Chapter Text
Alexandria, 180 B.C.
Another week, another excuse for a festival. Crowley couldn't even keep track of them anymore. This was one of the ones with food, though, so he thought he might look for Aziraphale. The angel had picked up eating on a lark a few centuries back and seemed very keen on it now. Crowley knew he was in town, he could sense him.1 He walked the market square a while and before long he spotted him sitting at a tavern's patio table, munching away at some brown, squishy thing.
I really ought to study up on food. Crowley thought. Better conversation opportunities.
He plopped himself down in a chair across the table from the angel, without being invited nor announcing himself. He knew it was bold of him, but he was in a good mood, why not tempt fate? He hadn't tempted much else lately. Aziraphale looked up, startled to suddenly have a table-mate, and sighed dramatically when he realized who his companion was.
"What do you want?"
Well, that was ruder than average. Crowley's mood dipped slightly.
"I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd stop by," Crowley said, trying to stay casual and not betray the fact that the angel's tone actually stung quite a bit.
"I'm not in the mood, Crowley, don't test me today."
He didn't actually say to go away, Crowley noticed, only not to test him. Okay. That was doable. Probably. He put up his hands, placating.
"Not looking for trouble, promise. Really, I just happened by, saw a friend, and thought I'd say hello."
"We're not friends! We are, quite literally, enemies, in fact. My side would most certainly not approve of dining with the enemy."
"O-kay, so the dozen or so times we've already done so were...?"
"Poor judgment on my part," Aziraphale was positively sulking, his tone petulant. He was refusing to meet Crowley's eyes.
"Look, have I done something to you? Cursed something you'd recently blessed? Tempted the wrong rabbi?"
Aziraphale sighed again, this time apparently to collect himself. He finally looked at Crowley. He looked absolutely miserable.
"I'm sorry. It isn't you," he took another deep breath, this one with a bit of a hitch in his chest. Crowley saw his red-rimmed eyes. Oh no.
"What happened?"
Aziraphale waved him off, dismissively, "Oh...you wouldn't understand."
Crowley crossed his arms, sat back in his chair, "Try me."
Aziraphale watched him for a long moment, clearly trying to decide if it was worth it, spilling his guts to a demon. He let out another long sigh.
"I was reprimanded today. Rather harshly."
"A reprimand? You? That's terrible," Crowley said, entirely sincere. He gave him a cursory look-over from where he sat, "Eeh, no visible bruises at least, that's something."
"I...what?" This apparent non sequitur threw Aziraphale for enough of a loop that he actually didn't look upset for a moment, only confused.
"...Oh," Crowley said, the thought genuinely only just occurring, "No, I suppose your side's reprimands wouldn't include any beatings, would they?"
"Er…no. No, Heaven's blows are purely verbal, at least when it comes to the angels. But trust me, when you're hearing it from four irritated Archangels at once it's…certainly not the most pleasant experience."
"No, I can't imagine so," Crowley was simultaneously relieved and more saddened by this. A talking-to so harsh it made him cry? Crowley thought he'd rather take the beating. In his experience, bruises healed faster.
"But what did you do?"
Aziraphale took another deep breath and blinked back some sudden tears at the question.
"That's the worst part, really. I thought I was doing something good. I was trying to help. You see, I've been very impressed by the burgeoning theater community around here. It's become quite something, you know. And storytelling is such a wonderful form of human expression, and it creates such empathy in them. I thought a minor miracle to boost inspiration would be a nice gesture."
"Hang on, they reprimanded you for inspiring humans to create art? How does that make any sense?"
"Well, that's what I said! But they didn't agree, clearly. Said it was a waste of a miracle, said I was helping the wrong humans! That if I was going to go spending the Lord's power on the pagans, it had better be in the name of conversion."
"More concerned with numbers than the bigger picture," Crowley shook his head, "Small-minded bean-counters, the lot of them."
Aziraphale fretted at that, fidgeted with his hands, "Well, they must be right. Mustn't they? I mean…if the will of the Almighty is for those of us on the side of Good to only help along Her followers, who am I to question that?"
"It's not right," Crowley said, frowning.
"But that's just the thing, it is Right! It doesn't matter whether it feels right in the moment, there's right and then there's Right and if they don't match up, well it's…it's ineffable," he shrugged, dejected.
"But what was the actual punishment? It can't only have been a talking to, can it?"
Another sigh, "No, it wasn't. I'm to leave the city today, in fact. I've been assigned to Judea. I was only having a last nosh before I headed out. I do so love the way they prepare their honeyed figs here."
"Judea?"
"Mmm, they're canonizing the Scripture, apparently. I'm to go down and make sure the right bits make it in. It's not really much of a punishment, honestly, not to me. I think they assigned me because it's a load of busy work, but I find much of the poetry in the Holy Scripture quite enjoyable reading, actually. It's just the principle of the thing. Punished for inspiring creativity in the Lord's creatures, it doesn't…" he cut himself off before he said anything more borderline-blasphemous than he already had.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, during which Crowley had a bit of an epiphany. He'd always known Aziraphale was prone to doubt, certainly, but he hadn't really put together how much of an outsider that made him. He was a very independent thinker for an angel. He had a habit of deciding on his own what seemed right in the moment, and checking-in after the fact. That probably made him rather unpopular Upstairs. Likely just about as unpopular as Crowley himself was down Below. He wondered if they got the same sort of flak from their superiors, the same unfriendly looks and snide comments from their peers.
Aziraphale was likable. He was fascinating, and kind, and interesting to talk to, and he could be quite funny when he relaxed a bit.2 But Crowley hadn't ever really seen the two of them as particularly similar until that moment. As he thought about it, he realized that in many ways, they were very much on opposite ends of the same boat. And now that the perspective had shifted, he was never going to be able to unsee it. He wondered how lonely the angel must be. He wondered if the angel was anywhere near as lonely as he was.
He stood up, an impulsive decision reached.
"All right angel, we're going to send you off right. Proper going away celebration."
Aziraphale looked up, baffled, "What?"
Crowley smiled at him, "We are going to get roaring drunk, and then you are going to Judea, that's what. Come on."
He turned and headed toward the doorway. Behind him, he heard a few sputtering, half-hearted protests, then the sound of a chair scooting away from a table. Aziraphale caught up with him.
"I suppose it's not every day one gets editorial review of a Holy manuscript," he said in a low, cautious voice, and though Crowley wasn't looking at him, he was sure the angel's head was darting about, ensuring he wasn't seen walking too closely to a demon, "Perhaps it does afford a bit of celebration."
Crowley grinned, "Couldn't have said it better myself. After you."
He gestured to the doorway, and Aziraphale shot him a bit of a glare as he passed. But alongside the grumpy expression, there was a measure of gratitude in his eyes. Crowley grinned wider. Lonely and drunk together, he thought, was certainly an improvement over lonely and drunk by himself.
Misenum, 79 A.D.
It was the worst week Aziraphale could recall in a good, long time, and he'd seen a lot of awful weeks. But this was unlike anything he'd seen in centuries, and the (literal) fallout was still all around him. The skies were dark, and the thin fingers of sunlight which escaped the haze were a sickening orange-red, the color of fire. The air across the bay was still poison, the ground there still a great oven, threatening the lives of anyone who dared return, try to help the victims, search for lost loved-ones buried under snow-like drifts of ash. After 3 days of helping the refugees as much as he could, influencing others to do the same, he'd had enough. He put aside his humanitarian efforts for a night, and ducked into a tavern to get good and drunk.
He was on his second bottle when he noticed the telltale red in the corner of the bar. Crowley sat with his head buried in his arms, one hand clutching a bottle. Aziraphale watched him for a moment, but he made no moves at all, and eventually his curiosity got the better of him. He approached the table and sat down across from him, glancing around nervously as he did so. Still, Crowley didn't move. He wondered if he was asleep, perhaps, knowing the demon enjoyed such a past-time (though he could not for the life of him understand why). Or passed-out, he thought, eying the mostly-empty bottle and the numerous empty ones beside it, enough that he'd need to take time to count them. He thought he'd test the theory.
"Celebrating then?" he said, drunk and bitter, and likely harsher than he really should have been, "I know this mess wasn't one of ours, and the humans aren't exactly in the volcano business, so I assume it was your lot's doing?"
Crowley lifted his head, blearily trying to focus on Aziraphale's face.
"Oh," he said, "H'lo angel. Care for a drink?" He half-heartedly waggled the bottle in his hand.
"I've got my own, thank you," Aziraphale sniffed.
Crowley took a swig from the bottle. Aziraphale took a good look at him. He was filthy, covered in ash, but of course, so was everything just now. But there was something odd about his face. Lines traced along his cheeks, disappeared under his dark glasses. Tear tracks. Crowley had been crying.
"Twenty-thoussand people," the demon said quietly, rolling the edge of the bottle along the table, between his hands, "That's how many they were aiming for. Probably got a good what, ten? Twelve? Doessn't matter. It doessn't matter."
Aziraphale watched him, stunned. He'd never seen Crowley cry. He didn't know demons could cry. Crowley took off his glasses to wipe his eyes, but ended up weeping into his hand instead. Aziraphale immediately realized his mistake, his unkind initial assumption, and felt very sorry for it. Crowley was drunk, yes, but he certainly wasn't happily sauced. This wasn't an occasional tear shed in tipsy excess; Crowley was distraught.
"I tried to sstop it," he moaned through tears, "I tried! I sshouldn't have, I know, I got one Heaven of a dissciplinary action after lassst time…"
"…Last time?"
"I delayed it," he said, quieter again, staring down at the bottle, "A while back. Only sshook it up a bit. I thought maybe I could sspread it out? Sssoften the blow, you know?"
Aziraphale nodded slightly, but he realized Crowley hadn't looked at him since the glance when he first spoke up. He was beginning to wonder if he really knew he was there at all.
"Only put it off for ssixteen yearss. Sssssixteen yearsssss! That'ss it, that'ss all, that'ss nothing. And I didn't mind the punisshment, I would have taken more, I would have taken sso much more to make it sssstop. But they took it away from me before I could, ssaid they couldn't trussst me with it, ssaid I'd lost the privilege…" Crowley took another long swig, finishing off the bottle. He slammed it back onto the table and sank his head back onto his folded arms.
"Twenty-thoussand people," he muttered into the table, "Old men. Pregnant women. Little children. Great minds of ssscience and art and…and Hassssssstur getss a fucking promotion out of it and I…" he broke down again, shoulders wracked with quiet sobs.
Aziraphale was in something akin to shock. He knew Crowley had a soft-spot for humanity, but he was a demon, it was his job to cause their suffering, it was his nature. And yet here he was, utterly devastated over a disaster that, while horrific, granted, wasn't close to the worst destruction he'd ever seen, wrought by either side. But then, Aziraphale thought, He didn't feel responsible for any of those disasters. He feels responsible for this one. He feels guilty.
Aziraphale felt something in that moment that he hadn't imagined he could. He felt proud to know Crowley. He felt proud that this demon, this Enemy of the Lord, was someone he spent any time with at all. He knew there was a kind-hearted streak in this supposedly evil creature. He'd seen it before, several times. But it had never been brought into such stark relief for him until this moment. Crowley was on the wrong side, which in-and-of-itself made him bad. But for all his badness, he was not Bad, not the way he was expected to be. And that was truly admirable for someone in his position.
"Gone," Crowley muttered, distant and hopeless, "It's all gone, all of it, like it wass never there at all. A great jewel of Rome, poof, wiped off the face of Earth like sso much…fucking…sso much…whatever getss wiped off thingss."
Aziraphale thought his heart might break in two.
O Lord, he prayed silently, wishing he could do anything to lessen the demon's sorrow, Let some good come of this awful thing. Don't let it all be for naught. Let future generations know the names Pompeii, Herculaneum, Stabiae, Oplontis, Boscoreale. Let them know the beauty of this place, the culture, the life, the humanity. Don't allow them to fade to nothing like so many others before them, like so many others will again. Let them be remembered.
"You know," he said carefully, "I've personally tended to hundreds of refugees these past few days, and I haven't seen nearly all of them. Many lives were lost, I know, but so many others were saved. More than one of my fellow relief workers mentioned that the earthquake in 62 inspired them to draft up evacuation procedures, consider how they might save more lives should another disaster strike. Perhaps…there's some comfort to be found there?"
Crowley's only response was a quiet whimper.
Aziraphale looked around again, ensuring that they were not being watched in any way. Then he reached out a tentative hand and placed it gently, but firmly, on Crowley's arm. Crowley jumped a little at the unexpected touch, but though he didn't look up, he didn't pull away. They sat there together, in quiet mourning, for a long, long time.
1. Though he certainly wouldn't let Aziraphale know, the truth was Crowley had been following him around for quite a while now, keeping at a plausibly deniable distance and conveniently arranging to be assigned close by. This made it a lot easier to "accidentally" run into each other, which used to only happen naturally once or twice a century if he was lucky. He'd managed to get it down to once or twice every few decades without Aziraphale noticing (or if he did notice, he said nothing about it, which was just as well). [Back]
2. ...and he was quite handsome, and Crowley sometimes wondered whether the angel's lips would feel as soft as they looked, and what sort of noises he might make if Crowley were to kiss them and…that way lay madness. He always put such thoughts aside after a moment's indulgence, though they always seemed to worm their way back in, eventually. [Back]