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If Crowley hadn’t been a supernatural entity who almost exclusively hung around with other supernatural entities (or, well, just one other supernatural entity really) then in an emergency situation that required his attention he probably would have been woken up by someone pounding on his door. Waking up to someone pounding on his door would have been preferable, because instead he woke up to an angel silently looming over him. Aziraphale, in a show of grace, deigned not to comment on his choked yelp.
“Ah good, you’re awake.”
“What are you doing here, it’s the middle of the bloody night,” Crowley grumbled.
“It’s actually a little after ten ack emma,” Aziraphale corrected him, “and there’s a problem.”
Crowley sat up, quickly totting up a list of their enemies at the moment and coming up with a sum total of potentially everyone.
“Well don’t leave me in suspense here, what is it this time?”
Aziraphale grimaced as he held forth a pristine white envelope, with gold cursive printed on the front. Both of their names were neatly sat side by side, and Crowley noted that the angel had chosen to wear his pointless book handling gloves. Whatever it was, it was clearly dangerous.
“Heaven?” Crowley asked, peering at the way the tail of the Z in A. Z. Fell looped underneath to join with the tail of the J in A. J. Crowley. It was very tasteful, not at all Heaven’s usual style. Why would Heaven address them both? And why use their human names?
“If only,” Aziraphale said, and slid the contents out of the envelope with the delicacy of a bomb defusal expert. Despite his steady hand and careful extraction, a cloud of something shiny and potentially deadly concealed within spaffed itself all over Crowley’s duvet. He launched himself up and out of the bed, in case it was acidic or gave you horrible boils when it touched your skin or—
“Is that glitter.”
“Just read the card, please. And maybe you’d like to locate some more modest clothing for the rest of this conversation. Really, Crowley, any clothing at all would do.”
Crowley rolled his eyes and snatched the card out of Aziraphale’s tentative grip. Dear Mssrs Fell & Crowley, the Device estate request your presence in Los Angeles for the nuptials of—
Oh, god.
Crowley dropped the card.
“Nope, no, no way, this one’s your turn angel, I did the last one—“
Aziraphale crossed his arms, looking smug and victorious, which was a look Crowley was very into seeing him wear usually. It was leaving him completely cold now.
“You know the rules, my dear. You touched it.”
“You carried it all the way here! That is the very definition of ‘touching’!”
“I wore my gloves the entire time and you cannot argue against that as a method of protecting myself, you set the precedent back in ‘56 when you wrapped one in an off-cut of your shed and threw it in my lap.”
Crowley knew he wasn’t making much of a case against Aziraphale’s point as he stammered his way through every consonant in the alphabet and back again for good measure. It wasn’t that either of them didn’t love a good party. It’s just that after nigh on 6000 years of experience, Crowley and Aziraphale had noticed that people got weird with them at weddings. Lots of confessions, lots of seduction attempts, lots of bloody great bother. They had tried, for a short while, ignoring the invitations they both got over the years but realised after an embarrassing string of incidents that, for creatures like them, wedding invitations were akin to a summons, even when their false human names were invoked instead of their true ones. They didn’t have to accept to find themselves suddenly smack bang in the middle of the Happiest Day Of Someone’s Life, the universe just defaulted to “yes” on their RSVP unless they specifically and unequivocally refused. In writing.
Neither of them were very good at saying “no” to a party, though. And, on top whatever social guilt someone prone to feeling guilty about that sort of thing might bring on themselves, it also cost a lot of magical energy to do it properly, it was essentially the equivalent of breaking a contract. He’d be out of commission for days. All pathetic and weak and needing Aziraphale to take care of him and—
“Fine, fine. I’ll throw some clothes on and do it. Who the hell are the Device estate when they’re at home, anyway?” Crowley asked, trying to miracle the glitter away but to no avail. It was one of the most demonic substances ever created, completely resistant to any sort of occult or ethereal interference, and he’d regretted it every day of his eternal life.
“I have no idea,” Aziraphale frowned, “perhaps I’ve had book dealings with them before, considering this little invitation was delivered to the shop. But then how could they possibly know to address it to you as well? I hardly go around chatting about you to my business associates.”
“Way to make a bloke feel loved,” Crowley said under his breath, tugging on a dressing gown. “Come on then, I’m up now, may as well get some breakfast while we’re at it. I’ll take this one but you have to do the next two, Aziraphale, I swear.”
Aziraphale patted his shoulder consolingly. “Yes, yes, very well. Just try to let them down gently, won’t you?”
“Always do, angel. I always do.”
To Whomever It May Concern,
Unfortunately, A. Z. Fell & A. J. Crowley must decline your invitation to attend your upcoming wedding on the grounds that they don’t want to/can’t think of anything worse/would rather hurl themselves both into the sun. Please choose your favourite of these reasons, and congrats on the whole marriage thing and blah blah blah.
Remaining entirely their own and not for public consumption,
The aforementioned parties
Penultima Device frowned.
She knew it had been a long shot, the book had told her as much, but she hadn’t expected this. She read over the note one more time, before shrugging and moving over to the fire pit. It felt sacrilegious, almost, to do what she was about to do, but Agnes had made herself clear. If the two strangers had shown, they were to be given the package. If they refused, it needed to burn and the universe would catch up with them later.
Penultima poured the gasoline on top of the facsimile of the book and threw a match on top without a second look. She felt the baby start kicking the second the flames took, and she stroked a hand across her swollen stomach, wondering how old Anathema would be before she finally ran into them.