Chapter Text
Rome, 41 A.D.
It was a nice night. A still night, in some parts of the city. Perhaps there is a better word than “nice” one might use to describe the evening, but that’s exactly what it was: nice. The heat of the day had dragged on forever, the blazing sun beating down onto the dusty streets, sweat dripping on men’s brows after spending less than a minute out of the shade. Hot, sticky air hung heavy over the bustling marketplace well into the evening. Swaths of wool and linen wrapped themselves flush against sweaty legs and backs. The sun’s descent past the horizon seemed to last for ages.
And then, suddenly, it was night. Stars shone bright white against a navy sky, the earth along the horizon in a warm glow as the last hint of sunlight finally crept to bed. Gradually, the streets cleared up. Merchants went home to their families, drunkards stumbled into bars, and in an alleyway, two lovers pressed up against a wall, whispering words they dared not speak during the day. The sun was harsh and burned with a wrath that ensnared conversation, sharpened vows into threats, confessions into confrontations. But the moon, in all her gentle glory, knew how to keep a secret. Under the moon, the lines of the world blurred slightly. Moonlight bathes the world in pale beams of truth and softens tongues that cannot speak freely by day. She produces quiet laughter, a chaste kiss, a string of tears.
It was under this moon that two figures stumbled drunkenly out of a restaurant and into the night, one’s arm slung tightly around the other’s shoulders for balance as they teetered along, laughing with abandon. The warm night air brushed their arms and faces intermittently as the breeze swelled and waned. They turned up a cobbled, dusty street, which was apparently the wrong decision, as the figure who had been clinging tight to his friend stumbled over the bumpy rocks and fell to his knees, dragging them both to the ground with an oof.
“Crowley!”
“M’ sorry!”
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah, m’ fine. Wassa ground always this bumpy?”
“No, you heathen, you’re jus’ drunk.”
“Well, so’re you.”
“I am not.”
“Yes you are, look at you!”
“What’d you mean?”
Crowley fished a small hand mirror out of his robes and passed it to Aziraphale, who was still sitting on the ground next to him in the narrow street. Aziraphale rolled his eyes; leave it to a demon to carry around the Roman ideal of a gateway to sin in his pocket. It hadn’t occurred to either of them to stand up quite yet. Aziraphale leaned against the cobblestones with one hand and examined his face in the mirror. His fluffy, white curls had splayed out across his forehead, sticking with sweat to his skin, and his face was tinged with pink; his jaw hung much more slackly than normal, and his eyes seemed to roll in their sockets as he tried desperately to steady his gaze. He passed the mirror back to Crowley and looked at him as matter-of-factly as he could presently muster.
“Alright. I’m drunk.” They stared at each other for a moment before erupting into raucous laughter once again. Aziraphale exhaled hard through his nose as he laughed, producing a painful snort like an elephant’s trumpet that only made the two of them laugh harder.
“You’re ridiculous,” Crowley cackled. Aziraphale tried to feign an affronted expression, but was unsuccessful, and ended up beaming at the demon instead.
“You’re the one still sitting on the ground with me,” Aziraphale playfully protested.
Crowley rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. The liquor had loosened his movements quite considerably, and that was saying something for Crowley, who normally did not so much stroll as he did slink. His whole body seem to roll along with his shoulders as he shrugged, and he leaned far back onto his elbows in one fluid motion, resting almost entirely flat against the basalt stones beneath him. He was feeling terribly reckless at the moment, and loving every second of it.
“Not m’ fault you’re great company,” Crowley said. Aziraphale’s laughter shrank to a chuckle as he tried to regain his composure. His eyes twinkled as he giggled at Crowley’s comical display. Crowley smiled and opened his mouth, presumably to provide the angel with another quip, when he froze and sat up straight, breathing heavily and squinting back and forth between Aziraphale and a distant point just over his left shoulder. Aziraphale eyed him suspiciously, still swaying slightly where he sat.
“You’re being weird –“
“Shh,” Crowley whispered. “Shut up for a minute.” Crowley had made no effort to fully sober up, but was notably more alert than he had been just moments ago. Aziraphale listened, but heard nothing out of the order. Suddenly, he was on his feet, being dragged behind Crowley into a dark alleyway. Crowley pushed him hard up against the wall and buried his face in his neck. Aziraphale gasped and giggled at the sensation of hot breath against his skin, and Crowley clapped a hand over the angel’s mouth.
“Shh,” Crowley said again. His lips grazed the delicate skin on Aziraphale’s neck as he spoke. “Don’t make a sound.”
Aziraphale knew he should push Crowley away. It wasn’t his fault that Crowley had gotten himself into trouble. And yet, he stayed still, Crowley’s body heat radiating hot against him from the neck down. A few seconds later, he heard footsteps approaching, the unmistakable slap of Praetorian sandals against dusty rock, and suddenly realized what Crowley was doing.
Caligula, Aziraphale thought. No one in Rome would question a tryst in the shadows, and Aziraphale had a suspicious feeling that Crowley may have been present at the palace of the emperor the night beforehand. The palace of the now-dead emperor. The murdered emperor.* A couple of men - palace guards - paused at the end of the alley and held their torches out, peering into the darkness.
“Who’s there?” they called as they began to sink further into the alley. Aziraphale felt like he was watching in slow motion. As they crept closer, Crowley uncovered Aziraphale’s mouth and slid one of his hands up the angel’s chubby midsection, the other lingering at his cheek.
“I’m so sorry,” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s neck. He wasn’t kissing him, and his touch was feather-light, his hand all but hovering over the angel’s ribs as it worked up and down his body. He was, however, a very good actor. Even from Aziraphale’s point of view, it was hard to believe he wasn’t actually being manhandled like a sexual plaything.
“Are they still there?”
“Yes.”
“Name yourself,” one of the guards boomed, closer still. It was quite dark. Perhaps they weren’t getting the hint. This was going to take a bit of participation on his own part, Aziraphale decided. He was a conspirator, after all, should Crowley be captured now.
“Squeeze my behind,” he whispered. Crowley faltered.
“Oh, don’t be shy now,” Aziraphale whispered urgently, and then Crowley’s hands were on his ass, groping at his fleshy backside ravenously, as instructed. Right on cue, Aziraphale let out a moan of pleasure as loud and sinful as he could muster. Crowley’s grip tightened at the sound, and Aziraphale snaked a hand into his short, red curls and tugged gently, eliciting a soft gasp from him as well.
Well, certainly there’s no mistaking that, thought Aziraphale. He heard one of the guards cough embarrassedly, followed by the sound of footsteps retreating. Crowley tried to pull away, but Aziraphale held him fast as the guards reached the end of the alley, wrapping an arm around his slender midsection. Crowley kept his face obscured, the tips of his rust-colored hair brushing lightly against Aziraphale’s jaw. He could smell the brackishness of oysters and the sweet scent of wine on Crowley’s breath as the demon buried his face into the crook of his neck.
“Are they gone?”
“Not yet... okay, I think we’re safe,” Aziraphale breathed. Crowley immediately released Aziraphale and took a step back, though that wasn’t saying much considering just how close they had been a moment before. He breathed heavily as he stared at Aziraphale, who was still pressed firmly against the wall behind him.
“That was- you- that was- seriously, you- an angel, really- you moaned,” Crowley marveled.
“Well, what was I supposed to have done? Let us both be discorporated and ruin a lovely evening?”
“But you... you didn’t have to do that,” Crowley said sheepishly. “Sorry, by the way. Should’ve asked first, but there wasn’t much time...” Crowley shifted nervously from foot to foot, still glancing down the alleyway towards the main path.
“Don’t mention it,” Aziraphale whispered. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the rush of adrenaline from their near-altercation, but the world seemed to spin around him. He clung to the wall to steady himself. “It’s the least I could do after you paid for dinner.”
“Well, I suppose I don’t need to tell you what the temptation was about,” Crowley said. Aziraphale nodded.
“I put two and two together eventually,” he breathed. He was still whispering. Why was he whispering? For some reason, the words felt trapped in the back of Aziraphale’s throat, and his tongue sat heavy in his mouth as if it were caked in sand.
“Right, well... I suppose I’d better be off.”
“Oh, no, Crowley, you don’t have to –“
“Nah, it’s not safe for me to stay. Truthfully, I should’ve been gone earlier this afternoon, but you... well. Anyway. Good to see you, Aziraphale. You know your way home?” Aziraphale nodded. Perhaps the evening had run its course, and besides, he had a feeling he should probably put some distance between himself and Crowley for a bit, until the Caligula drama had blown over, at least.
“’Vale**, then. Sorry, again.”
“Until next time,” Aziraphale called after him a bit too loudly, a bit too eagerly, and thoroughly surprised by the hoarse voice that hardly sounded like his own. Crowley glanced over his shoulder at him, the corners of his mouth quirked. He arched an eyebrow high above his sunglasses, much like he had earlier that day. Aziraphale cleared his throat and smiled innocently. And then Crowley turned the corner, and he was gone, and Aziraphale was left feeling very much alone once again.