Chapter Text
He should have gone with cream.
Aziraphale looked at his reflection in the tall mirror, and a dissatisfied grimace twisted his face at the sight of his full figure clad in a brand new suit.
Definitely, cream would look better. Brighter. More familiar.
Not that Egyptian blue was a bad choice, per se: it was a definite turn towards Crowley’s darker palette, but it carried enough of the angel’s distinctive taste to feel right. It brought out the bluish hue in his eyes, if he might say so. The cut of the jacket was rather appropriate, too. Aziraphale had insisted on the long-tail tuxedo, because was there any other choice, really? He planned to get married just this once in his immortal life, and if he couldn’t opt for those delightful laces and brocades he used to wear at the court of George III (he could imagine Crowley’s quips: “you know, angel, fashion is actually supposed to go forward”), well, he would at least choose the most formal attire that this century could offer. Call him old fashioned if you like: Aziraphale hadn’t waited six thousand years to get the details wrong.
Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was making a fundamentally huge mistake.
About the suit, that was.
Some might have thought it a matter of minor concern. When you spent millennia dancing around your occult soul-mate, the suit you’d wear at the long-awaited celebration of your love would seem quite trivial in comparison to the extraordinary nature of the event itself.
Whoever thought that hadn’t been in a long-term relationship with a supernatural being who materialised his own clothing to be sure they looked precisely the way he intended them to.
Crowley’s motto was whatever you do, do it with style, and Aziraphale was inclined to agree; except that their concept of style was quite different, to say the least.
Of course, he wasn’t actually worried. His groom-to-be was far from shallow. Crowley had always seen the angel for who he was, from the soft surface down to the bastard core, and still had accepted every part of him throughout the centuries. God only knew what the demon saw in him, but he had showered Aziraphale with nothing short of adoration for as long as the angel could remember. Yet, the gentle teasing about his old fashioned taste in clothing had never really ceased. Not even now that they were officially together and, well, their mutual attraction had been talked about, acted upon and confirmed as often as possible in the ten years that had followed the Apocanope. It wasn’t like Crowley would suddenly stop desiring him, if he got his wedding outfit wrong (he wouldn’t, now, would he? This was ridiculous, he was being ridiculous, that was all).
Aziraphale didn’t mind the teasing. He loved their old affectionate banter, especially since every less-than-flattering comment on any item of clothing quickly degenerated into a good excuse to take said item off. Some of the most delightful evenings he could remember in the past ten years had been triggered by casual remarks on how his well-loved waistcoat would fit in a museum at this stage, or how nobody in their right mind would ever wear a woollen coat in the middle of summer.
Yet – and this, mind you, could be extremely silly as well as exceedingly sentimental on his part... for that one special day Aziraphale had hoped he could surprise Crowley.
He wanted the demon to look at him the way grooms sometimes did in those movies he had started watching since the talk about marriage had begun. For research, obviously.
«You just want a good excuse to watch sappy rom-coms.»
«And why, pray tell, would I need an excuse to do anything whatsoever?»
«Because you are afraid you might lose your reputation as a stuffy intellectual. Some could even call you an old romantic.»
«Well, you are wrong, my dear. This is research, it is for us, and I am frankly shocked that you would even imply...”
Crowley stifles a giggle, sprawled as he is on the settee, long fingers around the stem of the wine glass - and oh, isn’t he glorious? Aziraphale has to look away.
«I said, not another word..»
So Aziraphale sat through a marathon of My Best Friend’s Wedding, Bride Wars, 27 Dresses and Jump the Broomstick. He watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Sweet Home Alabama, The Runaway Bride, Mamma Mia, and added in The Wedding Crashers and Love Actually for good measure – the latest one caused him an embarrassing fit of happy tears, but Crowley wasn’t to know that. Because Aziraphale wasn’t an old romantic. Not at all.
The movies were delightful and upbeat, but frankly, all that stayed with him after days of watching mildly forgettable characters tumbling through the most absurd chains of misunderstandings, mix-ups and mayhem, was one specific moment. When the music started, and the bride walked in the venue, and time froze in beauty. The groom looked positively gobsmacked, then, pierced through the heart by Cupid’s arrow.
Wouldn’t that have been a delightful expression to see on his ever too guarded Crowley?
The angel could almost picture him, his jaw slacked, at a loss for words— those eyes as bright as summer moons would suddenly blur with tears, and the yellow would overflow in the sclera, giving Crowley’s gaze a delightfully serpentine quality. How he loved when that happened. There was a wilderness, an abandon in Crowley’s eyes when they went completely snake-like, that Aziraphale had rarely seen. He treasured those memories like a well-aged wine.
Crowley would, of course, wear the omnipresent sunglasses, especially considering the number of humans attending the ceremony, but it didn’t matter. Six millennia were more than enough to learn how to read someone’s eyebrows, and the demon's were terribly expressive. In the event he succeeded in making his beloved all teary-eyed, Aziraphale would have known.
And still, as exciting as the prospect of surprising Crowley sounded, there was something wrong about it.
Aziraphale turned around and observed the way the blue jacket fell along the soft lines of his corporation.
Yes, he should have gone with his usual colours. Slipping in the beloved pastel palette was reassuring, like curling up in a familiar hug. Cream and powder blue, hazelnut and camel, duck egg and old rose – they all felt like a second skin to the angel. They reflected the calm and compassed manners he strived for, they kept him grounded and always faithful to himself.
He could have used some steadiness, on the day of the wedding. In the event his knees went a bit wobbly during the exchange of the vows, Aziraphale might have wanted his old clothes to sustain him like armour, with the ever-present bow-tie as his flag.
It wasn’t the first time he'd used his tartan as a banner, after all.
When he'd gone to Hell disguised as Crowley, he had stitched a patch of tartan on the inside of the collar of his black jacket, for good luck. And, maybe, also to make a statement. You can’t touch him, not anymore. You never deserved him anyway. He's safe now. He's mine.
“A tartan collar, really?”
Crowley hadn't really gotten the hint, just like he had missed the true meaning of the tartan flask or the straps that had tied Anathema's bike to the newly minted bike rack Aziraphale had manifested on the Bentley, on the fateful night they had run over the young witch in Tadfield.
It didn’t matter. Aziraphale knew, and that was enough.
As the angel patted the unfamiliar pale gold waistcoat on the curve of his belly, he felt a prickle at the pit of his stomach.
Was it enough?
«Mr Fell?» came Anathema’s voice from outside the boot. «Is everything alright?»
He let his lungs inflate, savoured the air pouring through his nostrils and down the windpipe.
«Of course, my dear. Tickety-boo.»
Aziraphale wanted to become better, and closer to that steady, gentle creature he planned to shape himself into. The creature who wore mild, reassuring colours, and had a banner of tartan under which he wanted to protect the people he loved.
Did Crowley share the same view? Was that image enough for him, did it fit in the way the demon saw his own future? Could he ever see himself under the same banner - wearing, metaphorically, the same tartan?
Of course, Crowley had been the first one to speak about their side. But it was somewhat different from their clan. Their future. Their family.
The sudden fear surrounding his choice of colours was starting to assume new meaning. He didn’t particularly like its aftertaste: it held a promise of storm.
With a sigh, the angel pulled the curtain of the changing room. He and Crowley had met at the brink of the first storm, after all. His wings had been strong enough to protect them both, back then: there was no reason why they shouldn’t, now. Aziraphale could carry this banner for both of them.
«Oh, honey!» exclaimed Madame Tracy, clasping her hands in delight as Aziraphale stepped out. She had started calling him all sort of pet names in the ten years of their acquaintance. Sharing a body could bring people close quite quickly, he presumed. «This colour looks divine on you!»
The retired angel couldn’t refrain from wincing. Unhappy choice of words indeed.
«Bit of an occupational habit, I suppose» he murmured, smoothing the lapels. Was the waistcoat too tight on his belly? Going for gold had seemed the natural choice given the colour of the jacket, but it didn’t hide any of the soft promontories of his body. He should have chosen black. All black, waistcoat to shoes: a bit devilish for him, but they said it minimized the imperfections of a full figure. Not that the shape of the blue tuxedo didn’t help with that, if just a little. The jacket was cleverly cut, putting emphasis on his shoulders, making him look taller. Not necessarily leaner, but less pudgy than usual, at least.
Anathema squinted as she got closer, observing the waistcoat with inquisitive eyes. Aziraphale chewed on the inside of his lip. Was she trying to decide how to tell him that he looked too fat in it?
«Is that velvet?» she asked instead.
Oh. Well, that was an unexpected conversation starter.
«Brocade,» he said. Anathema didn’t seem intentioned to criticize him, but the proximity was still overwhelming for a supernatural being who had spent the good part of six thousand years avoiding closeness with humans. Her serious expression didn’t put him any more at ease.
«Brilliant effect. Is it supposed to look like a fish-scale armour?»
«Ah, well... Actually, it is supposed to mimic the scales of a snake.»
Aziraphale smoothed the pale gold under gentle fingertips. The brocade changed colour at his touch.
«Enjoying a bit of role-playing, are we?» teased Madame Tracy. Aziraphale gave her a weak smile.
«Well... I’m not sure you could call it that. More of a message, really.»
He fell silent, then realised that the two women were gazing intently, waiting for him to supply an explanation.
«It’s nothing. A trifle, no more.»
«You can’t hint at some sort of romantic message woven in your wedding suit and then let the subject drop,» protested Anathema.
Madame Tracy nodded. «It’s against the rules of wedding-dress-shopping».
Aziraphale felt the tip of his nose scrunching in a little fastidious expression. «Considering that this is technically not a dress...»
«Oh, come on, it’s not fair!» said Anathema. «I left my baby girls at home hoping I would get some juicy commentary, you can’t let me down now Mr Fell.»
«It’s nothing juicy,» gasped the angel. «Just...»
Madame Tracy playfully grabbed his arm, toying with the top button of the waistcoat. The invasion of his personal space did nothing but increase the angel’s fluster.
«Dearest Zira, have you forgotten already? When it was my turn to get hitched I’ve let you know every single sordid detail! And now that you have finally decided to follow in our footsteps, you are denying us, your bridesmatrons...»
«For the last time, Marjorie: I am not a bride,» Zira – ugh, how he winced internally every time he heard the nickname – replied. «And I assure you I would have done without those details were I given a choice in the matter, thank you very much.»
Her only reaction was an innocent beat of eyelashes, which, he supposed, must have worked miracles on Mr Shadwell’s grumpy moods.
Aziraphale had a patent on the technique. He himself had successfully used it on Crowley since the 6th century A.D., and there was no way in Heaven, Hell or Earth he would let it move him.
But once the woman added a little pout his resolve was shaken.
She had been a dear friend in the past decade. He could notice the traces of silver in her carefully coiffed blond hair, and the new lines hidden under layers of natural-looking make up. They were so fragile, these humans. Their lives were short, and they mostly meant well.
There was no real reason not to tell them, anyway. After all, these people were on their side, too.
«Well, it is nothing improper, if that’s what you were hoping for,» Aziraphale sighed in defeat.
«You see... Crowley has always been quite self-conscious when it comes to his reptile nature. As if it were somehow debasing, which is utterly absurd, but you know how he is when he starts beating himself up. By wearing this,» he touched the woven lines of the brocade again: it felt warm and docile, a living creature under his palm, «I want him to know that it’s ok. That what is part of him is part of me, too. It’s not like we haven’t spoken about this before, many times in fact, but... now that we are going to... well, I want to let him see that I mean it.»
Was it a silly idea?
It was a silly idea, of course it was. He wasn’t even sure Crowley would get the reference, because really, he wasn’t a golden serpent after all.
Both of his chaperones sucked in their breath. Anathema’s lip went as far as trembling, a moment of weakness she hid quickly behind a fake cough. When her mobile rang, the witch looked grateful to have an excuse for fishing into her huge carpet bag, muttering as she redirected her attention on the screen.
The older woman changed her grip on Aziraphale’s arm into a gentle, affectionate squeeze.
«It’s beautiful,» she said.
Aziraphale felt a blush creeping on his cheeks.
«Do you think so?»
She nodded. «You are beautiful, and that demon of yours is bloody lucky to have you.»
The angel crinkled his nose. Yes, of course. Lucky to have someone who had made him wait for so long. Someone who had realised almost too late that the only person worthy of his trust was the one he kept pushing away.
«I am not sure about the cravat to go with the ensemble,» he said, hoping Madame Tracy would go along with the change of subject. «Should it match the waistcoat, or do I pick something the same colour as the jacket? I am not quite sure what is in fashion these days.»
In the background, Anathema typed what seemed to be quite a rushed message on her phone. Aziraphale heard the peculiar sound that he had come to recognise as text sent; the answer arrived three milliseconds later. Modern technology, it never ceased to surprise him.
«Is it the girls?» he asked distractedly.
«Ah?» Anathema raised her head from the phone. «Ehm... yes. It’s the babysitter. Eve ate Kitty’s snacks and now they are shouting at each other. The usual stuff.»
«Back to the cravat, love,» said Madame Tracy, charmingly. «Shouldn’t you wear your tartan bowtie? At this stage, seeing you without feels a bit like having you stark naked.»
Aziraphale tried to figure how the stuffy piece of tartan – his tartan, the one Crowley never liked – would fit the ensemble. The colours wouldn’t have been terrible together, but the old pattern felt a tad out of place with the new suit.
«I don’t know... Since I am going for a different kind of outfit, I might as well change the whole thing. Maybe a tie. It has been some time since I tried one of those.»
Tracy’s eyes went wide. Anathema looked up from the screen to give him a quizzical look. The phone chimed again.
«Sorry, babysitter in a panic,» she said, and started typing furiously after adjusting her thick glasses.
«Everything alright?» Aziraphale asked.
«’course, Fanny's eating her crayons, you know, toddlers. About the bowtie though...» Anathema tried to say, before two chimes in close succession brought her attention back to the phone.
A thin buzz prickled the angel’s eardrums. Weird.
«... I was saying,» the witch continued while tapping blindly on the screen. «I thought the bowtie was some sort of flag for you, wasn’t it?»
«You look so positively handsome in it, too!» added Madame Tracy, gingerly squeezing the angel’s shoulders. «And the colour would be lovely with the blue and gold ensemble.»
Another buzz, stronger this time, crossed the angel’s ear at the tune of Anathema’s incoming text.
«My dear girl, is it perhaps Crowley the one who is so insistent in contacting you?»
Anathema’s complexion turned several shades paler. «How do you... I mean, why do you think...»
«Oh, I thought I’d caught his frequency. There is a sort of power fizzling around his communications, nothing that mortals would pick up really. When it manifests near me, I just know.»
«Anathema, dear!» chimed in Madame Tracy, «Have you asked poor Anthony to look after the girls again? With all he has to do for the wedding!»
«Ah! Well, you caught me, Marjorie. My daughters love spending time with him, and he assured me they would be no trouble.»
«Did he, really?» Aziraphale raised a suspicious eyebrow.
«Well, he mumbled and grumbled and said I owed him ten thousand favours, but he had miracled tickets for the panto already, so I thought that maybe his foul mood was just a scene and he was actually happy to spend time with his goddaughters.»
Aziraphale nodded. «Yes, now that sounds more like Crowley.»
Anathema gave him a wobbly, relieved smile, before tapping the screen once more to send what looked like a recording of sort.
«Mr Crowley, so lovely to hear from you again, but really, I am sure the situation is perfectly under control, it all boils down to trust, really, and I trust you to deal with whatever my girls might come up with! No need to worry, we’ll be home soon!»
The laugh that followed contained some stressed note. Aziraphale imagined that leaving young children at home wouldn’t be easy for a new parent. Maybe he needed to speed this suit-affair up a bit, for his friend’s sake at least.
«So,» Madame Tracy grabbed his arm again, gesturing matter-of-factly at his unadorned neck «if we’re not opting for the bowtie, would you perhaps go with a tartan cravat? A matching handkerchief would tie the outfit together, don’t you think?»
«To be completely honest, I thought I’d get rid of the tartan altogether.»
«You what?»
Anathema’s tone had weirdly reminded him of Crowley’s, on the walls of the Garden, asking him about his flaming sword. Madame Tracy seemed, for the first time, at a loss for words. The muscles of her neck looked strained, her smile was not so sweet anymore. Words came out somewhat steely through her teeth.
«But Zira, sweetie! Tartan is so stylish. Don’t you want to have a stylish wedding?»
Aziraphale rubbed his hands together. He was starting to feel a bit, well, pressured.
«Of course I do, my dear... but it is my understanding that tartan has gone a bit out of fashion in the past few decades. Or so Crowley informs me.»
Another chime from Anathema’s phone. Crowley, again. Maybe the dear girl ought to pick up, but when Aziraphale tried to mention it she seemed so oddly invested in this tartan matter that she blurted out instead: «Look, you said you want to do this the human way, didn't you? That’s why you need Something Old.»
«Well, I thought my corporation would do the trick.»
It was a joke, and not a bad one: although Aziraphale was dismayed when the women didn’t share his mirth. Madame Tracy gave Anathema an eyebrow wiggle that the angel could not decipher.
«Not really, if you think about it,» she contradicted him with some glee. «Dear Adam has basically given you a new body during the Nopocalypse, hasn’t he?»
«As a matter of fact,» added Anathema, «your body is no more than ten years old.»
«Hardly suitable for the job.»
«See? We need you to wear your old tartan bowtie.»
«Or at least anything tartan. Your tartan, specifically.»
«No one would wear anyone else’s tartan, anyway, it’s bad form.»
«Please, do it for human traditions’ sake.»
Well, wasn’t that a thing.
The angel found that all the books he had read in his long life didn’t help him articulate on the matter any further.
He looked at the golden waistcoat. It matched the lighter hues of his beloved pattern. The tartan wouldn’t have clashed too much with the blue, and might even have enhanced the ensemble after all. That handkerchief that Madame Tracy had mentioned had all the potential to look quite dapper. And it was very him, for sure.
«I might still have one of my Victorian cravats, somewhere.»
The two women shared a sigh.
«Don’t forget the handkerchief. Chiffon, I think. Or silk,» added Madame Tracy, suddenly choked as she touched the hem of his breast pocket. «Oh, God... I can’t wait to see you in it. You’re going to look dashing.»
«Mr Crowley will be besotted» added Anathema.
«More than he normally is,» winked Madame Tracy.
«Which might seem an impossibly high standard to uphold, but you picked two ambitious groomsmatrons, Mr Fell.»
They smiled over his shoulders in the reflection of the mirror. Aziraphale fixed the lapels of the jacket, and if he leaned a bit into Anathema’s and Madame Tracy’s hands, which were presently squeezing his forearms, well, he would have it known that even angels who were not too used to touch could appreciate a little friendly support.
It felt good, having a clan.
He didn’t need a silly flag for it: being surrounded by people who cared was more than enough. These humans had kind words for Aziraphale, and wished only the best to him and the demon he loved. If this didn’t deserve the name of family, he didn’t know what else could.
He chuckled to himself, taking another good look at the mirror. He liked what he saw: an ethereal being in a suit that made his eyes shine, with a happy smile on his face, and dear friends beside him.
Love was the most stylish accessory this wedding would sport, and there was nothing more to say on the matter.
Except there was, because really, Aziraphale was about to marry Anthony “Do It With Style” J. Crowley. He should have known his demonic husband had a plan all along.
***
The chosen location was the now secular cloister of a former satanic nunnery located in Tadfield. If Aziraphale had been slightly sceptical at the beginning, given the previous affiliation of the place to Hell, he had soon changed his mind as he remembered the wave of emotion that flowed from the place the first time he had set foot there.
Love. Pure, unadulterated, and still strong after Adam lost his power. It had felt overwhelming on the day the had gone to visit it again to inspect the venue, and it was positively crushing now. In a good way. A tsunami of emotions, as if Aziraphale wasn’t feeling enough of his own.
He changed his footing, smoothed the lapels of the blue jacket. Their few guests were chattering amiably around him, drinking a good 1841 Veuve Clicquot from crystal flutes as they were waiting for Crowley to arrive. It was a day of delicately suffused light at the end of October: the weather was crisp but drier than one would expect this late in the season. After all these years, Tadfield was still blessed with the perfect weather. Waiting in this kind of idyllic surroundings was somehow torture for an angel prone to anxiety. Having the weather to complain about might have stopped his thoughts from wandering to scary places.
What if Heaven or Hell – or Heaven and Hell – try to stop the ceremony?
What if Crowley has a last-minute panic attack and I am not there to help him?
What if he finally realises I am just me and he deserves so much better and he takes his Bentley and runs to Alpha Centauri and I never see him again?
«Nanny is going to make a grand entrance, isn’t he?»
Warlock’s voice was smooth and deep, in contrast with his somewhat still boyish face. At twenty-one, the son of the American diplomat looked not all too different from the child they had raised, with clear blue eyes full of mischief and sleek dark hair long enough to cover half of his face.
«Dearest boy,» Aziraphale smiled warmly, banishing his anxious thoughts, «Of course he is. How could you doubt that?»
Warlock smiled serenely. For someone raised the way he had been, pulled between infernal and heavenly influences and given all the privilege and wealth a boy could possibly wish for, he had turned out rather well-grounded. The angel didn’t dare to hope that their intervention anything to do with that; still, it was lovely to see the transformation.
«I have to say, Brother Francis... your nose job turned out pretty well. I might ask you for your surgeon contact, mom did quite a few fillings in LA but her lips and cheekbones ended up looking like balloons.»
«Master Warlock! You shouldn’t speak of your mother like that. I am sure dear Harriett looks positively charming.»
«Believe me, Francis: if she tried to charm you, you wouldn’t know. Her face has only two expressions now, and you have to stand in the sunlight at an angle of 45 degrees to be able to tell one from the other.»
Deep down, Aziraphale was still enough of a bastard to giggle at the mental image. Warlock put an arm around his shoulders, and looked towards the road. The Bentley was expected any minute, now.
«So this is it. You’re tying the knot.»
«It would appear so, yes.»
«I would have thought you had, already. The way you two kept flirting and making googly eyes at one another... everyone at home was convinced you had been married for ages.»
Aziraphale was about to say that they most certainly hadn’t flirted, especially in front of a child, but the lie died on his tongue when confronted with the young man’s grin. Warlock looked like he was ready to bring evidence to his statement, and Aziraphale was definitely too nervous to have this kind of conversation right now.
Instead, he turned to Anathema as he cleared his throat.
«Dear girl, would you by any chance...»
«It’s five to three,» she promptly answered.
«Ah. I was ready to swear we’d been waiting longer.»
Newt, who was holding Persephone, scrambled with his phone, then giggled. «They’ll be here soon. Adam sent me the picture they took before leaving the cottage.» He swiftly moved the phone to save it from his toddler’s grabby hands. «Sorry Mr Fell, I am not allowed to show you for, well, obvious reasons.»
Aziraphale nodded, watching as Warlock and Anathema craned their necks to see the picture. He heard the “awwwws!” and “oooohs”, and his palms got itchy. The angel didn’t need to peek to know that Crowley would be absolutely enchanting, a vision in black, with maybe a few touches of devilish red. He might have changed the style of his glasses for the occasion, opting for another trendy model that would make him look, if possible, even more gorgeous.
Aziraphale was dying to see him. He wanted to hold his hand and feel that all of this was real, and it was happening to the two of them.
«Are you alright, Zira, dear?»
Madame Tracy’s hands could be gentle as feathers when she wanted them to be. They ghosted on his shoulder, and Aziraphale smiled at her.
«Of course, I...»
Hold on a second. What was with her shawl?
It looked familiar.
A puffy ensemble of taffeta, that caught the light just beautifully and enhanced the olive green of her silk dress. The pattern, though, unsettled Aziraphale. It was a pale beige, with only a hint of acidic green, decorated with a grid of black, burgundy, and greenish blue lines, all regularly spaced.
It was tartan.
Heaven’s Dress. Aziraphale’s own.
«Dear girl,» he managed to say around the lump in his throat, «where exactly did you find this?»
The woman gave him a knowing smile.
«Oh, this thing? A gift from Warlock, what a sweetie-pie he is. He said it's the latest fashion in LA. Didn’t I tell you, tartan made a great comeback this year?»
«This is not any tartan, Marjorie.»
«Oh?»
The audacity the woman had!
«I personally designed this, and you know very well, since you insisted for me to...»
She held his gaze as the recognition dawned on him.
Oh.
Oh.
Madame Tracy seemed utterly delighted that he had finally caught up.
«Really, Zira. We’ve been here for the best part of half an hour... haven’t you noticed?»
No, he hadn’t. The angel had been so wrapped up in his anxious thoughts, that he hadn’t seen what was right in front of him.
Every single guest chatting and drinking in the cloister was wearing a quite visible piece of Heaven’s Dress tartan. Little touches that enhanced their attires and made them look as if they all...
Belonged.
«...how?» he said, in a rather high-pitched tone. «I had it custom made. The manufacturer closed eighty years ago.»
«Oh, don’t I know! Ana and I have nearly gone mad trying to find it, we looked everywhere... but once we stopped looking, it just showed up for us.»
«Showed up...?»
Aziraphale, his head spinning, followed Madame Tracy’s hand as it gestured graciously in the air.
«We simply sent a picture to the guests and asked them to find a piece of clothing o accessory they liked in this pattern. And they showed up, you know? The pieces. Anywhere we looked, in the most diverse range of places. A charity shop in Charing Cross. A little boutique in Cambridge. I think Brian found his in his late grandmother’s attic, while Pepper’s comes from an online auction, of all places.»
Apparently, bits of Aziraphale’s tartan scattered all around the globe somehow, without him knowing. They had all gathered again, today, in the cloister of the former satanic nunnery, where strange occurrences weren't all that strange ‒ considering that the shuffling of the new-born Antichrist, the Hell-induced fire and the failed paint-ball guerrilla warfare had all taken place there.
The tartan was all around him. It was a pendant around Anathema’s neck, woven with large aquamarines – the perfect stone to wish harmony and companionship to newlyweds. It was a chunky tie that threatened to suffocate Shadwell, and Newt's double-breasted waistcoat; Brian's bowtie (a bowtie, on somebody else! Quite a refreshing sight), Wensleydale's jacket and Pepper's fascinator. Warlock was sporting a silken tartan rose at his lapel. Even Dog, happily jumping about the guests' calves as if sensing the excitement, wore a tartan bandana.
«The Pulsifer girls have matching ribbons and belts,» Madame Tracy told him, her voice impossibly soft. «And Adam... well, you’ll see, I don’t want to spoil the surprise. He has put quite a lot of thought into all of this.»
Adam? So, it was his doing. Some residual power on reality, just an aftermath of Armageddidn’t, and poof: pieces of Heaven’s Dress everywhere. Aziraphale felt his heart shrink to the deepest cavities of his aching chest. For so long he had tried to shape his softness to fit the rigid frames of Heaven, forcing his round mind through their squared banners. He would have done anything to belong. And what did he get in exchange for his unfaltering devotion? Only judgement, sneering and rejection.
Now that he had given up on changing, now that he had surrendered to his own nature and had chosen a different truth over the one he had been spoon-fed, belonging had found him, in the shape of these people who accepted Aziraphale for who he was.
It was all too much. So much more than he would have even dreamed of.
«Come on, darling, don’t switch on the waterworks just yet,» Madame Tracy teased. Aziraphale blinked with intention, determined to send the tears back to where they'd come from.
«Well,» Aziraphale cleared his throat, «I should say thank you.»
«Nonsense. We did nothing, if not persuade you to keep the blasted tartan in first place.»
«I just wonder... if maybe it’s all a bit too...»
«Too?»
«...well... me.» He twisted the hem of his sleeve. «If I had known, we could have organised something for Crowley, too. Black balloons? Bentley-shaped napkin rings, maybe. I am still in time to miracle a few.»
«Oh, you silly goose...» She patted his cheeks, in a maternal fashion that Aziraphale didn’t really appreciate, but didn’t particularly despise either. «Your Crowley will be just fine, you’ll see.»
Would he, though?
Crowley didn’t like tartan. He scoffed at it every chance he had. Affectionately, of course, rolling his eyes the same way he did when Aziraphale said something particularly naïve — which happened irritatingly often. Still, the angel worried. Tartan wasn’t something Crowley would have picked up to represent himself, and today was all about them, together, wasn't it?
The roaring of the Bentley came as the bells struck the hour. Three o’clock sharp. Aziraphale sucked in a breath he didn’t need, and his lungs burned.
There Crowley was. He could see his profile through the darkened window.
The car stopped with a bold screech of the breaks: for the day, a radiant Adam had persuaded the demon to let him be his driver, with a not so subtle use of emotional blackmail (hey, remember the time you tempted an angel into killing me?). As the young man with dark golden curls –and distinctive tartan lapels, Aziraphale noticed– got out the car, he opened the backdoor to let Eve and Hecate Pulsifer out. Just as Madame Tracy had told him, the girls had tartan sashes on their puffy white dresses and matching ribbons woven in their jet-black hair. They smiled at Aziraphale, all chubby cheekbones and missing teeth. Hecate ran to hug him, burying her face in his waistcoat.
«You look so pretty, Uncle Fell!»
Aziraphale petted the top of her head. «Why, my darling, thank you. You look very pretty, too.»
He didn’t take his eyes off the Bentley, though. Adam was opening Crowley’s door.
«Kitty, honey, come here for a moment,» said Anathema, and Aziraphale didn't notice when the witch gently grabbed her daughter’s hand to bring her discreetly on the side. He was too busy forgetting how hearts beat.
Of course, he had always been sure Crowley would look magnificent on their wedding day, but he wasn’t fully prepared for this.
The demon got out of the car, draped in a velvet tuxedo that clung around his slim waist, then unfurled downwards into a luxuriously wide gown. The silk shirt he wore underneath was ruby like the best wine – how many times had they shared a glass or five, in Greece and Rome, in Byzantium and Bruxelles, in Chicago and San Paolo and Canberra: it felt like sins and secrets, it felt like warmth and home. Around Crowley’s chest, Aziraphale spotted a velvet garment that appeared to be an old fashioned corset, its lines discreet, essential and beautifully decadent. He was a vision of pure elegance, a perfect blend of genders that shone with all the manifestations of Crowley’s beauty: a stunning man, a magnificent woman, and every amazing declination in between.
With all of Heaven, Hell and Earth to choose from, that awesome creature had picked Aziraphale, and wasn’t that the most ineffable miracle of all.
Once he had taken in the overwhelming ensemble, the angel paid attention to the detail that truly left him speechless.
Around the demon’s neck was a delicate, elaborately knotted cravat. Irrevocably tartan. Unmistakably Heaven's Dress.
Crowley caught his glance and smiled – that rare, spontaneous smile that lit up his whole face. He lifted the sunglasses on his forehead as he approached Aziraphale. The demon’s eyes were completely yellow, already glossy, overflowing with emotion. The angel would have gladly drowned in that ocean of molten gold.
«You’re wearing...» Aziraphale stuttered. From the cravat, his eyes fell on the bouquet of blood-red roses Crowley was holding. They were wrapped in Heaven’s Dress organza. «Even... even the roses...»
«They are on our side, too. Well, they'd better be, if they know what’s good for them.»
Crowley grinned, but the swelling in his voice said something else, something the demon didn’t often put into words. To Aziraphale, it had never mattered. Crowley’s actions spoke volumes.
It was all clear, now. This was the moment in the movie when time froze, and Cupid struck, and the groom was hopelessly in love.
Except the movie-groom was Aziraphale, all flabbergasted and too-far-gone and failing to believe his luck.
And he wouldn’t have it any other way.
The demon took his hand, pulling him closer. Aziraphale noted that the roses shook with fear, and a remote part of his brain told him he should have scolded Crowley. He locked that little voice away. Just for today.
»You gave me a fright, you know,» said the demon, pushing their foreheads together, «What, after wearing tartan for the best part two centuries you decide to update your wardrobe on our bloody wedding day? I almost had to switch to plan B, and you know I am useless at plan-Bs.»
If this were a normal day, Aziraphale would take the bait and retort with his nose held high: well, I’m sorry if I was trying to match your impossible standards, never again will I try to accommodate your ridiculous sense of fashion. Instead, he gasped.
Plan, Crowley had said. It was all his plan, and of course, it had been so obvious.
The urgent texts at the fitting. Anathema’s panic, and Madame Tracy’s steely resolve to make the angel wear the exact item he was so determined to discard.
How could he not have seen it coming?
«Was it all you, then? All the...» Aziraphale gestured at the people surrounding them, clad in tartan, gathered under their banner. The Them were giggling over the rim of their glasses; Warlock pushed his champagne flute towards the grooms, before taking an impossibly slim phone out of his pocket and snatching a picture of the moment. The angel blinked like a deer caught in flashlights. «My dear, how... how did you...»
Crowley shrugged.
«Just a little power of imagination, really. I believed there would be bits of your tartan scattered around Great Britain, and well, there they were, popped into existence. Just so you know, there might be a few knick-knacks that none of ours ended up buying, they're still around somewhere. They should turn into latex balaclavas in a fortnight, give or take, so no worries on that front... hey, angel.»
Aziraphale wanted to keep listening, but couldn’t.
The sob had broken in his throat, giving leeway to the tears, and suddenly it was all too beautiful to hold it together any longer.
He had held it together for so long.
Six thousand years of repressed yearning, six thousand years of denial and self-inflicted loneliness. No more. He was part of something, now. He was fitting in when he wasn’t even trying to, because Crowley had decided to drape himself around Aziraphale’s every corner, embracing all of his dips and spikes, accepting them for what they were.
Did he deserve any of this?
As he buried his face against Crowley’s shoulder, the demon’s arms wound tight around him.
«You silly pillock.» The word came out so soft that it could as well become another term of endearment among humans, as angel had. «You thought I hadn’t noticed? The thermos. The bike rack’s straps. The bloody collar inside my jacket, after the trials. I know what it means when you give your tartan to someone else, angel: I invented the Scottish clans.»
«But... it is not your style, dear.»
«I’ll survive the occasional piece of tartan, it doesn’t go too badly with my colours anyway.»
Aziraphale could have pointed out that pretty much anything went with black. Instead, he said:
«You didn’t have to, Crowley.»
«I never had to.»
«Still...»
«But I always did, Aziraphale. And I always will.»
And there it was. Not a vow, nor a prophecy: just a statement, a belief so strong it shaped reality. Crowley’s boundless imagination could stop time and make anything come true, even this marriage of hereditary enemies with no bloodbaths in the finale. Even this miraculous us, since the beginning and until the end.
Aziraphale had always been a creature of faith, and for the first time he realised there was no reason to panic. In the two of them, he could believe.
«Oy, you two!» bellowed Shadwell, before Madame Tracy could stop him. «Is anybody gettin' merrit here or what? ‘cause if yoo’re getting cold feet about it all we can just skip tae the drinking part.»
«Really, Mr S,» scolded his wife, exasperatedly fond.
«He does have a point, though,» teased Adam, his hands casually in his pockets and a cheeky grin on his face. «Are you ready, gentlemen? Or do you want to wait another thousand years?»
Crowley and Aziraphale laughed, then shared one last glance before smiling to their clan. The angel dried the last couple of tears and held out his hand. It felt like a gesture from long ago, when the world was young, and the first rain had fallen from the sky. A white wing had lifted, then, and stretched over a demon’s head in silent reassurance. I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what will happen. But we’re in this together, so it will be alright.
And just as he had stepped closer on the walls of Eden, Crowley now put his slender hand into Aziraphale’s, once more answering the questions the angel had never dared to ask.
***
It was all ready. The string quartet played a beautiful arrangement of Mendelssohn's Wedding March, that somehow morphed into an equally enchanting, if daring, cover of You’re My Best Friend as the wedding party entered the de-desecrated chapel. Madame Tracy and Anathema, beaming as they walked side by side, were followed at a close distance by Warlock, who patiently accompanied by the hand a very wobbly, very excited Persephone. Choosing a toddler as the ring-bearer was, admittedly, a hazard; yet, Crowley had heard no reason about it. Persephone did not disappoint: unpredictable and wilful like every woman in the Device family line, she decided she’d take a rest and sat on the floor of the chapel, playing with the rings and the pretty cushion they were laid on. If the rings didn’t disappear in a centuries-old crack in the floor, it was thanks a fast swipe of Aziraphale’s fingers: a very simple, yet convincing miracle, which brought the two metal circlets back on the cushion, where they found a sudden compulsion to stay very still, as if a powerful magnet pinned them to the embroidered surface. Thanks be to Someone, Eve and Hecate followed the instructions better than their baby sister, and scattered white petals with a composed seriousness that made Newt very proud.
Adam, who had readily enlisted himself as the officiant – there was no way of denying the boy – waited with a charming smile at the end of the aisle. The angel took a deep breath as the violins reached the peak of the song.
You know I'll never b e lonely
You're my only one
And I love the things
I really l ove the things that you do
Oh, you're my best friend
Neither of the grooms was standing at the altar, waiting for the other to join him. Aziraphale and Crowley had decided that all the waiting had been done and was past them. They would walk the aisle arm in arm.
They were half-way through the chapel, when Crowley murmured, looking straight in front of him: «Angel. Your waistcoat... is that snakeskin?»
At some point, the sunglasses had slid back on the demon’s nose. Aziraphale smiled fondly.
«Not the real thing, of course. Just... You know. Something that looks like it.»
«And why would you...?»
«Because you and I are the same, and I want everyone to know.»
The demon stopped in the middle of the aisle.
«Aziraphale,» he breathed.
«Yes, dear?»
«Marry me.»
The angel laughed, and his voice resounded clear under the vaults, light and free from the chains of subterfuge and duty that had smothered him for so long. When he caressed the back of Crowley’s hand with his thumb, Aziraphale gave him a proper, mischievous smile.
«Well, I think that’s rather the point of today, my love.»
As they finally reached the altar, the song lingered in the air a bit longer after the quartet had stopped playing – and oh, it might have taken its sweet time to get to the point, but everyone had to agree: it ended on a note that sounded rather perfect.
------------------------
Extra: A couple of sketches from the wedding.
The moment time freezes in beauty...
Pictures from the reception. Dancing, randomly hugging, and a picture with the lovely goddaughters.
Warlock made everybody cry with his speech. Madame Tracy is saying something amusing ( Persephone is not convinced though. That little girl is a tough audience!)