Chapter Text
Pompeii was already warm, even in April.
Crowley missed Caledonia. What a beautiful part of the world. Its haunting moors and ice cold lochs. Did wonders for the corporation, did a nice plunge. The woad had suited him as well, contrasted nicely with his red hair, but for the last eighty years or so he had mostly been hanging around the Mediterranean. Ever since that cool night he and Aziraphale spent together at the inn- it was a miracle they could get a room there really, during the census.
The party, supposedly a diplomatic meeting for politicians and their associates, had descended into debauchery. Gone were the days of bacchanalia, where they at least admitted to the chaos. Now they pretended to be civilised, above it all, but would always predictably end up horizontal on a marble floor somewhere.
Crowley was sprawled miserably on a stool, wine in hand, surveying the room. Not because he enjoyed it- just making sure he had all the details for the memo he was drafting. Thank god they got on with it themselves- hell would be considering this a job well done.
It was then he saw someone awkwardly sidestepping past a couple engaged against a table.
“Apologies- ah- I really must get to the figs…”
Aziraphale.
He wore white, of course, with a bow and arrow broach. He was also carrying a Lyre- which made Crowley smirk. How appropriate for an angel. Not so appropriate to meet him at an orgy.
Crowley had thought about him and Aziraphale at one of these events rather abstractly- although it more often involved wild moors, heather and passionate confessions in the grass, than pure, seismic lust. He would want Aziraphale to feel special, in this fantasy world where being with him was on the table.
Nevertheless, his presence was magnetic.
He followed him into a side room, which contained a couple of triculinum and a table laden with all the best produce Pompeiian high society had to offer. Plates full of figs, oysters gleaming on salt, cheese and grapes scattered artfully over wooden boards. It was the perfect temptation for one specific Angel. If angels could be tempted, of course.
Crowley closed the curtain, and leant against a pillar. “Did you come here for the food? Or are you sampling all earthly pleasures now?”
Aziraphale turned, beaming, and then processed what he had been asked.
“Must you tease?” Aziraphale pouted. “I must say, I am glad there is somewhere to escape the chaos.”
“Agreed.” Crowley agreed.
“I am truly for love in all its forms, but it’s a touch overwhelming sometimes.” He popped a grape into his mouth, closing his eyes in bliss. Crowley adjusted his toga awkwardly.
“Well, you know it’s a good orgy if they have a buffet .”
“Hardly constitutes a buffet, really.” Aziraphale sniffed. “A meagre selection of fruit, cheese and oysters?”
Crowley frowned. “Thought you liked oysters.”
“Oh, I do.” He smiled warmly, and lifted one delicately from the platter and inspected it. “They must have salted them thoroughly to preserve them so-“
Crowley watched intently as Aziraphale tilted his head back, the oyster disappearing between his plush lips, as a small bead of salty water escaped and ran down his fingers. Crowley didn’t know where to look, wanting desperately to commit this vision to memory for later , but knew that would almost certainly give him away. He elected to tear his eyes away from Aziraphale to stare at the mosaic just behind his head.
Aziraphale swallowed. “Exquisite.”
It might have been warm in Pompeii, but this was more than that. Crowley could feel such heat billowing in his chest like a burning cloud.
Aziraphale stepped back and sat on a triculinum at the edge of the room. He absentmindedly traced the pattern on the marble pillar, his profile illuminated by the candle light from the other room. He looked like the sun, and Crowley was doomed to orbit him forever.
His bow and arrow broach and lyre suddenly clicked.
“Apollo, really.” Crowley smirked. “Healer and protector from evil.”
“Well, I thought it was appropriate.”
Crowley let his glasses slip down his nose. “Sssmiter of ssserpents.”
“I will be if you don’t stop teasing.” Said Aziraphale, with a fondness that left Crowley smitten anyway. “Besides, you can talk. Bacchus.”
“Wine and merriment, that’s me.” Crowley circled the table, inspecting the figs. “I barely tried anyway, I’ve just been carrying around wine, and this Fascinus.” Crowley held up the phallic necklace and shrugged.
“I got it.” Aziraphale swallowed another oyster, humming happily. “The costume, I mean.”
“Well done. You did.” Crowley said.
Aziraphale’s lips curled into a triumphant smile.
The pressure in his chest bubbled, and he searched for something to do. He picked up two figs and began rolling them around in his hand, trying to distract himself.
Leaning back against the pillar, he sighed, and tried not to look at Aziraphale or listen to the sounds of the other room, feeling the soft fruit in his palm.
He felt Aziraphale’s eyes zero in on the figs.
“You want one?” Crowley asked. And then made a terrible mistake.
He held it out level to Aziraphale’s face, who, surely overcome with wine or delirious with the party, closed his lips around the fruit and took it straight from Crowley’s fingers.
Their eyes locked for a burning moment.
It felt like the ground shifted beneath their feet. It probably had. It was Pompeii after all.
Crowley popped the remaining fig in his mouth, still holding Aziraphale’s gaze. He still had his saliva on his fingers, and it felt incredible. Meaning that he literally couldn’t believe it.
Worried that he would do something very ill advised, Crowley desperately tried to find a topic to break the tension. “Don’t these have something to do with wasps?”
Aziraphale looked mildly disappointed. “Yes, I believe so. Not sure what though.”
They sat in a tense silence, avoiding each other’s gaze.
Crowley couldn’t stand it. He took off his glasses and looked down at the angel. “Why are you here, Angel?”
“Well… I should ask the same of you.” He turned to look at Crowley, scrutinizing him.
“Overseeing hedonism. It is my job.” He tilted his head in curiosity, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “It’s most certainly not yours.”
“No. Perhaps I’m trying to redeem the good people of Pompeii.”
“Are you?” Crowley narrowed his eyes.
“Or perhaps," Aziraphale licked his lips absentmindedly, driving Crowley insane. "I heard you were here.”
“Well, if you want debauchery, Pompeii is the spot.” Crowley mustered every ounce of bravery he could. Temptations were easy, but he wasn’t tempting Aziraphale. This was something else, something earth-shattering and explosive. He had to be delicate. He leaned down, level with Aziraphale’s ear. “You wouldn’t go in for that sort of thing, would you?”
It was a terrible attempt, really.
Which made it all the more confusing that Aziraphale reacted as if Crowley had just asked him if he could tear his clothes off and suck him off under the dining table.
He stood up, and backed away, fussing with his toga. “Gosh- really- Crowley, even though I- I mean I really don’t think that’s a good…” He fluttered his hands around his face, as if trying to hide in embarrassment. “It wouldn’t be becoming. Of an angel.”
Fuck, thought Crowley. “Even though I…” What was he going to say? It was going to haunt Crowley every day forever and ever and ever and ever.
Crowley wasn’t stupid. His heart erupted at the idea that maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale had thought about him too. That the he had felt the heat, the magnetism between them, the volcanic feeling. The thing that made Crowley want to never be parted from him again.
It was a revelation. And it was terrifying.
There was no way in heaven that Aziraphale would ever let it happen. Even worse than it not being reciprocated at all, they were bound to each other forever; to dance around each other like sparks, but never get close enough. They would never have peace. But they could have company.
“Well, you don’t have to join them. Just enjoy the food.” Said Crowley, gently moving closer, so as not to scare him. “I don’t know, maybe you should stay in Pompeii a while. There’s some excellent street food ‘round the corner that I thought you’d like.”
“Yes, well…” He drifted off cautiously. “Crowley, I really don’t think either of us should stay here much longer.”
“Getting bored of me already?” Crowley chuckled.
“No! No.” He grasped Crowley’s shoulder. “I mean in Pompeii. There are plans… look. Just head somewhere else.”
“What? Like Herculaneum? Bit of a drag if you ask me, gorgeous villas though-“
“Crowley.”Aziraphale fixed him with a serious glare. “You need to go. Far away, back to Cambria-“
“Caledonia.”
“Wherever. Just don’t be here.” Said Aziraphale. “For your own sake, please.”
The earnest energy thrummed from him like static.
“Will you come with me?” Crowley asked, trying to be nonchalant.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Aziraphale said, mournfully.
“Ok. Well. I ought to heed the warnings of the god of prophecy.” Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand from his shoulder and held it in his. He felt the callouses where he had learnt to play the Lyre, the writing bump on his middle finger. Blame it on the wine, the pheromones, the magma pulsing under the ground, whatever. He kissed the inside of his wrist.
Aziraphale blushed bright, pink dusting his round cheeks. “Crowley- I…”
“No need, Angel.” Crowley sighed and turned to go. “Enjoy the buffet.”
“Crowley! Wait!”
Crowley turned. Aziraphale looked small, fiddling with his broach in the dark room, the light shimmering off the oyster shells on the table.
“Perhaps I shall see you. In the north? I might be posted there soon.” His eyes pleaded hopefully.
Crowley smiled. “Sure. I’ll see you.” And left.
CALEDONIA, 122CE
Hadrian, construction project extraordinaire, had started on his bloody wall. Crowley found this very annoying, a bunch of Romans lugging bricks around in the lowlands, but at least it kept all of those idiots from Albion away.
One summer evening, he sat observing the construction. There was an art to it, really.
When a familiar energy tugged on his heart.
He looked to his right as Aziraphale sat down next to him.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Crowley.” Aziraphale seemed to relax, and produced a corked container. “I brought you some wine.”
Ok, well, one thing the Romans did do for Crowley was wine. And the aqueduct, fantastic bit of engineering really. And the roads were good. Well, so it was a long-ish list. That’s besides the point.
Crowley opened it, and took a swig. “Oh, that is good stuff. I haven’t had that since… oh, Pompeii.”
“Not a phrase you hear much these days.”
“What?”
“Oh, did you not hear?” Aziraphale’s face fell.
“No, I started travelling back here the morning after we last spoke. Like you advised.” Crowley was frustrated. “What do you mean?”
“Later that year, when we saw each other- there was a terrible eruption-“
“Oh.” Crowley frowned. “Vesuvius. They do like to live near those things. Soil’s very fertile, great for grape growing.”
“Yes. Well it’s all gone now.” He sighed. “All those villas, frescoes, streets. The people. Covered in ash. Buried.”
“Soon they’ll forget.” Crowley gestured to the builders, still focused on their wall. “They always do.”
“But I won’t.” Said Aziraphale, perhaps talking about lost civilisations. Perhaps talking about something else.
Crowley let his hand cover Aziraphale’s on the grass. He took it.
“No.” Crowley sighed. “Neither will I.”