Chapter Text
602 AD Sicily
Aziraphale was most definitely not supposed to be here. There was that war happening in the Byzantine Empire, or the whole baptism business happening in Wales. But one of the most fascinating things about earth was change. Not just in the sense of a change of scenery, but also because you could leave a place, come back to it, say, 200 years later, and it would be completely different. Sure, the bones of the land were still there, but it was so in the nature of humanity to change things, to try and improve them, that no place remained unchanged.
Angels (and demons for that matter) were not built to change. They did not have childhoods, or adolescences, they were created fully formed. This meant that, in a lot of ways, they were creatures ill-suited to Earth where each generation sought to improve upon the last, especially when they managed to succeed. By the time most angels and demons had gotten used to ideas like ‘the wheel’ and ‘boats’, humanity had already moved on to bigger and better things. With two notable exceptions: the angel Aziraphale and the demon Crowley.
But even they were not immune to feeling a tad overwhelmed by the mercurial nature of humanity from time to time. And so Aziraphale had sought out something to remind him of what had come before. Sicily hadn’t fared much better than the mainland of Italy since the fall of Rome, but outside of Syracuse and the larger cities, the townships were mostly peaceful people just trying to get by. True, it was a little quiet, but that was just what Aziraphale needed.
He had, perhaps, heard rumours that something was plaguing this village in particular. Yes there was the pox, there was always the pox when you didn’t have the sense not to cough and spit openly and had no knowledge on how to properly wash things. No this was something else, people being plagued by bad luck. He’d done his best to convince Gabriel that it was demonic activity that warranted a closer look. Gabriel seemed to have bought it, or at the very least, he couldn’t be bothered refuting Aziraphale.
The village was south, slightly, down to coast from Syracuse. It happened to have beautiful beaches and an array of plant life that included the ever-delicious Sicilian olive. Aziraphale was just settling down at the only inn for miles when he heard a scream.
Screams, in Aziraphale’s opinion, were completely unnecessary in such a peaceful place. A hearty shout would have the same effect and be a lot less unpleasant. But he supposed humans couldn’t help their instincts. He followed his landlady down outside to see a man who had managed to fall over seemingly nothing while carrying a wagon full of amphorae filled with olive oil. The man swore loudly and began to complain at the landlady as she helped him up. It took Aziraphale a minute to understand what he was saying as the Sicilian dialect was so different to the Latin he was used to.
“ . . . first that bloody snake and now this! How the hell am I supposed to feed my family with nothing to sell?”
Oh no. No. No. No. This was supposed to be something of a holiday. He was supposed to cure a few cases of the pox and tell Gabriel that if the bad luck had been demonic in origin, then the demon had fled. After all, most demons were rather afraid of him after Milan*. He reached out to the man and, sure enough, he could smell smoke.
He and Crowley so seldom managed to part on good terms. Really, they should never have parted on good terms, or even spoken on good terms at all. But for them, it was really more like having some kind of understanding of what the other did. After all, they were the only two beings that had been on Earth for as long as they had. If they parted because one of them actually had work to be doing and not because they hand managed to start fighting, that was ‘good terms’ as far as Aziraphale was concerned.
But how could Crowley have said such a thing last time? He knew it was in Crowley’s nature to question things, after all, that was how he had ended up a demon in the first place, but to question the very mechanics of their universes. It was too much. Aziraphale had steered clear of ‘the Black Knight’ since then, and once King Arthur had passed on, he’d stayed clear of Wessex altogether, leaving as soon as the funeral had ended.
“Excuse me, but where was this snake?” Aziraphale asked the man. The man gestured to the greenery behind him and showed Aziraphale his leg.
“Bloody bastard bit me!” He said.
There was no venom in the bite, it was very clearly a warning tag, but Aziraphale didn’t think it wise to tell the man this, so instead he headed off in the direction he had been directed to, reaching out his senses in search of Crowley’s scent.
He came to a small clearing with a large rock in the centre. Or at least, he assumed there was a large rock in the centre, as it was currently being covered by an enormous black snake.
“Bugger off.” Said a disembodied voice.
“I know it’s you. Crowley,” Aziraphale said, pacing around the rock until he found the serpent’s head.
“So? M’trying to sleep here,” Crowley opened his golden eyes, but did not move.
“You’ve been giving people bad luck,” Aziraphale’s tone was an odd combination of resentful and reproachful.
“Serves them right for poking a bloody snake, doesn’t it?” Crowley said, moving his head back slightly so his neck bent in an ‘s’ shape.
Aziraphale paused. Part of him berated himself, he should have known Crowley was only acting in self-defence. The other part of him told that part to shut up, this was a demon he was dealing with, not a friend no matter how many meals they’d shared. Still, surely there had to be a way to settle this. Aziraphale wanted to stay here, and of Crowley was going to be asleep there was no reason why he couldn’t enjoy his stay here as well.
“Couldn’t you just, scare them away or something? Please.”
Crowley’s expression was unreadable, and not just because he was a snake and snakes are rather limited in their ability to express themselves with facial features. “Fine.”
There was another pause. Aziraphale was just about to try and excuse himself when a question occurred to him.
“Why are you sleeping, anyway? It’s not as if we need to.”
“Feel’s good,” Crowley did the snake-equivalent of shrugging, “Why do you eat?”
“A fair point,” Aziraphale conceded.
Crowley yawned dramatically, “Go have a look at that tree,” he said, gesturing with his tail.
“Why?” Aziraphale was on his guard now. He remembered what happened last time Crowley had suggested someone do that. It had not ended well for her.
Crowley rolled his eyes, “It’s an olive tree.” He tucked his head back down onto himself.
“Oh. I see,” Aziraphale said sheepishly.
Crowley pointedly shut his eyes, leaving Aziraphale to wonder over to the tree and pick olives to his heart’s content.
The rest of Aziraphale’s break in Sicily went rather well, he miraculously cured a few people of the pox and once people realised he could be brought with good food, people were finding good luck where the bad luck used to be. He had certainly thwarted evil plans, or at least that was what he told Gabriel. But none of his reports mentioned the serpent on the rock, sleeping for days on end.