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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}

Chapter Text

Dramatis Personae

Agrippina the Younger: Domitius’ mother and Caligula’s younger sister. Described by historical sources as ruthlessly ambitious and beautiful, she was exiled after leading a failed assassination attempt of Emperor Caligula. She lives in the Pontine Islands with her son and sister.

Praetorian Guards: An elite unit of the Imperial Roman army, which slowly gained independence and repubility, to the scale of being able to overthrow or crown emperors throughout history. As of the end of Emperor Caligula’s reign, there were twelve of them.

Glossary

forum: a public square for the purpose of social gatherings, and buying and trading goods. These were frequently the site of public events such as military parades, funerals, and criminal trials.

insula: a type of apartment complex for lower and middle class citizens living in the city. They were often five or more stories high, with the uppermost floors considered the least desirable due to instability in bad weather. An insula housed around 40 people, and cheap construction led to frequent structural collapses.

litterator: while formally the title of public school instructors, these educators could also work independently. It was common for wealthy families to hire private instructors for their children, who taught reading, writing, and oratory skills. Once the child came of age, a litterator would be replaced by a traditional tutor for politics and philosophy.

musicus: someone who sings or plays music.

nexum: an illegal practice in which a person enters a contract of debt-bondage. Despite being outlawed in 300BC due to excessive cruelty and abuse, it was still practiced under-the-table for hundreds of years and was the predecessor to many debt-bondage practices today.

stoa: a walkway with a roof, often with a wall on one side while open-air on the other. Stylistically, the open-air side was made of regularly-spaced columns that went ground to ceiling.

Unnamed Insula, Just South of Marcellus Theater, Rome || January, 41 AD

Aziraphale was confident he had finished the most important of his prerequisite readings shortly after dawn. He rolled up the last of his borrowed scrolls, feeling sober, refreshed and in high spirits. He could hear the city start to wake up through his window, high above the shops below. The richest citizens lived just above the shops; Aziraphale, not minding the steps, was half a dozen flights above them. Vendor carts rattled as they were pulled across the cobblestones. Conversations and bartering began to rise up to join the background buzz of songbirds and the feral cats that chased them as the sun crested over the Seven Hills.

Aziraphale had just put on his cream wool tunica, well-suited for winter, when he heard a knock at his door. That was surprising; to his knowledge, no one who knew him knew his address, and the shopowner below his insula rarely spoke to any of them. Aziraphale set aside his toga and answered the door.

Crowley stepped forward into the opening and lounged against the doorframe.

“Hey, Aziraphale!” he said just as brightly as he had when they overlooked Noah’s Ark. How did you know which floor I was on? Or did you check them all?

“Hello?” Aziraphale answered politely, not quite suppressing the questioning inflection. He was sure he hadn’t drunk enough to forget any part of last night, and so he was confident they did not have preset plans the following morning. Seeing Crowley at his door made a small curl of warmth rise in Aziraphale’s chest; it meant Aziraphale’s awkward questioning and drinking to the point of stumbling hadn’t scared Crowley off. But then, why was Crowley here? Has something come up, regarding our respective sides?

“Last night,” Crowley began, and Aziraphale held very still. “You offered to help me blend in easier. I have another job to do here, one I thought of last night, and blending in would help.”

“You want me to help you tempt someone?” Aziraphale asked sharply, so he wouldn’t vocalize a happy, You’re staying in Rome?

Crowley shrugged. He was looking at the wall past Aziraphale. “I would think of it as helping your dear friend Petronius. I would hate to regularly cause such distress,” he said with obvious calculated lightness. Aziraphale regarded him skeptically.

He knew with absolute confidence that Crowley was put on this Earth to regularly cause such distress – and worse than distress – but a morning spent perusing yet another human delight before he began he sailed off to his assignment was… well. Tempting.

Aziraphale looked Crowley up and down with practiced nonchalance. “I could do that,” he said.

“Good. Let’s go. I want breakfast first.” Crowley swept out of the room, stopping before the stairs when he heard Aziraphale’s offended huff.

“Dressed like this?” Aziraphale demanded, fisting some of his tunica as demonstration.

“Like what?” Crowley spread his hands in a questioning gesture.

“I have standards,” Aziraphale sniffed, picking up his toga again.

Crowley looked up at the ceiling, then back at Aziraphale. “Fine, get dressed,” he said in exasperation. “Then breakfast!” The demon trotted down the stairs, leaving Aziraphale to stare after him in wonder. Crowley was in a more absurdly bright mood than the angel had ever seen him in, and Aziraphale had frankly expected their interactions to be stilted after the few sour notes they struck last night.

A cheerful Crowley wanting to spend the morning together was an excellent way to start the day, and Aziraphale was not going to think about the curl of warmth in his stomach.

☙ ☙ ☙

After breakfast, Aziraphale led the way to the marketplace. There were many fora to choose from among the surrounding cities, but Rome’s Forum Magnum was by far the most expansive display of human culture and commerce Aziraphale had seen thus far. Aziraphale adored the forum, second only to the library in his heart.

Humans had shown a remarkable ability to take plants and animals from the land, breeding them, reinventing them, and combining them into delights unseen in the natural world. Who in Creation could look at a field of wheat being pecked by wild chickens, with a beehive occupying a tree nearby, and think cheesecake? Only one species dove for shellfish, slurped the contents directly from the shell, and thought, You know what this needs? Fermented grapes. Likewise, their ability to take nothing more than wool and generate hundreds of styles of garb, was also remarkable. Then they had scoured the land for dye sources until they had covered the entire rainbow. The Forum was a testament to human creativity.

There were easily fifty vendors who had set up shop along the main stoa, each table, cart or tent tucked in a row between the white columns. A few Praetorian Guards meandered up and down the road, not getting involved in petty affairs but watchful for more concerning incidents. Children ran between them and between the horse carts and patrons. Aziraphale watched an older man in slave-class garb sprint after them, yelling in broken Greek. All around the angel and demon was a whirl of cloth and food smells, dust and smoke from the handful of outdoor roasting fires. Aziraphale looked at his companion and saw Crowley surveying the crowd. He followed the demon’s gaze and saw coins transferring hands both above the counter and below, saw a fold of cloth slip from a woman’s shoulders and saw her companion’s glittering eyes follow the movement, saw covetous eyes on the roasting meat, the exotic silks, the athletic soldiers.

Yes, for all the potential for art and creation that Aziraphale saw, he knew there was equal if not more potential for sin.

“This way,” Aziraphale said, and led the way to the block of the stoa dedicated to the clothing merchants. Both slave and freedwomen, and a handful of freedmen, occupied the tables or sat at the massive vertical looms. The whirring and clunking of these revolutionary machines punctuated the merry shouting of bartering patrons and the exclamations of elderly women as their children emerged from the changing tents with new tunics more fitting to their upcoming age. Merchants hung examples of their creations above the tables, competing for space under the arches where the sun glinted and caught on the expensive metallic threads. Aziraphale made note of Crowley’s eyes lingering on the silver embroidery above them. He hadn’t said much that morning, seeming to leave the entire affair in Aziraphale’s hands, which was both flattering and nerve-wracking.

The angel and demon ducked under the hanging cloths and wove through the crowd as Aziraphale searched for a vendor with black goods – and nicer fabrics. There were artists weaving with black wool of course, but Aziraphale privately thought Crowley would appreciate white wool dyed black for its richer saturation.

They both momentarily lingered in front of a particularly decadent merchant’s mirror. Humans were getting better at capturing reflections. Polished metal was still the most common, but this mirror, Azirphale knew, was from Sidon. The budding nation was making entire houses made of glass to protect tropical plants on dry plains, and the craftsmen there would blow a sheet of glass and then coat one side with lead. The end result was very nearly like Heaven’s Earth-Observations, with the lightest greenish tint, looking at oneself under sunlight through a leaf.

Aziraphale peered at his reflection and adjusted his silver eagle-wing broach to sit straighter. He looked over his reflection’s shoulder and saw Crowley inspecting the slightly uneven hair cut at the base of his head. Crowley looked up and smirked at Aziraphale’s fussing, who was already smiling at catching Crowley in a spot of vanity.

The two of them walked on until they found what Aziraphale was looking for. Rather than the cream and matte rainbow tunics hanging above and around them for most of the strip, they were surrounded by shadowy curtains at this shop. The merchant had laid out bowls of iris roots and walnut shells, typical ingredients for high-quality black dyes, and was discussing his process enthusiastically with another patron.

“What do you think?” Aziraphale asked Crowley, a bit eagerly.

Crowley’s lips curled in a half-smile. “Very nice.” He reached up and caressed one of the hanging tunicas; it had unfinished edges so the buyer could request the embroidery of their choice. Aziraphale walked over to the merchant and began discussing colors and threads. He made sure Crowley had red for celebrations, blue for daily wear, and purple because doubtless the wily old serpent would find his way into the court sooner or later. The shop owner barked commands to the young workers behind him and they began finishing the embroidery. The order was simple, and Aziraphale was confident it could be finished quickly.

Crowley watched this process silently, as Aziraphale was quickly realizing was the demon’s style. New to Rome, he still didn’t have the rhythm of bartering, but Aziraphale knew behind those black glasses the demon was taking it all in and learning quickly.

Crowley only stepped in after Aziraphale had ordered three male outfits. “Three more,” he said softly, and gestured to the women’s tunica and belt sets. “They’ll come in handy for what I’m doing here.”

Aziraphale echoed the order to the merchant, who pulled two different styles down off the clothesline. “Not everything has to have a use, my dear,” Aziraphale answered, matching Crowley’s tone. “I hope you get things you enjoy as well.”

Crowley flashed a quick smile and went back to silently overseeing. Aziraphale went back to talking with the merchant, this time getting red embroidery on one tunic and silver on the other. He had the blossoming idea of a future gift for Crowley, but that would have to be commissioned later – perhaps not in the demon’s company.

As the one who bartered, Aziraphale paid the merchant, confident Crowley would pay for something of theirs in the future. He knew the demon disliked debts if he was the one indebted.

“Would gentlemen like to change now?” the merchant asked in rough Latin, looking at Crowley’s bizarre toga-cape combination with poorly-disguised distaste.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said firmly at the exact moment Crowley answered, “Sure.”

Crowley snorted and crossed his arms. “You don’t have to answer for me. I know my clothes are offending all you patricians.”

He looked over the three male outfits and three female outfits, then looked questioningly up at Aziraphale, who kept his face deliberately neutral. He supported either type of dress, and knew Crowley didn’t have a problem standing out one way or the other. He would get admiring glances in either outfit; dressed as a woman, some doors would open and some would close.

After contemplating, Crowley took one of the male outfits and disappeared into the small tent-like structure to change. Aziraphale waited outside it and doggedly ignored the silhouette he could see from the sun shining through the stoa.

“You don’t understand class anymore than you understand clothing,” Aziraphale replied with a sniff, as if there hadn’t been a long pause since Crowley’s last statement. “A litterator is a plebeian.”

He heard clothing rustling and a broach being unclipped. “That wears a silk tunic under their dyed white toga?” Crowley asked dryly from behind the curtain.

“I have standards.” Aziraphale said firmly, looking over his shoulder to glare but, of course, only looking at the hung opaque cloth. He was beginning to sound like an actor repeating lines with this demon. “How do you know that anyway?”

The rustling sound continued a lot longer before Crowley replied, “Felt it when I kept you from drunkenly eating cobblestone last night.”

Aziraphale didn’t bother suppressing his grin, since it was safely obscured from the demon. “My hero,” he intoned.

Of course it had to be right then that Crowley stepped out from the changing tent and smirked at Aziraphale’s wide, silly grin.

“Your guardian fallen angel,” he drawled, and laughed at the sudden warmth on Aziraphale’s cheeks. Aziraphale suddenly became very busy with carefully taking the discarded clothes from Crowley’s arms and folding them on the nearby table.

Crowley got in front of Aziraphale and pushed the neat stack of clothing to the merchant. “All yours! Won’t be needing them anymore.”

Aziraphale was surprised that the demon knew older clothes were often passed down and repurposed for other clothing, or used as scrap for other tasks. The merchant didn’t look thrilled to now own the offending articles.

“Maybe you can recycle them!” Crowley continued brightly.

Another bizarre string of Latin words from the lips of a demon.

The merchant blinked. “Thank you.”

Aziraphale saw the poor man mouth Crowley’s recycle before he carried the clothes into the back.

“Must you constantly make up words?” Aziraphale asked with exasperation.

Crowley adjusted his snake broach in the nearby polished tin mirror. “Recycle is a perfectly reasonable word. Repurpose implies only once. Recycle acknowledges the ongoing process of repeated repurposing.”

“I look forward to your dictionary of perfectly reasonable yet incomprehensible expressions,” Aziraphale muttered.

Crowley barked out a laugh as they walked out from under the stoa and back into the sun. He briefly touched Aziraphale’s elbow and nodded to one of the outdoor fires a cluster of people were standing around. Aziraphale wasn’t going to protest – the scent of roasted meat on the air was enchanting.

“So is that what you’ll be doing, then?” Crowley asked as they reached the food vendor.

Aziraphale gently pushed through the chatting cluster of folks to the merchant, who was currently handing out wooden kabobs of pork chunks and roasted onions. The customer took it and tossed coins into the tin box by the merchant’s feet. Aziraphale waved, gesturing to Crowley and himself, and the merchant nodded.

“Sorry?” Aziraphale asked, turning back to the demon.

“You’re being a litterator for young Nero?” Crowley asked again.

A bright little thrum went through Aziraphale; Crowley remembered from their reunion.

“Yes. His current one recently retired altogether – rumor has it the boy doesn’t have the easiest temperament. But between the lessons, I want to guide him toward music. An artistic outlet might be helpful with excess emotions.” He looked directly at Crowley at that last remark.

“Oh shut up,” Crowley groused. The chef passed over two pork-and-tomato kabobs and Aziraphale handed one to the surly demon. “I actually know a bit of bagpipes,” Crowley continued musingly, and Aziraphale would have choked were he a less composed angel. “Spent most of the last few years in Scotland.”

“I’d love to hear it some time,” he said warmly.

Crowley’s smile flashed and disappeared behind his kabob, secretive as always.

Then it was time for Aziraphale to go meet his charge, and with a wave and a brief “Be seeing you,” Crowley disappeared back into the crowd of patrons.

☙ ☙ ☙

Aboard the Rhenus, Tyrrhenian Sea

The Pontine Islands, where Agrippina and her son were exiled, were about forty nautical miles south of Rome. There was no telling how long mother and son would be exiled, surely at least to the end of Emperor Caligula’s reign. He had petitioned for favorable winds and received approval from Above to use them for the next three years, but the fastest ships still only clipped six knots, making the trip to his charge about six hours each way. He had decided to only go three times a week for this reason.

The good news was that it gave Aziraphale time to read in peace, practice the kithara^[7] to better teach the young boy, and explore writing in wax tablets just for fun. He also spoke with the sailors on the Rhenus about food and sailing, and sang with them and accompanied their ballads with the kithara. Aziraphale loved the sea, and the wonderful machines humans built to cross it. The sails were almost always open – courtesy of Above – but sometimes the crew would need to do a quick maneuver and Aziraphale could listen to the rhythmic oars on either side of the small merchant ship.

He was grateful for the captain’s willingness to sail to an island of exile and back again so often. If noticed on their usual routes, it could lead to accusations of ferrying goods and services of honorable Romans to traitors. However, the trip was lavishly well-paid and came with favorable winds every time.^[8]

He and Crowley had finished their shopping before noon, and Aziraphale expected to be on the Pontine Islands by the early afternoon. He would have hours to speak with Agrippina and her son. And, with any luck, a gentle hand in music and the arts could give the boy a creative outlet to expend excess energy toward, and be calm for his future political duties.

Aziraphale turned away from the ship rail to chat more with the sailors.

☙ ☙ ☙

Agrippina Villa, Pontine Islands

Aziraphale’s exchange with Agrippina the Younger was brief and a bit stilted, covering only his wages and intended curriculum, but the woman welcomed Aziraphale into her home easily enough and he was confident they would get along. It seemed the last litterator had been condescending to both her and her son, and their mutual sniping had undermined the man’s authority, and things had quickly descended from there.

Aziraphale would have no problem being more polite. He empathized with Agrippina’s contentious qualities; namely acting, according to Roman standards, outside of a woman’s ‘place.’ Some even accused her of attempting to be a politician herself. Aziraphale didn’t doubt her ambition, but didn’t quite see a politician’s conniving.

Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus was playing a kithara out in their rear garden when Agrippina led Aziraphale outside. Aziraphale held that name at the forefront of his mind, having no idea when it would later become Nero. Domitius is what he would be calling him through the indefinite years.

“Just get to know him today.” Agrippina’s tone was guarded, and Aziraphale felt that had she been a hawk, she would be curving her wings around her four-year-old son. “I presume you will start a teaching schedule next week?”

“Absolutely,” Aziraphale said gently, every inch the non-threatening teacher and fine upstanding Roman. Certainly not an ancient celestial being manipulating a young boy in a cosmic plan he only barely understood himself. Agrippina went back inside without replying, and Aziraphale walked through the small garden to sit roughly near Domitius. The tawny-haired boy kept plucking at the kithara. He seemed to understand which notes went together but was struggling with the tune itself. It was one unfamiliar to Aziraphale, and he wondered if the boy was making up his own. The passion for the music itself was there; Aziraphale could see it in how one chord bled into the next.

Aziraphale knew well enough to not interrupt. They were not on a strict schedule, and sitting in quiet contemplation was a far better way to read a child than trying to force them into a conversation. It had taken him a while to learn this lesson, approximately three weeks on a ship tossed on waves flooding Mesopotamia, watching Crowley.

“Hello,” Domitius said eventually. He looked up and his eyes were a winter sky blue. “You are my new litterator, then?”

“Yes. And,” Aziraphale leaned forward conspiratorially. “I am a bit of a musicus myself, as you yourself obviously are. If you’d like, I have an exchange for you.”

Domitius looked back at him, as cautious as his mother had been. One got the impression it was the two of them curved together in their nest, facing out in a combat stance against the world. The young boy jutted his chin out. “Go on.”

Aziraphale clasped his hands and studied the potential future heir to the Roman Empire. “For every hour of studying verse and etiquette we complete, we will spend the same amount of time studying music. Any kind you’d like. I know a good deal.”

It was true; he had done a lot of singing before his days on Earth. Now, Aziraphale had to deliberately alter his voice to bring his singing within a range a human could comfortably hear.

“That would do,” Domitius said imperiously.

Aziraphale smiled and his charge nearly smiled back. With a pang, he could see Crowley in the boy. Surly, defensive, a flat palm held against the world because they expected to be attacked first.

Aziraphale leaned back on his hands and looked up at the sky through the trees. Domitius, as if by instinct, followed the angel’s gaze.

“So. Tell me, Domitius, when did you start playing the kithara?” Aziraphale began.

☙ ☙ ☙

During the two days that Aziraphale rested in Rome, Crowley didn’t show up to Aziraphale’s doorstep, and Aziraphale was not disappointed in the least. The third day, he sailed to Agrippina’s and Domitius’ home again. Aziraphale was getting quite good at the kithara with each sailing trip. The sailors he traveled with would suggest songs, or show him unusual sailing medleys, and they were beginning to see him as a good luck charm. After all, every time Aziraphale sailed with them, luck came aboard as well. The morning fog cleared quickly, strong winds never tore the sail, and sudden turns never broke the rudder.

Once he arrived, Aziraphale sat with the boy in the garden, and they spoke of language and music – and, to a lesser extent, the men Domitius saw speaking with his mother. And so this continued for weeks.

Weeks of gentle and prompt sailing across a characteristically-choppy Tyrrhenian Sea, exactly three days of the week.

It was not always perfect, as humans had the free will to interrupt any divine thing. Two of the rowers had an ill-fated affair that became a – well, row, and found themselves suddenly incapable of the other rowing. After several mornings of this, Aziraphale gently sat down with both of them and used all of his Heavenly wisdom as a being of pure love to encourage a reconciliation. Unfortunately carnal jealousy, much like the aforementioned politics, was Hell’s wheelhouse.

It was smooth sailing — Aziraphale snerked when he thought of that one — when one of the men found a new ship. And it had been an effective ice-breaker into more than just a passenger.

Of course, there were still snags.

Aziraphale was flattered and nervous when one of the sailors gave him a silver amulet with a bluish white stone that the man said matched his eyes, and thanked Aziraphale for gracing the Rhenus with his presence. Aziraphale returned his gratitude but waved him off, hoping the young man hadn’t gotten the wrong idea. A week later, another sailor brought him a ring with a stormy grey stone, saying it was a reminder of the only cloud they ever saw when Aziraphale was aboard. It was all very absurd, and Aziraphale was beginning to regret the Bestowal of Goods and Services form he had submitted for blessing the Tyrrhenian Sea.

That ring came on the same day as a sudden downturn in Aziraphale’s plans. He arrived to Agrippina’s villa to find the matron out in the garden with another young woman. She bore the cuffs and inexpensive tunica of a slave, with long, wild red hair, and was gesturing at the nearest plants and explaining something emphatically. Agrippina was nodding along, occasionally interrupting with questions. Another educated slave for the household then. Then the woman turned, and Aziraphale saw a flash of silver earrings. A slave would never be permitted those– No, she must be a nexum. Someone who had essentially sold themselves into contracted labor to pay off a debt.

The two women were inspecting some of the droopier plants being smothered by the nearby tree’s shade. Domitius was in his usual spot, playing his kithara. Aziraphale approached the two women, raising a hand as he passed Domitius and receiving a wave of welcome in return.

“Hello! Are you well, Lady Agrippina?” Arizaphale asked politely.

Agrippina didn’t smile when Aziraphale appeared at her shoulder. From what Aziraphale had seen thus far, the woman rarely did.

“Yes, thank you.” She briefly touched the other woman’s elbow, leaning in. “When you’re finished today, speak with Licinia to get settled into your new quarters here. We will discuss your repayment schedule later.” Agrippina looked up at Aziraphale, then back to the other woman. “This is Aziraphale, Domitius’ litterator. I will leave you two to get acquainted. Domitius’ lessons will be primarily in the yard so you’ll be seeing each other often.”

She strode between them and briskly back inside, leaving Aziraphale with the new stranger.

He looked over at the stranger, who tilted her head back and looked at him through a curtain of achingly familiar red curls. It was then Aziraphale saw twin black lenses.

The demon shot him an appraising look over the rim of her glasses with golden eyes, and her smile was all serpent. “Hello, Aziraphale. I’m Nirah, the new gardener.”

⁷The predecessor to the modern day guitar, and Aziraphale’s first practiced instrument. He had never bothered learning the harp, despite Heaven offering free lessons as an employment perk, but the way humans would gather around a kithara player by the fire was quite useful. ^{Return to text}

⁸Perks of ferrying an angel. ^{Return to text}

Chapter Text

Dramatis Personae

Julia Livilla: The great-grandaughter of Emperor Augustus, and sister to Agrippina and Emperor Caligula. She and her sister once held a highly honored courtly seat, courtesy of Caligula, but were banished following their conspiracy to assassinate Caligula in a series of events later called the Plot of Three Daggers.

Glossary

clepsydra: an ancient form of the water clock. Water was poured from a spout into a stone cylinder or a cone, marked off with hours based on the height at which the water would be once an hour had passed.

focale: a thin linen cloth, usually wrapped around the neck of armored soldiers to prevent sweat from causing chafing.

scaena: the stage of a Roman theater, or any space able to be seen by the audience. It later became slang for ‘publicity’ in general.

stulte: derived from stultus, or idiot, this expletive generally stood as a harsher form of “stupid!” or “fool!”

Chapter Three: leaving your father’s house

Pater Esuritionum, Rome || Late January, 41 AD

“Bit on the nose, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said haughtily.

Later that evening, they were back at Petronius’s restaurant in Rome, this time in the main eating area. Petronius had given Crowley a more admiring up-down and invited them both to an evening of well-mannered frivolity at one of the unknown senator’s estate the evening after, at which Crowley had preened and Aziraphale, in a bit of a foul mood, waved the man off.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Aziraphale,” Crowley drawled, sipping his wine.

“Nirah? The snake goddess? Stulte,” he muttered the last. Idiot. A Mesopotamian snake goddess, to be specific, and advisor to the god Ištaran. Her cult was once local to a single city and later grew to encompass other cults of life, fertility, and children. Something in that made Aziraphale pause, and his mind tugged at what history of Mesopotamia he knew and overlaid it with the timeline of the flood – when Crowley’s chuckle broke the train of thought.

It was gentle, as if the two of them were sharing in a grand joke, and not a demon interfering with Aziraphale’s work, and it made Aziraphale’s skin prickle. They had done so well avoiding one another’s work directly for four thousand years and this was just not on. So far, Crowley had evaded questions and claimed his task had nothing to do with Domitius directly.

Aziraphale regarded his slippery adversary with a frown that Crowley answered with a winning smile.

The demon was lounging across the table from him, looking good-naturedly — and therefore, quite suspiciously — pleased. Crowley had dipped his voice back into its usual lower register and he had changed into one of his new masculine outfits. When he had arrived at the restaurant to harass Aziraphale, the angel had to stifle the most ridiculous disappointment that the wig was gone. What had inspired the demon to lop off a nice full head of hair?

Crowley had seen Aziraphale frown when he arrived and had sat with him regardless, ordering a drink and launching into his tale of meeting Agrippina. Aziraphale had eventually asked why he bothered changing. It wouldn’t do for a friend of Agrippina in Rome to see her son’s litterator taking the young new gardener out for wine, Crowley had explained, and Aziraphale didn’t disagree.

“A snake in the garden,” Crowley mused aloud, and swirled the cup in his hand. “You literary types enjoy a good motif, don’t you?”

“A nexum in the garden, you old serpent,” Aziraphale snipped, not letting Crowley get off the main point. “Quite discreet, my dear.”

Crowley shot him a wounded look before his face split in a teasing smile. “Now, my sweet lawful angel, that would be illegal.” He chided. “I have not sold myself into slavery to pay off a debt, I am simply exchanging labor for previously-sold goods as is befitting a proper Roman citizen.”

Aziraphale sniffed and didn’t dignify that with a response. He looked out across the restaurant at the other patrons, as if he were comfortably drinking alone and his table was quite unoccupied.

“Come now,” Crowley leaned toward him, all coax and charm, the snake. Aziraphale felt his gaze being tugged toward the demon and was rewarded with those damned sunglasses when he could have used some eye contact to gauge Crowley’s motives.

Crowley continued, “I told you I discovered a task here, and I think it’s closely related to the blessing you’ve been assigned—”

“Which you are now interfe—”

“You called the Domitius boy Nero.” Crowley tapped the table between them. “Surely you understand what’s coming.”

Aziraphale’s mouth snapped into a frown. He should have known not to be too loose with his demonic adversary a few nights ago. Of course Crowley would figure it out.

“Ye-es,” Aziraphale admitted slowly.

Crowley’s face remained deadly serious. “Speaking of snakes.” He leaned in even closer and Aziraphale regretted the lack of a tray of food between them. It put the demon close enough for Aziraphale to feel his enemy’s breath against his cheek, the heat of getting too close to a firepit. The hairs on the back of his neck rose in anticipation– wait, no, fear. Good lord, what had gotten into him lately?

“The head of one will soon be cut from the body,” Crowley whispered.

Crowley stayed where he was, face dangerously close. The firelight from the nearby sconces lit his sunglasses and Aziraphale could see through the glass to painfully sincere yellow eyes. Emperor Caligula was not long for this world. And Crowley knew it with absolute confidence.

That would make Claudius the emperor if the forces that struck down Caligula left him untouched – and sickly, stuttering Claudius was famously underestimated by his entire family. There was, of course, murmuring in the senate about reinstating the Republic, but Aziraphale doubted the Praetorians would allow such a thing.^[9] They would put anyone in that seat if Caligula died. And Claudius being a sickly mess, it wouldn’t be an unreasonable move to put such a figurehead in place. If Aziraphale’s hunch was right and an adoption by Claudius was the reason Domitius was registered as Nero in Heaven, Emperor Caligula’s death would start a cascade of events that would make Domitius – soon to be Nero – heir to the Roman Empire.

Crowley must have seen the dawning in Aziraphale’s eyes because he leaned back to let the angel breathe, expression unreadable. Only two of his fingers drumming on the table edge betrayed his tension.

“What is your part in this?” Aziraphale asked in a matching whisper.

Crowley studied him for a long moment. Aziraphale suspected the demon was deciding on a good lie. A small part of Aziraphale wondered if he might tell the truth, just to throw Aziraphale for a loop.

“Understudy,” Crowley answered eventually. As if this–

“As if this were some theatre show being put on.” Aziraphale snapped before he could stop himself.

“Is it not?” Crowley shot back, bitter and cold, setting his wine cup down hard. “Have you known Her to act as if the world were anything else?”

The freezing wind across the deck of the Ark blew between them in the silence.

“I doubt She thinks it is as funny as you apparently do,” Aziraphale snapped, frowning severely at the demon across from him.

“It’s not funny,” Crowley agreed emphatically, anger twisting in his tone. At me? At God? Aziraphale wondered.

They both leaned back in their seats as one, lowering their respective raised hackles. The silence yawned between them, in which Aziraphale drank and looked down at his wine cup, his hands, the wooden table grain, and up at the candlelit walls. Crowley wasn’t going to kill the Emperor, but he knew who would. Understudy. He could step in, and had agreed to step in, for the assassins if needed.

Crowley watched Aziraphale as he polished off his cup and processed this; he spoke when Aziraphale set down the empty cup.

“I just thought you should know,” Crowley said quietly. He let out a breath, the last of the tension easing out of his shoulders. All of it seemed to have seeped into Aziraphale’s spine.

Crowley waved over one of Petronius’ serving girls. “Another,” he called, lifting their empty jug.

Aziraphale pushed back his seat and stood.

“Aziraphale–” he heard Crowley start behind him, a sigh snagged in the spoken name. Exasperated? Hurt?

But Aziraphale had already dropped coins on the table for his share and was out the door, the doorway’s curtain swinging closed on the demon’s face, still staring after him.

☙ ☙ ☙

Two weeks later, the blood of the late Emperor Caligula ran beneath the imperial palaces of Palatine Hill. Word had it members of the senate had organized an assassination, halting the growing power of the emperor’s seat. The Germanic guard, always tightly held to Caligula’s side, had unleashed a rampage as their Emperor’s body lay at their feet. Conspirator and bystanders alike were cut down.

The Senate attempted to leverage Caligula’s death in order to restore the Roman Republic, but the Praetorian Guard would not be moved; the conspirators slaughtered Caligula’s wife and daughter to further cement the end of imperial rule, but members of the Praetorian Guard had found a hiding Claudius and crowned him. Claudius had no interest in the position, but the alternative was four thousand members of the Praetorian Guard being set loose upon the city, and a fission in Rome between the Guard and Senate, with the Roman people crushed between.

Emperor Claudius accepted his laurels and had all the suspected conspirators executed. Citizens shouted Hail Caesar! in the streets and muttered about Claudius’ bizarre face, stutter, and age in dark taverns. Politicians openly opposed Emperor Claudius at every turn on the senate floor, and then quietly complimented the man’s bold speeches and reformism among one another.

In short, it was an upheaving, demonic mess.

Agrippina crowed her victory in the privacy of her villa garden, to her son and her staff, and she even invited her sister Livilla over to celebrate. Livilla told Domitius a story that would later become the infamous Plot of Three Daggers; the story of how the two sisters alongside Lupidus tried to assassinate Emperor Caligula. Domitius clapped when Livilla finished and Agrippina chided him. It was not a happy story, Agrippina said. But a lesson. You have more allies than you think. The daggers that struck yesterday were in the hands of unknown allies to us.

At this, the gardener looked over at the litterator, but the litterator stared straight ahead.

☙ ☙ ☙

Agrippina Villa, Pontine Islands || April, 41 AD

Months passed without further upset. The senate was beginning to accept, if not respect, Emperor Claudius. They passed ambitious edicts, regarding agricultural reform and a potential new harbor near Ostia, as the crisp chill of winter melted into drizzly spring afternoons.

Aziraphale was back in Agrippina’s garden with Domitius on one such cloudy and wet day. The early spring plants were blooming with vigor under Nirah’s careful tending, and the green garden now bloomed with color.

Domitius sat next to his litterator, and the two of them sat beside a clepsydra, nearly two feet high; it was a gift from a Greek gentleman friend of Agrippina’s. Water dropped from a reservoir into a cylinder, on the side of which was etched with a column of numbered lines. As the cylinder filled, the water’s surface against the etchings told the hour. Time could now be told in the evening, or in the shade of Agrippina’s garden, in which there were no sundials. There were times when Aziraphale, fascinated by the endless and accelerating march of human knowledge, wished he were stationed in Greece instead.

Aziraphale could see what had driven off the previous litterators. Agrippina had obviously raised her son to be a little princeling, demanding and impatient. Thankfully, Azirphale’s kithara lessons aboard the Rhenus were paying off handsomely, and he was gaining skills Domitius was happy to bargain for.

“The four conjugations of habeo, please, Domitius,” Aziraphale said.

“It’s been an hour,” Domitius griped, glaring at the clepsydra.

“Quite nearly.” Aziraphale nodded, the very image of patience. “But not yet.”

The water in the clepsydra cylinder was jostled as drops from the reservoir fell into it. Miniscule waves on the surface touched the next hour line. Domitius turned away from the device. Angel and boy stared at one another across the stone bench. One pair of sandals sat on the grass without so much as a tap, the other pair of sandals swung restlessly above it. He is stalling until the next hour arrives.

“The conjugations of habeo please, Domitius,” Aziraphale insisted.

“I’m ready for the Epitaph of Seikilos, Zira,” Domitius shot back. The boy was perfectly capable of saying Aziraphale’s name, and did more often than not, but chose not to when particularly annoyed.

Aziraphale conceded an inch. “You are. We can dedicate the next hour to it. Habeo. Now.”

Domitius finally smiled. Aziraphale smiled back. There was a reason they called it angelic patience and it had rewarded him now.

“Habeo, ‘I have,’” Domitius intoned. “Habére, ‘to have.’ Habui, ‘I have had.’ And – oh, the water is to the line!” He bounced off the bench and onto the grass, hands on his hips.

Aziraphale’s foot tapped with a hard rap of sandal against stone – and the sound was immediately followed by a muffled laugh from the tree’ edge. Aziraphale rolled his eyes Heavenward and saw Nirah hugging herself with her head bowed, shoulders shaking. The demonic gardener shot a glance at the angelic litterator and didn’t even bother to hide her mirth. Aziraphale scowled and Nirah hid her laughing mouth behind a fist, quickly turning back to her plants.

“You deliberately ate up minutes of your lesson,” Aziraphale chided. “I want the last conjugation of habeo, Lucius Domitius.”

The boy’s smile faltered at his formal title. He was happy to retreat behind a princely air whenever he liked, but loathed when Aziraphale fell back to a strictly professional address.

One tiny sandal scuffed on the ground. “Habitum, just ‘had.’”

Aziraphale smiled. “Good. Now, the Epitaph of Seikilos, you said? Go fetch your kithara.”

He had long since learned not to allow the instrument in the yard during the lessons or nothing got done. The boy ran inside.

Nirah stood up, picking up the cloth slung over her box of tools to rub dirt-stained hands clean. She was in the middle of laying fertilizer over the rows of flowers that hadn’t bloomed yet. They likely wouldn’t until early summer.

“I actually know that one. Seikilos,” Nirah said, tossing the smudged rag back onto the box.

“You shouldn’t encourage the boy, Nirah,” Aziraphale said stiffly.

Nirah laughed again, the sound like a rich tintinnabulum,

^[10] and those red curls swaying like the leather straps suspending the bells. “He is only five, show a little angelic mercy, would you?”

Aziraphale glanced quickly around the garden, annoyed at the demon’s brazenness. “Mercy is earned,” he said as stiffly as he had just spoken to Domitius. Sometimes he could hardly tell which one he was talking to. It was time to change the subject before Nirah trotted over any more buried spikes.

“Do you sing?” He asked Nirah.

Nirah shrugged, and pushed a particularly thick bundle of hair back over her shoulders. The nexa cuff jangled with the motion. “Sometimes. Dance too, even, but I know that’s not your lot’s style. Do you sing?”

Aziraphale smoothed his toga, looking down. “Carefully,” he said.

It took a lot of effort for him to deliberately pitch his voice into a human range, out of his natural range which inflicted pain on any human within listening distance. The effort was enough of a distraction that Aziraphale was not a great singer, pitching his voice so far from its natural tenor that it was difficult to perfectly hit a note at the same time.

“I can sing without too much effort,” Nirah said, no – offered?

“Are you offering?” Aziraphale confirmed.

Nirah smiled and opened her mouth to answer, when Domitius rushed between them holding a kithara. It was a rare one, built for a boy his size. One rarely saw someone younger than ten with one, but Domitius got what made him happy. Agrippina firmly believed in preparing her son for the outside world, but spoiled him as well. Domitius was beginning to warp what he wanted into what he was entitled to.

“I’m ready!” Domitius crowed, sitting back down on the bench, much closer to Aziraphale. Nirah shook her head with an amused smile at his enthusiasm and went back to her work, but kept an eye on them. Aziraphale put his arms around the smaller boy, gently correcting the placements of Domitius’ left and right hands. The boy’s tiny fingers barely reached the strings of the specialized kithara, but he played as well as half the children Aziraphale heard. He would be wonderful when he was older with a greater reach.

Domitius never hesitated when he played. He was already plucking a few strings with one hand as Aziraphale corrected the placement of the other. Aziraphale’s initial read had been right – he had an instinct for how notes came together, but struggled with the larger picture of a song.

Aziraphale frankly had a similar trouble. He primarily learned by reading and was ecstatic with the invention of written words on scrolls – and thus deeply disappointed that music had not followed suit. Music was primarily taught by listening, though some Roman musicians were beginning to import Greek enchiriadic notation for actual song-writing; no doubt that mouthful of a title was likely not to stick.^[11]

Nirah sorted items in her box – likely the different fertilizers shipped in for different plants – as they got started with their stretched exercises. They began with a simple tune that bored Domitius to tears but was good training in playing a progression of chords with a steady rhythm. He groaned through most of the first two iterations until he achieved a steady tempo, and then groaned louder at the next two. Aziraphale quite enjoyed the tune, himself. It was soft and uplifting, reliable in its predictability.^[12]

When Domitius played the last iteration however, his groans trailed off and his fingers hesitated on the final strings. Aziraphale waited, curious as to what had struck the boy while he played.

“One more time?” Domitius asked hesitantly. He looked up at Aziraphale, his blond hair brushed Aziraphale’s chin, and something in his expression made Aziraphale curious.

“Alright, one more time,” Aziraphale said. He began humming along again, and tapping out the tempo.

Twang.

Aziraphale paused, unable to stop the startled laugh. “What was that?”

“Hold on, hold on,” Domitius muttered. “Messed it up…” He played the tune again but this time, to Aziraphale’s delight, he strummed a rich lower-toned chord with each simplistic node, complementing it.

Nirah put down a pouch she had been holding and watched with a pleased smile that Aziraphale was sure played across his face as well.

“That’s lovely, Domitius. You really have an ear for this medium,” Aziraphale praised, and Domitius glowed. “Let’s get started on Seikilos.”

“I’m ready,” Domitius insisted again. A musician had visited the villa earlier and played it, and the boy had been transfixed ever since.

“What would you think of Nirah helping you with the lyrics of this one?” Aziraphale asked. “I am capable of singing but I do not have your gift.” Technically not a lie, he assured himself. “I believe Nirah does.”

Domitius shot Nirah a skeptical frown, but Aziraphale could see a glimmer of curiosity in the tilt of his head. For the most part, Domitius and Nirah had kept their distance from one another; Domitius didn’t appear to have any interest in getting to know the staff. But he was always curious about what someone else could bring or beget for him.

Eventually Domitius nodded. “I’m fine with it.”

Aziraphale gestured, and Nirah joined them on the bench on the other side of Domitius. She crossed her ankles and leaned back, contemplative.

“You’ve heard this song performed alone, yes?” Nirah asked, and waited for Domitius to nod before continuing. “One simply repeats the single verse, but with different intonations for different emotions, often three times. This is where the individual singer comes in. For example, when I sing it, I think of the transition of grief into… rebirth. The washing away of old. Pain, to acceptance, to relief.”

Aziraphale’s tunica prickled uncomfortably. They appeared to have reached an understanding about the Crucifixion and the Harrowing, but the Ark still hung between them like a bloody dagger. Aziraphale knew it had left its mark on the demon, but he couldn’t tell how deep. Aziraphale was beginning to wonder how much deeper that mark lay than he currently understood.

Domitus was watching Nirah with wide eyes. The previously-invisible gardener was explaining an art to him, so now he only had eyes for her. Aziraphale was quickly learning that was the fastest way to the boy’s heart. Nirah asked if he was ready and he agreed. And then Aziraphale heard the voice of an angel.

He and Domitius listened, and Aziraphale’s heart swelled with an emotion akin to rapture as Nirah repeated the verse two more times, her voice lowering from the high grief of the first iteration, to a loving softness for the second, to a tentative joy for the last. A stretch at the end of a long hunch. Nirah’s eyes looked up, away from them, through the trees and to the sky. The last note rang into silence. Not even a clap from Domitius.

The young boy was quiet for such a long moment, Nirah looked down from the orchard branches and into the boy’s watery blue eyes. “Was that alright?” she asked. She sounded, to Aziraphale’s disbelief, nervous.

Domitius swallowed, then demanded, “Teach me.”

Nirah laughed, relieved. “I will. First – rhythm. Play and I will sing along to you. A stalk needs soil for firm roots.”

Obediently, actually obediently – Aziraphale was more envious than shocked – Domitius began to play, and after one round of the chord progression, Nirah’s voice joined him. Once they found a a comfortable rhythm from the repetition, the three verses going around and around, Domitius began to sing with Nirah. Domitius voice was alright for his age, he was landing very near the notes he aimed for, but always pitched too low or high on sustained notes. Aziraphale was frankly relieved. Boys with flawless voices before puberty rarely struck gold twice and retained a musical tone after puberty.

Aziraphale whistled along – that talent thankfully not angelically amplified beyond human comfort.^[13] Mid-whistle, he heard the door creak open and saw Agrippina in the entrance to the garden, arms crossed, face soft and contemplative. Her curls were pulled tightly over her head, looking stern as always, but her eyes were shockingly warm. Aziraphale smiled and waved.

Agrippina stepped onto the cobblestone walkway and over to the bench between a round of the verses. Domitius and Nirah stopped and looked up, and the matriarch’s voice only marginally sharper than usual.

“You two are keeping up with your usual tasks, yes?” she asked firmly.

Aziraphale straightened Domitius’ toga and answered with a smile, “Absolutely. A mind needs stretching between exercise, and your son has been exercising much.”

Agrippina nodded and turned to Nirah. “And you?”

Nirah clasped her hands in her lap, all maidenly virtue. “I’m awaiting another batch of fertilizer from the helper assigned to me,” she answered. Never mind that she had never called for one. Aziraphale made sure to not so much as twitch. Covering for a demon – what has Earth come to?

“Alright then,” Agrippina answered. “We’ll have lunch soon. We’ll bring some extra ones out to the garden for you.”

Aziraphale was beginning to thank her when a scribe of Emperor Claudius appeared in a side-entrance to the garden, knocking lightly against the wood frame and holding a letter aloft. Agrippina swept past them to the scribe, and the hand that pressed her heart when she opened the letter meant Aziraphale didn’t need a miracle to know its contents. Emperor Claudius had undone many of Caligula’s orders of exile that month. The missive crinkled in Agrippina’s hand, and she turned to Aziraphale and Domitius with a triumphant smile. Aziraphale barely caught Domitius’ kithara as it fell when the young child sprang up and ran to his mother. He buried his face in Agrippina’s skirts and the matriarch smoothed Domitius’s hair, reading the letter aloud to him.

Aziraphale set the kithara down on the bench and heard Nirah take a long breath. He looked over at the demon and saw her elbow braced on her knee, looking pensively at mother and son. Agrippina waved Aziraphale off for the day and led Domitius into the house. When the garden was empty of others, Aziraphale turned to the gardener, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

So they both knew about the exile rescissions. And they both knew Agrippina’s most advantageous position would be back at Rome, as close to Claudius as possible. There was no possibility of her saying ‘no’ to the offer.

They were returning to Rome.

☙ ☙ ☙

Corne Hill, Tusculum || October, 41 AD

Summer had been a tumultuous season; wheat stalks slumped over brittly dry soil and Domitius dragged his feet on every step away from the Pontine Islands. Agrippina reached for every thread of political power she had woven with before her attempt on Caligula’s life, darning her expansive web across Rome. She had always sent letters to her sister but after the missive from Emperor Claudius, she began to write directly to Passienus Crispus, her brother in law and the most significant patrician in her circle.

Approximately fifteen miles southeast of Rome, many of the powerful families lived on a rim of the Alban volcano. Passienus Crispus was one such man, owning a personal estate worth two hundred million sesterces.^[14] He was as powerful as any of the senators; arguably more so, as he was able to work more private venues than the senate floor. He was also virtually immune to scandal.

Less than a month after Agrippina’s return to Rome, Agrippina had instigated her sister’s divorce from Passienus, married her former brother-in-law herself, and moved to Tusculum with Domitius, their many slaves, and Nirah. Passienus accepted all of this enthusiastically. He was already a politically prominent man; by virtue of his marriage to Agrippina and the Augustus/Germanican-bloodline^[15] children they would produce, he became even more distinguished.

Crowley was happy all his dice were landing on the faces he had bet on, and Aziraphale was happy he didn’t have to sail from Rome to the Pontine Islands for the next several years. The two of them maintained their wary peace; Nirah continued her work in Crispus’s extravagant gardens and disappeared in the evenings for unknown errands, and Aziraphale continued to tutor Domitius and watch Agrippina set a hundred cogs in place for the next tick of the clock.

Aziraphale was grateful he had been tasked to influence Domitius toward Goodness, because that ship had certainly sailed for Agrippina. She had barred Passienus’ ex-wife from the estate, and had firmly instated Domitius as the superior heir to all of Passienus’ children. This normally would have been preposterous as Domitius was only five, but with her hawk eyes and sharp words, no one was contesting Agrippina directly. Her enemies vanished, her rivals self-destructed, and Passienus, delighted with having Agrippina as such a close ally, allowed her free reign of the estate. Before the Three Daggers, Agrippina has been an average patrician. Now, she could have been the darling of the court if she desired it.

But Agrippina did not visit court once. People came to visit her at the estate.

One such visiting group had just arrived, and so Domitius was told to go for a walk. Agrippina locked the door behind her son. Aziraphale arrived to see Domitius sitting on the stones in front of the villa, in the shade of a neighboring tree. Aziraphale invited the boy on a walk around the gardens, only very lightly hoping he got to see Nirah along the way.

“I miss the sea,” Domitius said quietly.

Aziraphale gazed down at him, and saw the boy looking up at the sky, around at the plains, down on the city of Rome from afar. They were so far inland, Aziraphale could no longer taste the Tyrrhenian salt above the flowery blanket of the garden. There was only the sweet perennial flowers in the chill autumn breeze.

“Me too,” Aziraphale told him. “We can still visit sometime, if you’d like.”

Domitius shrugged and straightened his uncomfortably heavy and expensive toga. It was a cream white, almost like Petronius’, and he looked every inch the patrician’s son. Only the sour frown gave him away.

“And the orchard,” Domitius added. “You and Nirah talking. Us singing together. That last…”

The last day. Aziraphale thought. The days following that one had been full of tense packing, letter-writing, and much more studying as Agrippina forced Domitius to increase his lessons to better sound like a Crispus heir. Nirah kept her distance, but Aziraphale saw her talk to Domitius in quiet spurts when the two were able; they scattered when his mother came outside. Agrippina also wanted to nurture in Domitius a more proper relationship with the staff. Aziraphale’s heart ached for this child, but he feared more what would happen if Domitius didn’t tow the line.

Aziraphale stopped in front of some exotic lilies shipped from Greece and knelt down to smell them. They stood in a large grassy circle surrounding a sundial. Passienus owned ten times the number of trees as Agrippina had, and still had space for fields wide enough for a massive garden sundial to work. The spire of Crispus’ sundial could cast a shadow taller than Aziraphale.

Domitius followed Aziraphale’s gaze to that massive stone spire, counting the hours. He said softly, “The clepsydra.”

Aziraphale turned to him, still kneeling, with a half-smile. “You hated the clepsydra.”

Domitius’s smile flashed and disappeared again, like a bird weaving among the clouds. “Only a little.”

Aziraphale got up, taking a moment to clasp Domitius’ shoulder in sympathy, and they kept walking.

As Aziraphale and the boy walked Crispus’s estate, Domitius confessed to missing the quiet afternoons more than anything else. He always had to put on an act now, to be the heir his mother wanted. They reminisced until the sun set and Agrippina sent her visitors away. She unlocked the door. Aziraphale went home.

As the summer progressed, Domitius found the Alban villa slowly more suitable to his lifestyle than the Pontine Islands had been. Passienus also had his own scaena, complete with theater stage and seating for his many party guests. He paid performers for his events and delighted in stories anywhere between tawdry and tragic. Aziraphale didn’t say anything when he saw Nirah take Crispus’ heir by the hand and lead him behind the scaena after a show had ended and the audience had dispersed.

Domitius was transfixed after that evening, and was frequently found behind the stage after a show, harassing the actors and singers for advice and making them bear witness to the boy’s latest practice. Both Aziraphale and Agrippina chided Domitius every time he was caught, but most of the actors thought it was hilarious. As a far lower ranking staff than Aziraphale, Nirah was privy to these spectacles and retold them to Aziraphale with relish. Aziraphale was almost always invited to the shows at the estate, and came to nearly every one. He also made it a habit to linger by the scaena as the audience dispersed.

After one such show, Aziraphale lingered until only the sound of wine sloshing into clay cups, laughing, and bawdy jokes in three or four languages could be heard behind the building. Agrippina had slipped away with a couple of the patrons and Domitius had been left to his own devices.

Of course, these devices meant harassing the actors. Aziraphale pushed aside the curtain to the backstage area and saw several foreigners sitting on crates and barrels, passing around a clay jug. Domitius was perched on a barrel, legs swinging, arms gesturing wildly.

“Oh, Menaechmus, you are my favorite neighbor!” The young boy cried in surprisingly articulate Greek, given how little Aziraphale had taught him so far. He also didn’t quite approve of these strangers encouraging Domitius to memorize such a… mature play.

Nirah grinned down at him, and then spread her arms to the other actors as if to say, Can you believe this?

“All sweet talk,” Nirah said with exaggerated sadness, also in Greek, and then winked ridiculously at the entering Aziraphale, “So long as she sees something to grab!”

She tossed a bronze-colored focale to Domitius and continued. “Take it, it’s yours. Four golden coins I paid for it when I bought it for my wife a year ago.”

Domitius turned to the audience of actors as Nirah had just done and stage whispered, “Four golden coins cast down the drain!”

Illustration by Bees.

The actors laughed and Aziraphale smiled despite himself. Greek farces^[16] did little for him personally, but it was good to see Domitius feeling better.

“What can we do for you, Aziraphale?” Nirah asked in deferential Latin, as was proper for a nexum to an heir’s litterator. The other actors quieted down too, all turning to look at Aziraphale, who coughed politely.

“I was searching for Domitius,” he said neutrally, watching the gardener and the boy stiffen, before continuing in his most airy tone. “But I can’t seem to find him and am certain he is still in bed, as he was told to be.”

He smiled conspiratorially to Domitius, whose answering grin was radiant.

☙ ☙ ☙

A harvest moon was high in the night sky when Domitius had truly gone off to bed. Nirah and Aziraphale, nexum and tutor, demon and angel, walked the sprawling estate gardens. This had become a habit for them over the months, after completing their respective duties and especially when those duties ran late.

As they left the lighted cover of the ivory gazebo, Aziraphale extended his elbow for Nirah to politely curl her fingers around. On the surface, they were merely being polite, but Nirah’s light fingers also guided Aziraphale through the darker corners where her night vision far surpassed his. They never spoke of it.

Nirah never removed her sunglasses either, even in the darkest pitch.

“Domitius is settling in well. Only took six months,” she mused as they stepped out under her stars.

“Better than expected. Thank you for introducing him to those actors,” Aziraphale replied.

“Don’t thank me,” Nirah muttered. She despised being thanked; Aziraphale did it anyway. Today, her hair was pulled back in a more stately style, befitting a Roman woman, not a nexum. Her debt was halfway paid off, she had told Aziraphale, and it was time to start looking the part. Aziraphale waited with fascinated dread for the next step of the demon’s plan.

They followed a broken stone path among two rows of mulberry trees, Aziraphale keenly aware of the lanky fingers curled around his elbow. Those fingers tugged from time to time, pulling Aziraphale aside to avoid cracks in the stone. All the while, the two made idle conversation about the show that night, the villa, Domitius’ progression with the kithara. A curl of firelight red freed itself from Nirah’s braids, and Aziraphale consciously tucked his free hand in his toga as they walked, denying the instinct to reach out. Aziraphale didn’t know what had gotten into him, but he was getting far too comfortable with casual touches between himself and the demon.

As if conscious of his thoughts, Nirah’s fingers pulled him to a stop. The arm of his tunica prickled uncomfortably. He turned to look at the gardener, who reached up to one of the mulberry trees and plucked two berries. She rolled the purple-black berries clustered between her fingers before holding them out to Aziraphale. He silently took one.

The tartsweet spilled across his tongue as Nirah asked, “Do you trust Agrippina?”

Aziraphale allowed the taste to flood his mouth and swallowed it clean before answering. He didn’t want to lie, but he had to be aware the garden could be crawling with unseen allies of Agrippina. One may be clasping my elbow now, Aziraphale thought. And if not an ally of Agrippina, most certainly an ally of Hell.

“I trust everyone to the extent that I know them,” he said. “Certain people can be trusted in certain regards.”

Their eyes met through black glass and he hoped Nirah could feel the weight of the words through his own undisguised eyes. Aziraphale continued, “I don’t believe in blanket trust or distrust.”

Nirah opened her hand and let the second mulberry fall from her fingers. It left a stain that likely looked red to Nirah’s snake-eyes, but all Aziraphale could see were fingers dipped in pitch.

“Do you?” Aziraphale asked.

“Trust Agrippina? No.” Nirah pulled her lips into a smile that was hardly a smile at all. “Trust people in general? Not a soul,” she said brightly. Aziraphale mentally pocketed the emphasis on soul for later contemplation.

They continued walking. The fingers never left Aziraphale’s elbow.

Aziraphale’s birthright as an angel, and one of the gifts lost to demons when they Fell, was smiting. Just a touch, a surge of the same power that let Aziraphale call to Heaven or calm the winds over the Tyrrhenian Sea, and the human or demon would be gone. Aziraphale could do it now without breaking a sweat.

Aziraphale looked over at Nirah, now quiet as they talked. Golden snake eyes gleaming behind the black. Those fingers tight in his tunica. And he thought, Liar.

⁹Over the centuries, the Praetorian Guards had obtained enough money, power, and influence to be virtually politically independent, capable of making or breaking the reign of an emperor. By Claudius’ reign, it became nearly impossible to stand against the Praetorian Guards without an army. This power was repeatedly conglomerated and reinforced by imperial seats, and a return to being the scattered cohorts they were under the Republic was unpalatable. ^{Return to text}

¹⁰The irony of such a simile was not lost on Aziraphale when it came to mind. Tintinnabulum were catholic bells in ancient times, used to ward off evil spirits. It was the precursor to the apotropaic role of the bell in “bell, book, candle” rituals of later centuries. ^{Return to text}

¹¹Indeed, it did, for nearly 1400 years following this particular afternoon. Then music was notated with clefs that denoted particular ranges of notes. Musicians may be interested to note that Aziraphale had turned Domitius’ 9-string kithara to the standard base-to-treble range: C-D-E-F-G-A-B-C-D. ^{Return to text}

¹²Aziraphale was tickled when coincidentally, after being played for 1700 years, the tune gained the delicious moniker “Hot Cross Buns.” ^{Return to text}

¹³Were sound recordings invented at the time, this is what one may have heard upon replay. ^{Return to text}

¹⁴For context, the average seated senator in 41 AD owned an estate of two and a half million sesterces. To any reader who has not found themselves dealing in commerce in first century Rome, a more modern currency might help communicate the significance of the Crispus estate. Passienus could have parsed out his estate and sold the lot for two hundred million bronze coins total, each worth about 2.5£ in bronze, for a total of 500 million pounds. To the readers enjoying this from the colonies, that is $600 million. ^{Return to text}

¹⁵Humans widely believed in the magic of bloodline, and dynasty begetting destiny. At the time of Caligula’s death, there was considerable fear in the thinning and loss of several great bloodlines, and it was believed the dilution could be undone by binding members of the survivine bloodlines. ^{Return to text}

¹⁶This particular one is called “The Menaechmi Twins,” a satire containing archetypes of every character often found in plays of the time period. This play went on to heavily influence “Comedy of Errors” 1700 years later. ^{Return to text}

Chapter Text

Dramatis Personae

Valeria Messalina: Emperor Claudius’ third wife and the mother of two of his children. She had a reputation of being promiscuous and lewd for her position, and inappropriately involved in many political affairs.

Glossary

caenum: used often to refer literally to mud or slime, and became a term for an “unclean” or shameful person.

Chapter Four: yoking your chariot of gold

Portus Construction Site, Ostia || March, 42 AD

Rome was ever-expanding. At nearly a million citizens and a million more expected in the next decade, the docks at Ostia were not enough. Thousands of ships came through every year and the port was too small, too shallow, too crowded. Ships and frustrated sailors traded blows in the salty water, and senators went back and forth endlessly on the debate floor over cost and benefit of a new port.

Aziraphale and Agrippina stood on the shore of what was to be Rome’s – and Europe’s – first artificial port. By order of Emperor Claudius, Portus was finally under construction. Deep rivets were being cut from the land, the soil pushed aside and packed down as foundation for additional insula. Logs were delivered from the countryside in all directions and nailed into a rounded frame that curved in on itself like an artificial inlet. Docks jutted out from the shoreline and from this new curved frame, nearly ten times the number currently at Ostia. It was only the first year of Emperor Claudius’ reign, and he had changed the shoreline of Italy.

“The people are getting restless,” Agrippina said, apropos nothing. She and Aziraphale had taken a cart here from Tusculum, and had ridden in near silence.

Aziraphale glanced at her, but kept watching the construction of Portus. The matriarch of the Crispus estate and mother of the next emperor would speak in her own time and it was best to let her. She had invited him here, after all. Aziraphale was quite aware there was a politician beside him, and he was very likely being tested.

“Food is getting rationed again,” she continued. Aziraphale had seen this, and had seen it being done mercilessly. What little aid Roman charities and concerned churches could offer was now strictly down to a single day’s rations. Families got enough food for two children, regardless of how many they truly had. Brawls were breaking out in Forum Magnum, and the food vendors were making themselves scarce. These were horror stories the patricians told each other over extravagant dinners. Aziraphale and Crowley had stopped eating altogether.

Agrippina continued, “Emperor Claudius” — her tone was ever so lightly mocking— “hopes Portus will encourage trade and increase supply.”

Aziraphale turned to look at her and found her already examining him. He met her gaze steadily. “And it will not work,” he said.

She looked satisfied. “No, it won’t.” She smoothed a few stray hairs whipped free by the Tyrrhenian breeze. “Domitius is resisting my advice, and refusing to make the ride out here to see Portus. He needs to see what is being tried and why it will fail. I want you to take what you see here and communicate to my boy these lessons of futility.”

Aziraphale chewed on this. He was of the private opinion that it was hard to teach any five year old boy futility, nor was it wise to hamper the endless fount of optimism in children.

“It will not work for the food shortages, but this is not an exercise in futility,” he said after a long pause.

Agrippina turned back to the construction. “Tell me your thoughts, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale knew the offer he was given came with hidden thorns, and he stepped forward carefully to avoid getting pricked. “It is a long term approach. Emperor Claudius is building something that will outlive him. Rome will be the biggest port of call on the Mediterranean Sea. This growth will not be futile.”

He continued on, allowing his concern to bleed through the confidence. “But there will still be a gap in the short-term. We simply do not have enough food distribution measures to supply the needs of Rome.” He could not bring himself to echo the lies Crispus and his guests were telling each other: ‘there is not enough food.’ There was, without question, plenty.

They both listened in silence to the shouts of the builders, the ringing blows of wood hammers, and the creaking of impossibly large carved logs.

At last, Agrippina spoke. “I don’t disagree. That is an ongoing theme in Rome these days. Big people with big ideas, but who is willing to grind out the hundred tiny steps to get to the top of that golden hill?”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to say. Without question, Agrippina was one such person willing to grind out the steps, but to answer that would sound ingratiating. Domitius was the likely correct answer but not the honest one; the boy was temperamental and easily distracted.

Aziraphale looked away from the construction to Agrippina, to see the woman already looking at him. “Do you think Domitius has such a potential?” She pressed.

A tricky question. Would a yes mean Aziraphale was unobservant and foolish? Would a no mean Aziraphale was a traitor or a poor teacher? Good heavens, Aziraphale hated dancing around politics.

“With the proper guidance,” Aziraphale answered. It was close to the truth.

Agrippina nodded again, slowly, and turned back to the construction. “Rome’s future will rely on it,” she said. “The waters have been too calm. People tire of Claudius’ lofty ideas, fanned by that caenum, Messalina.”

Aziraphale winced at calling the wife of an Emperor filthy but he didn’t disagree that Claudius was quick to grab for a greater height without making sure his climbing hooks and ropes were secure. Until the land newly cleared for agriculture starts producing at the same level as the more aged farms, there will be a food shortage in Rome. Eventually the people would respond, Aziraphale knew. Meanwhile, the scraps are pulled between all the focal points of power in this city. The Senate, as always. Patricians. Judaism of the Eastern Meditteranean, vying for independence. Aziraphale was beginning to see the arguments for a Judean state and a Republic, but he had no better solution for four thousand wild Praetorian dogs without an Emperor to follow than Claudius had at his coronation.

“You know me as an optimist, Lady Agrippina,” Aziraphale said with a self-deprecating smile. “But I agree with lofty ideas metered by moderation. I will try to show this to Domitius.” Aziraphale watched logs being fitted and nailed together, watched the sea already railing against the new wooden construct. “Your boy is ambitious. We will nurture temperance in him as well.”

Angel and matriarch watched the construction until the dockmaster walked out to fetch them.

☙ ☙ ☙

Ziti Luminis, Rome || January, 43 AD

Nearly two years to the day, Aziraphale and Crowley were back at the site of their reunion. Aziraphale’s leather Nine Men’s Morris mat lay between them and Crowley was contemplatively fiddling with a black stone. Around them, the popina roared with noise. The human patrons were celebrating Juturna, a fountain goddess, by drinking themselves sick on watered-down wine. The angel and demon playing a board game in the corner in hushed tones could barely be seen through the crowd, let alone heard. They were partaking in the wine as well, of course, in the spirit of things.

As with every Italian winter, even the daytime wind dragging through the city was punishingly cold. Aziraphale knew the demon’s sensitivity to temperature, but Crowley had agreed to meet Aziraphale in the breezy popina regardless. He had also agreed to play a table game, to Aziraphale’s surprise. Crowley was being almost suspiciously magnanimous.

Crowley placed the black stone. “Agrippina is starting to affect senate votes,” he said mildly. Ah, there it is.

“Oh?” Aziraphale never touched a stone until he had made a decision. His index finger tapped on the table next to the board.

“Thanks to some conversations these past months, the senate voted for more food rationing without dipping into any of the stores of the patricians. Can’t have Crispus down to only two feasts a month, you see.” Crowley continued in the same airy tone, but his fingers were tense around his clay cup. Aziraphale had a flash of that hand curled around his elbow: warm, steady, pulling him to safety.

“She was this powerful before that clumsy nonsense put her on the Pontine Islands,” Aziraphale pointed out. “This isn’t surprising.” Nor is the greed of our employer.

He placed a white stone. He was more than happy to play all afternoon until Crowley made his point.

“Agrippina is getting everything she wants,” Crowley clarified. A black stone flipped between his thin fingers. “And Domitius is four years from adulthood and hasn’t been adopted.”^[17]

Crispus’ mortality hung in the air between them, with the Three Daggers plot stirring just below it like the smell of oncoming rain.

Aziraphale studied Crowley, who studied the Nine Men’s Morris mat. The supposed understudy to Caligula’s assassins, with a cavalier attitude toward death. Crowley would not mourn Crispus if Agrippina found herself wanting to be romantically – politically – available again. The demon was slouched with an elbow on the table, face turned down enough for Aziraphale to catch his yellow-orange eyes over the rims of the sunglasses. He was growing his hair out again, and locks of red curled against his forehead and around his ears.

The two of them had been working in just barely overlapping circles for nearly two years, narrowly missing each other’s toes in that time. Crowley was far more of an influence over Domitius than Aziraphale would have liked, and Aziraphale got the impression that he was closer to Agrippina than Crowley appreciated. Aziraphale’s assignment was still progressing neatly and Crowley gave no indication that his was going poorly either. They got along, and Aziraphale looked forward to their walks in the garden with Nirah and these clandestine meetings with Crowley. And.

Well. It was nothing. It was Crowley, for Heaven’s sake. A demon. Ally to the Adversary. It was nothing and if it was something, it was something that didn’t matter.

Crowley looked up and those eyes disappeared behind black glass. “What?”

Aziraphale had been quiet too long. “Nothing, my dear.” And then bit his tongue.

Crowley’s nose scrunched with distaste as he placed his stone. “You sound like Petronius. Should I soon expect to see you wafting about in four different shades of cream and nattering about wine pairings?”

Aziraphale immediately played a white stone and snagged one of Crowley’s, setting it aside. He turned a smug smile on the demon. “I could do both excellently.”

“I’m sure,” Crowley said wryly. He refilled both of their cups from the clay jug between them.

“Look,” Aziraphale decided to reel them back to the point with a spot of candidness. “I have Domitius’ best interests at heart, and Agrippina is his ally. If you’re fishing for me to turn against her, you’re going home hungry.”

Crowley set down the clay jug harder than necessary. “I care for Domitius too,” he muttered.

Those long, deft fingers toyed with a captured white stone as he slouched over the tabletop. Aziraphale kept his hands tightly clasped around his clay cup and held the conversation in the forefront of his mind like a cold bath.

He watched Crowley ponder and then present a different tack. “Senators listening to courtiers rather than the Emperor undermines imperial rule,” Crowley pointed out. Aziraphale had made no secret of his preference toward an Emperor. From what he had seen, humans were inept at organizing themselves, to the point of self-destruction. One central force of Good could lead nations, if represented by the right counsel of other Good-doers. Heaven ran like clockwork because of this very ordered structure.

From what Crowley had described, leadership in Hell had been in flux for thousands of years. Powerful entities usurped one another for positions just under the very top, to the point where Hell was nothing but a ruthless cadre of warlords locked in petty turf wars while an overseeing power looked down and laughed. Aziraphale couldn’t imagine how Crowley could live in the midst of that without desiring a single immutable ruler.

“What about that bothers you?” Aziraphale asked. “Don’t pretend you don’t support a Republic.”

Crowley placed another black stone. “...You really should too,” he said, studying the board. “Humans will never crown a ruler that is truly Good.”

“You can’t guarantee that,” Aziraphale retorted. “And don’t act like the senate is all that more moral. A fair representation of the citizens of Rome? Truly?” He allowed an impolite level of skepticism leak through in his tone.

If a good Republic that truly represented the Roman citizens was possible, Aziraphale didn’t expect to see one in Domitius’ lifetime. The current senate was top-heavy with the highest earners from the right bloodlines, and while practitioners of Judaism made up ten percent of Rome’s population, they were horribly underrepresented in the Senate. And there was not a single native Oscan-speaker anymore, despite how much land of former speakers Rome now covered. Aziraphale looked down at his hand, where the white stone he had grabbed was making an imprint in his palm. He forced himself to relax his fingers and place the stone.

“It’s better than effectively a ruling class, which they have now,” Crowley said, sharp with disgust. “You know those food protests used to mean something? Now they’re just a pawn game between powerful families. Marcus Valerius pays a denarius a day to any man willing to block traffic to the Cornelii cattle farm so people have to use his.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Between Scylla and Charybdis, we sail,” he muttered, half to himself.

Crowley played a black stone, his sullen frown matching Aziraphale’s. They had tread and retread this debate for two years, and they were both weary of it.

“Look. Human politics are a secondary concern to me,” Aziraphale said. “I told you I am here to influence Domitius. You uncovered why. I am staying out of court while I prepare him for it.”

Crowley hmmed. “I just thought you should know Agrippina is not.”

“Obviously,” said Aziraphale. He tried to bite it back, but couldn’t help adding, “Are you?”

Crowley smiled in a particular way Aziraphale had seen repeatedly in the past year. Crowley seemed to think it made him look mysterious and charming, but it mostly made Aziraphale want to thump him.

“No,” Crowley said cheerfully.

They sat in silence, Aziraphale smoothing his hackles. Crowley was likely doing the same. He didn’t specifically disagree with Crowley’s assessment, but they were too close to each other’s business now them to be straight with one another. Playing his hand could give the demon an edge, giving Hell an edge. Aziraphale was not going to let this unprofessional attachment interfere with the Ineffable Plan.

“Old patterns, old habits,” Crowley mused, half to himself. “If Domitius needs to get adopted, it’s nothing she and her sister can’t solve with a couple daggers.”

“That’s not funny,” Aziraphale said sharply. He was Agrippina’s ally-by-proxy but if she attempted to assassinate Crispus in too obvious a fashion, he would be honor bound to interfere. As an angel, he could only mete out death to those that Above had already condemned to die, and he had received no such order regarding Crispus.

“Am I laughing?” Crowley retorted, brows raised.

They kept playing, and the conversation turned to lighter topics. Whatever Crowley was planning, Aziraphale would take no part, and now they both knew it. The raucous roar of the popina around them picked up, its denizens getting rowdier as midday deepened into afternoon. Crowley performed sleights of hand at least twice that Aziraphale caught — without comment — and Aziraphale still won the game. Crowley crossed his arms with a huff when his last piece was surrounded.

He opened his mouth and Aziraphale waited for the elaborate excuse when a drunkard near them was bumped and tripped, half-crumpling, against Aziraphale. With an arm around his waist and a polite smile, Aziraphale steadied the man, who flashed a smile back. He then studied Aziraphale and returned a much slower, softer smile.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” the man said

Aziraphale waved it off. “Quite alright, my dear.”

Crowley cleared his throat and the man stiffened, startled. He glanced at Aziraphale’s table-mate and whatever he saw made him quickly scramble back to his cluster of friends.

Crowley’s brows furrowed behind his glasses. “We need a quieter place to meet,” he declared, looking around the popina in distaste. He was studiously not looking at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale studied his huffy, coldblooded companion and contemplated an olive branch to smooth over the absolute trouncing Crowley had just received on two fronts. He remembered Crowley’s shivering.

“Well, I have an idea,” he said serenely. Crowley looked back with a raised brow.

☙ ☙ ☙

Forum Magnum, Rome || March, 44 AD

Aziraphale could hardly see the cobblestone streets through the smoke and cursed his lack of night vision. He pulled his gray overtunic over his mouth and nose, and pushed his way to the fire. Twice he had choked already, breathing being too much of a habit on Earth.

Rioters had barricaded the cross-street with wooden carts and lit them on fire, keeping the Praetorian Guards at bay as they ravaged the local grain storage hall. The Guards cursed the rioters over the sound of large axes tearing the carts apart to try to break up the burning barricade, and the Roman citizens cursed right back, throwing wine bottles over the barrier – plumes of flame rose from where the sound of broken glass rang on the other side.

Aziraphale pushed forward into the riot he had regretfully seen coming.^[18] He intended, to the best of his abilities, not to interfere too directly. He was holding himself to only minor miracles to keep the flames from igniting the buildings and protecting whoever he could, but he stood aside as people ran in and out of the storage hall with canvas sacks of grains and seeds. Only half the riots were adults; there were plenty of teenagers and young children in the mix, hammering crates shut, corking barrels. Most of the patricians and courtiers were safe in their villas in Tusculum; it was always Rome that burned.

The flames now angelically constrained to the carts and away from the buildings, Aziraphale pushed through the crowd to the end of the road. It was probably best he leave. He wound the gray face wrapping tighter around his mouth and nose and turned away from the barricade, the grain storage, and the starving citizens.

A high and feminine war cry from atop a cart distracted him. He turned to see a man and a woman sitting on a pile of barrels, sacks, and crates, teetering precariously on a cart drawn by a skittish horse. Spoils from another raid, Aziraphale thought exasperatedly. He knew people were starving, but was this the people Crowley thought could lead themselves?

The man in the cart held a rail of the cart with one hand and the arm of the woman with the other, and Aziraphale would recognize that woman anywhere.

Nirah’s red waterfall of curls was blowing wildly in the smoke, soot smudges like warrior paint on her cheeks. “This way!” She shouted to the rioters. “I’ve broken the gates of Rubino’s villa. You think this is a gold mine?”

Most of the storage hall had been emptied as Aziraphale stood aside and watched, and people swarmed around the redhead and her cart. Men who ordinarily would have balked a following a woman’s lead orbited her, spellbound by a supernatural charisma. Aziraphale joined the swarm just in time to see it wheel away, ahead of him, following Nirah, who – Aziraphale could see now – was curled around a small brunette child. The child was crouched much lower in the cart, clutching fiercely at Nirah’s palla.

They rounded a corner two blocks down and Nirah – or someone at her behest – had indeed broken down the gate. The guards of the Rubino family were nowhere to be found. There was no doubt in Aziraphale’s mind, as he stood back and watched Nirah jump from the stopped cart, that those guards were likely leading another raid at another senator’s house as they spoke.

Crowley had been absolutely right about this pawn game. The most successful protests and riots were funded, organized, and aimed like a spearhead toward the profit of another family, or toward the senate if the family’s true issue was a new tax. Rebellion leaders were more likely to be hired opportunists than anything else. Just another form of competition among the upper echelons of Rome.

Was Crowley aware of this shadow game? Did he care, so long as children got fed? Aziraphale looked at the child’s tawny brown head, just barely visible among the crates of the cart. The rest of the crowd had cleared, with the exception of one man that was holding the leather reins of the cart horse. The man ignored Aziraphale. The child had not rushed after the crowd, and was looking right at Aziraphale.

“I’m here.” Aziraphale pulled down his gray wrapping, but kept his hood up, so just the child could see his face. “I’m here to help. Where is your family?”

The child’s spindle-thin fingers clutched the crate they were half-crouched behind. They didn’t answer.

Aziraphale closed the rest of the distance to the cart. The man holding the horse peered at him, and Aziraphale exuded his angelic presence into the air around them, making Aziraphale seem trustworthy, calming. The horse’s ears swiveled neutrally, alert but relaxed. The man cracked a half-smile and went back to watching the road.

The child was swept up by this passive angelic air as well. “Hello,” they said, in a rather high voice, even for a child.

“Hello,” Aziraphale echoed. “My name is Aziraphale. What is yours?”

“Lethi,” the child answered.

Shouts from the second story of the villa rang out, the voices of the raiders coordinating themselves into a chain of people to quickly pass supplies, the way a chain of slaves could unload a ship by passing boxes person-to-person.

“Where is your family, Lethi?” Aziraphale asked, smoothing his desperation with calm. Whatever Nirah was doing, whatever Crowley was thinking, a child this small had no business being so deep in the thick of it.

“Don’t know,” they said. They sat up straighter and Aziraphale saw more of them from behind the crate. They wore a cheap tunic with a belt, no toga. With that voice and dress, Aziraphale hazarded the child may be a girl and his heart thudded unhappily. Children as young as this weren’t safe on the street, though fathers would occasionally force their sons to help with these raids. Whatever father would have stopped her was probably gone. A mother might still be around.

“Lethi, please come with me. It isn’t safe here,” Aziraphale reached out to her, consciously amplifying his trusting, calming air. He had to be careful; children, like some animals, could recognize the supernatural, and he didn’t want her to identify him. “Let’s find your family,” he offered honestly, urgently. A small miracle that could lead to a ripple effect of goodness spreading from her life, to her children, and their children. Surely a forgivable misuse.

“You know where they are?” Lethi stood up fully and closed the distance to his arms.

Aziraphale was pulling the girl from the cart, two hands under her armpits, when the first wave of looters left the building. The girl’s feet hit the cobblestone just as the first crate was flung up onto the wobbling cart. The overborne wood creaked. Aziraphale curved an arm around her. They were leaving – now.

“Watch out for Lethi!” Nirah’s voice snapped above the racket, and the crowd split as she pushed toward the cart.

“She’s safe!” Aziraphale called back. Lethi shook herself free from his grasp and he let her. She stayed by the cart.

Nirah pushed through the rabble and came to a stop in front of Aziraphale. She said nothing, only arched her brows in surprise over the sunglasses. He didn’t know how she was seeing through the damned things, which were smudged worse than he’d ever seen them.

“Drop and grab another load,” Nirah’s previous cart companion ordered, and there was a cacophony of wood clunking down on cobblestone. Angel, demon, and child were left alone on the street.

“Lethi’s parents were struck down by a guard,” Nirah said, by way of explanation. She said it, her voice barely above a breath, and the sound was swept away by the roar of the city, the shouts from the building, the crackling fires in nearly all directions. Angelic ears could catch it, though. Nirah reached down and Lethi’s tiny fingers tangled with hers. Aziraphale’s chest tightened. Half the time, being orphaned meant a death sentence. The other half of the time, the child was sold into prostitution, or taken in by a family as a delicia – a toy – or told to beg on the street and bring money home to the family.

What was Crowley planning to do when the smoke cleared? It would almost be more kind to let nature take its course. Then again, this was the same demon Aziraphale caught smuggling the only six children he could snag onto the lowest decks of the Ark. The two had come to an unspoken agreement to steer Noah and his sons away from the lowest deck, and when the rain stopped, they never spoke of it again. Most had later become Noah’s grandsons’ wives. Crowley did not believe in nature taking its course. He did not believe in any facet of the Plan.

“It isn’t safe for Lethi here. Let me watch her,” Aziraphale said. Lethi was swaying lightly on her feet, passive with shock. There was a chance Nirah’s hand clutching hers was the only thing keeping the child on her feet.

Nirah’s face was unreadable. By the set of her jaw, Aziraphale wasn’t expecting agreement.

The second wave of looters arrived and started loading the cart, as Aziraphale and Nirah watched one another. He didn’t trust a demon with children. He couldn’t think of anyone he trusted more than Crowley with children.

Which path – trust Crowley with Lethi or not – was his angelic duty? More importantly, why didn’t Crowley trust Aziraphale with children?

“Aziraphale–” Nirah started, voice strained with what sounded like regret.

The staring contest was broken in the worst way. A battalion of Praetorian Guards stormed around one of the street corners; they must have made it all the way around the barricades to start sweeping the streets. The guards started shouting as soon as they saw the carts and the men loading them, like dogs on a scent. Several crates dropped from scared arms and smashed on the ground. The man who had held the horse slung himself back up on to the cart.

“Fuck,” Nirah hissed. “MOVE,” she shouted to the crowd.

Without thinking, Aziraphale and Nirah hefted Lethi back into the cart, and then climbed on themselves. The driver snapped the reins, the horses lurched forward, and the cart rattled down the road. Other citizens were piling on to a second cart, or simply breaking and running. Most of the loot was safe on the cart but there were broken crates and barrels left behind. There were people left behind. The Praetorians splashed through dark wine pulsing from an overturned barrel, spears raised.

Aziraphale looked away, to Nirah. Nirah pulled Lethi’s face into her tunic dress and never took her eyes off the scene the two carts were racing from. Screams rang over the crackling fire, the swearing guards, and the rattle of wooden wheels over cracked roads. They stopped so quickly after they started, Aziraphale almost considered it a blessedly quick end.

“It’s always children,” Nirah murmured, when the cart turned a corner and smoky curtains fell on the scene.

The cart jolted, Nirah wobbled, and Aziraphale instinctively shot a hand out to steady her. His hand felt large on her bony shoulder, and he could feel the quivers of exhaustion running through that demonic body. Her hand shot up and clasped his wrist, her gaze unreadable behind those smudged glasses.

“What are you doing here, Nirah?” Aziraphale asked. “What does Hell care of starving citizens?” He privately thought Hell would approve; people could behave monstrously in a desperate corner.

“Not Hell.” Nirah slid down the cart rail and sat, looking up at the smoke cloaking the neighborhood. “Just me.”

Lethi settled more comfortably against her, face still hidden. Aziraphale slowly sat down as well. Nirah carded her fingers through Lethi’s hair and regarded Aziraphale. He was starting to get the impression she wasn’t a very good demon. Still not to be trusted, but somehow adversary was losing its accuracy. There were times, like this one, in which Aziraphale felt more comfortable in a rickety overburdened cart with a demon than he felt in a room full of archangels.

Nirah took off her glasses and tried to wipe the smudges clear with her tunica. She looked up and Aziraphale felt pinned. The surrounding firelight of a burning city turned those yellow snake eyes to gold.

“What are you doing here?” Nirah eventually asked.

Aziraphale looked out over the burning neighborhood, the smashed store fronts, the bodies lying still in the road. The cart driver politely steered around them.

“What good I can,” he said eventually.

He didn’t need Nirah to say there wasn’t much. And she didn’t.

¹⁷Ten years old was hardly adulthood to Aziraphale – the last thing a human needed was a new mountain of responsibilities right as puberty rolled up. Rome strongly disagreed. ^{Return to text}

¹⁸Claudius’s agrarian reforms, claiming hundreds of acres of wilderness for more grain fields, hadn’t made enough of a dent in the shortage of the food supply. The distribution methods of what had been grown were woefully inefficient; it didn’t matter how much food was grown if that food was kept from the folks that needed it. Add that to the innate deficit of an extended winter, and the proceeding events were not at all surprising. ^{Return to text}

Chapter Text

Dramatis Personae

No new individuals.

Glossary

pecorino romano: a particularly hard and salty cheese, made from sheep’s milk. It was served as a staple in the Roman military, and thus was often served at venues patronized by veterans.

Chapter Five: beautiful swift sparrows led you over the black earth

Crispus Estate, Tusculum || June, 45 AD

There were two more riots that year before Claudius’ agricultural reform made it through the Senate. Enough patricians were tired of their villas being invaded, their businesses being interrupted, and their stores robbed. The waves of disorder had to reach high enough for the uppermost class to feel them before they would do anything.

Over the course of the following year, Crowley and Aziraphale had found a comfortable rhythm influencing Domitius. The seven-year-old boy was blossoming into quite a handful, and Aziraphale was grateful for the help. Other than the occasional command or reprimand, Agrippina left the raising to Aziraphale and other members of the staff.

Crowley was frankly more skilled at teaching political maneuvering. He started showing Domitius how someone’s character in court could be chosen and presented.

While tolerant of Nirah nurturing a character in Domitius, Aziraphale focused on his true character. Domitius was temperamental, sensitive, and very aware of the air in a room. If the adults were tense, so was he. If they were happy, he caught the happiness like a cold. Aziraphale did what he could to direct that emotional energy toward understanding others. Would Domitius be happy if someone did to him what he just did? Was there something small he could do that might help someone else, to make their day better?

“Also, they owe you a favor now,” Nirah pointed out, overhearing Aziraphale and Domitius as her rounds brought her close to the marble bench Aziraphale and Domitius were sitting on. Aziraphale was showing his student how to restring a kithara. Domitius looked up as Nirah came over and the boy smiled far too brightly at the gardener for Aziraphale’s liking.

Aziraphale sniffed. “That is not the point, Nirah.” He cleared his throat to make Domitius look back at him. “The point is that people will remember how you made them feel, and you want them to think kindly of you in their memories.”

“It also makes them indebted to you,” Nirah said brightly. “And you can call on them to do something in return.”

“Nirah,” Aziraphale snapped, and Domitius snickered.

The boy’s fingers drummed thoughtfully on the kithara. “I can do it for both reasons,” he declared. Much to Aziraphale’s frustration and Crowley’s amusement, that princely tone was becoming more common.

Nirah laughed low in her throat and went back to pruning the errant branches of the nearby lemon trees. Their sharp citrus scent was heady on the summer air, the breeze tugging strands of red from Nirah’s heavy braid, and her wispy seasonal tunica was slipping off one shoulder. The heat was sweltering, and while Aziraphale and Domitius were relatively comfortable in the shade, Nirah was in the direct heat.

Aziraphale watched Nirah tug the tunica back up while Domitius gently twisted the last peg in place on the restrung kithara. He gave the instrument an experimental strum and winced at the resulting cacophony of twangs. Aziraphale watched proudly as the boy carefully began tuning it.

At the very least, Domitius’ patience had greatly improved. He needed to be plied with rewards of more complex music lessons or freedom to visit the actors, but he was now as capable of forbearance and focus as Aziraphale had hoped. Aziraphale had been right when he first arrived to Rome: the arts were the key to Domitius’ heart.

Nurturing that patience was just about the only goal Aziraphale and Crowley could agree on.

☙ ☙ ☙

Some weeks later, the three of them were lounging by one of the many pools on the Crispus estate between lessons. It was lined with wide, flat stones on the bottom and around the rim. Vibrant orange and white fish had been imported from somewhere and were kept in the pond, some sort of karp Aziraphale had never seen. Crowley called them koy.^[19]

“No, koi. As in– ‘ko-i,’” Nirah corrected, kneeling beside the pool and submerging a palm full of grain from Crispus’ stores. In nature, she said, the fish would eat anything that fell into the water.

“Koi,” Aziraphale echoed, chewing on the foreign sound. He was sitting on the nearby grass with a cup of hibiscus water that one of the kitchen workers had brought to them. Agrippina had been noticeably warmer to all her husband’s staff this past year than she had been when they first moved, and the guest performers, and that generosity was spreading across the estate.

Domitius watched Nirah and submerged his own hand. He laughed as the fish swam right up to him and snagged the bits of grain from his palm, tickling as they swam by.

“They come from as far east as you can imagine,” Nirah continued. “Eastward and eastward, until you hit an ocean too wide to sail across. Swimming in the ponds and channels of the last strip of land before you reach that ocean: that’s where you find these fish.”

Domitius shook the last remnants from his cleared hand and pulled it from the water. “I want to go,” he declared. “The fish around here are boring.”

“It’s a long journey,” Aziraphale warned, amused. “You hated the three-day ride from here to Gallia Cisalpina – remember?”

“That’s because it’s hardly Rome!” Domitius huffed. Which was not entirely untrue; the province had only been absorbed into Roman Italy three years ago. “Traveling within Rome is just fine.”

Aziraphale laughed, gently. “There’s a lot of not-Rome between here and the Eastern Sea.”

“Kingdoms of it!” Nirah added as she too pulled her hand from the water and shook it dry, looking up at a cloudless sky. From this distance, when that summer tunica slipped down as it had before, Aziraphale could see a light dusting of freckles across Nirah’s shoulder. He remembered steadying her in the cart during the riot, that thin shoulder resting in his hand, sure and safe. Those freckles had been in his palm.

That damnable something reared up in Aziraphale’s throat. He could now concede it was not nothing. It was still nothing important.

He watched Nirah and Domitius lean together by the pond. In these stolen moments together when Agrippina was busy or absent, Aziraphale saw how attached the two had gotten to one another. What would Agrippina think, Nirah being practically a mother to her child? Agrippina had pushed hard for Domitius to act more distant and courtly to the hired staff and slaves, and Domitius had utterly complied – with the exception of Nirah. Aziraphale could picture their last clandestine meeting in his mind perfectly, standing on the shore of Portus, Crowley wreathed in morning fog and speaking proudly of Domitius. Whatever the demon claimed, whatever his original task had been, his affection for the boy was obvious.

Nirah was holding one hand flat and was ‘drawing’ on it with the index finger of the other, painting a rough map of Asia, while Domitius watched in fascination. “Directly east of here, you have Parthia. All of Kushan. You would ride for months. Set out when you no longer see snow on the Apennines and ride until the forest leaves all around you turn gold. And when the mountains to the south finally start thinning and your horses are collapsing, you reach the Han Dynasty. The Empire of China – and you’d still not see the ocean on the horizon.”

Domitius pondered this, clearly skeptical. “How much farther, then?”

“Another three month’s ride, at least,” Nirah answered, then mulled it over. “Assuming you haven’t brought sea silk or Syrian glass with you. China trades their silk for either one, and they’ll escort you to a major city much faster than you yourself could find it.”

Domitius’ hmm was almost an exact echo of Crowley’s. “Mother says I can’t have sea silk. Crispus’ sister was wearing some and it was so soft when she was hugging me, but even Mother doesn’t own any.”

“Chinese silk is thicker and more durable anyway, Domitius. If you romped with the actors in sea silk like you do with your wool tunica, it would be torn in a day,” Aziraphale teased.

“I wouldn’t! I would change when they arrived!” Domitius protested.

“You mean to tell me honestly that you wouldn’t show off to them?” Aziraphale asked, looking down his nose at the boy.

Nirah laughed as Domitius mumbled his disagreement.

His protests were interrupted when a house servant joined them by the pond. “Domitius – Crispus would like to see you,” the servant said.

Nirah stood up and brushed her grass-stained hands on her tunica. “Be seeing you, Domitius?”

“Definitely!” The boy grinned up at his gardener, and followed the help back inside the villa, leaving Aziraphale and Nirah alone in the garden.

“He’s taking after you,” Aziraphale said quietly.

Nirah crossed her arms, contemplative. “I know.”

Aziraphale inhaled, taking in those lemon trees again. “Tell me truly. You are not trying to interfere with what I’m doing here?”

“I’m not,” Nirah said firmly, and she tilted her head at him just so, snake-eyes glittering over the rim of her glasses. Aziraphale held her gaze for long moments. As far as he could tell, the demon had never lied to him. Not in the last three years. Not in the four thousand before.

Aziraphale could never forget she was a demon, but insofar as one could trust a demon, he trusted this one.

☙ ☙ ☙

Crispus Estate, Tusculum || July, 45 AD

Domitius was taking after Nirah quickly. The swagger and impulsivity, the mischief. For all the good Aziraphale was doing, for all that Domitius was learning about patience and control, the boy’s version of nice veered much closer to Nirah’s embodiment of it. He would snap at the children he played with, and then help them do it correctly, as he said. He complimented people roughly and honestly, and, if anything, the shocking honesty lent credence to the compliments.

Also, as Crowley had told him during their last clandestine meeting, Domitius was starting to experiment with various clothing in the shaded privacy of the garden, spurred by his earlier conversation with Nirah. (The rest of the staff had thankfully not made mention of this to Agrippina or Crispus.) Aziraphale had been welcomed into this knowing circle, after steering Agrippina away from the gardens on a number of occasions. Shortly after, Crowley had told Aziraphale about the dressing up with Domitius’ permission.

Now, whenever Agrippina and Crispus were out of town, Domitius wore a belt around his white toga and tucked the toga around it. If he were older, it would have accentuated his hips as a belt around a tunica did for women. As a child, it simply looked unusual, but it made Domitius carry himself with better posture than he had on a horse. So. Aziraphale was not going to protest the oddity. Domitius was also learning to pin his toga with brooches the way one would pin a palla, and Aziraphale was considering just buying him a toga before Agrippina saw the pinholes.

Aziraphale was getting used to seeing the demon’s fingerprints all over the boy, but he was still shocked when stepped out into the sunny estate gardens and saw Domitius standing there in dark shades. They were tinged a rich green as opposed to Nirah’s black lenses.

His toga was pinned so similarly to a palla, Aziraphale wondered for a moment if Crowley had bought him one. His belt was slung low, but this time he had billowed out the cloth a bit to simulate feminine hips — Aziraphale was sure Domitius couldn’t do that without help.

“What do you think?” Nirah was asking, and Aziraphale was so startled, he began to answer when he saw she was asking Domitius.

“I don’t have to squint!” Domitius answered brightly, looking around the garden. He didn’t even have a hand held up to block the sun from his eyes, as usual. “They feel okay. Kinda funny behind my ears.”

“‘Kind of,’” Aziraphale corrected mildly.

Domitius beamed at him and — Aziraphale could see through the emerald green much easier than black glass — rolled his eyes.

Nirah reaches up to adjust her own shades. “You get used to it.”

Since the sun bothered Aziraphale as much as he desired it to, which was exactly not at all, he didn’t realize how much of an inconvenience it probably was to humans.

“Hold on — I want to see what they look like!” Domitius said, and ran back indoors for a mirror. Nirah watched him go with her hands on her hips.

“Agrippina is not going to allow him to wear those things,” Aziraphale warned. They were becoming careless. He already dreaded the day she saw just that belt. Heaven help them if Agrippina ever saw this ensemble.

“So he won’t when she’s around,” Nirah said with a very Crowley-esque shrug, her voice dipping into a lower register. “Same with the belt.”

“I know you bought him that, by the way. You’re setting him up to get hurt, Nirah,” Aziraphale snapped.

“Agrippina is hardly around these days,” Nirah snapped back. “He’s all alone, just a kid. And humans are already just left to wonder and guess what and who they want to be—”

“He has me,” Aziraphale all but hissed. The demon was going too far. The influencing was Aziraphale’s job and he was starting to feel like he was failing at it. “I could help him if you weren’t so…” Distracting. Corrupting.

“So what, Aziraphale? You think he needs — no, do you think he wants another cold, condescending, holier-than-thou authority—”

“I am his litterator, I was meant to be here! You’re nothing more than a scheming demonic—”

Aziraphale’s words broke when Nirah’s hand flashed out and seized the front of his toga. She must have gotten some of the tunica as well because when she pulled forward, Aziraphale staggered a step. He grabbed her wrist to steady himself, tight enough to turn her skin bone white.

“I thought you were okay with this,” Nirah snarled in Crowley’s voice. Her eyes were burning into him behind the glass, close enough to Aziraphale’s face for him to see through the black. “Don’t want me around anymore?”

If Aziraphale didn’t know any better, he’d say the demon was hurt. A quiver raced through Nirah’s wrist, under his palm, and Aziraphale felt his anger slip through him like water through a sieve. They had kept an uneasy peace for three years now. They had worked, not with each other but certainly not against each other, and had seen each other nearly every day for the last two of those years. They went out for drinks as agents of their competing organizations, and stayed to talk long after business had been settled. There was no need for Aziraphale to teach Domitius out in the garden, but he felt compelled to do so.

This isn’t all Crowley’s fault.

He loosened his grip on Nirah’s wrist until he just barely held her. His mind tipped dangerously toward the nothing important feeling. Through black glass, he could see the anger and hurt giving way in her eyes too, but couldn’t read what replaced them.

“I want you around. I...” Aziraphale was startled to hear his voice come out in a rasp. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You’re good with kids. I wish I was,” he said honestly.

Nirah’s fingers went slack in his toga. Her demeanor was back, calm and light as opposed to Crowley’s manic brooding. He wasn’t surprised to hear Nirah’s voice again. “And you’re good with people,” she said, cautiously amiable.

“Well then.” Aziraphale straightened up and fixed his toga. No harm done. “You can handle the children and I’ll handle the adults. Domitius needs to be a good child,” he said firmly.

Nirah shook her head. “He already is.”

As if on cue, Domitius raced out of the villa into the garden, as fast as only young children in trouble can manage. Aziraphale and Nirah jumped apart and immediately went after him.

“Domitius!” They heard Agrippina yell. She was not raising her voice delicately, as she did when talking with other patricians. Agrippina yelled.

Aziraphale winced. She’s not meant to be back for another day!

Agrippina stormed into the garden and over to Domitius, who was half-hidden in the grapevine-laden gazebo. Angel and demon watched as the mother seized her son roughly by the shoulder and started speaking in low, tense tones, giving Domitius an emphatic shake. Aziraphale couldn’t stop looking at the belt slung low around his hips, the palla that slipped from his shoulder from Agrippina’s shaking. He couldn’t make out the words and glanced at Nirah, who shook her head; she couldn’t hear either.

After several tense minutes, Agrippina let him go and returned inside, and Nirah and Aziraphale surged forward. Domitius stayed where he had stopped, in the shade of the gazebo, fixing his makeshift palla with shaky hands. He must have seen Agrippina in the house, with how fast he had run, and had sought comfort or safety in the garden. In the environment he and Crowley had been nurturing together.

They had just agreed: Nirah handled children, Aziraphale handled adults. Aziraphale stopped walking and reached out to gently clasp Nirah’s wrist, halting her. Nirah shot him a puzzled and annoyed look, and Aziraphale nodded to Domitius and let go of her wrist. Nirah, after a long pause, nodded back and left. Aziraphale moved slightly closer and tucked behind one of the several ivory columns to listen, eyes closed, back against the cold stone.

Nirah stormed up to the small child standing alone in the garden. Aziraphale heard the fury, the threads of hellfire that cooked just beneath Nirah’s skin, burned in her tone. “What did she say to you just now?” Nirah asked, poisonously soft.

“My mother wants me to stop dressing like a girl.” Domitius told her, then hesitantly added. “I don’t know if I want to be a girl exactly…” Another long pause. “Not all the time at least,” he nearly whispered. Then his voice picked up again, “I like the way I look. And feel. And I like being around the other girls when I’m like one too.”

Domitius said all of this in a confessional tone and Aziraphale’s heart broke. He had never heard such earnest upset from Domitius and, for a moment, he had to push down a flash of envy that the demon had been granted this confidence. This is what we agreed on, Aziraphale told himself firmly. Undoubtedly, Nirah was better suited for this particular conversation anyway. This is not about me, he chided firmly, and stayed pressed against the wall, listening.

“You can tell I’m not like most women, can’t you?” Nirah asked.

There was only silence. Aziraphale imagined Domitius nodding hesitantly, like he did in his lessons. He heard Nirah draw in a deep breath.

“I want to tell you something, Domitius,” she said softly. “I don’t have the answer, but I have a truth. Sometimes, I want the world to see me as a man and sometimes, I want them to see me as a woman. And sometimes,” Aziraphale heard the grin in her tone. “I want them to have no idea at all.”

The garden was quiet for several heartbeats. Then Domitius spoke, a little hurt but mostly affronted. “You never told me.”

Aziraphale heard Nirah’s characteristic hmm. “It never seemed relevant. I am whichever one I wish to be, when I wish it.” Her tone grew more serious, and sad. “Your family – no, your circumstance – means the same freedom for you is challenging. Different tunicas open different doors in this city. Right now, as your gardener and as a helping hand to Lady Agrippina, people would prefer I wear this tunica. Sadly for women in Rome, I would wear a different one if I wanted to be heard by the Senate.”

The pause was even longer this time, and Aziraphale ached. Almost any boy in this city could have a choice to choose their tunica as Nirah put it, but that choice would put up a mile-high obstacle for young Domitius. The political path Agrippina had placed before him was full of men who sneered at fluidity and who still had incredibly human views on gender and sex and clothing. The wrong color of toga could make a senator lose a debate. An Emperor who was also sometimes an Empress… they would never tolerate it.^[20]

There was a rustle of fabric, and a young boy’s hitched breath. Aziraphale dared to peek around the corner and saw Nirah embracing Domitius, one hand stroking the tawny hair of his bowed head tucked under her own. Nirah did not move, but her eyes snapped up and caught the angel between the ivory columns. Her gaze over the sunglasses burned Aziraphale with molten gold. She looked like a serpent coiled around her nest of eggs.

Aziraphale smiled back.

☙ ☙ ☙

Baths of Licinius Sura, Rome || August, 45 AD

It took Aziraphale approximately fifteen minutes to regret suggesting he and Crowley meet in a men’s only bathhouse.

The plan had started out simply enough. Aziraphale arrived first, wanting to familiarize himself with the venue and its patrons before Crowley arrived and made a scene as the demon often did. There was a hot pool, a cold pool, and a dry room with refreshments. Aziraphale helped himself to a few slices of pecorino romano before heading to the hot pool and stripping off his toga and tunica in a walled-off changing area. As befitting to an angel, he made an effort in order to blend in with the other men present, but fully intended to dispel it later. He had learned just over a thousand years ago that humans get very nervous if you have absolutely nothing between your legs.

Thankfully this facility had the expensive full-body Sidonian mirrors he and Crowley had seen in the marketplace. He was startled to realize that was four years ago now, still shocked at how much time he had been spending with Crowley.

Aziraphale stood in front of one of the mirrors and concentrated.^[21] The details were critical; one couldn’t simply glue a cock between one’s legs and call it good. Humans could almost always tell the difference and were abhorrent about their disapproval. He pulled the entire male reproductive system from his mind and began unfolding it inside himself. He formed a penis and balls last, going for around average-sized for both, with a light dusting of blond hair matching the hair across his chest. As soon as he was finished, he would swear he could feel the additional testosterone entering his system like alcohol after the first drink. It would aid his muscle and bone growth, but it would also exacerbate any underlying aggression he had, and make him prone to distraction.

Based on human behavior, distraction seemed to be a woeful understatement. A cock may lie innocently against his thigh now, but Aziraphale knew the madness that struck men due to this organ. He intended to use it for immersion purposes only.

Convincingly human and male, Aziraphale joined the other men in the main pool room. Time to see how much of a problem human hormones would be.

Lacinius Sura served the more affluent members of society, and their main pool was the most prime example of this. Aziraphale entered the tepidarium, the warm room, under an arch of gray bricks and found himself at the foot of a hot pool larger than the floorspace of most restaurants.^[22] White marble columns held up a stone roof and outlined the room. They allowed people to easily walk from one pool to another and offered shade directly over the water, while still letting natural light in. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was just beginning to slant between the columns, but the surrounding garden orchard blocked the most glaring light.

Aziraphale steeled himself for the worst, trying to be confident that his angelic force of will would overcome any human biological madness. He turned away from the architecture and looked around but – almost disappointingly – didn’t feel nudged by any particular feeling. Puzzled, he did a second sweep of the room just to make sure. He saw one man that was the very image of an Olympian athlete with long, sweeping black hair. He stared long enough for the man to stare back, and return a half-smile. Nothing, absolutely nothing.

Aziraphale pulled his awareness out of his body and gave it a quick up-down. No, all organs appeared to be in working order. He made himself think about several very specific sexual acts that intrigued him with no particular person, and – nothing. After how incredible food and music were, Aziraphale was disappointed at his apparent inability to immerse himself in this particular human experience.

Well, perhaps worthy of future contemplation. He shrugged it off. Until then, business.

Aziraphale took the first two steps into the pool and then slid into the water with a happy, quiet sigh. The last few weeks had not been unpleasant, but they had been stressful. The hot water instantly seemed to ease under his skin and start to work its way through the knots in his back. Steam rose off the water and damped Aziraphale’s curls, and he let his body sink deeper into the water and closed his eyes.

It didn’t take long for a demonic presence to arrive. Aziraphale was too relaxed to open his eyes. “Crowley.”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley answered. The sound of his name from that mouth curled like steam in Aziraphale’s chest, warm and welcoming as the hot water cradling him. To Aziraphale’s surprise, the hairs on the back of his neck rose. “Interesting choice of meeting place. I suppose I never specified, but I did expect us to stay in areas where be would be clothed–”

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale said in what would have been a waspier tone if the water was not so perfect. The chastisement was also to himself and the hairs on his nape. Crowley wasn’t a threat, what a silly physical response. He opened his eyes to glare at the demon and immediately regretted it.

Crowley had not got in the water yet. He perched on the edge of the pool next to Aziraphale, completely nude, effort made and not modestly, the water up to his calves. He leaned back on one hand and the other hand held his removed sunglasses, already completely covered in steam.

“I can’t see a blessed thing in here,” Crowley muttered down to the sunglasses, shaking his head, and his condensation-wet curls threw a couple drops onto Aziraphale. The cool water slipped down Aziraphale’s cheek and the angel was immediately taken by the image of Crowley’s fingers following their path down his cheek and into the water and below—

Crowley looked away from his glasses, down at Aziraphale, and lord those puzzled yellow snake-eyes nearly glowed in the dim lighting of the bathhouse. He must have seen something in Aziraphale’s expression; Aziraphale tried desperately to figure out what his face was doing.

“What?” Crowley asked, expression shifting to concern. He leaned closer to the angel, hips curving naturally toward Aziraphale as he turned. “Is this meeting about something serious?”

Aziraphale swallowed. And then swallowed again. Making an effort was a horrible decision. He was already being struck by the madness of a human with a fully functional hormonal range. Crowley had always been physically appealing, and sure, charming in certain situations and — Aziraphale could admit this in the privacy of his own mind — pleasant to be around. But Aziraphale’s brain — body? — was taking these ingredients and cooking them into actionable ideas regarding Crowley’s corporeal form.

“Are you not going to use the bath?” he asked, in a conversational tone that was certainly not choked.

Crowley still looked puzzled. “Alright.”

He folded the temples of his sunglasses, set them on the edge of the pool, and then pushed off the edge and slid into the steaming water with an obscene sigh that drew the eye of more than one man present. Heat greater than the steaming water coursed through Aziraphale and pooled, searing, in his belly. He thanked God that exasperation was hot enough on its heels for him to regain some footing.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Crowley dear, must you?”

Crowley stared back. “What’s wrong?”

For once, for once, the demon’s innocence seemed genuine. “Never mind,” Aziraphale answered. It was his turn to be the pervert, apparently.

“You are especially ineffable today, Aziraphale,” Crowley scoffed. “I can’t believe you wanted to meet in a bathhouse. Touring all of Rome’s pleasures, are you?” [23]

Aziraphale flushed. “Our boss does not have many male allies that are not also suitors." – Agrippina made no secret of the foolish men that thought they could take Crispus’ place – “and even if one were present, identity is hard to make out here,” he said defensively, raising an arm out of the water to gesture out across the large pool room. The steam choked every inch of air, turning every male body into an unfinished and faceless carving.

Crowley made a noncommittal noise, looking out across the pool, away from Aziraphale. He raised one hand to adjust sunglasses that weren’t there, and quickly turned the gesture into smoothing back his hair.

Aziraphale reminded himself that they were in public and it was perfectly normal for two man-shaped beings to share a pool naked, and breathed. With the breath came Crowley’s scent, mixing deliciously with a waft of Crispus’ lemon trees, after Crowley’s long hours in the garden, and myrrh incense. Where would that have come from? Aziraphale resisted the urge to lean toward Crowley, entranced, for a second inhale. Maybe it would jog my memory–

“Sound reasoning,” Crowley said, breaking Aziraphale’s concentration. Aziraphale did not like the tone he was hearing, just this side of sarcastic. “No other curiosities to explore here then?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale huffed.

“Oh I don’t mean to misunderstand,” the demon continued, on the edge of laughter. “Next time, let’s meet at the brothel just off Sacra Via. They have a great balcony view, you see.”

Crowley leaned back, propping both elbows up on the pool edge, one nipple slipping above the water. Aziraphale jerked his gaze away. “There’s also a gambling parlor under Quirinal Hill, truly exceptional white wine—”

“I understand your point,” Aziraphale interrupted emphatically. “Look, you old serpent, many people come to the baths to relax.”

Crowley turned toward him, those yellow predator eyes glittering. “Why are you so tense then, Aziraphale?”

The breath hissed out between Aziraphale’s teeth. He never should have allowed the demon so much ground. It was time to regain the frontline. Over the years, he had noticed Crowley’s allergic reactions to compliments.

“We should talk about what we came here for,” Aziraphale said serenely. “You’ve been doing so well with guiding Domitius, my dear.”

There was that distinct flush creeping up demonic cheeks. Aziraphale squashed his vicious glee to maintain a straight face.

“Human societies can be ridiculous. He needed to know that,” Crowley said, and went back to looking across the pool with an aloof air.

“You were the right one to talk to him about all those trying issues,” Aziraphale said with excessive warmth and watched with interest as Crowley’s flush reached his hairline. “He needed a kind voice of reassss…”

Aziraphale trailed off when Crowley abruptly whipped toward him, hand raised.

“Shut it!” Crowley hissed, furious and embarrassed. Hot water splashed between them and Crowley froze. In a moment of terrible clarity, Aziraphale realized Crowley’s hand was raised to grab his toga and push him, and he knew their mutual nudity was the only thing that stayed Crowley’s hand.

They sat in silence in the warm water for long moments, a pain in Aziraphale’s throat that he was too intelligent to deny as anything but yearning. He wanted Crowley to have failed to stop himself. In an effort to gain ground on Crowley, Aziraphale had lost it all and then some. Why did not one man around him do a single thing for his body, but the sight and scent of Crowley felt like being drunk?

Crowley sat down as quickly has he had stood, making the water splash and lap against Aziraphale’s chest. “Don’t goad me, Aziraphale,” he grumbled.

“Don’t blame your temper tantrums on me,” Aziraphale sniffed back. “Must I always be the adult?”

Crowley’s jaw dropped at the audacity, offended and furious. They both knew Aziraphale had been needling him. Crowley could call him on it and they could continue bickering, but Aziraphale saw hesitation in those snake-eyes. The way they peered through the unusual air between them in the bath.

“I did want to talk about Domitius,” Aziraphale offered, as a conversation changer.

Crowley looked over at him, the annoyance slipping away at the mention of Crowley’s favorite human.^[24]

“Is he feeling better?” Aziraphale asked. When he had asked the boy, Domitius had shaken it off and quickly changed the subject – to his lesson of all things. When a child like Domitius actually wanted to discuss grammar—

“No,” Crowley said shortly. “I’ve been thinking on that…” He turned fully to Aziraphale now, one arm still propped against the pool’s edge. “I don’t have any solutions at his current age. I’ve caught a few of the patricians presenting as women to go about the city, feel more themselves, but there is no way a child his age would be safe doing so.”

“So we start preparing one now. A plan, and garb,” Aziraphale said. “If he feels the same way at ten, we offer our solution to him. Your presentation is very good, there’s no one I would trust more than you with this.”

Crowley flushed. “Ah well, I cheat a bit. Can’t help Domitius on that front.”

“‘Cheat’?” Aziraphale asked.

There was a cavalier shrug. “As Nirah, I’m indistinguishable from what humans consider female. All the trim and trappings, as it were.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to blush. He had begun to wonder if the lack of a response to the men in the bathhouse meant this corporeal form had a gender preference; but it was certainly responding to Crowley’s male presentation just fine. But his mind lingered over Nirah’s wispy summer tunica just as enthusiastically. It would fall as it always did when she threw her head back to laugh, and this time instead of letting Nirah tug it back up, Aziraphale could pull it all the way off, seeing–

“E-every time?” Aziraphale asked, stammering, no longer trusting his mind in the silence.

“Look, the details count,” Crowley said, looking exasperated. “It’s more convincing for humans; you wouldn’t believe how strung out they can get about physical features when it comes to shoving someone into a particular gender.”

He peered at Aziraphale. “Do you not?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “There was no point, in my position. Only men can be litterators, so humans assume I must be a man. Can I ask, in the name of academic interest of course– how does–” he struggled. Well, they were very nearly close acquaintances now, surely they were at the stage where polite academic questions were acceptable.

“Do the different… sets, feel any different?” he asked hesitantly.

“Marginally. Different annoyances for each one. I will say, the female set is particularly awful. See, once every four weeks, you wake up in a pool of blood feeling like you just got stabbed–”

“Yes, thank you,” Aziraphale interrupted. That wasn’t what he, and this damnable new corporeal addition, wanted to know. “I meant. How. It changes how one see humans. Does it do that... for you?” He managed to get out.

“‘For me’?” Crowley echoed, starting to smile, and good lord, there was that face again. That You WHAT? face from the Eastern Gate, all wide eyes and the edge of laughter.

“Perhaps demons experience particular effects, being more… earth-oriented creatures,” Aziraphale said stiffly.

“As opposed to effects experienced by angels?”

“Yes.”

“Just every angel generally – not any angel in particular?”

“Right.” Aziraphale’s voice was strained.

“I’m starting to doubt this is pure academic interest,” Crowley said wryly.

“I simply thought there might be demonic effects and u-uses–”

“I don’t use mine,” Crowley snapped, blushing again.

“No?”

“No.” A pause. “Do you use yours?” Crowley asked, and now the You WHAT? tone had joined the conversation.

“No!” It came out a bit frantic. “No, that would hardly be angelic behavior.”

Crowley opened his mouth and Aziraphale became quite conscious of their eating, drinking and – for lack of a better term – fraternizing. He closed it again, then said, “I need a drink.”

He pulled himself out of the bath and wrapped a drying linen around himself so quickly, Aziraphale wasn’t flashed again. Aziraphale followed suit, grabbing a drying linen and following Crowley out into the social room. People warming up from the cold pool and cooling off from the hot pool were mingling, discussing city news and their exercise regimens – those who made it a habit to exercise in the yard between baths. The angel and demon found an unoccupied bench.

Crowley brought one of the entire wine jugs over with them, but none of the surprised, protesting men stopped him. Aziraphale thoughtfully doubled back to grab two cups. He was not an animal, for Heaven’s sake. He grabbed a handful of grapes while he was there and popped one into his mouth with his free hand.

“They really frown on that Up There?” Crowley asked when Aziraphale returned, sniffing the wine jug contemplatively.

Aziraphale grimaced. “The Nephelim were a lesson in that angels don’t know enough about human reproduction to prevent it. The act itself wasn’t the trouble, but the result was inexcusable to Heaven. It’s generally frowned on now.”

Crowley went to drink from the jug and Aziraphale grabbed his wrist, summoning his most disapproving look. He took the jug from the demon and filled a cup.

“Even between genders that can’t breed directly?” Crowley asked, taking his cup.

Aziraphale tried not to wince at the memory. “I don’t think you understand how little angels understand human reproduction. That was hardly an obstacle.”

It was Crowley’s turn to grimace. “Our lot was up there too. Surprised it wasn’t all blamed on us.”

Aziraphale swirled his cup while Crowley drank with purpose. Crowley emptied a cup, refilled it, and drank again. “Technically it was — the angels involved Fell,” Aziraphale said grimly.

Crowley nodded slowly, likely not surprised in the least. “Down Below didn’t mind. If I recall, two of my coworkers got commendations for particularly chaotic children.”

They sat in comfortable silence. Aziraphale was slowly getting used to the new full-body feeling of having made an effort, but he couldn’t shake how much of him was extremely aware that Crowley was sitting right next to him. He looked out across the refreshment room, still waiting for some human to catch his eye. He found himself noticing shoulders, jawlines, a particularly musical voice, tumbling hair…but nothing stirred anything more in him than a particularly satisfying meal or song might do.

Still leaned against the wall, he rolled his head toward Crowley to see those yellow-orange eyes looking right at him. They peered out from under damp red hair framing a sharp and narrow face, and Aziraphale found himself following Crowley’s angles from shoulders to elbows, across an obscuring drying linen, to narrow knees. The only curves on him were gentle slopes of arm muscles, and the inward curve of a too-thin stomach. Aziraphale’s eyes darted back up to see Crowley’s bemused smile.

Emboldened by wine, nagged by the corporeal hormones coiling in his stomach, Aziraphale leaned back against the cool marble wall, looked away, and asked, “Why didn’t you participate?”

After a too-long pause, he glanced over to see Crowley holding his cup with both hands, studying the empty mould of clay. “Not really my scene. I need to get to know someone, and humans come and go so fast.”

“Need someone around longer, then?” Aziraphale snuck another glance and was snagged by meltingly intent regarding him.

Crowley’s smile was devastatingly warm, and it electrified every ounce of blood in Aziraphale. He could feel his pulse in his throat. Some of him still hoped the demon hadn’t cottoned on to Aziraphale’s attraction – or at the very least, didn’t know the attraction was only to him – but he couldn’t think of a single other reason for that expression.

“Longer… more shared experiences,” Crowley explained, the smile slowly becoming a smirk. He adjusted in his seat, fixing the drying linen before settling back down and in doing so, his thigh was a breath from Aziraphale’s. Oh, he certainly knew. He knew and it was all fun and games.

No – that sly inching closer… Embarrassment trickled down Aziraphale’s spine like icy water.

It was temptation. Aziraphale felt like an idiot.

“I believe I’m the same way. I have no interest in sex without some commonality.” He stared hard at Crowley, hoping his meaning got across.

Crowley set his cup aside, turning his whole body to Aziraphale, who edged away slightly. “We have more in common than you think – that included,” Crowley said, his tone low and coaxing.

Aziraphale could barely talk around his heart in his throat. Even knowing it was a temptation, knowing Crowley was just harrying him, he still had the worst urge to lean in. Another part of him was tugging insistently. Crowley never does this, not to you, it said urgently, He could be serious.

If nothing else, if absolutely nothing else, this was not happening in public. “Crowley, stop it.” He dropped his voice to a harsh whisper. “I am an angel, you are a demon. We are in public. This is… is hardly proper.” They would be seen, by Above, Below, and this entire room.

Crowley immediately leaned back, but his gaze was still fixed, intent. “‘Proper’? Is that the hesitation?”

Aziraphale shot him an incredulous glance. “Yes,” he said sharply.

Crowley settled back against the wall, relaxed, contemplative. “Okay.”

Aziraphale glared at how easily Crowley could just back off. Aziraphale’s own skin still prickled and he could feel his pulse in his throat still. Stupid flippant demon with his stupid temptation. He tried to swallow his embarrassment down, hoped Crowley didn’t see how successful the attempt had been, especially since it had all just been fun for him.

Wait, what did he mean especially? No, even if Crowley were serious, that was not a thing the two of them were going to be. Or do. Absolutely ridiculous.

Crowley didn’t try anything else the rest of the time they were there, for which Aziraphale was thankful. The two of them mapped out their predictions for the coming months, Crowley sidestepping his specific goals as usual, and shared their mutual concerns about Agrippina. To Crowley’s frustration, Aziraphale was still firm about his alliance with her — she was still more good for Domitius than bad.

Even when it simmered down, there was something heady about Aziraphale’s corporeal form’s response to Crowley’s presence. When he went home that night, he didn’t dispel the new addition.

☙ ☙ ☙

Nirah the gardener paid off her debts in the autumn of 45 AD and moved off the Crispus estate.

Six months later, through a series of bizarre incidents Aziraphale couldn’t quite follow and at least one bacchanal sacrifice, a new courtier began showing up at senate meetings, along with many others Aziraphale did not know. This courtier had a string of ridiculous names for a Roman, most of which seemed to be specifically designed to trip a Latin or Greek tongue. The only pronounceable name in the lot was Crowley.

¹⁹Ancient Roman vivaria were used to transport live fish hundreds of miles if necessary, sometimes as food, but most often as display. These fish were considered sacred pets and were not to be “summoned to the dinner table” for any reason, on penalty of great offence against the house in which they resided. ^{Return to text}

²⁰Domitius, later Nero, eventually learned how little politicians of his time and historians for centuries to come tolerated this. Following Agrippina’s death, he blossomed more into effeminacy, openly cross-dressing and conducting himself with women of a more masculine persuasion. Despite being one of his most harmless of his acts as an Emperor, it was frequently presented as his worst. My dear readers, someone could go on for quite some time on this topic, but it is better passed to experts. I’d like to open the floor to the authors of TransAntiquity: Cross-Dressing and Transgender Dynamics in the Ancient World. ^{Return to text}

²¹Angelic stock can alter their bodies, but it takes considerable energy and attention to detail, otherwise they would be doing it all the time. For the most part, bodies assigned upon discorporation are kept in their original packaging. ^{Return to text}

²²The hot pools of a Roman bathhouse were heated by a hypocaust system; gaps were built into the floor and walls, and hot air from a furnace was blasted through them, heating the water above. In the hottest rooms of the bathhouse, special sandals had to be worn to prevent burns from the floor tiles. Crowley would frequently walk through with bare feet as a dare, for free drinks. ^{Return to text}

²³A not wildly-known fact at the time, though it slowly grew in infamily, was that the patrons of the Baths of Licinius Sura preferred male company. The Baths frequently served returning veterans, as well as patricians needing to keep their love lives more covert. This reputation was, perhaps, enhanced when a cultural association was made between these baths and the man Catullus addresses as Licinius in his erotic poetry. ^{Return to text}

²⁴Aziraphale was pretty sure he also knew Crowley’s least favorite living human – Petronius – but hadn’t been able to suss out what Petronius had done that was quite that bad yet. ^{Return to text}

Chapter Text

Dramatis Personae

Judah of Gamala: Also known as “Judah of Galilee,” he was a Jewish leader who founded the "fourth philosophy" of the Jews. He was a father of three – Jacob, Simon, and Manehem – but was more well-known for proclaiming that God alone was the ruler of Israel and urged that no taxes should be paid to Rome without equal standing as Roman citizens.

Gaius Silius: A Roman senator during Claudius’ reign, elected consul, an honorable but mostly symbolic title after Rome became an Empire. A known suitor of Emperor Claudius’ wife, Messalina.

Glossary

ave: roughly translatable into, “Hail!” It is the single imperative form of avere meaning “to be well.”

myrioi: Greek for a period of 10,000 years.

popana: pastry balls made of soft cheese and flour, sacrificed in groups of nine for Apollo.

phthoes: cakes that shrivel when cooked like pastils, sacrificed in groups of nine for Apollo.

Chapter Six: from the sky through the middle air

Curia Julia, Rome || April, 46 AD

Aziraphale’s first suspicion about Rome had been correct: politics was a demon’s game.

Crowley seemed thrilled to wreath himself in rumors and intrigue. He was a foreigner without a doubt – some said from the British Isles, but that would be nonsense, with Britain being at war with Rome for years now. He was most certainly well-off, though not a single person had been able to figure out where he lived. He bantered, charming the useful senators, and poking fun at the more unpleasant ones. He had a knack for knowing exactly what to say to push a button or sound insightful. Aziraphale was confident Crowley had dirt on nearly everyone in the room.

One could argue I’m no exception, Aziraphale thought, with some trepidation.

Aziraphale watched all of the political dancing with the same wary exasperation he felt every time he saw a younger scholar wave a candlestick around a shelf of scrolls. With every toss of that pointed chin, Aziraphale saw flames licking the paper-thin cordial peace between particular senators. If not for their anniversary conversation at Ziti, Aziraphale would swear Crowley was working for Agrippina, against Caligula’s politics. He was all smiles and quiet asides about “old Rome” which, to the senators’ generation, was pre-Caligula. Most of them were grateful to anyone who tried to raise a blade to the man, and many of Agrippina’s friends were still in this very room.

Crispus was eyeing Crowley too, and Aziraphale wondered what Agrippina’s husband thought of this whole show. However, Crispus was considerably more attentive toward Silius, the newest senator and husband to a significantly more renowned patrician, Lady Junia Silana.

The room hummed with the energy of everyone knowing a “secret” and not wanting to voice that they knew.

Silius was left out of it, as was Messalina and her beloved husband the Emperor, but enough people knew that one could say “everyone knew.”

Everyone knew Silius was madly in love with Messalina. He was almost painfully upfront about it, so forward that at times it appeared that he intended the honesty to be disarming. A known avid reader of the Ars Amatoria, he would lean in at the forum after a senate meeting, murmuring, “Your husband too will be present at my banquet.”(footnote about Ars) He went on at length about his dream wife, with the sort of details about Messalina one would give a portrait painter, or a memoirist. Perhaps he would have been correct in thinking it was disarming, if it weren’t for Messalina returning his lingering gaze.

Aziraphale was so busy watching Crispus watch Crowley, Judah startled him when he said hello. Aziraphale jumped, and shot the old man from Galilee a sheepish smile. Silver had begun to run through his tawny brown hair since Aziraphale had last seen him.

“Alright there, Aziraphale?” Judah asked, his Greek far more informal than any other spoken in the room. Whoever had taught him had clearly never expected the man to become the political leader he had become.

“Just fine, thank you, Judah of Gamala,” Aziraphale replied in flawless Hebrew. “It’s good to see you.”

Judah smiled, both at his mother tongue and the title. Most of the senators referred to him as Judah of Galilee – some more frequently when they discovered his dislike of it. Gamala was in Galilee, but Galilee was the region, and Judah only truly called Gamala home.

“And you, my friend. My Gamala is burning, Aziraphale.” Judah switched to Hebrew, and his cordial smile took on a bitter edge. “Those Praetorian pigs killed my brother and his wife, and tore down the second largest synagogue in the city. I am respecting the law – look at me, coming to court to beg like some kind of diplomat! But—” His voice dropped to a hush. “I find myself less enamoured with Roman rule every year.”

The entire region of Galilee had been in turmoil since King Agrippa died and the province fell back under the rule of the Roman Empire. A not-insignificant percentage of Galilean citizens strongly protested falling back under Roman rule, and the nearly 100,000 Jewish citizens of Rome predominantly agreed Galilee should be independent. Judah was one of the most outspoken leaders of the slow and steady pressure to free Galilee. Scrolls came out of Galilee with reasoned arguments against Roman rule, many with a tone Aziraphale associated with Judah. The scrolls came from a fourth sect of Judaism, which held the same foundational beliefs of the other three, but with the addition of a wholesale distrust of organized government.

Looking at the fangs in Judah’s smile, and the tense cordial way he spoke with the other senators, it wouldn’t hard to imagine the man being the author of those scrolls. And it wasn’t Aziraphale’s business, but– Well in a way, it could be, the thought slowly dawned. Judah was a follower of God, not the Roman gods, and it could be considered a dutiful influence to help the man.

Aziraphale reached out and clasped the man’s arm in solidarity. “I hate to hear this about your family, Judah,” he said softly. “I am so sorry for your loss. Are you–”

“Judah!”

Aziraphale jumped again – he was going to have to work on his awareness – when Crowley’s voice joined them. There was still time yet before the senate would sit down to talk, and the demon was making the most of it. “Lovely to see you this far east. How are Jacob and Simon? And your little one, Manehem?”

Aziraphale did his best not to react. When had Judah and Crowley met? And during that time, when had they become intimate enough for Crowly to know Judah’s sons’ names? Judah was more than happy to talk about them with any man who would listen, but it was always my sons this and my sons that.

“Aescvi Crowley!” Judah waved to Crowley as he sidled up. And the man is able to comfortably pronounce one of Crowley’s deliberately impossible names? Aziraphale made note to check if Judah had a snake tongue as well.^[25] Judah flung an arm around Crowley, who initially stiffened but relaxed into it, grinning up at the man. The tension seemed to seep from Crowley’s spine into Aziraphale’s, and he felt the prickle of hairs rise at the nape of his neck. That was just– just not something courtiers do. It was beneath Crowley’s and Judah’s dignity to share such a lingering embrace.

“They’re doing well – I’ve brought Simon with me!” He gestured over to a strapping young man across the room, built like a soldier, with his hands resting on his hips, laughing loudly at something his companion had said. “The boy’s become quite the swordsman!”

Aziraphale smiled. “I’d be happy to work with him sometime. Give him some pointers, perhaps, one swordsman to another.”

“You? But you are so...” Judah trailed off, and sounded so shocked that Aziraphale was a tad offended. Judah looked to Crowley, still in the crook of his arm, as if expecting the demon to also be shocked. Aziraphale waited for Crowley to protest Judah’s remark, as he had seen Aziraphale as a swordsman back in Eden. But whatever Crowley saw on Aziraphale’s face now made him laugh instead. Aziraphale’s offense deepened.

“Soft?” Aziraphale challenged, vaguely conscious that he was angrier than the situation merited.

“No, no!” Judah looked sheepish. He seemed to be searching for the right word. “You are… Scholarly?”^[26] he tried hesitantly. “Not one for fighting.”

That did nothing to soothe Aziraphale’s indignation.

“Bookish,” Crowley supplied with one of his made-up words again.

Aziraphale shot him a puzzled frown. “What is a book, exactly?”

Crowley shrugged. “I’m not sure yet.”

Aziraphale was beginning to get the impression that rather than being simply mad, Crowley invented words and would simply make the word come to be if it did not come naturally.

Judah watched the whole exchange, bemused. Thankfully he seemed to take it as not being familiar enough with more formal Greek, and not insanity. After a few more minutes of lighthearted chatter between Judah and Crowley, Crowley wandered off, joining Simon in his raucous conversation.

Now they could get back to the point at hand. As he had done before the interruption, Aziraphale gently clasped Judah’s elbow. “Judah, I am here for you in any way I can be. Know that Claudius is trying to bring more Jewish patricians into the senate, but the existing senators are resisting him. And frankly the patricians he is approaching aren’t fans of a senate at all. It’s slow-going, but not hopeless. Is there anything I can do for you and for Galilee?”

Judah’s jaw clenched, and he answered in a hiss rivaling Crowley’s. “I hate politics. I want Rome to release Judea – let us be a nation apart. I will not recognize their authority as God’s will. I will not recognize one unified nation as God’s will, as my Jewish-Roman companions would have me believe.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I empathize with you on politics; it is no innate skill of mine.” He gently released the clasped elbow. “And you speak truly. There is no higher authority than Heaven over Earth.” Certainly not these Roman gods, he added silently. “Government is only how we organize ourselves under true Authority.”

Judah’s amber-brown eyes burned. “I appreciate your support, my friend,” he said. Velvet stretched over steel. “I’ll remember your counsel.”

They shared a smile, the easy camaraderie that came from being outside the Game, as it were. Aziraphale re-joined Crispus as the senators began to settle down, and the courtiers were relegated to outside seating. Crowley sat with the courtiers as well, and Aziraphale briefly wondered why he’d chosen not be a senator in this chaotic alter ego. A senator could petition for much more noticeable changes, whereas a courtier was relegated to only witnessing changes. Or pulling strings. Aziraphale grimaced. Like Agrippina.

Humans already had trouble rising above their baser instincts, and Crowley only fanned those flames. No doubt he would bring corruption and blackmail into the senate and find a way to push toward people governing themselves as opposed to being governed by one calm, educated leader. If Aziraphale hadn’t known Crowley was a demon, he would have accused the man of too much faith in humanity, but as it was, he saw the motivation in it: pushing humanity toward destruction.

If Agrippina was a woman of few words, then Crispus was practically mute. He sat with his hands folded, surveying the room, still watching two particular occupants.

Crispus leaned toward Aziraphale and said softly, “Aziraphale, if I might inquire– You were speaking with Crowley, were you not?”

“I was. We are not entirely strangers,” Aziraphale said.

Crispus pondered this as the consul called the senators to order.

“Would you say you know him well?” Crispus asked.

Aziraphale watched Crowley lean back in his seat, arms crossed, mouth a thin, contemplative line. With the sunglasses, it was impossible to see where the demon was looking.

“No.”

☙ ☙ ☙

Crispus Estate, Tusculum || February, 47 AD

Being with Crowley instead of Nirah on the Crispus estate took some getting used to over the following year. The demon was still putting on a character of sorts, but it was far closer to the creature who had joked on the Eastern Gate than the quiet gardener had been. He still wore his sunglasses and was almost certainly using a demonic miracle to prevent people from looking at him and recognizing the commonality with Nirah; it helped that patricians hardly ever made much note of their staff.

Aziraphale joined the other courtiers gathered around the seating for the outdoor stage, ready for another show Crispus was putting on. It was becoming quite the common to-do, the patrician throwing mid-day socials to talk art and politics. Agrippina, who still kept well away from court, made her rounds here, getting to know the present ley-lines of political power and how they had changed in her absence.

Crowley stood with Crispus now, wearing the black and blue-embroidered toga Aziraphale had picked for him at the Forum and making exuberant conversation. The other patricians seemed to find his unusual garb and demeanor charming, and Aziraphale could admit to himself that he did as well, but it was exasperating to watch the snake make a crowd dance to his tune.

More exasperating was Crowley’s ever-closer relationship with Domitius. Domitius recognized the courtier for the gardener he once was. Whether this was by accident or by Crowley’s choice, Aziraphale didn’t know. It was an active demonstration of what Nirah had spoken of before, of changing one’s tunica for different purposes, and Domitius leaned even harder into his desire to freely move between tunicas, and Aziraphale had reluctantly joined Crowley in planning the best way to do this. Despite his own desire that humans let go of their obsession with genitalia, this plan of Crowley’s was only going to bring trouble.

Additionally, Crowley had continued with the political lessons, and morseled out his insider information on various politicians. Domitius was beginning to take a very self-oriented view of politics, rather than the public servant role Aziraphale had hoped the boy would lean toward.

This and the fact that Domitius still had not been adopted by Claudius left Aziraphale’s nerves worse for the wear. At ten years old, Domitius was expected to begin acting like a man. In some circles, he was a man for all intents and purposes. But he was still Domitius and not Nero, and Aziraphale could still not see the path that would be taken from one name to the next. Agrippina and Claudius were both married to other people, and Cladius already had a son and heir in Britannicus, born to him by his wife, Messalina.

And Agrippina couldn’t have been sweeter these past two years. The staff all but adored her now, more so than her husband. She was generous with them, patient with Domitius, and cordial with the many courtiers that visited their estate. If she was about to orchestrate the deaths of Crispus, Messalina and Brittanicus – which is what an Emperor Nero would require – Aziraphale just couldn’t see it.

He had asked Crowley during another clandestine meeting, this time at the Temple of Apollo, and even Crowley thought that series of events was a stretch. He did point out that Messalina was quite displeased with Agrippina’s level of influence however. Aziraphale could see that influence growing now, Agrippina wafting from group to group, similarly to how Crowley had. She was building quite the alliance, ingratiating courtiers to her as easily as she had done with Crispus’ staff.

Aziraphale looked away from Agrippina to search the crowd for Crowley and found the demon absent. Incidentally, so was Domitius.

Not even bothering to be surprised, Aziraphale walked his well-worn path around the rear seating, along the side of the theater, to the backstage, where the two would most surely be.

Before he pulled aside the certain, he could hear the excited chatter.

“Truly?” Domitius exclaimed, and an unfamiliar voice laughed.

“Naked and abed, clear as day!” the voice continued.

Crowley huffed out a laugh as well. “Is anyone truly surprised? Silius will only pull his eyes away from her if someone is offering wine, and everyone already knew about her escapa–”

The words snapped to a stop, and Aziraphale knew the response was instinctive. They could always sense one another. He pushed the curtain aside and entered.

The actors were all ready for the show, dressed and made up. Crowley’s arm had so many bracelets and cuffs that it looked like a jewelry stand, and he was holding it up as if he had just been inspecting the wares. He was looking straight at Aziraphale now, neither unfriendly nor overtly welcoming.

Domitius waved, with a cheerful, “Aziraphale!” He was learning. His childlike guilt was less obvious than usual.

“Political lessons behind a theater?” Aziraphale asked politely, if a bit stiffly.

“I’m speaking to the ears within the walls,” Domitius said, and the recital tone told Aziraphale he was echoing one of the actors.

“Pleasure to meet Domitius’ litterator,” one of the actors said, the same voice who had been storytelling earlier. He looked much more welcoming than Crowley did. “We were telling the boy what one can only learn through our lens.”

Aziraphale smiled, still stiff. For all of Crowley’s talk of non-interference in previous years, he flouted that promise now. And at such a critical time in Domitius’ life.

“What would that be?” Aziraphale asked, casual, friendly. Leaning on his innately trustworthy and disarming air, which only Crowley and other angelic stock could throw off. He joined the others on the improvised crate seating.

Domitius’ feet were on the ground now, not kicking above the straw floor as they had the year Agrippina and Crispus had married.

This time Crowley answered, and that low tone told Aziraphale they were not making idle conversation. “Agrippina’s political power is undeniable. Crispus is prominent, but soft-spoken. His wealth in the hands of Agrippina makes waves felt across the Italian coast. Domitius has enemies he will not recognize. Whose names he may not have even heard.”

“But actors,” the stranger that had spoken before piped up, “are trained to call an audience’s attention where it must go. Likewise, we can call it away. We get to know names and faces, and we bring them to the young courtier here.”

Domitius looked up at the actor and smiled, pleased to be considered a courtier. Trusting, intrigued.

Aziraphale could feel Domitius being pulled completely out of his influence. It wasn’t Crowley, and it hadn’t been Nirah, not exactly. It was politics. It was the game, the dance, choosing a character and putting on a show. It was trained inauthenticity, and the rewards that came with it, that was seducing Domitius further from Heaven.

He made himself smile around at the group anyway. “Not a wholly bad lesson. But Domitius, please come with me. You must mingle with the courtiers as well – to get to know them yourself,” he added pointedly.

He led Domitius out, and Crowley followed, the three of them rejoining the courtiers in the yard. Crowley’s shoulder brushed Aziraphale’s as they walked, just a flash before they quickly pulled apart again. Aziraphale glanced over to see Crowley looking right at him, and couldn’t read the emotions unvoiced by those quirked lips. It was hard to forget their tense conversations, Crowley’s fist in his toga, that warm laugh in the bathhouse, his growl when he lost the Nine Men’s game. Aziraphale had allowed himself to ponder all the temptations of this world and had sampled nearly all of them, but not once had he been this drawn to danger.

He found it difficult to decide whether he trusted Crowley or not. He trusted Crowley to act in a certain manner in certain situations, as was befitting his very nature as a demon. At the same time, well, he simply wasn’t a very archetypal demon. He was more an agent of chaos and high drama than an agent of Hell. He could trust Crowley to care about Domitius. He could trust him not to want to hurt Aziraphale directly. He couldn’t trust him not to file down the cane of a particularly nasty courtier, to watch the cane snap.

Domitius ran ahead to join his mother. Angel and demon stopped at the edge of the clearing.

“There are things neither of you know,” Crowley breathed.

“Then tell me them,” Aziraphale demanded, as sharply as a whisper would allow.

“I couldn’t trust Heaven,” Crowley said, and the weight of the clouds over Noah’s Ark hung in his tone. The splinters of Jesus’ cross in his throat. “But – can I trust you?”

☙ ☙ ☙

After the show, Aziraphale and Crowley mingled with the other courtiers in the garden, while Domitius laid down for is noonday nap. It was difficult to concentrate on idle conversation; Crowley had told him there were threats on Agrippina’s life and that he was concerned these threats could make their way to Domitius. He implied a few folks had openly joked that it would be a more effective way to declaw Agrippina than deal with the political ghost and its allies if she were murdered.

They both stood to the side of the crowd, near the buffet table. Well, Aziraphale was near the buffet table and Crowley was near Aziraphale for some reason, and that’s just how it went these days. They both had tiny pewter plates with a few open sea urchins. Both the pewter and the urchins were becoming the local rage among those who could afford them.

“Remind me of the mixers they throw Down Below,” Crowley said mildly. “All wine and smiles, but you know the guy laughing at your jokes would kick you into a magma pool if you got too close to the railing.”

“Crowley. They never laugh at your jokes,” Aziraphale pointed out gently. A sozzled Crowley had told him that some millenia earlier.

Crowley stopped apprehensively poking the urchin on his plate and shot him a wounded look. Aziraphale looked back, askance. “Also: mixers? Why would they be hosting those?”

Crowley shrugged. “Share tips and tricks. The latest news of the lower Circles. Mingle. Everyone hates them, so attendance is required. Oh, and fashion styles – did you know some of my colleagues have taken to having an animal on their head? It’s all the rage this myrioi.”

Aziraphale swirled an index finger in the sea urchin’s half-shell, mixing the orange and white innards, and popped the whole paste into his mouth. It was sweet and creamy, with the signature salt-mineral tang of most seafood. There was a slimy texture to it, but a delectable one, like raw yolk. Aziraphale may have made an indulgent noise when he swallowed it.

The hair on the back of his neck tingled, and he glanced over to see Crowley watching him intently. Normally that look came with a frown but Crowley’s mouth was rather slack. Disbelieving almost, just this side of closed.

Well he made the same noise at the bathhouse, so he doesn’t get to judge, Aziraphale thought, but withdrew his finger from his mouth self-consciously all the same.

Crowley looked away.

“But not you?” Aziraphale pressed. He was privately thankful Crowley didn’t, but he never knew Crowley not to try everything once. Except seafood. Meanwhile, he polished off the rest of his with relish.

“None really fit me,” Crowley answered seriously, as if he had considered it. Perhaps he has.

He now held an empty plate with some sadness. They were a delicacy, harvested only in small batches under a harvest moon, so there was a socially acceptable limit to how many one could have. Privately, Aziraphale wished they were served in plates of a dozen, like oysters.

Crowley suddenly upturned his plate above Aziraphale’s, and his half-shelled urchins clattered onto it. Aziraphale beamed at him, saying a silent thank you to prevent Crowley”/ usual anti-compliment histrionics.

“A snake, obviously,” Aziraphale suggested.

Crowley glared at Aziraphale. “A snake curled up on another snake’s head? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Not on. Aziraphale’s brows raised. “Your side wears headdresses you have to feed, and I’m ridiculous?”

Crowley scoffed. “Oh your side is not perfectly sensible about headdresses. The Duke once saw one of your lot take their halo off and throw it like a chakram!”

“They did not,” Aziraphale protested.

“They did. Our sides have a lot of similarities,” Crowley said, with a hint of pride. Offense prickled up Aziraphale’s spine.

“Our sides are opposites, Crowley.”

“We’re not on opposite sides,” Crowley said, “Not exactly. We want more of the same than you think.”

“Likely less than you think, however,” Aziraphale shot back.

Crowley shivered, which wasn’t the response Aziraphale was expecting.

“What?” He was not concerned that Crowley had been actually stung.

“Something’s wrong.” Crowley muttered, clearly not to Aziraphale.

“Like what?”

Crowley set aside the empty plate he had been holding. He was scanning the crowd, stiff as a board. Aziraphale could see the wheels turning in his mind, small toothed cogs rolling over one another to turn a mighty sawmill wheel.

“Something’s wrong— something…” Talking himself to a conclusion. Aziraphale looked around the crowd. He could not smell demons, or sense angels nearby. Domitius had gone down to nap, Agrippina was on the far side of the garden, talking to a couple of the servers. The normal amount of guards seemed to be present, as far as he knew.

“I need to go see something.” Crowley briefly bowed his head, concentrating, and then took off like a shot.

“Wh-What?!” Aziraphale called after him.

Crowley raced out of the garden and back into the villa. He was halfway down the main hall when Aziraphale caught up.

“What is going on?” he demanded as they ran, already huffing. He hated running in corporeal form. Both of their sandals slipped on the smooth tile as they tore around an ivory-wreathed corner.

“I didn’t think she was truly serious!” Crowley said back, furious, fearful. She? Aziraphale wondered. Crowley’s voice came out in an even pace, and Aziraphale was briefly envious.

Crowley grabbed his own shoulder and rotated the other arm, looking for all the world as if he were loosening up before a brawl. “Left my dagger in the satchel… But feeling a bit tight. Haven’t shifted in–”

A shiver of fear choked Aziraphale as he imagined Crowley fighting someone with a knife. He reached out to grab him, slow him down to think if nothing else. “What? ‘Shift’–?”

Crowley slipped out of Aziraphale’s fingers and blew past him, around one more corner, and into Domitius’ bedroom. Aziraphale was just behind him, just close enough to watch Crowley’s pitch black toga twist and tighten around Crowley’s shrinking form, close enough to see the wool threads becoming matte black scales.

Crowley’s sleek black and red snake form nearly fly across the room and onto the still-sleeping Domitius’ bed. The scales looked far more lackluster than they had looked the last time Aziraphale had seen them. He also looked considerably smaller.

Two men dressed as emissaries were inside the room. One stood at the head of Domitius’s bed and one was still crawling through the window. Sighting Aziraphale, the man in the window jumped down from the sill and into the room, and drew a dagger from a thigh strap while the other man ducked toward Domitius. For a moment, Aziraphale damn near regretted giving away his flaming sword.

Crowley slipped under Domitius’ pillow, wriggled a moment – Domitius stirred, muttering incoherently – and sprang from the other side of the pillow. His scales glistened onyx all down his spine, but as he reared up like a striking cobra, he revealed the brilliant crimson underneath. The hiss he released was a soul-shaking sound Aziraphale was sure no earthly snake could make. Crowley flipped open glistening fangs, still rearing, and slithered between Domitius and the emissary’s hands.

Domitius snapped awake and scrambled backwards, terrified. He avoided touching the hissing snake in his bed and stared in horror at the two men. The emissary scrambled backwards as well and Crowley struck at the air, driving them further back.

“Guards!” Aziraphale shouted, finding his tongue again. “GUARDS!”

He heard the pounding of leather sandals down the hall in seconds. One emissary shot a scared glance at Aziraphale and scrambled back out of the window. The other more or less stumbled backward through the window, to get away from the snake. Aziraphale ran toward the bed and Domitius met him halfway, half-jumping into Aziraphale’s arms. He pulled Domitius away from the window, and Domitius balled folds of Aziraphale’s toga in his tiny fists. When both attackers were gone, the child turned his face into Aziraphale’s toga altogether. Aziraphale wrapped an arm tightly around the boy, and Crowley-the-snake turned to look at the two of them. Aziraphale gestured wildly with the other arm. Get them!! he wanted to shout at the snake.

Crowley-the-snake shook his head, fangs retracted, tongue flicking peacefully. Aziraphale could almost hear the demon’s sardonic tone. Not the real enemy.

Aziraphale spread his hands. Who then?

“Messssalina,” the snake hissed, and slithered off the bed, across the floor, and through the window.

Domitius’ head jerked up. “Did you say some–”

The guards and Agrippina burst through and filled the room just as Crowley’s crimson tail slipped through the window. Agrippina stared at Aziraphale, her son in his arms and her hair tumbling in disarray, eyes as round and dilated as Crowley’s had been.

“What happened here?” she demanded. “Was that a snake?”

“Two emissaries broke into this room to kill Domitius, I believe,” Aziraphale answered in one rushed breath. “But a snake slithered from beneath his pillow and frightened them off just as I arrived.”

Agrippina crumpled like a shot bird. She sank down on Domitius’ bed and her son turned into her arms instead. As she sat, something dry crinkled. Agrippina turned over Domitius’ pillow and pulled out nearly three feet of an unbroken snakeskin.

That was why Crowley was feeling ‘tight’, Aziraphale mused. Agrippina held the skin out to Domitius, who took it mutely.

“The gods want you alive,” the matron said softly, half to her son and half to herself. “You have a purpose in this world, Domitius.” She looked up at Aziraphale, smiling for the first time since her wedding day, smiling with relief, and the thrill of a run-in with the gods.

Aziraphale’s chest tightened. He had done nothing; Crowley had saved the boy. The forces of Hell had saved the boy, not the grace of Heaven. Should Domitius have survived? Aziraphale shook the thoughts from his mind. No, he must have. He was not yet adopted, not named Nero. He was meant to live, which meant Crowley – under the direction of Hell – was playing an active part in God’s Plan.

“I would keep that, Domitius,” Aziraphale said firmly, gesturing to the reptilian skin now being held by mother and son. “I have just the vessel for it, I think.”

He left the room, as did most of the guards, leaving the family to breathe in the aftermath of near death. Aside from the two posted at Agrippina’s and Domitius’ side, the rest went off to sweep the villa and the grounds for hiding emissaries. Alone in an empty hallway, Aziraphale took off one of his golden bracelets.

He cupped the bracelet in his hands and concentrated, hollowing out the center of the gold band and stretching it out until it was a hollow circular straw. He blessed it to keep the snakeskin safe, to alert Aziraphale when the boy was in danger, and to always be there for Domitius until he no longer desired the service or protection of Aziraphale or Crowley.

Crowley appeared, dressed and composed, when Aziraphale returned to Domitius’ room.

“I heard the ruckus. Is everyone alright? The urchins are getting warm,” he asked, a tenor of anxiety running beneath the flippant courtier character he played. Aziraphale watched as he took in the new golden bracelet, and the skin Domitius was holding.

“Just fine,” Agrippina murmured, only paying half-attention.

Aziraphale knelt in front of Domitius and held out an empty hand. Domitius seemed to gain strength, and his chin tilted up as he passed over the snakeskin. “What is it, Aziraphale?” he asked.

“A keepsake,” Aziraphale answered, threading Crowley’s shed through the hollow bracelet and then twisting it closed. “From your unnamed guardian.” He handed it to Domitius, remembering to quickly pass one just one more blessing: it would always fit as he grew.

Domitius took it and slipped it up his right arm, settling it around the middle of his bicep. “Thank you,” he said, in a tone he probably imagined was regal and unaffected, but it quavered.

Aziraphale looked over his shoulder at Crowley, who was frowning with his arms crossed, face puzzled. When their eyes met, Crowley jerked and looked away.

They spoke of it only once after, and Crowley said he was perfectly fine and glad Domitius was safe – the boy’s death would have delayed his plans, he claimed. But the next time Aziraphale saw Crowley and Silius speaking, he could see fangs in the demon’s smile.

News of the attempted assasination spread through the crowd of courtiers present and then spread through Rome.^[27]

Domitius wore his golden arm band every day, for all the years Aziraphale knew him.

☙ ☙ ☙

Campus Martius, Rome || June, 47 AD

“Heed this, Romans! Heed this! Our Princeps Claudius comes this night to honor the gods, and to inaugurate with their aid a new and blessed age!” A herald cried, gesturing broadly and grinning. He hailed clusters of people as they traveled up the road, offering prayers to the adults, and asking the children if they had questions for Apollo. He pointed up the way, telling people to hurry to the Fields for the festivities. It was the direction in which everyone was going anyway, it was the Secular Games for Heaven’s sake, but the herald was doing an excellent job riling everyone up into spontaneous cheers.

“Ave, friends!” The herald reached their little trio: Aziraphale, Domitius, and Crowley. “The octocentenary is upon us! This night, we beseech the Fates, the mistresses of destiny, to look kindly on Rome and her subjects!”

Aziraphale smiled politely; it wasn’t his first foray into heresy. Crowley smothered a laugh.

“Truly a remarkable anniversary! We will see you there, I’m sure!” Crowley returned cheerfully. “Praise Apollo!”

Aziraphale shot him an annoyed glance. It was one thing to turn people away from God, She could win most of them back, but quite another to confuse them.

“Praise Apollo!” The herald returned, hailed them farewell, and was off to accost the next cluster.

“Crowley–” Aziraphale began delicately.

“Octocen-tenary,” Domitius echoed quietly to himself as they continued walking, and then grinned at his successful pronunciation. He was well-spoken for nine years old, Aziraphale had seen to that, but more complicated words occasionally evaded him. Domitius strode down the promenade, framed by Aziraphale and Crowley on either side.

The golden band on Domitius’ arm flashed in the sconce-light on either side of them.

Crowley likely just means to make mischief, not harm, Aziraphale reluctantly reminded himself. He decided to bring it up some other time, and turned back to Domitius. “Good,” Aziraphale praised.

“Now try quantuscumque,” Crowley supplied, and Aziraphale elbowed him. Crowley rubbed his side, wincing.

Domitius looked over his shoulder and laughed at Crowley’s mock-hurt expression. “Not all of us have that ridiculous foreign tongue,” he joked.

The Lord and Lady Crispus had to go to Campus Martius early to join Emperor Claudius and the other patricians for the evening portion of the celebrations. Normally the Saecular Games happened every 110 years to celebrate one generation ending and another one beginning, but Claudius had made an exception to celebrate the 800th year since the founding of Rome. Aziraphale smiled at the resultant sniping between Domitius and Crowley for a few minutes. It was a good evening, a relaxed one, free of Heavenly duties and full of distraction from Hellish temptations.

The trio brushed past a quindecemviri, waving a sulfur torch to purify the newcomers and the roads they came along.^[28]

Domitius leaned away from the rotten-egg smell of the flame, distracted from the banter. “Gross.”

Aziraphale’s nose wrinkled at the scent, and Crowley stiffened, looking pained. The demon’s steps faltered, his shoulders tight and jaw clenched.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale said. Crowley didn’t respond, and even Domitius stopped, looking over his shoulder at them, his easy grin fading.

“Crowley.” This time, Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hand. Crowley jumped and looked back at Aziraphale, confused, vulnerable. “Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked carefully.

Crowley swallowed. “Yeah. No problem.” He pushed up his sunglasses. “Just spaced out for a second.”

Aziraphale frowned, but with Domitius and other humans all around them there was no way he could ask a more specific question, nor could Crowley answer one. Crowley looked away again and Aziraphale studied him in profile, watching the deliberate deep breath, the conscious relaxing of shoulders. Then Crowley’s fingers twitched, and Aziraphale realized he was still holding Crowley’s hand.

He dropped Crowley’s hand like a hot coal. Crowley glanced down, then up at Aziraphale, looking as puzzled as Aziraphale felt. He flexed his fingers experimentally and let his hand fall back to his side, turning away to continue walking. Aziraphale released the breath he’d been holding. He was glad this city was alright with men holding hands, men being emotionally open with one another, and certain liberties that were not permitted in other regions, but there was one man-shaped being Aziraphale could not share that with.

They spent the rest of the walk to Campus Martius in silence. Domitius occasionally shot them glances over his shoulder, and openly regarded Aziraphale suspiciously when the two of them walked a bit faster, putting Domitius directly between them.

The sacrifices were set to start when they reached the open field within Campus Martius, the tarentum. It was a wide plot of dirt, with patches of grass struggling and surviving in some spots. There were no stone roads; the land was mainly used for equestrian shows and sales. Currently, it was populated with a massive crowd, far larger than any Aziraphale had seen in Rome thus far. Toward one side, a stage had been laid down, with three altars already built at the front, and elegant chairs lining the back for Claudius, his wife, and an honored few. The crowd was especially thick near the stage, but plenty of people were spread across the field, clustered near massive bonfires. The heat and the light drew people in toward these foci, along the smell of cooked chicken and fish on the air.

“I want to see the sacrifices up close!” Domitius announced, and immediately began pushing through the crowd toward the stage, confident that Aziraphale and Crowley would follow him. They did of course – Crowley yelping Domitius’ name – but Aziraphale wished he hadn’t assumed.

They reached Crispus and Agrippina before they reached the stage, and were joined by Silius, two senators Aziraphale didn’t know, and, surprisingly, Messalina.

“Lady Messalina,” Crowley greeted her with a nod that was almost a bow. “Lady Agrippina. Silius. Iulius. Titus.”

Dirt on everyone in the room, Aziraphale reminded himself. Aziraphale politely echoed the greeting, but found he couldn’t focus on the specifics of the conversation. Every angelic instinct was tugging his eyes to Crowley. The summer night air was rapidly chilling around them, more so than it should have been for the season and weather. There was a flash of teeth in Crowley’s smile and he was poised and languid, a serpent’s gentle coiling before striking. Domitius went to speak with his mother, and Crowley edged his body between the pair of them and the rest of their company. The thrum in Aziraphale’s chest at Crowley being protective warned him that it may not be exclusively angelic instincts keeping his eyes there.

“I’m surprised to see you out among the rabble,” Crowley said to Messalina, the very image of good-natured banter.

“I wanted to see the sights before the ceremony started, and Silius was thankfully available as a guide,” Messalina said, her voice was soft and cordial, the very image of a regal wife enjoying a stroll outside the palace.

“And have you tried to deny the wife of an Emperor anything?” Silius asked, laughing.

“You’d not deny her a thing if she were in rags,” Crowley teased.

“Guilty, I’m afraid.” Silius shrugged. Messalina rolled her eyes, but her face was glowing.

Aziraphale let his gaze wander among those conversing, while Crowley stared directly at Messalina. It was painfully easy to recall the feel of a terrified Domitius in his arms, holding the boy close and safe, while talking to a snake. Easy to recall a name hissed, quieter than a whisper, before guards burst into the room.

Crowley was not hissing now, though Aziraphale wouldn’t have been surprised to see it. He was nothing if not a skilled politician, sharing loaded conversation about the sights, the bonfires, and life in the palace.

The conversation quieted as Emperor Claudius walked out onto the raised stage toward the three altars. Messalina excused herself and, with Silius at her heels, hurried off to join her husband on stage. When Aziraphale looked around, Agrippina, Domitius, and the other two senators had taken their leave. He hadn’t noticed.

Three men walked with the emperor, each leading a lamb with a rope around its neck. Her neck, Aziraphale corrected, recalling the rules for saecular sacrifices. The crowd roared when they saw the emperor and the lambs.

Crowley and Aziraphale had been left alone in the crowd, which was largely ignoring both of them. Aziraphale glanced over nad noticed Crowley already looking back, eyes twinkling with a kind of teasing much warmer than the kind he’d given Messalina and Silius. Aziraphale looked quietly back to the stage.

Emperor Claudius raised a hand and the roar of the crowd faded to a murmur.

“Before I-I lead our c-call–” he began, his voice as firm as it ever truly got. Aziraphale could tell the man had been practicing, and was much better since his coronation. “Who among you h-has a call of their o-own? Speak!” It rang out across the crowd. “As Apollo speaks!”

The crowd began shouting, swept up in the energy of a full belly, the heat of the fires around them, the thrill of a city-wide celebration.

Above the cacophony, strong voices sounded.

A woman, high and ringing, “Apollo, my voice is fuller with your message!”

“Grant that we may enjoy good health and a sound mind!” A man’s shout, cup raised.

And – Aziraphale whipped his head around – Crowley’s cry: “Apollo of Mount Parnassus, may you inspire your people with knowledge!”

More voices rose, more prayers to Apollo. Some punctuated theirs with empty fists in the air, with cups, with torches. But all Aziraphale could see was Crowley looking up at Emperor Claudius and the three altars with satisfaction and something akin to pride. Crowley caught his stare and smiled. Aziraphale was too flabbergasted to glare.

Emperor Claudius raised a hand again, smiling insomuch as he ever did. When the noise died down again, he waved over three men to stand at each altar. “Apollo, as it is prescribed for you in these books – and for this reason may every good fortune attend the Roman people – let sacrifice be made to you with nine popana and three lambs. Forever may you grant safety, victory, and health to the Roman people…”

And on it continued. Aziraphale shot a hard glance at Crowley. “You did that just to annoy me, didn’t you?”

“Are you annoyed?” Crowley asked, a tone of flawlessly polite curiosity.

“Crowley you know God isn’t these gods.”

“Apollo is a god,” he said stubbornly.

“Demigod, at best,” Aziraphale sniffed. “Who had no hand in Creation. They’re supernatural beings, more accurately.”^[29]

A moment of stillness, and then cheers all around them. The lambs must have been killed now – soundlessly, as for Apollo, animals must appear calm and willing to sacrifice their lives for the community.

Crowley turned to look at him. Massive pyres had been build around the lambs to turn their meat into smoke for the gods, and the bright fires were reflected in his black sunglasses. His eyes looked like they were burning.

“They’re stronger than us,” Crowley pointed out, not incorrectly.

“But not stronger than God,” Aziraphale shot back. “And not beings of any Authority.”

“Well maybe they have less of a stomach for slaughtering all of Mesopotamia,” Crowley snapped, fuming, and Aziraphale suddenly realized this wasn’t just one of their usual debates. “And maybe I’m not such a burden and a disgrace to them.”

“You’re not a disgrace, Crowley. You’re just… you…” Aziraphale found himself tongue-tied.

Crowley’s lips curled, unimpressed, as Aziraphale failed to produce a comfort that wasn’t blasphemy.

“You chose a different path than God?” Aziraphale offered, wincing at the questioning lift at the end that he wasn’t able to suppress.

Crowley stared at Aziraphale with his arms crossed, angry, hurt. Around them, bodies pressed together and faced the stage, and it was almost like being alone.

“I asked too many questions, particularly why humans were so damned better than us and why they got to make choices,” Crowley spat. “But I left puzzles in the sky for humans to find some day, to encourage them to ask questions too— they grew on me. I did not have a different path until She ripped my feathers out to the roots and cast me out.”

“You followed Morningstar—” Aziraphale protested.

Crowley spread his arms wide and stepped in close, searching Aziraphale’s face, challenging. “Name who else would accept me in their company.”

“I—” Aziraphale got out before he snapped his mouth closed. I would, his heart drummed out in his chest. But Crowley meant who of authority would have. When the Fall happened, the only two choices were God and Morningstar, or total isolation. Maybe other gods felt like finally having options. This had nothing to do with who Aziraphale would accept.

He looked away. “I don’t know who.”

Emperor Claudius was continuing on stage, strong and sure. “Apollo, just as we have offered phthoes cakes and p-prayed to you with proper prayer, for the same reason be honored with these sacrificial cakes. Become favorable and propitious!"

Crowley turned away and, with a slithering twist of his shoulders, disappeared through a thick clump of people. Aziraphale glanced up at the tarentum stage, where young boys and maidens were gathering to begin the saecular hymns. He turned around and pushed through the crowd, looking for Crowley.

He didn’t see Crowley as his enemy, not directly. Just a soldier of another nation. And out on this battlefield of sorts, Crowley felt tangible, close, empathetic. Aziraphale could watch emotions play across that face, and affect them. They raised a boy together. His Heavenly compatriots were white scrolls sealed in sky blue wax. Aziraphale was not and couldn’t be patriotic enough to savor only distant word from Heaven and not the companion he saw nearly every day.

He found the demon at one of the bonfires, where citizens were roasting meat and talking about the future of Rome and the interpersonal drama of their local neighborhoods.

“What do you want, angel?” Crowley spat, and Aziraphale winced, looking around.

“Ssh,” he hissed, and Crowley sneered. “Crowley, there are people everywhere.”

Crowley mouthed the words back with a mocking expression. He leaned back dramatically enough that Aziraphale knew he was rolling his eyes behind those sunglasses.

“Don’t give me that,” Aziraphale snapped. “Even Hell promotes subterfuge regarding–”

“Oh, is a demon making problems for you, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, bristling.

“Stop it!” Aziraphale snapped, then sighed and took a deep breath. He came here to reconcile. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Crowley crossed his arms. After a long pause, he vaguely waved a hand without unfolding them, gesturing for Aziraphale to start walking. Aziraphale did.

The crowd thinned out dramatically as they walked back the way they had come. There were still some folks on the road, so Aziraphale touched Crowley’s elbow and ducked into one of the tight alleys of the promenade.

Crowley leaned against a brick wall. He looked more tired than angry.

“Go on, then.”

Aziraphale appealed to reason.

“I am an angel, and you are a demon. Obviously we have some fundamental philosophical differences.”

“Obviously.” Crowley put a sharp, mocking whine in his mimic of Aziraphale.

“But.” He looked hard at Crowley, who was looking at the ground, the alley wall, the brightly lit street they had stepped away from. Aziraphale reached out and touched Crowley’s elbow again.

“But,” he continued, drawing Crowley’s gaze, “You’re not a normal demon. You’re not demonic.”

Crowley’s expression didn’t change.

“‘Let’s be odd together,’ you said. All those years ago,” Aziraphale pressed.

He was rewarded with Crowley’s face coloring below the sunglasses. Crowley looked away, down the alley, and the height of the brick walls on either side shadowed his face.

“You and I both know you’re different. I like that you’re different from other demons. And yes, it means I don’t know where you belong.” Sometimes I don’t know where I belong either, he thought, thinking on every awkward or painful conversation he’d had facing his colleagues. “You don’t seem very evil to me.” As the words spilled, Aziraphale knew them to be true. He found himself trusting Crowley in a particular manner; he knew what the demon would and wouldn’t do. He knew Crowley’s allegiance to Satan’s plans was less an alliance of agreement and more the only option Crowley had after being cast from Heaven. He wouldn’t begrudge Crowley for at least sampling the other spiritual options of this plane. Crowley deserved to know that.

“Crowley, I– trust you.” He leaned in, hoping his earnest carried.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Crowley answered, but all the bite from his tone had fled. Something vulnerable was left in its place.

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s shoulder, giving him a light shake. “I can acknowledge you’re a demon and still recognize you are not evil. I truly believe that.”

The shoulder under Aziraphale’s palm shrugged. The shoulder dusted with pale red freckles that Aziraphale had seen by a koi pond one summer afternoon. Crowley took off his sunglasses and pinched the bridge of his nose with spindly fingers. His eyes were scrunched tight, holding back what, Aziraphale didn’t know.

Instinctively, Aziraphale raised his palm to cup Crowley’s jaw. For a thousand years, he would not know whether he moved it to comfort Crowley or because for a moment there was nowhere else his hand wanted to be.

Crowley leaned into the touch, and his eyes fluttered open, relaxed, raw. The lightest red rim was around his burnished gold.

Aziraphale could feel the moment they both became aware of how they were standing. He felt the instinct to snatch his hand back as he had before and suppressed it.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed.

Aziraphale swallowed.

“Crowley,” he returned coolly. Four thousand years of self-preservation rose up instinctively, but the quiver in his fingers betrayed him.

Crowley leaned in and his breath ghosted against Aziraphale’s face. Crowley’s eyes searched Aziraphale’s for something. Against his will, Aziraphale’s lips parted and his eyes fell shut.

Warm lips pressed against Aziraphale’s cheek, and Crowley leaned back. Aziraphale opened his eyes again, disappointment choking him. He couldn’t pick up and piece together enough of his blown-apart thoughts to be ashamed or afraid of his desire. Crowley gently pulled Aziraphale’s hand away from his cheek — Aziraphale sure as Hell wasn’t able to pull away— and squeezed it.

“Thank you for coming after me. And for trusting me,” Crowley said.

He turned and started walking down the alley, back to the crowd, putting his shades back on as he left.

After a deep breath, in and out, Aziraphale followed.

²⁵He does not, being fully human. However, native Hebrew speakers have a considerably higher range of throat sounds that allow for more flexible pronunciations than Latin. ^{Return to text}

²⁶The word Judah actually used was skholastikos, in Greek. One who is at leisure to study. Over time, it gained the connotation of one who puts more value in formal rules and learning from the written word than learning by hand. It grew to become more insulting over time, as it began to carry implications of one who was disinclined to fight because one was incapable. ^{Return to text}

²⁷By the time Suetonius wrote his historical account of these events, they had been relegated to rumors and “imperial propaganda.” But when Romans looked upon the gold band on Domitius’ arm, without being able to explain precisely why, they knew the story was true. ^{Return to text}

²⁸Quindecemviri were priests of the time, many for foreign gods being introduced to Rome, although they maintained their positions even as Rome grew familiar with the god as with Apollo. Sulfur was considered purifying and was used to smudge crops, livestock, homes, and roads leading up to the secular games; it was said that the whole city reeked of sulfur smoke for a week. ^{Return to text}

²⁹While a contentious issue in modern times, the Bible does not flinch from a world full of gods but only one God. It was widely known that these other gods were capable of miracles, blessing land and seasons, and guiding the hands of loyal followers. Many of the demons thought this was all in good fun, as the heresy did a lot of the legwork with converting souls. Angels, on the other hand, loyally followed a god before it was cool and were quite put out that it was now considered fun. ^{Return to text}

Chapter Text

Dramatis Personae

Tiberius Julius Alexander: a governor and general, and the elected procurator over Judea on behalf of Rome. Later became known as a cruel and successful military commander in the fight between Rome and Judea.

Glossary

Christianos: the Greek word for a follower of Christ, also translatable as ‘anointed ones,’ with a borrowed Latin suffix meaning in adherence to or owned by.

passer: sparrow, particularly the kind kept as a pet. It is presumed today to have been pronounced “pah-sair.”

virago: a powerful and fierce woman; female warrior; heroine.

Chapter Seven: whirling their wings into a blur

Pater Esuritionum, Rome || January, 48 AD

Back at Petronius’ restaurant, a demon and an angel were getting utterly sloshed.

“Long year,” Crowley muttered, slumping forward with his elbow on the table, two fingers against his forehead. He decisively pulled off his sunglasses, folded the legs, and dropped them on the table between them. His eyes were closed.

Aziraphale swallowed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in one place so long.”

Crowley barked out a laugh and looked up from his slouch at Aziraphale, whose heart fluttered at those yellow-orange eyes boring into his. It had been six months since their conversation in the alleyway, and the– the kiss– had not been talked about or followed up on since.

“Where was the last place you stayed this long?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale’s gaze flicked away as he tried to remember. “We’ve been here… six years. That means…” The wine cup shook in his hand and he set it down hard. “The Eastern Gate,” he said.

“Hm,” Crowley answered with an upward jerk of his head. “Golgotha for me, but I think that was– was the same length. Handful of years. Did you knowww–” he drawled emphatically, then frowned down at his wine cup and cleared his throat. “Did you know,” he started again, enunciating each word calmly. “Sparrows are, by a tech– technic– according to the Rules– are equal to humans now?”

Aziraphale frowned. “What?”

“So… Jesus was a child once, right? Normal kid, just before puberty.” Crowley burped and covered it unsuccessfully with a cough.

“What does this have to do with sparrows?”

He waved a hand. “Sssh, getting there. Jesus and his friends are making these clay… sparrows–”

Aziraphale wondered what particularities would be noticeable of a sparrow, in clay.

“Not just any old bird?”

“Definitely sparrows.” Crowley said in exasperation. “He was just making clay sparrows, alright?”

“Alright.”

“Except. Except, it’s the Sabbath. No working, no playing, no art, just holy holy holy" —Crowley waved what he inexplicably called jazz-hands last week above his head—“all day.”

Aziraphale nodded, then stopped when it made his temples ache.

“Joseph is furious. All the mothers are furious. But see, Jesus”–Crowley jabbed the table with one finger–“Jesus was a problem– problem-solver. He took the clay sparrow.”

Crowley’s expression turned serious, those yellow eyes still burning into Aziraphale, who listened, transfixed. Crowley cupped his hands palms-up in front of his face. “He took the clay sparrow. And breathed life into it.” The demon puffed into his hands and then spread them wide and upward, releasing an imaginary bird into the sky. “Sparrow flies away. An act of God. He didn’t break Sabbath.”

Aziraphale could feel the ghost of Crowley’s lips on his cheek again, and his breath stuck in his throat. “What then? Can’t imagine his parents were happy.”

Crowley shrugged. “I didn’t stick around to find out. Followed the sparrow. It flew off, met some other sparrows, and y’know–” He spread the fingers of both his hands and threaded them between each other with a suggestive brow raise.

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale muttered.

Crowley laughed. “Made more sparrows. They hatch, normal baby sparrows. And so on.” He lifted his full wine cup and finished it off in one draught. “Earth was gathered, pressed between palms, life breathed in… He’s the Son of God. Holy new life, borne of the earth.”

Aziraphale chewed on that. “I’m… I don’t know that– that God really counts technicalities.” He managed to get the word out successfully; he’d been silently practicing the syllables before trying.

Crowley looked thunder-struck. “Where have you been?”

Aziraphale managed a straight face for several seconds before laughing. “Alright, fine. You win. She– on a handful of… events – counts those.” He sat up straighter and brushed imaginary dust from his toga, looking every inch the officious principality, insomuch as a drunk angel could. “I honor sparrows, kin of my charge, may they bask in the Holy Spirit as humans do,” he said in his best Formal Angelic tone.

As far as crows and humans being equal, and thus both above angels, Aziraphale truly didn’t mind. God wouldn’t have allowed it if it were such a great crime. And Crowley seemed tickled by it.

Crowley was snickering into his wine cup through the whole bit. “The passer would say that.” He said with mock disgust.

“‘Sparrow’?”

The serving girl came by, left two wine jugs so she didn’t have to come back, and scurried away. She’d had enough of their antics earlier, in which Crowley had repeatedly asked her questions about death, parenting, and – Heaven help her – her five year plan and took her responses to be representative of the entire human race.

Crowley refilled his cup. “I clocked your wings on the Eastern Gate, Aziraphale.”

“You what my wings?”

“Saw!” Crowley gestured wildly, wine sloshing. “You– your wings. They look like the white mountain sparrows.” He frowned down at the wine like it had betrayed him, steeled himself, and looked back up at Aziraphale, who was momentarily lost in the demon’s oddly vulnerable gaze. “I went up and down the eastern British Isles for years before this. After Jesus I just– I had to– Well, I wanted to travel anyway. The mountains are full of white sparrows. They looked like you.”

Aziraphale broke into a confused and slightly nervous laugh.

“You thought of me, then, did you?” he asked teasingly, then snapped his mouth shut with a blush. “N–never mind.”

“Yes,” Crowley answered, eyes terribly intent on Aziraphale. He reached out across the table so his fingers brushed Aziraphale’s hand on the table. Aziraphale let him, let that hellfire warmth make his hands tingle. Two drunk, immortal souls looked across the table at one another. For a moment, Aziraphale was back in a dark and quiet alleyway a long summer ago. He could smell the quindecemviri sulfur, the lambs’ blood, the sweaty crowd of the saecular games. Crowley had leaned in close, painfully close, as he was beginning to do now–

“My dear boys!”

Aziraphale and Crowley jumped. They had been speaking so softly that the new voice sounded like a bellow. Petronius strode up to their table, smiling even more broadly than usual. There is no way he missed what he just walked in on, Aziraphale despaired. And I just spent six months convincing him the alley cheek kiss was nothing.

Crowley snatched his hand back from Aziraphale, who did not miss the warmth. Aziraphale’s fingers twitched unhappily.

“I’m glad I caught you, Aziraphale!” Petronius sat down on the bench next to him, comfortably pressing their shoulders together, and Aziraphale could swear he heard a hiss from the other side of the table. Petronius reached into the satchel over his shoulder and pulled out a pile of nested scrolls. “I’ve written a new chapter you’ll love. You must tell me what you think.”

Aziraphale, still rattled by nearly holding Crowley’s hand, took the scrolls and set them on the table, smiling hesitantly.

“I’m happy you’ve been well,” he said warmly. He turned back to Crowley, who had slapped his sunglasses back on in the interim. “You should read some of his stories as well. The man is quite eloquent.”

Petronius’ cough sounded a lot like a laugh. “Perhaps not this latest one, my dear boy,” he said. “I can lend you some of my more… artistic prose?”

Crowley frowned. “I am not going to be offended,” he said, clearly offended.

Aziraphale interjected before Petronius could respond, realizing exactly which story he had just been handed a new chapter of.^[30] “Surely not! However… the subject matter may not be to your tastes.”

“What are his tastes?” Petronius asked silkily.

Aziraphale elbowed him as Crowley answered, “Mysteries.”

“Oh! I may have one then–!” Petronius reached into his bag again.

“Undefined marital status does not count as a mystery storyline–” Aziraphale protested, but Petronius was already sliding two scrolls to Crowley.

“Go on,” Petronius encouraged.

Crowley gingerly took a scroll and unrolled it. Aziraphale tucked away the scrolls Petronius had given him, positive they were significantly more lewd than the lavish kissing descriptions likely contained in the scroll Crowley was holding. Petronius should know not to give Crowley anything worse.

Crowley’s already wine-flushed and puzzled face became significantly redder and more perplexed. Aziraphale’s heart clenched.

“You read this?” Crowley asked, in the tone of a man with another standing on his throat.

Aziraphale cleared his own throat in sympathy. “Yes.”

“You read…” Crowley paused, looking as if he were fishing for a word. “Tawdry poetry?”

“Satirical tawdry poetry.”

Crowley regarded him silently through the sunglasses, then turned to Petronius. “I’d like to read your work as well,” he said, more pointedly than was strictly polite, but the man seemed unbothered.

He reached into his satchel for more scrolls and pulled out two shorter ones for the demon. “Aziraphale quite liked this one,” he said demurely.

“Petronius,” Aziraphale all but begged.

“Thank you,” Crowley said tightly, then tucked those scrolls and the other two away. “I’ll have them back to you in a week.”

“Well, it’s getting late!” Aziraphale said brightly, loud enough to make the other two jump. He half-stood. “Lovely seeing you, Petronius, perhaps another time…”

Aziraphale trailed off because Petronius had started chuckling. “My dear Aziraphale, do you have any idea what time it is?” he asked.

Aziraphale shook his head, frowning. A tad past sunset, surely.

“The restaurant has been closed for hours. And you two are, perhaps, not in the best condition to walk home. Why don’t you tuck in for the evening? I’ll unroll a second bed upstairs for you. In addition to the usual one,” he added with a wink. He left a blushing Aziraphale and a pale Crowley in his wake.

“The usual one,” Crowley echoed. He was looking out of the doorway Petronius had just left by.

“That is quite none of your business,” Aziraphale said firmly. He would not discuss the multitude of nights he spent drinking heavily and venting to Petronius in the last six months.

“Right,” Crowley said stiffly. He polished off the last of his cup and pushed it away. He looked like he was about to ask something else, and thought better of it.

Aziraphale pushed his cup away too. “What is it?” he asked, resigned. He was not going to escape this tawdry poetry conversation as easily as he had hoped.

Crowley’s face slanted toward his, which told Aziraphale he was getting the side-eye from the demon. “So that’s your ‘type,’ then?”

“My type?” Oh. What sort of company Aziraphale kept outside of Crowley, who appeared to only have acquaintances at best, including Aziraphale himself.

“We have a lot in common,” Aziraphale answered, smiling a little. “He’s kind. Interesting. He’s such an enthusiast for the arts — and food!”

Crowley appeared to chew on that. “That all?”

Aziraphale folded his hands, torn between not wanting Crowley to know certain things, and wanting to encourage Crowley to get to know Petronius. At last, he said, “I’ve had some new… facets of being corporeal… to deal with. Petronius is helping me figure out some things about life on Earth, that we don’t necessarily get told in Heaven.” Crushes, hormones, when a friendship starts to feel like a hunger.

Crowley swallowed, and Aziraphale heard a small dry click. “S’good of him,” Crowley said flatly. Just a hair this side of sarcastic.

Aziraphale didn’t argue; Crowley liking Petronius would take time.

Petronius returned to direct them upstairs, to his home above the restaurant. He had rolled out a second mat beside Aziraphale’s usual cot. It had taken three months of staying there regularly for Petronius to put it up – he had jokingly offered to share with Aziraphale until then. Aziraphale had gently refused and taken Petronius’ guest cot. Aziraphale paused in the doorway, unsure of the polite way forward, but Crowley brushed past him and pulled his toga over his head, tossing it onto the mat on the floor. Aziraphale turned his back and pulled off his own toga and tunica, but found himself hesitating on his loincloth as he stood over the raised cot.

This is ridiculous. We’ve seen each other Eden-naked on at least two occasions.

Aziraphale blushed as a hormonal filter overlaid those memories, adding a new intrigue to them. I’ll leave it on. Crowley was flopped on the mat and already softly snoring, more passed out than actually sleeping. Aziraphale couched down and shook his shoulder.

“Crowley, you need to purge your system first. You’ll feel terrible in the morning,” Aziraphale said softly. Crowley groaned and flailed out an arm to push Aziraphale away.

His hand landed solidly on Aziraphale’s naked thigh.

Crowley’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. His fingers squeezed experimentally, and then those yellow eyes flashed open. They glowed in the darkness, focusing on Aziraphale, who was helplessly frozen. Crowley studied his face a moment – lord only knows what was displayed on it – and then carefully and deliberately closed his eyes.

“Right. Yeah. Sobering.”

Aziraphale crawled into the cot without another word, purging himself of alcohol as he laid down. He waited for a long and terrible silence, as he rarely slept himself, but the evening had taken more energy than he realized. He found his eyes drooping as Crowley’s breathing grew softer.

In the morning, Aziraphale woke to the loud clangs of Rome’s funeral bell. Crowley stirred beside him, red hair sleep-tousled. Aziraphale left his bed as quietly as he could, wearing the same tunica as the night before.

He found a serving girl in the upstairs hallway. Before he could ask, she turned to him, pale. “Passienus Crispus has died.”

☙ ☙ ☙

Temple of Bellona, Rome || January, 48 AD

Eight days later, in accordance with tradition, Crispus was cremated.

Aziraphale and Crowley joined the funeral procession, Aziraphale with Domitius and his mother, Crowley with the other notable upper class members of the community. He was not alone in his black toga and tunica today — it was standard for mourning, and he was one of hundreds, though his was the only one with starlight silver embroidery. Aziraphale was one of those who abstained, instead wearing a stormcloud grey toga over a lighter tunica. The musicians behind him, the performers Crispus had so often invited to his estate, also wore a multitude of colors.

Agrippina’s face was downturned, and she hugged herself with one arm and wrapped the other around a hunched Domitius. Anyone would think her a distraught wife with their devastated son, but Aziraphale was close enough to see dry eyes. He felt sick all the way to the Forum, where hundreds of people were already gathering.

The eight days between Crispus’s death and cremation were also marred with what, to all appearances, looked to be the start of a Jewish-Roman war. While Caligula had lived, he had campaigned for a golden statue to be constructed at the Temple of Jerusalem, one of his more disgracious blasphemous acts, and it had spurred near constant border skirmishes. When the Emperor fell, the skirmishes had abated, only to be rising once more under Emperor Claudius. The emperor had sent Tiberius Julius Alexander to Gamala to dispatch the growing Jewish militia. The rumors flying back to Rome were that Judah of Galilee had instigated a full-bore rebellion.

When Agrippina and Domitius at the head of the precession reached the square, a cue was given to light the pyre. Men on all four corners touched the eight-foot log pile with torches, and the kindling stuffed between the logs flashed. As the rest of the funeral procession circled the pyre, and the other patricians mingled near the family, Crowley stepped up to Aziraphale. The two of them watched as Agrippina, Domitius, and Crispus’ handful of friends threw items into the fire that the Romans believed would help a soul on their journey.^[31]

The fire attendants and Agrippina then threw in bulbs of perfume, which ignited immediately, and the tangible scents joined the pyre smoke. The Forum would smell like myrrh and saffron until the next morning, at least.

Gamala is burning, Judah had said. Imagine what it was doing now. Aziraphale looked away from the foreboding pyre, at the demon, who was looking right back.

“You’re not mourning Crispus, are you?” Crowley asked, quietly, barely over the crackle of the burning logs. It was rhetorical; of course he wasn’t.

“We were strangers,” Aziraphale answered anyway, stalling.

“You’re worried about Gamala.”

“Yes.”

A part of him feared for Judah, a good man who was Aziraphale’s friend, and who seemed to be one of the best representatives of the Truth currently living. But just as much of Aziraphale feared for all of Judea. In the sea of faiths currently battling for dominance during the last thousand years, only a couple knew the truth of the Garden, and the Ark, and the prophets who were a continual sign of God’s presence on Earth. If Judea was crushed, Eden would vanish in the sands of time, and with it God’s desires and demands for the world. Aziraphale still believed all paths led to Her, but only if they were in line with God’s vision, guided by angels and combating the forces of Hellish darkness, and quite a few struck a more neutral note. Judea held the line for the God of all Creation, for the Great Plan, against the gods of the world. Christianos, or followers of Jesus himself, were only scattered underground groups, gathering a foothold inside Judea.

“I, as well,” one of the senators nearest them said. “Judah of Galilee is a blight on this country. A madman, and a danger to us all.”

Another senator chimed in with something far more anti-Semitic and Crowley snarled.

“You’re talking about a sizable portion of Rome there,” Crowley pointed out, and the heat of the pyre was in his tone as he addressed the surrounding senators. “There are more of them than there are of y– us. And about Judah–”

“Now is not the time to talk of war,” Aziraphale said softly, cutting Crowley off. He shot his companion a pleading look– not here, not now, please. “Let a man travel to the other side in peace.”

Abashed, the cluster of senators slowly dispersed. Some gave Agrippina well-wishes, condolences, or thinly-veiled offers to provide Domitius with the strong male influence the growing boy surely needed. For once, her lip curled at these suitors.

Marginally more alone, Crowley turned to Aziraphale again. It was a time of mourning. Certain liberties could be taken without reproach. Aziraphale reached out and grabbed Crowley’s wrist like a lifeline.

Crowley closed his hand over Aziraphale’s, against his wrist. “Hey.” This time, his voice was quiet enough that only Aziraphale could hear. “Judah’s smart, he’ll keep his head down. He’s angry yes, but he’s always been political about it before. He would never endanger his sons if he didn’t have to. They’ll all be safe, Aziraphale.”

Crowley would have been correct about Judah’s safety in the months prior, but Aziraphale had taken to reflecting on his foreboding conversation with Judah in the senate meeting. Judah was clearly already standing on a precipice, willing to jump, willing to go to war – and rather than steering the man toward leaning back and allowing God to show them the way, Aziraphale was concerned he had galvanized Judah into taking action.

Aziraphale swallowed. He longed to ask if Crowley feared for Judea as well, feared for the loss of their shared and complicated past, but he didn’t feel like a spat about Heaven and Hell today.

“I hope you’re right,” he said quietly.

It took hours for Crispus’ body to turn to ash. Eventually it was appropriate for his wife, son, and close circle of family attendants – Aziraphale, the head cook, and a handful of others – to sit down for the rest of the fire. Patricians and senators came and went. Crowley stayed until the fires died down.

The fire attendants doused the smouldering remains of the pyre with watered-down wine. They, joined by Agrippina and Domitius, would gather the ashen remains in jars and take them to the Appian Way. Hundreds of aristocrats were kept along the road.

The public portion of the ceremony was finished, just as the day rolled into the afternoon.

Then it was time for the senate meeting, scheduled eight days ago when the bell for Crispus had rung. Usually prominent patricians and senators passed without much fuss, and Rome’s portion of their assets was rolled into the usual budget without upset. But because Crispus was so much wealthier than the senate was used to, a meeting had to be called about what his funds would be used for. Even with the senate taking only around ten percent the rest would stay with Domitius and his mother) there was still enough for almost any major project on the docket. Of course, everyone in the room wanted something different.

And Aziraphale was hardly in the mood to sit in a room and listen to senators spar back and forth about minute details of the budget for hours, with a prickly Agrippina and a restless Domitius. Even Crowley wasn’t thrilled by the prospect; he seemed to relish the interpersonal political spats as opposed to the bean-counting.

Aziraphale and Domitius, along with the usual courtiers, went to their box, settled in to watch the senators talk, and made idle conversation in the meantime. Aziraphale had half a mind to ask Agrippina if he could take Domitius home – if they had truly been grieving, it would have been seen as appropriate to give a young man his privacy during such trying times. Aziraphale was still getting used to the Roman cultural norm that men crying was perfectly fine, as long as only the gods watched him do so. But now Domitius was a man in his own right, and the head of the old Crispus estate. It would not do – politically – for him to shy away from this.

Aziraphale looked over at Crowley, who was surveying the other courtiers with his arms crossed. He might look bored to those who hardly knew him, but Aziraphale saw the set of his jaw, the white knuckles. The murmuring conversations around them had nothing to do with Crispus, and everything to do with the skirmishes in the West. Crowley’s open distaste would have been politically unwise if he were in Aziraphale’s position, but Crowley had made no secret of his support of Jewish practitioners and citizens, and most regarded this as a foreigner’s quirk and a fun topic of debate. Aziraphale, as a close companion of Agrippina and Domitius, had to appear neutral.

“They should honestly just be rid of Judah. He and his sect would destroy Rome if they could,” one courtier sniffed.

Another shook her head. “You think it is only the Zealots causing trouble? I say toss out the whole lot.”

“Expulsion? From Rome?”

“War will break out—” a patrician warned, but was interrupted by another.

“Let it! We’ve had plenty of foreplay”—a round of laughs from the cluster—“War may be what it takes to be done with this.”

Doubtless, Aziraphale would have had to tolerate a similar discourse from the senators if he could have heard their murmuring from where he sat. He shared Crowley’s distaste with the most passive expression he could muster.

The meeting started and Aziraphale found it difficult to focus on the specifics. Over and over, the debate turned. Spend many resources on a war now, or trickle out resources over the years on skirmishes? Legalize Judah’s rebellion, who were loosely being called the Zealots as a faith of their own, aside from Judaism, so they could be extinguished without attacking “Judaism” on a technicality? Take Judea fully under Imperial rule?

Everyone knew the Roman legion they had sent against the uprising wouldn’t lose, but nor did they have the numbers to conquer much land. The issue would be just as undecided when they returned.

Weeks ago, Crowley had worried when the senate chose the name of the man they would send to end the upset, as they called it, but Aziraphale hardly knew him. He later learned even Crowley did not know him well, but apparently the stories preceded the man. Crowley didn’t elaborate on these stories. Aziraphale didn’t press for them.

They had just gotten to the bean-counting when the senate meeting was interrupted.

Two guards entered, walked right to the center of the senate floor, and Emperor Claudius’ outline of infrastructure expansion stumbled to a halt.

“What is– is it?” the emperor asked, frustrated. He hated speaking in long bursts, but hated his soliloquies being interrupted even more.

“General Tiberius has returned, Caesar,” the guard answered. “He wishes to speak to the senate, and heard of their meeting today.”

Emperor Claudius looked around the room, and then gestured toward the door. “Fine, let him in. His report may be relevant to our proceedings.”

May be relevant. Aziraphale scoffed silently, in proceedings about resources. It was good of the Emperor not to openly call their percentage of the Crispus estate future war funds, but everyone present knew that was what they were. It was the truth of course, but not something to be brought up while his ashes were still warm.

General Tiberius was still wearing his riding leathers and boots when he arrived, and mud tracked in across the polished marble floor as he approached Emperor Claudius’ seat. He had a dark shadow of a beard. Usually considered inappropriate for a man of his stature, it gave him an animalistic air, a barbarianism that unnerved his opponents. His hair was thinning on top, and seemed to be fleeing down the back of his head. He was built like an ox, his eyes twice as beady. Crowley stiffened beside Aziraphale.

“Caesar. Distinguished senators. Thank you for seeing me,” Tiberius said, turning to address the entire room. “The uprising has been ended!”

The senators clapped and murmurs of approval threaded between the sound. Aziraphale looked around to see some senators looked maliciously pleased, some genuinely relieved — as if the upset in Galilee had frightened them. Maybe it had, but Aziraphale found himself more frustrated with their fear than empathetic.

“Simon and Jacob of Galilee, the two self-proclaimed leaders of this ill-begot rebellion of Galilee, are breathing their last as we speak. Or perhaps they have already!” He wasn’t smiling, but only a deaf man could miss the pleasure in his tone.

Aziraphale’s heart seized, but a burst of instinctive fear interrupted the grief that sprang in his chest. A frigid breeze blew through the senate room, causing several senators to shiver. Aziraphale didn’t want to turn to look, didn’t want to risk outing Crowley as someone emotionally impacted by the news, but he had to know if Crowley was about to do something.

Not a muscle of Crowley’s face had moved. Behind those sunglasses, no one could have gleaned a thing. Even his loose-hanging garb hid any tension his body may have had. Not a twitch, nothing. But Aziraphale was of angelic stock, and he could feel the heat of the room being sucked out by an enraged demon. He could peer just barely through the veil and see black wings taut and wrenching away from Crowley’s body, like a bird struck by lightning.^[32] He could taste the barest whiff of sulfur on the air. If Crowley, or any demon, was physically fighting, the air would have been choked with it. The wings would wrench out of the aether and into their plane of existence. Crowley so very rarely got attached to particular humans. Seeing Crowley hold back with everything he had made Aziraphale’s heart pound with his own grief and fury.

Aziraphale wanted to reach out, let Crowley know he wasn’t alone, but was afraid to touch him. He worried their instinctive adversarial relationship would trigger the demon to his feet.

“Tell us what happened, General Tiberius,” Emperor Claudius ordered.

Tiberius did, with relish. The way they had stormed through multiple towns, but Gamala had slowed them. The way they eventually crushed Gamala anyway, with Judah and his sons being hauled before Tiberius for questioning in the town square. The way Judah stood before the Praetorian Guards and pronouncing his work to be that of God, and holy rule to be above Roman rule. Judah’s boys had rushed forward to get in front of their father, to tell Tiberius that they had truly led this rebellion. To tell him their father was only supporting them.

“We crucified them both,” Tiberius finished triumphantly.

The freezing edge in the air sank its fangs into Aziraphale’s skin, and venomous doubt ran through his veins as he recalled his conversation with Judah earlier. Had he spurred the man to act out against Rome? Or was this building naturally the entire time, and Aziraphale’s words were irrelevant in the grand stage of things? Was this according to the Plan? He turned to Crowley, afraid to see accusation in those eyes, but Crowley was staring straight ahead at Tiberius.

Aziraphale recalled that Crowley had not been there for that part of the conversation.

Perhaps Crowley would never know. It would be best for their uneasy peace that he continued to not know.

“Will this mean the end of the Jewish rebellion?” one senator called out.

The general turned to Emperor Claudius. “It has been quieted for now, to be sure.”

“But not permanently?” the emperor clarified.

Tiberius shook his head. “No. No, the urge to rebel against Roman rule runs far deeper than one town and one family. But it will be some time. Judah has not the heart to fight, and only his youngest boy lives now.” His chin turned up a bit, triumphant.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, and couldn’t help but picture Judah on his knees before two crosses, praying for a quick passing. No doubt Tiberius had left guards to prevent the bodies from being brought down until the boys’ souls had truly moved on – but even if Judah had tried, there was no saving someone from crucifixion.

Breath hissed out from Crowley’s teeth, and Aziraphale could see the tension in his jaw. He could imagine the rage behind those eyes.

“We should run them out of Rome!” another senator shouted out. Iulius, Aziraphale remembered from the Apollonian sacrifices.

Emperor Claudius slowly nodded. “Perhaps it is t-time to discuss complete exp-expulsion of Jewish people from Rome. We cannot risk more of these uprisings. And the riots from before...”

He looked sad enough to smooth Aziraphale’s ire, but determined. The senators shifted uncomfortably. For all their talk about war against Judah, Roman Jews were another matter. The Jewish people were interwoven with every layer of Rome except for the very top. Losing more than a tenth of the Roman population would disturb commerce, employment, skilled labor…

The emperor looked around the room. “I would like to leave the conversation of the Crispus estate for another day, and discuss Judea’s people here in Rome instead.”

Tiberius left the main floor to take one of the seats for honored guests, and watched the rest of the meeting proceed.

Crowley, apparently having enough, excused himself with just the minimum politeness, and left the senate floor. Aziraphale did not follow him; he was too afraid of the scene it might create if he bumped into him in the hallway or in the gardens just outside, and Crowley read the guilt on his face.

The senate eventually voted against expulsion– distrusting a sudden conglomeration of education and power in Judea where Jewish ex-Romans would doubtlessly flee – but Aziraphale did not dare to hope it would be a permanent decision.

☙ ☙ ☙

Ahenobarbus Estate, formerly Crispus Estate || February, 48 AD

A month later found Aziraphale and Domitius on the balcony of the villa, overlooking the southern hill of the estate, where most of the gardens were arranged. It was difficult to remember to call them Domitius’ gardens now, instead of Crispus’. Agrippina was going through a veritable mountain of paperwork, but the estate belonged to Domitius. His decisions — influenced by Agrippina — would direct the future of the property.

To Aziraphale, the world and its people and its words for everything were a constantly shifting pile of sand. Domitius stood before him, just ten years old, and Aziraphale would soon blink and he would be gone.

Domitius’ face was troubled as he turned away from the gardens.

“Do you miss Crispus?” Aziraphale asked.

“Barely knew the guy,” Domitius muttered in Latin far sloppier than Aziraphale had taught him.

Aziraphale longed to let it go, but he could not slack on his duties given Domitius’ new political position. As the new richest person in Rome, and Agrippina’s son, he would soon be too influential of a man to be sloppy with his language.

“‘I barely knew the man,’” Aziraphale corrected in gentle Greek.

Domitius shot him a sour look but didn’t argue. Aziraphale levelly held his gaze until Domitius dropped his to the stone beneath them. He whirled away from Aziraphale, pacing the short balcony.

“I’m tired of constant change,” he admitted, in reluctant Greek this time. “I’m tired of learning all the right words, and the right etiquette, and every single damn name and title of every person I don’t care about.” he sneered.

Aziraphale leaned against the railing and regarded Domitius. “So run away. Join the theater troupe,” he suggested, half-serious. Not quite what Heaven had in mind, I imagine, but he would be successfully influenced away from— whatever is coming.

Domitius stopping pacing and laughed. “My Mother would be furious.” He bit his lip, considering. “She says she worked hard for this estate. People would challenge her right to be here if I ran away.”

Aziraphale made a small noise of agreement.

“And your time teaching would be wasted,” Domitius added.

“No, I don’t think so,” Aziraphale said. “You’ll be a better orator because you learned Latin and Greek side by side. And besides” —he closed the distance between them, taking Domitius lightly by the shoulder— “time spent with you is not wasted.”

Domitius rubbed his arm where the golden band sat, smiling a little. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Even if I’m not great at consoling?” Aziraphale teased.

Domitius laughed again. “I’m not sad, I keep telling you! I’m— I’m guilty.”

“Why is that?” Aziraphale gently released his shoulder.

“There’s a secret— about Crowley. Mother’s new friend?” He waited until Aziraphale nodded in encouragement, stomach sinking. “He said I could tell you, if I wanted. And I wasn’t sure, but. But I was hoping you wouldn’t feel— that is, it wouldn’t be—”

“Just tell me what he did,” Aziraphale said, unable to help the edge of anxiety in his tone. He might finally get a hint as to what the demon was scheming behind the scenes. But if he’s done something to hurt Domitius—

Domitius considered it. Aziraphale tried not to look too worried, or to harry him to spit it out.

“Crowley and Nirah are the same person,” Domitius said in a stage whisper.

Aziraphale groaned, exasperated, and leaned against the railing again. “Yes, I knew that.”

Domitius looked puzzled. “Then why are you mad?”

Aziraphale startled. “I’m not angry.” He huffed out a laugh. More of a sigh really. “I thought Crowley might have told you something else.”

“How did you know?” Domitius looked so affronted that Aziraphale could have possibly known this, Aziraphale wondered if he should be offended. “Does everyone know?”

“No, only us to my knowledge.”

“How, then?”

Hopefully Crowley won’t mind me saying. “I knew Crowley before Nirah worked in the gardens,” he admitted. “I’ve known both faces for a long time.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” He looked wounded.

“How long did it take for you to tell me?” Aziraphale asked.

Domitius frowned, as if he hadn’t thought of that. Then he brightened with a triumphant grin.

“You’re the adult! It’s your job to tell kids things,” he declared.

Aziraphale couldn’t help it; he laughed.

There was a tap at the balcony doors, and just as the two of them turned around, Crowley swung the doors open with a flourish. He was carrying a large and unwieldy sack.

“I have presents!” he declared.

Aziraphale crossed his arms. “Domitius told me your grand secret,” he said, infusing his voice with as much foreboding as he could.

“Did he now?” Crowley asked with polite curiosity. He tossed the sack to Domitius, who awkwardly caught it.

“Tell me what you think, Domitius.” The way Crowley said it, it sounded like an order, but Aziraphale could hear the twinge of nervousness.

“So you might as well be out with it,” Aziraphale continued, not to be distracted.

Crowley shot him a razor sharp grin. “Nah.”

A gasp from Domitius startled them both. Aziraphale turned to see Domitius drawing a seasilk palla out of the bag, the fragile black fabric draping over his wrist.

“Oraíos,” Domitius breathed. Lovely. He matched Aziraphale’s usual cadence on the word, and fondness pooled in his chest.

Domitius ran his fingers across fine embroidery the same watery blue of his eyes.

“Good, then?” Crowley pressed, fidgeting. Aziraphale’s frustration melted at his poorly hidden self-consciousness.

“Yes!” Domitius hugged the sack to his chest. “Do you mean it? Are we going?”

“Going where?” Aziraphale accepted his role as the stodgy adult in the room.

“Yes, and you and I are getting changed there, so let’s get moving.”

“Crowley—” Aziraphale began warningly.

“Relax, Aziraphale. You’re coming with, of course.” Crowley crossed his arms and looked away, his nonchalance ruined by the color in his cheeks.

Aziraphale and Domitius beamed.

³⁰The chapter currently rolled neatly and tucked in Aziraphale’s tunica began as follows: “As she said this, OEnothea brought out a leathern dildo which, when she had smeared it with oil, ground pepper, and pounded nettle seed, she commenced to force, little by little, up my anus. The merciless old virago then anointed the insides of my thighs with the same decoction–” The story carries on in much the same manner for several pages, as the hero contends with the fact that he has taken his male lover to bed so frequently, his mistress has accused him of impotence. It is lauded as a classic of its era, two thousand years after its composition. ^{Return to text}

³¹People going Downward could not receive gifts; Hell had disabled incoming calls. But now and then, as a soul went to Heaven, some of those items could be carried on the smoke to their intended receiver. ^{Return to text}

³²It was a particularly ominous image to Aziraphale, given the Romans’ relationship with lightning. Any man struck by it was considered so cursed by the gods, his family would be barred from holding a traditional funeral. He would be buried, unmarked and without honor, to avoid the ire of the gods. ^{Return to text}

Chapter Text

Dramatis Personae

No new individuals.

Glossary

Institutio Oratoria: authored by Quintilian, this series of volumes was both an autobiography and thoroughly instructive piece on being an extraordinary orator.

Chapter Seven: for even if he flees, soon he shall pursue

Forum Iulium, Rome || April, 48 AD

The events surrounding Gamala and the cheerful response of their fellow patricians left a bitter taste in both Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s mouths. Four months passed before they had the heart to socialize with their fellow upper crust of Rome. They mostly drank together — or with Petronius in Aziraphale’s case — and avoided much beyond their required duties.

Even now, Aziraphale and Crowley drifted together while the rest of guests mingled.

This gathering was more about the senators than the patricians anyway. The night was about gathering representatives from every province Rome had taken in the last decade, and seeing whose hearts truly lay with Rome. In the interest of graciously accepting Galilee’s surrender, Emperor Claudius had even invited a representative from the recovering land.

Aziraphale hadn’t seen him yet. He was beginning to hope he wouldn’t at all.

Aziraphale was used to death, and casual discussions of genocide, having been on Earth since the Beginning. But he feared they were witnessing the rising action of events that had begun when the Tower of Babel fell and would end with genocide. On a particularly bad evening, he had voiced this to Crowley. Built in the image of God, Crowley had sneered, but not at Aziraphale. Genocide runs in their blood.

Aziraphale never managed to broach the topic of his involvement in Gamala with Crowley, still fearing the response.

“I’m having trouble getting in the spirit of wine and unity,” Aziraphale confessed, after the two had stood in silence for minutes.

Crowley nodded. “Might need a breather from humans if I have to keep listening to the same conversation every day.”

Aziraphale looked at him, askance. “Where would you go?”

Crowley half-smiled. “I want to see the British Isles again. Windy, quiet.”

“Sounds nice.”

He watched Crowley breath deeply, once in and out, like Aziraphale had in an alleyway nearly a year ago now.

Crowley turned to him, eyes unreadable behind the sunglasses but a warm smile on his face. “Want to come with? I’d show you the cliffs. With— with the, ah—”

“The sparrows.” Aziraphale answered automatically. He remembered. Then the offer caught up to him and his cheeks burned, matching Crowley’s. “Oh— oh I couldn’t. I doubt I could get an assignment up there.” He toyed with his cup. “I don’t even know what assignment you could get up there.”

“Oh, temptation is more of a freelance affair. We get assignments but we have a lot of time to fill in between them.”

Aziraphale laughed. “What, we would just… take a vacation?”

Crowley’s smirked, encouraged. “Hey, tell your boss you heard of a demonic plot up north. That you must go to follow up on.” He leaned in and the heat crept to Aziraphale’s ears. “I’ll even make it true. Just for you.”

Aziraphale still laughed but he shook his head. “I don’t know how long my current assignment will be. Let’s talk about it after.”

“That’s not a ‘no,’” Crowley remarked.

Aziraphale returned his smile. “It’s not.”

For the next hour, their conversation vacillated between light topics and companionable silence. Both of them drank slowly enough to avoid getting more than slightly tipsy. The conversation turned on Aziraphale when he had asked, purely out of habits built with Petronius, if Crowley had read Quintilian’s latest volume of Institutio Oratoria. He was considering gifting it to Domitius on his upcoming birthday.

Crowley shook his head. “I don’t read, Aziraphale, you know that.”

“Not even those stories you borrowed from Petronius?” Aziraphale teased him, and then immediately coughed and jolted away. He had not wanted to reopen that conversation.

He expected the usual smirk and mocking, but instead, Crowley flushed to his roots. “...I gave them back to Petronius last month. Took a while to get to with– with all that’s happened.”

Aziraphale was tempted to hide behind their mutual grief to avoid talking about those stories, and he could have directed the conversation toward the past months instead, but he was enjoying the light-hearted evening. “That’s not a ‘no,’” he echoed Crowley, mimicking the demon’s nosy tone.

Crowley laughed, recognizing it. “It’s not.”

In for an aureus, in for a sesterce. “What did you think?”

Crowley did manage a smirk then, but it was a shaky ghost of its usual self. “I’d like to know your thoughts on it, first.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I don’t know which ones Petronius gave you,” he answered honestly.

Crowley didn’t respond, because the representative from Galilee had just arrived.

Aziraphale had heard the representative’s name (Gamaliel) through the grapevine. He was unrelated to Judah’s family, but apparently knew them. He was from one of the three established sects of Judaism in Judea and a known pacifist. Aziraphale smoothed down his guilt as he watched Gamaliel move through the crowd, ignoring those who shied away from him, but making pleasant conversation with those who would speak with him. Gamaliel appeared to be searching the room as he mingled, studying people from afar until they turned around, then scanning the next cluster.

Aziraphale had a bad feeling Gamaliel was looking for Crowley, or himself; their polite camaraderie with Judah was no secret. Aziraphale excused himself from Crowley’s side, murmuring something about wanting to speak with Agrippina, and left a puzzled demon staring after him.

Aziraphale kept true to his word and made a beeline for Agrippina, who was in the middle of a languid dressing-down of a suitor who had been particularly forward. Her cutting remarks were punctuated with the laughter of a few courtiers around her and the suitor was blushing furiously. It was easy for Aziraphale to join the cluster and look involved, and it was polite that he spend at least some time with Agrippina, as she was the only reason he was present. Domitius still could not come to adult affairs, but it was considered appropriate for the litterator or tutor of a young man to attend events he should be knowledgeable of, and so Agrippina had invited him.

Aziraphale’s escape couldn’t have been more well-timed; the next time he looked to Crowley, Gamaliel was speaking with him. Twice, the two of them looked at Aziraphale, who quickly turned away to refill his cup and Agrippina’s with watered-down wine. He could only imagine what Gamaliel might say about his and Judah’s association and the uprising. He found himself unable to focus on a single thing Agrippina was saying.

Aziraphale’s stomach swirled when Gamaliel left Crowley and walked straight toward him. Aziraphale stood, frozen. Did Judah’s family know about his talk with Judah? They should. Did Judah’s family suspect Aziraphale had goaded Judah into action? They are right to think so. Did they realize it was Aziraphale who put Judah’s sons in the position of dying for their father?

Gamaliel stopped in front of Aziraphale, and didn’t smile. His eyes were hollow but determined. He was certainly younger than Judah, but had the same threads of silver weaving through his retreating hairline. He inclined his head in invitation and the two of them stepped away from Agrippina’s conversation.

“You are Aziraphale?” Gamaliel asked.

Aziraphale nodded, carefully. “Did Judah ask for me?” he asked, stifling his resignation.

Over Gamaliel’s shoulder, Crowley was edging closer to them, with the thinnest veneer of nonchalance. He sipped his drink and appeared to survey the crowd, shuffling closer to Aziraphale every time he had to politely step aside as someone passed him.

Gamaliel shook his head. “No, no. A message, if you’ll receive it.” He waited for Aziraphale’s nod, then reached out and grasped Aziraphale’s elbow in comfort and camaraderie, as Aziraphale had once grasped Judah’s. “Judah of Gamala wishes you to know he never broke faith. He recognizes no authority but Heaven above.”

Gamaliel’s eyes shone and Aziraphale couldn’t look away. I did incite this.

The sconces dimmed and the temperature in the room plunged, the heat sucked out of the air like the sun had vanished behind the moon. Several patrons looked around and blinked, and Gamaliel tugged his cloak tighter around himself.

“Thank you for telling me, Gamaliel,” Aziraphale said softly, while he still had time. He knew the axe had fallen as soon as the temperature had. He looked over Gamaliel’s shoulder again.

For once, Aziraphale could see a yellow glow through Crowley’s sunglasses. A pinprick of feathers itched on Aziraphale’s shoulder blades and the instinctive tingle setting his teeth on edge was as old as Satan’s rebellion. Crowley’s looked at Aziraphale, head cocked in a certain birdlike angle.

There was no earthly way they could have words here and now without revealing themselves, absolutely none. Crowley was barely passable as human as it was. Fear slowed down time around Aziraphale and he watched Crowley start to push through the crowd to him, the shadow of wings barely held within the ethereal plane trailing behind him. Aziraphale could just about see the outline of feathers, like seeing a swimmer’s face before they broke through the surface of the water.

Aziraphale knew they were not going to physically fight, it was not something angels and demons did,^[33] but he fully expected to see those wings before Crowley was done yelling.

Yes, they were going to have words and they were going to have to leave.

Aziraphale made steady eye contact with Crowley for a sharp moment before turning and finding the stairway up to a private floor, vacated so that the party guests wouldn’t hear the pounding of feet above them. Crowley was sure to follow. He warded the room, not enough to make Crowley think he was about to face an angelic attack – Crowley should know Aziraphale would never – but enough that no one should be disturbed by the soon-to-be unholy fit unless Crowley willed the ward to break.

Crowley was just a heartbeat behind him, his breathing shallow and furious. Aziraphale turned and looked at him, studied him as he stopped just inside the doorway.

He was sharply reminded of Judah’s arm around Crowley’s shoulders, of Crowley’s and Simon’s exuberant gesturing as they traded stories the one day in court that Aziraphale had seen them together. He wondered how many more images of affection between them all that he had never seen.

Aziraphale waited for Crowley to scream, waited for the flailing arms and the enraged pacing. Crowley would never hurt him, not really, but Aziraphale had also never hurt him this badly. He wondered if the same tears he saw in that fateful alleyway would come again, the same hissing and ranting – and he vowed to bear it in silence. He was not fully culpable in what had occurred but he was certainly complicit. He would accept every ill word that was about to be thrown his way.

Crowley swung at him like a drunk.

“Wh– What?!” Aziraphale jumped back, shocked out of his vow. Heat followed Crowley’s clumsy fist through the air.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Crowley snarled. He lunged again – to grab? To hit? – and Aziraphale shoved him away on instinct. He could feel ice creeping across his skin, a chilling translucent wall separating him from his surroundings. The disassociation that allowed him to block out the screams as the Ark rose above the waves that swallowed an entire nation. That let him carry on a conversation with Crowley over Jesus’ shrieks as they drove nails through his wrists. That let him roll under the pain of Eve crushing his hand as the agony of childbirth wracked her body.

Crowley’s achingly close body gave off a funeral pyre of heat, and the ice advanced in defense. “You told Judah to follow God.” Crowley’s disgust was obvious. “Get any white memos about that one?!”

“No— no, that was all me,” Aziraphale managed to say. The ice didn’t stop the waver in his voice. “I meant to soothe and strengthen Judah, not incite him.”

Crowley sneered. “And didn’t use any of that angelic compulsion, did you?”

“No!” Only Crowley would call it a compulsion. At least, Aziraphale didn’t think he had used that gift. Just a soothing air, that God was there with Judah, that She cared, that she gave her support… Oh. “Crowley, I never meant anything to happen to Judah’s family. They weren’t tools of Heaven. I cared for Judah,” Aziraphale admitted.

Crowley’s released breath rasped. His voice was painfully flat. “And you just want forgiveness for this mistake, I imagine?”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to answer. “Understanding, first. And a chance, maybe…” He did, though. He wanted Crowley’s forgiveness. He wanted his regard, his warm eyes and soft touch, his companionship. No, not companionship. Friendship. Aziraphale wanted Crowley.

He didn’t want to go back to his insula alone. He didn’t want to lean back when Crowley leaned in. The stone floor beneath his sandals tipped as Aziraphale’s head swam. He wanted Crowley.

Crowley’s harsh breathing filled the silence.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tried, “I’m sorry. And I will apologize to Judah as well. I… They were good men. I want Judea’s freedom—”

“As you defend an Emperor,” Crowley broke in, “who is sweeping up smaller nations in all directions.”

Aziraphale felt a brief spike of exasperation. “You’re going to prosthelytize about a Republic now?”

A muscle jumped in Crowley’s jaw. “Because that’s such an awful idea to you.” It wasn’t a question. Aziraphale could smell the burning barricades of the riots.

“I hardly think it’s the right approach to organize such a chaotic people—”

The temperature in the room dipped, and Crowley was yelling again. “I am tired of your pretentious, holier-than-thou– You all think you’re doing the right thing, that everyone else is just so wrong, and you’re just killing people.”

“‘You all’? That– was not part of God’s plan. That was just me, Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, stepping back. The heat followed him.

“Angels,” Crowley spat. “You’re all the same. Galavanting about the world, getting humans all riled up to live and die for some distant God. It’s not even a guaranteed ticket Up There — nothing is! And you’re the ‘good guys’ in this universe? You?”

Crowley’s expression as he spat the last word drove the ice across Aziraphale’s skin down into his heart. A demon, a Fallen angel, thought he knew what was best. An open offense against God’s will. Aziraphale found it suddenly easy, painfully too easy, to be furious in return.

“Says the person whose job it is to damn humans to eternal torture.” He ground out. “How much chaos have you caused? How many humans died in that riot?” he ground out. “Hell of a moral high ground!”

“How many people died when God called the rains and drowned Mesopotamia?” Crowley bit back.

“How many human bodies piled up in the mountains during the Punic Wars? You had a special hand in that, if I recall.”^[34]

“How many people do you suppose have died since God threw the Holiest of hissy fits and cast them out of the Garden?” His tone was almost philosophical.

The same damned flippant, careless tone above the Eastern Wall. What did he care? Job well done, toss the humans. They’ll be fine, I’m sure. Careless, young, stupid.

Aziraphale didn’t bother hiding his fury at the carelessness. “Did you know,” he said, sickly sweet, “That every last one of those deaths can be attributed to you, Serpent?”

“I am not responsible for God’s miserable, impossible system!” Crowley all but screamed, voice strangled, fists clenched at his sides. “You do one thing wrong, ever, ONE THING–”

Crowley’s wings parted the ethereal plane like a surfacing cormorant coming through the water, a slick black as supernaturally dark as Aziraphale’s were supernaturally bright. They spanned most of the small room, the length of Crowley’s body stretching out from either shoulder. Evening light from the ceiling windows seemed drawn to the wings, and sank into the abyss.

It would have been an impressive sight, and a threatening one, if the feathers weren’t shaking.

The ice around Aziraphale’s heart rattled. “Crowley…” You didn’t know how badly the Ark affected him. What are the odds you haven’t the slightest how he feels about the Fall of Man? Aziraphale reached out and touched one of those white-knuckled fists.

Crowley wrenched his hand back. “Don’t touch me,” he snapped, but the sharp tone stumbled around the obvious lump in his throat. Crowley’s wings beat once, and the vaguely threatening motion sent pinpricks between Aziraphale’s own shoulderblades, but Aziraphale wasn’t afraid of this.

He surprised himself; the feelings that surfaced were wonder, affection, regret. Aziraphale didn’t step back, but he didn’t reach again either.

“Just shut up,” Crowley hissed, pulling off his sunglasses to rub at his eyes. “I’m tired of this… self-righteous not giving a shit about people.”

“My not caring–?” Aziraphale started indignantly, but Crowley’s eyes snapped to his and the words died on Aziraphale’s tongue.

“Yes, you not caring. Rain bows, and not drowning all the locals. Policy decisions.”

Over the years, Crowley’s mimicry of him had made Aziraphale wince self-consciously, but it almost always made him laugh too. This time, it just hurt.

“I give a shit,” Crowley said, and it sounded so regretful, it was almost a confession. “You call it ‘chaos.’ But I take every nasty instinctive evil that humans enact and I make them look at the inevitable conclusion of it. I make them ask questions. And I asked questions.” He paused and looked at Aziraphale like he was really studying him. “Did you know that – that I all did was ask questions?”

He didn’t have to add To Fall. “I know,” Aziraphale whispered.

“I didn’t want to be a demon.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said again. His vision of Crowley blurred through a layer of tears.

“I hate when you look down on me for it.” Now Crowley’s voice was a whisper as well.

Aziraphale tried to blink back the tears to see him clearly. “I don’t. Not really.”

No, what Aziraphale did was spend millenia trying not to think of this normal person, with the strengths and weaknesses found in hundreds of angels Aziraphale knew, and tried to choke back the terror that Crowley’s life represented. The words tripped out before he could stop them.

“I’m afraid to end up like you,” Aziraphale confessed.

Crowley had asked one question too many, and he had Fallen. Aziraphale had already given away the flaming sword – surely he was out of ‘strikes.’ Now Crowley could never feel holy light again, and he’ll live out the rest of his eternal existence without counsel, or support, or love. Rumor had it demons had the ability to love stripped out of them, though Aziraphale had been re-examining that idea this past year.

Aziraphale may not know what God wanted, but he could ask Her through the Metatron. He could consult higher angels. He was never truly alone. He was never truly cold.

Every day of Crowley’s life was Aziraphale’s worst nightmare.

“I do what I do because– No–” Aziraphale halted, frustrated. “No, an angel is who I am. I love Earth, but I love Her more. I will not turn away from Her will.” His voice was soft, fierce. Crowley’s grimace softened. “I don’t want to Fall, Crowley.”

He hated the pleading quaver in his tone on the last words, as if Crowley would have a say in such a thing. But in a way, he did. There were only so many times Aziraphale could pull away. Only so many times he could stop himself from closing the distance himself, from taking the gamble. If asking questions made one Fall, imagine what loving a sworn enemy would do.

Loving, Aziraphale’s mind snagged on the word, but he stomped it down. It was only a crush. A horrible, damned crush.

Crowley’s sigh was almost a huff, and his wings sagged. The shaking had stopped, but quivers still ran through the primaries and Aziraphale’s hands itched to smooth them down, like when Crowley’s hair curled out of place.

“I don’t know if you can Fall,” Crowley said bitterly.

It was Aziraphale’s turn to study him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“You gave away your sword. The one that locked humans out of Eden. And you told me – although you were drunk at the time so stop me if I’m wrong – that you lied to an omnipotent God’s face about what happened?”

Aziraphale grimaced. “Yes, I did that.”

“But you say all the right words. You can have your affections for humans and your passions for human things, but you say all the right things, so you get to stay.” His anger seemed to be sparking a bit, inflamed by the concept.

“I trust in the right things,” Aziraphale said back, his own snappishness rising. “You are so very convinced that you know more than everyone around you–”

“I see a blessed sight better than you–”

“You certainly don’t see better than God–”

“You know what? Maybe I do! If She thinks angels like you are so much better–”

Crowley’s contempt threatened to bring tears back to Aziraphale’s eyes. Under their camaraderie, under that deceptive warmth, lay this. Crowley’s real thoughts. Aziraphale should have known; Crowley was always laughing at him, stealing his place at Domitius’ side, calling him naive.

The pinpricks between Aziraphale’s shoulders became raking claws and he felt his own wings manifest in the human plane. Crowley squinted against the sudden flash of light and Aziraphale felt a glint of malicious triumph. Crowley’s wings flexed out and back, as if trying to throw a shadow bigger than Aziraphale’s beacon, and failed.

“And I am still more of an angel than you, Crowley.” Spikes of ice reared out of Aziraphale and into his tone. “So what does that say about you?”

Frozen shards stuck in Aziraphale’s throat, regret washing over anger almost instantly. He hadn’t wanted to voice that. In truth, he hardly meant it.

Crowley sniffed. Those black wings tucked back, and Aziraphale had to consciously restrain his own from arching up in victory against the dark. He didn’t want ‘victory’ against Crowley.

“It’s good to know what you really think of me,” Crowley hissed, but there was little power in it.

No, I’m just angry. This isn’t all I think of you! Aziraphale thought desperately.

“Crowley—”

“No, no. You really had me going.” Crowley said. Chilly, dismissive. “Good show.”

“What?”

Crowley’s jaw worked but no words came out.

“I don’t think badly of you,” Aziraphale insisted. “We just have differing ethical concerns—“

“Tell me about it.” Crowley snipped.

“—but you are my…” Amicus? Consocius? “My sodalis.”

A companion. A fellow in arms, like in kind and mind, with certain undertones of a co-conspirator in illegal affairs. It was suitable for an angel and a demon on the front lines who were far closer than they should be. It was an olive branch to the person who had settled for notitia for years.

But Crowley didn’t seem warmed by it. His eyes darkened in warning at the title, sparking Aziraphale’s indignation. What would he call us then?

“Friends? That’s what you call this?” He gestured between them with agitation.

“‘This’?” Aziraphale huffed.

“This stupid– push-pull thing– and laughing about it later, I’m sure...”

Aziraphale was stung. His wings tensed and curved forward, tight enough that his shoulders nearly brushed the feathers. “Well we would be friends if you would stop that– that temptation. This is your doing, you know. It’s a terrible joke and I don’t think it’s funny and…”

Aziraphale trailed off as Crowley decisively stepped into his personal space, as he had in an alleyway that felt like a century ago now. Tucked his own wings back tight and stepped between Aziraphale’s wings, letting black hang just a hair’s breadth from white and enclosing them both in a circle of feathers. Aziraphale saw reality fuzzing, puzzled, between the supernatural light and supernatural shadow that wavered where their wings touched. Then he looked up into Crowley’s face and couldn’t look away.

“‘Temptation?’ Care to explain that?” Crowley asked. Fury was still there in his tone but now it was bound up in silk. His head was tilted just so; the way a man might survey another before picking a fight. Or the way a tentative lover comes closer.

Aziraphale stomped that thought down too, with the love ridiculousness. He was sick of this, sick of the mercurial moods, sick of his corporeal form conspiring with a demon against him, and sick of that demon constantly getting the upper hand.

“I know what you’re doing,” Aziraphale said, sharp and strong. “You think it’s funny, when I’m not a perfect angel. When I ‘slip,’ when I bend the rules. Well you’re not going to see me Fall.”

He arched his wings forward, dominating their personal space and drowning it with holy light, outlining every sharp edge and line on Crowley’s face. Long white primaries brushed against nearly identical black ones, and Crowley jerked like he’d been shocked. Aziraphale watched shivers run from Crowley’s shoulders to wingtips with interest. The touch made Aziraphale’s heart pound as well, but since traveling around Heaven meant having one’s wings out all the time, he was used to others brushing against them. Not as safe in Hell. He wondered if Crowley had felt that sensation in thousands of years.

“I don’t want to see you Fall,” Crowley said, voice far less sure than it had been a moment ago.

“Then what do you want? Why are you doing this?” Aziraphale snapped. He kept their wings together, but the electric sensations were starting to affect him too.

“You think I’m doing what I’m doing to score a win for ‘my side’?”

“Can’t think of another reason,” Aziraphale said snidely.

Crowley’s eyes narrowed and Aziraphale was glad, so glad, that his face was bare of sunglasses. Crowley’s mouth hardly twitched, pale from the shock rather than flushed and furious as it had been before. The sunglasses would have hid the tightening around his eyes, the barest red rim around that burnished gold. The way, this close, the snake slits began to dilate.

“Do you think I’m tempting you right now?” Crowley’s question was punctuated with a poisonous half-smile. Aziraphale jerked his chin up, their nearly identical heights putting their faces far too close together. Crowley’s eyes drifted down to his lips and took their time returning to meet Aziraphale’s again, and Aziraphale couldn’t have kept his lips from parting for all the commendations in Heaven. He inhaled Crowley’s exhale.

Crowley asked a question. He probably expects an answer.

It would be easy, impossibly easy, to close the distance. Aziraphale’s body roared for it, his heart ached for it. Dispelling the effort would do fuck all in this moment, or ever. Aziraphale was addicted to this and if he didn’t find a way to snuff out this yearning, he didn’t know what would happen next. There was no way Heaven would tolerate this. There was no way he could even stay on Earth. Curls of red were falling in front of Crowley’s eyes as he leaned in and it would be so terribly easy to brush them out of the way, and then bury his hands in that hair.

Was Crowley tempting him?

Aziraphale breathed through parted lips, “Yes.”

Crowley’s eyes searched his face, and Aziraphale could see the exact moment Crowley failed to find what he was looking for. His face shut down, like Eden falling into the sands. Aziraphale closed his eyes in pain.

Crowley’s murmur was light as a kiss. “Go to hell.”

When Aziraphale opened his eyes again, the room was bright and clear, with soft orange and purple light coming through the ceiling windows. The sun was setting to make way for a clear and beautiful evening. Their favorite popina would be opening in an hour and, with that thought, a fist closed around Aziraphale’s heart.

Crowley was gone.

☙ ☙ ☙

Aziraphale would not know it until long after Rome fell, but Crowley went back to Galilee that week. He spoke with Judah; he blessed Jerusalem and its people. The city did not fall for nearly two hundred years, and in that time, the Judean citizens always had a point to retreat to. Genocide, famine, exile, nothing would truly crush the faith so long as they built one another up. Do not give up, and your city will not give up on you. Religions and cities had risen and fallen for generations, and would do so for another two thousand years, and Judaism would live.

In the year that followed, Emperor Claudius expulsed Jewish citizens from Rome, and Crowley helped them find safe passage out of the city. Accusations of corruption and prosthelytizing followed them. Crowley remembered who first threw those accusations and plucked them from the political playing board.

Heaven and Hell tallied the gains and losses, and found it a wash.

³³It was an important rule for Heaven and Hell that, prior to the Great War, angels and demons could not fight directly. They could work around one another, tempt and thwart, curse and bless, but they could not physically fight. Not only because the likely end was the destruction of a valuable agent – something neither side wanted – but because the resulting ripples could trigger a great war as opposed to the intended and written Great War. ^{Return to text}

³⁴No matter how angry Aziraphale was, he would not lay the bodies of over two hundred elephants at Crowley’s feet. Neither of them had expected that, and Crowley had taken it especially hard. ^{Return to text}

Chapter Text

Dramatis Personae

Catullus: a renown poet of first century BC, known best for his erotic poetry. He wrote one epic, widely regarded to be one of the best pieces of that time period, but the majority of his work was short thematic pieces. His depth and insight into people and relationships led him to be a strong influence for Ovid and Virgil.

Sappho: one of the Nine Lyric Poets, highly esteemed by Hellenistic scholars, and author of at least ten thousand lines of poetry in fifth century BC. Most of her work has been lost; instead it lives on in fragments quoted in other works. So profoundly did her work speak of love between women, the word sapphic was derived from her name to mean just that.

Glossary

calamus: a hollow pen made from a reed, which could use surface tension to hold ink to write with.

Chapter Nine: and if he refuses gifts, soon he shall give them

Gaius Petronius’ Personal Residence, Rome || August, 48 AD

Petronius’ calamus scratched away cheerfully on the parchment, each swoopy tail on his distinctive serif handwriting a mockery of the pit in Aziraphale’s stomach. Which was currently more of a swirl, really. Aziraphale had slumped so far forward that his forehead rested on his wine cup and he stared down at the smooth pine grain of Petronius’ table.

“Well, you’ve officially moped the entire summer away, my dear,” Petronius said, with an exaggerated sorrow that he knew was highly annoying. “You’ve missed all of our seaside gatherings, the only good time to buy figs, Neptunalia… And for whom? Your moody and ill-bred amator.” Lover. One who performs (unskillfully) for love.

Aziraphale jumped, grimacing. “I told you, we are not… That is to say, I wouldn’t use that word.”

If nothing else, Crowley is not ‘unskilled.’

Petronius looked up and then laughed at him. At Aziraphale’s offended squint, he gestured to his forehead. Aziraphale touched his own face and felt the indent of the wine cup. Growling, he rubbed the indented skin to smooth the mark, and Petronius laughed harder.

“You’re right,” he said at last, merry. “With your incessant bickering, maritus is far more appropriate.” Husband.

Aziraphale winced. “Petronius, please, I beg of you.”

“Scortum?” Harlot. Hired company.

Scarlet traveled up his neck to his cheeks. “Hardly the type,” he managed.

Petronius refilled his calamus in a small jar of black ink, rolling his eyes at Aziraphale. The man drove Aziraphale crazy, but he was a welcome respite in Crowley’s absence, and truly a good friend. Aziraphale coming over to drink and moan, and Petronius writing and laughing at him had become a weekend ritual of sorts. Petronius seemed to welcome it; Aziraphale’s cot was still up, although now it was in Petronius’ room because, supposedly, the usual room was under renovations. Aziraphale was beginning to regard the man’s constant flirtations as more than the joking he’d long considered them to be. It was after many of these evenings that Aziraphale was able to spill the whole (edited) ordeal of the last few years, the push-pull of his and Crowley’s interactions, and his frankly embarrassing fixation on Crowley.

“Humor me, then.” Petronius said, looking at him seriously now. The pen hovered over the parchment. “What would you call this man who has knotted up your heart?”

Aziraphale chewed on that. “We really are simply friends. If that. After so many years as hardly an acquaintance…”

“What do you want to be?”

“People who share companionship. Anything more and… I fear the consequences.”

Petronius’ eyes twinkled above a teasing smile. “What would you be, in a world without consequences?”

Aziraphale’s blush hadn’t faded. “Amicis.” Friends. Aziraphale pondered that a moment, Specifically, lifelong companions.

Petronius smiled and began writing again. “Take me for a romantic, but that word does not encompass the way you look at him.” He shot Aziraphale a knowing grin. “Or how he looks at you. What you two have is really something.”

Waves of melancholy swept over Aziraphale as they had been for months, drowning him again. He went back to hunching around his wine cup. “Had. What we had,” he corrected.

Petronius shook his head. “Such a thing does not wither in a single season. You should speak with him.”

“I tried. You know that,” Aziraphale protested. Crowley had been dodging him at every senate meeting and social for four months. It had gotten so bad that Domitius, of all people,^[35] had demanded their reconciliation. The eleven-year-old had confronted Aziraphale with his hands on his hips, chin jutted out, the very image of imperious demand. So visceral was the picture, Aziraphale had a vision of the grown Emperor of Rome demanding he and Crowley become friends again.

Or whatever they were.

Apparently not sodalis, but Crowley had not yet offered an alternative.

“Corner him without distraction. Surely you know where he goes outside of court.” Petronius looked up at Aziraphale without lifting his face, shooting Aziraphale a dark, chiding look.

It had been four months since he had last spoken to Crowley directly. Aziraphale didn’t know if Crowley was still furious, heartbroken over his own harsh words, or simply despairing over the impossibility of their situation. Aziraphale could not act on what was now almost a constant litany in his head. He also could not not act on it. He had to find a way to blow off steam, to release the pressure like stabbing a hole into an overfilled barrel that would otherwise explode.

Not even the chaos of Empress Messalina’s open affair with Silius was much of a distraction. Emperor Claudius somehow still didn’t know, or he simply turned a blind eye, but it was the talk of court. It had been titillating at the time, and Aziraphale bore dozens of snickering conversations with Agrippina on the topic. But she could only be honest in private – her own unmarried status was bordering on scandal as people pushed for her to take a husband, a man to oversee the former household of Crispus.

“What makes you so confident about this?” Aziraphale asked suddenly, and was rewarded with the stilling of Petronius’ calamus.

Petronius looked up at him slowly, looking torn. “Would you allow me to tell Crowley how often you visit?” he asked, instead of answering.

“I’d rather you not,” Aziraphale said stiffly. Aziraphale had seen Petronius and Crowley lightly, shallowly talking as fellow courtiers, but hadn’t known they were particularly close.

“Alright.” Petronius went back to writing.

“Fine. Fine.” Aziraphale laid both hands flat on the table and leaned forward, intent, desperate. “Tell him if you must. If he wants to know so badly. And tell me the source of your confidence.”

Petronius quirked a smile. “He comes by here too, you know. We talk. He likes humorous stories, satire like you do.” His smile broadened. “He likes romance. I gave him some copies of Catullus and Sappho, at his request.”

“I’m not sure I would call Catullus romance,” Aziraphale muttered. He looked around despite himself, trying to imagine Crowley sprawled in the chair he was currently sitting in, talking wine, food, and fiction as he and Petronius did. He tried to imagine Crowley reading Sappho without laughing and found it surprisingly easy to picture. Aziraphale had read very little of Catullus himself, and couldn’t imagine that at all.

“What else do you two talk about?” he asked hesitantly.

“May I tell him what we speak of?” Petronius asked with icy politeness.

“No! Of course not.”

“Then you may not know either.” Petronius set down the pen with a clack, looking very much as if the joke he had been snickering about for months had run its course. “I will tell you what I told him: talk to each other. I am not a messenger pigeon. I also have very little patience for two young, beautiful men who could be talking to each other and coming to some sort of accord, and instead come to the doorstep of an old man with none such connection in his life.”

“Forty is hardly old,” Aziraphale muttered. Four thousand and forty year was old.

He looked at Aziraphale, softening marginally. “He walks the various gardens, if you must know. Likes plants, he says. I think they remind him of his childhood.”

Aziraphale wondered what time in Crowley’s life would give Petronius the impression of a childhood of any kind.

Gardens. Oh.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said solemnly.

“Until you two sort out your insufferable tragic romance, you really must come to one of the evening events I cater for. You would enjoy them. And this one will be quite special.” Petronius’ eyes were twinkling again.

“Absolutely never,” Aziraphale said cheerfully, as he always did.

But a second thought occurred to him this time. This party could address a certain problem of his. He hesitated at the threshold of Petronius’ study.

“Where and when would I meet you, if I chose to go?” He asked.

☙ ☙ ☙

Gardens of Sallust, Rome || August, 48 AD

It took walking through four of Rome’s massive public gardens across two days to find what he was looking for.

Aziraphale found Crowley in the Gardens of Sallust, just as the autumn sun peaked in the sky. Sallust was a collection of tightly-packed buildings with a winding path wide enough for two men to walk shoulder-to-shoulder, and the Garden nestled between the buildings and hung over the path. Verdant plants climbed the walls and spilled out onto the grassy patches on either side of the road, blossoming and blooming in the shade as the original gardener intended. Aziraphale stood there for a time, admiring how the garden’s designer had chosen breeds of plants that enjoyed the reprieve from the direct sun. He only knew them because of Nirah pointing them out to him and Domitius.

The fist squeezed around his heart again. As he’d walked through the gardens, he had had a lot of time to mull over Crowley, their time together, and his own resolution to solve his problem within the week. Nothing was worth losing Crowley, certainly not this horrific crush. His determination must have been shining through him, because the plants rustled and the flowers leaned toward him as he went as if he was emitting his own sunlight.

Aziraphale spotted Crowley up ahead, at the top of a short staircase. His distinctive black toga swept the walk in front of brilliantly blue hyacinths, the bulbs outshining their bruised leaves. Someone had probably stepped on them trying to pick the hyacinth for a lover and the plant was still healing from the intrusion. As Aziraphale walked up the staircase, Crowley bent over the plant, taking one of the browning leaves between deft fingers. His back was to Aziraphale, but the tension in those hunched shoulders told Aziraphale Crowley knew he was there.

As likely not the more bruised leaf from their last fight, Aziraphale waited for Crowley to speak first. It didn’t take long.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, without turning around. His voice was hoarse and tight, as if he had been talking all night.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale replied in an identical neutral tone.

“Need something?” Crowley still didn’t turn around.

“No.” Aziraphale continued up the stairs and looked up at the hunched shoulders in front of him. If Aziraphale had his wings out, he could have touched Crowley.

“See you around, then.” Crowley said, and Aziraphale could hear the sneer. Crowley turned even more firmly away from Aziraphale, looking around at the hyacinth and the marigold puffs that framed those fragrant blue arrows.

“Some blossoms of the Horti Sallustiani you are!” Crowley snarled. “You look like a farmer-wife’s halfhearted herb garden. I’ve seen wheat stand up straighter. You’re embarrassing yourselves.”

Aziraphale surveyed the garden and then the Serpent of the Garden in front of him. He remembered that joking smile up on the Eastern Gate that had galled him so terribly during their last fight. He remembered how much he had missed that smile for forty days during one terrible rainy season in Mesopotamia, and that loss was nothing compared to the months without it now.

“Is this what you do?” Aziraphale asked softly.

Crowley finally, finally, faced him. “I did enjoy being a gardener,” he pointed out.

“That’s not what I meant,” Aziraphale continued, still soft. He leaned down to the same hyacinth, just as he had once watched Nirah lean down to clasp Domitius’ shoulder after one of Aziraphale’s harsher lessons. They were the fire and freshwater pool for the young man, forging the steel within him brighter. Crowley should treat himself the way he treats Domitius, but I get the feeling it’s more the way he treats plants. Aziraphale grimaced. And I treat myself the way I treat Domitius. He realized he needed a lesson, as much as Crowley did, in why the sword must be cooled before returning to the forge.

He touched another bruised leaf, his hand dangerously close to Crowley’s. It was hard, being this close, not reaching out, but this constant longing would soon be abated if Aziraphale could find a companion at the party. He brushed the leaf lightly with his thumb.

“I missed you,” he said simply. Rather than the words acting as a salve, he watched them land like darts in Crowley’s chest. Crowley frowned, and Aziraphale could imagine the tightening around his eyes behind the sunglasses. He turned away to the flowers.

Eventually, Crowley said, “Missed you too.”

His face was stony and shut when Aziraphale looked up. Aziraphale settled down on his heels. He was not close enough to touch Crowley, but close enough to feel the demon’s presence like the heat before the sunrise.

“Crowley. I’m… I’m sorry. Please don’t think I think poorly of you. You truly are my sodalis, I swear I’m not mocking you. I want what we had,” Aziraphale said, still soft, firm. He meant it. He had desires and hungers, but what he truly wanted was the bond they had shared the past few years.

Crowley was quiet for a long moment. Aziraphale waited for him to return the title. They were not quite friends, but companions and comrades-in-arms should be enough. If lovers could never be.

“Not sodalis,” Crowley said. “My passer.”

He leaned back on his heels and gave Aziraphale the side-eye. His lips were slightly quirked, and Aziraphale had the feeling he was being gently mocked. Aziraphale made himself take a long breath and exhale his annoyance before responding.

“Sparrow?” Aziraphale echoed, remembering a long time ago when a drunk demon had called him that in Petronius’ restaurant.

Crowley winced slightly and looked back at the plants, like he hadn’t really meant to say that. “It suits you. Your whistling, those white sparrow wings,” he answered with just the edge of defensiveness, and Aziraphale was struck with the sudden conviction the demon was hedging.

“And?” he asked, pressing against the defense.

Crowley’s smile looked more like a grimace. Yes, Aziraphale was definitely being mocked, and not in friendly good humor.

Crowley’s next words were to the bruised hyacinth leaf he was pinching. “It’s a poem by Catullus. I would think an avid reader such as yourself would know it,” Crowley said bitingly.

Aziraphale had read around five poems total by Catullus and the man had written at least a hundred that Aziraphale knew of. He didn’t know one about a sparrow, and he wasn’t sure if he should be embarrassed, pleased, or angry. He did suspect it was a deflection from their fight, when there was still dust unsettled.

“Crowley, if we are to reconcile–” Aziraphale started, then paused. His brain had continued to turn over the Catullus lines it knew and had unearthed, Sparrow, tease you often into sharp nips, when it pleases her, to mock the small dear.

Crowley tilted his head, waiting for Aziraphale to continue. Damn it, Aziraphale did know that poem. He could feel a hot flush reach the roots of his hair and frowned through it. Crowley was setting him up as the villain again.

“I am not teasing you, Crowley. And I thought you didn’t read,” Aziraphale accused. He wasn’t sure whether to reveal what Petronius had told him yet.

“I only read certain things,” Crowley said impassively, evading the first half.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale insisted, and felt more than saw the demon fold in defeat. Crowley sighed.

“Nevermind, passer. I believe I’ve misconstrued some events.” His long fingers wandered up to his sunglasses, as if making sure they were securely in place.

Aziraphale wondered how long Crowley was going to insist on that bizarre nickname.

“Which eve–?”

“Aziraphale, please.” Crowley stood up and wiped his hands on his black toga. “Let it lie.”

Let him lie, Aziraphale thought. He stood up as well, feeling as if he was about to be dismissed, when they had hardly reconciled yet. Petronius was going to rake him over the coals if Aziraphale counted this as a conversation.

Crowley stepped closer to Aziraphale, assessing him like he had examined the bruised leaves. His red curls framed that narrow chin, those soft lips curving in a dark smile. Aziraphale could see a small weight lift off of them, an easing of the tension. The resolution Aziraphale had entered the garden with appeared to have infected Crowley as well, or the tenacious demon had already had it. Crowley tucked one burnished red curl behind his ear and gave a genuine smile. The curl slipped almost immediately. Aziraphale’s hands itched to tuck it properly.

“You know Silius decently well, don’t you?” Crowley asked suddenly. Aziraphale nodded. He had been making more of an attempt to get to know the senators in the last several months, and there was no ignoring the paramour of the Emperor’s wife.

Crowley looked around, then leaned in. “He’s throwing a party tomorrow night. The first part is only close guests, but the second will be quite open. You should go.” He hissed the last three words, low and foreboding.

Aziraphale had a very bad feeling about this, but they had just – he thought, he hoped – reconciled. He wasn’t going to reject the demon immediately. Besides, Petronius had invited him to a party on the same night. It was likely the same one. Aziraphale had almost regretted saying no.

He looked up at Crowley, who cocked his head speculatively, like a bird looking down at a cricket.

Aziraphale smiled brightly, if only to throw off Crowley. “I’ll see you there.”

☙ ☙ ☙

Curia Julia, Rome || September, 48 AD

Aziraphale stood off to the side at the senate session, discreetly smoothing his toga and wiping the sweat from his palms. The nervousness due to the party was only half of it; his fight with Crowley and their half-reconciliation hadn’t abated the tension between them an inch.

Teasing, indeed. The thought still riled him. Breathe. Anger is not going to help.

It was the first time Aziraphale had accepted one of Petronius’ offers to join him at an ‘evening of frivolity.’ Petronius was becoming quite the darling of the court himself, rather than simply an observer, and had secured invitations to the palace for himself and Aziraphale. Aziraphale spent most of the day smoothing down his growing anxiety as his mind turned over the strange facial expressions both Petronius and Crowley had had when they invited him.

Something was different about tonight, forebodingly so, but Aziraphale would not balk. He could also use some relaxation, exotic wines, and delectables only found at court parties. There was talk about wine that wasn’t watered down, unusual fish pulled from faraway seas and brought to Rome in barrels of ice, and, of course, there would be men.

The crackle between Crowley and himself was becoming unbearable. Even when they weren’t getting along, Aziraphale felt as helpless against the urge to lean in as he had been against the urge to grab a rail when the Tyrrhenian Sea shook the Rhenus. He was starting to worry his corporeal form had some sort of compulsion toward excess. The blasted thing was constantly and unangelically nudging for food, wine, occasional cuddling, and now kissing of all things.

Well, not just kissing. Aziraphale needed to ground himself. That damned alleyway kiss, evenings spent wandering the Crispus gardens with Crowley, and years of the receiving warm glances over sunglasses were making Heaven feel very far away.

Aziraphale was not alone in feeling tense. There was a buzzing undertone to the senate session, a gleam in people’s eyes, an edge to their voices. It seemed quite a few people present would be attending the party, even those who normally didn’t. I suppose I would count among their number.

Contrary to the propaganda of enemies of Rome, the social gatherings of patricians were not out-and-out orgies. However, as the evening progressed, the wine made tongues and tunicas loose; lewd story-telling, airing of unwise political opinions, and yes, public coupling (without the usual derision toward the receiving partner) would take place.^[36]

Aziraphale wondered which of the politicians in that very room would stay as the night progressed and which ones would not. Either choice was a telling one, as was exactly when in the evening the ones who left chose to go. The choice was always a political one. He knew without question that Crowley would watch the sunrise from an imperial balcony – with company? Aziraphale’s heart stuttered – but Aziraphale wasn’t sure how long he himself would stay.

He certainly did not want to be on that balcony with Crowley and whichever person he chose to entertain, if he did so.

From across the court, Aziraphale watched Crowley flirt and beguile in preparation for the evening. No doubt Crowley would be walking away from the party with a fount of damaging information on every senator he was speaking to. The demon stood with members of the Senate, black and purple-embroidered toga hung just so, gesturing emphatically with one long-fingered hand. His victory-red curls were just beginning to brush his shoulders, and they caught the light with every toss of his head. He watched the senators turn in toward Crowley, smiling, laughing. Their eyes clung to Crowley as he made a particularly broad motion in the middle of his story and the umbo over his shoulder slipped to the side. One of the ambassadors reached out and straightened it for him, and Crowley laughed and thanked him, tilting his head back and toward the man in a painfully familiar way. Aziraphale had seen the candles of Petronius’ restaurant glinting off that long, exposed throat countless times.

With a visceral pang, Aziraphale recalled seeing that identical head tilt in the bathhouse sans sunglasses, recalled watching condensation slip down that Adam’s apple and into the dip of Crowley’s collarbone.

Aziraphale felt like an idiot. With every fluttering curl, every smirk, every featherlight touch, Crowley enchant the men around him while Aziraphale watched. His high cheekbones and fair features were in high demand in Rome, and even the tan he bore from time spent frequently outdoors added to his unusual exotic charm. I’m no better than those hanger-ons, Aziraphale thought bitterly, Just one more temptation.

He watched the man that had fixed Crowley’s toga lean in and murmur in his ear, and Crowley affected a delighted smile and touched the man’s hand with his own. The man faltered just as Aziraphale often did against that particular smile glinting under twin black lenses.

Every now and then, Crowley would look up toward Claudius and the cluster around him instinctively followed his gaze, and every time it happened it made Aziraphale more nervous. Claudius was heading out to Ostia for a political engagement after the night’s meeting, and Aziraphale was more than half expecting Crowley to have some sort of hand in what was going to play out there.

And Aziraphale was just one more member of this conniving demon’s drooling harem. And Crowley knew, and knew that Aziraphale knew, and it was becoming beyond pathetic. Well, Aziraphale was not going to grant Crowley a victory on this one. That warm, knowing smirk was not going to become a triumphant one.

Acting on that temptation would, without question, be the stupidest thing Aziraphale could do. And not just stupid; it would be dangerous. One could fraternize with humans every day, but so much as putting his arms around Crowley could destroy them both. A single observation by an angel or demon and they were finished.

I have to attend this party. If I don’t– relieve myself– Aziraphale blushed just contemplating it. We are both finished.

Thank God in Her Infinite Wisdom this was only a silly infatuation.

³⁵Aziraphale was trying to nurture empathy in the young man, but getting Domitius to notice anyone outside himself was pulling teeth. ^{Return to text}

³⁶While ancient Rome would later gain a reputation for being amicable to homosexuality between men, this good-will was held strictly for the men who held the so-called active/masculine role and did the penetrating. Their counterparts in love-making, called the passive/feminine role, were treated quite poorly. They often came from lower socioeconomic classes, or were slaves or prostitutes. It was excusable to be a receiver with a significantly older partner, but nearly every word for that role carries derisive connotations. ^{Return to text}

Chapter Text

Dramatis Personae

No new individuals.

Glossary

bacchanal: Originating as a celebration to Bacchus, a Roman god of wine, this event quickly became synonymous with crazed revelry. Followers of Bacchus would gather and celebrate their god, and the loosening of the demands of civility, and chastistity. The word could be translated as “divine orgy,” which was misunderstood by early historians to mean sexual orgies. This rumor was latched onto by people who wished those gatherings to be banned, and it took time for later historians to sort out how frequent orgies actually were.

cothurni: costume boots most commonly worn by actors in tragic dramas; people could wear them in normal daily use, but the cultural association with tragic and melodramatic heroes made them an unusual fashion choice.

Chapter Ten: if he doesn’t love you, soon he shall love

Domus Tiberiana, Rome || September, 48 AD

The gathering was at the imperial palace of all places. Aziraphale couldn’t believe it when he asked Petronius for the location, and as he reached the palace just as the sun set, he couldn’t believe Silius’ gall. Emperor Claudius was less than a day’s ride out of town in Ostia. Silius has no power or say in this building. The true host is Messalina, I’m sure of it.

Aziraphale had donned a brown-cream toga over a honey-colored tunica, which made his exotic flaxen curls shine in the firelight. They were, in his opinion, one of the finer points of his corporeal form. A handful of courtiers and Agrippina herself had mentioned that his pale features and pale hair looked like those of the men in Northern Europe, the barbarians that Rome had yet to conquer. That image combined with Aziraphale’s civilized manner was a treat, Petronius had once told him.

Aziraphale’s nervousness was growing worse with each hour. He had never deliberately tried to be attractive. He had also never been to the imperial palace, had never attended this sort of party. Had never engaged with anyone sexually.

When he arrived at the palace, two things were immediately apparent: there were far more people than Aziraphale had been led to believe there usually were at these sorts of events, and this was a bacchanal.^[37]

I should go home.

“Aziraphale!” Iulius called, and waved him over. His long black hair was tumbling over a brilliantly blue toga, matching the other guests in their flamboyant colors. “Aziraphale, I didn’t see you at the wedding!”

This is a very bad idea.

“Wedding?” Unease strained Aziraphale’s polite tone.

Iulius laughed. “Oh, you missed it! Silius and the Empress Messalina! Or is it Emperor Silius now?” Aziraphale paled. Iulius leaned in conspiratorially. “They’re taking the palace,” he said in a dramatic stage whisper. “Apparently.”

Aziraphale grimaced. “Silius has had some poor ideas, but this must be one of his worst. How are they expecting this to end?”

Iulius shrugged. “However it does, I won’t be around to see it. I fully intend to enjoy the evening and leave before I hear the thundering hooves of the Emperor’s host coming up the road. I’d recommend you do the same.”

Someone called to him and he wandered off, leaving Aziraphale in the doorway to the palace’s main hall.

A bacchanal? I’m going to see Crowley at a– No. He was not going to spend all damned night thinking about Crowley–

Again, Aziraphale thought despairingly.

The whole point was to gain a little sanity away from Crowley. Aziraphale stifled a sigh. I wanted to find a distraction for the evening, not attend a Pagan ritual to ecstasy. It was one thing to go to a party where one knew there would be generous wine pouring and plenty of private rooms to slink off to, and quite another to go to a god damned bacchanal.

Aziraphale huffed to himself. Well it’s the palace – plenty of private rooms to slink off to still! The thought was so ludicrous, he found it hard not to giggle at it.

He moved further into the main hall, through a crowd of easily two hundred people. From what he had heard, the secrecy of these types of parties was maintained by low attendance. The numbers would dwindle as the evening went on, but Aziraphale was shocked to see them this high now. Large strips of sheer cloth hung from the upper balcony overlooking the main floor, draped in lazy burgundy and gold arcs over the rail. Some ran straight down, as if someone had tacked a bolt of cloth to the rail and simply let it fall. Wine was being served by the barrel; a sort of impromptu popina lined one wall of the room and played host to a dozen barrels and uncountable bottles.

Along another wall was an extraordinarily long banquet table; easily two dozen people mingled up and down its length. Some food in his stomach would settle the rattling in Aziraphale’s heart, he was sure. He strolled eagerly over to it and admired the spread. Oysters nested in large overlapping lettuce leaves as a plate, some baked per the more common Roman taste, and others raw in Petronius’ style, which was making waves in the food enthusiast community. Servants brought in roasted pork and beef and lamb in rich, earthy sauces. There were fresh fruits, sliced and whole, nested softly on parsley and clove leaves.

Near the far end one man was feeding another mango slices, and no one was sneering at the receiver’s intimacy. Aziraphale didn’t think the bacchanal would start slowly, then. He grabbed some of the mango slices himself, as well as a helping of the roasted lamb, and looked for anyone he might know. Petronius will either be busying himself with the food preparations, Aziraphale imagined, wanting each detail to be to his exact specifications. Or he’ll be taking his usual hour to dress. He spotted some of the women he knew from the circle Agrippina had kept during Domitius’ childhood and started to make his way toward them.

As Aziraphale meandered in their direction, he felt eyes on him and looked over to see Crowley at the wine bar, watching him through the crowd. He was in the blackest toga Aziraphale had ever seen him wear, with celestial blue embroidery along the sleeves. It was technically a masculine outfit, but he had a belt slung low, accentuating his feminine hips. And with the obsidian black-on-black, it was impossible to tell if it was a toga or a palla slung around him. His blazing red hair curling against his shoulders only added to the effect. It was absolutely brazen, and Aziraphale wondered if he didn’t know or simply didn’t care about the political implications of such an androgynous display. He definitely knew it was a bacchanal before coming.

And didn’t tell me.

Aziraphale shot Crowley a betrayed glance, and didn’t approach him. He still didn’t feel entirely comfortable after their reconciliation. It still seemed like Crowley was angry or hurt but wasn’t going to vocalize it. Aziraphale couldn’t blame him; he himself had bitten down plenty to keep their spat from going in perpetua.

When Aziraphale reached the cluster of women, they greeted him brightly, opening the circle so he could join them. They were discussing some of the more scandalous works of poetry they had seen lately, particularly some snippets Petronius had leaked to close friends. The only contributions Aziraphale offered were the handful of Catullus poems he had managed to finish after it had come up during his talk with Petronius. He had needed a bit of a lie-down after a few of them, especially since the thought of Crowley’s dark golden eyes under the shade of Crispus’ fig trees was too strong of an association with the author. Aziraphale dragged his mind back to the present with a small shiver, to realize he’d missed the last several minutes of conversation.

I’m going to be a terrible conversationalist if I can’t get Crowley out of my head for five paltry minutes.

It didn’t take long for Petronius to emerge. His garb was, as predicted, absolutely lavish. His mint-green toga looped gracefully multiple times over a lemon chiffon tunica, like an ode to citrus. He wore a gold band around his throat, and matching golden cuffs that jangled when he walked. It was an hour of dressing then, Aziraphale decided. Petronius wafted through the crowd, looking ecstatic to be there, and greeted guests and servers alike as friends.

“Aziraphale, my dear boy! You look absolutely ravishing,” he greeted warmly. “You positively have a halo.” He reached out and clasped Aziraphale’s hand, and the other lightly wafted through Aziraphale’s golden white hair. His hands were broad and soft, and Aziraphale fondly recalled a now uncountable number of warm evenings and pleasant conversation. At length, Petronius had demonstrated he knew what he was doing, if given half a chance to do it. Heaven knows he could sate an angel.

“Petronius, thank you again for the invitation,” Aziraphale replied quickly, hoping his flush wouldn’t betray his thoughts.

“Not another word on that, my Aziraphale.” Petronius looked him up and down, admiring the dark cream colors, and gave a preposterous wink. “My party would be incomplete without a creature such as yourself draped across a sofa.”

Aziraphale laughed and felt some of his tension ease. Petronius still hadn’t released his hand yet. “I do hope you intend to stay most of the evening,” he added, his grin easing into a more serious, contemplative smile. Despite himself, Aziraphale felt a bit of a crackle between them as he looked into Petronius’ kind grey-blue eyes.

“Petronius!” Aziraphale heard behind him, louder than necessary and sweeter than honey over toast. Crowley’s hand fell onto his shoulder, fingers tight, and the scent of sweet, earthy myrrh swept over Aziraphale. “So wonderful to see you at this lovely afterparty.”

Petronius still held Aziraphale’s hand in a light clasp and the warm smile he turned to Crowley had a flash of teeth in it. “Wouldn’t dream of missing it. Delightful to finally see you attend such an event, my dear boy,” he teased. “Such a striking mix of midnight, red, and cream the two of you make, the most lovely of caprese salads. You two are speaking again, I take it?”

Aziraphale looked back and forth between them, feeling a building pressure in the air. He knew Crowley and Petronius usually got along, and that Crowley had spoken privately with Petronius on a number of occasions. So why are they so stiff now?

“Yes, and I imagine you are to thank for that,” Crowley replied, voice still unfailingly sweet. He turned to Aziraphale, the very image of professional regard. “Aziraphale, speaking of long silences, let’s catch up. Join me for a drink?”

Before Aziraphale could respond, Petronius released his hand with a wave. “You should,” he said brightly, then leaned in. “I’ll see you around later in the evening, I’m sure!” He wandered off to another pair of men who called out to him.

With a hand at the small of Aziraphale’s back, Crowley guided him to the improvised wine bar, and Aziraphale polished off the roasted lamb on the way there.

“What was all that about?” Aziraphale asked neutrally, setting his empty plate down as Crowley perused the available bottles. Crowley paced from one end of the bar to the other, the serving boy’s impatient eyes following him.

“Can a demon not catch up with his old friend at a party?” Crowley asked back cuttingly. Aziraphale winced slightly at the flagrant language and looked around, but no one seemed to be listening.

“I’m not an idiot, Crowley. Do you have a problem with Petronius?”

Crowley pointed out a bottle to the serving boy and leaned on the bar as he faced Aziraphale. Up close, Aziraphale could see the demon had curled the back of his firelight hair now, and it was loose and long enough to pull back. He was choosing not to. Aziraphale’s hands suddenly itched.

“No,” Crowley answered eventually, in a tone that was almost cautious. “If anything, we have a lot in common.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Crowley took two full cups of something from the serving boy. He resumed his lounge against the bar, turning toward Aziraphale with a quite certainly careful tone.

“He speaks his mind, which I like. Comes off as a bit of a bastard.” Crowley shrugged. “That’s my literal job description. And…” He passed one of the cups to Aziraphale, and took a drink of his own. When he swallowed, he continued, “And he shamelessly goes after what he wants. That one…”

“You certainly do that one as well,” Aziraphale teased, starting to smile. Crowley regarded him with raised eyebrows, and the heady wine went straight to Aziraphale’s temples and emboldened him to continue. “Finding a way into these secret human circles, buying up expensive wines, taking every opportunity to cause some well-deserved havoc.” He jabbed the table like a punctuation mark, smiling at Crowley. “In all our time in Rome, I haven’t seen you stifle a single desire.”

Crowley didn’t smile back. In fact, he didn’t appear to move at all. When he spoke, every word was carefully placed, as if he were building a tower of cards with them.

“You think so?”

Aziraphale regarded his demonic companion. Some instinct in the back of his mind told him they were rowing toward shallow and rocky waters, but he couldn’t see the sharp rocks of their disagreement through the fog. Still, Crowley didn’t appear to be angry, so Aziraphale confidently said, “I do.”

Crowley slouched harder against the bar, giving Aziraphale a long look, lips quirking in an unreadable expression. Aziraphale felt their metaphorical boat rocking.

Crowley looked away. As suddenly as the tension had come on, it wheezed out of the room. “I suppose that’s just my demonic nature,” he said sardonically.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale protested in a whisper, still feeling off-footed, and glanced furtively around. “There are a lot of people here.”

“Do relax, passer. It’s a new slang that will catch on. Demon – bastard: it’s a synonym.” He took a long draught from his cup. Aziraphale took a light sip, trying to smooth his rising hackles.

Aziraphale looked away when Crowley looked back at him. “Don’t tell me you seriously mean to continue with that ridiculous nickname,” he muttered, changed subjects instead.

“Would you prefer a different one, angel?” Crowley asked, leaning in conspiratorially.

“Stop it!” Aziraphale hissed, to Crowley and to the unwanted heat that suddenly curled in his stomach at his title spoken like a term of affection.

The serving boy was wiping a cup clean with a towel, sloppily; he was not even trying to hide the fact that he was eavesdropping. Thankfully no one would listen to him.

Crowley shrugged and hid a laugh behind another drink from his cup. So he is deliberately riling me up.

Aziraphale forced his shoulders to relax. He didn’t know what was stuck in Crowley’s feathers, but he imagined when Crowley could put it into words, he would. Their fight would resurface sooner rather than later. Their companionship, Aziraphale realized a bit sadly, might become just the quiet bits between their fights rather than the other way around.

He took a breath. Fight fire with holy fire, and oh how the demon squirmed under compliments. “I’m glad to see you here,” he said honestly, and watched Crowley perk up a bit. “I’ve missed you and you look… lovely.” It was the truth, weaponized and double-edged. In that tunica, Aziraphale knew exactly where to put his hands to lift the demon up against a wall–

Crowley’s cheeks noticeably darkened. “Oh, shut up,” he ground out, looking up and away over the crowds. He was saved by Messalina emerging, in a state of half-dress shocking for an Empress of Rome.

She wore only a white palla, the drape of cloth barely covering her breasts and other bits, held to her only by Silius’ distinctive brown belt. Her auburn hair was undone and wild, obviously wine- and bed-tousled.

Messalina was joined by her husband, who wore an ivory crown to imitate Bacchus and was already down to his wedding tunica.It was white as well, cinched high to show off an expensive pair of cothurni. It was all Aziraphale could do to not roll his eyes. He thinks their love to be a tragic romance, then?

Both their cheeks were flushed from obvious exertion. If Aziraphale were to guess, he would say this illegitimate marriage had just been consummated.

“Let the wedding feast begin!” Empress Messalina crowed, brandishing her thyrsus like a prop sword. A handful of musicians began to play a lively tune; two kitharas were joined by at least one reed, a clapper, and a singer. Space opened up in the middle of the floor for dancing, and it truly began to feel like the bacchanals that Aziraphale had read about.

According to Aziraphale’s reading on the subject, there would be people in costume, not just the bride and groom, and the dancing and feasting would long go into the night.

Aziraphale looked over at Crowley, who was smiling indulgently.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Aziraphale meant to say tartly, but it mostly came out as fond exasperation. His fingernails bit into the palm of his hand.

Crowley sipped and then gestured broadly out across the room. “How can you not? All these stuffy senators loosening their laces. Good music, better wine, flagrant disregard for political decorum in the Palace of the Empire, for Satan’s sake.” He punctuated that with a warm glance that both melted and terrified Aziraphale. “And I am enjoying it with the only company who’s been through as much of this dizzying whirl as I have.” “Let’s find a couch with a better view!”

He pushed away from the makeshift bar, leaving a blushing Aziraphale to waffle next to it. Aziraphale wanted to find someone else to spend the evening with, but he didn’t want to snub Crowley so soon after their reconciliation. Also, he could admit it to himself, he would rather be talking with Crowley than anyone else in the room. Maybe if I only sit with him for a while. I can still get to the plan.

Aziraphale followed Crowley to one of the few empty couches, which were arranged in a half-circle around a small table bearing fresh fruit, berries, and two pitchers. Crowley plucked a grape from the platter and popped it in his mouth.

I’ll stay for one cup of wine and that is all. And then I will get up a-and…

Crowley could have sprouted white wings and sprang off to Heaven, and Aziraphale would have been less shocked. Crowley had abandoned his signature languid sprawl and had instead opted to sit neatly on the edge of the sofa, both feet flat on the marble floor, elbows on his knees and hands clasped politely between them. Perched as neatly as an angel, Crowley regarded Aziraphale with a disarming smile. Alarm bells rang in Aziraphale’s mind; the deep bronze tolling of enemy invaders in the city.

Crowley still wore a vague, warm smile, but the distant and well-mannered air chilled it. No teasing smirk, no indecent sprawling, no impatient grumbling about Aziraphale taking forever to sit down.

Is this what he thinks I want?

Aziraphale had the strangest urge to tell him to knock it off; it was setting his teeth on edge. He stared long enough for that conciliatory smile to falter, slip off, and then reaffix itself to Crowley’s face with manic determination.

“Sit down, Aziraphale,” Crowley eventually said, the exasperation finally coming through. Aziraphale was so relieved, he did.“Did you know Domitius got upset about our fight? He called me out in front of the actors and everything.” Crowley chuckled, tight and careful.

“Yes, he approached me as well.” Aziraphale sipped his wine and quirked an uneasy smile at Crowley. “I’m glad we have good news for him.”

Crowley swirled his cup, looking down into it. “Do we?” He looked up and saw Aziraphale’s questioning look. “Have good news, I mean?”

Aziraphale frowned. “I think so.” Crowley’s doubt was starting to stir up his own.

Crowley cracked the ghost of his real smile and it made Aziraphale ache for the real thing. “Good. I’m… I still don’t like how things happened in Gamala but, I get it. Not knowing how bad… Well. Been there.”

Aziraphale thought of Crowley’s face, watching Adam and Eve leaving Eden. Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me. Knowing Crowley now, he could hear the defensiveness in the tone. The shock at how bad things had gotten so suddenly.

“I know,” he said. “Things getting out of hand.”

“Yeah.”

“Crowley. Can you please relax?” Aziraphale asked. As if to demonstrate, he tried to loosen his own shoulders. It was hard to watch Crowley poised on edge and harder still to know he had probably inspired it.

Crowley leaned back slightly, as if testing him. “Why?”

Because I can’t stand you being anything other than yourself.

“Do you want to sit like that all night?” Aziraphale asked, instead of answering.

“You thought I was tempting you before,” Crowley said, low and tentative. “I don’t want that.”

“Well I don’t want to drink with a marble statue,” Aziraphale huffed. “I won’t accuse you of tempting me.”

Crowley watched him skeptically, like Aziraphale was a wild animal about to bolt, as he threw his legs up onto the sofa behind Aziraphale and laid back with his ankles crossed. He propped himself up with one elbow, and that damned oversized tunica slipped from one narrow shoulder. Aziraphale was trying to believe Crowley’s temptation was unintentional, as Crowley held Aziraphale’s gaze as he unfolded his whole body and lavishly spread it across the sofa.

He couldn’t have been tempting Aziraphale more if he tried.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said in clipped tones. He leaned back a little himself, and the motion brought the small of his back to Crowley’s thighs, shooting a startled heat up through his spine.

Crowley didn’t move away.

And now if I do, it’s going to look like I have a problem with this arrangement.^[38]

“Anytime,” Crowley said from over the rim of his cup, frozen in front of his face.

Two men came over and sat down on the last empty couch, each of them with an arm thrown around the other, laughing easily. Their heads bent close to one another, the dark brown hair of one mixing with the other’s lighter shade of curls, and Aziraphale felt a quite unangelic curl of envy. One of the men looked up suddenly and caught Aziraphale’s distracted stare. Aziraphale tensed, but the man flashed a grin of camaraderie.

Aziraphale’s attention returned to the thighs pressed against his back and he realized the misunderstanding the newcomer was about to make.

“Hello, you two! Enjoying the party?” the stranger asked.

Aziraphale tried to relax. He could do harmless small talk.

“The food is extraordinary as usual,” he answered, smiling.

“Trust you to comment on the food and not the venue,” Crowley said over Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale turned to see a surprisingly warm smile on Crowley, and that smile directed at him. Crowley shifted a bit, curling around Aziraphale, and Aziraphale could feel his face heating up.

He does not want me to think he is tempting me, and this is how he behaves?

The man coughed and Aziraphale quickly turned back to him. “I would say the venue is the most noteworthy part as well,” he said, still grinning. The venue, the circumstances, the wedding, the impending deaths of bride and bridegroom.

“I’m Sabinus, and this is my amasius, Avilius,” the man said, inclining his head.

“My name is Aziraphale, and this is my— this is, well. That is to say…” Notitia? Sodalus? Ill-begotten crush? Enemy spy whom I desire so much I specifically came here to get in bed with anyone else before I betray my allegiance to God?

“Crowley,” a voice behind him supplied.

Avilius and Sabinus shared a glance with one another, terribly amused.

“I’ve never seen you two at one of these events, I don’t think,” Sabinus said, and Aziraphale was grateful for the segue but wasn’t sure how to answer that either.

“Well how often are there imperial weddings, really?” Aziraphale evaded, smiling politely.

Sabinus laughed, and his eyes glittered in a familiar manner, but Aziraphale couldn't place it. “I mean a bacchanal, laetus.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to feel about being called a northern barbarian with all the warmth of a pet-name.

Avilius smirked. “I definitely saw the redhead at one for about five minutes last year.”

A muscle jumped in Crowley’s thigh, sending another trickle of heat up Aziraphale’s spine. He would not turn around to catch the expression on Crowley’s face.

“Trust you to remember that, my wanton pullus.”

The man apparently had a thing for dire insults as terms of affection.

Avilius laughed. “You know my weakness for redheads.”

The two laughed again and continued to murmur amongst themselves. Aziraphale polished off his wine and reached for the jug to refill it. He was not up for trawling the party for company just yet. He glanced over and saw Crowley extending an empty cup to him and obligingly refilled it.

Aziraphale watched Avilius give Crowley another long and appreciative look, and really that was just rude if Avilius thought he and Crowley were lovers. Poaching like that.

Aziraphale’s hand fell possessively to Crowley’s bare calf, which twitched in surprise.

It was Aziraphale’s turn to twitch when he felt long, thin fingers tangle in the hair at the back of his neck. He looked down and saw Crowley watching him, curious, wary, hopeful. It was the hope that unnerved Aziraphale the most. Crowley looked away with his practiced nonchalance and didn’t pull back his hand.

They sat in companionable silence, during which Avilius poured them all another round of wine and they polished off the jug. Crowley’s fingers twined and combed through the short hairs on the back of Aziraphale’s head. Each movement sent coils of heat down Aziraphale’s back. He shivered with it and heard a barely audible pleased sound from Crowley. Laugh it up. You got me, you horrible fiend. Aziraphale eyed Sabinus and Avilius, looking for potential revenge, a show of affection to throw Crowley off his game. He found it in short order.

With his thumb, Aziraphale rubbed featherlight circles on Crowley’s calf, working his way to the soft inner curve of his knee. Crowley shuddered, but his hand didn’t leave Aziraphale’s hair. It didn’t work. But at the same time, Aziraphale realized with helpless horror, Aziraphale didn’t want to stop touching. And didn’t want Crowley to stop. And now they were caressing each other. Good lord, what are we doing?

“So how long have you two known each other?” Sabinus asked warmly, all amused smiles at the two of them. Aziraphale looked over to see Avilius’ hand lost in Sabinus’ dark brown hair. Where Crowley had gotten the idea.

“Since the world began,” Crowley said, devastatingly tender.

Aziraphale blushed and made himself cough politely. We’re around humans, damn you! “There was definitely some world before we met, my dear.”

Crowley gazed up at him, solemn and affectionate. “None that matters.”

Aziraphale swallowed.

Avilius’ nose wrinkled, but he smiled. “Ugh. Careful boys, we have a sap on our hands.”

Sabinus laughed. “No taste for poetry and romance, my Avilius.”

Avilius leaned in, smirking. “You enjoy my alternatives to sonnets.”

The two of them were suddenly quite busy with one another and Aziraphale jerked his gaze away, back to Crowley.

Crowley now had a matching blush, but didn’t look away from Aziraphale’s face. If this was another facet of the temptation – No, I told him I would believe him – then Aziraphale was going to combust if he didn’t concede.

Crowley is good at what he does.

And Aziraphale could not, ever, do that.

No, he said he wasn’t tempting!

Crowley sat up. His chest was flush against Aziraphale’s back, and those narrow thighs were still half curled around him. Combustion it is.Not paying them a whit of attention, Sabinus and Avilius stood and practically ran to one of the many hallways attached to the main floor.

“Not sure if we’ll see them again tonight,” Crowley said, still softly but with a laugh in his throat.

“We’ll have to find some new company then,” Aziraphale teased.

Crowley set his wine cup down. “Or not?”

Aziraphale was chewing on a response, or a way to get away, or a way to excuse staying here all night, when Messalina and her newest husband paraded through the hall once more. She had one breast bared, in the image of Adriane – the wife of Dionysus/Bacchus – and was leading several guests in a song of fertility and ecstacy. The song was picked up by even more nearby guests until a significant portion of the hall was caught up in the bawdy song. Those who didn’t know many of the words chime in for the sound effects portion of it.

And– Is Crowley humming along? Aziraphale wanted to turn around and look, but they were dangerously close for face turning.

Then, from the view of Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s sofa, husband and wife melted into the crowd, taking the musical parade with them. The buzz of conversation resumed.

Crowley’s narrow torso pressed against Aziraphale’s wider one. Aziraphale leaned back, helpless to the urge to do so and trying not to notice how still Crowley was holding himself.

The most frightening thing, Aziraphale realized, is how easy this is. For as much as he could feel his miserable corporeal pulse in his throat and the sweat that was beginning to break across his skin at Crowley’s closeness, that closeness didn’t feel unpleasant at all. It was just another evening after a long, tense day, and Crowley’s company had almost completely driven away Aziraphale’s anxiety about getting anything off his chest. Here and now, it almost seemed like Crowley was as fixated as Aziraphale himself was.

The last few years together had not been divine, anything but, really, but they had been a delight.

Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder and let himself savor the closeness he could not act on. But Bacchanalia were special. Humans who could not be intimate or gluttonous could be for a night. Angels who could not be close to demons might be able to make an exception. And shows like the one they just saw… well, they would not see this again.

“Tomorrow will be interesting,” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley’s face split into a grin. “Messalina will not survive this,” he said with malicious glee.

It was Aziraphale’s turn to stiffen. “ Tell me you did not have a hand in this.”

“Oh it would have happened anyway.” Aziraphale felt Crowley shrug against his back. “I merely greased a wheel that was already turning.”

Then, poisonously soft, the breath raising the hairs on Aziraphale’s nape: “She sent emissaries after Domitius. You don’t want all your hard work undone, do you?”

Aziraphale frowned and Crowley laughed low in his throat, not a pleasant sound. He would not say Crowley had killed Messalina, but there was a certain culpability in setting forth the machinations that would end in her death. Aziraphalee was… upset with Domitius’ would-be assassins as well, but he had no evidence against Messalina, and Crowley had never offered any.

“Oh, passer, enjoy the human drama unfolding before you. I was beginning to think the last decade was a bit boring,” Crowley said, easing into a real laugh and leaning against Aziraphale’s back. “No good plot twists.”

Such as us getting to know one another like this? Such as practically raising a child together?

Aziraphale leaned forward with a jerk and turned toward him. “Boring?”

“Well, politically.” Crowley started, hearing the warning in Aziraphale’s tone. His eyes widened behind the sunglasses slipping down his nose, and their noses would have brushed if Aziraphale hadn’t jerked back. “Don’t misunderstand me–”

Aziraphale tried to smile and knew it came out a bit tight. “I’m getting another drink. Maybe some air. Enjoy the show,” he added politely.

“Hey!” Crowley said sharply behind him.

The fist in Aziraphale’s tunica nearly tripped him and he turned around, glaring.

“Don’t make a scene, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, low and warning.

“Stop leaving before we can talk!” Crowley snapped back, as if Aziraphale did this all the time.

I do.

“Let me go, Crowley.”

Crowley’s fingers released the cloth immediately. “Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale escaped. He was upset at Crowley’s statement, but he mostly needed to get away from that sofa before Crowley sensed Aziraphale’s body betraying him. Aziraphale had no interest in being humiliated by one-sidedness that night – Crowley had all the control, all the composure.

The fingers in your hair shook sometimes.

Crowley was a demon and therefore couldn’t Fall. His risk was minimal. Perhaps Hell even gave commendations for tempting angels.

Unless he wasn’t lying to you and it’s not a temptation.

Crowley could walk away any time, mercurial and flaky as he was. Disappearing for hundreds of years at a time. A quick dalliance with Aziraphale, and then he would traipse off into the sunset without ever looking back.

He couldn’t even let you leave the sofa.

Crowley’s was not going to be the company the angel kept tonight. Regardless of his feelings. Regardless of Aziraphale’s.

Humans only, humans strictly.

Aziraphale looked around but couldn’t find Petronius anywhere. Probably for the best; if something went horribly wrong, he didn’t want to risk his friendship with the only uncomplicated and friendly face in Rome.

A lump was starting to grow in his throat, against all dignity. The night was going terribly. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Crowley, and he certainly wasn’t going to succeed now. They were probably unreconciled again, and he still didn’t know what was bothering Crowley. I should ask.

Aziraphale let himself glance back at their sofa and saw Avilius sitting beside Crowley, who had pulled his knees up to his chest. Avilius was talking and talking, and Crowley was shaking his head. But then he looked up, startled, and laughed.

Aziraphale watched that contemplative smile he had seen at their reunion, wary but intrigued. his heart ached. He pushed his way through the crowd, feeling far more skin against his arms as he weaved through the people than he had before. It was still well before midnight, and he feared what midnight might look like.

He walked down a hallway that led out to open balconies, but they were all occupied. Becoming more than mildly desperate, he sent a brief angelic gust into one of them, making its occupants suddenly want to be somewhere more private.

Aziraphale slipped in as they slipped out, and let the curtain fall behind him. The autumn air nipped at him through his tunica, which was woven for elegance over warmth. He looked up to see stars peeking through the clouds.

This is a terrible idea.

He leaned on the rail with both hands and breathed. He imagined briefly that, from a distance, it might look as if he were about to vomit.

It is the only idea I have. Get this out of my system.

Aziraphale only had a couple moments of peace. The curtain separating the balcony rustled and Sabinus stood behind him.

“Are you alright? I saw you rush out when I came back in,” Sabinus asked quietly. Aziraphale turned and saw his laughing grin had melted into a companionable one. The moonlight shone off his mahogany hair and framed kind brown eyes. He looked terribly, and delightfully, human. Alive for perhaps thirty years, and likely had less than that left. A brief flash of life like glittering dew after a long night before it burned away with the dawn. Aziraphale thought of him wrapped around Avilius. How did people know each other and fall in love happily and comfortably in such a short period of time?

“Fine, thank you,” Aziraphale said.

“Is your poet friend not joining you out here?” He looked up. “It’s a lovely night for a scandal.”

Aziraphale laughed, without much spirit in it. “We’re going our separate ways for the evening.”

Sabinus leaned one hip against the rail, regarding Aziraphale. “His loss.”

Aziraphale shook his head. Our loss, he wanted to say.

Sabinus leaned in close, his eyes intent, and Aziraphale jolted. He had a bad feeling about where things were about to go.

“Wait– Avilius–”

“Avilius doesn’t mind.” Sabinus sounded almost puzzled that Aziraphale had asked.

Aziraphale tried to imagine going back inside to see Crowley and Avilius together on the couch, touching like this, touching like he and Crowley had, and tasted bile in the back of his throat.

“Why not?” he asked.

Sabinus smiled, and his question was to the sky. “Tell me Aziraphale, have you ever been to the Pontines?”

Aziraphale was puzzled, but he half-smiled at the coincidence. “I have. Astonishing natural orchards.”

Sabinus nodded. “How about Lipari?”

“Yes. Oh, the spa!” Aziraphale stood up straighter at the memory. “Right next to the pumice mine. I could use that right about now,” he joked.

“Capris?”

Despite himself, Aziraphale’s distracted heart was beginning to lighten. “The sea cave,” he breathed. “Did you see that when you went? Where the sunlight shines up through the underground water and makes the whole cave glow blue?”

“Yes, something special at each destination. Now tell me,” Sabinus put his hand on Aziraphale’s, on the balcony rail, those brown eyes shining, “hich do you love most?”

Aziraphale swallowed. “I don’t think I could choose.”

“I learned a long time ago, I can’t either!” Sabinus confessed. “That is how people are to me. Beautiful islands.” He tugged Aziraphale’s hand until Aziraphale turned to face him, and the two stood breast-to-breast under the stars. “I love the Pontines, and Lipari, and Capris. When I lay on each of their sands and close my eyes, they are the only island I think about. I savor their fruits, and wander their sights, and not a grain of sand on one is a loss to another.”

He ran his fingers through Aziraphale’s downy hair, deeper than Petronius, harder than Crowley, and it was no more or less enjoyable than the touch of the other two. “Avilius is an island I love, among a few. I’ve never been to this one before though– may I?”

Aziraphale rested a palm along Sabinus’ square jaw, pensive, curious. Sabinus leaned his head into the touch, smiling. This could do. He tried to summon the fire he felt around Crowley, the need to lean in, the raking desire. Instead, he just felt… curious. Hurting, still, and warily considering this salve.

Islands. I can do that. Aziraphale thought, and leaned in to touch his lips to Sabinus’. The man made a quiet, startled noise, but returned the kiss with enthusiasm.

Islands. Aziraphale knew without question the islands he hoped he could always return to were God and Crowley. He loved sitting at home alone with his eyes closed, feeling holy light flow through him like a pulse. He could stop breathing, he could stop his heart, and the light would thrum through every vein instead. The Heavenly office in which he met his compatriots could be lofty and cold, but he could look out the window and see all the wondrous God-loved kingdoms of the world.

Sabinus pushed Aziraphale up against the balcony rail and grabbed two fistfuls of Aziraphale’s backside through the tunica. Aziraphale jumped. He immediately forced himself to relax. This is normal. This is what humans do. Aziraphale didn’t feel like anything was getting out of his system. He just felt awkward. Because I’m not contributing? He grabbed Sabinus’ biceps with fervor now and opened his mouth to deepen the kiss. When Sabinus gave him a tentative swipe of tongue, he captured it with his own. It was nice but just… nice. He had been enjoying their talk more.

Down here on Earth, with Crowley, was another island he could not give up. Not their clandestine meetings, not their evening talks over wine, not the garden walks or those looks across the senate floor. He wanted Crowley’s fingers in his hair again, but because that way lay madness, he would be happy with those fingers politely clasped around his elbow. He loved God and Heaven, and Earth– and Crowley.

I love Crowley.

Aziraphale’s breath hitched against Sabinus’ mouth, and the man froze. He leaned back and must have seen what was in Aziraphale’s eyes. Aziraphale wondered what was there. A sharp pang of guilt ran under his skin. Sabinus leaned back, looking torn between amusement and concern. “You don’t feel anything, do you?”

“No,” Aziraphale confessed, and studied the man. He still enjoyed the way the light from inside shone off Sabinus’ dark brown curls.

“What were you thinking about?” Sabinus asked, his tone only academic curiosity.

My islands. “Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered.

The guilt sank deeper into his skin and knit through his muscles, tense and miserable.

“Hey, it’s alright.” Sabinus shrugged it off, stepping back, and his grin was still light. He gently tangled his fingers with Aziraphale’s. “I mean… I am disappointed, but it’s okay. Not everyone is wired that way.”

Aziraphale felt a pang. I’m not wired any way. I can will myself into any wiring.

“Thank you for making me feel better,” he said instead. “I’m glad you came outside.”

He hoped Sabinus would stay and they could go back to talking about literal islands, but the man was obviously after more than conversation that evening and left the way he came. Aziraphale watched him go with only mild regret.

Alright, these feelings are obviously person-specific and it can’t just be anyone. But Aziraphale couldn’t find the pattern with only two people; really, it was one and a half since his thoughts on Petronius were only mildly stirring.

He went back inside and back to the banquet table to drink until he fell for someone else.

☙ ☙ ☙

Midnight found Aziraphale drunk and not feeling much better. He had indulged in more of that truly delightful lamb, and several more rousing conversations, but hadn’t found anyone else that he particularly wanted to kiss. Now that he was thinking about it so hard, the thought of kissing anyone but Crowley was repugnant.

It’s okay to think that. Because the wine made me do it.

He had seen more human flesh than he ever cared to again, but hadn’t seen Petronius. Perhaps he was toward the bottom of one of the fleshy piles. He wandered the long palace hallways that normally no ordinary citizen had access to, admiring the spontaneous autumnal harvest decorations Messalina must have ordered. The long swaths of red and orange cloth hung about, and the berried laurels standing up in cups on most of the flat surfaces. With the head bobbing and thymus shaking he had been witnessing as the evening went on, it was certainly a harvest Bacchanalia.

Eventually Aziraphale ran out of distractions and wandered back to the main floor. He found another clay cup, one of the exquisitely cast and lead-glazed ones only found in places such as this one. He filled it with one of the many jugs lying around (the impromptu popina had long since been abandoned and patrons helped themselves), and started walking a long circuit again. He was beginning to think he’d be doing this all night.

“Passer.” Aziraphale felt the voice more than heard it, a soft breath on the nape of his neck through the heady winemist. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Will you stop with that ridiculous nickname?” Aziraphale snapped, whipping around. Crowley had left his toga somewhere and was standing in a black tunica, cinched so loosely on those sharp narrow hips it was practically slipping off.

He just isn’t playing fair, damn it!

“I’m not bored with you, Aziraphale,” Crowley said in a rush, as if their conversation had never paused. He leaned against the banquet table, careless of one of the pork sauces soaking into the thighs of his extravagant tunica

Crowley leaned in, eyeing Aziraphale’s wine cup, the lush. “In fact, you made Rome far less boring.”

It was said gently, almost lovingly. He’s even more drunk than I am.

Aziraphale made himself look – really look. Crowley didn’t look drunk, actually. He looked to be in pain. He was drunk as well, of course, but stress lines marked his forehead and framed his half-smile. The clasped hands in front of him were wool white and quivering. He very well may have been leaning on the table for strength, not just as a veneer of nonchalance. Crowley did desire him physically – not just as a temptation.

It’s likely still a temptation, just with personal investment, Aziraphale tried to tell himself, but niggling doubt chewed at it. How long has Crowley wanted this too?

Crowley pushed away the table and held out his hand, as if Aziraphale could have taken it without taking every other earthly pleasure he had seen that evening.

“Come back to the sofa. I’ll watch my serpent tongue a bit more,” Crowley offered with a self-deprecating laugh.

Crowley was not going to let this go without a little honesty. “I have plans tonight, Crowley.” Aziraphale said. “I can’t just talk with you all night. Next week, if you would like?” I’ll be sane again by next week.

The outstretched hand fell and Crowley tried to steady himself. “What plans?”

“Plans.”

“Ineffable Plans?”

Aziraphale choked. “No! Quite the opposite.” He laughed self-consciously and started to back up.

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. Sweat prickled on Aziraphale’s skin. Said too much.

“Nevermind. It’s not important.”

Crowley’s closed fist hit the banquet table with a hard thump, and steel ran under the tenderness in his voice.

“No. Y– you know what? No. I’ve had enough. We are talking about this.”

“No, Crowley. You know why we can’t– Look, I am an angel and you are a demon–”

“Stop dodging and fucking talk to me.”

“We are not having this conversation—”

“We definitely are having this—”

“—at my limits with your stupid games—”

“—if you would just trust me for five blessed minutes—”

“—and your awful temptation—”

“I told you this isn’t a temptation.”

“I don’t believe you,” Aziraphale said flatly. In the resulting silence, the bacchanalia roared and sang around them. It was the truth and he hated it. Hated it. Aziraphale sometimes trusted Crowley so much his heart ached with it, and it terrified him. And then he would remember his naive faith in the general Goodness of people around him, and his even more naive desire for other angels to actually like him, and it didn’t seem so unreasonable to distrust everyone.

Crowley released a sigh as old as Aziraphale felt in that moment. “No, you never really do, do you.”

Crowley’s teeth clenched and Aziraphale imagined a thousand things he could say in that moment and a thousand responses Aziraphale himself would have to make in response to each of them, so of course Crowley had to go completely off-script.

“Why Petronius and not me?”

Aziraphale slowly set down his cup. “What?”

“You trust him and not me. He’s helping you with–” The words strangled Crowley and he cleared his throat. “Corporeal issues. I know I– I could help.”

Aziraphale’s wineflush burned much hotter. Crowley desired this, desired him, telling Aziraphale in the only way the demon knew how.

But Aziraphale — stupid, stupid — Aziraphale had mucked it up with feelings. Crowley desired him back, fine, sure, but Aziraphale would always be alone in wanting… more. Wanting hand holding and compliments and hands gently stroking his hair while he read. Crowley despised sap, openly mocked romantic narratives. Aziraphale would always be the one in the lurch, desperately longing.

Aziraphale looked down across the ravaged table, only bones and garnish remaining. “I don’t want you to,” he said at last, and damn him, it sounded weak and lost. A child saying they don’t need sleep.

Crowley chewed on that. Then he took a deep breath, steeling himself. Aziraphale didn’t know why; Crowley’s heart was invincible, hidden behind gleaming black glass.

“I think you do. You feel something too—”

Aziraphale’s heart stuttered. ‘Too’ as in ‘desire and also love’ or ‘too’ as in Crowley also feels this? He needed time to think, to shore up his defenses, and Crowley wasn’t giving him any.

“You have no idea what I want,” Aziraphale scoffed. Frustration and fear began to chip away at his comfortable drunken haze.

“I’m not an idiot, Aziraphale.” Crowley mockingly took on Aziraphale’s shy, hesitant cadence. “‘Oh, let me tempt you to some aphrodisiacs. Oh let’s meet at the bathhouse–’”

“Please stop talking.”

“The opposite of Ineffable, he says,” Crowley continued with a teasing smirk, emboldened by Aziraphale’s fluster. “Have you read this gay erotica, Crowley? Oh sure, I’ll go to an orgy with you–”

“This isn’t funny, Crowley.” But his lips twitched with nervous laughter. His anger was fermenting into dizzy exhilaration, as it so often did in Crowley’s presence. The urge to knock Crowley down couldn’t help but be followed by the urge to fall down on top of him. And there was Crowley, ready to catch him and drag him far, far away from the Plan.

“No, it’s not,” Crowley readily agreed. He wrapped an arm around Aziraphale’s waist and, with the other hand, gently swept Aziraphale’s sweat-damped hair away from his forehead.

Aziraphale could feel humiliation rising up underneath the wine-drunk thrill of Crowley curling around him. He was being mocked, tempted, and his traitorous body loved every second. This is what the demon lived for after all: getting people to succumb through free will to their worst impulses. He would have burned down Rome to see Crowley’s eyes behind the sunglasses right now, for even just the fantasy of returned feelings in them.

“Damn you,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley’s smile was slow and soft. “Been there, done–”

He was cut off by Aziraphale’s lips against his own.

It was awkward at first, the rims of Crowley’s glasses digging into Aziraphale’s brow, but Crowley pulled away long enough to rip them off and dove back in to meet Aziraphale again. His arm around Aziraphale’s waist held him tight and close, cradling Aziraphale against his chest. Crowley’s free hand cupped his jaw, his nape, and grasped his hair like Aziraphale was going to pull away at any moment.

Aziraphale was ready for Crowley to feel triumph, and an answering ring to Aziraphale’s own lust. He wasn’t ready for – this. Crowley’s breath hitching with relieved joy, his spindly fingers clutching at Aziraphale like a need, those soft lips sliding against his with devastating tenderness. Terror clawed through every cell in Aziraphale’s corporation.

Heat coursed from Crowley’s tongue to his, seeping into Aziraphale’s veins and fighting the holy light it found there. It made Aziraphale’s epiphany in Sabinus’ arms roar in his ears. Hell would cut Crowley down for these feelings, and Aziraphale—

Aziraphale was falling, upright only because of the arms around him. He was going to fall, he was going to Fall. Hellfire raced to every feathertip of his wings; any moment they were going to ignite and Heaven would lock its gates and… and…

Crowley’s heat tangled with the light in his veins – and amplified it. Aziraphale saw white behind his eyelids and gave a startled gasp into Crowley’s mouth.

He had a flash of a cave thousands of years ago, and Crowley’s young and easy grin in front of a campfire. He held some sort of metallic shavings in his fist and he was smiling and smiling, the campfire glowing in his golden eyes. Aziraphale had been transfixed until he remembered how beautiful Morningstar had been too. Crowley had thrown the shavings in and the yellow-orange fire flashed an unearthly purple for several moments before returning to its previous color. Humans use it to put on shows, Crowley had said. Want to see green? Aziraphale had said yes.

It had been their last evening together until the Ark.

Aziraphale felt a wash of colors rolling through him now, from the fuel Crowley had thrown into his heart. Every one that his human eyes could see and many they couldn’t. Stygian blue, octarine, infrawhite.

He pulled back and looked into Crowley’s exposed, starstruck eyes. He didn’t only see sincere desire in them. He saw adoration, relief, love, shining through that supernaturally yellow-orange gaze. It was as if Crowley had blinked when he Fell and captured the living fire of his agonizing descent behind his eyelids.

Angelic stock, Aziraphale’s mind whispered in wonder.

Are we going to survive this? it whispered next.

Crowley closed the gap between them, and kissed him gently, far less frantic than their initial connection. A tentative tongue, just a hint of teeth. Not enough.

Aziraphale sank his hands into those soft red curls and bit Crowley’s lower lip until Crowley groaned into his mouth. Aziraphale’s backside hit the table where Crowley pushed him. The cups and plates on the table rattled, and unlike Crowley, Aziraphale was conscious of sauce stains.

He gently pushed away from the table, smiling. “Not here,” he breathed.

Not anywhere! What are you doing!

He wasn’t sure whether to listen to his internal hesitation or squash it. The damage was already done, if it was going to be done, wasn’t it?

Crowley held Aziraphale’s face in both hands and searched his face, looking as overwhelmed as Aziraphale felt.

Then a wicked smile curved his lips. “A room mysteriously became available,” he whispered back.

He took Aziraphale’s hand and pulled him away from the table, down one of the many hallways Aziraphale had wandered before. Aziraphale could still hear the lively music behind them, heard illicit moans from the rooms they passed. Crowley stopped at one room with an actual door (Did it always have one?) and pushed it open with his free hand.

It was a lavish bedroom, probably for foreign emissaries the Emperor wanted to impress. A landscape painting hung on each wall: a near perfect likeness of the Tyrrhenian Sea, the Apennine Mountains, and the Roman cityscape at night. There was a mirror hung over a cabinet of sorts, with a small stool in front of the mirror. Two cushioned chairs sat across from each other on either side of a small table in the corner.

Pushed against the center of one wall was a bed.

It was one of the nicest Aziraphale had ever seen. A mattress was held up on a painted wood frame, with multiple blankets across it, and more folded at the foot of the bed. It easily had room for two.

Crowley pulled Aziraphale inside. Aziraphale could see the same hesitation he felt in those glowing eyes. Their earlier kiss had vaporized Aziraphale’s drunken haze and the world felt raw and real. Aziraphale stood still, vulnerable to the sharp edges of reality. Crowley reached over and took both of Aziraphale’s hands in both of his.

“Are you sure?” he asked in an undertone, as if too much noise would break the spell.

Never surer of anything.

Not sure of much though, not a particularly high bar.

Aziraphale drew himself up, trying to project his usual confidence.

“I was the one who kissed you,” he sniffed.

Crowley’s laugh shook slightly. “Yeah, that’s true.”

Aziraphale pulled Crowley’s lithe frame up against him again and savored how his breath hitched. All that blasé confidence had been wrecked, and Aziraphale could see how equal they really were. “Yes, my dear. Yes I am.”

Without looking away from Aziraphale, Crowley reached behind him and the door closed with a decisive click.

³⁷I should take a moment, dear readers, to explain the bacchanal in more depth. In practical summary, the primary purpose of these gatherings was to achieve festive abandon, and to temporarily shake free of the all social rules. Humans being humans, this manifested as manic dancing, scandalous outfits, and drunken lewdness. Bacchanal were usually held in remote locations, after invitations were quietly extended, and their hushed nature only amplified the freedom to misbehave. Larger scale bacchanals, because of their ability to gather people across socioeconomic boundaries, became not just venues for debauchery but platforms for insurrection. Most importantly, a bacchanal was the sort of den of iniquity in which a well-buttoned-up Aziraphale has been careful to avoid up to now. ^{Return to text}

³⁸Over the millenia, Crowley was quite aware of Aziraphale’s discomfort with arrangements and Arrangements. ^{Return to text}

Chapter Text

Dramatis Personae

Britannicus: son of Emperor Claudius and Messalina, and heir to the Empire.

Claudia Octavia: daughter of Emperor Claudius and Messalina, and engaged since her early youth to Lucius Silanus, the son of another politically powerful family.

Glossary

No new terminology.

Chapter Eleven: even if he is unwilling

Domus Tiberiana, Rome || September, 48 AD

Aziraphale watched Crowley pull his tunica back on, making his bed-tousled curls even wilder. Feeling Aziraphale’s gaze, Crowley turned to look back at him, smiling. The warmth somewhat soothed Aziraphale’s icy fear that at any moment, Gabriel or Michael would storm through the door. Aziraphale had put on his tunica as well but stopped there, not because he’d lost his toga long ago like Crowley had, but because getting fully dressed seemed like an ‘end’ to whatever it was they just did. Will we do that again? Should we? Music from the party played mutely through the door, and folks were shouting and singing along with it.

Crowley slid his hand under Aziraphale’s tunica, softly gripping his thigh. His warm smile strained into a humorless one.

“It’s almost dawn. We need to go,” Crowley said quietly.

Aziraphale propped up on one elbow, recalling Crowley’s comment about greased wheels. “What is about to happen? Please tell me — what did you do?”

Crowley’s smile was beginning to send prickles up his spine again. Not an angel, Aziraphale’s instincts warned him. But to his slight embarrassment, that thought was chased by far more anticipation than fear. Crowley leaned against him, his hand on Aziraphale’s thigh making small, light circles.

“Claudius is on his way back from Ostia by now. I made sure Messalina felt confident enough to do this — persuasion only, no use wasting a miracle.” The smile grew into a real one for a moment. “And I made sure the traitor in her midst found a safe and easy road between here and Ostia.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly. “Yes, we need to leave.” He hesitated. It’s my turn to be honest, as honest as Crowley has been in this room. “Maybe… back to my insula?” he asked, hating the wobble on my. Crowley stared.

A small part of Aziraphale was still screaming Bad idea!! The small part that had been screaming for four thousand years with an extra fever pitch for the last six of them. A couple hours and two orgasms was not going to silence it. Maybe a few more would do the trick, he thought, with all the warm indulgence of post-sex haze.

Crowley half-lunged, half-fell on top of Aziraphale, grinning. “Absolutely,” he murmured against Aziraphale’s lips, then captured them in a real kiss. Aziraphale wrapped an arm around his snakespine frame and deepened the kiss.

Silence — other than their soft breathing and the slide of Crowley’s tongue against his — hung over the room. Aziraphale soaked in the quiet peace, and the shiver of light behind his eyes.

Crowley made a pleased noise in his throat, and it rang in that delicate silence.

Warning bells rang in the back of Aziraphale’s mind. Where is the music?

He pulled back to listen, and Crowley’s lips moved along his jaw, his throat.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley stilled. “S’quiet,” he said, familiar suspicion bleeding back into his tone. They both listened.

The shouting wasn’t revelry anymore. It was fearful. Angry. A wail rose up above the racket – reminiscent of one of the more orgasmic songs played that evening – and ended in a gurgle.

Aziraphale felt a wash of foreboding cold as Crowley jumped away from him. Crowley stood, pulling Aziraphale to his feet as he did. Aziraphale kicked on his sandals as several barrels smashed against the tiled floor outside the room. Emperor Claudius’ host was at hand. Aziraphale listened as people were thrown down, arrested, questioned. Crowley was half out the window of their bedroom.

“Aziraphale, come on,” he said urgently, a smile twitching at his lips. Is he worried— or amused? Aziraphale didn’t know what there was to smile about in this situation. “It sounds like Messalina and Silius escaped.”

Aziraphale could hear Praetorian Guards kicking down every door in the hallway, the bangs rapidly approaching their door. Every bang was followed by the ringing of steel and clanging iron.

He followed Crowley through the window; the fall to the thick bushes below was less than either of their heights. The side of the palace was dark. Most of the host’s horses stood at the gate, and only a few patrolled the outer perimeter of the building. Crowley jumped, vanishing in a rustle of thrown leaves. Aziraphale took a deep breath — he was not one to traverse the air without his wings — and followed him. The branches clawed at his skin and his expensive tunica, but broke the fall.

He climbed out of the bush, plucking leaves off his tunica, and saw Crowley waiting. Crowley combed his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair to get a few more leaves and Aziraphale shivered.

Crowley was still smiling, and it pulled at Aziraphale’s heart. He had to fight the urge to smile back; it was one thing to love Crowley, and another, worse, thing to forget who Crowley was.

“They’re killing people for attending a wedding,” Aziraphale pointed out stiffly. This is your doing, he wanted to add.

An annoyed look crossed Crowley’s face before he looked away, seemingly unwilling to retort. Aziraphale felt as if they both had tissue paper wrapped around their sharper edges, a gentle padding between their conflicts brought by the culmination of years of tension.

“I know you don’t like this,” Crowley said softly at last. “Can I meet you back at your insula?”

“Why?” Aziraphale demanded. There was some bite to the question. A tear in the tissue paper.

Crowley raised his wrist with a snap, and a pair of his sunglasses appeared in his hand..

“I’m going to watch Messalina fall,” he said. “Twist and climb the ladder all you want — but you don’t send emissaries after kids.”

Crowley stood in silhouette, lit by the palace gate sconces behind him, and the torches of the men left behind to watch the horses. His hair was wild and his hands were fidgeting. The only thing Aziraphale could see was the flash of teeth in Crowley’s smile.

The autumn air nipped at Aziraphale and he pulled his tunica closer around him. Already, their time in the palace felt like a warm, drunk fever dream. But this was Crowley, who Aziraphale trusted implicitly. The same person in a different light, doing something he cared about. And Aziraphale didn’t agree with his methods, but if he must tolerate them to love the person, then tolerate them he would. He would ask if Crowley had considered the ramifications, and the arrests of the wedding guests later. Time to face the dawn.

“I’m coming with you,” Aziraphale said, and was rewarded with Crowley’s smirk melting into a real smile.

They made their way to the outer edge of the palace grounds in silence and escaped to one of the local fora. Several other patricians had gone that way as well, clustered together in the black corners of the covered stone hall. Stripped of its usual packed rows of tables and buzzing crowds, the fora was a dusty lifeless husk. Aziraphale watched in a haze, squaring with the reality of the last few hours, as Crowley went from cluster to cluster, asking who might have seen the newlyweds leave.

Aziraphale stood in one of the black corners himself, unable to recognize faces in the dark like Crowley could. His muscles ached, dehydrated and overexerted, and he leaned back against the cold marble wall to ease the tightness in his chest. He wanted to go home to his insula, but he wasn’t going to leave Crowley alone. And he seems quite happy to keep doing what he’s doing, Aziraphale thought with some resentment. So I’d hate to ruin the evening for him.

Crowley seemed more relaxed than he ever had been in the years they’d spent in Rome. He sauntered, his tone light and easy, his spine relieved of a tension Aziraphale had thought was normal. When he returned to Aziraphale’s side, his grin gleamed in the dark.

“She’s headed toward Lucullus, between us and Ostia. Claudius is riding north, but sent his host ahead of him. Apparently she’s going to beg Claudius’ forgiveness before he can reach the palace,” Crowley said with glee. “She’s taking her kids with her, to soften his heart.”

At Aziraphale’s worried look, Crowley quickly reassured him. “They won’t be in any danger, I’m sure. It’s just not going to work.”

He reached out and tangled his fingers with Aziraphale’s, and Aziraphale had to stifle the reflex to jerk away in public, in front of all these eyes. Instead, he gently drew his hand back. Crowley let it go.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Eager to be home,” Aziraphale answered. Mostly the truth. “What’s the plan, then?”

Crowley’s grin disappeared. “She fled in a cart. We’ll have to rustle up some hooves ourselves.”

☙ ☙ ☙

Praetorian Guards were closely watching the palace and forum stables for escaping patricians, so Aziraphale and Crowley were forced to walk south – toward Lucullus – until they crossed the Tiber into lower class housing. They eventually found a single-horse stable with a Friesian bay chariot-racing horse. Aziraphale didn’t see an accompanying chariot anywhere, and no saddle either. He closed his eyes, but couldn’t picture a saddle with enough detail to miracle up a decent one.

But needs must. He spawned what he hoped was an appropriate payment and dropped the pile of coins into the empty feed bucket nearby.

Inside the stable, the bay tossed her head and stamped, her nervous eyes following Crowley.

“You should know… I don’t do horses,” Crowley said. “We should get a cart.”

“We were lucky just to find a horse,” Aziraphale chided. “You can ride behind me.”

In truth, Aziraphale’s education in horses was very basic, and he’d never ridden bareback. But his confidence bolstered Crowley.

He approached the stall and the Friesian wrenched back, rearing as much as she could in the short space. Crowley jerked back as well, hissing.

“Calm down, both of you,” Aziraphale snapped, pushing his innate calming presence toward the horse, with an impatient glance toward Crowley. He managed to pull her from the stable by her loose reins. Crowley huffed. After a few moments of consideration, Aziraphale miracled a blanket and sloped two-man leather seat on her back, much to the bay’s surprise. Not a saddle, but it will keep us from being unhorsed easily.

He stroked her nose and her broad shoulder, which was the same height as his own. She was built to jostle other horses and chariots, and to easily take blows herself. Aziraphale braced a hand on her shoulder and rump and hoisted himself onto her back.

Crowley whistled. “Nice shoulders, passer. We got a regular Hercules on our hands.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, a smile tugging reluctantly at his lips. He held the horse’s tightly in one hand, and extended the other to Crowley, to pull him up. “Poseidon would have been a better reference.”

Crowley took his hand and, with a good deal more flailing and an angry whinny from the horse, settled in behind Aziraphale. “Wasn’t he the god of the sea?”

“And horses.” Aziraphale tightened the reins and the dark bay kicked into a gallop southward.

Crowley choked as he started to slip off the back of the horse’s rump. His arms clenched like armor braces around Aziraphale’s stomach.

“He can’t manifest a halfway decent saddle and he’s the god of horses,” he muttered, his hot breath on Aziraphale’s neck.

Aziraphale was well-aware Crowley was blabbering on purpose, but wasn’t sure if that was to distract himself from being on horseback or to stall their inevitable conversation. Either way, he was willing to play along until they got back home.

“Maybe I prefer riding bareback,” he said with exaggerated snottiness, just the kind to set Crowley off.

“Oh do you now?” Crowley purred behind him.

Aziraphale blushed. It figured that Crowley, while not partaking himself, would still keep up with the slang.

“Oh, shut up.”

“No, no, don’t misunderstand me. I prefer bareback as well — sheep intestine is quite itchy—”

“I will smite you,” Aziraphale warned playfully.

Of all the undignified feelings to have in that moment, Aziraphale couldn’t believe jealousy was rising up in his throat. How does Crowley know what he prefers?

“You would never,” Crowley retorted, and one of his hands slipped from Aziraphale’s belly to his thigh. Heaven preserve him, but no, Aziraphale never would.

They rode in silence for several minutes, Aziraphale still feeling terribly off-kilter. He recalled seeing Crowley through fuzzy, muted candlelight, draped in sheets, his smile soft and disarming. It was easy for Aziraphale to hold that image alongside the gleaming demonic grin in the dark, but hard to reconcile his feelings for the two. Part of him was still watching the skies and the alleys they galloped past for Gabriel or Michael. Part of him was still overthinking, pulling apart every nonsensical murmur Crowley had said in bed, every word smothered by the soft afterglow.

Crowley could be so fickle, picking up and dropping goals and hobbies every month, it seemed. Aziraphale hadn’t known him to hold onto a single friend for more than a decade. What were the odds that he wouldn’t get bored with Aziraphale? And then he imagined a reckoning with Gabriel, and trying to explain, oh goodness no, we broke up a millenia ago. It was only a temporary betrayal to God.

They’d knock him out of Heaven on the spot.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale began, thoughts turning. Crowley’s hands twitched in Aziraphale’s tunica. “What would Hell do to you if they found out?”

Crowley hesitated too long. “Ehh, put me on trial, no doubt. Weigh my usefulness against what they’ll see as gross misconduct of a loving nature.” He paused. “‘Gross’ in a couple ways.”

“Making sure your heart is heavier than the feather.”

“Precisely.”

Aziraphale was sick to death of Crowley lying to protect him. He forced his eyes to stay on the road but all he could see was Nirah’s arm curved protectively around the girl in the riot cart, the Serpent rearing and spitting on Domitius’ bed, Crowley sitting cross-legged in front of a purple fire. The feather is heavier, Aziraphale thought confidently. Then reminded himself they were currently riding off to witness a murder Crowley had orchestrated on dubious evidence.

A tie, then.

Aziraphale couldn’t stop thinking about Heaven and Hell. One couldn’t simply be unemployed and immortal; Crowley was to triumph over Aziraphale and send souls to Hell’s army, and Aziraphale was to thwart his every wile and keep human souls firmly in Heaven’s army. If it got out that they were disregarding their respective posts–

There must have been something foreboding in his demeanor, because the arms around him softened into a hug.

“They’re not going to catch us,” Crowley murmured. “But don’t worry about that right now. We’ll discuss plans later.”

Plans, Aziraphale anxiously scrutinized. As if Crowley intends to stick around and be– more than we’ve been. Aziraphale needed to rest, he needed to think. Preferably in Crowley’s arms, while the demon slept.

Maybe if Aziraphale insisted with all his heart that he had fallen to sinful temptation and did not actually love a demon, they would just make him Fall and not kill him. (The thought of losing God’s love made him dizzy with nausea. Heaven, maybe, he could do without. But he could not choose Crowley over God.)

But what happens if you’ve already Fallen?

☙ ☙ ☙

Gardens of Lucullus, Rome || September, 48 AD

The sun had fully crested over the Seven Hills when they reached Lucullus. Aziraphale pulled the bay up to a gentle stop under a blue-gray sky just beyond a jeering crowd. A dozen people sat astride horses and dozens more swarmed the gardens on foot. Aziraphale couldn’t see through the bodies, but no doubt Messalina was in the heart of the storm.

“She’s here,” Crowley breathed behind him.

Crowley scrambled down from the horse, and Aziraphale jumped deftly after him. He released the horse’s reins and watched her amble over to the garden, sniffing plants, no doubt looking for food. Aziraphale expected Crowley to race over to view the spectacle, but he turned away from the garden and took both of Aziraphale’s hands in both of his. Those damnable sunglasses gazed back at Aziraphale, but Crowley had the most melting smile and one of his thumbs was stroking the back of Aziraphale’s hands. After years of seeing Crowley snarling, coiling, posturing like a cornered and wounded animal, it was breathtaking to see him happy.

“Aziraphale–” Crowley began.

“Hear the mother of your beloved children!” A shrill female voice rose over the crowd. “Britannicus and Octavia will not forgive you for striking down their mother!”

Aziraphale winced and looked over Crowley’s shoulder, but Crowley put a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek and recaptured his gaze.

“You didn’t have to come with me, and you did, and I’m so glad you did,” Crowley said, and stepped forward to rest his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “I didn’t want to be away from you for a moment. We’ll talk about— this. Soon. Very soon.”

“I’m glad. Crowley–” Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to summarize his fears of what would happen to Crowley if their affair was found out. “I don’t want to lose you. If Hell find out–”

“Not yet,” Crowley whispered. “Soon.”

He tilted his chin up so their foreheads parted and their lips met. Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered closed, helpless against the sweetness, painfully unwilling to quash Crowley’s joy. And my own.

Crowley slipped away into the crowd. Aziraphale found a thin spot in the crowd and pushed between the watching bodies, joy souring in his mouth like the bitter grit at the bottom of a sweet conditura.

Messalina was sprawled on the smooth stones of the garden’s main clearing, still robed in only her palla, though she had thrown a red cloak over it that spread like a deathbed beneath her. She held a dagger, gleaming in the torchlight of the surrounding crowd. Tears ran down her cheek as she pressed the dagger against her chest, choking and hesitating, while a woman beside her urged her on. Aziraphale searched his memory of the other woman’s face and realized it was her mother, likely the one who had smuggled Messalina from the imperial palace.

“Go! Turn your father aside!” Messalina cried, faltering and drawing the dagger away from her breast again. Aziraphale saw two teenagers, a man and a woman, who had been watching in the background in horror, run to one of the men aside a horse.^[39]Emperor Claudius was dressed rather pedestrian, compared to his usual regalia. His face was unreadable at Aziraphale’s distance.

As they rushed forward, beseeching their father, one of the imperial officials was loudly reading a scroll of Messalina’s transgressions, drowning out their words.

Two of the Emperor’s guards stepped between Claudius and his children, carefully wrapping their arms around them and bearing them back. Octavia wrenched in her guard’s arms and broke free for a moment, but was stopped by the guard’s fist around her forearm. He twisted and she cried out. Several of the onlookers shouted in outrage, and Claudius’ gaze snapped to the guard, who released Octavia immediately. Brittanicus was standing stock still, for which his captor looked relieved. It was high treason to harm a blood relative of the Emperor, regardless of Messalina’s infidelities.

Aziraphale looked through the scuffle to the primary outraged onlookers and found Crowley among them, lip curled at the guards manhandling Claudius’ and Messalina’s children. Claudius’ attention was back on his wife, who still hadn’t managed to drive the dagger through her chest. Her mother was still nattering, saying the only honorable thing to do now was to die with dignity.

Aziraphale swayed on his feet as he watched. He was sworn to non-interference, except in the most dire cases. So was Crowley, technically, as he could only tempt and never damn. Likewise, Aziraphale could bless but he could not forgive. Messalina would likely not be forgiven — not because of the affair, God cared little for human sex lives in the grand scheme of things, or for ambition in general — but for a life spent selfishly. She had harmed many in her ambitions. She had tried to kill Domitius. She had killed the previous owners of these very gardens to obtain them as Imperial property.

And now she had tried to destabilize a nation of thousands, not for any equality or justice, but for personal convenience. For love, Aziraphale’s heart interrupted, and he quelled it. Crowley had done his work tempting, and Hell would take this soul. So he could not, in good dignity, turn aside her dagger nor bless her in time to save her soul. He could only watch Crowley take his revenge, and service Hell in doing so.

He wondered if his own victories rankled Crowley as much as Crowley’s rankled him.

Emperor Claudius turned his horse away, and his tribune stepped toward Messalina. She was going to die for this, for love, for disloyalty. Humans don’t even forgive that sort of thing. How can Crowley survive Hell’s retribution?

He looked through the crowd again at Crowley, still in that scandalously loose tunica. If any of the guards were paying a whit of attention, they would have known Crowley had been to the wedding. He’s in broad daylight, completely exposed, all anyone has to do is see him. Just one guard. Just one demon has to see us together, once.

Claudius finished turning his horse away, back up the road. The guards who had captured Brittanicus and Ocvatia were leading them away as well. The tribune threw his bright orange cloak over his shoulder, freeing his sword arm. He drew his sword and advanced on Messalina, who cowered back. Her mother scrambled away. Even if the Dukes looked away, seeing how little harm Crowley has done in his disloyalty to Hell–

The tribune knocked her dagger away with the flat of his blade. As it clattered to the stone path, he ran her through the chest. Even if the Dukes don’t care, all it takes is any one demon to kill him.

Blood soaked the front and back of Messalina’s palla when the tribune withdrew his sword, and she crumpled onto the stone. Her mother rushed back and knelt over her, more fury than pain, more disgust than loss. She was once the mother of the Emperor’s wife, now she would be tarnished the same as her daughter. Crowley’s face was unreadable across the scene. Aziraphale couldn’t tell if they were making eye contact through those glasses. More than likely, Crowley was still watching the scene unfold.

Hell will destroy you, if you’re with me. It won’t matter if it’s just a hormonal, corporeal infatuation. They will accuse you of love, and kill you for it.

Aziraphale’s insecurities about Crowley’s commitment compounded with that threat, and the two became inextricable. He couldn’t move as Emperor Claudius rode away and the crowd dispersed. He knew he was supposed to be heading back with Crowley shortly, but couldn’t bring himself to follow everyone else walking or riding back to Rome. A couple of men Aziraphale didn’t know helped Messalina’s mother wrap the corpse in her fallen cloak and bear her into a cart.

Hell is going to destroy Crowley, for what is just another of his flights of fancy. We can’t do this.

He would rather never see Crowley’s face than watch him die just because of– of wine and hormones. Aziraphale’s chest seized painfully and he tried to call on the ice in him, the barrier that had protected him during he and Crowley’s biggest fights, and many atrocities before it. But he couldn’t seem to find the strength.

We’ve done quite a few unprofessional things really, Aziraphale reminded himself frantically. This is just one more of them. Nothing special. Aziraphale could cover his love, pack it down, bottle it up until it dried into grit. Crowley’s feelings would pass.

Almost everyone had gone by the time Crowley walked up to him. He looked nervous again, frowning, the tension back in his spine. Aziraphale tried to school his expression into indifference and failed miserably. Crowley frowned even harder.

“I didn’t know you cared for Messalina,” Crowley said, a questioning lilt to it. Aziraphale wished he had all night, wished he had all week, wished he had any time at all to think of a lie and mentally prepare to shove Crowley away. There is nothing worth pursuing. Go away.

Aziraphale was choking. He couldn’t do this. He had to.

“I’m going to go home, Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly. At least he could make his voice steady this time. Crowley’s life was on the line. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding, and we should perhaps think about–”

“What?” Alarm raised Crowley’s eyebrows, and he reached out to grab Aziraphale’s arm. “Something happened. What is it? Are you okay?”

Warmth seeped into Aziraphale’s skin where Crowley’s fingers rested. He forced himself to shake off the grip and the heat, and tried not to notice Crowley’s wince as his hand fell away.

“A misunderstanding,” Aziraphale started again. “I should have been clear on whether— earlier— was lust, or true feelings, and I should have made sure you also were clear–”

Crowley laughed. For a second, Aziraphale’s heart plummeted as he remembered Crowley’s gentle and reverent words in bed — maybe I truly had been a fool and it was just senseless pillowtalk — and then he heard the relieved quiver in the laugh and his heart broke instead.

“Is that what this is about?” Crowley visibly relaxed, his smile returning. He cupped Aziraphale’s face in his hands. “I’m– I know I’m not great at words. I wish I– What I mean is, it wasn’t lust for me.”

“Well, not only that,” he added, with his painfully familiar teasing smile.

Hell will destroy you.

Aziraphale wrenched away, but Crowley stepped even closer, capturing Aziraphale around the waist. “Please listen to me! I know angels think we can’t, but I can and I do, and when I look at you, angel– I swear to you–”

It will pass. Aziraphale repeated to himself, his vision starting to swim from fatigue. He will be fine. He will live.

Aziraphale pushed Crowley away with two flat palms against his chest. Crowley staggered, startled.

“It was for me,” Aziraphale gasped out.

“What?”

Him him, and he’ll get over you faster.

“It was lust for me. I was tempted. You–” Go for the kill. “You won, fair and square.”

Crowley stood stock still, and looked at Aziraphale. A muscle was jumping in his jaw, teeth clenched behind curled lips. Aziraphale looked away, forcing himself to study Messalina’s blood drying on the rocks, seeping into the cracks between. Imagining instead Crowley’s, imagining Crowley’s skin peeling, boiling away, as holy water ran over his head.

“I don’t believe you,” Crowley said, silky and dangerous. “Did someone threaten you?” He raised his voice. “Because someone should know better than to do that sort of thing. And maybe someone should come out and have a little chat instead–”

“There’s no one else here, Crowley. I don’t care if you believe me. You always think you know me and you don’t. I became lost in the moment, because of your– your wiles and I–”

Crowley grabbed him again, more viciously than he ever had before. Aziraphale winced as Crowley’s fingers dug into his arms, indignation momentarily bearing back the pain.

“Liar,” Crowley hissed. “We said we were going to talk about this and we are. You don’t want to go back home to do that? Fine, we’ll have it out here. What just changed?”

If he doesn’t believe you, he dies. He reached for his ice again, and this time managed to get a grip on it.

Aziraphale imagined Gabriel turning the corner, stepping delicately over the pool of Messalina’s blood. “An orgasm, mostly,” he said coldly. “Really relieves all the unresolved tension. You got your quarry, score one for Hell.” His eyes burned with unshed tears, but perhaps they would help in this instance. “Pretending this was anything else is just cruel, Crowley.”

“It was not a temptation,” Crowley said, low and choked. He still hadn’t released Aziraphale’s arms. “On all that I have, on all that I’ve lost, I swear to you it was not.”

Aziraphale imagined holy light flaring in Gabriel’s veins, igniting them beneath his skin, his wide hands reaching out to grab Crowley and smite him where he stood.

“Fine then, a crush,” Aziraphale amended. Be careful. Not too close to the truth. “You’re willing to risk the ire of Heaven and Hell for some corporeal infatuation. I am an angel, and you are a demon,” Aziraphale continued, letting Crowley see his fury and distaste. “ Go back to machining the end of the world, the Fall of Man, and everything else you’ve working toward since we met. There is no ‘us’ and certainly not enough of an ‘us’ to defeat Heaven and Hell.” He gestured to Messalina’s blood on the path, and Crowley’s eyes followed his hand. “This is how love ends, in the real world.”

There was no doubt Messalina truly loved Silius. But she had made her commitments, and one should accept the consequences of one’s commitments. Aziraphale was accepting the consequences of his.

“Love?” Crowley’s face shifted from anger to confusion, to dawning–

“You know what I mean,” Aziraphale said quickly. “Heaven and Hell will have both our hides. We wouldn’t survive this.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’m leaving, Crowley.” Before I say anything else stupid. He started walking toward the path they had ridden together.

“Coward.” The word was thick with tears and Aziraphale nearly turned around, having never seen them on Crowley’s face before. Except, even if he turned, he wouldn’t see them behind Crowley’s dark glasses.

He kept walking. Crowley didn’t follow.

³⁹Aziraphale hardly knew Messalina’s and Claudius’ children. Lady Agrippina had expressed regret a few years ago that Brittanicus was married and Octavia was engaged, and so neither were appropriate marriage prospects for Domitius, but that was all he knew. ^{Return to text}

Chapter Text

Dramatis Personae

Seneca the Younger: Nero’s tutor and later his advisor; widely considered the father of the philosophy, Stoicism, and wrote extensively on politics and human nature.

Glossary

asinus: an asinine person; extremely stupid.

amatorium: Seneca uses this in his Epistles series, and it is commonly translated as ‘love potion,’ though it strictly means ‘a procurement of love.’

Chapter Twelve: come to me now once again

Petronius’ House || November, 48 AD

After another day of watching Agrippina gently but firmly seduce Emperor Claudius, helping Domitius grapple with the Crispus estate, and avoiding Crowley, Aziraphale ended up at the same place he’d been licking his wounds for months. He sat in a comfortable wicker chair, across from Petronius, watching the man write.

Petronius regularly shot him abashed looks. He had been doing that for months, horrified by the arrests that followed the wedding party, and the at least twenty killings. He seemed to be afraid Aziraphale would blame him for barely making it out alive, not knowing Crowley was really the one to fault for the whole spectacle. In Petronius fashion, he responded with generous pours and particularly lavish dinners when Aziraphale was visiting, so Aziraphale was hardly going to correct him.

“I’m glad you made it out safely. I really haven’t said that enough,” Petronius said after one of their long silences. “I wasn’t expecting— well, the arrests were a bit of an overreaction, if you ask me.”

Aziraphale nodded vaguely. Petronius picked up his brass inkwell and fiddled with it under the guise of examination.

“But it’s not the party, is it?” Petronius asked hesitantly. “Did you know Messalina?”

So he’s finally ready to broach the subject, after two months of dancing around. I wonder if Crowley has been back these months too.

“Not particularly,” Aziraphale murmured. He toyed with the clay wine cup in his hands.

Petronius set down the inkwell with a sigh. “My dear, please talk to me. You just come here to mope, you’ve barely said a word, this can’t be the best way to unburden your heart.”

“It’s not something easily talked about,” Aziraphale admitted softly, then brought himself up short. “Or– or worth discussing at all, really. Dithering and heartbreak don’t make much of a story.”

Petronius’ eyes twinkled a moment. “If I had known he would be leaving you in such a state, I would have sought you out and laid a claim much sooner.”

Aziraphale blinked, startled. For a moment embarrassment briefly replaced pain. “What… No, I’m– I’m quite alright on that front. You are an excellent friend, I trust you greatly, and you are, rather I am, that is to say…”

A smile broke across Petronius’ face and Aziraphale trailed off, realizing Petronius had just been giving him a hard time.

Petronius refilled both those cups as Aziraphale looked around the room, further embarassed by how relieved he was.

“The last time I saw you that night,” Petronius said, “You and Crowley seemed to have reconciled. Did he run off with another man that night?” He quirked a smile, clearly joking.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale muttered, stung. Then he felt stupid for feeling stung. Crowley should have, he thought miserably. And I should have. Now there can be no more garden walks, no drinks on the town. I can never touch him again, or I will put his life in terrible danger– To Aziraphale’s horror, the cup in his hands blurred through a sheen of tears.

Petronius’ hand was curling around his in an instant. “What did he do?”

“How do you know I didn’t do something?” Aziraphale asked wretchedly. He blinked back the tears, and made himself look up. Petronius’ gaze held nothing but concern.

The fingers on Aziraphale’s squeezed. “I will not tell Crowley’s secrets to you, nor yours to him without you both agreeing. But I will say this: my discussions with that young man gave me the impression nothing on earth would make him turn away.”

Petronius’ “on earth” clenched around Aziraphale’s heart. It was hard to breathe around the lump in his throat. “He should. That’s the problem,” Aziraphale managed to croak.

Petronius shook his head. “That is up to him to decide. You can’t push someone away for them; it will only hurt them worse. Won’t you please tell me what happened? I don’t want to advise in the dark.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, withdrawing his hands. Petronius reluctantly let him go. “It would be too difficult to explain, Petronius.” It begins with, ‘So, there does exist a One True God, the world is only a couple thousand years old, and Crowley used to make stars for a living before his union got out of hand.’ Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Suffice it to say… He and I have irreconcilable differences that no amount of feelings” — his voice quavered — “will overcome.”

Petronius gave him a long, assessing look. It was a sharper echo of the look Crowley had shot Aziraphale over Messalina’s cooling body.

“I’m sorry, my dear boy. Thank you for telling me what you could. Are you sure—?”

“Quite.”

Petronius leaned back in his seat, picking up his pen once more. “Then we won’t speak of it again. Plenty of moody, lanky asini to choose from if that’s your type. I will be sure to keep an eye out!”

Aziraphale gave a watery laugh, shaking his head. The asinus was me. “Tell me about your latest story.”

Petronius did.

☙ ☙ ☙

Just so, it continued for the following year.

Aziraphale saw Domitius twice a week. Crowley presumably saw him more often, given their shared time in court. And Aziraphale and Crowley saw one another at a distance, in passing, at the local thermopolia or across the way of the tenement block in which they both resided.

Aziraphale put one foot in front of the other. He crystallized that one stupid night into the common human trope of two people tumbling into bed after prolonged tension and one too many drink. Humans laughed at the people who fell in love from such events. He tried to recapture his feelings upon first entering Rome: a dedication to his assignment, albeit an unenthused one, and only a mild preoccupation with the demon Crowley.

Aziraphale loved, and he breathed, and he waited for Crowley’s infatuation to pass.

☙ ☙ ☙

Temple of Apollo Palatinus, Rome || July, 49 AD

The wedding of Lady Agrippina and Emperor Claudius was a subdued one. Imperial weddings were usually lavish – Messalina had not broken tradition there – but this particular marriage had faced significant opposition. The marriage between an uncle and his niece was illegal, and senators also protested that an incestuous Emperor could enrage the gods. However, not one man could suggest a better match for Claudius, and Agrippina had been insistent and thorough. No doubt uncle and niece were already coupling out of wedlock, and Agrippina had enough political clout to keep every other potential empress from her quarry.

Emperor Claudius and Lady Agrippina stood at one end of the Apollonian temple’s forecourt, clasping hands as a priest droned on. The priest was professional and composed now, but Aziraphale had caught him praying to Apollo that morning for forgiveness.

Agrippina wore a tunica of white and orange, with an elaborate Knot of Hercules around her waist. It was said to be unbound on their wedding bed, but Rome by and large considered the bride and groom to be married before the marriage was consummated. The untying was primarily an act of fertility.

Among the small cluster of onlookers, Aziraphale stood beside Domitius. He glanced to the other side of the cluster where Crowley stood with Iulius and a few others. As expected, Crowley was already looking at Aziraphale, jaw tense. Aziraphale looked away.

That damnable demon could certainly hold on to a silly, hormonal infatuation. And likely pride as well, Aziraphale reminded himself. It was slowly driving Aziraphale mad.

When he and Crowley spoke again — and they would have to now that circumstances had changed — it was unlikely to be pleasant. Even their friendship had faded after the prior year’s events, and Crowley’s pained glances had morphed into sullen glares. Their respective assignments were about to clash. Whatever Crowley’s really is, other than being a horrible nuisance to Agrippina. Domitius was going to be adopted, and very shortly. There was slim chance that Agrippina would come this far and fail that last step. Domitius clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels, agitated. He was becoming high-strung from running the Crispus estate at only eleven years old, and from the fallout of his mother’s machinations for the throne. She had made considerable enemies, and consequently had made Domitius quite a few enemies by proxy.

The golden band on Domitius’ right arm still gleamed, keeping Crowley’s snakeskin curved protectively around him. At least while he and Aziraphale were around, those enemies would not strike Domitius again. However, these enemies had left the boy with a small helping of paranoia and a larger helping of resentment against his mother.

Aziraphale looked back at Crowley, who was still staring at him, or maybe at Domitius. This time, Domitius’ elbow dug into Aziraphale’s side and Aziraphale jumped.

“Will you two stop that?” Domitius hissed.

Aziraphale huffed under his breath, not wanting to disturb the wedding ceremony. “You are still not over this fantasy of he and I, obviously,” he chastised, smiling. “Endeavoring to interfere some more, I imagine–”

“You have not seen ‘interfering’,” Domitius said darkly. “You have not remotely, not one ounce, seen what kind of interfering I can do.”

Aziraphale gave a playful shudder. “Now that you’re a prince, I can quite imagine.”

Domitius’ face twisted unpleasantly. “I’ll be too busy to deal with you two now. Mother will have me taking more lessons, probably on how to be a proper imperial son, and I’ll have another sprawling lot of land to care about. There go the last of my acting and kithara practices.”

“Such problems for a poor boy to face,” Aziraphale said solemnly. The problems of the aristocracy. An empty table isn’t even possible in his world.

Domitius looked back with equal solemnity. “I shall bear them somehow.”

Aziraphale laughed and Domitius cracked a smile. They received a few chiding glances from other wedding guests, so they quickly schooled their features again.

Emperor Claudius lifted Agrippina’s flower crown out of the way and laid a kiss on her forehead, and then on her lips. Agrippina beamed up at him, looking every inch the dutiful wife. Aziraphale believed it too, in a way. She loved power far more than sex, it was obvious in how she denied her suitors, and Aziraphale was confident she would remain faithful to the emperor.

After the ceremony, bride and groom retreated to the palace and guests were free to mingle.

Aziraphale and Domitius walked through the Apollo temple, talking language and law. Domitius had developed a certain swagger; the boyish shyness had given way to a theatrical stage presence. Aziraphale had sometimes wondered if he’d failed the boy and his assignment, but Domitius was not an evil boy by any means. Selfish yes, a tad ambitious, prone to frivolousness, but not violent in the least. And, per the strict letter of Aziraphale’s assignment, Domitius was madly in love with music.

He was also quite perceptive. It didn’t take long for the boy to pick up on the tone of their conversation, the hint of finality to it.

“You’re retiring as my litterator, aren’t you?” Domitius asked suddenly, interrupting Aziraphale’s tangent on conjugation exceptions.

Aziraphale looked down into hurt, puzzled eyes. “I am,” he said. “You have a strong foundation. You’re old enough to have a tutor now.”

Domitius’ chin jerked up imperiously. “Be my tutor, then.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Your mother has already selected a tutor.”

Which is another reason Crowley and I need to talk. Crowley despised the man Agrippina had chosen. Aziraphale was hardly comfortable with him either, but Aziraphale and Seneca could at least maintain a benevolent distance. Crowley was likely to completely intervene, which would force Aziraphale to then intervene to counteract and so on.

A storm was gathering in Domitius’ eyes. “And you won’t argue with her?” he challenged.

“I agree with her decision,” Aziraphale said gently. As much as it was easiest to influence Domitius by being right next to him, Aziraphale didn’t know enough of the fine minutiae of law and conduct demanded of a prince for the job.

“You’re leaving my side of your own accord?” Domitius said, voice rising. Aziraphale reached out and put a hand on Domitius’ shoulder.

“I will still be around, but I’m passing your education to Seneca the Younger with full confidence he can better aide you.”

“She chose Seneca?” Domitius all but spat. “The exile?”^[40]

“I would have thought you’d be excited for the prospect,” Aziraphale said wryly. “A playwright, a philosopher, and an orator. You two have a lot in common.”

Domitius shrugged, muttering.

Aziraphale leaned closer. “What was that?”

Domitius sighed and looked up, catching Aziraphale’s gaze, searching Aziraphale’s face for something. “He’s not you,” Domitius said, still more anger than hurt.

Aziraphale’s heart rattled. “You’ll come to like him. He has a unique set of skills that will be very valuable to you.”

“It should have been my choice!” Domitius glowered. “My mother has been deciding everything and everyone just does as she likes. Even the people I thought were first and foremost my allies!”

“Domitius…” Aziraphale trailed off as Domitius stormed past him, shouldering Aziraphale as he went.

Aziraphale was still rubbing that shoulder when Crowley walked up.

“Neatly handled,” Crowley said.

“Oh you try denying a prince something sometime,” Aziraphale retorted.

Crowley hmmed. “Hope Seneca enjoys doing that for the next several years.”

Last year, Aziraphale would have done something like smile and say He’ll be better at it than we were. And Crowley would smile back with the shared camaraderie of raising a kid. But last year was finished; Aziraphale had attended the festival of Janus alone.

“Don’t make it harder for him than it has to be,” Aziraphale said instead.

Crowley’s face darkened. “Don’t tell me you actually like this man?”

Aziraphale didn’t.

“My priority is Domitius’ well-being,” Aziraphale said, a warning note in his tone. “If you disrupt that, I will be forced to respond in kind.”

“Well aren’t we getting back to our roots,” Crowley said, his tone too caustic to be their usual teasing. “Itching to thwart some wiles, passer?”

Aziraphale bit down his exasperation. “This is serious, Crowley. We also need to discuss the, ah, potential adoption in the coming year. No doubt my assignment and yours, whatever it may be— and I should add that this would be much easier if we were in accord—”

“You think I’ll tell you now?” Crowley said, incredulous.

“I think it would be easier to prevent stepping on any toes if we knew where the other’s toes were,” Aziraphale finished.

“We’ll manage,” Crowley sneered.

Annoyance crawled under Aziraphale’s skin, making genial professionalism difficult.

His voice dropped to a hush. “We would manage better if I knew what the hell you have against Agrippina, and if you could control your damnable temper when things don’t go your way.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, tilting his head back so it was obvious behind the sunglasses. “You know what? This condescension is actually worse than the silence.”

He turned as if to leave, and Aziraphale moved in front of him again. “Crowley, this isn’t about… us.” He tried not to wince at the word. “We really should talk about what’s important right now. Domitius, I mean.”

Crowley crossed his arms. “They’re both important. I’ll talk about one if you’ll talk about the other.”

“We are most certainly not talking about That,” Aziraphale snapped, sure that Crowley would hear the emphasis in his tone.

“Domitius has a right to be angry with you,” Crowley hissed. “So quick to walk away.”

“My hands are tied!”

“In which scenario?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale spread his hands wide, exasperated. “Both.”

Crowley let out a heavy sigh. “Fine.”

“Crowley, you must know I wouldn’t be a thorough instructor for Domitius in these matters—”

Crowley shook his head, all of a sudden visibly more exasperated than Aziraphale was.

“Bye, angel,” Crowley growled and stormed past Aziraphale just as Domitius had. But whereas Domitius had shoved Aziraphale, Crowley leaned away to prevent even accidentally brushing.

Of course, he was so focused on avoiding Aziraphale that he shoulder-checked another man hard enough to make him stagger.

“Walk much, Novatus?” Crowley spat, not even looking at the man.

Novatus scowled, then visibly took a breath and continued walking. For a moment, Aziraphale stood alone in silence.

“Tempers run high at weddings and funerals,” someone chimed beside him.

Aziraphale looked over to see Seneca the Younger, Agrippina’s friend and confidante, Domitius’ tutor, and one of the foremost writers on Stoicism.

“Seneca,” he said politely.

“Domitius’ litterator,” Seneca observed.

“‘Aziraphale,’” he supplied, still polite.

Aziraphale did not trust Seneca. Seneca had openly hated Claudius in the past and, despite a life well-lived while in exile and a respectable invitation back to Rome, mutely disliked the emperor still. He and Agrippina had been writing for years, but Aziraphale couldn’t tell if he was Domitius’ ally as well his mother’s.

“I trust you’ve laid a good foundation in the boy, Aziraphale,” Seneca said. Aziraphale wished he could produce a tone that neutral; perhaps he wouldn’t rile Crowley up as much.

“He’ll be a fine student,” Aziraphale said. He followed Seneca’s gaze to where Crowley and Domitius were speaking quietly. He hoped Crowley was giving much-needed comfort.

Seneca nodded slowly. “I hope you’re right. Something seems odd about the boy. An ill temper.”

“He’s not violent,” Aziraphale said stiffly. Selfish perhaps, but only that. “He was just angry today.”

“So is a tamed lion until his first taste of human blood.”

Aziraphale’s gaze snapped to Seneca, and found Seneca already looking at him, surveying him.

“Having known Domitius since he was four,” Aziraphale said, a bit impatiently, “I can assure you he is not a blood-thirsty lion.”

“Hm. Certainly begotten by one,” Seneca said, looking away again. “Silanus was found dead by his own hand in his room this morning.”

Aziraphale stared. Octavia’s ex-fiancé is dead? “And you believe this is Agrippina’s doing? Or Domitius’ doing?”

“Or the merciless race that drives men to kill one another for power. One of Claudius’ children is suddenly marriageable.” To Domitius hung silently in the air.

Seneca’s tone was more appropriate for discussing the weather than treason.

Octavia and Silanus were a rare case of a political match with true affection surrounding it. However, after a supposed ‘trusted source’ of Agrippina’s claimed that Silanus was having an incestuous affair with his sister, the engagement was dissolved. Aziraphale looked around. Octavia was not present, but Brittanicus was. Why weren’t both of Claudius’ blood children present? Not presentable, too deeply in mourning? If that were the case, Octavia could have real feelings for her fiancé, and only dissolving their engagement would not have truly freed Octavia for marriage. But Aziraphale didn’t know. Once again, he cursed not making more of an effort to know the family before Agrippina married into it.

Aziraphale didn’t answer, and Seneca didn’t continue.

Domitius was officially adopted by Emperor Claudius that autumn.

☙ ☙ ☙

You have importuned of me, Novatus, that I should write how anger may be soothed, and it appears to me that you are right in feeling especial fear of this passion, which is above all others hideous and wild.

Anger is a short madness: for it is equally devoid of self control, regardless of decorum, forgetful of kinship, obstinately engrossed in whatever it begins to do, deaf to reason and advice, excited by trifling causes, awkward at perceiving what is true and just, and very like a falling rock which breaks itself to pieces upon the very thing which it crushes.

On Anger, by Seneca the Younger

☙ ☙ ☙

Domus Tiberiana, Rome || October, 50 AD

Another year trudged by. Aziraphale watched Crowley’s anger simmer down to warm coals, watched his own fear and despair congeal into a dull ache in his rib cage. He was letting himself fantasize about their previous friendship, at the very least, and worse in his more selfish moments.

While Heaven could take centuries to respond to something, both Heaven and Hell had been known to react within weeks to a pressing matter. The Fall of Man had happened within an hour after the first bite of the apple, though Aziraphale had never seen Heaven react that fast a second time.

Aziraphale had been drinking and walking gardens with Crowley for years, and not a word from above. Not so much as a letter of query regarding his expense reports. However they wanted the Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus situation to play out, he was apparently moving the pieces for which he was responsible as he was meant to.

It was hard holding memories at bay as he strolled the long walkway that led from the northern face of the palace, through multiple Praetorian Guard gates, to the gardens that wrapped the southern face. Two years and a month had passed since Aziraphale had jumped out of a window in this very palace, those same guards on his heels like the visceral, sword-wielding manifestations of Heaven’s wrath that they seemed at the time. He could have run away down this very path, as far as he recalled.

Two years and a month since Aziraphale tumbled out of the arms of an enemy agent. Not a peep from Heaven and – because Aziraphale was sure Crowley would say something – not a word from Hell. It was temping, so tempting to strap on wax wings once more. He was sure he got the epoxy recipe correct this time, perhaps a bit more heat-resistant than the last attempt.

Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus had been adopted mere months ago by Emperor Claudius. Aziraphale had heard that name for the first time nine years ago, and he hadn’t taken that time to get used to it. Domitius, the boy he raised with Crowley and the other staff, had been so very unlike what he expected from a high-priority blessing assignment from Heaven. Aziraphale had stumbled on the new name a few times already. He still occasionally mistook Crowley for Crawly, and he’d known that name for four thousand years, so he hoped Nero could be patient.

Nero and Seneca were in the central gardens of the palace. Aziraphale wasn’t surprised. Nero hated being shut up in rooms — not that he seemed particularly happy being out of them in that moment either.

He slouched in one of the outdoor chairs, his gangly adolescent arms stretched out across the back. Seneca sat nearby on a stone bench with an extensive scroll splayed across his knees.

“We must examine your paranoia, Nero,” Seneca said, leaning toward him. “I fear if you continue to swipe at shadows, you’ll claw the people you care about.”

Nero scowled. “It’s not paranoia if you truly have enemies in the shadows.”

“Do you? Truly?” Seneca shook his head, and a foreboding gathered in his tone. “There are more things that frighten us than injure us — and we suffer more in imagination than in reality.”

“Reality,” Nero spat, “is that people have been trying to kill me since before puberty.”

Nero looked up across the garden and spotted Aziraphale, dithering on the threshold where the walkway went from tile to soft soil, out to where the other two sat. He half-heartedly waved him over, frowning.

“Aziraphale, glad you could make it. Seneca was just wrapping up,” Nero said, shooting a pointed glance at his tutor. One of Nero’s knees was bouncing impatiently, and his fingers drummed on the arm of his chair. Seneca made him sit too long, Aziraphale thought.

“I was most assuredly not.” Seneca warned. “You fail to realize how necessary these lessons are.”

Nero clenched his fists. Anyone who knew the boy would know how close to a fit he was.

“And you’ve failed to notice Nero has been unable to hear you for some time already,” Aziraphale pointed out, falling into his chilly litterator tone with ease. “People need to walk around, do something with their hands. Not sit all day.”

Seneca gave him a long, level appraisal. It may be as close to a glare as the man ever got.

“I am able,” Nero said sullenly under his breath. “I just don’t want to.”

“If I allowed that, he would run off to play with his horses, or twiddle on that old kithara. ‘Leisure without reading is mental death,’” Seneca recited.

It took a special sort of man to quote himself in casual conversation. Nero was showing remarkable restraint by sitting quietly and not strangling his tutor with his leather scroll ties.

“And musicians would say the same of leisure without music, and equestrians would say the same of leisure without one’s animal companions,” Aziraphale retorted. A smile broke across Nero’s face and Aziraphale felt affirmed. “The written word is not the highest pedestal,” Aziraphale finished.

“Doth mine ears deceive me?” Crowley said, quite suddenly and quite sarcastically, from the same threshold where Aziraphale had dithered. Seneca’s face went stony at Crowley’s bad impression of stuffy elite Greek. Nero lit up.

“Crowley! You’re–” Aziraphale choked it off. He could feel a smile matching Nero’s jumping to his lips as well. He turned around, schooling his features into the sort of prim professionalism he imagined Archangel Michael would have with Crowley. “– here,” he finished lamely.

Crowley’s brows rose. “Yes.”

Aziraphale tried again. “What a– surprise?” It is, actually.

“Not a surprise!” Nero all but sang. “Imperial orders!”

“I am nothing if not a dutiful Roman,” Crowley said dryly, strolling up to the three of them.

“I’m glad you could make it. Seneca was just wrapping up,” Nero said again, this time with an exaggerated stare at his tutor.

Seneca sighed again and began rolling up the massive scroll. He took it and a few that had sat by the bench and went into the back room attached to the garden. Aziraphale watched in silence, afraid to start whatever it was Nero was planning by speaking. The silence lingered after Seneca was gone.

“Well I just wanted to pop in to say hello,” Aziraphale began, backing up a step. “Really ought to be–”

“Do you need orders too?” Nero asked darkly.

Aziraphale balked, and Crowley’s mouth twisted.

“If you know a way to keep Aziraphale from running away, do pass it on,” Crowley said snidely.

Which was just not fair. “Nero dear, you actually got Crowley to do as he was asked,” Aziraphale said, sweet as lemon-cream. “You must tell me your secret.”

“Nero often has something worthwhile to listen to,” Crowley snipped, his lips quirking upward.

“And Nero’s company does not send people running,” Aziraphale shot back.

“Well that’s a turn,” Crowley said with mock surprise, “from you hanging around for hours, all oh we must try the wine here or have you seen the show around the corner. You’d talk my ear off until dawn.”

“I’m surprised to hear that bothered you at the time, as you seemed so enraptured while listening,” Aziraphale rejoined, smug. Then internally winced. A little too honest.

Crowley’s brows rose, and a hint of color touched his sharp cheeks. Aziraphale was sure the same color appeared on his own.

“Anyway,” Crowley said.

“Quite,” Aziraphale offered.

Nero was snickering behind a fist, hiding it poorly. “Ah, the mature adult influences my mother longed for me to have,” he said fondly. “As opposed to my entertainer friends.”

The blush creeped higher. Crowley’s gaze was finally tugged away, toward Nero.

“What do you want, brat?” Crowley asked, just as fond. Aziraphale could breath again when those twin black lens stopped studying him.

“I’ll tell you in a moment. But first – I’d be careful using that sort of language in front of The Emperor,” Nero said with exaggerated gravitas, gesturing over Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s shoulders.

He meant it quite literally. Tension twanged between every vertebra in Aziraphale’s spine. Emperor Claudius and Brittanicus were strolling up the walkway now toward the three of them, unbothered by the guards. Brittanicus was chatting up a storm, and the old emperor was nodding with warm patience.

Despite living in Rome for nearly a decade, Aziraphale had yet to meet Claudius. It seemed like a ridiculous thought, as millions of Romans could say the same, but Aziraphale found himself and Crowley frequently falling in with people whose names went down in history.

Claudius waved as he slowly approached.

“Lord Caesar,” Aziraphale greeted with a deferential nod. Bowing had not caught on in the West, though Aziraphale thought it might soon.

Crowley echoed it, his movements more jerky. Never comfortable with authority, are you? Aziraphale teased silently.

Nero stayed in his seat and hailed with one hand, a rather flagrant move but perhaps one Claudius tolerated in private. Claudius nodded to him, his expression unreadable.

“Greetings to y-you both,” Claudius said to Aziraphale and Crowley, looking for all the world like a doting grandfather rather than the head of the largest empire Europe and northern Africa had ever seen. He put a gentle hand on Brittanicus’ shoulder. “Nero has spoken of you two. Have you met my first son, Brittanicus?”

“I have not. Although with a prophetic name such as that,” Aziraphale turned a warm eye to the young boy. “I expect many will know him soon.”^[41]

“Hello! You’re Aziraphale,” Brittanicus chirped, only stumbling a little on the name. He was only eight, four years younger than Nero, and something in his high-pitched voice brought Aziraphale fond memories of Nero’s childhood.

Brittanicus’ eyes swiveled to Crowley. “And you’re– Aes– Aicei–” Bless him, he was actually trying. It was more than any new senator did in the years since Crowley joined the court. “You’re Crowley.”

“Hello,” Crowley replied, a tad more at ease.

“I’ve heard of you two! Domitius says you are friends.”

Nero was on his feet, and Britannicus flinched back. “See, Father, he continues to deny me!” he snarled. “How can you say he is my brother?”

“It was surely an accident,” Claudius replied, the edge of frustration creeping into his regal tone. Aziraphale wondered how often this quarrel occurred, to wear the man down already.^[42]

“It was!” Britannicus added. “I’m sorry, Nero.”

Nero didn’t even look at Britannicus. “This is not my brother, for my brother would not treat me so coldly,” he replied, sounding almost wounded. Aziraphale was trying not to be shocked at how quickly Nero’s temper had turned without the influence of his litterator.

“Either he denies me on purpose, or he is surely a changeling bent on fracturing our family, and should be put out at once.” Nero crossed his arms, now turning his scowl to Britannicus.

“Enough, Nero,” Claudius said, and the tone brooked no argument. “You two are brothers, you are my sons. You will continue to be both long after I am gone.”

Nero clasped his hands in front of him, his fury hardly abated. “Yes, Father.”

Emperor Claudius turned a world-weary gaze to Aziraphale and Crowley. “I do hope we meet again on a better day.”

He took his leave more coldly than he had arrived, curving a protective arm around Britannicus, who was doing his best not to sniffle.

“Now then!” Nero seemed to shake off his temper, turning a bright smile to Aziraphale and Crowley. “Where were we?”

“What was that all about?” Crowley asked, eyeing the smile warily.

Nero waved a hand. “Britannicus is a sop – look how easily he flinches! Look how he can’t defend himself. That is no future Emperor of Rome, and my father must see that.”

Aziraphale frowned. Perhaps Claudius sought a more gentle heir. He opened his mouth to say something along those lines, but Nero rolled right on.

“I can’t help but notice you two have hardly spoken. Or shared a room if you could help it. Let’s talk about that instead.”

“Let’s not,” Crowley said.

“Nero, this is an adult matter, and should be nothing of your concern,” Aziraphale started, as gentle as he could manage.

“So I am to never spend time with the two of you at once, again?” Nero asked. This time, his wounded air came across as much more genuine. Even if, Aziraphale studied him, it is probably not.

“No, no, of course not!” Crowley despised disappointing children. “We can do that.”

Not to be outdone, Aziraphale added, “We can certainly spend time with you together, if that is your wish. You are more important than our– than– adult matters,” he fell on again.

Quick as that, the clouds cleared for Nero’s cheer. “Good! I expect to see both of you at my Saturnalia festival next month.”

Crowley shifted on his heels, uncomfortable. “If that would make you happy.”

“I don’t celebrate Saturnalia,” Aziraphale pointed out. Well, he enjoyed the food, and the decorations were always extraordinary, but he couldn’t quite get in the spirit of the matter.

“Just come to enjoy the party!” Nero said.

Seneca returned, to the small seating area, coming to stand behind Nero. Rather than looking down at Nero, he was looking right at Crowley, who stared back.

“They see what you are doing, Nero,” Seneca said.

Nero turned, his expression souring once more. “And you aim to spoil it?”

Seneca shook his head, and walked up behind Nero, putting a light hand on his shoulders. His eyes continued to stay locked on Crowley.

“No, not at all,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I aim to help.”

Crowley shifted again, wary, tense. He looked like he minded. Aziraphale minded. Nero wavered.

“Go on then,” Nero said at last.

“I have an amatorium,” Seneca began. Love procurement? Love potion? Aziraphale had never heard it, and wasn’t quite sure what it meant, but he knew amatus: it meant, beloved, unconditionally. Technically it could be applied to a friend or lover, though its use toward the former was declining.

“Without a drug, without an herb, without the incantation of any sorceress.” Crowley was pinned by Seneca’s long stare, even as his eyes warmed. “Si vis amari, ama.”

If you want to be loved, love.

Nero nodded slowly, thinking.

“Sure,” Crowley said tightly, ruining the pretense that Seneca had ever been addressing Nero.

They agreed to go to the damnable party, cheering Nero and clearly amusing Seneca.

They left together, in more of a huff than Aziraphale would have liked, but he couldn’t help it.

“Ridiculous.” Crowley’s usual saunter was more of a stomping as they went back up the path to the front of the palace.

“Very,” Aziraphale agreed.

“Always dispensing unneeded advice. Coming down from on high to save us all from our errant ways, as he calls it,” he continued. He didn’t need to clarify who.

“I am unconvinced his insight comes from On High,” Aziraphale said.

“Also, did you see that tripe he wrote? Of course Novatus went bleating to his big brother.”

Aziraphale blinked. “That was about you?”

“Crowley opened his mouth, then closed it again. “You haven’t read his latest series, have you? I’ve read something before you?”

Aziraphale hadn’t, actually. “I just didn’t know Seneca had written about you.”

“Novatus and I had gotten into a few spats. Close scripts of those disagreements showed up in that blessed De Ira” – he sneered the title, On Anger– “in which he goes on and on about the evils of caring about any wrongdoing ever.”

“Caring is appropriate. The way you start boiling is perhaps a bit much,” Aziraphale said, his tone careful.

Crowley shot him a look. “You should read it. You’d like it, I’m sure.”

⁴⁰It was not an entirely inappropriate title, but a harsh one. The year Aziraphale had come to Rome, Seneca had been caught in an affair with Livilla – Agrippina’s sister and co-conspirator against Caligula. Messalina had ordered his death, and Claudius had lessened the punishment to exile. Claudius bore the man no ill-will, and Seneca became well-versed in philosophy and natural history during those years. He was invited back to court after Messalina’s death, and bore none of the tarnish typically painted on exiled men. ^{Return to text}

⁴¹Technically Brittanicus was part of Emperor Claudius’ name, an honorific bestowed by the senate following the successful conquest of Britain. Which was a tad hasty, as they are currently at war and not successfully conquered, Aziraphale’s mind interjected. Claudius had politely refused the honorific and instead passed it to his son who, he claimed, would gather far more new horizons for Rome than his father did. ^{Return to text}

⁴²The quarrel was, in fact, so frequent that the exchange made it into Seutonius’ historical records. ^{Return to text}

Chapter Text

Dramatis Personae

No new individuals.

Glossary

cenatoria: high class clothing, worn almost exclusively for fancy dinners. It is almost always colorful and conspicuously expensive, and it is considered a social faux pas to wear it before sundown.

dramatis: while originally meaning ‘dramatic act or play,’ to refer literally to a theater performance, it later developed into a descriptor for particularly melodramatic displays or people.

Chapter Thirteen: and release me from grueling anxiety

Domus Tiberiana, Rome || December, 50 AD

Aziraphale followed the crowd of people filing into the palace less enthusiastically than those around him. People were joking, flirting, debating, all in festive regalia. Aziraphale, pressed between bodies in the crowd, was trapped behind two particularly emphatic women.

“No you see, an open flame is obviously superior, as the chicken takes on the flavor of the burning wood,” a woman said, crossing her arms over a crimson palla.

“Why chance it to whatever happens to be in the wood, when you can control the herbal flavors in a pan?” Her yellow-clad companion asked, scowling.

“Fresh wood is a far superior flavor to some dried out herbs that have been sitting in a jar on a ship for most of a season,” Red said, offended. “Not to mention, you get such a variety with elm, or asp, or oak–”

“Or woodrot,” Yellow supplied. “You know how often I’ve seen someone throw wood on the fire, only to see rot inside when the fire cracks it open? The pan protects the chicken from that flavor.”

“It’s not that often,” Red huffed.

Yellow spread her hands, disbelieving. “Often enough! You think folks are willing to eat that?”

“We eat cheese with mold,” Red pointed out.

“Okay, you make a delectable chicken over woodrot fire then.”

“I will. It’s better than cleaning a pan every damn day,” Red said condescendingly.

“You don’t clean the spit?”

“I do, it’s just easier than a pan.”

“Hardly!”^[43]

The debate veered sharply to soap.

Aziraphale was either going to go out of his mind, or actually contribute to the debate if he didn’t get out of there. When he entered the palace, Aziraphale was thankfully able to escape.

Aziraphale hadn’t been inside the palace much since Messalina’s wedding, but Domitius– No, he reminded himself –Nero had insisted on this particular night.

The imperial servants had really outdone themselves; the Saturnalia decorations were extravagant.

Garland looped around and around the massive marble columns of the main hall and draped lazily on the rail of the upper balcony floor. It ran across the banquet table, and over the racks of wine barrels. Hung from the garland were silver baubles and mistletoe.

And in the center of the grand hall was a festival tree, cut from the imperial gardens and standing half again as tall as Aziraphale. It was wound with twisted silver cloth, blown glass globes, and silver trinkets. Every sconce in the main hall was lit and the light glimmered off the tree trimmings. Under the tree was a pile of jars and parcels, some bound with twine, many left unwrapped. They were addressed to many of the party’s attendants, and guests had been encouraged to leave gifts for others. A community tree, Claudius had called it.

Aziraphale stood in front of the tree, fiddling with the parcel in his hands and looking at his nervous reflection in the nearest glass globe. He’d wrapped the gift in red cloth and tucked a scrap of parchment into one of the folds with the name of who it belonged to. He had long since thought the gift would never get to its intended, but at such a gathering like this with many anonymous gifts, it finally could. Aziraphale bent and tucked it under the tree.

Saturnalia was an unusual festival, Aziraphale thought. It was an informed opinion, as he had watched it develop over the decades. On one hand, it was a time to celebrate generosity, both between people and from the harvest to them all. That was the god Saturn’s involvement. On the other hand, it had become a somewhat wild affair, featuring a variety of games and tomfoolery that Saturn probably didn’t have in mind.

Domitius— Nero was quite a fan of the latter. Aziraphale’s eyes slid to the boy, cavorting with his two new siblings and a handful of enthusiastic adults. All of them were in fanciful cenatoria, Nero in royal purple and the rest in rich blues and oranges. During Saturnalia, one could wear cenatoria during the day — just one more tradition flipped on its head. Aziraphale had opted for an outfit of such ephemeral blue, it could be mistaken for white.

“Hail, hail the King of Mischief!” A group of people suddenly chorused, and Aziraphale turned to watch them. Slaves and patricians were raising their cups and jugs in a ring around Nero, grinning and laughing.

Oh no.

“Thank you, thank you.” Nero gave a mockingly deep bow. A drape of cloth slipped from his shoulder, and he tossed it back in place as he rose back up. “Welcome to my kingdom, enjoy the wine! I should warn you all, I will not be a merciful king!”

He laughed and the crowd laughed with him. One of the senators refilled the cup of the slave beside him, both of them grinning.

“What is your first command, our king?” someone in the crowd called.

Nero’s voice was lost in a sea of shouted suggestions. Aziraphale turned away, hoping not to get caught in the crossfire. The Saturnalia King of Mischief could command any party guest to do anything, usually within reason but not always. With all of Nero’s complaints about Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s continual distance, Aziraphale didn’t trust the boy with that kind of power at all.

“Io Saturnalia!”

Aziraphale jumped. Crowley, having successfully startled Aziraphale, grinned. It was a bit strained.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale snapped, flustered. Thank God he had already hidden the gift under the tree. His heart thudded in his chest, with no time to mentally prepare for Crowley’s proximity. He had gotten good lately at spotting Crowley before he himself was spotted.

“Just got here. What’d I miss?” Crowley looked around, contemplative.

“Nero’s coronation, for one,” Aziraphale said dryly, gesturing to the subject in question. Octavia was putting a crown of particularly garish laurels on his head, and the two of them were sharing a smile.

A puzzled tilt to his head, Crowley followed Aziraphale’s gesture — and then groaned loudly. “Oh no.”

“Oh no, indeed.”

He watched Crowley chew on his next words, looking between Aziraphale, the tree, and Nero giving out his first mischief-laden orders.

Crowley hefted a sigh. “I can’t believe he’s still miffed about—” Crowley gestures vaguely between himself and Aziraphale. “This. Enough to demand that we come to this big palace to-do.”

Aziraphale was torn between feigning ignorance to drop the subject, and answering honestly for a bit of camaraderie regarding Nero’s temper. The part of him that missed Crowley won our.

“I can believe it. We have had words at least once a month,” Aziraphale confessed. “And this coronation will only help him. I fully intend to give our King a wide berth tonight.”

Crowley laughed, bright and loud. “That’s not going to work, passer. When he wants something, he’ll have it.”

The familiar anxiety Aziraphale had grown used to seeing in Crowley’s spine was still there. The tightness in his smile. Aziraphale imagined his own very much matched it. In the absence of a parcel, Aziraphale fiddled with his hands.

“You’re in high spirits,” Aziraphale noted, a touch warily.

“And you’re talking to me normally. Saturnalia truly is a celebration of overturning the status quo!” Crowley’s hands spread wide.

Aziraphale made a face. “At least the sarcasm remains familiar.”

“Familiar as your dour brooding,” Crowley snipped back. “Fancy a game of Tali?”

Gambling was legal during Saturnalia as well. Of course Crowley enjoys this holiday. Probably cheats like Hell, too, Aziraphale griped silently, but mostly as a defense against the growing warmth in his chest.

He forced himself to look at Crowley in the sconce light, the flames gleaming off his black rims and touching his hair to canna-red. He soaked in those teasing curled lips, the pale skin highlighted by Crowley’s black and silver cenatoria that looked like nothing less than the night sky on canvas. If he closed their distance, he would be looking all night and never able to touch.

“Crowley,” he said seriously. “What are you doing?”

Crowley shrugged, with his practiced nonchalance. It sent a pang to the back of Aziraphale’s throat, seeing that return. Crowley looked at the tree, at the crowd around them, at the lights overhead, then back at Aziraphale with a gusty sigh.

“Showing you we can be normal.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “So we fucked up, fine. It’s been two year. Let’s be— well. You called me sodalis once,” he spat, like Aziraphale was threatening to snatch it away.

You did snatch it away, Aziraphale’s mind muttered, the traitor.

“I did.” Aziraphale hesitated. “You are.” How could he ever convince Crowley of the threat that faced them both? How could he convince Crowley that their ill-begotten bond was not something worth dying for? Crowley waited, his lips a thin line. When Aziraphale met his eyes through the unreadable black, Crowley’s eyebrows raised in a well then? manner.

“I do miss your company,” Aziraphale admitted, and watched the words wash over Crowley. The cautious smile he flashed made Aziraphale desperately miss the real thing. He wished he knew how to bring it back without killing him. He made himself envision Gabriel advancing on Crowley.

“We can try being normal,” he said, and hoped the wobble of his chin wasn’t too close to a confession.

“Alright, normal. Everything is normal,” Crowley said, nodding, looking vaguely relieved.

“Normal,” Aziraphale agreed, then laughed. “On Saturnalia.”

Crowley laughed along. “I’m glad you said yes because I got you something.”

Aziraphale blanched. Now I’ll have to show him what I got him, and then probably explain why I anonymously shoved it under the communal tree.

“Oh Crowley, you didn’t have to.”

Crowley rolled his eyes — Aziraphale was familiar enough with his accompanying head gesture to recognize it — and pulled out a solid wooden box about the size of a jam jar.

“Don’t look so frightened. You liked my gifts well enough before,” Crowley teased.

Aziraphale blinked and mentally skimmed the last several years. “Sorry. Err— when was this?”

Crowley quick smile was incorrigible. “Aboard the Rhenus.”

The sailors. The amulet. That embarrassing ring!

“What? Wh- why?” Aziraphale spluttered.

Crowley shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips. “Figured you’d be ticked about me showing up at Agrippina’s villa, thought I’d make it up to you.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to roll his eyes. “Telling me you were coming would be making it up to me— wait! You were on board the Rhenus the entire time?!”

“You never came down to the rowing deck, for the record.”

“Don’t tell me you had anything to do with the lovers’ spat down there.”

Crowley snorted. “Absolutely not. My comment should have been taken as the innocuous joke it was.”

“Heaven preserve me.” Aziraphale was smiling. He intended to continue the banter, but Crowley scratched his chin and looked away. He folded in on himself a little. “What is it?” Aziraphale asked.

“If you didn’t like the others, you’re not going to like this one. You’re going to fret, I just know it,” Crowley muttered. Then paused. “If this is too much…”

It was, a little. Aziraphale had effectively zero experience with gifts, it was simply not what angels did. He traded favors with humans, and with Crowley, and that was alright. He put a gift for Crowley under the tree without a tag because Crowley deserved to be cheered up after a rough year but Aziraphale didn’t want to deal with the From Aziraphale aspect of it.

But it was also Saturnalia. It was in public, but it was crowded, so they could stand together without too much risk.

“It’s not,” Aziraphale said, and gingerly took the box. It is! his mind cried when he registered the weight of the box. No stone gift could be inexpensive.

“Wait until you open it.” Crowley had been so forcefully casual, it was relaxing to see him falter to nerves. “It took some convincing— the artisan couldn’t stop laughing at first—”

Aziraphale opened the box and pulled aside the thin linen that bound the object. Inside sat what could only be a Sigillaria.^[44]

He gently took the terracotta clay figurine from the box, helpless to the flush blooming in his cheeks and running all the way down to his neck. The figurine was of himself, in the regalia he had worn while teaching Nero. Its hands were raised in gesture, explaining something. But what was most shocking, what made Aziraphale keep his eyes on the figurine and not dare look up, was the figurine’s wings. They were a near perfect replica of Aziraphale’s wings — Crowley would have had to explain them in meticulous detail for the artisan to produce this. To his knowledge, Crowley had only had time to study his wings twice: once during a screaming match a few years ago, and once on the Eastern Wall. He wasn’t sure which source of the intricate memory would puzzle him more.

White sparrows… in Scotland, Crowley had said. He had already been thinking of Aziraphale’s wings before Rome.

“Say something,” Crowley said, low and strangled.

This is too much! was the first thing that came to mind.

It’s perfect, was the next, but they both already knew that.

Followed by, Is this how you see me? The figure stood tall, poised, its wings relaxed and confident. The sort of angel Aziraphale would follow into battle.

I love it, and I love you. Aziraphale’s breath hitched. He let himself think it, and would never voice it. He was slowly realizing — letting himself believe — that Crowley would not hurt him with that information. But he would hurt himself, convinced even more that his infatuation was worth alienating Heaven and Hell.

What came out was “Crowley.”

The rest sat in his throat as a hard lump to swallow around. He held it there as wrapped his arms around Crowley, who jerked in surprise. He rested his chin against Crowley’s shoulder.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah. Well. You know.” The rest trailed off into muttering. Crowley tentatively put an arm around Aziraphale and from the weird twitching in his other shoulder, Aziraphale knew he was making some incomprehensible gestures with the other hand. “Glad you like it… angel,” he breathed, too softly for anyone to hear.

Aziraphale pulled away, putting the terracotta figurine back in its box, and cradled it to his chest. Crowley was brave, he could be too. “I have something for you too.”

Crowley smiled, still looking dazed. “Yeah? I was wondering why you were lurking around the tree so long,” he teased.

“I wasn’t sure if it was really the right idea. You just seem so— well, so unhappy, and I thought perhaps it would help,” Aziraphale confessed, retrieving the parcel from under the tree. “A… a reminder, I suppose.”

“Of?”

Aziraphale pushed the parcel at Crowley, who took it as gingerly as he had. Crowley carefully unfolded the red wool cloth — just some scrap from Agrippina’s seamstress — and held the parchment and leather object in his hands.

Crowley turned it over, and back again. Turned the leather layer to see the parchment underneath.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Well, you know how easy it is to damage scrolls just rolling them up and stuffing them places?” Aziraphale had been thrilled when Petronius told him about these objects. “They’re very short scrolls, flattened and glued at one end. And then the leather is laced through the glued side, and it keeps the first and last pages from being torn!”

“Huh.” Crowley hefted it in one hand, and then delicately traced the patterns etched into the leather cover. They were dots of stars in a familiar pattern.

“They’re going to be something really great someday,” Aziraphale said. “But— that’s not the present. Read it.”

Crowley flipped it open again. “‘Observations of Celestial Objects with the Seasons’?” he read aloud. He flipped to the next page, and the next. And paused.

Aziraphale knew what Crowley had seen, because he had commissioned it.

Crowley loved that humans paid attention to his stars, all stars really, and Aziraphale knew a celestial cartographer. Getting human star charts was easy. And then Aziraphale had gone into the Heavenly Records for a very particular list of stars. It was only a gut feeling, a niggling instinct, and Aziraphale followed it. When Crowley went on for some length about humans enjoying the stars and one day visiting them, he wondered if Crowley had a destination in mind. One day, Aziraphale had asked, and Crowley had answered: A few.

Aziraphale stood in front of the Records podium with a piece of parchment, and he wrote down the name of every star with a habitable planet.

Crowley ran a finger across golden ink lines, reverently, as if he was afraid to smudge them. Aziraphale had given the cartographer that list of particular stars in their Roman names, and told him to outline those stars in gold.

“You knew,” Crowley breathed, snagging on the last. He turned a page, then another, finding more gold. “Which ones.”

“I guessed,” Aziraphale corrected, looking away before Crowley’s reverence could start plucking at his heart. “All those planets are still there, safe and sound. At least for another thousand years. Just so you know.”^[45]

“I wonder if they could get there in a thousand years,” Crowley mused. Aziraphale heard the rustle of more turning pages.

Aziraphale laughed. “Patience, my dear. Maybe give them two or three.”

A soft thump as Crowley closed the leather binding. Aziraphale hazarded a glance back at him. His face was downturned, but his gaze was locked on Aziraphale and his yellow eyes shone over the glasses.

“I’m glad you like it.” Nearly a whisper.

“I do,” Crowley said, fervent. He cradled the book against his chest. “I do.”

Then he moved so he held the book in only one arm, and used the other to crush Aziraphale against his chest in a second hug. Aziraphale wheezed as the air left him, and Crowley laughed. His breath puffed against Aziraphale’s hair and sent gooseflesh rippling down his arms.

Carefully, Aziraphale pried his way free, but Crowley turned to keep a hand on the small of his back and regarded Aziraphale with something akin to adoration. Saturnalia was going to kill Aziraphale. He desperately wanted Crowley’s hand to stay there; just as badly, he needed it gone.

“Crowley,” he started, just this side of warning. We are trying to be ‘normal.’

Crowley dropped his hand. “Right.”

Aziraphale immediately looped his arm through Crowley’s. “But this is normal. Friends do this.”

It sounded like a pathetic excuse even to him, but Crowley beamed.

They stood there, looking at one another for far longer than friends did. Until Crowley coughed.

“Food, then?” he asked. He understood Aziraphale’s priorities. They both left their gifts – Aziraphale gently placing his box on top of the re-wrapped charts – safely under the tree again. Azirapahle also blessed them to seem wildly repulsive to anyone but the two of them.

Petronius had catered again, showing off even more than usual. The buffet had rare figpeckers marinated in peppered egg yolk and stuffed into peahen eggs. Beside it was an entire roasted boar, stuffed with quail and garnished with cake piglets. And his signature oysters, always oysters.^[46] Petronius stood proudly at the head of the table, hands on his hips, talking excitedly to a cluster of folks happily willing to talk to the man who was serving them the ocean to the sky.

Aziraphale and Crowley ambled up to him as Nero and his gaggle did as well. Octavia was on his arm, her smirk bright and sharp, but released him when they arrived at the table. Nero hardly noticed. Aziraphale found something odd about Claudius being so insistent that Nero and Britannicus consider one another brothers, while hoping his blood-daughter Octavia and Nero would marry. But the man had married his niece, so there were clear cultural differences between Aziraphale and Claudius.

“Amazing!” Nero was exclaiming as they all joined at the buffet. “Absolutely amazing.”

“Almost as good as the wine selection,” Crowley said. Nero glanced at him, then at their entwined arms, then up at Crowley with a triumphant smirk.

Mortified, Aziraphale tried to extricate his arm, and Crowley pinned it where it currently sat while reaching for an oyster. Crowley seemed to have acquired a taste for them, which delighted Aziraphale, who reached for one as well. He left his arm where it was, not inclined to fight for freedom all that much.

“Nero is right. You’ve outdone yourself, Petronius,” Aziraphale said, and Petronius grinned.

“So glad you like it, my boy.” He also grabbed an oyster and raised it like a toasted glass. “All in the name of Saturn’s generosity. Io Saturnalia!”

“All in the name of your gluttony,” Crowley muttered.

This time, Aziraphale did extricate his arm with a jerk. Crowley shot him a wounded look.

“What? I would know,” he pointed out.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“Truly, Petronius, this is astounding,” Aziraphale said, leaning toward the peahen eggs. “You’ve fit – the better part of a figpecker in there. How do you even come up with this?”

Petronius shrugged. “Peckers into eggs doesn’t take that much of a reach.”

Crowley snorted, and Petronius cracked a smile at him.

“Incorrigible,” Aziraphale muttered at both of them. Crowley preened at that, and Aziraphale longed to knock him down a peg for his earlier jab at Petronius. And the only thing more riling than praising Crowley is–

“I’m sure you’re quite good at such things, dear,” Aziraphale praised Petronius.

Petronius leaned a hand against the table, and slurped down his oyster. “I am. Fancy watching me sometime?”

“Is that the only available option?” Aziraphale asked demurely, doing everything he could not to laugh at Crowley’s increasing scowl.

“I’m always open to discussing options,” Petronius said with exaggerated raised eyebrows. Aziraphale did finally break at that, giggling.

Nero glanced between Aziraphale and Petronius, clearly intrigued. Before a serving boy swung by to gather the platter of empty shells and replace them with new ones – then Nero was far more intrigued. While Saturnalia was a celebration of roles being swapped, there were still folks that drew the short straw and still had to serve party guests.

Nero strode after the serving boy and intercepted him, chatting excitedly. The boy shook his head, puzzled, then laughed. Nero took the platter of empty shells, set it down on a nearby empty table, and took his arm as Aziraphale had taken Crowley’s.

Apparently, for the palace servants, there was one more long straw up for grabs.

☙ ☙ ☙

Hours later found them all at dinner, in the style of the times. An expanse of food sat at a low table, with couches making a tight ‘U’ around it. Folks would lay on their bellies and would easily be able to talk and eat without having to stand the whole time.

Nero sprawled on the tallest couch, with Crowley and Iulius close together on his right. Aziraphale, with Petronius, took the other side of the U. Crowley was drinking heavily and laughing; Nero was insisting he was an adult now and could drink as much as Crowley could. The giggling in his tone betrayed that he couldn’t quite do so without consequence.

“That’s unkind of you, Crowley,” Aziraphale chastised. “You have an unfair advantage.”

“A Byzantine liver — you caught me!” Crowley called back across the table. “I’m helping Nero train his up.”

Nero leaned in toward Crowley and whispered, shooting Aziraphale a foreboding glance.

Crowley laughed uneasily. “I’d rather not. As much fun as that may be for you.”

“If you say so.” Nero shrugged, and reached for more food. And then Aziraphale was making eye contact with Crowley again, as they both hadn’t helped to avoid much since they came to the dining table.

So far, Nero hadn’t given any particularly damning orders. Aziraphale winced at the thought. Well now I’ve jinxed it.

“I’m getting more wine!” Iulius announced, moving to stand up.

“Oh no you’re not!” Aziraphale sat up faster. “And force us to keep guzzling that rosemary conditura when there’s a plethora to choose from up there? I’m getting wine.”

He came back with two bottles dangling from each hand. “It’s called a selection, Iulius,” he said, justifiably haughty.

“Birds of a feather, you two are,” Iulius grumbled to Petronius, who laughed and then winked at Aziraphale.

“You know,” Nero announced. “Getting older shouldn’t make you so shy.”

Aziraphale’s skin prickled.

“Wise as you are just, King,” Petronius teased. “If a man wants to do something, I think he should.”

“You’re one to speak,” Nero shot back, and Petronius shrugged good-naturedly.

Nero looked around the table slowly. “Don’t think I don’t notice the eyes the men of my court make at one another! It’s been years and I tire of it.”

The prickle ran down his spine and coiled in his stomach, making him nauseous.

“Aziraphale, I order you to kiss someone here.”

Aziraphale was not going to look away from Nero, not for all the commendations in Heaven, not for all the seafood in Rome. He focused on Nero’s face until even his peripherals blurred.

“Who?”

Nero smirked. “Petronius.”

Aziraphale slowly set the wine bottles down on the table. “You’re incorrigible,” he muttered, heart hammering. With relief? With disappointment?

Aziraphale could feel the burn of his cheeks as he walked around the lounging couches toward Petronius, who was sitting up, a tempered smile on his lips. He felt absolutely ridiculous, with everyone watching. It was far worse than kissing Sabinus on— the night—

“You don't have to do this. I would not be offended,” Petronius said flippantly, teasing, but Aziraphale could hear the concern.

Aziraphale felt a pang of guilt. “You’re perfectly alright,” he reassured him. “It’s all in good fun.” Aziraphale wrung his hands for a moment, then let them drop to his sides. "Just festival fun," he repeated.

Off to the side, he could feel multiple pairs of eyes boring into them.

"Don't mistake my hesitation for altruism, my dear boy," Petronius said, eyes twinkling. "I fear I may wake tomorrow to Crowley holding a pillow over my face."

That earned a round of titters, and even Aziraphale let out a nervous laugh himself. Just as everyone had picked up on Messalina and Silius easily enough, so had they picked up on the strange twang between him and Crowley.

“I’ll protect you,” he joked, breathing in Petronius’ exhale with his mind on Crowley, and he pressed his lips against Petronius’. For such a bold man, his lips were pliant against Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale pressed in, his hands falling to the chest below him, meeting firm muscles from a lifetime of hefting heavy pans and bags of grain. He let his hands wander further down, across a belly round with the delights of Earth, and a shameless desire for them all.

Petronius ran his hands down Aziraphale’s sides, following the curves so similar to his own, and then firmly grasping Aziraphale’s hips, which bucked in surprise. The breath hissed between Petronius’ teeth, and his fingers tightened where they lay. Why are we doing this, again? Aziraphale wondered hazily, putting a knee between Petronius’ legs and settling his weight there.

“I said a kiss,” Nero interrupted. “Artemis, save us from the pair of you.”

Aziraphale jolted and looked up guiltily. Petronius pulled back, laughing, letting his forehead briefly fall to Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale felt a little struck himself.

They both returned to their respective couches, to the jeering of a few passers-by who had been watching, and Iulius. Then, then, Aziraphale allowed himself to glance in Crowley’s direction.

Crowley was slowly loosening his fingers from the wine cup clenched in his hands. What was previously a rugged beige clay was scorched black, with cracks running from base to rim. His eyes were locked on Petronius, where Aziraphale had just been. Then they darted to Aziraphale, who was carefully fixing his broach that had fallen askew, and making sure his corporeal form hadn’t gotten any ideas about making its reactions more known.

Speaking of corporeal forms– and humans– and Crowley and I being perfectly normal human Romans– Aziraphale glanced from Crowley to the cup, and restored it with a surreptitious hand motion before anyone could notice the hellbaked damage. But then Aziraphale had revealed that he’d noticed the cup, and Crowley noticed Aziraphale noticing the cup, and studiously did not look at him for the rest of dinner.

☙ ☙ ☙

“Okay. Alright. I could live with this.” A nervous tug at the toga. There wasn’t anything else to tug on nervously.

“Crowley, you look like a painting!”

“Oh shut up, Petronius.” A low grumble.

“You should tie up that red hair, or people will mistake you for Eos now.” Nero, laughing.

“Not Aphrodite?” Iulius joked.

“Okay I’m leaving now—”

“Well I don’t know,” Petronius pretended to seriously contemplate it. “Perhaps we should ask Aziraphale, as he would be better suited to know.”

“Bye!”

Petronius made a show of turning to shout out into the crowd, stumbling as he did so. “Aziraphale! Where are you?”

On the other side of the barrel rack, you drunkards. Aziraphale was honestly surprised he hadn’t been spotted in the gaps between the barrels, by Crowley if by no one else.

“I will go to your house and burn that blasted draft right now, I swear to Satan—”

“He’ll see soon enough anyway, dramatis—”

“Ooh, who?” Nero interrupted, always curious about a new foreign god.

“Never mind.”

“That sounds like a Parthian name. I told you he was from Parthia,” Iulius muttered to Petronius.

☙ ☙ ☙

Aziraphale glowered at the four polished and etched ankle bones that had just clattered to the table from his hand, displaying a six, a four, a three, and a sodding two.

Crowley laughed. “Another Senia roll for you, passer. Pay up!”

Long since too sozzled to be self-conscious, he lounged and let the toga fall where it would. The wide expanse of angled flesh fried Aziraphale’s nerves and was obviously messing up his Tali rolls.

Aziraphale all but threw four coins in the jar between them and continued to glower as he knocked back more wine. Roll a Canus (1,1,1,1) or a Senia (6, and any three random numbers), and you put money in the pot. Rolling four of any other number granted you immunity.

The goal was to take turns rolling until someone — in this case, damn it, Crowley again — rolled a Venus (6,4,3,1) and took the pot.

Both Aziraphale’s palms hit the table as he half-stood. “You cheat!”

A mock-wounded look. “I would never.”

“And a liar now, too.”

“To my oldest and dearest friend?” Crowley purred, barely restraining his laughter.

“And a shameless flatterer.” The beginning of an infectious smile.

It would be all too easy to lean over the small table and snog Crowley senseless until he confessed, the cheater. Crowley’s wolfish grin indicated that such a challenge would be more than welcome.

Aziraphale forced himself to sit back down, pointedly ignoring the flicker of disappointment across Crowley’s face.

“Take your winnings, fiend. We’re switching to Tropa.”

☙ ☙ ☙

Aziraphale had no idea what time it was when they were all gathered in one of the main seating areas again, lounging in loosely clumped couches. Nero, the slave boy Aziraphale had learned was Valerius, Petronius, and Crowley, were all drinking and debating lightly. Crowley had arranged himself so the toga was covering as much as possible – Aziraphale had never noticed Crowley didn’t actually like being that exposed in front of mixed company – but his obvious wine-buzz made him prone to not paying attention.

Nero’s orders had been getting more daring as the evening went, and Iulius had long since fled. So far, nothing had been explicitly the interfering Aziraphale had grown to fear from the boy, but there were certainly events that toed the line.

It was because of this that he winced when Nero said, “Crowley, would you say our Aziraphale here is a pious man?”

Aziraphale shot Crowley a desperate look, which Crowley returned with barely suppressed laughter.

“I would not, O King of Mischief.” His snicker was obvious behind the wine cup.

“He ought to practice,” Nero said in Aziraphale’s teaching tone, the years of being a litterator unforgotten. “Aziraphale–”

Oh, this is going nowhere good at all.

“I want you to pray to Crowley here, the nubile Eos he is.”

“Aphrodite,” Petronius put in demurely.

Aziraphale giggled nervously, already thinking of a hundred and one awkward ways an ill-phrased prayer could go. Just festival fun, he repeated to himself. His mantra for the evening.

He raised his wine cup. “Lauded Crowley, courtier of the night” –Crowley stopped laughing– “person of mischief and generosity, you embody the spirit of this holiday. We thank you for your stories, the light of your red hair, the delight of your banter.”

Crowley was blushing, mortified. Alright yes, this is fun. Aziraphale’s lips twitched. He didn’t have to be finished yet. “Spinner of tall tales, singer of heartfelt songs—”

“Oh ho, he sings?” Petronius interjected. Crowley shot him a you will forget this fact immediately glare.

“We thank you for your company in these long years.” Aziraphale knew he’d gotten a bit soft at the end. He would be embarrassed, except Crowley seemed far more so. The hand he had been resting his chin on was covering his mouth, and he pulled his knees up a bit, curling in protectively.

Petronius clapped politely and a few others followed suit.

“Such a loyal follower you have,” Valerius, Nero’s companion, murmured to Crowley, who raised his head long enough to glower at the man.

“I see what you mean, Crowley,” Nero said, looking down his nose imperiously at Aziraphale, the brat. Aziraphale’s stomach sank. “A good effort, but that was a toast, not a prayer.”

“Shall I burn a lamb at his feet?” Aziraphale raised his brows. “I’m afraid he would whine about the ash mussing up his hair.”

That earned a laugh around the table. Maybe Aziraphale could de-escalate this. But the gleam in Nero’s eye — of a cat who has spotted a wounded bird — told him it was unlikely. He sat in Nero’s contemplative silence, squirming. Something about this didn’t sit right.

“Perhaps a food offering would do!” Crowley suggested, only a bit raspy. “He could fetch me something.”

He really is a bad demon. Aziraphale thought fondly, relieved. No stomach for torment for very long.

“No, no.” There was definitely some spite to Nero’s tone. Aziraphale wasn’t surprised, but his worry deepened. Nero sat up and the others followed suit, including Crowley. “I think we ought to be a little old-fashioned this time. On your knees, as is proper.”

Aziraphale paled, and watched Crowley do the same.

“No, err no, I feel quite worshipped. Properly,” Crowley waved it off, his paleness quickly flooded with renewed color.

“I insist.” Nero grinned at Crowley.

Aziraphale stood up slowly, and Crowley’s gaze jumped to him. Aziraphale shrugged and flashed a self-depreciating, just play along smile. Joking wasn’t blasphemy, so it’s not like anything was a danger except to his dignity. Aziraphale felt a number of things for Crowley, he could admit that with a belly full of food on a silver crystal night, but none of them quite reached the level of ‘false idol.’

Crowley didn’t return the half smile. Well, it’s like every other time I’ve teased him with flattery. Nothing special about this time. He was glad he didn’t say that aloud; he was not that accomplished of a liar.

Aziraphale sank to his knees in front of Crowley, the cold of the tiles below nipping lightly through his tunica. Crowley sat stock still in the chair, fingers curled tightly against the ends of the armrest. He didn’t look like he was about to be worshipped; he looked like he was being walked to his crucifixion. Aziraphale sat all too stiffly at his feet, and probably didn’t look too worshipful himself.

It was utterly impossible for Aziraphale to kneel between those long, naked legs and not think of a previous time. At least Crowley had the sense to pool as much of his toga in his lap as he could.

Aziraphale thought frantically. He had to make this good, or Nero would prolong it. He had to make it honest, or it would be even worse for Crowley.

“Nero speaks truly of Eos, and of radiant light,” Aziraphale began, studiously looking at the tiles at his knees. “A light so bright, it must be concealed in black.”

His gaze went to Crowley’s, so carefully hidden behind his usual glass mask. “And revealed in words and deeds. In dreams– and wiles.” He half-smiled. Crowley laughed, breathless and entranced.

Then a blasphemous thought did cross Aziraphale’s mind, kneeling there. If God were to hear him, She would surely only hear a human game being played. Aziraphale would not be beholden to anything spoken. He could be honest with Crowley, perhaps for the first and last time.

“Get on with it, passer,” Crowley muttered.

He’d been quiet too long, struck by the wonder of that thought.

In rapid succession, he recalled Crowley’s particular affection for Apollo, and an older Apollonian prayer. One that he could say to Crowley, and mean it.

“I long for a future in which we are not bound in two planes,” Aziraphale said, hesitantly at first, but gaining strength as he saw Crowley’s dawning recognition. “I pray for peace, and for unity. To hear your music again – if you wouldn’t mind terribly, dear.”

He looked up into Crowley’s face, smiling. Beaming almost. A hint of moisture was gathering in his eyes, but he wasn’t sad, not right now.

Crowley’s eyes widened behind the sunglasses. “Ngk.”

How did the next part go? Oh, right. “In that future, I see a garden, laden with ripe fruit. A blue sea on which we ride the waves,” he recovered, remembering the Rhenus. “A home, filled with– with gladness. And many wine-drunk nights, and ridiculous conversation.”

“I’d like that,” Crowley said softly, no— reverently. He’s much better at praying than I am. Crowley’s fingers spasmed on the arm rests, as if he was reminding himself to keep them there.

“Gods don’t talk,” Aziraphale said quickly. He’d never make it through this if Crowley started replying.

Crowley stifled a laugh and nodded. Consciously – it was so hard to be this close to Crowley, in this sort of intimate position, without touching him – Aziraphale rested a hand on Crowley’s ankle.

“May time pass in your light” – Thousands of years of it, please– “and cast impurities from our past, as fire casts lead from gold.”

They were both quiet for a long time. Aziraphale was trying hard not to be mortified, was trying to at least enjoy the moment of peaceful honesty.

“There. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Nero said, smug.

Right. They were done now. Aziraphale stood quickly enough to stumble when he rose, and Crowley’s hand darted out to grab and steady him, reflexively protective as always. Aziraphale thanked him quietly and went back to his seat. Crowley excused himself with a mutter.

After long and terrible minutes of the conversation continuing cheerfully all around him, Aziraphale got up for some air.

☙ ☙ ☙

Aziraphale found another balcony – not the one where he and Sabinus had spoken. It was late, the moon high in the sky, but most of the candlelit windows of Rome were still bright. It was normal for Saturnalia to run late into the night.

He was not surprised when the curtain rustled behind him, and didn’t have to turn to know it was Crowley. What was surprising was the click-clack of glasses being folded up and put into a pocket. Now I really can’t turn around, Aziraphale thought.

“Just tell me this is hard for you too,” Crowley said softly. “Going back to what we were.”

If he came up behind Aziraphale, if he wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s middle and rested his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulders, Aziraphale knew he would break. He wished Crowley would, so he could break, and he wouldn’t have to feel guilty about all that would follow.

“I think it’s best if we don’t talk about it,” Aziraphale replied, breathing deeply. Crowley did come up behind him then, mirroring those deep breaths. They puffed against the back of his neck, raising the hairs there.

“I don’t,” he hissed. “I think this is far worse. I think you flew off the handle without telling me why, and we’re going to spend an eternity like this if we don’t talk.”

Aziraphale’s knuckles were white against the wrought iron railing. “What would you have me say?”

“Realistically, or idealistically?”

It was harder than anything else he did that evening to resist leaning back against Crowley, and Aziraphale couldn’t possibly expect himself to resist that and have this conversation. He leaned back.

“Realistically,” he answered, as Crowley curved an arm around his middle.

“The most important part would be, ‘I miss you. Let’s be friends.’” Crowley said. His other arm wrapped around Aziraphale too. “And then you’d suggest that we keep doing what we do for our Sides without stepping on each other’s toes, and I would ask if you’d still try to thwart me for old times’ sake, and you’d laugh and agree to it.”

Aziraphale curled his hands against Crowley’s, resting both sets against his belly. Aziraphale closed his eyes, let himself feel the warmth of Crowley’s barely-clothed body seeping through his toga, relaxing Aziraphale’s back.

“And idealistically?” he dared.

Crowley rested his cheek on the back of Aziraphale’s head, nuzzling the soft white hair he found there. “Idealistically, it would be, ‘I’m sorry I ran off. Come back to bed, and we’ll figure this out. Together.’” He took in a breath, like he wanted to add something, but instead released it as a sigh into Aziraphale’s hair.

He kissed the back of Aziraphale’s nape, making him shiver. Aziraphale turned in Crowley’s arms, Crowley loosened his grip just enough to let him, and their chests settled together. Out on the balcony, dressed only in a toga on Nero’s mischief orders, Crowley must have been freezing. Surely that’s what that light quivering in his face was, and in his hands. Aziraphalee looked into Crowley’s terrified stare and saw the longing he wasn’t hiding behind black glass as usual, saw the strength it took to be so composed. He saw yellow-orange turn to glittering topaz in the moonlight.

“You’re going to die,” Aziraphale said. There it was: the grand truth he’d been choking back for two years, the words held behind clenched teeth every time Crowley shot him a heartbroken glance. Crowley just blinked at him.

“Hell will destroy you.” Breath hiccuped in his chest, quivering against Crowley’s. Crowley began to blur from the tears in his eyes. “I would Fall, but you would be destroyed.”

“You won’t Fall, I’ll make sure of it.” Crowley’s arms tightened around him, defiant. “We’ll find a way to keep it a secret.”

“And if we fail, you die,” Aziraphale retorted. “And a crush is a stupid reason to die. Let me go.”

Crowley dropped his arms, but didn’t move back an inch. “That’s what you called it that night too.”

Aziraphale sniffed, and Crowley continued. “But that’s not all you said.”

Aziraphale had said a lot of things. He’d been exhausted out of his mind, terrified for Crowley, and barely remembered much of anything after leaving their bed other than Messalina’s body hitting the ground.

“Like what?”

“‘This is how love ends, in the real world,’” Crowley said, dangerously close to Aziraphale’s lips. Aziraphale winced, and they nearly touched.

“You didn’t mean to say that, fine. You– were just dealing with some corporeal hormones, okay.” Now Crowley’s voice sounded thick. “I don’t believe you, but I’ll stick to your story. Just be my damned friend again.”

“‘Damned friend,’” Aziraphale echoed in a cutting whisper.

The light in Crowley’s eyes flickered. “Bad phrasing.”

“I’ll say.”

“Stop dodging and answer the dam– the fucking question.”

“You didn’t actually ask me a question,” Aziraphale pointed out innocently.

Crowley growled, low in his throat. It sent heat coursing through Aziraphale’s veins, setting his nerves tingling before curling tightly in his groin. What was the point of this festival, if one didn’t do what one normally couldn’t?

He buried his fingers in Crowley’s long hair and Crowley arched against him, that long expanse of naked flesh so terribly close. He reached past Aziraphale and braced both hands on the railing behind him. There was a trembling instant where Aziraphale could have walked away, and spent a couple terrible years overthinking this conversation and cursing Satan with everything he had for dragging Crowley to a side that wasn’t Aziraphale’s.

Instead, Aziraphale kissed him.

Crowley pressed into Aziraphale with the sort of desperation Aziraphale thought he alone felt, of the two of them. He opened his mouth beneath Crowley’s, drinking those needy sounds with the sweet tang of the retsina Crowley had been nursing all night. He combed his fingers through Crowley’s hair, let himself savor the decadence. Wrapped his arms around Crowley, bundling up that mostly-naked body, and tried to shield him from the December chill. They kissed in silence for long moments. Mixed conversations and soft music played from still inside, on the other side of the curtain, but the night was quiet.

Quiet enough to hear Crowley’s whispered, “Amasius.” Lover. A rare word, old and altered now. One only heard it in literary tales now.

“Amicis?” Aziraphale corrected fuzzily, body and mind buzzing, his head lolling back. Friends.

“No.” Crowley’s mouth dropped to Aziraphale’s jawline, to his throat, tugging Aziraphale’s toga aside to nip his shoulder. “Amasius.”

They captured one another’s lips again, and this time Aziraphale’s hands fell to Crowley’s hips, as Petronius had done to him. They were so narrow, they fit neatly between Aziraphale’s palms, and it was easy to pull them forward until all of Crowley was flush with him. Crowley was stirring against him, his breathing shallow, and Aziraphale was responding in kind, slowly grinding together. It was going to reach a point where perhaps a balcony was inappropriately public, out in the open air, under the sky, under Heaven’s starry gaze–

Aziraphale turned his face away, unable to make himself pull backwards. “We can’t,” he moaned, starving in the desert and forcing himself to be all right with just a bite. “We can’t, we can’t. Stop.”

Crowley stopped kissing him, but as Aziraphale’s arms were still around him, he didn’t let go. “Me, stop? You started it,” he muttered, fond and breathless.

“I did,” Aziraphale confessed. “I did. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Crowley looked– conflicted. Distraught. Affectionate. How many more times am I going to do this to him? After a pause, he added, “Although you still haven’t explicitly answered–”

“Fine! Yes. You’re right, yes.” Aziraphale knew he was babbling. “It’s hard, Crowley. It’s hard, and I don’t want you to die, and I don’t want to Fall, and we still can’t do this.”

Crowley shot him perhaps the most dubious, unconvinced glance Aziraphale had received since he broke the news of The Flood.

“I mean it,” Aziraphale insisted. He couldn’t tell if Crowley was about to get angry again, or if most of the fight had been kissed out of him. It looked like Crowley didn’t know either, from those weary, glowing eyes.

“I have a few requests then.” Crowley did step back, finally. And then stepped back again, as if he was afraid he’d close the distance if he let himself dance too close. “And I’ll stop pushing.”

“You’ll stop pushing anyway, and I will consider your requests.”

A sconce blew out on the wall, suddenly casting Crowley in silhouette. His black cenatoria helped him melt into the darkness, and it made Aziraphale want to reach out and drag him back into the light. Aziraphale moved to close the distance, but Crowley stuck out a flat palm to stop him. With the other hand, he pulled his sunglasses back out and fiddled with them.

“Talk to me, if I do something wrong. Or if something scares you.” Crowley’s intent gaze pinned him. “Don’t just run off – tell me.”

“Yes, alright,” Aziraphale said readily. He grabbed the outstretched palm and Crowley let him, his arm going slack as Aziraphale tangled their fingers. “I’ll tell you.”

The gleaming eyes narrowed. “And warn me before you throw me out of your life again.”

Aziraphale’s throat dried. “I’m not going to do that again.”

The fingers in his suddenly became bony vices. If Aziraphale didn’t know better, he would say the snake-eyes glowing in the dark were wet. His were too.

“No, Aziraphale—”

“I won’t! Crowley I mean it, I will not—”

“Stop!” Crowley sounded pained. Overwhelmed, as tired as Aziraphale was. “I’m not in the mood for declarations. Just tell me if you’re going away again. If Heaven calls you, or if– if you just want to go away.”

Aziraphale breathed. Crowley was holding his breath, watching Aziraphale warily through wild hair. I did that, Aziraphale realized, surveying those tangled curls. The hand in Aziraphale’s quivered, and the lips just in front of his mouth curled. Aziraphale had to remember that under all the swagger and snark was this.

“I will. I’ll tell you.”

“Good.” Crowley breathed again.

Carefully, like bundling a porcupine into his arms, Aziraphale pulled Crowley into one last embrace of the night. There in the dark, Crowley rested his cheek on Aziraphale’s shoulder and Aziraphale pressed his face into Crowley’s hair. They couldn’t be anything but what they were then. For a moment, that was enough.

⁴³I just want everyone to know this is specifically a nod to the delightful AughtPunk, whom it would break my heart if they didn’t like this fic and who said, “I don't want historical political intrigue. I want to watch a group of people in ancient times debate the best way to cook chicken.” I adore you, Aught! ^{Return to text}

⁴⁴These expensive clay figurines were a popular and traditional Saturnalia gift, usually reserved for family and lovers. Sigillaria took the form of humans or animals with significance to the receiver of the gift. They took a long time to design and to craft, and while many were sold at temporary Saturnalia markets, most were commissioned in advance of the holiday. Some say they were a lingering reminder of the sacrifices once burned for Saturn. ^{Return to text}

⁴⁵Almost exactly a thousand years later, one quite suddenly wasn’t after its host star erupted. But that is another story. ^{Return to text}

⁴⁶So popular was this spread with the guests, the meal was later featured in the Satyricon. ^{Return to text}

Chapter Text

Dramatis Personae

Sextus Afranius Burrus: prefect of the Praetorian Guards, and leader of the cohort specifically responsible for guarding the palace and the emperor’s family. Despite initial misgivings, he soon became an advisor for Nero, and a very politically powerful man.

Glossary

asclepeion: healing temples that were the precursor to early hospitals, dedicated in name and need to the god Asclepius. While many of their methods would be relegated to “faith healing” today, just as many were effective techniques that regularly saved thousands of lives. They promoted overarching healthy lifestyles, as opposed to treating specific ailments. However, priests of these organizations were capable of cleansing abscesses and removing foreign bodies such as arrowheads while their patients pseudo-slept under doses of opium.

circus: a large open-air venue for public events, many of which specifically designed for chariot racing. However, their usage expanded to other athletic games of the time period.

decennium: a period of ten years.

millennium: a period of one thousand years.

thermopolium: a precursor to ‘fast food.’ Any eating establishment that quickly served hot food to guests passing through.

Chapter Fourteen: all that my heart longs for, fulfill

Circus Maximus, Rome || May, 51 AD

There were a few things Agrippina would not do for her son, and one of them was tending the horses. Nero was thirteen and old enough for the races. Agrippina reluctantly supported his chariot racing, but she despised horses, so she always met Nero at home after a race. It gave Aziraphale and Crowley time to spend with Nero in the stables without her criticisms riling him up.

Nero was angrily currycombing the sweat off his fourth horse, a gray dapple mare, while his slaves changed out the hay and fetched grain sacks. He had come in third in the race, and had taken it as a personal slight.

“I didn’t practice nearly enough this month! Fucking Burrus. Wanting hours of military strategizing and budgeting with my dear father, and I must sit and observe.” He tossed down the comb, and a slave picked it up and put it in the supply bag. “Make Britannicus do it. Surely that wet blanket is good for something?”

Crowley’s legs swung from where he sat on the stable gate, as far from the horse as he could be while still ‘inside’ the stable. The mare eyed him warily. “Some days just aren’t your day. You saw Marius was driving stallions, right? You know those crazy things will turn on him one day, but today he won. Your day is coming.”

Nero shrugged.

“I wish you’d find some commonality with your new brother,” Aziraphale warned.” Whichever of you succeeds your father, you must look out for each other.”

“I don’t see why I still need lessons if you’re not my litterator anymore,” Nero ground out.

Crowley laughed. “I still get ‘lessons,’” he said. “That’s just part of knowing Aziraphale.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said dryly.

“As if I don’t get enough of that from Seneca— and my mother.” Nero whirled on them, arms crossed. “She’s running every corner of my life. ‘Dress this way, make this ally. Be nice to your father,’” he said in a poor imitation of Agrippina. “The only thing we agree on is Brittanicus, the worthless lump.” He shot Aziraphale a look. “I will be the one who succeeds Claudius.”

The mare nibbled at Nero’s short hair, and his face softened as he turned back to her.

“Then you’ll need your brother’s support,” Aziraphale said amicably. “People will protest your ascension because you are not a blood relative of Claudius’.”

“He’s my great-uncle. There will still be an Augustus on the throne,” Nero retorted as he gently patted the mare’s nose farewell and unlocked the stable gate. He and Aziraphale stepped out into the long barn.

Crowley swung down off the rail and the three of them set off down the double-row of dozens of horses in stalls. They stopped in front of a stable that was just opening as they arrived. The stableboys led out a white gelding, who tossed his head and sent luxurious white hair tumbling; he was perfect for a parade horse, especially a parade as significant as this.

Nero surveyed his ride. “Good. He’s suitable for the job. I’m off to get ready.” He turned back to Aziraphale and Crowley. “See you two at the speech?”

“Absolutely,” Aziraphale answered, and Crowley nodded. The horse was led off to where the parade was being prepared, Nero began walking to his carriage back to the palace, and angel and demon went off to find seats.

☙ ☙ ☙

The first parade of the heir to an emperor was a huge affair. It began at the palace and ended at the forum, where the heir would give a speech about his vision of Rome’s future. For Nero, it also served as his declaration of a more autonomous adult, and an independent political figure from his family.

Aziraphale and Crowley wanted to watch the speech and meet Nero after the parade, so they found seating at the forum. Large wooden bleachers had been set up where sellers usually pitched their tents and tables, and easily a thousand people had been arranged up and down the forum.

Trumpeting noise and the thunder of a host of horses parading up the street preceded Nero’s arrival. First came Burrus astride a monstrously large chestnut gelding, leading the emperor’s personal guard. The guards spread out into a ‘V,’ and in the center of the cleared space Nero rode in the center of the cleared space.

He wore a beige-white undyed wool toga with a wide purple border, called the toga of manhood. It announced him as not only a citizen, a man of his own right who could vote and own property, but also as one of high birth and influence. The parade did not officially announce Nero as an heir, but effectively announced him as ‘in the running’ alongside his siblings.

Close behind him rode his two siblings, Octavia in the traditional glistening white toga and Britannicus who – was also wearing a white toga? Aziraphale leaned in, puzzled, and felt Crowley mirror the motion.

“Is that–?” Crowley asked.

“It must be.”

Crowley whistled, low and unhappily. “He really does not like Brittanicus.”

“What would make Claudius agree to do that?” Aziraphale wondered. The white toga marked Britannicus as a mere child.

While such a parade shouldn’t announce Nero as the official heir, this one certainly was.

“Agrippina, obviously,” Crowley said, frowning.

They weren’t the only ones muttering as Nero rode past, followed by a carriage carrying the emperor and his wife. Most of the crowd was stirring, puzzled, as they stared at Britannicus. Many of the voices were pitying, but just as many were disparaging. Nero was not a popular heir – not his own fault, but rather because most of the populous greatly disapproved of Claudius’ incestuous marriage and Nero’s subsequent adoption.

A stage with a podium had been set up at the end of the parade route, and people at the far side of the bleachers climbed down to stand beneath it and listen.

Emperor Claudius spoke first about his vision of Rome, what it had accomplished during his reign, and a bit about his family history. Perhaps he ought to have gone easy on that part, Aziraphale though, watching the crowd stir again, looking between the emperor and his niece. Well– the emperor and his wife.

“–And Nero shall be given pro-consular authority outside the capital, under the title Prince of the Youth of Rome.” Claudius continued.

The Greek of the title was a bit rough, a string of words never heard together before, thrown together as a new concept by the senate, Aziraphale suspected.

“And now, my son, Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus!” Claudius announced, sweeping out an arm toward Nero. He joined his father at the podium, Octavia glowing on his arm.

“Thank you, Father. You honor me, you honor Rome!” He turned to the crowd, which cheered.

“But first, might I make an announcement?” he asked Claudius, projecting loudly so the crowd could still hear him. Claudius looked out across the crowd, and back to Nero. They’d obviously rehearsed this.

“You may. What have you to tell us?” Claudius asked.

Octavia dropped her arm from Nero’s and took his hand.

Aziraphale glanced over to see Crowley suppressing a frown to the best of his abilities.

“Octavia and I are marrying this coming month!” Nero announced. “The future for Rome will be made possible by our partnership.”

At that, people cheered far more enthusiastically, crying Octavia’s name and Long live Augustus!

Ah, that’s the plan, Aziraphale realized.

“That’s the actual stake to the heirship,” Crowley muttered. “Britannicus is irrelevant.”

“I still feel bad for the boy,” Aziraphale said. “He’s in for a rough life.”

Nero’s speech continued. It was here that his lessons from the theatre troupe and from Seneca really shone. He discussed the plights of Rome, the growing need for even more agricultural infrastructure, the oncoming war with Judea and the ongoing war with Britain. The empire sat on the backs of the working people, he declared.

Aziraphale watched him fascinate the crowd against their will. After Claudius, who was a good man but quite old and stuttering, someone young and outspoken was appealing. It was easier to picture Nero as the military head of the Roman Empire.

Nero finished by giving a generous donation to the soldiery from the imperial bank accounts, both for their sacrifices in the last decade and the many unfortunate sacrifices to come. He then moved on to giving presents to the city populous from the same accounts: new mechanical looms to the best clothworkers in the city, clepsydras and parchment to the public schools, medicines to the overburdened asclepeions.

Nero glowed as representatives of these groups came onto stage to ceremoniously collect their gifts while the actual gifts were shipped to their locations. He seemed thrilled to be helping, and Aziraphale smiled while he watched.

Crowley crossed his arms. “Well, you did it, passer. A little temperamental, but that’s probably just puberty. He’s a good kid.”

“We did it,” Aziraphale, giving him a warm look.

Crowley preened.

“I don’t like how this Britannicus situation is developing, however–”

“Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale glanced over to see Crowley looking exasperated beyond measure.

“Enjoy this,” Crowley insisted. “For at least thirty minutes. You’re killing me.”

“I’m enjoying it,” Aziraphale protested.

“You’re already worrying about the next thing. Be happy.” He reached out and gave Aziraphale’s arm a shake. “Caligula is long gone, Claudius tried his best, and now Nero will make it even better. Rome’s bloodthirsty days can start to fade into history.”^[47]

Aziraphale sighed. Crowley was probably right: it was just puberty turning Nero’s temper so sharply.

He looked up, watching Nero beam as he gave away untold sums of the imperial wealth, that Caligula had guarded jealously and Claudius had mostly ignored. He thought about the shy four-year-old he met in a garden so many years ago, glaring at a clepsydra. He remembered Nero screaming at Britannicus as the young boy flinched. He recalled walking to the saecular games together, and the first time Aziraphale and Nirah had taken Nero dressed as a young maiden. He remembered Nero cackling at the head of a dinner table at people doing his bidding.

“I can hear the milling wheels grinding in your head, passer.” Crowley said. “Come on, let’s steal our future emperor for some celebratory drinks.”

☙ ☙ ☙

Banks of the Tiber River, Rome || August, 52 AD

Another year passed without trouble. Rome continued to thrive under Claudius. Aziraphale spent time with Nero at the races and the theater, and he regularly saw Crowley. Nero would ask about Crowley and him occasionally, but as the two of them were more friendly now, he didn’t press. There were moments sometimes, when Crowley would lean in or Aziraphale would reach out with a gentle touch, and it would be a hard couple of days. Then it would pass, as quickly as the aftershocks of their just-as-frequent squabbles, and it would be easy again. They were on an upswing when Crowley invited him to the walk the Tiber, the long river that wound through Rome.

The night sky was wide and clear, the glittering stars rivalling the window lights of the city around them. Crowley was walking slightly ahead, his sandals dangling from his long fingers and his toes sinking into the wet clay framing the Tiber on either side. Aziraphale had taken off his sandals as well, and the clay was cold and soft and perfect. As was Crowley.

“We did well,” Crowley murmured, looking over his shoulder at Aziraphale. He had really gotten into the we of it, after Nero’s parade.

It was only the two of them now, and Crowley had taken off his sunglasses. Aziraphale soaked in that warm, bright gaze and nodded in agreement. It was so rare and so precious to see Crowley relaxed and pleased with himself.

Even Crowley’s greatest accomplishments came with a twinge of self-consciousness. Aziraphale felt his own Are they watching? anxiety leak away. He picked up his pace a moment to reach Crowley’s side. And not a moment too soon, because the demon slipped in a silt layer. This time it was Aziraphale who instinctively shot out an arm and Crowley who caught it.

They stayed there like that, Crowley’s long fingers curled around Aziraphale’s bicep and forearm until he found his footing. Crowley laughed at himself, the sound light and easy, bereft of its usual bitter or teasing edge.

“Thank you,” Crowley said softly, releasing Aziraphale’s arm, and Aziraphale immediately missed the touch.

“I brought something,” Aziraphale said quickly, reaching into his satchel and drawing out a corked clay jug of mulled wine. “A celebration of sorts – to a long decade.”

Crowley grinned. “Good idea. It has definitely been the longest I’ve been in one place.” He took the jug, uncorked it, and held it up to breathe in the earthy spices.

He held up the jug in a toast, “To putting down roots!” he announced, his new turn of phrase sounding decently catchy in Latin, and drank.

Aziraphale laughed and took the jug back, taking a swig himself. “You and your inventions,” he teased.

“Well it’s like plans, you know, when they get good and settled—”

“Yes, yes, I get this one.”

They walked side-by-side, quiet and content. Overhead, clouds started to close over the sky and Aziraphale – not gifted with Crowley’s night vision – had to see by the lights of the city. He tucked the jug back into the satchel so he wouldn’t drop it from tripping on the uneven ground.

Crowley veered to the side to walk in the shallows, wine-happy and playful, the water of the Tiber lapping at his ankles. His sandals still dangled from his fingers, only half-remembered. Aziraphale stayed on the dryer clay, trying not to giggle too much as he waited for the inevitable result of Crowley’s saunter on submerged silt. When Crowley’s foot slipped from beneath him, nearly tumbling him into the water, Aziraphale’s hand darted out and grabbed Crowley by the elbow to steady him. He slid his grip from Crowley’s elbow to his hand as he self-consciously found his footing, wobbling slightly from the wine.

“I think I ought to hold onto this so you don’t drown,” Aziraphale teased, raising their clasped hands and squeezing.

Crowley looked from their hands to Aziraphale’s face, his honeygold eyes dangerously fond. “I think you ought to as well,” he replied, low and soft, and Aziraphale’s unnecessary heart fluttered.

“Crowley–” he began cautiously.

Crowley silenced him with a squeeze of their hands. “Hey. Alright, not tonight. I’ll be… good,” he offered, with a gentlemanly air and more-or-less straight face.

“That will be a first.” Aziraphale meant it as a barb but it came out a little breathless.

It was all right because Crowley’s laugh was breathless too. “Welcome to earth, passer. Meet new people, try new things.”

“I have gotten to know some wonderful people,” Aziraphale said, pretending to look out across the water but watching Crowley through his peripheral vision. “Petronius, for example–”

He tried not to grin too broadly at Crowley’s huff of annoyance and failed spectacularly. Crowley glared at him, realizing he had been deliberately needled.

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley groused, not releasing Aziraphale’s hand.

“Never,” Aziraphale promised, holding tight to Crowley’s hand as well. “You like him, at least a little.”

“I do,” Crowley admitted.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by Rome buzzing in the background and the Tiber sloshing against its shores. Along the river were various houses, some occupied and some left to fall apart and slip into the water. One such abandoned building had lost almost all of its structure except a steep tiled roof slanting over a tiled floor, encircled by a crumbling brick wall. Aziraphale turned to Crowley, who was looking up, frowning and contemplative. The sky rumbled a warning.

A couple drops hit Aziraphale’s hair, one of which slid down the back of his neck and he shivered.

“We should probably get under a roof,” Crowley suggested, looking around.

The abandoned building suddenly looked extremely inviting. They shared a quick glance and made a run for it, wincing as the rain picked up. By the time they both dove under the dripping roof, rain was coming in a downpour.

Crowley watched it from the doorway, scowling. “This was not the plan.”

Aziraphale looked around the building. It wasn’t so bad. A good sweeping, perhaps some patches on the roof, and it could be downright comfortable. He snapped his fingers downward, and the dust and cobwebs vanished. The roof stopped leaking, and there were some new, tiny sconces lining the grey brick wall.

Crowley looked over his shoulder and regarded the room. He snapped upwards and lit the sconces, as Aziraphale had privately hoped he would. A smug little smile told him that Crowley had caught that private hope.

Aziraphale sat cross-legged in the middle of the tiny room. It must have been someone’s private temple at one point, but dedicated to whom Aziraphale did not know.

“What was the plan?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley crossed his arms and didn’t answer. Didn’t even leave the doorway. He looked as if the rain had been specifically sent by God to ruin his night, and that he considered that a low blow after the Falling bit.

“Stop pouting and come drink with me,” Aziraphale chastised.

Crowley did, reluctantly. Aziraphale pushed the retsina jug at him. Crowley took it and gently uncorked it.

“You would have needed more of this to agree to it,” Crowley confessed, and took a long draught from it.

Aziraphale’s brows rose. “Try me.”

“There’s a swimming hole where the river forks off. It’s surrounded by rocks so there’s hardly any current. Nero and Velarius went down there a while back with some friends — have you met his new one, Otho?” The last part was tacked on quickly, while Crowley busied himself straightening his slightly damp toga.

“I haven’t. Also,” Aziraphale was not to be distracted. “Swim? In this?” He tugged at his tunica.

Crowley looked up, eyes glittering. “No.”

Aziraphale swallowed. “Just a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” he teased, clasping his hands so they didn’t do anything embarrassing, like shake, or pull Crowley into his lap.

Crowley leaned back, all poise and nonchalance. “I’d be fine, angel. I can look without touching.” He looked down at the retsina jug and, as a quiet afterthought, “Been doing it for a millennium. I can easily keep doing it.”

Aziraphale balked. “Sorry?”

“Nnh— I said I’ve been doing it for a decennium,” Crowley corrected quickly.

“Oh.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to do with that. Crowley hunched, embarrassed and caught, and folded his arms. Aziraphale didn’t want to leave him to stew in it, or the evening could sour. He needed to offer a little vulnerability in return.

“Maybe I wouldn’t be,” Aziraphale suggested.

“What?”

“Maybe I wouldn’t be fine.” He dragged the jug to himself and took a drink from it, unable to resist a coy glance over the rim.

Crowley looked up at the ceiling as if in prayer, and then out to the rain. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why?” Aziraphale infused it with as much innocence as he could manage.

Crowley glared.

Aziraphale looked away. He supposed that was more teasing than comfort. Six months prior, he’d had a similar moment. They had been at a special thermopolia, where a large pan was kept hot at the table and servers brought out raw meat so one could cook it however one liked. Aziraphale couldn’t get the hang of it, but Crowley learned fast. In the middle of the evening, showing off, he’d skewered a piece of spiced pork from the pan and held it up to Aziraphale’s mouth with the most breathtaking triumphant grin.

It nearly sent Aziraphale to tears, and Crowley asked what was wrong. Aziraphale had said, It’s still hard. Being good. And Crowley had lowered the fork.

Did my face look then like Crowley’s does now?

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, and pushed the jug back toward Crowley.

Crowley shrugged and took the peace offering.

“We’re gonna be stuck here a while,” he noted, as the sky rumbled even louder. He glanced over with a quick grin, trying to lighten the mood. “Unless you have another spare wing to hide under.”

Aziraphale smiled back. “Two, actually.” He quickly sensed out the local area for any potential humans and found none. No one would be out in weather like this. The coast clear, he unfolded his wings from the ether. He had to curve them slightly to prevent running into the crumbling walls, but they fit.

Crowley jumped back, surprised, then smirked at him. “They’re always so much neater in my imagination.”

Aziraphale frowned, offended. “They’re— fine.” He extended them a bit, examining them. Certainly many of the feathers were ruffled, a couple a bit misaligned, but it’s not as if they were dirty. “They’re perfectly normal.”

“Hmm,” Crowley disagreed.

“Go on then. Let’s see your impeccable wings,” he huffed.

With a laugh, Crowley unfurled them. And they were, damn him, impeccable. Every glossy feather was perfectly laid into place, sitting in neat rows, groomed to shining. If they’d ever been dirtied or fluffed, it was impossible to tell.

Except— Oh it was hard not to laugh, with Crowley sitting there proud as a peacock— except two of the secondaries on his left.

Aziraphale shook his head solemnly. “Not perfect.”

“What do you mean?” Crowley asked, affronted, curving his wings over his shoulders to inspect them.

“Right— there,” Aziraphale pointed and Crowley outstretched the offending wing toward him. Aziraphale reached out to touch the crooked feathers. “See?” He combed his fingers through the downy tufts once, twice — definitely not snickering at Crowley’s wide golden stare — and straightened them.

“There you go,” Aziraphale said, satisfied. He pulled back his hand. After a pregnant pause, Crowley withdrew his wing.

“I could return the favor,” Crowley offered, failing spectacularly at an airy tone.

Probably a bad idea. “It would take you quite a lot longer than it took me,” Aziraphale joked, unable to help the panicky edge in it.

“Gives us something to do, other than sit and watch the rain,” Crowley said.

On one hand, Aziraphale wanted to protest because he quite liked just sitting and talking with Crowley. But on the other, lately that had led to awkward conversations and terrible silences, and so they’d silently agreed to only do that if there was an activity of sorts. Something to busy their hands with during those long pauses. Hence, outings like the earlier hot pot.

“Well when you put it that way.” Aziraphale’s half-hearted protest crumbled. He really hated the monotony of tending his feathers, and if Crowley enjoyed it, then Aziraphale was more than happy to let him.

“Turn around,” Crowley said, scooting back.

Aziraphale settled back, letting his wings sit in a relaxed spread.

“So I had a fun temptation the other day,” Crowley started, running a hand down the upper edge of a wing, shoulder to primaries.

Aziraphale’s shoulder spasmed. “That’s not grooming.”

“Right.” Crowley sounded distracted. “Just. Thinking where to start.” He laughed, a little forced. “They’re just so messy.”

“Oh hush. What was your temptation, then?”

Just shoptalk. Shoptalk is easy.

Crowley started on the lesser coverts, on the ‘wrist’ of Aziraphale’s wings, combing his fingers through them to untangle their strands, and then deftly aligning each one.

“I checked out the epoxy your cartographer used on the ah— that leather thing you got me. Pretty powerful adhesive.” He braced one hand on the wing’s wrist as he smoothed the strands of Aziraphale’s downy feathers. It sent tingles racing through Aziraphale’s every nerve, and Crowley’s fingers tightened as Aziraphale’s wing helplessly twitched.

“Oh no.” It was closer to a moan than Aziraphale would have liked. “What did you do?”

“I spawned an aureus. And epoxied it to the counter of a popina in Aventine.”

“Not—?” Crowley’s fingers fell, tender, on Aziraphale’s primaries. Those warm fingers dragged down one long primary then the next, smoothing the threads of the feather and turning Aziraphale’s bones to jelly. “Not a— needier neighborhood?” Aziraphale managed.

“Nah. See, people in the harder side of town have things to do. They’ll walk right by a weird coin as soon as they can’t pick it up. But people with all afternoon to drink and chat? They’ve got nothing better to do than to try to pry that thing off.”

Aziraphale’s head lolled back and Crowley steadied him with a searing hand on his shoulder.

“So how many fist fights did you cause for a golden coin? All that sinful greed and anger.”

Crowley’s thumb absently stroked Aziraphale’s shoulder, and then dug into a knot it found there. Aziraphale did moan then, falling back and surprisingly hitting Crowley’s chest. It had been closer than he’d expected.

“Just– just the wings, please,” Aziraphale said, sprawled embarrassingly against Crowley’s torso, practically in his lap, and helpless to do anything else. His wings curved around him, primaries reaching toward his toes, to prevent getting crushed between their bodies.

There was a prolonged silence in which there was a flash-crack of lightning outside, and thunder rolling directly overhead. Aziraphale chanced a peek at Crowley. He was sitting very still with his eyes closed.

“Crowley?”

“Yeah. Yes. Just the wings.” Crowley agreed, removing his hand from Aziraphale’s shoulder. He opened his eyes, reaching for the left wing, and started aligning the feathers he could easily reach without moving Aziraphale.

“It wasn’t about greed or anger,” he said, as if there’d been no interruption. “See, give a human an unsolvable problem such as, say, an enhanced epoxied coin on a countertop, and they will still seek a solution.”

He stroked the wrist of the left wing, plucked a long-dead feather sticking out oddly, and smoothed down its neighbors. Crowley’s knees pressed into Aziraphale’s hips on either side, definitely working closer than needed. When Azirphale stole another glance, he saw Crowley looking at Azirapahle’s wings with a quiet intensity. Given the particular light in Crowley’s eyes, Aziraphale would have expected him to make a move, lean down and kiss him, or at the very least say something untoward. Aziraphale’s whole body jittered, poised on the edge in anticipation for it.

“But now take that concept, and apply it to not just one human but several,” Crowley continued, hands diligently working. “Upper class men, who think themselves philosophers, and who frequently consider themselves the smartest person in any given room.”

Aziraphale’s heart hammered. Harder than it did during their first night together, during the fight in which Aziraphale last saw Crowley’s feathers, during the kiss on the balcony. The focus Crowley had on Aziraphale’s wings, tending them feather by feather, was more loving than Aziraphale could have imagined. The tenderness with which he smoothed every strand of every feather was beyond anything Aziraphale thought possible from Crowley.

“You should have seen them, passer. Spent more time arguing and cutting down each other’s ideas than it would have taken them just to try them all.” Crowley chuckled, the sound low against the back of Aziraphale’s neck. “Pride incarnate.”

Si vis amari, ama, Seneca had said. If you want to be loved, love.

And he had been right, damn him. Crowley, for once, did as he was advised and had been unbearably patient and considerate, as much as a demon really could. He had been the entire past year, since Saturnalia. Hadn’t done anything close to a temptation — in fact, really it had been Aziraphale making things difficult as of late.

“All done,” Crowley announced.

Aziraphale tucked his wings against his back and turned to Crowley, heart climbing into his throat. Outside, there was another flash-crack and an answering roar.

“Thank you,” he said. For the grooming. For the kindness.

“You don’t seem happy,” Crowley said, confusion coloring the neutral poise he was clearly working so hard to maintain.

“I am,” Aziraphale said. He fluttered his wings experimentally. “It feels a lot better.”

He reached out to Crowley’s wings, still out and loosely curving around them, and ran his hand across the sleek feathers. Not even sure what he wanted to accomplish.

Crowley pulled his wing away and grabbed the wine jug. “You can’t do that with mine, they’re too sensitive.” He quirked a self-deprecating smile. “I might do all sorts of embarrassing things. Break the rules.”

He drank. Aziraphale blinked at him. He heard the warning note in Crowley’s tone, and yet, “But you haven’t.”

Crowley shrugged jerkily. “Didn’t need to. Still got my hands all over an angel,” he joked, making incomprehensible motions with one hand. That was something Aziraphale had noticed the past year: Crowley fell back on a pretense of lust as self-defense.

“Crowley, be serious.”

“What would you have me say?” An edge creeped into Crowley’s tone. “I’ve gotten the hint. You don’t want to hear half of what I think, or know half of what I want to do.”

Flash-crack, and the lightning blazed in Crowley’s eyes for one blinding moment. Aziraphale had to wait for the roaring thunder to pass before replying. It gave him a moment to process that perhaps Crowley didn’t have the slightest how Aziraphale felt.

“Like what?”

“You know what I want most, at this moment?” Crowley leaned in, holding the jug cork in two white-knuckles fists. “I want to leave.”

Aziraphale jolted, but Crowley continued, “I want to pick one of those golden planets you found, pack up, and I want us to both go back to our head offices, find the correct door to that planet, and leave. With you.”

“Run off together?” Aziraphale frowned. “You can’t think Heaven would let me do that.”

Aziraphale swore he could see the sod Heaven just behind Crowley’s lips. “It’s not like Hell will be okay with me playing hooky either,” he said instead. Aziraphale had no idea what that meant, but from contextual clues, he could get the idea. Neither Heaven nor Hell would be alright with it.

“No, Crowley. They’d find us eventually,” he touched Crowley’s knee, and forcibly caught and held his gaze. “They would destroy you for it.”

“I knew you wouldn’t want to hear it.”

Aziraphale’s heart had barely slowed. It would be all too easy for his longing right now to curdle into frustration. “Maybe we should avoid being together alone.”

“You don’t trust me.” Crowley’s eyes glittered.

“I don’t trust either of us,” Aziraphale protested, in a moment of rare candidness.

That seemed to startle Crowley.

Aziraphale sat up on his knees, leaning in toward Crowley. A part of him, larger than he would admit, wanted to push Crowley onto his back and think about this whole situation in an hour or so.

“You don't know how hard it is to see you every week,” Aziraphale said, “to have you look at me and— and touch me like this, and keep going about as normal.”

“I do, intimately.”

“Then you must know where this is headed,” Aziraphale said desperately. “You must know how impossible it could be to stop this, if we keep dancing this close to it.”

“So don’t,” Crowley said, low and dangerous.

Don’t dance so close, or—? Aziraphale wanted to ask. But his tongue was tied. Crowley’s hands had slid to Aziraphale’s elbows and Aziraphale was being pulled gently forward into Crowley’s lap. Aziraphale had a moment of fretting, a brief flicker that his broad form would uncomfortably burden Crowley’s lanky legs, but it appeared to be the last thing on Crowley’s mind.

Crowley’s hands went to cradle Aziraphale’s face, when Aziraphale’s weight settled on his thighs.

“This is not a crush,” Crowley said, poisonously soft, years of offense snagging in his throat.

Aziraphale really was a shoddy liar. “Yes, I know.”

What was one supposed to do with their hands, in someone’s lap?

Crowley curved his wings around them both, his primaries almost tangling with Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale could feel the touch travel through Crowley like an electric shock, his body shuddering under Aziraphale’s. He reached over Crowley’s shoulders and buried his fingers in downy black feathers.

Almost as if called, the lightning cracked again outside. It shone in Crowley’s eyes, wide and vulnerable and adoring. Aziraphale couldn’t imagine what his own face was doing, but whatever it did broke Crowley’s resolve.

Aziraphale had initiated the kiss during their last two falls to temptation. Crowley took the reins for their third.

He pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s like he was handling spun glass. It was as heart-wrenchingly tender as Crowley’s hands on his feathers, as Crowley’s fingers in his hair now. Aziraphale had never imagined how different it would be from his own desperate grasping. It was enough to shake his world apart.

Crowley’s wings tucked closer around them, setting Aziraphale’s own ablaze with feeling, the feathers tickling his shoulders, his cheeks. As if Crowley could obscure Heaven’s view of them, the blasphemy of Crowley’s tongue against his lips, in black curtains. For all Aziraphale knew, he could.

One of Crowley’s hands fell from his hair to a newly-glossy white wing. His hand stroked the long upper edge of it, encouraging it to fold and rest against Aziraphale’s back. Aziraphale’s wings obeyed, and Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale. He pulled his mouth away and buried it in Aziraphale’s neck.

“I’m still not good at words,” Crowley said, the Latin muffled against Aziraphale’s skin. “I’m not well-spoken. In any language,” he added in finer Greek.

Aziraphale begged to disagree. He’d seen the power of Crowley’s words, heard them echo in his mind for years.

“So give me a minute to sort out how to say this. I like you, Aziraphale. A lot.”

It was such simplistic language, the kind one small child would say to another, that Aziraphale laughed under his breath. He was trying not to disturb the moment, but he felt the shaking in Crowley’s shoulders that said he was laughing too.

“Shut up,” was muttered against his neck.

Then, hesitantly: “I couldn’t choose the words that described how I love you, because none of them quite do it.”

Crowley raised his head and Aziraphale’s eyes fell to kissed-pink lips. It was difficult to focus on the wrath of Heaven and Hell, far away and so much less real than the person in his arms. What did Crowley just say?

“Crowley,” he began, head whirling, and then had no idea how to continue that. Agree? Doubt him? Say it back? He’d frozen too long; Crowley flinched back.

“Wait—”

Aziraphale sat up on his heels, letting Crowley scramble out from beneath him, and it took a moment to understand Crowley’s mumbling.

“Right. Yeah. No, I didn’t think you’d feel— I was just saying. I mean, you were always nattering on about just crushes so of course—” Crowley got to his feet, his wings back and arched defensively. “That was probably a bit much—”

“Just surprising,” Aziraphale interjected. “It’s fine.”

He needed a moment to think, to process the actual words Crowley had said — described how I love you — but Crowley’s whirlwind was too much. He was pacing back, away from Aziraphale, and Aziraphale could already see him closing off. Whatever the moment was, he hadn’t moved fast enough to catch it.

Maybe it’s best to let it go, until you can think on it.

He couldn’t gather his thoughts long enough for a real response. Crowley finally seems to have settled enough to hear him, and Aziraphale had forgotten anything he possibly wanted to say.

“I think the wine and the storm are making us a little mad,” he said, half-joking, raising a hand to his head. Too late, he realized what that sounded like.

Crowley winced. “Right, yeah,” he mumbled.

“No, I meant— What I mean is—” With the sudden loss of Crowley’s body and warm wings around him, Aziraphale felt cold and bereft. But, like a much-needed cold bath, it was easier to remember all the reasons why not. But only barely — the words still wouldn’t come.

“We can’t,” Aziraphale said, and it sounded like begging Crowley to agree. It sounded like he was wounded. Crowley hazarded a glance in his direction and the self-recrimination in that glance broke Aziraphale’s heart.

Aziraphale could see the parched longing in Crowley’s eyes and wondered how many times he had seen that mouth twist as it did now, and how many times those eyes went with it, hidden safely behind Crowley’s sunglasses.

As always, Aziraphale looked away first.

His wings still tingled, folded neatly against his back. They were the cause of this madness, not the wine.

“We can’t ever do that again.” Aziraphale said quietly to the worn tiles beneath them.

And they didn’t for another two millennia.

The next time Crowley laid hands on the angel’s wings, archaeologists from Cambridge dug up those tiles to study the wet clay that once clung to Aziraphale’s feet.^[48]

⁴⁷Aziraphale pointed out the blistering irony of these words around 700 AD. ^{Return to text}

⁴⁸Those tiles sunk below multiple layers of mud and sediment, safely preserved as wind and water raged for two thousand years. It was lucky that the Cambridge researchers dug up the specific tiles they did, because a meter to the left of their dig site was a perfectly preserved, ageless white feather. ^{Return to text}

Chapter Text

Dramatis Personae

No new individuals.

Glossary

No new terminology.

Chapter Fifteen: and be yourself my ally in love’s battle

Theater of Pompey || March, 53 AD

“Now our loves, our tenderness, our intimacy, our mirth, our dalliance, our talking, our sweet kisses, the close embrace of us lovers equally fond, the soft, dear kisses impressed on our tender lips, the delicious pressing of the swelling bosom,” Nero began. He stood center stage, pretending to read from a piece of parchment and casting amused glances at the actor playing his character’s master. Nero was the clever slave of this play – his favorite archetype – who his master turned to for aid because his lover was being sold off to another. The letter he read was from that lover.

This is how the play, Pseudolus – also the name of Nero’s character – began. It wasn’t too outrageous of a piece, Aziraphale thought, and a lovely debut for Nero as a part-time actor. It wouldn’t have been unpleasant to watch, were it not for the opening scene and its parallels with his current situation.

“Of all these delights, I say, for me and for you as well, the severance, the destruction, and the downfall is at hand, unless there is some rescue for me in you or for you in me,” the actor playing Calidorus cried.

Aziraphale and Crowley were not looking at each other for any reason. Aziraphale was more than happy to smile stiffly at Petronius, who was sitting on his right, to avoid any sort of eye contact with Crowley on his left. The three of them had been together for almost an hour, and Petronius still hadn’t said anything untoward, so Aziraphale considered it a blessed day. But ever since his horrible reaction to Crowley’s– confession– one sideways glance could turn the tides of the day.

Thankfully the play was not a romance. It was a farce.

“We need a body, anybody’s body!” Nero/Pseudolus exclaimed.

“Can you get one from Gusto the Body Snatcher?” His companion suggested.

“He owes me a favor!” Pseudolus paused. “But he died yesterday.”

“His body, then!”

“Somebody snatched it.” Pseudolus covered his eyes with his hands, thinking. “Who do we know that’s dead?”

His companion sighed. “I wish I was.”

Pseudolus slowly lowered his hand, turning a manic Aha! grin toward his companion, who scrambled away.

The crowd whistled and laughed. An heir to the emperor performing theater outside of dry historical dramas? It was nearly unheard of, very improper, and thus wildly popular.

The play continued in much the same way and it didn’t take long for Aziraphale to be laughing helplessly into his hands, Petronius wheezing beside him, and Crowley downright cackling. Crowley’s cackle made Aziraphale laugh even harder and he looked over to admire the complete lack of self-consciousness on Crowley’s face, just a bit, when Crowley wasn’t paying attention.

Except Crowley was already looking at him with a wide, silly grin.

Aziraphale jerked his gaze back toward the stage and kept his admiring to surreptitious glances for the rest of the play.

☙ ☙ ☙

They went to more plays after that, as Nero was finally free to pursue his interests in the arts. They went to concerts and poetry readings, and attended public rituals for a plethora of Roman gods. Aziraphale no longer trusted himself and Crowley with activities that merely occupied their hands; he made sure to keep them in public, in huge crowds.

They still had spats – over Nero, over their Sides, over what to have for dinner – but Aziraphale felt a foundation under his feet that he’d never had. Even God didn’t offer such a foundation. Aziraphale knew that no matter what either of them said in an argument, no matter how badly they hurt in a particular moment, or how many philosophical differences they had, Aziraphale knew he would never be abandoned.

Crowley being nearby made it all too easy to slip into a tiny world of their making, without a Heaven or Hell, without duties, and without loyalties to some grand and distant Greater Good. Or in Crowley’s case, a grand and distant End Times. Aziraphale had to keep them out of that tiny world, or one day he wouldn’t have the strength to leave.

☙ ☙ ☙

Circus Flaminius || August, 53 AD

“I know what you’re doing,” Crowley said one day. The crowd screamed all around them, as two painfully close chariots blew across the finish line. Aziraphale waited for the noise to simmer back down.

“Good, so we’re in accord,” Aziraphale replied, heart hammering in his chest.

“I didn’t say that.”

Aziraphale looked at him askance. “You know, for someone who accuses others of not being clear–”

Crowley brushed his fingertips across Aziraphale’s forearm, and his sentence staggered to an end. It would be easier if Crowley would seize him, or shake him, help Aziraphale temper the longing with anger. As it was, Aziraphale waited in silence as Crowley kept his searing fingers there, gentle and intent.

“Just talk to me,” Crowley said, and the pleading edge of it clawed Aziraphale’s conscious. “You said you wouldn’t shove me out without saying what I’d done wrong.”

“Oh Crowley.” Aziraphale held onto the railing of the circus seating with everything he had, to keep him from laying a hand over Crowley’s on his arm. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Crowley laughed, and there was no humor in it. “Now we both know that’s a lie. Would we be like this now, if I hadn’t run my mouth during that thunderstorm?”

Aziraphale swallowed.

The crowd screamed again as the chariot racers all pulled out into the main area. They rode in a slow circle, each racer waving to the entire audience. Nero was in one of those carts, but Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to look away from Crowley.

“Just say ‘I don’t feel the same’ and be done with it,” Crowley said, his breath in Aziraphale’s ear from whispering over the noise of the crowd.

Aziraphale’s distance wasn’t an answer to Crowley’s confession, though Crowley was taking it as one. Aziraphale’s distance was an acknowledgement that there was no answer while Heaven and Hell existed. They both had a part to play and until the curtain fell, their roles were absolute. Aziraphale had pondered for weeks following Crowley’s– following the freak thunderstorm. It took days to believe him, and more days to assemble all of what he’d learned in the past year.

‘Described how I love you.’

‘If you want to be loved.’

‘Millennium.’

So much to take in, and not a thing he could do about it. Tell Crowley, I love you too? He would watch Crowley get dragged to a trough of holy water, which Aziraphale would witness because he would be in Hell too. Tell Crowley, as he asked, that he didn’t feel the same way? He’d be a liar and, worse yet, a shoddy one.

Or they could keep trundling on as they had been.

Aziraphale pulled his arm away as the race winners were announced.

“On the topic of Heaven and Hell,” – And your death – “we do not feel the same, yes,” Aziraphale said stiffly.

The crowd roared, Crowley leaned back, and they were safe from the illusion of that tiny world again.

☙ ☙ ☙

The Asclepeion, Rome || April, 54 AD

Aziraphale was glad he’d kept contacts among Nero’s staff on the old Crispus estate, or he wouldn’t have known to come to the asclepeion in the middle of the night as he was. Emperor Claudius was sick again, this time far worse than before. Not just content to send one of their number to the palace, the priests of Asclepius asked to bring Claudius to the temple for its greater healing power.

Aziraphale rushed inside the building, past rows of mats on the ground, most occupied, to the private treatment rooms. The priests let him pass without protest; Aziraphale wasn’t a complete stranger. The asclepeion of Rome was huge, with easily a dozen halls of rooms, and as few of the staff members knew where the emperor was or that he was vulnerable as possible. He wandered through identical hallways and massive halls, lit and warmed by raised fire pits, seeing various pythons and boas curled up near the fire pits. He vaguely recalled something to do with Asclepius and snakes, but couldn’t quite grasp it.

He turned the corner into another new hallway and saw a massive black snake slithering out of one of the rooms and into the other. It was longer than Aziraphale was tall, and it seemed as good an omen as any other. Aziraphale rushed to catch up to it and see if it might lead him to Claudius when someone careened into him.

Aziraphale looked down, startled, into Octavia’s teary face.

She looked startled too. “Oh, there you are,” she sniffled.

He grabbed her shoulders gently to steady her. “Is he—?”

“No.” She stood a bit straighter. “It looks like this bout will pass.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Nero,” she spat. “He’s being an utter nightmare. He was wondering where you were earlier — said you always had your nose in important matters.”

Aziraphale looked around. The huge black snake was gone.

“Not inaccurate,” Aziraphale admitted. “Can you take me to his room?”

She hesitated a moment before turning back the way she came. “This way.”

Two lefts and a right, and Aziraphale was standing in the doorway with Octavia, looking into the tiny room. Claudius was laying on a couple of stacked mats on the ground, blankets over his shivering body and a bucket of vomit near his head. Agrippina knelt at his side, praying fervently and seeing no one. That was a bit surprising. She’d hardly been a religious woman in the time Aziraphale knew her, but he supposed a brush with death drove most people to faith.

“Well that was a short flounce,” Nero sneered, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed. He looked flushed and furious.

Octavia stepped backwards out of the room, fuming. “I was just showing Aziraphale where it was. I’m not speaking to you until you apologize about my brother.” And with that, she stormed from the room again.

Aziraphale walked over to Nero. “Are you okay?” he whispered. “I heard from Octavia that Claudius will probably be fine.”

From closer up, it was easier to see the shadows in Nero’s eyes as he regarded his sick father. “I know.” He hesitated. “This just keeps happening.”

“Claudius getting sick?” To Aziraphale’s knowledge, it was only the second time.

Nero vaguely waved a hand, painfully reminiscent of Crowley’s motions. Aziraphale briefly put a hand on his shoulder and then gave him some space. Nero would come to him if or when he needed comforting. Aziraphale walked over to the two attending priests.

“Did you find out what happened to him?” Aziraphale still spoke in a whisper, as was polite. Peace and quietude were core tenets of the Asclepius faith, and the priests kept to those precepts as much as they could.

“An ill stomach of some kind,” one answered. “He seems to have purged most of it but — we did not find the source.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Old age, I suppose.”

“We will consult with the Aesculapians during our next dawn ritual,” the other priest said, warm and comforting. He tugged aside the shoulder of his toga to reveal a red-orange Aesculapian snake looped around his neck. It shied away, burying its snub nose into a fold of cloth, and the priest put the toga back in place. While the title strictly referred to one species of snake, ‘honorary’ Aesculapian snakes were adopted by the temple and used in the same rituals. “Together, we’ll find a treatment that sticks this time.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Can I ask about— one of your adopted snakes? The very large black one?”

The priest chuckled under his breath. “That one appeared a couple years ago. I would not say that we adopted him — he keeps his own time, and visits us when he pleases. I must admit, I have no idea where he lives otherwise.”

Aziraphale thanked him and left the room. He had a feeling about that ‘honorary Aesculapian.’ He went back to the same hallway where he’d spotted it, sure enough, it was still around.

“Hello. Crowley?” Aziraphale asked from several paces away.

The snake was poised in the doorway of one room, as if considering the occupants. It didn’t respond.

“Crowley?” He was going to feel a bit silly if it wasn’t him.

The snake turned its large angular head, looking over its shoulder in a too-human gesture, then quickly slithered away down the hall.

Aziraphale followed it into a room. The snake closed the door behind them.

“Hello,” Crowley said at last. “You saw Claudius, I presume?” he asked, hissing the sibilants with a heavier accent than in his human form.

“I did. Although I can’t help but notice we aren’t alone?” he asked questioningly, gesturing to the man still breathing, laying on the room’s mat.

“He won’t last the hour,” Crowley hissed. He slithered around the man’s body and touched his nose to the man’s forehead. “Fever. Infection, but no wound. We can’t figure out where.” He moved his head down to the man’s abdomen and rested his head on it. “He complained about pain here and lost consciousness shortly after. We’ve had a few cases like this and — I have no idea.”

His tail thumped the tile floor in frustration, and he slithered to a bucket in the corner and dipped his nose in the water. Checking the temperature?

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, and meant it. Crowley despised unanswered and potentially unanswerable questions. Aziraphalee found a small cushion and pulled up a seat where a patient’s family usually sat. He took the man’s hand.

“What are you doing here, Crowley?”

Crowley flicked his tongue at the water, not looking at Aziraphale. “What good I can.” Part of him draped over the bucket rim like a human would lean on their elbow. “They use me in rituals sometimes. It can be quite fun.”

“Demonic rituals?”

Crowley released a sharp wordless hiss. “Did you not see the statue?” he asked. It felt strange being chided by a snake. “Rituals to Asclepius.”

Aziraphale blinked. “And you— help?” He hoped his meaning was readable without having to come out and say it.

Crowley looked amused insomuch as a reptile could. “If you mean I do blessings — sometimes.”

“I didn’t know you even could still bless,” Aziraphale admitted. “I wonder if that means I can tempt, too.”

The snake gave Aziraphale a languid up-down and flicked his tongue. “You most certainly can,” Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale made a face. “That’s very disturbing, you know,” he said dryly. “Being flirted with by a snake.”

Crowley gave another of his wordless hisses Aziraphale was starting to guess was a laugh of sorts. Suddenly, Crowley's black scales unfolded, slid together, the body gaining mass and human flesh. A moment later, Crowley sprawled next to the bucket.

“It’s funny, though,” he said. There were bags under his shadowed eyes — downright bizarre for angel stock – and a stress line furrowed between his brows. When he blinked at Aziraphale, even that looked tense.

Crowley froze a moment, searching Aziraphale’s face, and then snapped a pair of sunglasses into existence and hid behind them.

“You should know,” Crowley began, reaching into the bucket and withdrawing a sopping rag. “I’m here on business today. Investigating. Claudius is not naturally sick.”

“Need another set of eyes? I have plenty,” Aziraphale joked. Usually references to one of his other forms made Crowley laugh, and he looked like he needed it today.

Instead, Crowley just shook his head. “You should leave. Go be a good guardian angel to Nero, he needs it today. Leave the demon to follow the trail of sin.”

Crowley never references our sides this much. “What?”

“I know Heaven comes first. Gotta toe the company line. Can’t be seen teaming up with the outcasts.” Crowley wrung out excess water from the rag and crouched by the sick man. “I thought you’d be happy I finally took the hint.”

Aziraphale was starting to grow tired of the all-or-nothing. “I’m worried for your life, you idiot,” he snapped. “Me being an angel and you being a demon are not lifestyle choices. They will destroy you.”

Crowley focused all his attention on perfectly folding the damp rag. “Uh-huh. I feel real taken care of right now. Really saved. Where’s Gabriel with the Good News?”

Aziraphale was stung and ready to be angry back. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Look, I get it. I got it at the races. Don’t want to risk your place On High.” He carefully placed the cool, wet rag across the man’s forehead and stood up. “Go click your heels like a good little soldier against evil. Back in line now. Free will is for suckers.” He snapped a smart solute, Roman style.

He stood staring at the dying man, shoulders hunched, lips thin as they always were when he was trying to control his expression. Aziraphale released the man’s hand and stood up as well. He watched Crowley’s face, watched a demon who volunteered at an asclepion and wished he could heal.

Aziraphale would have felt fond, if he wasn’t equally furious. “Angels have free will. You know that’s a myth, Crowley.”

Crowley turned to him with exaggeratedly raised eyebrows. “Do I?” he asked with a sardonic flash of teeth. “Could’ve fooled me. The way I remember it, all Gabriel has to do is snap his fingers and you’re on one knee—”

In two strides, Aziraphale was in front of Crowley.

“You shut your mouth about Gabriel!” Aziraphale seized Crowley by the front of his tunica and slammed him up against the temple wall. “You don’t know a damned thing.”

Crowley made a startled noise when his back hit the wall and his hand snapped up to grab Aziraphale's wrist, hard enough to hurt. The tendons of his wrist ground against the bones as Aziraphale hissed his next words.

“You don’t know what I’m feeling. You don’t know what I’m giving up by letting you go.”

Aziraphale was close enough to see Crowley’s enraged jessamine eyes through the sunglasses. Close enough to see the rage give way to something else.

And a sweep of memories overtook him: in the palace bedroom, on the balcony, in the abandoned building. It would be so easy to rip those sunglasses off, press his body against Crowley's, kiss the snark off that demonic tongue and good– good lord, what was he doing?

Aziraphale froze. Crowley's hard breathing sounded like more like panting. Maybe because they had been jostled already and maybe because Aziraphale wished it more than Crowley wished it not, the sunglasses slipped down Crowley's nose. Crowley’s slit pupils were dilated and glittering, like stars on a clear night over the Tyrrhenian Sea. The tight fingers around Aziraphale's wrist relaxed and slid softly up his forearm.

Aziraphale realized in a moment of terrifying clarity that if he kissed Crowley now, he wouldn’t be able to stop, and Crowley would not protest. Aziraphale could do it: ward the door, rip that tunica off, sink down onto the cool tiles below them, sink his teeth in the demon's throat, sink into Crowley's body–

And Heaven and Hell would execute them both. Aziraphale was sickened to find he was still tempted.

Aziraphale snatched his hand away from Crowley and turned away, wiping sweat-slicked palms on his toga. Behind him, Crowley was swearing, low and fervently, in Latin, Greek, Oscan, and half a dozen dead languages, some of which Aziraphale hardly recognized. When he was finished, Crowley pushed away the wall and brushed past Aziraphale, making his escape. When he was gone, Aziraphale took several deep breaths that he technically didn't need, and left the asclepeion.

☙ ☙ ☙

Unnamed Insula, Just South of Marcellus Theater, Rome || October, 54 AD

The last time Aziraphale heard the mourning bells, he had just woken up next to Crowley for the first time, lifetimes ago.

They woke him up this time, along with the buzz of the city, and what sounded like crying. Aziraphale was puzzled to be waking, as he rarely slept, until he saw empty bottles by his bedside table. Humans were right that wine was an easy way to distract oneself from troubles. Aziraphale had taken too long working his way up to an I feel the same way, and so that melodramatic drivel had come spilling out. Aziraphale groaned into the hand thrown over his face against the morning light. He’d lost all rights to criticize Silius’ tragic romance narrative.

It had been months of tenseness with Crowley, again. Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to apologize the next time they saw one another after the asclepeion, and neither had Crowley. (Not that Crowley ever wanted to apologize for anything.) Nor the time after that. There was nothing for it. They would never see eye-to-eye regarding Heaven and Hell. And they needed to find a way to keep trudging forward.

Aziraphale blearily sat up, snapping a quick miracle to get rid of the hangover. He had to make things right.

As his vision came into focus, so did the gleaming white scroll on the bedside table. Sealed with ethereal lavender wax, pressed with a warding symbol. Only Aziraphale could open it. His heart leapt into his throat, but he forced it down again. They would have come in person, if they found out about Crowley.

The end of an era. The end of— His hands shook as he picked it up. Only then, as he popped the wax off the parchment, did he realize the bells were tolling a specific melody reserved for fallen Caesars. Emperor Claudius was dead.

He opened the scroll. Nakoku, Island of Kyushu, Japan. Find the golden seal. Intercept and aid the convoy to China.

Then an expected arrival date of four months from that morning, written in Heaven's dating system. No Heavenward passport attached; he would be going on foot. If Aziraphale set out tomorrow and generously used miracles all the way there, he would barely make it.

Crowley.

What was the plan now? It was going to be along the lines of, ‘I’m sorry I jumped you over the body of a dying man. I love you too. Paint me a picture of this two-man army against God you think we can be.’ Now what would it be? ‘I’m sorry I jumped you. Also I’m leaving tomorrow morning, not sure when I’ll see you again, bye’?

Aziraphale went over to the window to see people talking, many of whom were crying, as they headed toward the palace. The belief that the emperor was a living god was an old one, a relic of Egypt and Mesopotamia, but there were still plenty who lived by it. Claudius went through the motions, the ceremonies to honor that tradition, but was hardly a pious man himself. Aziraphale wondered, though he could never know, which Side the emperor had ended up on.

The new emperor would be crowned before noon. The crowd was already gathering. In eight days, there would be a funeral. Aziraphale would miss it.

He got dressed, tucked the scroll into a fold of his toga, and went downstairs to join the crowd.

☙ ☙ ☙

Aziraphale supposed it was fitting that the last crowd he saw in Rome was also the most massive. A percentage of citizens didn’t attend national parades, but nearly everyone went to coronation.

Nero stood on a raised platform in front of the palace, Octavia tight by his side. They were deifying Claudius in death, confirming his godhood in life, and erecting a temple in his name. No one would say his reign was smooth, but it was better than the last. Portia had changed the Italian coastline and stimulated trade around the entire Mediterranean Sea. The people of Judea would never love the man, but violence was rising against Christians in the city. Perhaps they were safer outside of it. Perhaps a unified front in Judea could pave the way to independence.

It was strange, seeing Octavia proud and waving. She was in a black mourning palla, but she looked strong and sure beside her husband. Aziraphale wondered if Nero had apologized for whatever had made her cry. He couldn’t afford to alienate her, she was the stake to his throne.

Will I have time to say goodbye?

Probably not; Emperor Nero would be busy in senate meetings for days. He would have to write a letter and leave it for Crowley. Hopefully Nero would read it before burning it in a rage. Aziraphale wished he could have seen the boy as a grown man. He would surely be long gone by the time Aziraphale was back in Europe.

He wasn’t surprised to finally spot Crowley in the crowd, far closer to the front. Aziraphale pushed his way though, exuding an ethereal pressure when necessary until he was at Crowley’s side.

This close to the stage, Aziraphale picked up a stench he hadn’t since Caligula’s days. The fact that angels could smell evil was a bit of a misnomer, but it held true in general conversation.^[49]

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose.

“He’s all grown up,” Crowley said. He glanced over. “You smell like a wine rack.”

“Probably,” Aziraphale said agreeably. “But that’s not the most important scent here.”

Crowley hmmed. “I was wondering if you would catch that. You’ve been in denial.”

Aziraphale frowned. “That’s my job.” He looked between Nero and Agrippina. “Denial?”

Crowley’s arms were crossed and he hunched, as if against the cold. “Nero.”

Aziraphale glared. “‘Denial’? You were the one who told me not to worry.”

“I was hoping we were wrong,” he said quietly. “I didn’t change my mind until the time you saw Claudius was sick.”

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“I know I’m supposed to be. A new soul for Satan’s grand plan to bring about the End Times,” he said, rather more flatly than usual. He looked over at Aziraphale. “But I know you were really invested in that one. And he was a good kid.”

Aziraphale turned back to the front, emotionally scooped out, an empty bowl that needed good scrubbing. “So Nero and Agrippina did this.”

“We don’t know that,” Crowley said cautiously.

Aziraphale’s influence failed, and now he was being sent elsewhere. Not even a debriefing, or a reason for why he’d been assigned there. Thirteen years of his life. He’d never taken such a long assignment.

“But you think they did.”

Crowley made an inarticulate throat noise. They stood in the thick of it, the smell tightening around Aziraphale, prickling his wings and the back of his throat.

“Crowley.”

Maybe if you hadn’t been so distracted by him—

“He could have,” Crowley said reluctantly. “Or Agrippina did, and he just knew.”

Nero could have told Aziraphale, and he could have helped stop it. Or did he already?

‘This keeps happening,’ Nero had said at the asclepeion. Aziraphale hadn’t pushed. He could have.

Crowley took his elbow. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Why?”

“Because you look like you’re going to vomit, and in this crowd you’ll hit enough people to make a scene.” If he was going for teasing, he missed entirely.

Aziraphale let Crowley drag him out of the crowd. When they were practically alone, Crowley released his elbow.

Crowley fidgeted, looking at Aziraphale and around at the scenery. He raised a hand for a moment, and then let it fall. Finally, he said, “These things happen.”

“Are you trying to be comforting?” Aziraphale didn’t mean for it to come out in quite that incredulous of a tone.

“It’s not working, is it?”

“Not exactly your strong suit,” Aziraphale said, only half a lie. Crowley tried so hard it was endearing, and it was really that and not his attempt itself that comforted.

You need to tell him about the scroll. Aziraphale’s hand drifted over his heart, where the word from Heaven sat. “Crowley, we should— Rather, we need to talk— I never said, at the asclepeion, I didn’t mean—” He broke off, frustrated.

Crowley’s lips tightened. “Yeah I said some nasty things too. We should talk, but not here.”

Aziraphale desperately wanted to break his ‘never alone with each other’ rule for their last night together. It would make discussion of the letter he received easier.

Crowley got there first. “Meet me at the Temple of Janus tonight. Right after sundown.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Breaking and entering?” The temple was currently shut tight.

“Technically any citizen is permitted entry if Janus calls them,” Crowley said, wheedling.

“Did Janus call you?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Crowley hedged, smirking a little.

Well if it goes wrong, I won’t be around for the aftermath.

Aziraphale’s heart ached. It didn’t want the scroll pressed up against it, hidden in a fold of wool. Or the approval of its author. It wanted the person in front of him. It wanted to stay in Rome, or run off to Britain together. Aziraphale hesitated.

Crowley took a deep breath. “Look, I know this” — he gestured between them— “is done. I know we need to be careful” — he shot a glare at the sky— “but just come see me. I want to show you something.”

‘This is done.’ Crowley was more right than he knew.

“Alright. We’ll meet there.” I’ll tell him about the scroll then.

☙ ☙ ☙

Temple of Janus, Rome || October, 54 AD

Crowley was waiting outside the giant stone doors when Aziraphale arrived. The building they sealed was tall enough to block the setting sun, and while the doors and Crowley were in shadow, the yellowish building was touched with gold.

Crowley’s hair was pulled back in a loose bun, strands falling against the back of his neck. He smiled when Aziraphale walked up.

“Hey.”

“Hello.” Aziraphale returned the smile, trying not to be nervous. “Your hair is getting so long. Remember when it didn’t even cover your neck?”

Crowley looked startled a moment, then shook his head and laughed. “I remember having those pressed-down ringlets. I saw them in a portrait and thought they were normal — imagine my surprise,” he said dryly.

“The longer style suits you better.” Aziraphale meant it as a teasing dig, but instead it came out hopelessly fond.

Crowley coughed uncomfortably, still itchy about compliments. “Right, well.”

Then to Aziraphale’s shock, he took off his sunglasses and tucked them away. They faced the doors together. Aziraphale had seen them open when he first arrived, but they’d long since closed.

“See, we’re not at war,” he said wryly, with a significant glance toward Aziraphale.^[50]

Crowley pushed open the door to let Aziraphale in, and closed it slowly behind them. The single room was wide and empty, with a golden man-sized statue of Janus in the center, surrounded by four identical benches.

They walked up to the statue, and Aziraphale’s vision wavered a moment. He had been in a dreamlike state all day, disbelieving that it was his last day. It was hard to — what would be a counterpart to Crowley’s earlier phrase? — ‘pull up roots.’

“The god of beginnings and ends, of time.” Crowley said, close beside him. “Of boundaries. Fitting, no?”

Aziraphale shot him a playful glare. His fatigue and heartache were becoming a full-body fog, and Crowley’s presence was making him dizzy as it hadn’t in years. “Demigod at best,” he replied for old times’ sake, but smiled away the edge.

Aziraphale looked around, his head swooping as his heart had earlier. How was he going to get through this conversation in this condition?

“You think so?” Crowley asked, and something in his tone made Aziraphale look at him. Crowley was focusing intently on Aziraphale’s face, and when their eyes met he gestured broadly to the room. “Feel the air around you.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel the air around him. It pressed in on all sides, exacerbating the weight on his chest, making him feel so off-footed he was almost seasick—

Wait. Aziraphale channeled his power through his system, and the fog and dizziness left him. Unnerved, he pushed his power further out to get the air away from him and hit a barrier that felt like pushing sludge through a sieve. He took a sharp intake of breath. And then another.

Instantly, Crowley’s hand was on his elbow. “Aziraphale! Breathe, you’re safe.”

Crowley’s worried face came into focus in front of him. Aziraphale raised a hand, dropped it with a snap, and Crowley’s hair tumbled from its bun onto his shoulders.

Crowley blinked. “What was that for?”

“Testing.” He drew a deeper breath and looked around. The room looked perfectly normal other than a barely perceptible glow of the Janus statue. “I can still do miracles.”

“You can. And a couple angels could easily storm the place if they wanted, of course. Just as a demon can walk the temple grounds. But it should interfere with Heaven’s Observations.” Crowley touched the back of his head with one hand. “Why that miracle—?”

“I felt like it. Warn me next time,” he snapped.

Crowley grimaced, looking a touch guilty. “I couldn’t risk a psychosomatic response.”

Aziraphale sighed. He still easily felt Holy light in him, and God was as close as always. It appeared to only influence ethereal power on the reality around it, and only when an ethereal being wasn’t paying attention. Crowley was right — Aziraphale was safe.

Crowley released his elbow. The silence threatened to be tense.

Until Crowley simpered, “If you wanted my hair down, you could have just asked.”

Aziraphale flushed. “Why have we come here?”

Crowley’s expression became serious again. And he left his hair down, thought, pleased.

“Tell me, what would you think about you and I if there was no Heaven?”

“I wouldn’t want to live in a world without Heaven. Nothing to combat the forces of Hell?”

Crowley visibly bit back a sigh. “No Hell either. Just Earth.”

Aziraphale chewed on that. “It would affect my decision,” he admitted. “But how, I don’t know. I would be a completely different person.”

He walked past Crowley and sat down on the benches overlooking one of Janus’ faces. Crowley sat down on another bench, overlooking the other face.

“I’m sorry for hurting you at the asclepeion,” Aziraphale said, his hands fidgeting. “I’m— working through a lot of things, and I think you’ve taken the brunt of it, and I’m sorry.”

He waited for the same scoff he always got when he apologized, but instead—

“I’m sorry too,” Crowley said softly, addressing the statue. Aziraphale stared. “I’ve said a lot over the years that I don’t mean. Or— I don’t know if I mean. I know I’ve got a— a bit of a temper. And I know I pushed you too hard.” Crowley laughed, a bitter note to it. “Nn, I feel like this isn’t much of an apology. Never mind.”

“Crowley, I will always mind,” Aziraphale said leaning toward him from his bench. “If you’re apologizing, I will always at least hear you out.” He quirked a smile. “I’ll know it has to be a pretty dire situation.”

Crowley laughed again, a little less bitter. “Alright. I’ll hold you to that.”

As if we’re staying in each other’s lives. Aziraphale’s heart twisted. Sure, it’s a small world when one has all of eternity, but Aziraphale didn’t want to go back to only seeing Crowley once or twice a millennia.

“You better,” Aziraphale croaked, his voice cracking. He pulled the scroll out of its hiding place. “I received a new assignment this morning.”

Crowley leaned his elbows on his knees, studying Aziraphale. “I figured.”

“During the coronation?”

“No, when you were reminiscing about my hair. You seem to always think about the past when big changes are coming,” Crowley answered warmly, as if it were an endearing trait to him. “You’re such an easy read on the meaningless stuff. I wish I could read you about the important things.”

Aziraphale grimaced. “I’m glad you can’t. It wouldn’t be terribly flattering, I’m afraid.”

“I beg to differ.”

Crowley moved to Aziraphale’s bench and scooted close enough for their thighs to touch. Aziraphale was sick of pulling away so he didn’t bother. Wasn’t much harm he could even do in only twelve hours anyway.

There really wasn’t much harm he could do. Aziraphale let his head fall to Crowley’s shoulder.

“Our last night,” Crowley mused, leaning his head against Aziraphale’s.

“But not forever.”

Crowley looked down at his hands. “Where are they sending you?”

“Japan.”

“Oh, you’ll love it there.” He made an attempt at a cheerful tone. “You’ll adore it, really. You can’t even imagine the food they serve. And the peace and quiet.”

Aziraphale reached an arm around Crowley and combed his fingers through Crowley’s hair. Crowley made a pleased throat noise and nuzzled Aziraphale’s hair.

“Tell me about Japan,” Aziraphale said. “And where you saw the koy.”

“Koi,” Crowley corrected. And then he did.

For nearly an hour, he talked about wading knee-deep in rice fields, about forests full of creatures the western world had long since killed off, about introspection and poetry, about seafood so fresh that the chef’s boots were still damp. He talked about having to learn to talk with his body, his expressions, his tone. Meaning under meaning under meaning. Your specialty, angel, he teased in-between.

By the time he was running out of things to say, Crowley’s head was in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale scratched his scalp, lightly braided small handfuls of his hair, or thumped his head when Crowley made fun of him.

It was so strange, being in real privacy. Aziraphale realized he had never, not once in four thousand years, ever experienced it. He could have his hands on Crowley, and he could breathe (almost) easily at the same time.

After a pause in the stories, Crowley’s eyes flickered open. “I’m not boring you, am I?”

“No, not at all.” Aziraphale combed his fingers through the latest tiny braid, undoing it.

“You seem bored.” Crowley sat up, looking worried.

It was hard not to chuckle at Crowley’s sudden self-consciousness, so Aziraphale didn’t bother suppressing it. “I’m relaxed, Crowley.”

Crowley’s eyebrows scrunched. “I’ve seen you relaxed.”

“No you haven’t.”

Crowley considered that, and didn’t lie back down. “I haven’t gotten a new assignment,” he said, and then hesitated.

“I know you wanted to go to Britain again next,” Aziraphale said, squashing down his immediate desire to invite Crowley to go with him to Japan.

“I did.” Crowley conceded. “Er– do.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your plans–” Aziraphale started.

“You wouldn’t be interrupting, you’d be…” Crowley seemed unsure how to finish.

“We’ll see each other around, I’m sure!” Aziraphale said, as cheerful as he could manage.

Crowley swallowed. “Around. Right.”

He stood up, suddenly restless, and walked slowly around the statue. He circled it once, Aziraphale sitting and watching, before he spoke again.

“Aziraphale.”

“Crowley,” he answered, just as tonelessly.

Crowley leaned on the statue. “What do you imagine, when you think of the future?”

Aziraphale pondered that. For the most part, his thoughts were dedicated to the present and the past. He would imagine brief future events, but most of his life was one day at a time. Even with thirteen years in Rome, he only spared passing thoughts to Nero’s future.

“New human languages, traditions, normalities,” Aziraphale admitted. “Every year, there’s more of it.”

Crowley shook his head, exasperated. “Other than human things.”

Aziraphale hesitated. “Well, your side is going to be bringing on the End Times,” he said hesitantly. “And then the Great War.”

Crowley waved a hand. “Fine yeah, but that’s much later. What about in-between?”

It was starting to get frustrating. “Assignments. New destinations? I don’t know.” He bit his lip, then added. “Seeing you again, I hope.”

A smile cracked through Crowley’s exasperation. “That one seems pretty likely. My station is certainly a permanent one. Is yours?”

“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale confessed.

“Time will tell, I suppose.” Crowley crossed his arms, looking torn between amusement and frustration. “We should go up to the roof.”

Aziraphale was already standing. “Do we still have– Does the temple still ‘work’ out in the open?”

“It does,” Crowley said, and gestured to a stairwell that wound up the walls, stopping at a wooden hatch. Aziraphale followed him up, and noticed it took two snaps for Crowley to unlock the hatch. It clacked closed behind them.

“The fog works on you too, then?” Aziraphale asked.

“It’s neutral territory.” Crowley said proudly, like a hunter with a wild quarry held up in his fist. Aziraphale wondered how many temples he had checked to see which one would actually grant them privacy.

Night had fallen, but the windows of the city were still lit, people milled about in the streets, musicians played mournful tunes. Citizens would be out long into the night, seeking comfort in clusters as humans are wont to do. Aziraphale sat on the half-wall that ran all the way around the roof and soaked in the view. Rome would be an entirely new city before he ever saw it again.

Crowley came up beside him, leaning his hands on the half-wall. “So– what now?”

“What?”

“What happens. After Rome?” Crowley asked.

He didn’t have to clarify. They both knew what ‘Rome’ entailed. Restless without Crowley’s hair to play with, Aziraphale’s hands plucked at his toga.

“Always focused on the future, you are,” he teased, but it fell flat.

Crowley looked out across the city with him. “You’ll tell me before you leave, right?”

“Of course. I just– I just want to think about just Rome for a little while longer.”

“Alright.”

Places of power like this were rare, Aziraphale was sure of it. They would be welcoming their executions if they kept this up. They had to seal it away or they would both be destroyed.

Can Crowley be happy with just being in each other’s lives? Can he be happy with clandestine meetings, the occasional drink, and plausible deniability for the rest of eternity? Aziraphale frowned.

Can I?

He had to be. The other option was extinction.

“I’m pretty sure I know the answer,” Crowley said under his breath, breaking Aziraphale’s ruminations.

“Do you?” Aziraphale looked askance into red-rimmed yellow eyes.

Well, it made one of them. Aziraphale wasn’t sure of much of anything, these days.

“Can I ask a favor? Just one more for the road.”

Aziraphale nodded.

Crowley’s hands tightened into fists against the half-wall. “Tell me this meant anything to you. Tell me this is hard to walk away from, if nothing else.”

Aziraphale swallowed, and watched Crowley hunch in on himself, teeth clenched. What were the odds he could lay out exactly what it meant to him without falling into Crowley’s arms and changing his mind?

“What this meant to me,” he whispered, half to himself as he pushed away from the wall. Crowley’s eyes followed him. “Your guess is right. I do intend for us to keep– this– in Rome.”

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in one of his own, held on to this snappish, surly creature, and saw even then, some of the tension ease out of him.

“This–” Aziraphale gestured broadly with his free hand across the skyline and Crowley’s helpless gaze followed the motion. Rome glittered beneath them, beneath the blackening sky, open windows lit by candles and sconces. The moon was only just rising and the night was so clear, Aziraphale could see the rim of Alban volcano, where the two had shared so many years.

“This–” He raised their clasped hands and pressed the pair against his heart with a playful smile. He let himself recall walking Crispus’ garden at night, playing Nine Men at the popina, watching plays, squabbling naked in a bathhouse. The camaraderie and the cautious, burgeoning trust. No, Aziraphale could be honest with himself for just this one forgivable moment, the trust that is already there.

“This–” Aziraphale’s breath hitched but he had already made up his mind. Their hands still clasped against his chest, he wrapped his other arm around Crowley and pulled him into a kiss as ardent as their first. He poured in his longing, his fear, his love. Crowley’s body melted into his own, a foundation of corporeal familiarity already building between them. Aziraphale thought about Silius’ wedding night, about Crowley behind him on Saturnalia, walking the banks of the Tiber, looking at each other over their wings, smoothing the feathers in soft strokes. He remembered seeing the sheen of tears across Crowley’s golden eyes and then the vision of the demon blurring through the tears in his own.

Aziraphale released him and Crowley’s low, helpless groan nearly undid his resolve. Crowley’s hand slipped from Aziraphale’s hair to his shoulder, and he leaned his forehead against Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale would not cry, he would not. The fingers tangled in his own, pressed against his palpitating and unnecessary and damned heart, were shaking.

“This is what I am sealing here. For safe keeping. Forever,” Aziraphale whispered, so his sonant voice wouldn’t quaver. “No one, not Heaven or Hell, will take it from me.”

The silence between them yawned. They both knew when this conversation ended, this ended, and every uttered word drew them closer to that. If they wanted to, they could stay here on the roof, pressed together above the lights of the city the two of them had tried so hard to protect and beneath the stars Crowley had hung before he Fell.

Pulling away from Crowley required so much angelic force of will, Aziraphale had a brief pang of fear that a very undignified Miracle Report had just landed in Gabriel’s inbox.

He stepped back and breathed slowly, pushing down his doubt and his fear, and looked at Crowley until Crowley lifted his head and looked back, steady.

“Would you ever unseal it?” Crowley whispered back, golden eyes wide and gleaming.

“I would want to every day.” Aziraphale didn’t know if he would. He didn’t know if he could, not while the same axe hung over Crowley’s head.

“I’ll wait.”

“It could be quite a long time.”

“I’ll wait until the end of the world,” Crowley promised, a flicker of his usual humor returning.

Aziraphale returned it with a watery smile. “Don’t hurry it on too much.”

Crowley huffed, very nearly a laugh. “It’s a demon’s job, passer.”

“And an angel’s job to thwart you.”

“Go on and try.” There was a glint to Crowley’s gaze.

It was the steady foundation underneath them, a timeless dichotomy that existed long before Rome and would carry on long after it fell. They would be fine, this would be fine, just as long as loyalty to their respective sides came first. ^[51]

Aziraphale walked to the hatch leading back inside. Crowley stayed where he was, framed by the stars. How does one end a story like this?

“Right, well.” Aziraphale lifted the hatch and took the first step down. “Mind how you go.”

“Jaa ne,” Crowley said with a wave. ^[52]

Aziraphale thought of asking what that meant, and knew he would be getting a fair amount of teasing along with the answer. Aziraphale would, of course, respond in kind. He let himself feel tempted to step back, let the hatch fall closed, and get swept into one last evening of circling banter until dawn. He let himself feel tempted to pull Crowley inside and try everything he’d ever read in Petronius’ works, under the cover of Janus’ fog.

He let himself, without guilt. And then he let it go.

The hatch clattered shut above him.

I don't know why
to mock the dear small comfort
of desire.
I think it’s so her love
may then subside.

Catullus 2

⁴⁹ Specifically, they could smell an affinity toward demonic activity, a susceptibility toward temptation. This can be caused by sudden bursts of sin, or by direct demonic interference. Demons smelled the strongest, and clouded any low-level scents around them.^{Return to text}

⁵⁰The Temple of Janus is sealed with double doors, called the Doors of War. The temple stands open in times of war, and closed in times of peace. Janus is a two-faced god – one facing the past, one facing the future – and oversees beginnings and endings. Fittingly, he presides over the start and end of conflict. It is customary, in rites involving multiple gods, to invoke his name first. ^{Return to text}

⁵¹It took Crowley 483 years to break this rule. Or, more precisely, the very next time he saw Aziraphale. ^{Return to text}

⁵²“See you!” in Japanese. ^{Return to text}

Chapter Text

Epilogue: By Sappho

Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley could brag a perfect record of keeping the bottle sealed as they intended. On several occasions between Rome and the End Times, Aziraphale’s resolve wavered. He cracked the seal and breathed deep the dream he had to let lie. Luckily for them, it aged well.

☙ ☙ ☙

They met again in Wessex during a cold and damp 537 AD, both looking through the fog for a faceless adversary. In minutes, Aziraphale realized they’d been canceling each other out for nearly two years.

“Crawly?” Aziraphale asked, squinting at the black-armored figure, and tried not to wince when Crowley corrected him. Four thousand years of one name, five hundred years of another, and 4,541 years of Don’t Think Too Much About Him, and Aziraphale was fumbling again.

Crowley didn’t mind. He immediately broke his promise to respect their respective sides.

Aziraphale had been a dutiful angel for five hundred years and fully intended to be one that day too. But all the no’s he could think of were bureaucracy and corporate retribution. He threw them anyway, furious and hurt. Why must I always be the one to rein us in?

Unbeknownst to him, Crowley rather lost the heart to sow ferment after that. King Arthur united Roman Britain and ushered in 70 years of peace.

When they saw each other again, Crowley didn’t ask a second time.

☙ ☙ ☙

Aziraphale regretted that decision.

For the next 500 years, souls influenced one way or the other piled up. He and Crowley both received commendations, and Aziraphale received both a commendation and a firm chastisement for the Book of Kells. But every long-term plan, every clever scheme, every grand triumph, was tempered by the other.

It was exhausting. It was frustrating. Aziraphale caved first.

In 1020, he asked Crowley if they could loosely discuss their upcoming plans to avoid stepping on any toes. Crowley, smirking like he’d taken another victory, agreed. But they never worked together. They would never work together.

☙ ☙ ☙

In 1054, when one of Crowley’s stars illuminated the sky as it burned a lush, habitable planet he had tucked away in a safe cosmic neighborhood, he showed up on Aziraphale’s stoop.

Aziraphale opened the door to find Crowley glaring at him, shaking fingers pressed against Aziraphale’s dried mud wall to barely keep him standing, an unmarked bottle danging between the fingers of his other hand.

“You can’t blame me,” Crowley said, sharp and bitter. “Even when I try to do something nice for humans, God mangles it up.”

Aziraphale let him in.

Crowley finally fell asleep, throat raw from shouting, just as dawnlight began seeping through the straw roof. And if Aziraphale grabbed a book, pulled up a chair, and carded his fingers through hellfire curls, well, who was to know?

☙ ☙ ☙

Crowley found him in the Globe Theatre on their arrangement’s six hundredth birthday.

He offered a new facet of it: they are both angelic stock, capable of tempting and blessing. They’ve stepped aside for one another before – surely filling in for each other isn’t much of a leap from that. Aziraphale was this far into madness — Heaven wouldn’t forgive him if they knew the half of it — so might as well keep going.

He rode to Edinburgh to bless and tempt. Crowley stayed behind and, as a favor, made sure Hamlet would still be at the Globe when he returned.

Crowley spent the following year working with Shakespeare on Ophelia’s lines so that Hamlet would have a compelling counterpart. He knew a thing or two about compelling counterparts, he said.

Hamlet played the night Aziraphale returned. Crowley got them two front seats in the packed Globe theater and he watched Aziraphale’s face more than the stage.

During the closing applause, Crowley brushed his hand against Aziraphale’s and leaned in.

“‘'Tis in my memory lock'd,” Crowley whispered. “‘And you yourself shall keep the key of it.’”

☙ ☙ ☙

Crowley found Aziraphale in the basement of the Bastille, chained and queued to be beheaded, and freed him. They got lunch.

They became a habit, the lunch dates. A tiny bit of Rome Aziraphale allowed himself to keep.

☙ ☙ ☙

Crowley told Aziraphale to meet him at a cottage in Strada Verde, for one such lunch date. It was the first time Aziraphale had seen him with Leonardo da Vinci. Crowley was leaning against a desk covered in sketches, swirling a glass of rosé and watching a middle-aged man with a beard working on one of the sketches. The man fit the description Crowley had given Aziraphale about his ‘new friend.’

“That’s never going to work,” Crowley said, waving a hand toward the sketch closest to him. It looked like a machine of some kind. “The wind’ll fracture that whole center bit there. You need a few more of those struts at least–”

Leonardo shot him a fondly exasperated glance, pushing Crowley’s hand away. The touch lingered.

“You’re always adding,” he said. “Try taking away some time. Simplicity is–”

“‘–the ultimate sophistication.’” Crowley chorused along with him, rolling his eyes. A well-worn phrase the two of them shared. He adjusted his sunglasses with a teasing smile Aziraphale hadn’t seen in a while. Leonardo huffed.

Aziraphale knocked on the frame of the open door.

“Hey, Aziraphale.” Crowley was still looking down at the sketch.

“Go on, your date has arrived, get out of here,” the man said, waving Crowley off. “I do not need a sorcerer to make this fly.”

‘Sorcerer’? Aziraphale mouthed at Crowley, who had winced and slinked away with a don’t know what you’re talking about at ‘date.’

Crowley shook his head, grabbing Aziraphale’s elbow and leading him out of the cottage. “Never mind, angel.”

“What are you two working on?” Aziraphale asked. He looked over his shoulder to see the man’s head raised, surveying Aziraphale like a subject to be sketched.

Crowley told him all about a preposterous flying machine with relish. And then told him his idea for a set of portraits.

☙ ☙ ☙

Their worst fight since Crowley found out about Judah happened in St. James’s Park, in the 1880’s. Crowley had come up to him, talking of the future, of threats, of plans. He was going to get himself killed on some half-cocked plan Aziraphale couldn’t seem to sway him from. Crowley still imagined them as a two-man army against Heaven and Hell, just waiting for the opportunity to make a move.

Aziraphale had failed to disabuse him of that idea and waited with baited breath for what part he was to play. It was always worse than he imagined.

Holy water, said the note. He smote it in fury so he wouldn’t smite Crowley.

“It will destroy you.” Aziraphale said for the thousandth time, like a record skipping on his new gramophone. He said some other things too that would have him restlessly losing his place in a book for the next year.

Crowley’s fury was obvious through his new sunglasses, covering even the peripherals of his gaze now. He didn’t need Aziraphale for his mad plan – which, well, good because Aziraphale didn’t need him either.

They didn’t speak for a hundred years.

☙ ☙ ☙

Aziraphale had really bungled it up this time. He had finally found an ‘in’ without too much direct interference, he could be turning the tides of a human war, stopping the Nazis from getting a hold on valuable books of prophecy. Except, he’d misread his human companion, and now he was going to be discorporated. And what if Crowley ever came back and thought he had left Earth permanently and–

As if they hadn’t spent the last century in silence, Crowley arrived.

Anthony J. Crowley arrived, apparently.

After giving a wink-nudge warning to Aziraphale, he hop-strolled across consecrated ground and killed every human in the church. Aziraphale saved Crowley and himself. Crowley saved the books.

Their hands brushed when Crowley handed them back, safely in their leather bag.

“Lift home?” Crowley asked, and walked Aziraphale — only limping a little — to a pristine new Bentley. It gleamed black, like Crowley’s new again sunglasses, and the explosive red-orange light reflecting off the glasses and the car made the pair of them look positively demonic. Crowley stopped beside the Bentley and preened, pleased as punch with Aziraphale’s goggling. Aziraphale had to admit it was a hell of an entrance after so long.

Crowley opened the car door for Aziraphale with a smirking, exaggerated tip of his hat.

Aziraphale nearly broke then.

They were saved only because moments later, the Bentley left its parking space like a bullet leaves a gun, and Aziraphale was too busy yelping and scrambling for a handhold to feel particularly besotted.

☙ ☙ ☙

By 1950, it was the Arrangement; Aziraphale could hear the capitalization when Crowley said it.

When asked, Crowley defended that anything that lasted as long as it had deserved the standing of a proper noun.

☙ ☙ ☙

Aziraphale caved to Crowley’s request for holy water in the late 60’s, after hearing the reckless idiot was planning a caper with a bunch of equally reckless humans to steal some. Crowley’s recruited lockpick had been replaced by a particularly handsome human who had taken to fixedly staring at Crowley. The group of them snuck off to a backroom and Aziraphale shut the blinds and closed up his bookshop.

Aziraphale combed his hair and neatly tied a fashionable tartan ascot around his throat with more than a little malice. If he were to happen to be spotted, that human would know exactly where he stood. He waited for Crowley just out of view, watched the handsome one follow Crowley outside. Listened, seething, as he caught bits and pieces: “— a gentleman such as yourself – may have a need for— know where to find me–”

Aziraphale wasn’t a fool; he knew misdirected anxiety when he saw it, and he let himself have this because of the thermos burning a hole in his jacket.

As soon as Aziraphale handed the sealed thermos to Crowley and watched the light dawn on Crowley’s face, he realized he’d just sent the wrong message.

“After everything you said,” Crowley murmured, half to himself. Crowley had asked for a weapon against Heaven and Hell, a way to fight angels and demons. Because he was loyal to neither. And Aziraphale had given that weapon to him, as an ally would.

Crowley was pensive, hesitant, disbelieving that this was finally happening. He was right to be. It wasn’t happening. Aziraphale was about to crush him, and wanted to flee the car immediately.

“Can I drop you off anywhere?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale could hear the ‘What’s our plan? What are we doing next?’

“No– thank you–” Aziraphale began, and Crowley’s face was already starting to fall. He tried to stem the tide, tried to show him there was more to look forward to than their bloody deaths, crushed between Heaven and Hell. Crowley barely heard him.

“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.” Crowley offered, looking at Aziraphale like he would wake up from the dream any minute. He was set to drive off into the sunset. They both knew Aziraphale owned the bookshop right next door; he didn’t need a ride home. He didn’t need a War. He didn’t need Crowley to keep pushing.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, soft and fervent.

He watched Crowley wake up from the dream. Watched his hands slowly slide from the steering wheel. Don’t look at me like that, Aziraphale wanted to beg.

Crowley was steeling himself to say something. Aziraphale ran.

☙ ☙ ☙

When the Antichrist was born in 2008 AD, far earlier than either of them expected, Crowley already had a mad plan. Aziraphale evaded, smiling and nodding, disassociating worse than he had during the Black Death. He tolerated Crowley’s full assault on that ice, that neverending list of what the two of them were about to lose, carefully stepping around the greatest loss. Tolerated the pushing, the reminiscing, the lunch invitation.

Aziraphale could do lunch, at least. He could handle Crowley leaning so far over the table toward him, he was practically sprawling. He could politely ignore Crowley stroking his chin, never breaking his stare. He could let himself be pulled in with the invitation to drink. Aziraphale could take Crowley home.

He did just that, and had broken out the Chateauneuf du Pape because he was under the impression they were going to have one last extremely ill-advised and longtime-coming drunken tryst, and then never speak again. Crowley said he would wait until the end of the world and here it was.

Instead, Crowley said, “The Antichrist is already born. It’s the upbringing that’s important. The influences.”

Sunglasses off, meltingly warm, tilting his head challengingly like he knew Aziraphale would protest, Aziraphale would debate, and Aziraphale would lose. Aziraphale wanted to scream: Isn’t that what started all of this in the first place? Isn’t that why we can barely look at each other without–?

Crowley had gotten cleverer over the centuries. He was learning Heavenly justification, ambiguity, and plausible deniability. It was convincing. It was comforting. Maybe they could avert the Apocalypse just by doing their jobs and, in doing so, being completely in the clear.

Later that night, laying in bed alone after Crowley of all people had called it a night, Aziraphale let himself think about it, really think about it, and found it a lot less convincing without Crowley’s easy smirk. But now at least they would both be executed if Heaven and Hell found out, and Aziraphale wouldn’t have to watch.

☙ ☙ ☙

The specifics came only a couple years later. An ad in the paper, for a gardener and a nanny. Aziraphale tolerated the blistering parallels of this decade, but that was a step too far.

“Shotgun on the gardener job,” Aziraphale said immediately.

Crowley slowly lowered the newspaper with a groan. “Have you seen me in a skirt?” he asked, raising his brows.

Aziraphale flushed. Tunicas were all more or less the same, regardless of how the cloth around them was draped. A skirt was perhaps a different matter. However, Aziraphale had handled it well enough last time, though his appreciation of tartan had grown into An Interest.

“Culloden. 1745,” he pointed out.

Crowley ducked behind the paper again. “Oh. Yes.”

☙ ☙ ☙

Eleven more years of living in each other’s pockets, influencing a tempestuous young boy. And all the while going to concerts, shows, lunch. Holidays together. Two more screaming matches of an 1860’s caliber, all the while with Nanny Ashtoreth in that god-forsaken sinfully tight skirt. Aziraphale had morphed himself into a disguise painfully dissonant with Crowley’s usual ‘type’ out of spite – to no avail. Following the second screaming match was a tryst of the nature Aziraphale had expected years prior. At least the resulting chilly silence was shorter this time.

It had been torture. It had been for nothing. The Antichrist was someone else.

☙ ☙ ☙

A breakup was inevitable really, Aziraphale told himself, leaning against the railing of the bandstand long after he had been abandoned in it. Then immediately chastised himself for the phrasing. The night of the thunderstorm all those centuries ago was returning with punishing clarity.

Crowley had asked again, if Aziraphale would run off to the stars with him.

“Listen to yourself,” Aziraphale had said. They hadn’t left Rome behind them. They hadn’t bottled it up. It was here. It was here and spilling and Crowley was going to die.

He leaned against the railing with his face in his hands.

☙ ☙ ☙

Then Crowley asked again.

The Bentley screeched up to his bookshop, nearly onto the curb. Crowley scrambled out of it, entreating, practically begging. Apologizing. For ‘whatever he said,’ he didn’t even know, he just knew the magic words Aziraphale had told him so long ago. He apologized, and then asked a third time.

Aziraphale heard him out, as he said he would. Aziraphale said no.

☙ ☙ ☙

The world ended shortly after that. Well it didn’t, specifically.

There were a lot of bits in there: Aziraphale’s discorporation, a Crowley-fast scooter ride, an airbase, and the actual Antichrist. He got to see Crowley’s wings again, that was nice. Aziraphale was worried he was going into shock on the bus back to Crowley’s flat.

Crowley took his hand and squeezed it.

Back in Crowley’s dismal, barren flat, they carefully kept their talk to strategy.

It was all over, Heaven and Hell would kill them both, unless they could interpret the scrap of Agnus’ book Aziraphale had caught.

If they survived – if – then they would have a lot to talk about.

☙ ☙ ☙

The London Wall, London || June, 2019 AD

They left the Ritz champagne-buzzed and snickering.

Crowley was looking at him, glowing, and had been since their shared toast.

It still made Aziraphale blush, Crowley’s unguarded devotion. They had slipped wholly into each other’s bodies, electrons sliding past each other, carrying the sparks and the strands of their souls. He’d tasted wine on Crowley’s tongue and slept in Crowley’s bed. He’d slipped back into his own body knowing Crowley had permeated every molecule of it. And yet, the flutter of shy nerves remained.

Aziraphale had gotten the bill, taken Crowley’s hand, and led them outside, all the while ignoring Crowley’s quizzical glances. If he addressed them, the conversation would start right then, and Aziraphale was not quite ready. He hadn’t been ready at the Ritz either; the conversation could be difficult, and there was no need to spoil lunch with it.

In fact, maybe a month or two to cool down from that week’s excitement would be a good idea. Except, he had already started to obviously lead them to Tower Hill.

Aziraphale had wanted to discuss them for quite some time, but now that it was here, Aziraphale found his nerve quite suddenly leaving him. It would be nice to simply kiss Crowley there at the Ritz and get on with it, but no doubt it would just form a scab over the hurt of the past millennia that could easily be opened.

“This silence is very ominous, angel,” Crowley said after they had walked for a few blocks. He was staring fixedly ahead aside from the occasional furtive glance toward Aziraphale, his free hand shoved tightly into his pocket.

“Just thinking,” Aziraphale answered.

“About?”

“Not here.” Aziraphale held fast to Crowley’s hand and pulled them onward. He just needed the right setting, surely, and his nerve would return to him.

Over the millenia, Aziraphale had pictured this conversation, if they were to ever have it. Whether Heaven and Hell had inexplicably given the rubber stamp to their romance, or if Crowley had Risen, or if Aziraphale had Fallen. The lead-up-to didn’t matter as much as the conversation. The moment when not yet became well how about it.

Aziraphale had always expected to begin with asking if Crowley felt the same way. Of if waiting had turned their Roman wine to vinegar, opened too many times, exposed to the harsh surroundings.

But Aziraphale had never expected to one day know Crowley as well as he did.

Aziraphale saw how Crowley kept a hold of his hand but walked a respectable distance away – only as close as Aziraphale let him, and no further. How his head tilted toward Aziraphale, watching, listening. Those warm glances through his sunglasses. The way Crowley’s contentment had taken on an anticipatory edge, the breathing room of Heaven and Hell’s retreat allowing time to think of other matters.

Aziraphale wanted to bring that contentment back, the relaxed exploration of the new, like that first wine-warmed night leaving Petronius’ restaurant. He allowed himself a quiet moment of mourning for his friend. Petronius had earned the last laugh, truly.

“What is it?” Crowley asked.

He had been watching Aziraphale the entire time, Aziraphale knew. He had seen the regret flicker in Aziraphale’s eyes before he could turn them away.

Aziraphale had never expected anyone to one day know him that well.

“Petronius,” Aziraphale answered. “And– his restaurant.”

Crowley mmed. “He’d be proud to know his oyster recipe exploded like it did,” he said, mild as the summer air but Aziraphale could smell the crackle of ozone underneath. “What brought this up, angel?”

You think about the past when big changes are coming, Crowley had said two thousand years ago.

“Just imagining what he’d think of all of this,” Aziraphale said.

“The end of the world? He lived everyday like he was ready for it, right up to the last,” Crowley said with a touch of appreciation. Aziraphale knew Crowley had mourned Petronius but, in equal measure, considered his passing quite the way to go.

“Not just that,” Aziraphale said, squeezing his hand.

Crowley made an inarticulate throat noise, and Aziraphale had to stifle a fond snerk. However nervous he was about this conversation, Crowley undoubtedly was in worse shape. How many times had he laid it all bare for Aziraphale? Took his heart off his sleeve and served it on a silver platter?

How had that not gotten old over the millennia? How was Aziraphale worthy of that time and time again? Aziraphale was through with it. Today, Crowley wouldn’t be reaching out alone.

Which is why they had to talk. Aziraphale knew without question that if he kissed Crowley, dragged him to his flat above the bookshop, and tried to bury two thousand years of hurt, it wouldn’t work. He knew Crowley would always be waiting for the end, the shoe to drop, the next time Aziraphale pulled away.

He knew Crowley. He knew Crowley’s frowning head tilt meant his mind was whirring, like it was now as they reached the London Wall. He knew Crowley’s lip twitch, a bitten back smile, when he was torn between incredulity and amusement at something Aziraphale had done.

“We’re swinging through tourist spots now? Is this what we’re doing with the rest of our lives?” Crowley asked mockingly and yet, as always, betraying what had been on his mind.

“Hush,” Aziraphale admonished. “This place is important. It’s—” You can do this. How many times has Crowley done this for you? “It’s a little bit of Rome, here in London.”

Crowley paused. Crowley blushed.

“Always a flair for the dramatic, angel,” Crowley groused, looking up at the wall.

Aziraphale squeezed his hand, a bit tightly. “You are so one to talk, my dear.”

Crowley grumbled under his breath, fidgeting.

The London Wall was one of the last visible marks of Roman Britain. It enclosed over three hundred acres, once protecting a small port town that later became London. Most of it had fallen, but certain sections had remained. They were at one of the more iconic surviving sections, surrounded by flat grass and people milling about. The walls didn’t have much longer. Less than a thousand years, Aziraphale guessed, before even restoration efforts wouldn’t keep the bricks on top of one another.

“Some time ago, you said I held the key to— us,” Aziraphale said. How often had he watched Hamlet, wishing just once he could have seen a red-haired devil playing Ophelia? “I’d like to unlock it.”

“Has been for a while, angel. Unlocked,” Crowley said, evading.

He wasn’t wrong. For the past eleven years, their lives had been a painful echo of Rome. They did nearly everything now that they did then — what was left? Aziraphale flashed to a garden shed, bags of fertilizer falling as the workbench shook. Really, what was left?

His mind left the shed and went back to an abandoned temple. Crowley’s hands smoothing Aziraphale’s feathers, his own wings wrapped around them both, the kiss, Crowley’s loving murmurs into his neck.

Plenty was left.

“Influencing Warlock — brought a lot back to the surface,” Aziraphale admitted. “It was similar but not what I wanted. Want,” he amended quickly. The fertilizer bags had split when they’d fallen, filling the shed with fertile musk. The smell joined myrrh and conditura as inextricably Crowley.

“We have no reason to work with each other any longer, no reason to work at all really. But I should still like to see you. Every day,” Aziraphale said.

Aziraphale had once never known the way Crowley’s jaw worked when he was trying not to speak his mind. He had once not understood that Crowley looking at him, looking down, at the sky, and then back to Aziraphale, was Crowley steeling himself.

“Would be easier if I didn’t have to drive across London every day,” Crowley pointed out slowly.

“Quite right,” Aziraphale agreed. “And in that case—”

“Flat prices are a bit high in your neighborhood though,” Crowley added.

“Terrible buyer’s market,” Aziraphale agreed. “Which is why—”

“Although money is no object,” Crowley said. “So I suppose I can sacrifice a little—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale burst out. “Move in with me.”

Crowley startled. Started to smile, and then the doubts crowded into his slouched shoulders. “It would be hard for me to do that without— without being—”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “It wouldn’t be— that is, for me—” Good lord, he was bad at this. “Rather, can you take those off, please?”

With his free hand, Crowley removed his sunglasses, and tucked them into the inner pocket of his jacket with a quick notice-me-not miracle to the surrounding humans. Aziraphale caught his breath. It was one thing to know Crowley was nervous too and another to see fear in those yellow eyes. Waiting to hear the catch. Waiting to be let down easy. Aziraphale would never make him feel that way again.

It must have showed in Aziraphale’s face because Crowley looked away again.

“It wouldn’t be hard for me,” Aziraphale said. “It would be impossible. I want that too.”

Crowley blinked, more color rising to his cheeks. “So. You’re asking me to be your— your—”

“Boyfriend,” Aziraphale finished, tasting the word and finding it a bit dry. It sounded modern, casual. It didn’t encapsulate the six thousand years leading to Aziraphale wanting to spend the rest of his life with Crowley. It sounded— small. Aziraphale wrinkled his nose.

“Well don’t look too excited,” Crowley said flatly, and started to withdraw his hand.

“It’s not that,” Aziraphale said, holding the hand tight and definitely not laughing at Crowley’s offense. “I like the concept. It’s just not the right word.”

Crowley gave him a long look, then a slow smile split his face. “How could I forget? It’s from this century.”

Crowley tugged their intertwined hands and Aziraphale’s chest hit Crowley’s.

“Oh—”

“I’ll be your beau then,” Crowley said, wrapping his free arm around Aziraphale’s waist. Always the one to find Aziraphale dithering at a precipice, and throw them both over it.

Aziraphale laughed it off, trying to ignore the warm, foolish curl in his chest.

“No? Your suitor, then? Gentleman caller?” Crowley’s eyebrows wiggled a bit.

“Oh hush.”

“Inamorato?” Crowley all but purred.

“Crowley.”

Crowley cackled.

“Well, angel, I’m sure we’ll think of something,” Crowley said, his eyes glittering with promise.

Aziraphale recalled a time when Crowley saying angel made him jump out of his skin. Before it became a common pet name, before it gained a thin veneer of safety. Before — he could admit it to himself now — it became a pet name.

Every day they saw each other, Crowley’s hand was extended to him, just a little. Aziraphale had rejected him, even just a little, every day.

Aziraphale’s face threatened to crumple. “Crowley I’m— I’m terribly sorry, that it was never the right time, that it’s been so long, and the things I said to you to keep you— to keep us—”

Safe, he wanted to say. But it was too easy to recall Crowley’s face in the bandstand, recoiling like Aziraphale had struck him.

“I can’t imagine how that felt, and that I made you feel that way. I never want to do that again, and I wish I could have found another way, I just– I–”

“Hey! None of that,” Crowley protested, as Aziraphale did crumple.

Aziraphale sniffed.

Crowley let out a gusty sigh. “Look. I— You can’t find a good restaurant anywhere in the Alpha Centauri system, you know. No good wineries either,” he nattered. “The parks are okay. No ducks though.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “I don’t see what…”

“The point is—” Crowley continued, “You wouldn’t be happy. And. I wouldn’t either. What’s the point in just surviving? I just— I didn’t— I don’t want to lose you,” he burst out.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly. “I didn’t want to lose you either.”

“Yeah, I get that now. All that harping on about me being destroyed.” Crowley fidgeted. “I didn’t for a long time, started wondering if it was an excuse. When I went to your bookshop and it was burning, and you were— Well.”

He went to adjust his sunglasses and, realizing at the last moment, turned the gesture into scratching his head. “You know what I thought? Walking out of that building? I was right. And I wanted you to have been right more than anything, that we were safe here. But I hadn’t persuaded you and now you were– I thought– Anyway, I went to drink until the world ended. And there you were.”

“Mostly.”

“Yeah, mostly.” Crowley quirked a smile. “All I could think, at the pub, was how badly I wished we were on the same side. Which one didn’t matter to me, but I know how much you love Her–” He drew a breath. “And it would have been possible if I hadn’t gone and gotten myself– if I hadn’t fallen in with the wrong people–”

“We’re on the same side now,” Aziraphale said firmly.

“I know.” Crowley shrugged, but Aziraphale could feel him relaxing, tucking that much closer to Aziraphale. “S’good to hear you say it though,” Crowley admitted.

Aziraphale reached out and cradled Crowley’s jaw in one hand. “My dear, you deserve to hear it, and much more.”

“Don’t you start,” Crowley warned, already squirming away.

Aziraphale held fast. “Mm, I’m afraid being with me involves a lot of compliments.”

“A sop. That’s what you are.”

“Like how generous you are, how patient.”

“I’m leaving you.”

“No I don’t think that you would,” Aziraphale retorted, deliberately prim. “Where was I? Oh yes. How brave, and how loving.”

Even Crowley’s neck was flushed. “Last warning. Knock it right off or else.”

“How much I want to spend the rest of my life with you, how much I love you.”

Crowley kissed him, making Aziraphale laugh breathlessly against his lips. Crowley kissed him harder, soothing the laughter, and Aziraphale melted, cradled in his arms. The sunlight was bright behind his eyelids, Crowley was warm against his chest, and Aziraphale let himself trust that a long eternity stretched out in front of them.

“Took you long enough,” Aziraphale teased. Crowley glared.

“I love you too, you bastard.” Crowley said, burying his face against Aziraphale’s neck, the heat of embarrassment still radiating off him.

“This is me,” Aziraphale said. “If you’ve changed your mind–”

“Never,” Crowley growled. “You’re stuck now.”

“Well if I’m going to be stuck, I might as well get comfortable,” Aziraphale said loftily. “Home, then?”

Crowley took his hand, smiling. “Yeah, let’s go home.”

Hand in hand, they left the crumbling wall of Rome behind them.