Chapter Text
Crowley sees the angel first.
Which is the way it usually happens, since it's something of a demonic force of habit to lurk just out of sight for a while, to blend into the shadows and put out the suggestion that there was nothing to see in the space where Crowley was standing, nothing worth noticing anyway. Eyes sliding away the moment they caught the shape of him. It's mostly so Crowley can watch the crowd unobserved, so he can judge the faces against people he knows, or people he might have known if he paid more attention.
He likes to be absolutely certain that there's nothing that will make them stand out, and invite unwanted attention, no risk of interruptions, no hidden flavour of occult or ethereal presence that wasn't either of them. He wants to make sure that the both of them were safe, before he saunters closer and lets the angel see him.
Aziraphale on the other hand doesn't appear to have a care in the world.
He's seated himself at a thermopolium just off the main square and in full view of everyone - seemingly unconcerned about the many patrons milling around behind him, or occasionally leaning in next to him and shaking pouches, to decide if they can afford the probably overpriced delicacies on display. Aziraphale's long white toga has miraculously avoided the dust of the road, and the general grime of the streets. His sandals are tucked neatly underneath him, just visible under the many pale folds of material, that would be incredibly expensive if he'd actually bought them, rather than conjuring them out of thin air as Crowley tends to do.
Aziraphale is currently perusing the selection of foodstuffs on offer over his clasped hands, expression delighted. The hot bowls of goat stew, spiced duck, pickled fish, fresh bread and snails on sticks resting over hot embers are each being considered carefully. He looks as if he can't decide which one to choose. Or, more likely, as if he's intending to try everything but doesn't know which one he wants to start with.
Crowley finally saunters over, crossing the street on the raised stones with the air of someone that had just caught sight of an acquaintance across the square. Rather than someone who'd been lurking beside a building for ten minutes trying to decide if the angel will be happy to see him. Or at least not disappointed. Aziraphale had seemed to enjoy their time together in Rome. He'd made Crowley eat oysters but he'd also laughed at his joke about fish, smiled a lot - and looked less lonely.
He takes his time, while Aziraphale points and marvels at a sweaty man in an apron who's currently wrapping a sticky duck in oiled leaves. The man's smiling at the angel's enthusiasm. Though it's also likely he's pegged him as a patron who can be tempted into trying - and more importantly affording - everything on the menu.
"Is it cooked with the fruit inside? How marvellous. I've seen pigeons cooked that way but never -" Aziraphale stops, having caught the flutter of Crowley's much shorter toga drifting in beside him. He turns in his seat and Crowley braces himself for the possibility that his appearance will not be welcome. But instead the angel meets his eyes with a wide smile, like they're old friends. The recognition isn't overtaken by any wary suspicion or mistrust, but just left out there for anyone to see.
Crowley's not expecting it and it throws him for a second, loosens his carefully chosen slouch into something more genuine.
"Aziraphale, fancy seeing you here."
"Crowley, I thought I felt you in the city. I was hoping that I'd -" He cuts himself off, his smile becoming something more careful, but not disappearing entirely. "Well, I mean, I was fairly certain we'd cross paths at some point." He gives the words a dramatic air that they don't really deserve. Since the Ark they've had a sort of professional working relationship - that might be a friendship if you tip it the right way and give it the benefit of the doubt. But Crowley's still surprised enough about it that he doesn't want to poke it too hard.
When Aziraphale pointedly tilts a little to show that the space beside him is suddenly miraculously empty, Crowley finds a second stool not so far away from the first and drapes himself over it. Close enough to deter anyone from sitting between them, but not so close as to give anyone the idea that they might be friends who're having lunch together. Crowley knows how to be careful.
"Well, you know how it is, busy place, lots to do," he offers as an opener, as if he hadn't had all the time in the world to come check up on what the angel was doing. He doesn't want to seem too eager after all. Keeping an eye on the competition is expected, isn't it? "New bum of the throne of Rome and everything."
The fact that all of hell appears to be avoiding this place right now, and didn't seem to care much what Crowley did in the city, was just icing on the cake. In fact, they've been so busy down there lately that they hadn't sent him up any special instructions or assignments for the last few years. Not that he was going to complain about it. He could do with a few decades of peace. Especially after everything with Caligula. The shine had definitely worn off of Rome for a bit after that.
"It's not technically a throne," Aziraphale argues, only to be thoroughly distracted when the large apron-wearing man - who smells strongly of sweat and spices up close - sets a bowl and a platter down in front of him. The smile the angel gives him is bright and genuine. "Oh, thank you so much, Rufus. They look tremendously inviting."
The man serving them offers Aziraphale a smile back, looking proud over his mashed and spiced foodstuffs and things on sticks - honestly, humans will put absolutely anything in their mouths but the angel always seems thrilled by it all.
A second tray and a bowl is set down in front of Crowley, with an encouraging look from Aziraphale. His surprise at being unexpectedly invited to join the angel for lunch luckily goes unnoticed, as Aziraphale shakes out a cloth for his fingers and makes noises over the food that should be considered unfit for a public space.
Crowley pulls himself together and reaches for an amphora of wine and two cups, while the angel applies himself to the difficult task of deciding where to start. He eventually draws the draped material of his toga back, folding it in his elbow so he can pick up a small stick, cooked snails trailed along its length in spirals.
"I've been meaning to try these. People have been talking about them from the moment I entered the city. These ones are marinated in wine, honey and spices. There are also sharp peppery ones and an option soaked in oil, garlic and herbs."
"Fabulous," Crowley says, when it really seems like the exact opposite. The angel's getting better at picking up on sarcasm, but today he seems to be either too excited or too hungry to be offended by Crowley's lack of enthusiasm, tugging the small treats off and popping them into his mouth.
Crowley watches his face as he chews, the way his nose scrunches in pleasure, the corners of his eyes smiling while his mouth is busy.
"Oh, they're just the slightest bit sweet." The angel slips his thumb into his mouth to suck off the juices - in a way that Crowley refuses to be caught looking at - before taking the wine that's passed to him. "Do have one yourself."
Crowley grumbles his opinion on picking up any old thing off the ground and eating it, but it's hard to disagree with the angel's obvious expression - and noises - of enjoyment.
"No, they really are very good. The spices have flavoured the whole thing and it leaves a pleasantly smoky aftertaste." Aziraphale pokes his tongue out to catch a shine on his upper lip and Crowley upends his wine rather than think too much about that. "You absolutely must try one." His own platter is urged towards him, knocking against his curled fingers.
Crowley regards the small squelchy things on sticks. Which is the least appetising thing he's seen in a good century. The oysters hadn't been terrible though. Bit briny for his taste, but the way the angel had cupped the shells and tipped them back, occasionally leaning over the table to add a squeeze of lemon or a pinch of mustard to Crowley's. It wasn't the worst memory Crowley had.
"Fine." He picks up the stick and drags the meat off with his nails. Barely more than a mouthful all together.
Aziraphale gives a tut at his impatience, peeling his remaining snail off with a delicate sort of care. "You're supposed to savour them one by one, you won't be able to properly appreciate the flavour like that."
"I got plenty of flavour," Crowley says while he chews. "Not a fan of the sweetness, wouldn't pick them for myself, but they're not awful. Bet Rufus here is charging more sestertii than they're worth though."
Aziraphale pouts at him, he actually pouts, as if Crowley is being rude about a friend.
"The price is very fair, he's worked hard to get the spices just right. Besides, it's not just the food, it's the atmosphere," Aziraphale explains, gesturing around them at the spill of humanity. "Taking in the city while you eat. It's the new thing."
Crowley raises an eyebrow at him and considers their surroundings. "What the 'just off the road enjoying the dirt and the hot sun and the faint scent of goat shit while you eat,' atmosphere?" The city is warm today, the smell is noticeable. Aziraphale pouts, but Crowley gets the impression his good mood over lunch isn't going to be bruised. Which he can't feel too bad about. "Don't think it'll catch on," he decides.
The angel seems to think that was an invitation to convince him otherwise.
"It is terribly convenient though, if you just want a spot of something to bolster you on a journey." Aziraphale gives a little wriggle, as if the thought amuses him. "Or while you're waiting."
"Waiting for what?" Crowley wants to know.
Aziraphale frowns in thought and turns his head to watch the bustle of the market around them. "Hmm, who knows, delivery of a message, a good deal at the market, or perhaps for a friend to join you for lunch?" Aziraphale smiles, before he seems to realise what he'd said. "Or - or a work colleague, or some acquaintance who happens to be in the area." He fusses with his platter, moving the bread around as if it has somewhere important to be while Crowley watches him through his glasses.
He's trying to decide whether that was an honest mistake or a slip of the tongue.
Aziraphale prods at one of the other steaming jars, then peers curiously into it. If he leans any further over the heated embers he's going to end up on the menu. Crowley reaches out without thinking, catches his arm and urges him back. The brief and unexpected warmth of the angel through cloth is strange enough that it only occurs to him afterwards that it's the first time they've ever touched.
Four thousand years - he's leant, and gestured, and steered the angel with his proximity, but he's never actually reached out and touched him.
Aziraphale blinks at him, seemingly at a loss for what he was saying. There's surprise and something oddly curious about his expression, but nothing offended, nothing horrified. Crowley shoves his glasses more firmly over his eyes, suddenly self-conscious about being seen. Worse, about being seen being friendly, which is definitely not allowed. He's not the only one. The angel hurriedly adjusts his toga, colour flushing his cheeks red in a way that Crowley refuses to find fascinating. It's a warm afternoon, and the heat from the cooking is suffusing the air, there's nothing to be read into anything.
He struggles for something else to look at and finds the mountain in the distance, significantly more of a conversation piece than it was yesterday.
"Mountain's acting up again," he offers, glad for something to say at least.
Aziraphale turns to see, though he can't have missed the fact that Vesuvius is covered by a thick cloud of smoke and ash, in stark contrast to the rather lovely midday sky around it.
"Oh, yes, it's been like that for a few days now. I think something's burning up there too. Perhaps the earthquakes knocked something into a fire pit, or brought a tree down too close to a temple flame that sort of thing. I do hope it doesn't reach the vineyards, I hear the grapes are going to be very good this year."
The grapes are always good here the way Crowley's heard it. If the angel had been in the city longer he would have accused him of being the cause of it. He'll end up being mistaken for a god of the harvest again if he's not careful.
Crowley follows the dark trails of smoke in the sky. "Doesn't look like a wood fire, looks more like -" He snaps his mouth shut because he'd been about to say 'looks more like the sulphur pits in hell,' which was ridiculous and the angel would have called him on it immediately. You don't get those sorts of temperatures on earth. "Humans burning things they shouldn't I expect. You know what they're like."
Aziraphale frowns. "Yes, I suppose you're right. They've always been so fascinated by fire. I hope it wasn't set on purpose. People work so hard to create things and then it's all gone in one thoughtless act."
Crowley didn't mean to nudge a gloomy expression onto the angel's face. He's supposed to be enjoying himself. Lunch, six different sorts of bread, duck in leaves, snails, that sort of thing. He pokes at the food on his own plate, hoping to drag Aziraphale back to sharing his opinions on the stall's still steaming offerings, before hefting the amphora and pouring them both another cup.
"So, how long are you in the city for?"
"Oh." Aziraphale pulls a face."Not too much longer I expect. I really just wanted to absorb some of the local flavour, spend some time at the forum, perhaps visit the amphitheatre. I hear they're putting on a play tomorrow." The angel perks up noticeably. "Another day of celebration for something or other. I do hope they don't throw fruit at the poor actors again. It wasn't Orsinius's fault that his mask fell off last time."
"Miracles all done and nowhere to go, eh?" Crowley offers, because it's hard to resist teasing the angel when he makes it so easy.
But there's something that looks a lot like a wince, Aziraphale's mouth tugging down at the edges. "Ah, well, I wasn't technically supposed to be performing any miracles in the area," he says in a low voice, before immediately hiding the statement in the depths of his cup.
Now isn't that interesting. Crowley can't quite hold a laugh at the angel's obviously guilty air.
"What's this? Taking a cheeky holiday away from heaven's orders are you?"
"I'm doing no such thing, you fiend." Aziraphale breaks up one of the pieces of hard bread and dips some in his stewed goat meat. "As I said, I was just stopping off on my way to the coast, to try the food and to -"
The angel looks at him, expression pained as whatever excuses he'd told himself creak under the weight of the truth. Crowley finds his face, and his voice, softening without his permission.
"Course you were, probably blessing the poor and the hungry too, eh?" Though there weren't as many of either of those in Pompeii as there were in Rome. Happy people with food in their bellies had less reason to murder their fellow citizens - course, they still found plenty of reason anyway, they were still human. "Can't take you anywhere without you trying to do good, can I?"
The angel gives in with a sigh. "There have been some dreadful earthquakes here lately and I've been helping just a little, just here and there. A few collapsed villas that found themselves suddenly not quite as collapsed as people expected. A few foundations shored up so they'll stand up better to a bit of shaking, a few roadways cleared, a few cracks sorted out, nothing very noticeable or large, just - just rather a lot of little things." He pauses as if he's worried that admitting it out loud might get him in trouble, fingers destroying a perfectly good bread. "I couldn't help it, do you know how many people live in some of these homes? Their children and servants and - and animals? I couldn't just let them be crushed. If not now then some time in the future. They've been dealing with tremors for years here."
He stops and looks at Crowley, as if he expects to be told that of course he wasn't supposed to do nice things for people in need. Instead Crowley refills the angel's cup.
"Don't know why you're looking so guilty, seems proper angelic behaviour to me, making sure no one gets crushed, saving lives and all of that. If you're not supposed to be anywhere else right now then what's the harm in lending a bit of an ethereal hand here and there?"
That gets him a smile at least, though it's brief and a little shaky.
"The whole city is marked as unnecessary, no heavenly miracles allowed," Aziraphale says miserably. "Which I suppose means that it's more your domain than ours now. Though I can't think why, the people are so nice, they're not currently at war with anyone, and the culture and the food are being shared freely. I'm always told that -" His mouth tightens into a line briefly, the space between his eyebrows pulling in, as if he's about to say something he disagrees with but is going to power ahead anyway. "That it's a waste to give any aid when we've already lost to...well, to your lot. That there's no point to it if the people are already marked for downstairs. But I couldn't help myself, and since I haven't been technically banned from providing assistance via my own ethereal power, at least not yet, I stepped in to help here and there. Though I may have pushed a bit harder than I should trying to -" he stops.
Trying to prove them wrong, Crowley thinks, but he doesn't say it.
"Oh, I know better than to exhaust myself completely," Aziraphale reassures him - and Crowley had to wonder if he'd been wearing an expression that needed to be reassured. "The very last thing I want is to unexpectedly fall prey to some sort of robbery, or accident, or wild animal attack." He grimaces at the thought.
Crowley pauses halfway through a spicy piece of duck, because the thought that Aziraphale has been pushing enough miracles to not be able to protect himself against some animal he might meet along the road is - deeply upsetting. He pushes the feeling down so he doesn't have to examine it too closely.
"Well, I have nothing to do for a while," he offers, with the lazy air of a demon who finds the idea amusing. "I'm sure I can hang around and see off any threatening wildlife."
Aziraphale looks surprised and hopeful, but in a sad-eyed sort of way that Crowley finds he doesn't like at all. He reaches over the embers and acquires him another stick full of snails.
"Crowley," Aziraphale chastises, but softly, a lilting sort of tease to his disapproval.
"I put sestertii in the pot. Eat your snails, angel."
Aziraphale smiles.
Over the last of the meat stew and bread dipped in oil, Crowley teases the angel's mood back to something jovial. He even tries a few more things from the selection they have to offer, just to make him happy. The angel ends up laughing and encouraging him to take another spoonful of something that tastes peppery and fragrant.
"It's from the south coast," Aziraphale tells him, as if that makes it better. "They soak it in the meat juices for three days."
He likes it less the more Aziraphale describes it, if he's being honest, but he still opens his mouth when the angel gestures another spoonful enthusiastically in his direction. Any caution about Crowley's company seems to have been overlaid by his excitement to share the flavours of everything on the menu. He offers a pleased smile as easily as a spoon, and Crowley would never admit to being - not tempted, never tempted - but certainly intrigued by the way Aziraphale seems to forget that they're supposed to be hereditary enemies. That they're supposed to be wiling and thwarting and, to be fair, probably smiting too.
The angel couldn't look further away from the smiting sort at this moment in time. Instead, Aziraphale is laughing while he explains to Crowley how they press the olives here, and how they're using it to preserve fish in a way that sounds revolting and just mad enough to be true. Aziraphale is easy to talk to, he wants to talk, he wants to share and laugh and marvel at all the wonders humanity has to offer. From the viewpoint of someone who isn't human at all.
Crowley, for all that he'd be forced to protest otherwise if anyone asked, finds that he wants that too.
"The sweet cakes here are made of almonds. I was offered one by a friend at a symposium not far from here, and it immediately became one of my favourites." Aziraphale points towards the table behind Rufus the cook - who's currently busy lifting steaming pots from their holes and setting them in front of enthusiastic patrons. There's a small stack of white and yellow squares under a damp cloth. "He only makes sixty a day, so it's best to get here early."
Crowley, who'd previously taken barely any notice of the stalls and their street food, decides that he definitely needs to stop by in the morning and acquire a few of these cakes. For angel bribery purposes, of course. Even if the only thing he's bribing him into is that pleased expression he wears when Crowley does something unexpectedly...when Crowley chooses not to take advantage of his good nature, for reasons of his own. The way he'll say 'oh, Crowley, you shouldn't have,' and Crowley will have to make noises at him before he can make any accusations of kindness out loud. Which would drop the both of them in it.
"M'sure he'd save you a few, if you asked," he says, and refuses to watch the angel be so pleased where people can see him, instead peering into the amphora to check if they've emptied it yet. Surprisingly, they have and he waves Rufus over to get a refill.
"So what have you been up to?" Aziraphale asks. "I'm sure it's something fiendishly clever."
Crowley tips his head down and peers at him over the top of his glasses. He might be smiling, he might not.
"If I tell you you'll just have to thwart it," he complains. "Are you plying me with lunch just to get hellish secrets?"
Crowley's thrilled when the angel looks amused rather than upset by the accusation.
"Oh, I couldn't possibly stop you, remember. I'm not supposed to be here. You will, unfortunately, be free to spread discord to your heart's content. You have the better of me I'm afraid, so you might as well tell me."
Crowley leans on the warm wood their bowls rest on, then pauses to let the angel wriggle in anticipation. He knows perfectly well that Crowley is going to tell him.
"I currently happen to be a wealthy patron who's throwing a bit of coin around some of the establishments that are fond of a wager or two. Pompeii has an awful lot of coin for me to win." Crowley affects the air of a demon who's been letting his fiendish schemes work for him.
"Gambling is illegal in the city," Aziraphale says, with a scandalised expression that wouldn't convince a blind man.
"Ah, but it's almost never enforced. You've seen the number of soldiers playing dice games in every bar from here to the sea. I'm just encouraging them to be a little more adventurous in their wagers, a little more willing to take a bet from a stranger. The ones that walk away rich spend it all on wine and company, the ones that walk away poor take their furious misery out into the city. It's a win for me and a tick in a box for hell." Crowley tries not to pull a face but he can't help it, there's a reason he doesn't enjoy going back. "Hell's unpleasant at the best of times, but if they think I've been doing nothing while they haven't been paying attention, they might be more inclined to pay attention in the future. So a steady bit of temptation is a -" Crowley frowns. "It's a - something with one rock, doing lots of things by doing one thing with a rock."
"Killing birds I think," Aziraphale offers with a frown. He can always be counted on to pick up idioms. The angel is a fan of wordplay, Crowley's noticed.
"Right, killing many birds with one rock. It's a bit too easy if I'm being honest, you know what humans are like, they'll bet on anything - and they'll bet everything."
"Oh, they do have some fantastic games though - complex tests of skill and strategy." The angel's excitement at the idea is obvious.
Crowley shakes his head. "Nah, not the right crowd for anything you need to actually be sober for. It's more dice rolls and which tortoise is gonna reach the line quickest, or how many drinks can Gaius put down before he passes out or vomits. Nothing you'd actually want to stay and watch." The angel's disappointment is clear and Crowley feels compelled to try and ease it a little. "Besides, it's not like any of them would be real competition for us in something like that, right?"
"Well, I suppose we could -" Aziraphale's face goes through several complicated expressions while Crowley watches, before settling on something that almost looks satisfied. "I mean, it seems only sensible for us to test each other's skills, search for weaknesses in each other's strategy?"
Crowley hadn't expected Aziraphale to ever suggest that they play a game together - though he might have idly entertained the thought a time or two.
"We could," he agrees, with all the calm he doesn't currently feel. Because his brain says 'make the angel think it's something he wants, something you're giving him.' When what he really means is 'don't let him know how much you want it too.'
"Excellent." Aziraphale gives a little clap with his hands. "Do you want to rustle us up some pieces and a board, or shall I?"
Crowley chokes briefly on the wine he'd been drinking. He definitely wasn't prepared for the angel to jump in with both feet, he'd expected a bit more back and forth first. A suggestion that he was luring him into it, to discover his weaknesses. Maybe a hint of temptation that wasn't really a temptation to give him an excuse. The angel isn't even going to make him work for it. He'd gotten the impression Aziraphale liked to lean into that to explain away some of their time together. Crowley's a bit unprepared for him to be so enthusiastic.
It almost feels like cheating.
"Right, yeah, think I can manage that." Crowley slips a hand inside his toga, brings out a piece of rolled vellum marked out with pale squares, and a pouch full of carefully carved wooden tokens. "You familiar with the game of latrones?" he asks. The angel's smart as a whip but Crowley's noticed that he doesn't always pay attention to the latest fashions or games.
Aziraphale turns his stool and hurriedly sets the amphora and his remaining lunch out of the way, so Crowley can unroll the thing between them.
"Oh, yes," Aziraphale says enthusiastically. "Such an interesting game. Though, as you said, playing against humans always feels a bit unfair. The last person I had a game against wasn't a skilled player at all, and I had to make quite a bit of an effort to lose. He'd have been much less liable to hear my proposals on the new bathhouse if I hadn't allowed him a moment of triumph."
Crowley pauses with a token half-raised. "You think the city needs another bathhouse? You can't move already for running into a bathhouse here. Was the first thing I noticed."
"They encourage conversation, cleanliness and culture," Aziraphale says, with some excitement, it's clearly something he feels strongly about.
"That's not all they encourage." Crowley feels compelled to remind him, and he can't help the smile that slips out with the words. "You can't have missed that." Humans will do that literally anywhere. The being watched and getting caught seemed to be half the fun sometimes.
"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," Aziraphale says, with a perfectly innocent expression that's only a shade more believable than the scandalised one.
"I'm sure you don't," Crowley says with a smile. "Shall I be the Empire?"
Aziraphale makes a gesture for him to go ahead, and Crowley sets up the pieces while the angel pours them more wine.
-
"...and so I told him it would definitely look bad if he wrote that on the wall. Don't know what he was thinking, everyone was going to know it was him if he did that. He wasn't even trying to hide that it was him who stole the horses."
"Wasn't that part of the temptation?" Aziraphale reasons. "It seems very horse-focused so far."
"The horses weren't the temptation, stealing from Ossius was the end of his part in it. He was supposed to find them gone and be unable to buy the boat, leading to him fighting with Menaleus so his daughter wouldn't be -" Crowley waves a hand. Because the end of that was 'so that his daughter wouldn't be forced to marry Ossius's awful fucking son.' "Y'know, shame, disgrace, ruined reputations all round, the usual." Crowley waves a hand. "Your turn, angel, stop distracting me."
Aziraphale smiles at him, shuffling a piece forward three spaces without looking.
"Well, I'm sure I should chastise you for bringing a family to ruin."
"Awful family, couldn't stand a single one of them," Crowley insists with a gesture, flinging droplets of wine across the game that the angel banishes with a click of tongue. "But like-to-like and all that."
Aziraphale frowns at him, seems poised to dispute that, until the cook drifts past with a new platter of steaming, honeyed duck.
"Oh, Rufus, could I possibly have - yes, two please. No, make it three, thank you so much."
Crowley can't help but laugh into his cup while Aziraphale makes space on the already fairly cramped stall top so Rufus can fork him off three breasts.
"Didn't you already try those?" Crowley points out.
Aziraphale is already sucking duck grease off his thumb. "Yes, but they're excellent." He lifts a piece he'd torn from the breast and offers it over. "Did you have some of these ones? I don't think you did. Do try some, Rufus prepares them so well."
Crowley makes a noise of protest but the angel's laughing and smiling and reaching into Crowley's space with his soft hand, and he takes the offering just to make him stop. His fingers slide against Aziraphale's for the briefest moment. He's almost annoyed to discover that it's very good, the meat is hot, the spices delicate, the edges perfectly crisped. Even if it's a little much for his sensitive snake senses, he has to admit that the man can cook.
"It's fine," he offers.
Far from being disappointed, the angel looks delighted. "Oh, I'm so pleased you like it."
"I never said that," Crowley argues.
Aziraphale laughs and hands him a cloth for his fingers. "Yes you did."
"Anyway, enough stalling, angel, it's your turn."
"No, I believe it's yours, I just went. And I believe I'll also be free to take your piece unless you can rustle up something in the way of a defence in the next two moves."
Crowley looks down.
He's right, the blasted angel has been carefully surrounding him while making ridiculous noises over roasted duck and snails and laughing at his misfortune. Crowley should be furious. He should be absolutely furious. But he looks up, past that stupid pert noise, the laughing eyes and soft rounded cheeks - he finds someone as old as him, someone who's seen the world take shape, seen civilisation inhale and exhale their way between war and peace, growth and selfish destruction, over and over again. He sees someone who understands that, someone just like him. Someone who comes from the same place, the only person who's ever made the effort to know him.
"Angel, I may have to start cheating if you're going to play this well," he says instead. The warmth in his chest isn't anger, he's not sure what it is, but he's content to let it stay.
"Oh, I'm sure I could thwart your attempts."
"If you can see my attempts then they deserve to be thwarted."
Aziraphale offers him a smile that suggests he's rather looking forward to it, and Crowley finds it very difficult to look away. He finally forces himself to look at the board instead, to consider his next move.
It's difficult not to notice at this point that the squares are covered with the finest layer of ash, which is now drifting steadily down from the sky. There are also small pieces of pumice flecked along the stone, and making smeared grey marks on his dark toga.
"How long do you think the mountain's going to keep doing that?" Crowley asks.
Aziraphale is gazing upwards with a worried expression as well. The air has a certain taste to it now. It's familiar enough to set Crowley's teeth on edge, echoes of home on his tongue.
"Hopefully not too much longer, it's going to ruin the crops otherwise. Which will be a disaster."
"I don't like it," Crowley admits. "It doesn't feel right, and I think it's going to get worse. The people think the same, have you seen how many of them are heading out of the city? You should leave too, cut your plans short and head south."
"Crowley, we would have been told if anything was going to happen, anything we had to worry about, surely?"
Crowley really doesn't like the angel voicing the thought in the back of his head. He hadn't wanted to say it out loud.
"Would we?" he argues. "Technically neither of us are supposed to be here."
Aziraphale frowns as if he doesn't have an answer for that.