Archive of Our Own ^beta

In the end, you don’t live long enough to see him crucified. The whip-crack of your betrayal echoes from the city’s centre out to the bridge you stand on, you step off the ledge and the noose tightens swiftly around your neck before Pilate has reached the twentieth lash. His screams are the last thing you hear, eyes shut tight against the bright red glow of the Jerusalem evening and curses on your lips. The snap of your spine is lost in the shouting of the mob and the din of the trial, but it echoes, still, will echo. Judas , it whispers, betrayer .

*

A lifetime ago, really only a few months, Judas Iscariot gave Jesus Christ a shoulder massage.

Normally the task falls to Mary, but she’s stayed behind in the last village Jesus and his disciples had passed through for an extra few days. As such, Judas Iscariot finds himself standing in the motel room’s bathroom, staring at a small incense-smelling satchel full of jars and bottles that he can only begin to guess the purpose of. He’s seen Mary carry it around sometimes, and knows that she uses some of the bottles for her massages, or on her wrists and neck. Mary had pressed the satchel into Judas’s hands on the morning of their departure from the village with a knowing smile and no explanation. He stares at it harder, as though if he looks at it long enough it will grow a mouth and explain itself.

There is a knock on the bathroom door, and he startles.

“Judas? Are you in there?” Jesus’s voice is soft through the door.

“Yes,” Judas clears his throat, “Sorry.”

A laugh. “There is no need to apologise.”

Judas sighs, opening the door, “Yes, right, well.”

Jesus stands outside the bathroom, leaning on the doorframe. The sunlight filtering in through the blinds paints his face in golden stripes. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he’s changed into his sleeping clothes, a long white cotton shirt that Judas imagines would be very soft if he were to reach out and touch it. Jesus looks tired, Judas probably looks tired too. It’s been a tough week even by their standards, and Mary’s absence has worn on all of them.

He will look more tired every day that has yet to come. The lines around his eyes will deepen, he will not smile as much in the evenings, he will not talk to you as much, and you will not know why until the silver is heavy in your pocket and the noose has tied itself around your neck and your hands are stained and sticky with his blood. Blood money, blood money, blood money , the echo says, thirty silver pieces for the best man you’ll ever lose .

Judas gestures at the satchel sitting on the counter beside the sink, “Mary gave me this, when we left. Do you have the slightest idea why?”

Jesus peers over Judas’s shoulder, and as his eyes fall on the satchel his face flits through a series of expressions, landing somewhere between surprise and amusement.

“I think,” Jesus starts, slowly, “That perhaps Mary expects you to give me a massage.”

Judas gapes. Jesus watches him carefully, and when he’s been silent too long he opens his mouth to speak.

Judas cuts him off, “Why me? Why not,” he flicks his hand towards the room’s exit, “Peter or John, or Matthew? Surely they would be overjoyed at the opportunity to give a massage to their new Messiah.” The last word comes out bitter, and he spits it out as though it stings his tongue. Jesus only looks sad for a few seconds, but it is enough for Judas to regret it, “Sorry.”

Jesus waves the apology off, “Maybe that’s why Mary wants you to do it.”

Judas looks at him, and back at the bottles in the satchel.

“You don’t have to,” Jesus says, reaching out to grasp Judas’s arm, “It’s no matter.”

“No,” Judas says, and Jesus looks disappointed again for a moment, letting go of Judas’s arm. No , he wants to say, touch me again . Instead, he says, “I’ll… give you a massage. As you said, it’s no matter.”

Jesus smiles at him, brighter and more golden than the setting sun. Judas grabs the satchel and pushes past him out of the bathroom, dumping the contents onto one of the beds. Jesus follows him, sitting down on the edge. He begins to pick up the various bottles and jars, explaining their purposes as he sets them in order.

“This one is myrrh,” Jesus says, picking up one of the emptiest bottles, “she tries not to use it too often, but we’ll run out soon. That one is nettle,” He nods at the jar Judas had began to examine, “For pain in the limbs.”

Judas looks at the jar, unlabelled, full of a yellowish salve.

“I know.” 

Jesus looks at him, through him, and mercifully does not address Judas’s bare-faced lie. Nobody can ever seem to lie to Jesus. All the others are in awe of it, his uncanny ability to see through deception. Judas is as well, usually, though right now it’s just rather irritating.

Jesus breaks the silence once again, picking up a mostly-full bottle and handing it to Judas, “This is the massage oil.”

Judas takes it, twisting off the cap and holding it to his nose. It smells of sweet almond and something woody. 

“Do you know what to do?”

No . “Yes.”

“Alright.”

Jesus takes his shirt off— oh, Judas hadn’t thought about that part before, oh, no— and lies down, his head and arms dangling off the end of the bed. Judas watches the muscles shift underneath his skin, soft and tanned. He clutches the bottle, his knuckles white. Jesus sighs softly, and Judas looks at him. It’s all he’s ever done, all he’ll ever do. It’s alright. He’s nice to look at. 

A plant couldn’t ask the sun itself to reach down to earth, you would not ask it of Him. You are content to bathe in His warmth as long as He will let you. But he is not the sun, you know this, he is a man, and he weeps like one. The whip cracks again.

Judas looks at Jesus’s clean back, he reaches out, settling the hand not holding the oil on the blade of his shoulder. Jesus is warm, he thinks, and closes his eyes. Judas breathes. He pours some of the oil out, capping the bottle and placing it back onto the bed. As he spreads it across the plane of Jesus’s back he counts the knobs of his spine, memorises how the flesh gives beneath his hands. He is so, so warm, and Judas would rather burn than stop touching him. He does not touch Jesus often, does not let himself. He is not a leper, not blind or deaf, does not need Jesus’s touch as they seem to. Yet still Judas finds himself curving towards Him, bending and twisting to turn his face towards the light. He wants, he wants, he wants.

He works at the knots in Jesus’s shoulders until the sun disappears beneath the horizon, leaving only pinkish-purple streaks in its wake, and the darkening indigo of the night. He has never been gentle for this long before, and it is frightening, but Judas’s hands shake when he stops touching Him. 

Judas doesn’t know how long it has been when he stops, sitting back on the bed and staring at the back of Jesus’s head, golden curls turned dull brown in the lamplight. Jesus cranes his head around to smile at him.

“Thank you, Judas, that was very nice.”

Judas looks away, “No problem.” He stands, feet numb and slightly unsteady, and starts towards the bathroom. Jesus catches his hand, pulling him back and looking him in the eyes. Judas looks down at their joined hands, warm and softened with the oil, it is difficult to tell where one ends and another begins.

“I mean it,” Jesus sits up, leaning forward, “Thank you.” His breath tickles against Judas’s neck, and Judas cannot look at him any longer, cannot be in this room for another second.

“You’re welcome,” he chokes out, fleeing to the bathroom and slamming the door.

*

In the time between your neck breaking and your last, rattling exhale, your fingers twitch. You feel his back beneath your fingers, it is warm, it is whole. You twitch once more, and you don’t feel anything at all. Your work is done. He screams, and the city screams with him. Judas , it shrieks, betrayer .