Special Day by vulgarweed

Special Day by Vulgarweed



The idea had begun as a joke. They thought it had originally had something to do with a squabble over dishwashing sometime in the High Middle Ages. Eventually the joke got so old it ceased to be funny--and if it wasn’t funny then it must be serious, underneath all the forced, nervous snickering.

They both knew they’d have to make a lot of compromises. Clearly Aziraphale was not going to get a romantic High Church traditional complete with kneeling and benediction and choir. And clearly Crowley was not going to get a licentious Black Mass complete with entrail-reading, goats, and public consummation on the altar. They were more than fine with that, deciding at last that making too much of a fuss was rather embarrassing and not in the best of taste, considering that neither’s, er, family, was exactly thrilled about the matter. Well, a pox on both their houses. Clearly Earth was the only place something like this could be done, and probably best in the afternoon.

Still, it was an important occasion and it wouldn’t do to be slovenly about it. Crowley’s sharp black suit and Aziraphale’s gleaming white robes made the occasion look almost traditional after all — in the worst possible way — and they’d both had their feathers professionally styled. They were doing an admirable job of hiding their jitters (except that Crowley kept quietly threatening his boutonniere).

The same couldn’t be said for the poor civil servant stuck administering the honours.

“Er…do you take this…person…entity…to be your….

“Lawfully wedded…” prompted Aziraphale helpfully.

“Well, not really,” muttered Crowley. “I mean, not really lawfully. I mean, of course I do take him…as often as possible…” Strange. That sharp elbow in his ribs hadn’t been there before.

“In sickness and in health…”

“Sure, theoretically.” “For better or for worse…”

“Worse than what – the end of the world?”

“Shut up!” “t—to ….love….honour….and ch-cherish…”

The clerk was clearly deeply flustered now. He’d got everything all out of order, and this last bit was making two extremely unattractive man-shaped things sitting on the aisle quite audibly and tangibly gag. The matronly lady next to them with too much makeup nudged them disapprovingly and passed them a heavily perfumed handkerchief. “Pansies,” grumbled her small, sullen companion. The taller, skinnier creature mopped up a few stray maggots from his chin.

“Certainly, yes,” said Aziraphale happily, watching Crowley squirm and blush with great satisfaction.

“…til death do you part…”

Oʜ ɴᴏ, an extremely tall and thin guest tried and failed to mutter quietly, Tʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ᴍʏ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍ.

“Oh, f’r cripes sake,” said a very handsome young man in the front row, stepping forward. He patted the official sympathetically on the shoulder. “I think you’re in over your head here, sir. Let me handle this one.”

Though the mysterious young man presented no credentials to speak of, this still struck the erstwhile officiant as an excellent idea, and he proceeded to exit stage left and get very drunk.

“Don’t you worry,” the man whispered to Crowley and Aziraphale, who were exchanging rings fumblingly [1]. “I know all about you two.”

Crowley blanched and Aziraphale blushed. When he said, “By the Power vested in me…” the whole village trembled. When he hesitated for a moment over “What … events…have brought together, let No One put asunder…” most of the guests gasped in awe. When he said, “Go on, kiss your…spouse,” Crowley and Aziraphale found it literally impossible to do anything else. Or to take a break once they’d started, so they had to give up all pretense of breathing.

After that, the reception was bound to be anticlimactic, and it was, although around the dance floor where a man in white swayed with one in black, the hall was inexplicably smelly and sticky-floored and the caterers kept running out of everything but Anathema Device-Pulsifer’s macrobiotic cookies [2]. And even Crowley’s “side” couldn’t be blamed for the brawl that broke out when a striking redhead decided she preferred another striking redhead [3] to any of the men who’d been following her around like angry, horny ducklings.

The newlyweds, meanwhile, were still kissing. It would have been nice if their officiant had specified a decent interval of escape, but this at least required little compromise, and they were long past embarrassment.

~fin~

[1] The ring Aziraphale gave Crowley had once belonged to an alleged Pope and had been kissed by more cardinals than an American birdfeeder in January. But the Pope had turned out to be quite the poseur, and rather debauched at that, and responsible for some very eccentric edicts, so any lingering trace of conventional holiness about it was thoroughly diverted into something much more interesting. The ring Crowley gave Aziraphale had been found by archaeologists in a lava bed near Mt. Etna, and had a vague whiff of redemption: it had once been a powerful Horcrux belonging to a notorious Fallen sort, with an inscription in a language no one could read—except Aziraphale, who discreetly changed it to bear simply their names and “Forever.” The original had been a little ominous, although he supposed to “bind” was kind of the point, and “darkness” wasn’t so bad if it included a comfortable bed and Crowley.

[2] They were sugar- and animal-product- and white-flour- and additive- and preservative-free. They tasted like sticks and rocks.

[3] In both senses of the word “striking.”