Archive of Our Own ^beta

Crowley, like any creature roaming the earth, has seen his form reflected in any number of surfaces. He's seen it twisted and altered by tricks of the light in water; in glass and metal of all shapes and colors. It's a familiar and comforting shape by now; he thinks of it not just as his but as himself.

He hadn't thought of it that way the first time he'd seen it, back in Eden on the very first day. It had lurked there like a stranger on the still surface of the most bountiful spring ever known to man or beast.

The first time he’d seen something he recognized, it was in the eyes of an angel who looked just as lost as Crawly felt. He remembers it still, what he saw there: a soul empty and wanting down to its furthest depths, no more able to accept kindness than parched earth can accept water. Hope and desperation and loneliness. Eons spent somehow just outside of whatever went on with all the other angels, a separation made concrete by a gentle exile to Earth.

For all that Crowley’s own exile had been somewhat less than gentle, Aziraphale had been less a stranger to him that day than his own corporation. Even with all that’s changed, whether between them or in the world at large, that's been a constant. He knows Aziraphale at least as well as he knows himself; knows his heart, anyway, and the choices he'll make, and the motivations he'll lean on, and what he'll order from the menu, and—

Suffice to say, he knows enough that he ought to have known to stay as far as they could from Tadfield after… everything.

Alas, they have ever been drawn to scenes of great drama.

The scenes are, granted, usually of much greater historical significance than this:

“An outdoor wedding? In this weather? Honestly,” Aziraphale complains, tugging at his collar and shuffling his shoulders around in evident annoyance.

“Well, maybe if you'd dressed for it,” points out Crowley, who is perhaps not the best source of advice given the many layers black clothing he's wearing.

"Like you?” Aziraphale asks doubtfully, lips pressed into a thin line as he looks Crowley over. (But he looks him up and down again just the same.)

“Aziraphale, I know you have a summer wardrobe. An extensive one.”

“Well, yes, but I don't like it as much.”

“It would have fit the dress code better.”

“The invitation said to dress comfortably! This is my most comfortable suit.”

Crowley debates, briefly, the wisdom and utility of explaining the current terminology regarding formal wear. He finds, as he does with many things, that it probably isn't worth the effort, and he simply offers his arm instead.

Now Aziraphale looks pleased to be here, preening as he takes it and begins to walk up the drive of Jasmine Cottage.

There are only twelve chairs, set out in two rows of three to either side of the garden path.

“Goodness. Not even an usher.”

Crowley grins, showing off a few teeth too many. “Well. ‘nless you count the hellhound.”

“The what? Oh—”

Adam Young's dog comes tearing toward them from Satan-knows-where. His primary concern seems to be acquiring the full possible scope of the scent found on their shoes.

“Well! Not much of a hellhound, is it?”

“He’s just Dog, really. Hello.”

“Ah, hello. Er—” Aziraphale is saved from finding something reasonably polite to say by Adam turning away to call to his friends—a swift and implicit dismissal. His face falls despite the fact that Crowley knows he hadn't really known what to say.

“Never mind, angel. Kids, you know.” He reaches over to press Aziraphale's hand with his free one.

“Yes, of course, dear. Shall we find our… I don't suppose we have reserved seats.”

“Your pick of the house, I'd wager.” Such as it is. The chairs look as if they might have been lifted from the local church’s storage room just for the occasion after twenty-odd years of slumber. Crowley would make them a touch more comfortable to sit in if the idea of doing so didn’t ring as too much of a frivolous good deed in his mind.

Just the one Aziraphale picks, then. Only in the spirit of keeping his passenger happy so he doesn’t have to hear about uncomfortable folding metal chairs all the way home, of course.

Aziraphale doesn’t seem inclined to make his choice in a hurry. “I did expect there to be more guests. Particularly given the, ah, unique nature of this event.”

Crowley, for his part, will be surprised if all twelve chairs fill up. The thing about being present in a world-changing situation (like the sinking of the Titanic, for example, or, you know, stopping the apocalypse) is that it tends to make it hard to connect to anyone who wasn’t there. Never mind that all of the humans involved, as far as he can tell, had been sort of bizarre and lonely to begin with. “What, was Witchfinder Major Milkbottle going to turn up to play the organ?”

“Crowley! Don't be insensitive. You know that Major Milkbottle had a terrible accident. You can hardly expect—”

Crowley holds his breath, realizing all at once that Aziraphale had been a bit too preoccupied, when the truth had all come out, to process that the vast majority of the Witchfinder Army was tremendously fabricated. Someone is smiling down on him today—or up at him, perhaps—because it is an absolute gift to see him process it all at last.

He’s stalled, and then stunned, and then furious, eyes flashing dangerously. “That man played us both for fools for—for decades!”

“Yup,” Crowley confirms, popping the "p” gleefully.

“Horrid, really, lying like that. Do you know how many sympathy bonuses I sent along? How invested I was in Major Saucepan’s family history?”

“I can imagine.” He tries not to smile, but he’s never been one to put in a lot of effort.

“And he was playing both sides. The gall.”

“Well,” says Crowley. It’s not like Shadwell knew that. It’s also not like they haven’t both done the same for far more than decades, in their own way.

“And that’s not to mention the part where he discorporated me.”

“He what.”

“Oh, it’s water under the bridge, really.”

Not to Crowley, it isn’t. “That man? The Witchfinder Sargeant who wasn’t smart enough to work out he could extort us for more money? He worked out how to discorporate you?”

“Well, not exactly. It was more of an accident. Didn’t I tell you?”

Crowley shakes his head. They’d sort of just—well, they hadn’t forgotten about it all exactly, but they’d both just gone on as if none of those few days had happened. “We can always leave. If you want.”

“No, no. Goodness, I can hardly imagine denying Madame Tracy anything after—well, let's not dwell on that.” Aziraphale's other hand falls atop Crowley's, and they stand there, three of their four hands stacked on Crowley’s arm, until the ruckus nearby kicks up another notch.

“What do you mean I have to sit on the bride's side? Just because I'm a girl?”

“Well, someone has to. And I'm practically the best man on account of saving Newt from a burning wreck.”

“We all did that. And it wasn't even burning.”

“Yeah, but me and Brian did most of it.”

“Well, I'll sit on the bride's side,” the little one with the big spectacles puts forth. “Because actually, I don't mind if she's a witch. She's fun.”

“Yeah, that's still only one. It ought to be even.”

“What about Dog?”

“Dog doesn't count.”

“Well, what about them?” Pepper says, pointing at where Crowley and Aziraphale are still stalled out in the middle of the walkway. “If they sit on the bride's side with Wensley, it'll be three of them there and three of us here.”

“I don't want to sit over here by myself,” Wensleydale complains.

“Guess we don't rate,” Crowley says, half-amused and half-insulted at the reminder that the only other guests are children. Unless they're here in their capacity as prospective horsepeople, which might be worse.

“Seems that way. Well! Where shall we sit? Surely the bride's side will do.”

Two options reveal themselves to Crowley. First, he could simply comply and see Aziraphale smile and call the whole business done. Second, he could be needlessly contrary for an as-yet undetermined span of time, see Aziraphale get bossy and irritated, and then acquiesce to see him get all self-satisfied.

It's no contest, really. He is a demon, after all. Playing the contrarian is practically in the job description. His choice certainly has nothing to do with how much he enjoys Aziraphale’s satisfaction.

“Eh, I dunno. Always thought I had more in common with”—he casts around in his mind for either groom's name—“Newt. Personally.”

“Is that right.” It’s too flat to be a question; the steely tone is out already. Glorious. “And what is it that you'd say you have in common, the two of you?”

“Er… tall, dark, and handsome?” Crowley tries. He has exactly zero memory of Newton Pulsifer’s face. Or build. Or defining characteristics. It's only thanks to recently reading the wedding invitation that he even came up with a name.

“Hm. Well, you're certainly welcome to sit over there,” Aziraphale sniffs.

Easier than he'd expected, but he’ll take it. “Marvelous. Let's go.” He can't wait to hear those ridiculous children try to justify the new seating balance. Crowley takes a step toward the right half of the chairs only to find his arm suddenly released as Aziraphale goes in the opposite direction. “Wha—angel?”

“You must have mistaken my meaning, Crowley. You are most welcome to sit wherever you like. I will be supporting Tracy and Ms. Device.”

“Supporting—it’s a wedding, Aziraphale. If you're here, you're supporting both parties.” He frowns. “All four parties.”

“Then it won't matter where we sit. Enjoy yourself over there, dear boy. I'll see you at the reception.” It is a patently ridiculous thing to say given that the entire span of the seating area is less than eight yards, but Aziraphale has nonetheless said it, and now Crowley has to do something about it.

He sways in place, thinking, but then chatter starts over at the cottage door and he realizes abruptly that he is still standing in the aisle. He's not entirely sure on the details of how weddings are meant to work, but he is fairly certain that the aisle is important.

As tempting as it is to sit on the other side just to see what Aziraphale makes of it, and as much as he is considering the possibility of continue blocking the aisle by leaning over it to hold Aziraphale's hand, he sits where instinct and some thousands of years of practical application tell him to: directly behind Aziraphale, staring over his shoulder for any potential head-on threats.

Aziraphale does smile then, but it's not nearly as smug as expected. He reaches back to take Crowley's hand as the grooms take their places, and he holds onto it until well after the brides have headed up to join them.

It takes Anathema clearing her throat for Crowley to realize that they are all staring at Aziraphale. “Angel,” he drawls, amused, “are you supposed to be officiating?”

“Certainly not. I haven't done that in at least a century. I'm afraid I've let my license lapse.”

“Think you'd better un-lapse it,” he murmurs.

“Ah… quite right, my dear. Those aren't the friendliest expressions, are they?”

“Of course, I could always do it instead. I am recently ordained and all that, you know.”

“Whatever for?”

“Was bored one day. You can just get them these days, you know, licenses like that. Besides, it's been great fun offering the service and then rejecting every couple who's come asking.”

“We can hear you,” Anathema grouses. “Seriously? I figured an angel was a sure thing for the whole… blessed union and whatnot.”

“Oh, my dear, I could fill volumes with the discrepancies between Heaven and religion, but I digress. Let's see here…” He stands up and makes a show of reaching into his pocket.

Crowley only barely bites back a groan. “It's not a magic trick, Aziraphale, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well, it could have been if you hadn't ruined it.” He straightens his clothing and freshens himself up a bit instead, heading up toward the front. At Anathema’s prompting, he gets on with it.

It's not the first time Crowley's seen Aziraphale perform this particular ritual—he used to do it all the time in centuries past, when he'd often pose as a religious leader to work his way into new communities—and he doesn’t really find it all that interesting. He manages not to fall asleep, but it's a near thing with the sun so warm and Aziraphale's dramatic showman’s voice leading the two couples through their vows back-to-back.

Or—well, maybe he doesn't manage; he wakes to Aziraphale's hand on his shoulder. “There you are. Time for the reception, such as it is. Just light fare in the cottage. I'm told there's wine.”

He'd rather have their usual fare and their own wine in their usual setting, but it is a special occasion. “Yeah. All right. Wanna stay a while?”

“Perhaps a short while. It's only polite. They are our friends, after all. I think.”

The idea makes something ugly flare up in Crowley. It's not quite jealousy—Aziraphale has had plenty of human friendships, as has Crowley; it's hard not to when there are sometimes years-long assignments associated with the same ones—but it's not far off. They've never had friends together, is the thing. They’re a group of the two of them, as Crowley sees it. Not two parts of a group. “Mm, remains to be seen. If they're friends, they'll have good wine.”

“The wine will be excellent,” Aziraphale asserts, and Crowley feels the frivolous little miracle a half-second before he hears Anathema shout about absurdly expensive wine.

“What luck,” Aziraphale muses, soft and mild, and Crowley loves him.

“Yeah. Really divine luck.”

Aziraphale offers his arm this time, and Crowley takes hold, and they walk together into the cottage, where the eight-person-and-one-dog party is already well underway. They're hardly even noticed as they slip in and help themselves—Crowley to the wine and Aziraphale to the spread on the table—but they fall into conversations eventually.

Crowley discovers that he has very little indeed in common with Newt aside from a tendency to cause communications networks to become very unstable very quickly (even here, there is a marked difference in intentionality). He learns that Tracy and Shadwell plan to move toward the coast and that Anathema’s and Newt's families were unable to attend the wedding due to a very bad feeling one of the Device cousins had. He finds that Adam Young can still make a few things bend to his will, like the old radio across the room that changes its tune at a glance from him.

Most importantly, he works out that even if this is what having shared friends is like, he and Aziraphale are still something entirely different even among this crowd of odd ones out.

They don't know how to participate in any of the apparently traditional wedding activities that start up, nor any of the dances that take place later (although Crowley would argue that none of the humans seem to know precisely the same versions of the dances, either). He doesn't know what it feels like to want to be married; for all his imagination, he can't picture how being married could feel any more meaningful than a long-term enemyship that never really lived up to its name.

And he certainly can’t understand the need for whatever heavily choreographed dance Anathema is now attempting to teach the rest of the party. In his opinion, it involves far too much movement of the elbows to be safe for open beverages. “Let’s go home, angel,” he murmurs. “Before we get caught up in—whatever that is.”

“They won’t even notice we’ve gone,” Aziraphale says with firm confidence. There’s no miracle to accompany the statement. There’s no need for one this time. “I almost wonder why they invited us.”

“I wonder how they invited us,” Crowley adds as they head down the drive. “Bit presumptuous, sending just one invitation.”

“Was it really? It did find us both, after all.”

“Yeah, well.” He opens the passenger door and waits for Aziraphale to settle in. “Not like it’s a law of the universe or anything, that I’ll just turn up wherever you are.”

Aziraphale’s mouth twitches; a token effort to avoid laughing at Crowley, judging by the way the corners of his eyes crinkle up. “Isn’t it? I’ve always considered it such.”

“Fnngh. Well. Be that as it may.” Maybe it is. He doesn’t exactly know the laws of the universe by heart.

But he knows this: he still sees himself reflected in Aziraphale's eyes, caught as he is staring into them. Only now it's the best parts of him: hope and humanity and contentment. The common ground beneath their feet is lush and blooming.

Another point against his imagination: he’d known right away that they could help each other survive, but he'd never dreamed that they could nourish each other.

And it’s not so bad, maybe, being on the outside of things. So long as you aren’t alone. So long as someone stands on the high and distant wall beside you and keeps you safe and dry.

“Shall we go for dinner, then? Never did understand ‘light fare,’ myself,” Crowley offers as he takes his own seat, having finally convinced his arms to shut the door and his legs to carry him around to the driver’s side.

“And dessert, I should think. That cake was dreadfully dry. Oh! And those chairs, Crowley. I’m quite glad I ended up standing. I wouldn’t have been able to bear sitting there for long. How you managed to fall asleep, I’ll never know.”

Crowley knows Aziraphale at least as well as he knows himself, and while that doesn’t mean there are never any surprises, it does mean that he knows when he is and isn’t needed in a conversation. This is a clear case of the latter, and so he only smiles—no teeth this time—and listens to Aziraphale’s account of the wedding, which he provides as if Crowley hadn’t just experienced it all himself. All there is for Crowley to do is to slide his hand back into Aziraphale’s once they’re back on familiar roads, and that suits him just fine.