Scuzz swerved unsteadily on his bike beside them, and just watching him was starting to make Yeshua feel queasy, but he seemed to be enjoying himself as he whooped and hollered with pleasure—the cool night air blowing his hair back.
They rode slowly, the motorway nearly deserted at this time of night, but Yeshua clung tightly to Death's waist anyway, as each bump and dip in the road made his head spin.
"Shouldn't I confess or something? Last rites?" Scuzz asked over the rumble of the engines.
"IF YOU THINK IT WILL DO ANY GOOD. WE DO HAVE THE CHRIST WITH US. YOU MIGHT AS WELL GIVE IT A TRY."
Yeshua groaned, but he tried his best to listen as they slowed even further, and Scuzz listed off his multitudinous transgressions.
oOoOoOoOo
Aziraphale coughed and wiped his mouth with his napkin as he stared down at the wet ring of metal in the palm of his hand. "Crowley," he asked uncertainly, "is this what I think it is?"
Crowley rubbed the back of his neck and downed his glass of champagne. "It could be? I mean, if you wanted to… It was a sort of a… spur of the moment thing. It's just… we were talking about anniversaries, and weddings, and all that, and I just thought, well… Might as well make it official, you know? We don't have to. It doesn't really change things. 'S just a piece of metal. After six thousand years-"
"Yes!" Aziraphale cut him off abruptly, and then pinked. "I mean. Like you said, it doesn't change anything, but it would be nice… to make it official."
Crowley tried his best not to look as ecstatic as he felt, and failed miserably. "Cor' yeah. Great."
"It is an odd way to go about it though," Aziraphale said. "You might have put a bit more thought into it."
"Are you seriously complaining that my proposal wasn't flashy enough?"
"Well, I-"
"That's traditional, that is. Ring in the champagne glass. How much more romantic can you get?"
Aziraphale just looked at him for a moment, all ruffled and indignant with a faint hint of guilt, and couldn't help but feel fond. He remembered all the long years they'd spent together: a rainstorm in a garden, a dinner of oysters in Rome, clanking about in suits of armor across the misty moors, crepes in Paris, champagne and chocolates in the newly opened bookshop, the rubble of a church during the blitz, drunken conversations about birds and mountains and sea mammals in the backroom, fights in parks, and in bandstands, and on street corners, long drives on rainy nights in the Bentley, a nanny and a gardener drinking wine beneath the stars with the smell of fresh cut grass in the air, standing wingtip to wingtip at the end of the world, marching blithely into Hell, and facing down God, and sitting at this very table, clinking glasses together.
Saying, "To the world," but meaning, to our world, to this, to us.
Aziraphale smiled at him, his voice going soft. "No, you're right. It's perfect."
Crowley slid a finger under the rim of his sunglasses to wipe away a tear under the guise of adjusting the frames. Aziraphale looked down to slide the ring on, so that he could pretend not to notice. His own eyes were feeling a tad prickly. He really looked at the ring for the first time. Until then, the actual ring had been completely inconsequential to the matter at hand, but there it was on his finger: two intertwined bands, one black and one silver, nestled between them a blue stone with flecks of green.
And, there it was—their universe in a nutshell.
oOoOoOoOo
"Yeah, okay, good," Yeshua said quickly, before Scuzz could begin on another variation of the theme that started with, I met a bloke in a pub, and ended with, I think his mates got him to hospital on time. "Just, ah, sing three verses of the hedgehog song, and ask for forgiveness, and you're absolved." He tried to sketch the sign of the cross in the air, but Death hit a bump in the road, and it probably came out looking more like a map of the London Underground.
"YOU MIGHT WANT TO SING QUICKLY."
"Isn't it supposed to be Hail Marys?" Scuzz asked.
"If you'd rather," Yeshua allowed. "Go with that then."
"Are you sure that this guy is Jesus?" Scuzz asked Death.
"Yeshua," Yeshua corrected, yet again.
At the same time, Death said, "I'M SURE."
"I don't think I know how to say a Hail Mary," Scuzz said, after a moment.
"The words don't actually matter. You just have to say that you regret what you did, and then ask for forgiveness. As long as you mean it, all is forgiven. Everyone deserves a second chance."
"That doesn't seem right."
Yeshua loosened his death clutch long enough to shrug. "I don't make the rules."
"MIGHT WANT TO GET ON WITH IT."
"What? So I can just be an utter bastard my whole life, and as long as I say I'm sorry for it at the last minute, none of it matters, and I get to go to Heaven anyway?"
"That's why they call it a Hail Mary pass in American football."
"That hardly seems fair."
"I'D CHUCK THAT PIGSKIN NOW, IF YOU WANT A CHANCE AT MAKING A FINAL TOUCHDOWN BEFORE THE BUZZER."
Scuzz stared at the road for a long moment of soul searching, and when he spoke he actually did sound truly repentant. "I really am sorry. I don't know why I done the things I did. Sometimes I didn't know what I was doing 'til after, but mostly I knew that it was wrong. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a cowboy, but you can't jus' be a cowboy, like you're applying for a job at Tesco. Then, I dropped out of school, and fell in with a rough crowd, and it all just sorta happened. I guess tha's just makin excuses though. Truth is, I'd give anything to go back and do it all over again. I wish to God that I had enough time left to really change my life. Be a better person. I'm sorry for being such a wanker."
Yeshua gave him a beatific smile. His next words were spoken in a whisper that, never the less, reverberated through the air, and drowned out the sound of the engines. "I forgive you."
A wave of warmth and peace overcame Scuzz. He had a sudden, vivid, sensory memory of, as a small child, skinning his knee, and running to his mother's knee with tears in his eyes: the warm smell of fabric softener and cigarette smoke as she held him to her chest and petted his hair, the soft tone of her voice as she hushed him, the safe feeling of her arms wrapped around him.
He never even felt the impact of the train.
oOoOoOoOo
"I suppose it will have to be an outdoor ceremony," Aziraphale said, as Crowley parked the Bentley by the curb outside the bookshop. "I mean, it isn't as though we'd be able to have it in a church."
"Hang on. Who said anything about a ceremony? I thought that we could just decide to be married and have done with it."
"We have to have a ceremony," Aziraphale said, "so that we can invite all our friends."
He got out of the car, leaving Crowley sitting there alone, mouthing the word friends to himself.
Crowley got out and hurried after him to the front of the shop. "If we are going to do the whole shebang, I don't see why we can't have it in a church. You're forgetting, I'm not a demon anymore. No blistered feet. I can walk down the aisle just like anyone else."
"You can't walk anywhere just like anyone else," Aziraphale pointed out with a wry smile as he opened the door to gesture Crowley inside. "And, I hadn't forgotten, but we're supposed to be neutral. Getting married in a church would rather give the wrong impression, don't you think? We shouldn't be playing favorites. No, I think an outdoor wedding would be best."
"You know, you've really taken to this whole Neutral Agents of Earththing like a duck to water. Considering all those years I spent listening to your sanctimonious preaching about angelic standards and the ineffable plan, you've really embraced your bastard side since we've been kicked out on our own."
Aziraphale huffed. "That's hardly any way to speak about your betrothed."
"It was a compliment, angel. You're not going to go all Bridezilla on me now, are you?" He eyed Aziraphale warily before starting up the stairs to their flat.
"I don't even know what that means."
"Women who turn into giant, raging, radioactive lizards and destroy Tokyo because of the stress of planning a wedding," Crowley explained, "Because if that's the case, we can just call of the whole thing. I know how you get."
"And how is that?" Aziraphale demanded as they topped the stairs into the flat.
"I just don't think that we need you going all avenging angel on the caterers. If you-" Crowley stopped abruptly.
"If I what?"
"Azazel," Crowley said.
"What does…" Aziraphale followed his gaze. To Azazel. Sitting on their couch. Frozen like a small mammal caught in the fast approaching headlight beams of a pre-war sports car being driven at improbable speeds by a madly cackling demon.
"Hey, Crowley," Azazel said, drawing the words out. "How've ya been? Is Jesus around?"
oOoOoOoOo
The last few train cars clattered by, and Yeshua finally saw what there was to see. It wasn't much. Scuzz's motorbike was one, large, smashed, and twisted lump of metal, and several thousand smaller bits, scattered along the tracks for a hundred metres or so. Scuzz himself was little more than a spreading stain.
Yeshua vomited into the scraggly grass on the side of the road.
Death didn't seem to be the least bit affected by the carnage.
If Yeshua squinted his watering eyes to where the specter of death stood, addressing the air, he could make out a sort of hazy shape that must have been Scuzz's soul.
After they had missed being hit by the train themselves by only a hairsbreadth, Death had calmly made a U-turn and pulled the bike over on the side, removing his scythe from where it was attached to the bike, while they waited for the train to pass. Now, Yeshua watched as the hazy something seemed to flow into the scythe, and Death returned to the bike to snap his reaping implement back into its special holder.
"WELL, COME ON THEN, IT'S STILL A FAIR WAY TO OXFORD."
"What, that's it?"
"THAT'S IT."
"But…" Yeshua was at a loss. "He just died. You said that he was your friend."
"MORE OF AN ACQUAINTANCE REALLY, BUT I DON'T MAKE MANY OF THOSE IN THIS JOB, SO THEY TEND TO STAND OUT."
"Either way, he just died. Shouldn't we… do something?"
"IT'S BEEN DONE. I HAVE COLLECTED HIS SOUL. THE WEIGHING OF IT IS NOT MY BUSINESS."
"But," Yeshua swallowed, as his eyes were drawn to that long stain again. "What about the body?"
"WHAT BODY?"
"You know what I mean."
"THERE ARE OTHERS THAT WILL HANDLE THAT AS WELL."
"But, don't you care? He died. He wouldn't have even been here if it hadn't been for us, and if I hadn't given him absolution…, maybe he would have seen the train coming."
Death let out a put upon sigh, like wind rustling through dying flowers, left to rot, on a gravestone. "THE PLACE AND THE TIME ARE NOT FOR ME TO DECIDE. ALL MORTALS DIE. THAT'S WHAT MAKES THEM MORTAL. WE DID WHAT WE COULD FOR HIM. HE GOT BETTER THAN MOST. HE KNEW IT WAS COMING. YOU GAVE HIM YOUR FORGIVENESS. MORE THAN THAT IS BEYOND THE POWERS OF YOU OR I."
"Well," Yeshua said, "You maybe, but not me." He looked at what was left of Scuzz. "I could-"
"NOT THIS AGAIN."
"I've done it before. Lazarus-"
"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH PAPERWORK THAT CAUSED?"
"What is that compared to a man's life?"
"IT ISN'T A MAN'S LIFE THAT CONCERNS YOU. IT IS HIS DEATH. HE HAD HIS LIFE. IT'S OVER NOW. THAT'S THE ORDER OF THINGS. YOU HEARD HIS CONFESSION. HE WAS AN INTERESTING CHARACTER, TO BE SURE, BUT HE WAS NOT A GOOD PERSON. SAVE YOUR MIRACLES FOR SOMEONE WHO DESERVES THEM, AND LEAVE ME OUT OF IT. YOU'VE HIT YOUR QUOTA FOR RESURRECTIONS. NO MORE ZOMBIES."
Yeshua sighed. He was right of course, but knowing that on an intellectual level, and seeing the gristle and gore that, moments before, had been a thinking, breathing, human being, were really two very different things.
"Fine," he said, finally, turning away. "No more zombies." He walked over and took his seat behind Death once more. "Do you think it helped? Our Hail Mary?"
"WOULD IT BE RIGHT IF IT DID?"
"Everyone deserves a second chance," Yeshua muttered, as the engine started, and Death sped the bike away from the crossroads.
oOoOoOoOo
Aziraphale was making tea.
He wasn't entirely sure how it had happened. One moment he was making wedding plans, and then Lucifer's concubine was sitting on his couch, acting perfectly pleasant, and the next thing he knew, he was offering tea and biscuits. Instead of bursting into a demonic aspect and starting a ruckus, Azazel had simply accepted, quite graciously all things considered. And now, Aziraphale was making tea, and Crowley was catching up on all the gossip that he'd missed in Hell since his dismissal from the demonic rank and file.
"Promoted to what?" Crowley was asking as Aziraphale returned to the sitting room with the tea tray. "Chief Arse-Kisser?"
"That's still my job," Azazel said with a little smirk, snatching one of the biscuits from the tray and taking a pointed bite.
Crowley clearly saw his opening and pounced on it. "Yeah, but you're up here, aren't you. Who's filling in while you're gone?"
Azazel's smirk fell away in an instant. "No one. What do you mean? Do you know something?"
Crowley affected a shrug. "Well, it isn't as if the two of you are exclusive. I mean, he wouldn't be sending you up here to tempt Yeshua, if that were the case. And, well, he's the Prince of Darkness, isn't he? Ruler of Hell, leader of the rebellion, none of us would have Fallen in the first place if not for him, and it isn't like he's hard on the eyes. I'm sure he has demons lining up to fulfill his needs while you're away."
"It isn't like that," Azazel said, though he sounded uncertain. "It's only ever been me."
"Well, of course, anyone can see why you're his favorite, but you've always been available before. You've been gone for a week now. You can't just expect him to twiddle his thumbs."
Watching Azazel's face while Crowley worked on him, Aziraphale couldn't help but feel pity for the demon. He wouldn't have thought it was possible, but seeing the emotions flickering behind his eyes now, Aziraphale was starting to believe that Crowley might be right about him. Azazel was quite likely in love with Lucifer. Aziraphale had simply assumed that Crowley's capacity for love was a symptom of spending too much time on Earth. It was like their respective Head Offices had said—they'd gone native. But Azazel hadn't walked the Earth since Alexander the Great was conquering his way through most of the known world. This had nothing to do with humans, and it wasn't simple lust either. Aziraphale could still sense love, and it was coming off the incubus like a maiden aunt's perfume at a wedding reception. But, if Azazel and Crowley both had the capacity for love, what did that mean for the rest of the demons? If they could feel love, than surely they were capable of any of the Seven Heavenly Virtues.
Aziraphale handed Azazel a cup of tea, not feeling nearly as sanguine about Crowley's plan to manipulate him as he had before.
"Thank you," Azazel said as he accepted it.
"You're quite welcome." Aziraphale hadn't missed the show of gratitude either.
"Anyway, I really just need to see Jesus so that I can get this taken care of, and get back."
"I'm afraid that he isn't here," Aziraphale said, kindly.
"Death picked him up around seven. I don't think he'll be back tonight."
"Death?" Azazel asked. "You mean Charon?"
Crowley nodded.
Azazel frowned down into his teacup, muttering in a low voice, almost to himself. "Necrophila? How am I supposed to… That's… That's disgusting."
"I don't think," Aziraphale started to say, but Crowley made a sharp gesture at him, and he fell silent.
"Right?" Crowley asked. "I mean, even an incubus has to draw the line somewhere. If it were me, I'd never put up with it: working all the hours Satan sends, then clocking in the overtime whenever Old Splinterfoot wants a good horning. It's hardly fair of him to expect all that. I mean, when was the last time he took you on a nice vacation? When was the last time you even had a day off?"
Azazel's frowned deepened, and he still spoke into his cup. "I guess I had that maternity leave twenty-five years ago, but that doesn't really count." He looked up abruptly, anger plain on his face. "And now he sends me to Earth and thinks he can just replace me with the first demon that comes knocking?"
"If it were me, I think I'd give him a good bollocking."
Azazel frowned. "I hardly think he deserves that after what he's put me through this week."
"A piece of my mind," Crowley clarified, for the idiomatically deficient in the room. "Tell the truth and shame the Devil."
"Give the Devil his due," Aziraphale put in.
"Yeah," Azazel said. "I'll do him, all right. Give him a piece. A piece he won't ever forget. I've been doing a lot of research this week. I could teach him a thing or two about discipline and delayed gratification."
"Sure," Crowley said. "That isn't exactly what I meant, but whatever works."
Azazel set his cup down, untouched, but thoroughly scowled into submission, and rose to his feet—the picture of a demon on a mission of vengeance. "Thank you both for looking after Adam. Please let him know that I will be in touch soon," and with that he was off—through the flat and up the stairs leading to the roof.
"Did he say maternity leave?" Aziraphale asked.
"Yeah," Crowley said, turning it into a hiss.
"Twenty-five years ago, that would be…"
"Yeah."
"Do you think we should…"
"Nope," Crowley said. "I'm not touching that with a ten foot pole."
"Right," Aziraphale agreed. "I suppose it isn't any of our business, in any case."
