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It was a blistering day in mid-August and the priest was shuffling around between the pews in his church, trying to find a football that had rolled under a seat, when he was interrupted by a polite cough. In the light of the doorway were standing two men. One was placid-looking and beaming, in an immaculate cream suit with a shock of white hair. The other, serpentine and dark, seemed to be doing some kind of odd jerking movement with his feet, never leaving them on the floor for more than a moment at a time.
"Do excuse me," said the white-haired man politely, "we're looking for the father of this parish?"
"Hi! That's me," replied the priest, stumbling over a kneeler cushion to offer his hand.
"Ah, excellent," he said, shaking his hand warmly. "My name is Aziraphale and this is my fiancé Crowley."
"Lovely to meet you," said Crowley, continuing his strange dance, as though the soles of his shoes were on fire. "I won't shake hands. Bit of a cold, don't want to pass it on."
"Sure, sure," said the priest. "How can I help you both today?"
"Well, we're looking for a place for a wedding, and we do love old churches like this one," started Aziraphale.
"We had a bit of a romantic moment in one once," supplied Crowley. "It was fun, there were Nazis."
"He saved my books," said Aziraphale, with a tender, loving gaze at his partner.
"Oh wow, that sounds very- there were Nazis?"
"Oh, don't worry," said Crowley with a devilish grin, "they've been dealt with."
"Crowley!" his fiancé admonished. "Don't scare the poor man."
"No, no," the priest reassured them. "We don't like Nazis here either."
"Excellent," beamed Aziraphale, spreading his arms to hustle the priest out of the door and onto the pavement. "Let's talk about it over lunch."
"Where were you thinking, angel?" asked Crowley as they all stepped into the road.
"Ooh, well, there's this wonderful-"
A honking noise was the only warning they got before the lorry came barrelling into them.
In a flash, the priest's vision was filled with feathers, some brilliant white and blinding, some glossy, black as pitch. He blinked, and found himself shielded by two pairs of wings as the wind from the passing lorry whooshed around them, blowing up dust and debris from the road. The vehicle had miraculously swerved just at the last second to avoid them.
"Get out of the road!" Crowley shouted at the back of the lorry, with some rather descriptive hand gestures. The couple both shook their feathers a little, and Crowley picked some debris off the front of Aziraphale's lapels for him, examining it with a grimace.
"Do you think they noticed the old-" said Aziraphale, gesturing at his wings.
"They never notice anything, humans," snorted Crowley, picking a crisp packet out of his feathers.
The priest squeaked.
"Ah," said Aziraphale, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "That was the other thing that-"
"Fuck," said the priest, shaken. "I- You-" His eyes were bulging out of his head. The two angels - because that seemed the only logical explanation - both looked rather concerned as he wobbled over to the pavement.
Reverently, he dropped to his knees, head spinning. "He will cover you with his pinions," he breathed, "and under his wings you will find refuge."
"Yes, yes, that sort of thing," said the angel in a soothing voice, pulling him gently to his feet and patting his arm. "Let's get you a nice cup of tea and some lunch, hmm?"
"Do we have to do this?" asked Crowley in an undertone as they steered the mute priest towards a nearby restaurant. "Couldn't we just-"
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose and squirmed a little. "That doesn't seem right."
"But we could just-"
"No," he said more firmly, making up his mind. "We are not starting our marriage by wiping this poor man's memory. It sets a terrible precedent."
"Fine," huffed Crowley, "but if he gets all weird about it, I'm going home."
Luckily, a table for three just happened to become available the moment they walked into the restaurant, and they were soon ensconced in a comfortable booth with a bottle of rather nice Merlot and a pot of tea.
"So, I, wow," started the priest, who at this point had recovered some of his wits. "So are you here- Is this- Do you have some kind of message for me, or...?"
"A message?" said Crowley, annoyed. "We're not the Microsoft Office paperclip, we don't just pop up with little hints for you every now and then."
"Paperclip?" said Aziraphale, bemused. "I'm afraid you've lost me there."
"It's a," Crowley gestured vaguely, "computery thing."
Aziraphale shuddered delicately. "Oh. Well, regardless, no. We're not exactly on... active duty these days."
"Angels can retire?" asked the priest, racking his brain for what he could remember from seminary school. Nothing sprang to mind, but he would be the first to admit that he wasn't at his sharpest at this particular moment.
"Not strictly," said the angel, "but I think Heaven is currently, ah, a little busy with other matters."
"I'm not technically an angel, either," said Crowley, tipping down his sunglasses to reveal his eyes, deep orange with snakelike pupils. "There was a bit of a disciplinary... kerfuffle, and I'm more what you might call your actual demon... type... thing, really."
"So why did you come to my church?" said the priest, taking a large and restorative sip of his wine. "Can you even, how did you cross the threshold?"
"Bit hard on the feet, consecrated ground," agreed Crowley, grinning widely, "but it'll be worth it to see their faces."
"Whose faces?"
"I've had a bit of a bust-up with Hell over this whole Apocalypse fiasco - long story, you don't need to know - but this is going to piss off Beelzebub and the other arseholes to no end."
Aziraphale gave a happy wiggle. "They'll be jolly upset," he agreed. "Gabriel too, the bastard."
Sprawled over his seat, Crowley gave the angel a magnificently adoring look.
"So you really are getting married?" the priest asked, for clarification.
"Oh yes," said Aziraphale.
"And not just out of spite," said Crowley.
"No. Although there is some spite," conceded the angel. "I hope that's not a problem for you."
"I've seen people get married for worse reasons," he said absently. "What did you mean when you said Heaven is busy?"
"Busy playing silly buggers," muttered the demon.
"There was this sort of Apocalypse type thing that we rather, ah, got in the way of a bit - it was all terribly ineffable, you understand - and so they'll probably be off gearing up to do it all over again for a while. They seem to have left us alone, at any rate."
"Is it allowed, the two of you being together?"
"Oh, not at all," said the angel, gripping his fiancé's hand firmly. "They made a terrible fuss."
"I'll note that the Almighty hasn't smited us down, though," observed Crowley. He cocked his head, a little frown wrinkling his brow. "Smited. Smitten. Smoted?"
"Sorry," said the priest, his brain catching up with him. "Did you say that you stopped the Apocalypse?"
"For now, yes."
The priest poured himself another, very large, glass of wine.
"Fuck me. Well, fuck." He took a meditative gulp. "If it comes up again, I'm happy to help, if you need," he offered weakly. He wasn't entirely sure what help, exactly, he could offer, but he could probably do something.
Maybe he could design the uniforms.
"That's very kind of you," said the angel. "You seem like a very nice young man. Are you married?"
"No, not really allowed in the Catholic..." he trailed off, thinking. "Fuck, is any of that true? How does God feel about priests falling in love?"
"It's always difficult to know exactly what the ineffable plan is," hemmed Aziraphale.
The priest frowned. "You can't talk directly to God?"
"Not without being put on hold for hours. It's worse than telephoning the gas company. No, I'm afraid I don't know."
"Probably doesn't give a fuck, to be honest," interjected Crowley. "Compared to our forbidden love, yours is... mildly hinted against."
"Breaking a couple of by-laws, punishable by a fine, kind of thing," supplied Aziraphale.
"Probably not even that! I mean look at us, walking around un-smitten."
"I must protest, Crowley!" said Aziraphale indulgently. "I am entirely smitten." They shared a long, loving look.
The priest, busy having an existential crisis, paid no notice.
"I'm afraid there's really no way to know the Almighty's plan for you," Aziraphale said to him gently, "but that's not so bad, is it? That means you get to decide for yourself."
"Jesus fucking Christ," said the priest, just as the waiter stopped at their table to deliver their food. This being the kind of establishment that insisted on the highest level of discretion and politeness from their staff, he merely raised an eyebrow at the priest's collar and turned away without comment, smiling to himself.
"You don't have to fall in love if you don't want to," the angel continued in a delicate tone, "but equally, if there's someone who..."
The two celestial beings locked eyes with each other again, and Crowley brought Aziraphale's hand to his lips to give it a soft, affectionate kiss.
"Look, it's just not worth putting it off, all right?" said the angel. "Believe me."
The priest hunched down in his chair. "How do you know you've done the right thing?" he said in a small voice.
"Don't ask me about the right thing," said Crowley, "I've been trying to do the opposite for 6,000 years, I couldn't tell you anything about doing the right thing, but I can tell you this: whenever I look at him, all I can see is hope."
Aziraphale visibly melted, cradling Crowley's face in one hand. "And I you, dear boy," he said sincerely, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
After a moment, he turned back to the priest, who was picking at a plate of mussels without enthusiasm, reconsidering his life choices.
"I really don't mean to pry," said Aziraphale hesitantly, "but she's working at that café today, you know."
The priest gave a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "Fucking angels."
"Like I said, I don't like to be too forward, but it really does seem a shame."
Crowley, busily wrapping himself around Aziraphale like ivy, hummed his assent.
Giving a lopsided half-smile, the priest looked down at his hands. "I'm supposed to love one thing."
"Love isn't finite, Father," said the angel patiently. "When you find someone you love... you fall in love with the whole world, through them. There's enough to go around."
"Best to be on the safe side, though." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Don't want to mess up any divine plans."
"Listen," said Crowley, taking an interest. "How about this - you go ahead and get this girl and be happy, and if we see any divine wrath headed your way we'll just sort of... head it off at the pass."
"Yes!" beamed Aziraphale, bouncing in his seat. "We'll keep an eye out for locusts and hellfire and so forth, then you won't have to worry."
"Provided you agree to do our wedding, of course," added the demon with a cocked eyebrow.
"That seems fair," said the priest. "Fuck. OK." He let out a huff of air. He fought the urge to giggle, feeling infinite promise crackling around the edge of his vision. Maybe this could work. It was a celestial being-approved plan. "OK."
"If you start running now, you could get to her in ten minutes," said Crowley casually, pouring himself another drink.
"Fuck," said the priest again, for good measure, and drained his glass. "Right, fuck it." He bounded to his feet and sprinted for the door.
"You could have offered him a lift, you scoundrel," he heard Aziraphale saying to Crowley, but he didn't have space in his brain to think about it.
A few minutes later, he arrived at the door to Hillary's out of breath, dishevelled and panting, sweat beading on his forehead in the midday sun. Pushing open the door, he burst ungracefully into the room and stopped short.
She was standing at the counter, looking alarmed, amused, and pleased in equal measures.
"I-" he started, then stopped. With a couple of strides, he crossed the room and took her face in his hands.
"I have had the weirdest fucking day," he said, and kissed her.