When Crowley heard Yeshua behind them, he lit up like the sun and spun around to scoop the Christ up into a tight hug. Aziraphale looked on in horror as they exchanged a brief kiss of the type that was fairly common between friends in the old days, but was not at all a standard form of greeting by today's standards. Crowley pulled back, and held him at arm's length to get a good look at him.
Jesus wore the same body that he had the last time they had seen him, though it bore no signs of the mutilations that he had been subjected to during his crucifixion. He was dressed in modern clothing- a pair of jeans and a black, hooded sweatshirt. With his long hair bound in a messy bun atop his head, and his full beard, he could fit right in with the young people that Aziraphale had noticed roaming the streets in packs in recent years—listening to alternative music, and drinking expensive designer coffee. Aziraphale might have tried to phase out the subculture as one of his projects for the betterment of humanity, they had a pretentious air of feigned intellect that he found distasteful, but they were his biggest step forward in his desire to make tartan fashionable again.
Crowley and Yeshua spoke in rapid-fire Aramaic—Crowley gesturing around wildly. Aziraphale just stood there awkwardly, only understanding one word in ten. He hadn't spoken Aramaic regularly since leaving Jerusalem for Rome. Truthfully, he was surprised that Crowley remembered.
When they finally stopped talking and just stood there grinning at one another, Aziraphale said, "Do you mind if we use the Queen's English? My Aramaic is a bit rusty. I could probably manage Hebrew or Latin, if you prefer."
"English is fine," Jesus said with no hint of an accent. "You must be the angel."
"Former angel," Aziraphale corrected.
"This is Aziraphale," Crowley said.
Aziraphale noticed that Crowley hadn't introduced him as his lover, or partner, or consort. No, it was just 'Aziraphale,' not even my Aziraphale.
"Pleased to meet you," Jesus said, extending his arm.
Aziraphale reached his hand out to shake, and fumbled the exchange, when Jesus went to clasp his forearm instead of shaking his hand.
"Actually, we've met," Aziraphale said, "in Capernaum, a year or two before the," he gestured randomly, "…you know."
"Ah yes," Yeshua said, "I think I do remember. Didn't I ask you to be one of my apostles?"
Aziraphale flushed. "You did, a bit, yes."
"But you refused," Yeshua continued, "said that you were busy that week."
"Well, yes, I-"
"Couldn't possibly leave at the moment, you said, had a meeting with an Eastern trader to look at some scrolls."
"They were a very lucky find," Aziraphale defended, looking embarrassed, "early Shang Dynasty. You didn't see that sort of thing hit the markets that far west in those days."
"It's all right, angel," Crowley said, eyes sparkling with delight. "I'm sure you didn't miss much. They wrote a few books about it, I think. I'm sure you were able to get the highlights."
Aziraphale bristled. "I was there for the important bits."
"I'm sorry about the matzah," Crowley said to Yeshua then. "Closed for the Sabbath. I guess they didn't get the memo about the schedule change. We'll come back tomorrow, and you can give them the good word- tell them the parable of the man who hasn't eaten in two-thousand years."
"Each man must find his own path to God," Yeshua said. "Besides, I just had matzah with my last meal. What I could really go for is some-"
"Bacon," Crowley broke in excitedly before he could finish. "I made you a whole pig's worth. It's back at the flat."
They both broke into laughter.
"A pig's worth of burnt charcoal," Aziraphale muttered under his breath while he looked on in discomfort. He still thought the whole matzah and bacon thing was rather disrespectful.
"Come on, let's head back," Crowley said, still grinning like he almost never did. He wrapped one arm over each of their shoulders and turned them up the street to make their way back toward the bookshop.
oOoOoOo
Aziraphale looked on in disbelief as Yeshua worked his way steadily through the plate of burnt black bacon with obvious signs of enjoyment.
"So, what have you been up to for the last two thousand years?" Crowley asked.
Yeshua shrugged. "Not a whole lot," he said between bites. "I mostly give comfort to the souls of the recently departed, help them adjust. I just got a television fifty years back, or so. That's been fantastic. I've learned all about what's been going on down here. I get every channel on Earth. It's very informative."
The son of God talks with his mouth full, Aziraphale noted. Apparently he's been watching American sitcoms.
"Television!" Crowley said, eagerly. "That was one of mine. What's your favorite show?"
"I quite like Star Trek," Yeshua said. "If I have time, I'd like to visit San Francisco and see the Star Fleet Academy."
Crowley opened his mouth and closed it again, then tilted his head to the side.
Yeshua cackled, actually cackled. "I'm just joshing you, Crawly. I know the difference between drama and news."
Crowley smiled. "It's getting smaller every day."
"He's changed it," Aziraphale interrupted.
"The news?" Yeshua asked.
"His name. It isn't Crawly anymore. It's Crowley, Anthony J. Crowley."
"What does the J. stand for?" Yeshua asked.
"Doesn't matter," Crowley said, turning a bit pink. He adjusted his sunglasses and quickly changed the subject. "How long are you staying on Earth?"
"Dad's only giving me a couple weeks," Yeshua answered. "So, I don't have much time. I'd like to meet Adam today. Does he know that I'm coming?"
"Naw, we just found out last night," Crowley said. "Gabriel came by with a politely worded ultimatum."
Yeshua scrunched his nose, the first time that Aziraphale had seen him without a huge smile plastered all over his stupid face since he had arrived. "Gabriel," he repeated in disgust. "I'm all about loving everyone, but that guy's a tool."
Crowley beamed, and Aziraphale couldn't help a bit of a smile.
Yeshua finished his last piece of bacon, and got up. "I'll just go use the loo, and then we can go surprise the kid."
"Uh," Aziraphale said, uncomfortably, "we don't actually have one. We don't really need it, you see, and Crowley needed somewhere to keep his plants when he moved in. We have a bathtub," he suggested with a wince.
Crowley smirked. "Can you still do that trick with the flowers, Yeshua?"
Yeshua bar Yosef, the Messiah, Jesus Christ, Son of God, grinned like a demon. "I think so. Let's find out."
Crowley and Aziraphale led him to the loo that wasn't a loo. What it was, was a 19th century, porcelain, clawfoot tub, with ornate bronze fittings, that appeared to have been mysteriously deposited in the middle of a jungle.
"Any requests?" Yeshua asked, limbering his manhood with no sense of modesty whatsoever, as they looked on.
Aziraphale gave the holy tackle only a brief glance, before looking away politely.
Crowley nudged him in the ribs, and said, "You'll want to see this," under his breath, before adding in a louder tone to Yeshua. "Can you do one of those orchids that I like? The ones with the frilly white petals?"
Yeshua let loose a steady stream into the dirt at the base of a potted fig tree. Before he had even finished, shoots of green had started emerging from the pot. By the time that he had put himself away and zipped his jeans, there were three perfectly formed orchids, flowering delicate blooms of white with petals that ended in frills like the wings of a bird.
"That's brilliant," Crowley said. "We'll buy some more pots while we're out." He raised his voice to address the plants. "The rest of you are on notice! I had better bloody well have perfection in here, or I'll toss you out and give the messiah a new pot to piss in!"
"What's he doing," Yeshua asked Aziraphale in an undertone.
Aziraphale shook his head. "He's a very particular gardener. I've never understood it."
"Which is why the Dowling's garden was always full of weeds and leaf rot," Crowley said. "You have to be hard on them if you want them to succeed."
oOoOoOo
"This is your car?" Yeshua asked when they made it down to the street a bit later for the trip to Oxford. "I noticed it when we walked over before." He circled the Bentley, eyes roaming over the body while he chattered on. "It's beautiful. I've always wanted to ride in one. I've seen every episode of Top Gear. Does it go very fast?"
"Fast as you want," Crowley said, "if you know how to drive it right."
"Will you teach me?" Yeshua asked.
Crowley popped out his elbow and tossed the keys to Yeshua underhand, and he caught them. Crowley quirked a brow at him and smirked. "Would the son of God care for a minor temptation from a speed demon?"
Yeshua's eternal grin stretched a few degrees wider. "Provided it's only a minor temptation, I think that my soul will survive the tarnish."
"A new parable," Crowley suggested. "The story of the man who learned the futility of traffic laws."
Yeshua and Crowley climbed into the front of the Bentley, and Aziraphale found himself relegated to the back seat. In one hundred and five years, Aziraphale had never once had to sit in the back seat of the Bentley. Despite understanding how petty it was, he seethed with insulted indignation.
"Jesus take the wheel," he muttered, and climbed into the car.
