."
Pepper's demeanor had changed completely, and she gave him a good-natured, pitying smile, and bumped her shoulder against his arm. "So, it's going well?"
"I suppose. He's working up the courage to discuss my situation with his father."
Pepper sucked in a hiss of breath through her teeth. "That'll be interesting."
The bartender came over with Pepper's drink order, and she struggled to pick up all four drinks. She'd been expecting Warlock to come along to help, when she'd offered to get them all another round. They had been flirting all through dinner, and she definitely wasn't imagining his interest. Boys could be so thick sometimes.
"Good luck," she told Oscar, meaning it. It had been a long time since she'd seen Adam so happy. Sure, it was strange that he'd finally found that with Oscar Wilde of all people, but it was also completely like Adam to flout all convention and rebound from his quite appropriate, pleasant, uncomplicated girlfriend, with similar academic and career goals, to a deceased, 18th Century, Irish writer, who had availability issues—primarily the fact that he was dead and condemned to an eternity in Hell. But, Pepper wished them both the best of it, and Adam really did thrive on complications and adversity, so maybe it would all work out.
Speaking of which, Pepper had hardly taken two steps away from Oscar, when Azazel popped out in front of her, wearing a dress that would have looked more appropriate at a brothel than a wedding.
"Do you have Adam's keys?" she asked.
"Hello, Azazel. How are you? Nice dress. Don't think I've ever seen you rocking the feminine look before."
"Yes, yes," Azazel waved it off. "Hello, Pepper. Keys?"
"What do you want them for?"
"I'm doing a good deed."
Pepper snorted. "I'll bet."
"It's a wedding." Azazel shrugged. "Besides, it's for Adam."
Pepper raised an eyebrow, still skeptical. "And, does he know that you're stealing his car?"
"Borrowing."
Pepper continued to look at her with her skeptical eyebrow.
"No," Azazel admitted, "but it wouldn't be a surprise if I ask."
"Well, I don't have them anyway—just the valet ticket. It's in my pocket, but my hands are a bit full at the moment. Why don't you help me carry-"
But, Pepper's suggestion to assist her with her burden of alcohol was cut off, as Azazel unceremoniously began to pat Pepper down and started sticking her hands into pockets.
"Excuse me!" Pepper snapped affronted, nearly spilling the drinks, but when Azazel still didn't stop her invasive search, Pepper growled, "the inside pocket of my waistcoat."
Azazel stopped feeling her ass, and Pepper's face darkened with suppressed rage, as she instead slid a hand in, over Pepper's breast, to retrieve the paper slip from inside Pepper's waistcoat.
Azazel grinned, holding it up, completing oblivious to Pepper's indignation.
"You and I are going to have a long discussion about body autonomy and what sorts of things might be considered sexual assault."
"Sure, thanks, Pepper," Azazel said, and hurried off toward the exit on her ridiculously high heels.
Pepper closed her eyes and sighed. Explaining sexual harassment to an incubus, (or maybe, tonight, it was succubus,) would be like trying to explain color to someone who was blind from birth.
oOoOoOo
The archangel Gabriel ducked behind a pillar in the Grand Hall, just in time, as Lucifer's consort strode through the double doors leading into the ballroom.
"Get off me, you arszehole," a familiar voice buzzed, as he encountered something soft and squishy.
He turned, blinking, and was met with the glowing, red eyes of a giant fly. He shifted his gaze downward to see instead the enraged, pixie face of his demonic counterpart. "Beelzebub," he said, grinning. "What are you doing here?"
"The szame thing asz you, I imagine."
Gabriel's face fell, as he remembered his duty, and he straightened to his full height and smoothed the breast of his suit, putting on a look of professionally courteous disinterest. "Ah, yes. The time for glorious battle is upon us."
Beelzebub rolled their eyes. "My forczes are prepared. If you're ready, we need only inform our masztersz that everything isz arranged, and I can finally do to you what I've been dreaming about for eternity."
Gabriel smirked. "If I recall correctly, I was the one doing the pinning, the last time we wrestled."
"It'sz going to be my blade in your crotczh, thisz time."
Gabriel tilted his head to the side. "I think the throat would be more affective, but then I suppose you can't reach."
Beelzebub buzzed out an amused laugh. "Of coursze it would." They tipped Gabriel a sardonic salute before sauntering out from behind the pillar. "Szee you on the battlefield, Gabe. We'll just szee who comesz out on top thisz time. I think I've had a bit more practicze."
Gabriel frowned after them, wondering what that was supposed to mean. He'd held the Heavenly Wrestling Championship title for the last several millennia. If Hell was holding their own competitions, then they should have been competing intermurally. Gabriel wouldn't have minded a chance to get Beelzebub on the mat again. The tiny demon had been savage, even as an angel. But, oh well, it was a moot point now. The end was finally here, and he'd have his chance to meet them on the battlefield before the night was over, in a more permanent test of skill.