Chapter Text
Dramatis Personae
Caligula, Emperor: Coronated following the death of Emperor Tiberius and the third Emperor since the office was founded, Emperor Caligula was renown for being cruel and unpredictable. During his reign, he vastly expanded the rights and power of the Emperor.
Claudius: The last direct male descendant of the first Emperor, Augustus. He was long-since ostracized by his family due to a considerable number of health defects and a stutter, and was never viewed as a threat by his extended family and political enemies.
Petronius: Most famous for his satirical manuscript, the Satyricon, which called into question the time period’s thoughts on virginity, homosexuality, and romance. He would later go on to become the elegantiae arbiter of Emperor Nero’s court. He was considered a frank and energetic man, dedicated to the pleasures of life, which he defined as food and fashion.
Latin Glossary
amphora: a tall ceramic jug with two handles, used for serving beverages.
conditura: a type of wine mixed with aromatic herbs, usually to disguise impurities.
elegantiae arbiter: a person recognized as an authority on social taste and manners.
notitia: translated literally, an acquaintance; however over time it gained the connotation of carnal knowledge of a person who is not a friend.
pilum: a javelin most commonly used by the Roman army.
popina: a wine bar that typically caters to lower income citizens; furnished only with stools and tables, and serves light appetizers along with wine.
sesterces: a large brass coin, and common currency during the Roman Empire.
scelestus: a wicked, abominable person; when exclaimed, it means “Outrageous!”
Ziti Luminis Tavern, Rome || January, 41 AD
Two thousand years before the End of the World, eight hundred years before The Arrangement and eleven years before the last time he ever walked the banks of the Tiber, Aziraphale sat at a local popina and kept to himself with a quiet game of Nine Men’s Morris.
Around him, the tavern buzzed with gossip and debate in the brash language that comes when the wine runs generously. Humans drank and volleyed back and forth in Latin, Greek and hushed Oscan, and the angel listened. Like the game he was playing and the whitebait and bread he had recently polished off, familiarity with the local languages helped him blend in. As a Principality[1], it was his sacred duty to educate and guard humanity from the wiles of evil both outside and within themselves, and inspire them to greatness – and to do that, he must understand them. He performed his duty to immerse with relish, and only a little guilt.
Nero né Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus was the assignment Aziraphale had been given, just after the turn of the new year. It was rare that angels received information of a predestined future and Aziraphale was shocked to receive so much; it told him undoubtedly this boy was to be important. The name change meant adoption, and the name Nero in particular meant the boy was to become paterfamilias, the head, of the Claudii Nerones family. On Aziraphale’s coin, this meant the adopter was to be Claudius, the only surviving heir of Augustus and successor to Emperor Caligula. The current Emperor considered himself a living god and performed atrocities Aziraphale hadn’t seen since pre-conquered Egypt. Normally he was amicable to various human faiths and All paths lead to Her of course, but some paths were frankly abhorrent.
Aziraphale was not looking forward to what was likely to be a decade of political finagling and coaxing under the pinning gaze of such a man. Despite Heaven’s best attempts thus far, politics remained a domain of Hell. Nevertheless, the wine in Rome was a delight and the food was nothing less than revolutionary. It could have been worse, being given an assignment only enjoyable by a demon.
Unbidden, Aziraphale’s thoughts wandered to Crawly– no, Crowley. The wily serpent that had thus far gotten humanity kicked out of Paradise and then had shown up at Aziraphale’s side every thousand years or so to question or otherwise mock God’s ineffable Plan. He was the fallen angel that had somehow made Aziraphale laugh so shortly after the Fall of Man, and laughed along with a toss of hellfire curls. A demon that had tried to save the last unicorn, whose humor turned aghast when told about the Flood. He was brazen. Relentlessly questioning the Plan during every meeting of theirs, and then he had worn a black mourning at the Crucifiction, those red curls streaming from the hood. To the man being crucified, he had shown all the kingdoms of the world.
The one being besides himself that had shown any sort of compassion toward the suffering of humanity – and Aziraphale regularly kept company with angels. The last time he and Crowley had spoken, it had been tense and brief, full of mutual mourning and – unbeknownst to the demon – mutual questioning of the Plan. Aziraphale contemplated the mat in front of him, moved a black stone for his imaginary opponent, and reached for a white stone. Does Crowley play table games? He wondered idly.
It was unwise, dangerous, potentially treasonous, but Aziraphale was eager for their next meeting. He had become curious. He wanted to ask about Crowley’s mourning veil, and why he looked so much cleaner than any other demon Aziraphale had seen. Helplessly, recklessly, he had an additional burning question, but the relevant day had been only eight short years ago, and they went centuries without speaking.
As if on cue, cutting through the general hum of conversation, Aziraphale heard a haughty and familiar voice say, “What have you got?”
Aziraphale’s hand stilled as it was about to place a white stone on the mat. Speak of the– demon.
At the sound of Crowley’s voice, Aziraphale’s throat tightened, and the burning question reared up like bile. Between Christ’s death and resurrection, Aziraphale had heard through the grapevine that the prophet had visited Hell. ‘The Harrowing of Hell,’ it was being called, and angels spoke of Jesus storming the Gates and freeing righteous souls trapped there. Could a compassionate yet imprudent[2] demon count among their number? Could Crowley be considered ‘righteous’? Not likely, but not an impossibility. Also completely absurd, the angel chided himself, swallowing the bile. Aziraphale tucked the errant thought inward like a flower pressed into a book, and turned toward the bar.
At Crowley’s question, the bartender didn’t look up from stacking used clay cups to be washed. Her poufy ash-brown hair was pulled tightly away from her face, and her mouth bore a similar no-nonsense line. “It’s all written up there,” she said. “Two sesterces an amphora for everything except the Greek retsina.”
“I’ll have a jug of whatever you think is drinkable,” Crowley replied, turning his head. Aziraphale stood and approached, almost by instinct, his mat and empty cup forgotten. He noticed and was very carefully not disappointed that the demon had cut nearly all of his hair off, with just a few pressed curls framing his face. For a moment, Aziraphale’s eyes were on the sun-kissed nape of Crowley’s neck, having never seen it before. The haircut was not new, then. Crowley wore a silver laurel wreath atop that short hair, and an extraordinarily odd black toga. Aziraphale hadn’t seen anyone wear something quite like that – yet. The demon had a way of being a decade ahead – or ahead-adjacent – of fashion wherever he went.
Crowley’s order was placed in front of him with a heavy clunk, and his sour expression didn’t change. “Jug of house brown. Two sesterces,” said the bartender. Two silver coins hit the bar with twin pings; Aziraphale couldn’t see if Crowley had actually pulled them from a pocket or not.
Aziraphale sidled up next to the– next to– “Crawly– Crowley?” He corrected quickly, wincing inwardly, too focused on Crowley’s occult or ethereal status to get the name right. He sat down at the bar as well, an empty seat of distance between them. Crowley glanced up as he arrived, and quickly looked away to fill his cup from the jug. He was wearing dark glasses the likes of which Aziraphale had never seen, and they made it impossible for Aziraphale to see those burnished gold eyes. He swallowed his reticence and plowed on brightly, “Fancy running into you here! Still a demon then?”
And promptly wanted to grab the nearest soldier and fling himself onto the man’s pilum.[3] The question had no business being that close to the tip of his tongue. Here they were, meeting again and yet another I gave it away and they’re not killing all the locals was falling off his tongue, except this one was monumentally worse.
Crowley’s gaze snapped to his. Through the pitch dark glasses, Aziraphale couldn’t see a thing, but he could see Crowley’s mouth twist in disdain. “What kind of a stupid question is that? ‘Still a demon?’ What else am I going to be? An aardvark?”[4]
Aziraphale hesitated. “Just making conversation,” he said quietly.
“Well, don’t.”
So Crowley was not part of the Harrowing. It was a preposterous idea anyway, a righteous demon being led from Hell by Jesus Christ, good gracious. Aziraphale’s chest felt tight.
Beside him, Crowley suddenly sighed noisily. “Cup of wine? It’s the house wine – dark.” His mouth had softened back into its previous displeased line. Well, something was certainly bothering the still-demon, and it didn’t seem to be Aziraphale’s question.
“A cup for my acquaintance here,” Crowley called, waving to the bartender. Actually, the word he had used for Aziraphale was notitia. One I have come to know. Aziraphale put that in his pocket for later, before any more traitorous thoughts could instinctively trip off his tongue.
When the cup arrived, Crowley filled it, and the tang of black currant rose above the mixed scents of the tavern. Aziraphale lifted the full cup in a toast toward Crowley. “Salutaria!” The cups came together with a soft clunk. “In Rome long?”
Crowley’s tone was carefully, deliberately dismissive. “Just nipped in for a quick temptation.”
“Tempting anyone special?”
Crowley’s mouth twisted again, but with what emotion, Aziraphale couldn’t tell through those blasted shades. “Emperor Caligula. Frankly, he doesn’t actually need any tempting to be appalling.” He took a long draught from his cup. “Going to report it back to head office as a flaming success. You?”
Aziraphale needed no more details on that particular situation. From what he had seen so far, he agreed wholeheartedly with Crowley’s assessment. “They want me to influence a boy called Nero.” He rolled the new name on his tongue, the correct name, though he would be addressing him by another for quite some time. “I thought I’d get him interested in music. Improve him.”
From others he had spoken to in court, music was the only thing that had calmed the boy’s fiery temperament.
“Couldn’t hurt.” Crowley said mildly. “So, what else are you up to while you’re in Rome?”
Aziraphale could tell Crowley was making an effort to make conversation after his sharp Well don’t and answered honestly. “I thought I’d go to Petronius’s new restaurant. I hear he does remarkable things to oysters.”[5]
Crowley looked contemplative. “I’ve never eaten an oyster.”
“Oh!” Really? He would have expected the demon to eat as flagrantly as he questioned, among other sinful pastimes. He smiled despite himself, “Well let me tempt you to…”
The words died in his throat as Crowley’s cup was set down loudly and the demon looked over at him. His expression was unreadable but he had turned too quickly for Aziraphale to miss his obvious shock.
Aziraphale laughed nervously. “No that’s– that’s your job, isn’t it?”
Crowley leaned back on his stool, and began to smirk before quickly hiding it behind his cup. “I’d quite like to see an ethereal temptation,” he said eventually.
Is he teasing me? Aziraphale’s tunica was keenly too warm. “Well. Quite.”
Crowley’s smirk was out in the open now. “Does Petronius have better wine than this?”
☙ ☙ ☙
It was still mid-afternoon when Aziraphale and Crowley stepped out into the road, the winter cloud cover tinged with yellow-gold. They pushed through the foot traffic, Crowley just a step behind the angel leading the way. Aziraphale was still feeling a bit apprehensive about the demon’s earlier comment, or maybe more Aziraphale’s own slip of tongue, but it was good to be back by his… acquaintance’s side. He would be careful to avoid more personal questions.
It didn’t take them long to make it to Petronius’ restaurant and Aziraphale could already smell the seafood, pulled fresh from the Mediterranean, as they arrived. Crowley seemed unaffected by it, still looking fixedly at Aziraphale. Even with the shades, Aziraphale suspected Crowley was forgetting to blink again. However, neither had spoken a word between the popina and Pater Esuritionum, the restaurant.
Aziraphale pushed the curtain across the door aside and Crowley stepped quickly behind him, the demon’s breath startlingly close to the back of his neck for a moment before they entered the restaurant. Petronius was in today, Aziraphale noted, and was wandering among the tables to talk with the patrons. The man enjoyed conversation as much as he loved food and – privately, but Aziraphale didn’t think for long – writing tawdry fantasies. Crowley watched Petronius as well, but didn’t comment on his blonde hair, similar to Aziraphale’s own.
When Petronius passed closer to the front, Aziraphale called to him. The man turned with a bright grin, and then Aziraphale watched the man’s gaze slide to his companion and twist in horror. Petronius closed the distance between them in three strides.
“Aziraphale! What have you brought to my doorstep?” Petronius exclaimed, affronted.
“This is my acquaintance–” Aziraphale used Crowley’s notitia from earlier. “Crowley. He has never, he says, had an oyster.”
“Well I can assist with that, but what am I to do about the rest of this disaster?” Petronius was giving Crowley the up-down of a lifetime. Aziraphale couldn’t fault him really; Crowley caused such gazes all the time. But Petronius’ gaze in particular was less his usual what a beautiful young man and more good heavens look at the cat that chariot just flattened.
Crowley frowned. “Excuse me?”
Petronius glanced furtively around and then settled on Aziraphale, who was appraising Crowley now too, looking for what earned the smeared cat expression. The man heaved a pained sigh and then ushered Aziraphale and Crowley toward the back, ignoring Crowley’s “Hey!” at the touch, where Aziraphale knew the man had more private rooms.
Aziraphale immediately protested. “Oh! Oh, no this is not–”
“I won’t hear it!” Petronius said firmly. “Scelestus!” He muttered as he led them. Crowley’s shoulders jerked. Aziraphale was certain Petronius meant the expletive as Outrageous!, what it has colloquially come to mean. But its literal translation — criminal, wicked — was too apt for comfort.
Petronius’ expression softened at Aziraphale’s visible alarm. “I have a reputation to maintain, Aziraphale, and your fellow does not suit the aesthetic at all.”[6]
They entered a more private room, where the table would be obscured from the front door by a half-wall. He looked Crowley up and down again. “Young man – you don’t look like a Roman. Silver laurels are not streetwear, I haven’t the slightest idea why only your front locks are curled, and frankly that toga is atrocious.”
He turned to Aziraphale, and his mouth quirked with good humor. “My dear boy, I highly suggest you undress this monstrosity before he affronts anyone else’s good eyes. I will send one of my girls to you shortly.” He swept out, the downy-cream toga trailing behind him.
With his peripheral vision, as Aziraphale refused to face him, Aziraphale watched Crowley’s face trying to decide between its earlier sour expression and complete bafflement.
“You keep odd company, Aziraphale,” he said flatly, and brushed past the angel to sit at the table. Aziraphale joined him.
He silently contemplated the demon, and twin lenses of glossy black stared back at him. Aziraphale was sure he was going to tire of them quickly, having been spoiled over the past millennia with seeing the flash-paper changes of the demon’s emotions in his eyes. Neither of them spoke until the apéritif arrived, and Aziraphale poured them both a cup as Crowley had done earlier.
“Perhaps a poor time to mention fashion choices,” Aziraphale began, trying to smile at least a bit. Crowley tensed in his seat. “But may I ask, why are you wearing black glasses?”
Crowley almost smiled back. “Humans don’t take too well to men with snake-eyes these days. And trying to maintain a constant illusion seemed like an exhausting waste of time.”
“Well there’s no men here to worry about,” Aziraphale said and gestured to their mostly private room.
Crowley made a non-committal noise over the rim of his cup and didn’t remove his glasses.
After he drank, he said, “They’re called sunglasses, by the way. They’re good for not scaring humans, but they’re even better at blocking the glare of the sun. I bet people would enjoy them at gladiator shows – less squinting.”
Sun-glasses. The words sounded strange, a sequence of Latin terms Aziraphale had never exactly heard in that order. He had a sudden flashback to lead balloon. He must have betrayed his confusion because Crowley finally smiled, a teasing edge to it, and something in the expression made the angel flush. Aziraphale ducked behind his cup and finished off the last of the apéritif, composing himself.
“I could help you blend in, you know,” Aziraphale said primly, setting the cup down. “Petronius wasn’t entirely wrong about your clothing.”
Crowley huffed. “I doubt that man likes to see another man in any clothing.”
Aziraphale’s lips twitched. “Just because you’re accustomed to being admired instead of judged doesn’t mean his assessment was wrong.”
Crowley went very still. “Whatever gave you that idea, Aziraphale?” He asked, annoyance softening into genuine surprise.
The serving girl came with a tray of oysters, which smelled absolutely sublime. Aziraphale could taste the oyster sauce on the air; the white wine vinegar and honey, the ground lovage seeds and olive oil. Rather than baked like most of the venues Aziraphale had seen in Rome thus far, they were served raw – this was the remarkable thing Aziraphale kept hearing around town. He could almost smell the sea as the girl set the tray down, along with a jug of white wine Aziraphale didn’t recognize. He reached for the wine first.
“What idea?” Aziraphale asked distractedly.
“That I am accustomed to being admired,” Crowley answered, poorly mimicking Aziraphale’s prim cadence.
Aziraphale’s fingers froze as they wrapped around the handle of the jug. “Oh. Well. It’s not a completely preposterous idea.” And it wasn’t. He could imagine many humans eyeing Crowley’s wine red curls, high cheekbones and long neck – especially now that it was completely exposed by the short hair and far too easy for one to simply reach out and rest a thumb against his pulse point and let one’s fingers curl gently against that sun-kissed nape–
Aziraphale deliberately relaxed his shoulders and filled his cup and Crowley’s, briefly annoyed with Petronius. An apéritif was meant to be light, so Aziraphale shouldn’t be this obviously terribly drunk. His vision didn’t oblige him with being doubled, to make this a more convincing excuse.
Crowley reached for his filled cup but didn’t move for the oysters. “Why not?” Crowley asked, almost accomplishing an innocently curious tone. Close enough to innocence that Aziraphale was instantly suspicious. He could hear the hiss that befelled Eve.
“Demons tempt people. It would not surprise me to know you would be equipped with any tool that would assist you with that,” Aziraphale said coldly. He very nearly convinced himself. Crowley looked – annoyed? Disappointed?
“You wouldn’t be so sure of that if you saw my fellow demons,” he said, and his laugh had a brittle quality to it. “Not exactly a pretty bunch!”
“I hope never to have to see them,” Aziraphale answered honestly. Bizarre demon questions averted, he picked up an oyster and slurped it down with unmitigated delight. Whoever had wrenched them from the sea had left drops of seawater in the shells and the salt mixed unbelievably with the oyster sauce Petronius had created. “Oh Crowley, you do need to try this.”
Crowley grimaced slightly. It made Aziraphale realize he only somewhat knew the person sitting across the table from him. Did Crowley not care much for food? Or was food fine, but this food too unusual? Or perhaps never found the right food? He simply must branch out more; pulling plants and animals from the land and crafting all new combinations of them was one of the greatest human creations.
To the best of his abilities through the sunglasses, Aziraphale stared beseechingly through the sunglasses into the demon’s eyes. “Just try one.”
He would almost swear Crowley’s cheeks were darkening. “The temptation of angels,” Crowley muttered, curling his lip as he picked up an oyster.
Satisfied, Aziraphale ate one of the oysters himself and by heavens yes, it was exactly as the patron he had met described it. Being raw completely changed the texture, and Petronius’ oyster sauce was sure to be remembered.
“Just what I like: a gob of snot scooped out of seawater,” Crowley continued, holding the oyster up toward the light, inspecting it. “Harkens to a time I found myself upheaving over the bow of a ship–”
“Crowley.” Aziraphale cut in, with the most mild and only vaguely condescending of tones. “You ought to dabble in theater during your time in Rome, dear.”
Crowley scowled and lowered the oyster to retort, not paying attention to keeping it level. A few drops of saltwater and most of the oyster sauce dripped onto the table.
Aziraphale’s sigh was pained. Ruining perfectly good food with dramatics. Without thinking, he took the oyster and shell out of Crowley’s fingers and set aside the ruined morsel. He took Crowley’s hand gently and tightened his fingers so the hand was cupped palm-up – Crowley did not resist, though Aziraphale could see those yellow snake-eyes widening behind the glasses now – and replaced the oyster with a fresh one from the tray. He guided Crowley’s hand, the shell perched properly in the demon’s fingers and level so no more of the sauce was lost, up to the demon’s mouth. Crowley was not moving or speaking.
“Try to eat it like a respectable Roman,” Aziraphale encouraged, and released Crowley’s hand. His skin tingled with heat where it had rested against the demon’s and that same heat was in his cheeks. He took a second oyster from the tray, raised it in a toast in Crowley’s direction, and sucked the meat onto his tongue. His companion was staring, a bit rudely in Aziraphale’s opinion. The lovage seed aftertaste of the last oyster now fed into the initial olive and salt tang of the new one. Truly astonishing work – he would certainly be coming here again. Crowley obediently sucked his out of the shell too, mirroring Aziraphale’s method.
“Thoughts?” Aziraphale asked.
Crowley made a face, and didn’t seem to be particularly disgusted or pleased. “I can see why you like it,” he admitted. “Texture is a bit odd. I think I prefer humanity’s ability to ferment fruit to their cooking skills.”
This was their longest conversation to date, Aziraphale realized, and it was making him want to get to know Crowley more. They didn’t feel like enemies at this precise moment; in fact, he was feeling more at ease than he ever felt in front of Gabriel. He wanted to be a little reckless. He wanted answers to the questions he had been mulling over when the demon entered the tavern.
“Well you probably take a personal pride in leading humans to fruit, don’t you?” Aziraphale teased with a bit of daring.
Crowley laughed and – to Aziraphale’s shock – went for a second oyster. “I didn’t think an angel would make light of such a tragic event,” he replied lightly and gulped the oyster down with absolutely no finesse. His sunglasses had slipped down his nose, and Aziraphale could see those burnished gold eyes glittering with mirth as they stared into Aziraphale’s own.
Aziraphale straightened up with a self-aware parody of his usual formality. “It’s important for one to have a flexible sense of humor to connect with humans,” he said pompously.
Crowley’s face split into an earnest grin, the happiest he had seemed since their reunion. No, the happiest he had seemed since their mutual joking above the Eastern Gate. The demon glowed with it.
They looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment. Aziraphale missed easily seeing those eyes and anticipating Crowley’s mercurial moods, but it became nearly a visceral ache now that he was seeing them again. The barrier between the two of them was palpable when he wore them.
Somewhere outside the room, a table of men exploded into laughter and the tension between the two non-humans hissed out of the room. Crowley sat back again and straightened his sunglasses, hiding his eyes again. He looked away, filling his cup with more wine, and Aziraphale very nearly missed the furtive glance back at him over the sunglasses. Those yellow eyes vanished behind the rims like a retreating sunset.
Outside, the sun dipped behind the Seven Hills.
The rest of their conversation passed without incident. Crowley talked a bit more about arriving to Rome, carefully toeing around meeting Emperor Caligula, and how he had come to own that rather brazen snake broach. Aziraphale told him about meeting Petronius, and how big Rome was getting. He didn’t ask his burning questions. The serving girl kept coming with wine jugs, and the two of them kept talking. Crowley carefully kept his sunglasses in place for the rest of the meal.
☙ ☙ ☙
They were both a bit tipsy as they left Pater Esuritionum, neither of them willing to admit how sozzled they were by purging the alcohol in their bodies. Petronius had ushered them out with a knowing and sympathetic look, surely two young men can find something better to do with their evening than get drunk and eat all of his oysters. He warmly told Aziraphale to come back soon and with more civilized company or better yet – no company at all. Crowley had hissed between his teeth and that was the end of that conversation.
The winter chill was especially sharp in the evening but they were both winewarm and Aziraphale’s wool toga fended off most of the bite. He glanced over at Crowley, who shivered lightly and pulled his bizarre multilayered toga closed around him, and wondered if that was the reason for the coldblooded demon’s unusual garb.
After the restaurant, Aziraphale had no plans for the evening. Neither did Crowley, it seemed, because the two of them picked a direction at random and just started walking down the main promenade where Petronius had set up shop. Pater Esuritionum joined dozens of other restaurants and shops, popinae and nonspecific lounges.
Far fewer people were on the streets than when the two had entered Pater Esuritionum, but there were still plenty of bodies for the angel and demon to weave around. Vendors were packing up their street carts, and most restaurants had closed their curtains, but the popinae lining the streets had lit candles on the bar and looked ready to serve long into the night.
Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s footsteps on the cobblestone were joined by dozens of others, as well as the sharp clopping of shoed horses and rumbling loaded carts. A pair of musicians harmonized over the thrum of their kitharas and, close by, a cluster of men leaned on one another and sang a particularly crass song that made Crowley chuckle and Aziraphale roll his eyes. The sounds of city life rose high above them on either side in the multi-tiered shops and open-windowed insulae; laughing and shouting, a woman’s peal of laughter which quickly morphed into an equally loud moan, the unmistakable pinging of a hammer on stone.
Above the layered stories, the stars glittered through gaps in the clouds, and Aziraphale wondered through the wine haze which ones Crowley had made. The two of them received a lot of hard glances as they passed people; Aziraphale knew his nearly white-blond hair was highly unusual, and Crowley — well, the black glasses were only the beginning of his conspicuousness.
Speaking of the demon - Crowley was lightly circling him under the pretense of looking at this thing or that thing on either side of the road and – in an impressively unsubtle way – found a way to always put himself between Aziraphale and the dark, narrow alleys. As they walked, Aziraphale was almost sobering up enough to contemplate that, and notitia and–
Aziraphale swung so hard toward one of the nearest popinae that the circling Crowley nearly tripped over him. The bartender poured them two tall cups of conditura and Aziraphale revelled in the lime and clove complementing one another in the spiced wine, and in Crowley’s company. Crowley was leaning against the bar, head thrown back whenever he wasn’t drinking, and his drunken laughter was becoming an unabashed cackle at the city’s antics and Aziraphale’s rambling on spice combinations. The candlelight glinted off the rim of Crowley’s sunglasses and lit the curve of the demon’s bobbing Adam’s apple when he swallowed. Aziraphale looked away quickly and pushed away from the bar.
Crowley spawned coins onto the bar – and really Aziraphale was going to ask where they were being teleported from or if the demon was circling counterfeits – and they meandered on.
Just a few steps away, Crowley snapped to a stop and Aziraphale ran into his back, briefly smelling saltwater and cloves on the demon’s toga. A cart bearing far too many people – whooping and celebrating something – barreled across the path in front of them. Other citizens were jumping aside as well.
Crowley sneered and a spoke of one of the cart’s wheels snapped as it turned onto a side road. The whooping turned into startled yelps around the corner, followed by the distinct noise of a crashing cart.
“Crowley!”
Crowley looked askance at Aziraphale. “Oh, do go on. No one can put as much scandalized righteousness into my name as you do.”
Aziraphale laughed. “Croowwley,” he said again, his voice becoming a slurred drawl.
“Yes, Aziraphale?” Crowley answered, lips twitching around a laugh. He tilted his head back and surveyed the angel, his lazy smile blurring in Aziraphale’s wine-fuzzed vision. Firelight from the sconces behind him lit his red hellfire curls like a halo and Aziraphale had to know, he just had to know why not–.
“Did you– did you see the Harrowing?” Aziraphale blurted.
Crowley’s face falling was like watching the sun disappear behind the first storm clouds over Eden. Aziraphale immediately regretted asking. “Sorry, neverm–”
“No,” Crowley said flatly. He turned away and the fire halo dimmed. “I was on Earth at the time.” He hesitated and added, “Visiting an empty tomb.”
Aziraphale reached out and Crowley shied away. Crowley stared off into nothing. “He came for all the righteous in Hell. But maybe it’s better to live without the confirmation that I’m not...”
Angry voices suddenly spiked up from around the same corner the now-broken cart had gone. Men shouting, the slap of falling flesh onto stone. It drowned out the last of what Crowley had said.
“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“At least you’re asking questions. Haven’t seen much of that over the millenia,” Crowley bit out.
Aziraphale flinched, stung. After a moment of silence, he heard Crowley’s sharp, frustrated intake of breath, as if he had been the one wounded. He watched Crowley open his mouth, hesitate, and close it again.
The shouting around the corner died down. Aziraphale looked away and watched an older couple at the nearest outdoor bar share a toast. He could see the time shared in their mutual gazes. The two men didn’t look long for this world, and had somehow gone from strangers to that in fifty short years or less. Aziraphale hadn’t even gotten past acquaintance in four thousand years.
Hurt, annoyed, exasperated, and mostly ashamed, Aziraphale began walking away from the couple. Crowley fell into step beside him.
After long minutes of silence, Crowley huffed out a sigh and seemed to force his shoulders to relax. “Aziraphale. I didn’t mean.... Well, that last part was–”
“S’okay. It was, at least a little deserved.” He looked over at Crowley with a hesitant half-smile he saw reflected on the other’s face. “Besides. I’m used to it,” Aziraphale added, shrugging.
Crowley hmmed. “That’s humans for you. Nasty buggers.”
“No, no. Not humans.” Aziraphale shook his head, then immediately stopped when his vision swam for a moment.
“What do you mean? Who else?” Crowly asked sharply.
Aziraphale’s sandal caught in the cobblestone and he stumbled hard, falling into one of Crowley’s outstretched arms. He wildy grabbed at the bicep in front of him just as Crowley’s warm fingers wrapped around Aziraphale’s forearm. Crowley must have stuck an arm out on instinct. Caught Aziraphale on instinct. The angel looked up, startled, his fingers tangled in that absurdly-hung toga. For a moment, he was very aware that Crowley's tunica was a different shade of black.
He blinked. “Well, you know. You know.” He leaned in like he was confessing a secret. “I’m a bit… odd, Upstairs.”
Crowley was looking down at him, sunglasses askew from Aziraphale bumbling into him, eyes like the Tuscan sun staring at him with fierce concern, the black slits dilated.
Aziraphale looked away. “I like humans too much. I like it here. Gabriel thinks I’m… soft.” He straightened up and untangled his fingers from Crowley’s toga, but Crowley still held Aziraphale’s forearm to steady him. Likely just concerned I’ll fall over again, Aziraphale reasoned. The demon hadn’t adjusted his sunglasses and Aziraphale relished it more than the oysters they shared. More than he should.
In fact, this was far worse for a Principality to feel than a warmth towards humans. The arm of a demon of Hell, an instrument of destruction, was curved around him and he felt safe for Heaven’s sake.
“Aziraphale, you shouldn’t–” Crowley began, in a tone of soft fury he hadn’t used since not the kids.
He gently shook off Crowley’s grasp and Crowley fell silent, lips curling into very nearly a sneer. The arm Aziraphale released was raised to adjust the sunglasses back into place and now they were impenetrable black mirrors in the dark. Aziraphale could see his reflection, his own distressed face staring back. He prayed to God Crowley thought it was because of Gabriel’s taunting.
“Gabriel and his pustulant sssanctimonious--” Crowley bit the words off, and tried again in a calmer voice. “Gabriel. Is more human than you are.” He exhaled and the next words were spoken without the hiss. “Soft is fine, Aziraphale.”
“Should I worry a demon is telling me that?” Aziraphale quipped, trying to smile it away.
He watched in fascination as Crowley looked out into nowhere, puffed out a breath and took off his glasses to massage one of his temples. He looked back at Aziraphale with the sunglasses dangling in his fingers, absolute sincerity in his gaze. “I’m not exactly popular Downstairs either, for a complementary reason. So let’s just be a bit odd together.”
Aziraphale’s next smile was genuine. “Let’s.”
Even after Crowley replaced his sunglasses, after they walked in silence down the road to one of the cheapest tenement blocks – they realized, incidentally, they were staying in the same neighborhood – Aziraphale knew that sincerity lingered behind the black glass. Back in his insula, curled up in bed with a pile of well-worn scrolls and waiting for morning to arrive, Aziraphale replayed the evening. He recalled when Crowley’s lips tightened, when a muscle would twitch near his jaw, when he shrugged and when his long fingers drummed on the handle of a jug. The way he leaned and the way he circled. The eyes were only one window to the soul. Crowley lived and expressed with his whole body. Crowley would not be able to fully hide behind those glasses.
The barrier thinned between them, and Aziraphale smiled.
1This was not, as Sandalphon often joked, a demotion. The Third Sphere of angels was the furthest from God, the closest to humanity – in a way, the first face a human sees when they walk into the lobby of Heaven. But Sandalphon is self-important middle management, and a supercilious attitude toward the receptionist is to be expected. Return to text
2When accused of imprudence, Crowley – with a pointed glance at the ever-wary Aziraphale – would respond “There is nothing more imprudent than excessive prudence.” He once shared this with an eccentric Eton graduate in a gambling parlor and later to his indignation, found the phrase in a book of ‘pithy’ sayings in a friend’s bathroom reading selection. Return to text
3The more discerning history buff will note pilums were thrown javelins whereas a more appropriate thrusting spear would be the hasta. Being a swordsman himself, Aziraphale cared little for the nuance of spears. Return to text
4Having yet to be south of the Sahara and with another seven centuries to go before the first menagerie, Aziraphale did not know what an aardvark was. He was not going to give well-traveled Crowley the satisfaction of admitting that, however. Return to text
5Not many in present times know the infamous author of the Satyricon and future arbiter elegantiarum of the court spent nearly a decade as a chef. However, the fact that his greatest accomplishment in food was uniquely-sauced raw aphrodisiacs should surprise no one. Return to text
6Unbeknownst to either angelic stock that had just entered his restaurant, Petronius did actually get an uneasy feeling off Crowley, aside from the fashion monstrosity angle. One gets the impression of a mid-sized fish entering one’s pond, certainly small enough to eat oneself but would probably gobble up many of the tasty small fish before being consumed themselves. Return to text