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Chapter Text

Prologue


Gabriele Angeli could not have been more nervous.
Sitting at his moon-white desk, he kept drumming his fingers on the perfectly smooth surface as he stared into the void, sighing.

The cup of coffee he had just guzzled had left a brown semicircle on the glass and metal table. A bad omen and a sign that he was so distracted that he had forgotten his coaster, which never happened to him.

The large studio he was in was the perfect blend of two colours. Black and white. A chequerboard of desks, chairs, cushions, shelves and bookshelves covering every wall. An unusual visual effect for many, a fundamental compromise for the two publishers to whom that office belonged.

He undid his purple tie, the only colour element in that black and white photo in which he posed.
So much for the Great Plan, with capital letters, as she called it.
So far she had always deserved his blindest trust, but this time an alarm bell seemed to keep ringing in Gabriel's head, threatening and never-ending.

This is bullshit. Colossal bullshit. We will lose the two most brilliant and profitable authors in the catalogue and end up bankrupt.

It was a new situation for him. Until that moment he had always felt he had everything under control, he had shown a very good entrepreneurial spirit since the beginning of time, he had never had any major doubts about novels, authors, series, events to attend, staff to hire or collaborate with. Everything had always gone the way he had decided it should and, without false modesty, everything had always gone very well.

After a long and satisfying career as a small publisher at the head of Angeli Edition (perhaps fantasy in names was not exactly his wheelhouse), he had willingly (but also after nights of endless calculations) accepted the double proposal of his work and love counterpart. And it had been a double success. A double wedding. The pompous one in a white suit with the most perceptive and charming editor he had ever worked with (who that day had walked down the aisle in a suit similar to his in cut, but totally black). And that between their two small publishing houses, to pay less tax, sure. But also to have someone to share not only mortgages and a bedroom with. But also ideas, projects, dreams.

And so Alpha Centauri was born. A publishing house that started out as a small one, but in just a few years had become one of the brightest stars (it had to be said) of the Italian medium-sized publishing industry. The catalogue had gradually expanded to embrace almost every genre and among the numerous authors, several of whom were noteworthy, two stood out in particular for sales, fame and success.

Their novels had been translated into the most varied languages and published by foreign colleagues. Of course, the fact that both authors were bilingual and usually wrote in both Italian and English was a big plus point and perhaps the only one they had in common, apart from their success. For some of their works they had even received calls for agreements for future television adaptations, although it was still all in 'maybe' and 'later'.

The first of these jewels was Aziraphale Fell: the diamond of the publishing house, whom Gabriel had known for decades. He was a former university professor, the author of numerous specialist publications, who in recent years had devoted himself to popular historical works on ancient Rome, both republican and imperial. He had a fresh style that fascinated both the young and his contemporaries, and he seasoned everything with a graceful romance without ever venturing into anti-historical excesses given his ultra-specialised training and blessed fussiness. A guarantee for Angeli Edizioni first and then for Alpha Centauri.
His most famous series was the one that described and somehow re-evaluated the lives of the most controversial Roman emperors: Caligula, Nero, Commodus, Heliogabalus.

In the last six months, however, devastated by his new role as director of one of Rome's archaeological parks that he had sweated over, he had a kind of writer’s block, he had nothing in the pipeline, he barely answered emails.


The other leading author was Anthony J. Crowley: the black pearl of Alpha Centauri. The mad pen, as some critics called him. The mystery writer. He avoided almost all promotion events like the plague and when he had no way of escaping them he always appeared wearing a hat and dark sunglasses. He did not even know any of his colleagues in Alpha Centauri.
And he published under the italian pseudonym Antonio Crolli.

Few people, including Gabriele, knew of his past,

An ex-professional boxer (known by the alias of The Snake), after hanging up his gloves for a series of health issues first and then more obscure ones, he had picked up a keyboard and in the space of barely six years had first made the noir genre his own and then totally overturned it, raising the bar ever higher towards the thriller. After a first novel narrated from the cold and cynical point of view of a female serial killer, with which he had immediately gained Isabella's interest, he had written two sequels. All three novels had been impressive publishing successes, made all the more remarkable by the fact that the author was a first-time author.
He had then given birth to the very dark thriller with which he earned the nickname Pen Crazy, a gruelling psychological thriller where, after 468 pages, in the final chapter it was discovered that the author of the heinous murders that terrorised an entire town was an eleven-year-old boy.
And finally he had even managed to have an incredible sales success with a collection of short stories (a sort of miracle) one more unusual than the other: some narrated from the point of view of the murder weapons, some in the second person, an experiment even all in the future.
For Isabella a true genius, for Gabriel a damned bet won by his wife.

And it was precisely because of his wife that he was in that exhausting mental situation. He who was never nervous.
As he drew concentric circles around his temples with his fingertips, the chequered door suddenly opened.

A petite woman, anticipated by a prominent belly of almost six months, completely dressed in black from cap to boots entered the office prancing and humming.
"Everyday it's a gettin' closer, goin' faster than a roller coaster, love like yours will surely come my way, hey hey hey heeeeey".
"Good morning Bella."
"Good morning my love! Do you think about it? Tomorrow is already...tomorrow!!! The 9th of January!!! That date we've been marking in red on the calendar for weeks! I still can't believe it!"

Isabella Zebu's enthusiasm was so electrifying that Gabriel would not have been surprised if every artificial light in the studio began to vibrate as if by magic.
The woman took off her hat, unbuttoned her long maternity coat and approached her husband. She pressed a kiss to his forehead and the black lipstick left a faint halo on the man's face. Isabella giggled inelegantly and sat down on the black chair next to her husband's white one.

"Sleep well, dear? You arrived earlier than usual."
"Not at all. Hell, as usual. This little beast is your child. She kicks like hell, stretches and is an early riser too. You'll certainly get along very well."
Gabriel finally dissolved into a smile and gently caressed his wife's belly.

"You rather, you went out very early. Still nervous? Still not convinced, are you?"
The graphic stroke of the eyeliner made his wife's black eyes, which looked at him softly, even deeper.

"It's not that I'm not convinced... It's just... If the... Great Plan doesn't go. Could we then go back to the original plan?"
"You mean the novel exclusively by Crolli with only Fell's preface? The collaboration for just the historical framework and locations?"
"Exactly."
"But of course. But there will be no need for that. Trust me." He replied with a grin.

"What if they don't like each other?"
"They'll love each other. Anthony is already on a roll. He texted me at 8am this morning to ask my advice on which novel to bring tomorrow for Fell to autograph. And to say he never wanted to meet any other authors. Then I don't see how someone like Anthony could dislike Aziraphale. In fact, I'm more than sure he could unblock his... well, stalemate,' She smiled mischievously.

"But they are two men used to writing on their own, they have a very intimate relationship with writing. They have never written with anyone."
"Apart from your friend's scientific publications."
"Those aren't exactly multi-handed, Bella, they're just... Besides, they have two such different styles . How could they write a novel together?"
"My love, breathe. We've already talked about it. We'll see on the way. If they prefer we'll go back to your plan. Fell will help Anthony for the historical context, the Ostiense setting and stop. But if there's a spark... We'll have a historical noir novel written by the two best and most profitable authors we've ever had the honour of collaborating with. We'll really reach for the stars!" and he jumped up abruptly.

Gabriel also got up. His beautiful wife had always had a great influence on him. And so far all his intuitions had turned out to be very good. Why couldn't he relax this time?

"All right dear. Let's have breakfast together, shall we?"
"Sure, darling. More than happy to. You no coffee though, I'm sure you have enough caffeine in your system already."
"I'll have a chocolate then." Gabriel smiled and slipped his cap on the woman he loved, who went back to humming "Love like yours will surely come my way. Hey hey hey hey."

Chapter Text

Chapter 1


8 January



Aziraphale Fell was very pensive. As he knotted the laces of his karategi, he tried to mentally go over Chinto, the superior kata on which he was training his team of agonists headed by Adamo Giovine, the little champion who gave him great satisfaction.
But in reality it was a futile task.

There, alone in the locker room of the suburban Ostia Martial gymnasium, half an hour before the start of his karate lesson, his head was exploding and he kept migrating from one thought to the next and, above all, hypothesising the course of the following morning.

His publishers were trying everything to get him to overcome that block. Six months. Six months that every night he stared fixedly at the blank word sheet without being able to colour it with any words. It had never happened to him. Not for so many months.

Sure, it had been a busy six months.
As an archaeological officer in the Soprintendenza, he had beaten dozens of colleagues in that competition and had obtained the coveted position of director of the Ostia Antica Archaeological Park, a place to which he had devoted numerous studies and his doctoral thesis.

Finally, at almost forty-six years of age, he felt he was in the right place, in the role he had wanted for almost a decade, ever since he left the university world. Obviously, the responsibilities and tasks to follow were a different universe from his previous role. The eight hours he spent in the office were always intense, the employees were few and the work to be completed always seemed endless.

Deadlines, meetings, signatures, inspections and promotional events left him no breathing space to create. Or at least that was the excuse he used to justify himself for that writer's block.

In reality, in the past he had been able to write in the most exhausting situations, indeed his creative flair seemed to feed on stress.
During his university studies and thesis writing, during his years first as an excavation manager and then as an area officer. Even in the black period of his break-up with Davide and the end of his career at university, writing had let him vent, escape: it had literally saved him. To that period could be dated the beginning of his career as a popular author, to that year dated his first work, no longer non-fiction but fiction, his Caligula.

Now he could have the extenuating circumstance of thoughts and little free time, but the truth was that he had had no new ideas for almost a year. No emperor, no historical figure, no story knocked at the door of his inspiration.

And that had never happened before. He knew that there were writers who also experienced much longer periods of stagnation or rest than he did (or so his publisher and friend Gabriele Angeli continually tried to console him), but not him. Never.

When he wrote a novel, a story, a short story, he always had some draft or incipit or outline of the next work or the one after that. Or at least that was how it had been for years. Inspired, tireless, he always completed what he had set out to do. All it took was a small flash of inspiration and the next day two pages of outline or draft would enrich the rich folder on his PC simply called 'Writing'.

But not during those months. A black hole seemed to have swallowed up all his words.

Luckily he at least had karate. Those six hours a week were what allowed what was left of his brain to regenerate, his lungs to fill up again to really breathe, his body to recover the energy vaporised by the hours of desk work.

Usually he could empty his head of thoughts at least in his dojo, but that day he didn't know if he would really be able to concentrate on kata, on kihon, on his students.
And he was suffering for it.
The boys deserved a master who at least during those hours was totally dedicated to them, to their preparation and training, not a middle-aged man in crisis and stressed by his other two jobs.

The following day Gabriele and Isabella would introduce him to Anthony. Or rather Anthony (that was his real name), also of English descent. They were so desperate for his situation that they proposed him to collaborate with an author light years away from him. An author of noirs, thrillers, of serial killers kids, women who cut up dozens of men to feed to dogs and talking knives.

Who, however, was now selling twice as well as he was.

What could he have shared with such a writer, he who only wrote about people who had died two thousand years earlier? And how could he ever have written with a writer whose style was sharp and raw, so different from his own, compelling but relaxed, in his later works almost phlegmatic? He who was then used to writing at night, alone, in his study?

With these questions reverberating in his head, he was bending in half to put on his black belt decorated with the embroidery of his name transliterated in katakana, when someone who managed to attract his attention rushed into the changing room.

A tall, very thin man with bright red hair gathered into a sort of bun halfway up his head. He stopped two benches away from Aziraphale and turned his back to him.

He seemed to be humming something by Queen. His dark grey T-shirt had conspicuous sweat marks and seemed glued to the man's defined body. The black trousers and the bands on his hands (unusually of two different colours, red on his left hand and black on his right hand) revealed that he was presumably a boxer.

He removed the earphones from his ears, but continued humming. It was definitely Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen.

A vision.

It was definitely a new addition to his gym. Stressed as he was, Aziraphale could not have failed to notice such a boxer specimen earlier.
It would have been against his dogmas. Against his nature. Against every cell in his body.

It was an unusual time for boxers of that calibre indeed. In the afternoon at that time only middle school kids and middle-aged ladies generally trained. Competitors trained later in the evening. But maybe it was his first time and he didn't know the timetable of the Ostia Marziale ring room.

Good for Aziraphale. The redhead began to undress.

First the bandages, then the shoes, away each garment.
Aziraphale began to fidget and fiddle with his smartphone in order to have an excuse to stay and enjoy that spectacle in the gym locker room, as he was now fully dressed and ready for class.

Yet another text message from Gabriele Angeli. He would call him later. He could already taste the acidity in his stomach.

He then went back to unbuckling and re-buckling his belt, while out of the corner of his eye, his back now to the boxer, he was able to observe the other's movements from one of the mirrors.

Socks and trousers off. A glimpse of Fell.
The calves were thin but well defined.

Off went the sweaty shirt. The archaeologist swallowed the now abundant saliva. The boxer's shoulders, while not particularly broad, were well-proportioned. A tattoo of a snake covered half his back. The pale skin of his shoulders was decorated with charming freckles.

Aziraphale forced himself to concentrate on the knot of his belt while the other one slipped off his boxer shorts, also black, and replaced them with a white towel around his waist (everyone wore a bathrobe with them, the newcomer did not, a miserable little towel around his waist!) and approached the showers.

As soon as he heard the water open Aziraphale slipped his phone into his duffel bag and, putting on his wooden flip-flops, prepared to leave the changing room. Before that sight compromised his lesson.

He was only a step away from the door when he heard a voice coming from the showers.

"Excuse me? Hey!"
"Yes? Was that you?"




***********






That 8th January was very significant for Anthony J. Crowley.
After years without training, he was taking a trial lesson in a gym. A boxing class. He, who, after what happened, thought he had hung up his gloves for good.

But, thanks to his move to the outskirts of Rome (after wandering for years in small towns in Lazio following his great escape from the Neapolitan province), the time that had passed, a pseudonym to protect him along with the flowing tawny hair that he had never worn so long (well beyond his shoulders), he had regained his courage.

Moreover, almost no one online seemed to remember the figure of Anthony The Snake Crowley and his mysterious epilogue (every week he would check his real name on Google), so one of his New Year's resolutions was just that: to start again doing what he would have always loved, in a small, suburban gym perhaps, where he could start again without having to explain himself to anyone.

And so, after an hour or so of class in the company of two 14-year-olds and four ladies in their 50s, he was unloading some arm muscles at the bag.
His body seemed to have reacted better than he had anticipated to that sudden workout after almost six years of stop.
Breath was obviously the weak point, but maybe by the autumn he would be back, certainly not the one from twenty years earlier who made anyone taste the ring, but maybe at least the one who had miraculously returned to the square six years earlier, four years after being diagnosed with colon cancer.

"So where were you training before? That certainly wasn't the hook of a rookie." The teacher of the class he had just taken approached him smiling.
She called herself Shax (short for who knows what strange name was common in those parts. Sharon, maybe?) and was a woman in her fifties, not tall but with a sculpted body like an Amazon.

“I used to train twenty years ago in various cities of Italy. Depending on the job. But then you know how it ends, the work, the smoking (he lied, he'd never smoked except when...), the tiredness, the bad back... I thought I was too old now."
"What are you talking about, you'll be younger than me. How many springs did you say you had?"
"Forty-four, soon."
"Mpff, you're a kid. That's why even though you're untrained you still have energy to spare. You'll see, after fifty. So you're new here in Ostia? In Rome?"
"Almost. I studied in Rome a few months as a boy."

"And among the New Year's resolutions you had was to start training again."
"Perspicacious."
"I hope to see you again on Wednesday."
"I won't miss it."
They greeted each other with a light fist to fist.

He liked the woman and the fact that she hadn't remotely recognised him made him choose her as his teacher instantly. Besides, she was a woman. He couldn't take any chances.

He slipped on his airpods and moved to the border area between the ring room and the tatami room (the only two rooms in that small but well-maintained gym), where machines and equipment were located. He tried the bench again after years. But at the first discomfort he decided to quit and returned to the changing room with music still in his ears.

As he undressed and hummed, he remembered the next day's engagement. The training, the serotonin and dopamine had almost slipped his mind.

Beez and her husband were to introduce him to the great Aziraphale Fell.
The author of some of his favourite novels, the writer who brought to life and made human even the most controversial Roman emperors: Caligula, Commodus, Nero.

He had only to learn from him.

And how useful it would have been for him to have known an archaeologist, a professor, to really delineate the times and places of those historical mystery novels he had been planning for months!

If he had managed to like him, they could even have written something together, as Bez had said.
He shuddered at that thought. Even though he had never written with anyone before and considered writing something intimate and personal, it could be a test, a whole new challenge. He was thrilled.

Anthony was not a social animal, he had never had any interest in getting to know other writers at Alpha Centauri, but Fell was a sort of an idol to him.

But what if he didn't like him? What if Fell didn't think he was on his level and snubbed him? Anthony sold a lot, no doubt, but many critics demolished his edgy style (in every sense) and his experiments were often considered exaggerated.

Would he have been able to overcome any negative judgement from his idol without falling apart?

He forced himself to think about breathing techniques to calm himself down and the few notions he had learnt from the psychologist who had followed him after his convalescence. He forced himself to think positively.  

If it really didn't work out, maybe she would simply help him with the context and setting as advised by the publishers. And he would have autographed Caligula to him. That was enough.

Immersed in these thoughts he approached the showers, noting with pleasure that they were all free. It was truly a perfect training time for someone like him. The locker was practically deserted.

Only what appeared to be a master of some Japanese martial art was getting ready with his back to him and fastening a copper-coloured squiggly black belt around his waist.

He was less tall than him but the contrast between the immaculate kimono and the black belt gave him a martial air, severe but also luminous. Luminosity amplified by his light curly hair, platinum blond, an almost angelic colour he had not often seen around. The pose of his back and the setting of his shoulders left no doubt: he was definitely a sensei.

Of karate. Definitely karate. That kimono looked light and did not have the typical diamond pattern like those of judoka.
Who knows what his life would have been like if he had chosen karate and not boxe as a kid.

Crowley feared he looked inappropriate staring at him and turned on the shower. After a few minutes under the boiling water he realised he had forgotten his shampoo in his duffle bag.

This could have been a good opportunity.  

To scan the face of the mysterious karate master.
Without knowing why, he was intrigued and attracted to that figure. So, instead of getting out of the showers and going alone to fetch the shampoo, (which he could have done without any problem) he tried.



******************


"Excuse me? Hey!"
"Yes? Was that you?"
What a silly question. There was only them in the locker room. But it was the first thing that came to Aziraphale's mind.


"Hello! Yes, thank you! Can I ask you a favour? Would you please get me that white shampoo bottle on the black duffle bag?"
"Certainly. This one?"
"Oh yes thank you very much. You can leave it on the edge. I wouldn't want you to get wet."
"You're welcome, I'll leave it here then."
"Thanks again."


*********


Aziraphale left the changing room almost in a hurry and red in the face. And it was certainly not the heat of the shower that had made him so. That boxer seen up close was a charm. His long hair, wavy even when wet, reached to the middle of his back, his nose was hooked but perfectly balanced with the rest of his face.

But the absolute stars of that face were them. Two bright eyes of indefinite colour (gold, they literally looked like gold).
Not to mention the A-side of the body. The thin line of the abdominals was interrupted by a large abdominal scar that instead of disfiguring that work sculpted by Myron enhanced its charm.

He had run away with a curt nod before his gaze fell further down and never came back up.

He hoped the handsome boxer chose the evening boxing class so he would not see him again.



***********

And nothing. All that steam caused by the heat of the shower water had not allowed Crowley to get a good look at the master's face. In addition, the light was very strong and he (obviously, being in the shower) was without his faithful sunglasses (which were also graduated).

So he had barely caught a glimpse of a smile from his very white teeth and heard a gentle voice . From what little he could make out, the teacher was much younger than he had previously imagined. He was probably his own age or thereabouts.

And somehow he looked familiar, what little he had managed to see reminded him of a familiar face glimpsed in some magazine or on the back cover of some book. Yet he could not recall ever having read a book or article on karate.

He continued his shower and lathered his hair fiercely. He had the feeling that he would see that man again very soon.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2



9 January


Aziraphale accompanied the three architects to the door with a forced smile, then closed it behind them and returned to sit in front of the long glass table.
He folded the charts he had received, turned the computer back on and loosened his bow tie.
By the end of that morning, he had not even had time to prepare or worry about the meeting that had been unnerving him for weeks, dragged by that succession of institutional commitments.

They had not yet arrived.
Instead of checking the time on his PC or smartphone as the men of his century did, he took out his old-fashioned pocket watch, a gift from his grandfather. More than just a watch. More than a lucky charm. A talisman. Without that watch, he would not have graduated. He would not have won that role. He would never have published his own book.

Eleven thirty-five.
Gabriele Angeli was never late. Since they had known each other over fifteen years, he had never seen him more than two minutes late. In fact, he was usually early.
Surely it had been a bad idea to move their appointment from the Alpha Centauri office to his office at the archaeological park. It wasn't even proper to receive his editors there or anyone not related to his work there, but he had no choice. After the Christmas festivities, meetings overlapped at every hour of the morning and afternoon, and to secure those two hours fixed weeks before, without possessing the gift of ubiquity, the only solution was to move the meeting with Antonio Crolli and the editors there. In the heart of Ancient Ostia.

A soft knock on the door that he recognised immediately roused him from his thoughts.
"Come in, Muriel."
"Director, one of your guests from the..." and he brought a finger to his lips to mimic a nod of silence.
"Don't worry, you can talk, we're alone."

Muriel, newly hired, was the only secretary he had left, due to several consecutive retirements. She had found herself practically alone, night to day, doing for the first time a job that three people usually did. At first, Aziraphale had feared that the burden was too much for the tender girl, but he had to change his mind after a few weeks. She had proved to be a bright, resourceful young woman, a quick learner of her superior's tasks and habits, with formidable intuition. In addition, she had a heart of gold. A true angel.

"However, you told me about three guests. For now there is only one. I made him sit in the waiting room. Would you rather receive him in the meantime or wait until everyone is there?"
Aziraphale checked his watch again.
11:40. Something must have happened.
Should Gabriele have been phoned? But he imagined him in early January traffic, with his wife pressing the horn for him and tapping his thigh to get his foot on the accelerator pedal. He pitied him.
After all, he had another scheduled meeting at 12.30 p.m., the planners for the riverfront park were due to arrive, then they were going to continue with a working lunch, so the director could not waste a single minute.
Not even then did he have time to get nervous about that meeting or think about it; putting it off for a few minutes was pointless.
"Send him in."
It was undoubtedly the writer, since it was one man. Gabriele and Isabella would surely arrive together.
Aziraphale took a big breath.

"Is that allowed?" asked the man from the doorway.
"Oh yes, good morning, you are welcome." Pronounced Aziraphale as he looked up from his watch.
The newcomer was a very tall and very slender individual. So thin, elongated and completely dressed in black he looked almost like a shadow in the sunset. He wore a black beret, black sunglasses and a black coat. His tight trousers and boots were also black. Aziraphale understood in that instant a sentence Gabriel had said to him a few weeks earlier about Crolli. "He and Bella understood each other on the fly. They kind of recognised each other'. Indeed, all that black from head to toe was exactly Isabella's style.
Only one colourful element characterised that figure. A thick red hair.
Aziraphale stood up, took off his presbyopic glasses and approached the man, smiling forcibly to welcome him.
This was not how he thought he would meet the Mad Pen. Alone, in his office, without the publishers....
When he approached again to offer him his hand, he saw him better.
Hat and glasses covered most of his face, but the man still looked familiar. Where could he have seen him before? At some fair for sure. But no, Crolli was not a fairground author. At some event at Alpha Centauri? Definitely.

"Well, that went down like a lead balloon!" said the man with a strange smile, taking off his hat.
When he heard his voice, Aziraphale realized.
He could not help but lay his eyes on that prodigious sunset-coloured hair.
The boxer. That boxer. The boxer who the day before was naked in his favourite shower among those in the locker room of the Ostia Martial Gymnasium was now a stone's throw away from him. Fully clothed. In black. Fully clothed. Masked almost. It was not possible.
"Sorry, what was that? What did you say?"
"It's already a flop. They stood us up." Said the redhead chuckling. "Sorry…I'm just joking, of course." He lowered his head as if to look at his shoes. "It is truly an honour to meet you, Professor Fell. I'm a big fan of yours." The newcomer smiled, showing a row of fine white teeth.

The archaeologist had already been told by both Gabriele and Bella that Crolli was a big fan of his books.
But to hear that sentence uttered in that warm voice from those well-drawn lips was another story. It was music to Aziraphale's ears. He heard like a nightingale singing in his head.

Antony held out his hand. Aziraphale stretched out an arm, soft as cottage cheese. He tried to come to his senses and shook his colleague's hand firmly. Anthony Crowley's hand was red-hot.
"Please, Professor no. Just call me Aziraphale" he smiled and in a whisper, with all the courage he was capable of, added "Then yesterday we were on familiar terms".

The redhead opened his mouth slightly, surprised, showing again his very white and almost sharp teeth. Then he lowered his glasses slightly onto his nose.
Aziraphale smiled spontaneously and felt the other's gaze run from his hair to his eyes to his mouth.

"Oh my… The shampoo master! It’s a small world...I apologise, I was without my glasses yesterday, I didn't see well.... And even here with this brightness I don't...Hell's bells…"
"There is no need to apologise. It's OK." Fell didn't want that guest of his to feel uncomfortable. He flashed one of his most jovial and heartfelt smiles.

"So also a master of martial arts! How many talents does Professor Fell hide?"
"Aziraphale, please. Just Aziraphale. While..." Aziraphale squinted his eyes as if to concentrate. He knew both names of the man in front of him. But which was appropriate to use? The pseudonym, no doubt. The real name he shouldn't even have known after all. But the other continued for him.
"Anthony Crolli or, for friends, by first name, but few know it, Anthony Crowley" smiled the redhead nodding.
"Anthony Crowley" repeated Fell and they shook hands again.
"Oh God yes, please say it again."
"What?"
"My last name."
"Crowley?"
"Yes, I haven't heard it pronounced so correctly in, I don't know, decades, I think. It’s not a simple word for italian people."
Aziraphale laughed.
"Where are you originally from Anthony? I don't think it's a common surname among Italians."
"Please, just call me Crowley, I love how you pronounce it, I can't give it up."
"All right, Crowley. There's not much in your biography."
"Yeah. Anthony may reveal himself to a few. But among those few you are certainly there. My father was Scottish, but my mother was Italian, from a town near ancient Cuma to be precise. I was born there too."
"Cuma! Come on, I had also tried to compete for the archaeological park of Cuma a few years ago."
"We have something in common, don't we?"
"I guess you happened upon a biography of me."
"I know your back covers by heart."
Aziraphale blushed.
"Then you already know that I am also the son of an Italian mother, instead my father..."
"Welsh."
They smiled at each other. The archaeologist tried to look the redhead in the eyes, but the dark lenses totally covered those mesmerising irises he had noticed the day before.

That meeting for which he had been so tense was proving more pleasant than expected for Aziraphale. What he thought was an oddball writer was not only praising him. Not only was he more than handsome (and he had had the full picture less than twenty-four hours earlier). But he seemed easygoing, pleasant. It would have been interesting to work with him. Who knows, maybe he would have actually managed to get him over that block.

Then the phones of both vibrated in unison.
The archaeologist returned to the table to check his own. Gabriele, of course.

'What happened? 'Yes, he's here. Quiet. How is he now? We are waiting for you."
Crowley's call sounded similar to his own. Fell heard a female voice in the distance.
"Beez has been unwell. They will be here soon." Crowley explained as soon as the call ended.
"Yes, Gabriele just told me the same. But now that she has recovered she definitely wants to be there. And we are not allowed to talk about the project before they arrive."
"Big deal, she's already black that we didn't wait for her. She was dying to attend our first meeting." Laughed Crowley.
"She's mad? Really? Then you really should get these out before she arrives."

The director fumbled in one of the cupboards in the large room. Then he placed a purple box on the table.
"Ginger biscuits. She's crazy about them. Plus in pregnancy they're supposed to relieve nausea and acidity."
"Nothing can relieve Beez's acidity." Crowley laughed again and dragged his colleague along with him in laughter.
"You are terrible."
"You on the other hand seem like an expert, pregnancies, ginger. How many children do you have, Sensei?"
"Me? No kids. I have no family. It's definitely something I read. I read a lot. And I know about biscuits." He smiled brightly at the blond, bringing one to his mouth.

Then as he was about to hand the box to his guest he realised that his colleague was still standing in the room, carrying a large black backpack on his shoulders.
"How rude, I didn't even let you sit down. Sorry, it's a crazy time here. Have a seat, put your things down. Make yourself at home while we wait for them." And he pointed to the chair opposite his.
"OK, thanks." Crowley placed his beret and PC backpack on the indicated chair and slipped off his coat, which he arranged on the backrest. He was left with a black jacket far too light for the season, a half-collar polo neck of the same colour and a sort of thin silver tie. His hair, now free from the encumbrance of the coat, fell in waves to the writer's chest.
Aziraphale swallowed and pretended to be busy reading an e-mail on his computer.
He put his presbyopic glasses back on. They would have fogged up at least a little that viewpoint that sat in front of him.




*******



Anthony Crowley did not even realise he had been standing in the middle of the room for several minutes before Aziraphale Fell pointed it out to him.
He was so excited to meet the author in person that he barely remembered to breathe, let alone change his position. Then he took off his coat, placed his backpack on the chair that had been indicated to him and leaned back in the one next to it, trying to remain seated in the most conventionally acceptable position possible. He did not like sitting. Not sitting well, the way people usually sit. He had his own concept of comfort, consisting of hyper-bent legs and buttocks resting on his heels, thighs squatted, back semi-stretched, feet stretched out and placed higher and higher than his bottom. All things banned in such formal environments.

The office he was in was quite different from the exotic chessboard that was the Alpha Centauri headquarters where they were to meet, it was much more formal and above all old-fashioned.
It was a strange jumble of furniture that had probably been added at different times: cabinets, cupboards and desks made of wood in different tones, a large glass and stone table, half a dozen dated but perfectly black office chairs, a couple of lower tables covered with folders and registers.
The only element that gave character to that office and aroused his interest were the paintings. On the walls were not the usual framed prints of photos of monuments or old historical maps. They were true pictorial masterpieces representing the protagonists of that archaeological park: the Capitolium, the theatre, the paving stone of one of the main streets surrounded by marble columns, what looked like the interior of an ancient tavern. Only the wall behind the director appeared completely bare, as if a paper, a print or a painting had recently been removed. At the far end of the room, between two burgundy sofas, the Italian and European flags stood limply under the framed photo of the president of the republic. A sort of profane little temple, typical of state executive offices. Not that the redhead had visited many of them in his life, but he imagined them all like this.

The man in front of him seemed to fit well into that environment. A light suit in sand tones, round gold-rimmed glasses, an unusual yellowish bow tie with a tartan pattern. But what stood out most about him was light. The pictures on his book covers did not do justice to his radiance. He had something angelic, ethereal, almost divine.
His hair was a lustrous, fluffy tangle of locks, some wavy and some more curly, of a colour intermediate between blond and white, the colour he had actually noticed the previous day in the gym, but which, caught up in the emotion, he had not been able to bring back to mind in such a different place. It wasn't the first time he didn't recognise a person if he wasn't in the place of the previous encounter, especially if the two places were conceptually light years apart like a director's office and a suburban gym; then since his eyesight had deteriorated the episodes had increased.

The smile Fell had given him in shaking his hand had been dazzling, almost dazzling, two arches of perfect white teeth set inside two pale and seemingly soft lips.
Light and softness were the elements that characterised that figure. Soft seemed the hair, the lips, the cheekbones.

Who knows if they really were to the touch.
Crowley wondered if he would ever find out.

But he didn't have to think those thoughts. He couldn't. Even if the other had just declared that he had no family. Even though when he had heard him say his surname, his guts had twisted.
Anthony had to think only of the real purpose. The Great plan, as Zebu joked. It was a professional meeting, one of the best chances life could offer him at that point. And this time he could not afford to screw up another job, another trade, the profession he had created for himself over the years and in which he seemed to shine, on another stupid whim.
He could not make the same mistake twice.

But that really was the most beautiful nose he had seen in his existence. Not that he had been lucky enough to have seen many beautiful noses in his life. The boxing world from which most of his past friendships and acquaintances came was certainly not known for perfect noses. And that one was. Perfect. It wasn't a small nose, but it had such an unusual shape, graceful and balanced with the rest of his face that he couldn't stop looking at it. It hypnotised him. Good thing he wore sunglasses.
The professor's eyes, on the other hand, he would really have liked to see without his sunglasses. The shape was upturned, they smiled together with the lips, slightly contoured with not too pronounced expression lines, but the colour was a dilemma. No doubt they were light, but whether they were blue, grey or green he could not define.

Anthony studied the brightness of the environment. The day was quite cloudy and the room seemed to face northwest so perhaps he could afford to remove his sunglasses. One of the most disabling effects of chemo, which still plagued him years after the end of treatment, was that damned photophobia. But given the favourable conditions, he dared.
He placed his sunglasses on the table and took a closer look at the face of the man absorbed in his PC. To his regret, he noticed that the colour of the other man's eyes was still not easy for him to define from that distance.

The archaeologist raised his head and they exchanged a glance. For the first time that morning their eyes really met, unobstructed. The blond's mysteriously coloured ones smiled together with their lips.
Without lenses to separate them, he was even more beautiful. Much better than he appeared in photos or interviews.
In that instant it occurred to Anthony. It could have been a good time for that one. Locked in an office with his idol without being able to really talk about work. He opened his backpack and looked at its contents for a long time, then pulled out a novel.
In the end he chose Caligula, with which he had met Fell, almost ten years earlier, between one therapy session and another. It had worn edges from how many times he had read it, leafed through it and held it in his hand, but he treasured it.
He cleared his throat and handed the book to Aziraphale.
"I was wondering if you would, please, ngk, care to..."
"But of course, absolutely." Aziraphale smiled, taking the volume and looking for a pen on the table.
Anthony couldn't take his eyes off those manicured hands as they graced that already valuable tome with elegant slanted calligraphy.
Whichever way things would turn out, that would be a treasure, a souvenir of their first meeting.
"In fact, the next time we meet, maybe not here, maybe on a more leisurely basis, I really hope you can reciprocate. I finished Islands a couple of months ago, but today I forgot it. It's still on my bedside table. But we'll definitely have a chance."
"It would be a great honour for me."

From that unusual compound position for him Anthony's legs already sore from the previous day's training began to ache, so he preferred to get up. He walked towards one of the paintings, and began to observe it, as if he were studying it, even though he had never studied anything like it in his life.
The tavern depicted was very close to life and the play of shadows given by the brushstrokes was skilful.
"What do you think?"
"Of what?"
"Of the painting. I'm not entirely convinced about light and shade. It gave me hell."
"You painted it? Really?"
"Yes. Why?"
"I didn't know you painted. Just like I didn't know you taught and practiced karate, right? Yet I thought I knew your biography by heart. Is there anything Fell the Marvelous can't do?"
"That's it, magic tricks, those never work for me."
They exploded in good-natured laughter.
"I am no expert but I find your technique masterful. Where do you find the time to even take up such a demanding hobby with the life you lead? We had to book you over a month in advance."
"Well, at this time when the pen is not calling to me I am letting the brush tempt me. And the insomnia helps." Laughed the blond shyly.
"Well if results are that..."
"You don't have a hobby? Apart from sports, I mean."
"Yes, actually. I write."

When they recovered from the sound laughter, Crowley took a look at the bottom right-hand corner of the painting.
"Your signature here is different though from the autograph you just gave me. What does it say? An... Au..."
"An old pseudonym."
"Please don't tell me it's Antonio too."
"Angel."
"Angel???" Crowley had a sense of déjà-vu. He thought back to his very first pseudonym.
"Is that so ridiculous as a pseudonym? That expression doesn't quite ring true for me..."
"No, no way. I find it perfect. It suits you." He had never imagined an angel in real life, but in that moment he focused on the man's platinum ringlets. On the soft eyes. On the dazzling smile he was giving him. On the melodious sound of his voice. He really did sound like an angel.
"Don't make fun of me please, it's the nickname my grandfather used to call me and I always ended up using it as a painter. Ever since I was a boy. In the drawings I used to give him. Some paintings were quite successful despite the childish pseudonym."
"Angel is not childish. He's not at all. Then I'm the last person in the world who can judge a pseudonym. I have barely Italianised my first and last name. And the effect is almost embarrassing. I had more imagination as a boy."
"You're not going to leave me like this. Now I'm very curious to know if you had any other pseudonyms. If maybe I've read more of yours in other guises."
"Impossible. I just wrote for me. In verse mainly. To process... things..." Crowley's palms began to sweat.
"Writing is great therapy. I mean no ridiculous pseudonym to get even?" again that bright smile. When had that Angel approached him like that?
"It was... let's say, the opposite of yours."
"Hell??? Brave choice!"
Crowley laughed, sadly.
"Daimon, mainly, but also Demon actually. I was sixteen and a sucker for Plato. He was the only one who could distract me from my mother's illness. Plato and writing poetry. Oh God, poetry I think is a big word. But now is not the time to talk about it, I don't want to sadden you mid-morning. Then we will surely have time..."
"And time, certainly, Crowley. Angel and Demon. Angel and Demon. What a nice coincidence."
"Yeah."
"Let's keep it good as a pair of aliases in case of literary apocalypse."

They were silent for a while. A notification sounded to Fell from the monitor speakers and he returned to his PC.  Crowley leafed through another of the writer's novels he had brought with him to the room. Heliogabalus, the last in the series. On the back cover was a colour photograph of the author with a striking painting behind him, in the same style as the others, but it appeared much larger. It depicted a castle. Presumably the Castle of Julius II in Ostia, given the other works surrounding them. Crowley could think of several TV or online interviews with Fell with that background.
"Did you paint this too?" Crowley pointed to the painting in the picture.
 "Yes, many years ago."
"Was it there, behind you? Where the wall is bare now?"
"It decorated my study for a long time, then yes, for a few months it was here. What are you getting at, Sherlock?" laughed Aziraphale.
"What happened to it? It is beautiful. I'd like to see it. Don't tell me..."
"I just..."
"Sold it, didn't you?"
"I gave it away, to be precise."
"You, WHAT?"
"I gave it away. Before Christmas, a charity collection was organised here in the neighbourhood for a couple of guys in trouble. They had lost their jobs and were expecting a baby but didn't want to accept money directly, so among the things I donated to them was that. It was my first Ostia themed painting, and given my role here now, I was aware it might be quite valuable. They actually valued it very highly and secured the deposit and several months' rent in advance for a flat. I am very proud of it."
Crowley stared at Aziraphale with admiration, esteem, perhaps... He had never met such a person.
"A very noble gesture indeed. That nickname really suits you, Angel."
"I don't think so. Just a small gesture, a kindness, sooner or later I'll paint a similar one."
"Do you only paint monuments and ruins or also something...well...Alive? Human. Portraits for example?"
"Not ones that age in your place, Dorian."
"Oh, it's too late for me now, Basil. The fall started years ago, slow but inexorable."
They giggled. Then they shared a long look. They had known each other for twenty minutes, but they already felt at ease.



****



It was past noon when someone knocked on the door, but it was not Muriel's gentle knock.
"Are you dressed? May we come in? I am a pregnant woman and, much as I would like to, I am alas not in a condition to attend today..."
"Shhh Bella! We are in a public office, not in our home. Excuse her, guys. And forgive the delay. How have you been? Have you guys introduced yourselves? You haven't really started without us..."
The two editors appeared on the threshold, searching the two writers with their eyes.
"But no, we were just warming up." Crowley winked at his colleague and put on his sunglasses again.
Then a thin voice came from the neighbouring room : "Director I apologise, they rushed in, I couldn't announce them..." a mortified silence followed.
"It's all right Muriel, please let the planners know that we'll see each other directly at lunch." Pronounced the director loudly to be heard in the other room.
"Shall I book the usual restaurant? For one o'clock?"
"One thirty."

Chapter Text

                                                                                                      Chapter 3

Saturday, 13 January

Crowley was fed up with Gabriele Angeli's endless monologue.
He was very good at his job, but when he started talking about his past and the talents he had discovered, he would not stop. Not even his wife Isabella, lounging on the cushions of the Alpha Centauri headquarters and braiding her hair was listening to him any longer. Even Aziraphale Fell, although sitting composedly at the table and with a feignedly interested expression, was occasionally beginning to wander with his gaze and show signs of relenting. Anthony, who occupied one of the most comfortable chairs in the office, drummed his fingers on his right leg, which he kept crossed over the other. With those all-black sunglasses he could afford to close his eyes, but he was afraid of getting really sleepy and didn't want to make such a spectable of himself. Not in front of Aziraphale.

Then a divine sign. The publisher's phone rang, waking everyone from their slumber.
"Sandalphon! Dearest! I was going to call you shortly. Yes, of course I remember, Monday morning, for sure!"
After finishing the call, Gabriele realised that it was lunchtime and that it was time to put an end to that meeting.
"And so, my lads, that sounds like a very good way to proceed. The tour of the archaeological park seems to me to be an important first step to clear your minds. After that you will surely have in mind in a far more definite and straightforward manner every..."
"Gabriel, darling, these are all things that have already been said. And if you start again I think they will see the ruins late at night. Let's close, please. Antony and Aziraphale are two professionals, we don't have to feed them so much, do wee demons?"
Both writers smiled relievedly.
"Alright. For anything else we'll catch up in a fortnight."

The Alpha Centauri office was located on the ninth floor of one of the large buildings overlooking Via Cristoforo Colombo. After greeting those present, it was spontaneous for Anthony to head for the stairs; he rarely took the lift.
"Shall we go down together?" the blond colleague, who had just left with him and was calling the lift instead, cleared his throat.
"Oh... yes, of course." Crowley stammered. He didn't like cramped places like lifts. He wasn't exactly claustrophobic but he always preferred stairs. But on this occasion he didn't know how to say no to Aziraphale Fell who was looking at him smiling. Who knows if he would ever be able to say no to him.
In the lift, the boxer adjusted a lock of hair behind one ear, looking at himself in the mirror, while the archaeologist smilingly flipped through the first few pages of the book in his hand.
Islands, the collection of short stories by Antonio Crolli. He seemed to caress the page on which his colleague had written the dedication.
Anthony at that instant felt ashamed of the only stupid words that had come to his mind as they waited to enter the Angeli’s office.
To Aziraphale Fell, my idol and guide of the past with whom I hope to travel in the present and future. A.C.
Where had he come up with such a dedication? Banal, already heard, at times cheesy.
But his colleague had seemed more than satisfied, had thanked him and embraced the book proudly. "Absolutely." He had also said.

The lift doors opened.
"After you," the blond smiled, stepping aside.
"Thank you. How shall we arrange this? Shall we start the inspection today as the editors advised?" In his heart he hoped the other for whatever reason would postpone. What was wrong with him? Why was he falling back into that abyss of memories? Had he not got over it? He felt so stupid. It had been his idea for that setting. And without that idea he would not have been there at that moment, in front of that blond angel. He inhaled.
They exited the palace together.
Aziraphale scanned the sky.  His eyes reflected the light grey of the clouds above them.
“At this hour, in this weather, we certainly wouldn't find many visitors. If you have no other commitments, obviously." Fell smiled biasedly as he added that hypothetical.
Crowley couldn't back out at that point. It would have been one thing for Fell to be busy. But if such a busy man was willing to spend the afternoon with him, he certainly couldn't back out. He had to concentrate and be professional. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. At least professionally...
“Please, it's my only job. If you're free it's perfect for me."
Aziraphale smiled and seemed to light up the whole car park.
"See you there?" asked Crowley as he approached his car, his beloved vintage black Bentley.
"Damn! Is that a real Bentley? But it's a beauty! How old is it?" the archaeologist approached and stroked his colleague's car.
"You don't ask the age of a lady," chuckled the redhead. That change of subject had relieved him.
"Pardon. Professional diversions." Chuckled Fell back.
"It's a gift my grandfather gave me twenty years ago. He's had it all his life."
"It's a marvel. Then meet me in front of the entrance to my office, the one from the other day. Park this jewel in the inner car park, I'll open the gate. You follow me." Said the director, opening a golden yellow Smart car with the remote control. Indeed a car that suited him, Crowley thought.

Of the many things about the man that aroused his interest, there was definitely no driving. Aziraphale behind the wheel was a slug. He seemed to be driving a funfair car. Or rather, a pedal car. He had even been overtaken by an old lady at the wheel of an old Fiat Panda.
The only solution to survive driving at forty kilometres per hour was for Crowley to turn on the car radio, the most modern element of his car. From the USB stick he chose a song that was relaxing for him. Living on my own.
At a red light he pulled up alongside his colleague's car and rolled down his window.
"I thought I was the one with the classic car that doesn't go over 80 mph." He teased him a little.
"Well, via Cristoforo Colombo is a very dangerous road and I don't see why we should speed." Fell looked a little offended.
"Just kidding, angel. What are you listening to?" music was actually coming from the Smart car. It sounded exactly like Freddie Mercury's voice.
Dee do de de
Dee do de de
I get so lonely lonely
lonely lonely yeah
It was the same song he was listening to. A little further on, though.
The two men looked at each other. A flicker seemed to light up Aziraphale's gaze. His lips pointed up and spread to his ears.
"What a coincidence."
Then the green clicked. Crowley closed the window and allowed himself a sigh. And starting off again, he turned up the volume on the car radio.

Crowley followed the gold Smart car down the driveway for the employees of the Ostia Antica Archaeological Park to the car park, where he parked the Bentley next to the director.
"Is this OK, Aziraphale?" he asked as he got out of the car and closed his coat. He was relieved to have driven down that side street and not seen the Roman theatre again, not alone at least, but at the same time he felt a little uneasy. He was already a guest himself, visiting that riot of ruins for free, but even parking his car next to the director's...
"Of course, perfect. Wait here for me. I'm going to leave the autographed book. And get an umbrella,' he was looking dubiously at the sky again.
"Come on, I don't think it's going to rain."  I wish it would. He lowered his dark glasses slightly and looked up. There were no black clouds, just a compact light grey blanket.
When the archaeologist reappeared, he was carrying a white umbrella on his arm. Crowley let himself be persuaded and also took a black umbrella from the car. In the meantime the wind was rising.

'Shall we break for lunch first? Do you have a café or something? I need a coffee." Partially it was true. Partially it was a way to put off for a few minutes the start of that journey into history. Into memories.
"Alright. Yes, we have a bar. Nina, an old friend of mine, is supposed to be on duty today. It's right near here."
Aziraphale led the way to a low building with tables outside, held the door open for him, then turned to the woman at the counter. It was past two o'clock and there were only two other patrons in the bar.
"Professor Fell, just in time! I managed to save you a pulled pork sandwich. Would you like it?"
"Nina, what a pleasure. Thank you! But how many times do I have to tell you that you can call me Aziraphale here too?"
"Here in the Park? Never! Here you are the director and will always be Professor Fell."
Crowley heard the blond's crystalline laugh.
"Thank you for the lunch set aside. But let me introduce Antonio, we have some inspections to do here today. Antonio let me introduce you to Nina, one of the pillars of this Archaeological Park. Without her everything would be darker, bland and no doubt sleepy."
"Oh, how do you do, are you also an archaeologist?"
"Not even at gunpoint." Joked the boxer.
"Antonio and I are working on a different kind of project. He is a colleague of mine from Alpha Centauri."
"Charmed, Antonio Crolli," he introduced himself.
"Crolli! That Antonio Crolli? The author of the Purple Lady trilogy? Aziraphale you have to warn when you bring this kind of friend here though! Oh my God, what can I bring you? There's hardly anything left but two lame sandwiches that... I don't even have a book with me! But I'm a fan, I read the whole trilogy in less than two weeks. The Dame is such a strong and inspirational character!"
Anthony for the first time that day laughed heartily.
"Nina dearest, I trust, even without seeing one of my books. Honoured you appreciated. Anyway, a sandwich is fine. And a coffee please."
"Tuna and tomato or chicken salad?"
"If it's really chicken, given what you just admitted, the sandwich with salad will be fine." He giggled again.
Nina burst out laughing, "It's chicken, it's chicken, I swear." And she disappeared behind the counter.
Aziraphale was laughing too, then invited him to sit at a small table near the window.
"Go ahead and start eating, Angel."
Crowley had no appetite at all, he just felt the need for caffeine after that soporific morning. Besides, coffee would restore his lucidity, which he had been sorely lacking in the last half-hour. But the doctors had been clear about this. Always take care of his diet, a maximum of two coffees a day and never on an empty stomach. So he would have to put something under his teeth.
'No way, you are my guest. I value manners." He winked at him.
Nina soon returned with the sandwich, two small bottles of water and two coffees.
After swallowing the first mouthful, Fell said, "So, as I was telling in Alpha Centauri earlier, tonight I read over the draft you sent me. I can now speak to you freely about it. First of all, I like very much the characterisation of Gaius the freed slave. It's been a long time since I was so convinced by the draft of a character. And the succession of murders is also studied and plausible. Then to put a sort of detective in ancient Rome is an element that will also fascinate young people and the fact that he is a freedman makes him even more interesting."
Anthony nearly choked on the chicken (if it was chicken and not human flesh) from the sandwich. That speech took him by surprise. Up until that moment he had been so anxious at the idea of re-entering the Roman theatre of Ostia Antica that he had almost lost his bearings, almost couldn't remember the ultimate purpose of the tour. He drank a sip of coffee. He mentally reviewed the words that Fell had just been spoken to him. He was incredulous. But he was already feeling much better.
"I... I didn't expect you to have actually read the whole draft. Most honoured, thank you," he faltered.
The blond after two more mouthfuls added: "I really appreciated it. You really brought me back the urge, the desire and the need to write. And that hasn't happened for over six months. I thought I'd help you out with the historical setting, I didn't think I'd be able to do anything else at the moment, but it's all so interesting that the Great Plan of the Zebu is calling me out loud." and he looked at him with a smile that permeated from every millimetre of his face.
Crowley felt his ears and cheekbones grow hot. Surely he was blushing.
"Really? You... want to... write with me?"
"Well if you like the idea and don't consider it an encroachment...I'd understand, absolutely. I'm not offended. It's your story."
"You're kidding! What invasion? That would be a dream! I never thought that really..." he began to run out of air. He took a long sip of water.
He had certainly not expected this. He would never have believed that he was worthy of being considered by Fell as a colleague, as an equal. He did not even believe he could deserve such a chance professionally. The chance of a lifetime. But it wasn't just that. Aziraphale Fell's magnetism drew him to himself in a way he could not control. He was afraid that the man in front of him could hear the beating in his chest. It had been a long time since he had experienced such a swing of emotions.
Aziraphale kept smiling at him, he had even put down the sandwich on the tray.
"Good, I'm really glad you feel that way. You know, this plan could work."
Crowley tried to compose himself. He was a professional. He couldn't show himself in that state. He thanked his sunglasses once more and inhaled. "OK you've told me the things you appreciated. Now please shoot mercilessly at what is wrong."
Aziraphale laughed. "There's nothing wrong in general. We just have to first define with certainty the historical period in which to place the whole affair. But for that we will need the tour we are going to take in a moment. Based on the places you find most appropriate and interesting we can begin to draw up a list of suitable periods intersecting them with the kind of ex-servile relationship you imagined between Gaius and his patronus."
"Certainly. Regarding this, I hang on your every word." He feigned a confident little smile. Certainly not the roman theatre.
Aziraphale smiled with closed lips. His eyes lit up. They seemed to match the colour with which the walls and chairs were decorated. Teal.
"And the one thin, not a change, but I would expand the relationship between freedman and patron."
"In what sense?"
"If I may be allowed an opinion, well, I would make the patronus a little less marginal. As I was reading the draft plot, I had thought, but stop me if I go too far with your ideas, that being a freeborn man, he could be in several ways useful to Gaius's investigations and could also have a nice evolution along with the case. Also, and here, really, shush me if you don't agree, an evolution in their relationship could also be quite interesting..." his smile grew wider.
"About the kind... that kind of relationship? Wow. I've never thought about that. It's not exactly the sort of thing that comes naturally to me to write about but I absolutely realise the possibilities that would arise." Goddamn. Why had his stomach started gurgling?
"Right? You know, Crowley? I can't thank you enough." He also seemed to blush slightly. Or simply Crowley was now hallucinating as well.
"For what?" he asked in a huff.
"You managed to awaken my slumbering inspiration. It is the greatest gift you could have given me." And he held out his right hand, which Anthony hurried to shake.
"Let the Great Plan begin then." Aziraphale's hand was manicured and soft, the temperature of the skin was neither hot nor cold, it was perfect; the grip well balanced. Crowley would stay like that for hours. In there, in a room all sea green, with Fell's eyes en pendant looking at him smiling.


About twenty minutes later they had left the cafè and started walking down Balcony Street. Crowley thanked God, Satan or whoever for the fact that the tour his colleague had devised began on that side of the archaelogical park.
As he strolled along, he made an effort to do those breathing exercises that had helped him so many times. He had to look serene, proud, grateful for that chance. Not a quivering heap of bones. After all, he had wanted it. He had chosen that place. On purpose. To process, as the psychologist said. He had forced himself to overcome even that last hurdle. After all, more than ten years had passed. He had not chosen that historic city at random by pointing his finger on a map or haphazardly opening Google Maps. It had been a conscious choice, matured over at least two years. He was going to set half a dozen two-thousand-year-old murders there and he was back in his right mind. He would have won. Could it be that he felt so weak then even at the thought of that ancient theatre? He was a different man now. And after all, he reminded his stomach, his heart and his legs, that very choice had led him to meet Aziraphale Fell.

His thoughts were interrupted by several mews. He looked down and saw a dense group of cats heading towards a point behind them. The combination of cats and Roman ruins. The cats of Torre Argentina, those of the Colosseum and those of the Palatine came to his mind. He was not surprised to see those little felines there too. Some cats started rubbing themselves against Director Fell's legs. It was this that astonished Anthony. The archaeologist bent down to stroke some of them. "It's our feline colony." Explained the blond as he scratched the neck of a black and white spotted cat. "It is cared for by an archaeologist here who is also very attentive to the local fauna." He turned around, "Our incredible Marguerite Cecili, whom I see I have the honour of introducing to you." Crowley also turned and saw a blonde woman surrounded by cats in the act of filling some bowls under a hedge, who looked up and waved at them.
"Good afternoon Aziraphale. Working on a Saturday as well?"
"I could say the same about you. How are you, Maggie?"
"Fine. I came a little earlier than usual, I'm afraid it might rain."
"Meet Antonio Crolli, we're doing a preliminary tour of a project together." And again he winked at the noir writer.
"Oh pleasure, Dr. Crolli. Are you a colleague?"
"Do I really look like an archaeologist?" asked Crowley looking at both blond archaeologists in front of him.
"Antonio is a writer, we are working on a book together."
"A book! Have you recovered, Az? I'm so happy! Then I'll leave you alone." She made a kind of whistle and other cats, from all directions, ran towards her, some passing by even rubbed the boxer's legs.

The actual itinerary began with a visit to the Caseggiato dei Doli and then to the Caseggiato dei Dipinti, where the archaeologist illustrated the fresco of Jupiter and Ganymede that towered in the reception room of a domus in that insula. They then turned onto Via di Diana where they visited the thermopolium.
Crowley observed the rooms "This is the inn you represented in the painting in your office?"
"Exactly. It is one of the buildings to which I am most attached. I devoted many days of study to it as a young man."
"As a young man. As much as you are a director, you don't seem that old to me. In fact I think you are the youngest director in Italy."
"Not exactly. The youngest is barely forty."
"Because you are a thousand years older, aren't you?"
"I will be forty-six this spring."
"March? April?"
"April."
"Day?"
"The 9th."
"I was also born on the 9th."
"What month?"
"March. But it's not a day I love."
"How many springs will yours be?"
"Forty-four. And I feel like I haven't done anything." Crowley did not understand why he let such a comment slip out in front of the man he had known for such a short time. It was only the third time he had met him and yet as soon as he started talking to him he felt him so close.
"Nothing? Has the crazy pen done nothing? Five of Alpha Centauri's most printed, sold and translated books are yours. Does that sound like nothing?"
"Yes, novelettes..."
"Ah no, I'm not going to let you call novelette the novel that we are about to write."
"No, not that one. Absolutely."
"Good. Come out here and see the yard. And there at the side, I'll show you the square of the Lari." Aziraphale touched his shoulder to invite him outside and squared him with a sly grin. At that touch the writer felt more serene, confident, almost happy.
Crowley liked the courtyard very much and listened happily to the anecdotes of Aziraphale's periods of study. The anguished thoughts that had assailed him before seemed so far away. The man had a calming power over him. And then he was so handsome when he explained every nook and cranny of what remained of that city. He gesticulated like one of those TV popularizers, his eyes shone brightly, the voice coming from those plump lips was firm and clear. Good thing he was wearing sunglasses, the boxer was free to stare at that mouth without seeming inappropriate.

Then they moved towards the Capitolium. Unusually, there were no tourists around there, and although strongly advised against it by his personal guide (and forbidden to normal visitors) Anthony climbed its steps, with the enthusiasm of a kid on a school trip.
"Just because you're light. And if you accidentally break something, I'll ask you for damages. And if you get hurt, I'll give you the rest."
"Yes, Mum."
They laughed.

Then it began to rain.
As Crowley came down the stairs they both opened their umbrellas.
"Shall we go on another time?"
"Yes. Next weekend maybe?"
"OK." He almost regretted not being able to face all that Saturday. But after all, even the following week would be fine, Anthony was sure.

Then a gust of wind hit Crowley's small black umbrella, which opened upside down and broke instantly. The owner tried several times to close and reopen it, but the mechanism no longer worked. He swore. Meanwhile the rain was increasing in intensity.
Aziraphale approached him with his large, open umbrella and beckoned him to take cover.
Crowley lifted his glasses now covered in raindrops above his head.
They looked into each other's eyes for a long time before making their way to the offices and the car park. Crowley dived into those sea-coloured eyes, soared into those sky-coloured eyes now that he didn't have those dark lenses to obscure their brightness.

He imagined that white umbrella as a great wing that sheltered and protected him. The wing of an angel.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

Friday 19 January

Aziraphale Fell had had a very busy working week.
It was only that Friday that he had finally managed to get to the gym in advance of the start of his class. Previous times he had arrived just in time to train his pupils. But he finally had half an hour for  himself before plunging into the role he loved so much.
He wore karategi trousers and a white t-shirt. Later he would go back to the changing room for his jacket and belt for the lesson.

Before leaving he looked at himself in the mirror. Every busy working week then reflected on his body. His neck was sore and his pose generally so proud, yes, always stiff, but his upper back seemed almost curved. The work at his desk between endless meetings and hundreds of papers to study and sign swelled him up. He had two very noticeable bags under his eyes. He slept less than usual and very badly. Thoughts overlapped in a mad fight every night. And his belly seemed more and more round. A small, swollen balloon. He couldn't bear to see himself like that. Or rather, he accepted it after the Christmas holidays, after cheerful lunches with friends and wine, or culinary holidays. After happy periods of eating. But the holidays that had recently passed had not been relaxing and enjoyable at all. The belly was definitely caused by stress binges, irregular meals, and unnecessary snacks.
The thought to get through the week had only been one: Saturday.

He was thrilled to be walking with Crowley again, to show him every nook and cranny of Ostia Antica, to share a couple of ideas that had been rattling around in his head for the novel. How long had it been since literary flashes had reached his head? He finally felt unblocked, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders on that front at least. Besides, that writer intrigued him. He had fresh ideas, some brilliant, he was passionate, he loved what he wrote. And then well, he treated him with such devotion that at times it made him feel inadequate. He did not think he was worthy of such reverence. He had never been treated like that by such a damned charming man.

And yet the current weather and the forecast for the whole weekend left no way out: it had been raining continuously since the morning and showers and thunderstorms were forecast until Monday. So it was all bloody postponed.

They had sent each other a few messages in those days. Mostly Anthony would start by adding something to their narrative outline or proposing some periodization for the story. And Aziraphale always tried to reply within a few minutes. The last messages were from that friday during the lunch break. Anthony had sent him the screenshot of the forecast taken from the internet with a sad emoticon. Aziraphale on seeing the preview of the message with the writer's name accompanied by the icon of a photograph had felt his stomach shift and his breath become short, but he had tried not to mind, blaming the spicy salami sandwich he was having lunch with. And that emoticon. It was the first emoticon to appear in that very professional chat.
He had wanted to reply with a row of crying emoticons, but in the end professionalism had prevailed and he had replied with a:

We we’ll make it again. Next weekend?
(without emoticons)

Thumbs up, thumbs up.

And a few seconds later Crowley had also added:
Can I call you tomorrow? It's for technical advice. But I prefer over the phone.

Of course, anytime.

Then the last business meeting had absorbed him and led him away from that pleasant interlude.



The master approached the door of the changing room, his pupils had not yet arrived. He looked at the wall clock: he had a good twenty-five minutes to relieve some stress and even a bit of bacon perhaps.

His gaze fell on the bench where he had first glimpsed what he later discovered was his new colleague. But there seemed to be no black duffel bag. They had not met there again. The boxing class ended too early in his course. But Aziraphale always had checked that bench.
In the hall, the treadmills and ellipticals were all busy. So he approached a few of the equipment that looked like instruments of torture, in the less crowded part of the gym, near his tatami room. He chose the press. It would train his quadriceps and calves.
The weight with which he loaded it was well within his reach. After five sets of twenty repetitions, he was satisfied and tried to unlock the mechanism to leave the machine and swithc to something else. To the bench press, perhaps.
But the machine did not react. He pushed his legs a few more times to get something to change in the mechanism but to no avail. He pulled the lever vigorously again but nothing. Again and again, but nothing. He was effectively stuck there. With sixty kilos to support with his legs forever. In fact, the machines in that gym were all a bit dated and certainly not very well-oiled, but standing with his legs up, stuck in a press, was not exactly how he wanted to appear to his pupils who would soon be joining him in the room a few metres away. He really felt...

"Trapped, Angel?"
A good-looking, red-haired man leaned over the press and looked at the blond man backwards. A vision. A miracle. Certainly not a daimon, a demon or whatever he wanted to pass.
"Crowley!"
"Shh. Crolli or Antonio here!!!" hissed the boxer awkwardly, perhaps he had his training mouth on.
"Oh, sorry."
"Seems like you are lucky I was in the area" He smiled at him. Yes, he definitely had a mouth guard. Pink.
"I suppose I am." The karateka tried to smile back at him but he was starting to lose feeling in his legs.
"So, try pushing with your legs, I meanwhile..." the boxer positioned himself at his side. The grey jersey he was wearing had conspicuous sweat marks at chest level. His hair was tied back in a high bun, but a damp, wavy lock, which had escaped the elastic, fell jauntily in front of one shoulder. The eyes free of any lens seemed to smile as they met those of the master.
Aziraphale turned towards the man who was now only a few centimetres from him. Although he appeared to be sweating, he exuded an excellent smell that the karateka could not help but inhale. The scent of laundry prevailed, but there was also something definite but pleasant, it seemed musky, perhaps a deodorant.
Then Crowley placed his hand on Aziraphale’s and together they pulled the lever. The boxer's hand was bandaged, but the grip was firm nonetheless, his fingers in contact with Aziraphale's were warm, smooth, it was a well-groomed hand for a boxer's hand, an athlete's hand.
His help was crucial. The lever dragged with it the base of the machine, which finally settled into its slot. Aziraphale was free.
A relieved chuckle escaped him.
"I really must thank you."
"You're welcome, for so little."
"Does that seem little? You saved me from quite an embarrassment."
The redhead laughed out loud.
"Come on, you'll buy me a drink."
"Sure. Are you busy tonight? We could well... You wanted to talk about the book, right?" where he found that courage, Aziraphale never knew.
"Are you... tonight?" stammered the redhead. He seemed taken aback.
Aziraphale realised he had dared too much. And he regretted the bold proposal.
"No problem if you're busy, I understand. I had thought about after practice, but you are already done, I think. I still have to train the guys... It was a no-brainer. It's Friday night, you'll surely have better things to do..." he started to fumbling and rambling but was interrupted.
"No commitment. Tonight is perfect. I'll do some machinery while you teach your class. And I'll wait for you in the car park after your shower." He barely smiled and his golden eyes smiled too.
Something in Aziraphale's chest plunged violently into his abdomen and bounced up, perhaps into his windpipe.
He smiled like an idiot. Yes, it was definitely his dumbfounded grin. He could tell when he was doing it.
"Perfect then, tickety-boo."
Great. Now after the tickety-boo words came out of his mouth, so did Grandma Adele's expressions.
"Tickety-boo?" laughed the redhead. "I haven't heard that expression in ages."
Aziraphale bit his tongue. Next thing he knew he was missing the fact that it was his grandmother's expression.
"I'll go put on my kimono jacket and go into the hall. See you later," and they waved goodbye.


That training flew by. Aziraphale warmed up with the class, then the lesson was focused on a review of three higher kata, plus pinan for the less experienced students.

In the locker room he was quicker than usual to get ready and thanked heaven he had a clean spare shirt in his locker. For emergencies. That, definitely, it was. For the rest, he wore the sand-coloured suit he had had at work that day. He did not wear the bow tie. He never wore it after gym. Besides, time to tie it that evening was precious.

He found the boxer leaning against his car in the square in front of the gym.
Fortunately it had stopped raining. But the air was decidedly cold and damp. And the clouds that crowded the sky did not promise a great night.
Crowley had his glasses on over his head, although apart from being overcast the sky was now dark, the same coat from their first professional meeting and  black jeans faded at knee height. His hair was loose and perfectly wavy. He looked better than ever.
"So where do angels go to drink around here?"

Aziraphale hadn't given the slightest thought to a place to go. It had been ages since he had gone drinking on a Friday night. He began to think back. Then he remembered the pub where he had met Nina years before. The management had changed, but the owner, a petite French woman, was friendly. The ambience was pretty and not too brightly lit. It would have been perfect for Crowley. Besides, it was literally a stone's throw from his home. If he drank too much he wouldn't have to drive.

"I'll show you. Follow me."
"Oh no please. Send me the address and I'll meet you there," replied the amused redhead.
"Ah alright." Laughed Fell a little annoyed. "It will be your mission then to find a parking space nearby."
"Absolutely." They both laughed.

Le rossignol was a nice little place in Ostia lido, not far from the sea. It was both a pub and a diner, hamburgeria and pizzeria.

Justine greeted the archaeologist warmly, introduced herself to her companion and offered them a quiet table in the most private area of the place. They ordered two beers, then Aziraphale was tempted by the burger of the day. Crowley took longer in choosing. In the end he chose a grilled fillet on a bed of salad.

Anthony then broke the silence as they waited for the courses.
"Are there nightingales in Ostia?"
"What?"
"I was joking about the name. Do you not know French, Professor Fell?"
"Oh no, I'm terrible at French. I was also at the Sorbonne twenty years ago, but now I only remember bonsoir and bonjour."
"Not even bonne nuit?"
"Peut-être." he dared with a distinctly macaronic pronunciation.
"In what language do angels communicate?"
"Those who are not publishers, I hope you mean." And they laughed. "I know a little Japanese, for karate of course. Oh, and I'm strong in Greek. No, don't look at me like that, not just ancient. I lived in Athens ten years ago."
"Ten years ago," Crowley repeated thoughtfully, playing with his fork.
"And the demons, what language do they try?"
"Scottish from Glasgow, no doubt."
They laughed heartily.
Then came the beers.
"I didn't think you were the red type." Joked the one whose hair was red.
"I could say the same. You don't seem like the blonde type."
"I wasn't at one time actually. Only dark" And he winked at him.

When the courses also arrived the conversation slowed down and shifted to the quality of the dishes.
"This place is a nice little gem. I didn't know it."
"I've known it for decades, long before I lived in the area. And just think, this is where I met Nina. Where do you live?"
"In Eur, not far from the lake."
"And what makes you want to go to a gym half an hour's drive away?"
"A half-hour drive if you drive." And he winked at him again. "I like the atmosphere. Shax is fantastic. Her workouts are varied and interesting. She's not the kind of chick to drop you off at half an hour of repeats. She knows her stuff. Besides, nobody in there knows The Snake. Which earns even faulty presses points."
An embarrassed laugh escaped Aziraphale.
"Ah the Snake was my boxing name, maybe I should have specified."
"Perhaps I was told." Aziraphale winked. "Or maybe I would have come up with it..." and blushed slightly at the memory of the large tattoo on colleague's back, naked in the shower.
The redhead made to propose a toast but the glasses of both were empty.
"Shall I order something else? Some water, perhaps?"
"Water only if holy, offered by an angel."
"Wouldn't that be dangerous for a dæmon?"
"Oh yes, it would liquefy me instantly. And the slick I would leave on the floor would be well hard for your friend to wash off."
"Are you always so... murky?"
"I am a demon. It's my nature. Anyway, a whisky will do just fine."

When the waitress returned they requested the next drinks, which arrived after a few minutes.
A long Talisker for Crowley, a sherry for Aziraphale.
"To the faulty presses," proposed redhead.
"To the faulty presses," was echoed by his colleague.

Half an hour later, with empty plates and glasses, the conversation continued apace without ever, even accidentally, falling back on professional or literary matters.
Aziraphale was so happy to be able to get to know this colleague better, this interesting man, that he did not ask Crowley anything about it.
The boxer was telling him about his brief university experiences.
"Two total failures. Astrophysics was really a leap in the dark. I didn't really have the necessary preparation in mathematics. Already in the first exams I got stuck. But space, planets, stars continued to fascinate me, and I read and studied several books as a self-taught student. I even had a professional telescope until a few years ago. I used to spend entire nights with it. But the last move was fatal to it."
"No, what a pity! And what a coincidence to have landed at a publishing house called Alpha Centauri, then!"
"Coincidence? Absolutely not, I chose the publishing house I sent my first manuscript to precisely because of the name. I almost didn't believe it when after a month or so they responded positively."
"And here we are."
"I was undecided with the Aldrovanda publishing house."
"Admit it, you had stopped at A in your search for a publisher."
"Busted! But also in honour of the other career I might have pursued in another life."
"Shoot."
"Don't you know what an aldrovanda is?"
"Should I?"
"It's a carnivorous plant with a snap-trap mechanism. Aquatic, though. It's not the kind that catches flies, those are the dioneas. You've no doubt seen them in some movie. Or documentary." And he simulated a crocodile mouth with his hands.
"Ah, I see which one you mean. So in another life I would have been facing a biologist?"
"Maybe. A botanist to be exact. But that path didn't work out either. I wasn't able to combine sports competitiveness with university study. In fact, I'm curious. How did you manage?"
"But I never even came close to your sporting levels, Antonio. I got the black belt and four dan, sure, but I stopped competing, pff, around the age of 20. Then I always devoted myself to teaching. And then I always slept very little. Which is useful to me even now."
"No, angel, it’s so unhealthy not to sleep."
"Dear, I've always been like that. Ever since I was a child."
"No, by Satan, I would sleep even here now."
"Do you want me to start asking for the bill?"
"No, I didn't mean... I'm just saying."
"Ah, that's it..." the blond swallowed a sigh of relief.

"You mentioned teaching. How come you stopped teaching at the university instead? You hadn't already won the concours, had you? And you seem to love teaching, precisely."
"There's not enough alcohol in this club to talk about that."
"Uh, that wasn't meant to be an uncomfortable question. But now you've got me too curious." A flicker in the redhead's gaze, gave the divulger goosebumps.
"I'm not tipsy enough to talk about exes, Crowley."
"You are making my curiosity worse, angel. If you dare keep silent I will suffer greatly."
"I'll tell you about it sometime. Maybe when you tell me about your break with competitive boxing. I have curiosities, too." whispered Aziraphale with a small grin of defiance.
“Well, a habanero for a habanero, eh? It's a deal. I have drunk enough. But I'd rather not talk about it here. We could though... Do you live near here?"

Fell wasn't tipsy enough not to feel his heart hammering in his ears at that question. Was that man inviting himself to his house? At that hour?
The professor tried to bring to mind when the maid had come by. That morning. Perfect. The house was presentable.
"Literally ten steps away."
"Oh, perfect. Do you have a drink at home? You weren't drunk enough to..."
"Some wine for sure. In fact, that way we'll dispose of some Christmas presents: I had no idea how many Christmas cakes and bottles a director of a small archaeological park could get. I would have done that concours a lot sooner otherwise."
"If you put it like that, I'm ready to sacrifice myself for the cause. You don't waste wine. Never. Not even if given as a gift."

After leaving the club, the blond led the way to the detached house he had bought and had renovated as soon as he received the result of the contest for the role of director. It was barely drizzling, but having to cross only two blocks Fell did not care and the redhead followed him.

For years when he strolled along that waterfront (one of his favourite activities in any season) he had read the for-sale sign. And it had always been a relief to see that, despite the big sign, no one was buying that beautiful property. It was probably because of the disproportionate price compared to the work to be done, but Aziraphale liked to think that it was almost a sign that this splendid house was waiting for him. So as soon as he was confirmed in that role, he sold his flat and then called that number he knew by heart.

"Here, right here." He said, as he started looking for the keys in his coat pockets. Which of course, nervous as he was, he couldn't find.
"Sky-ground, Art Nouveau style, cream-coloured. This house screams Aziraphale Fell from every brick. Are you renting or is it yours?"
"It's mine, I sold the house from before as soon as I heard about the competition. I had a lifelong dream of living near the sea and I took the opportunity. It was in need of renovation, of course, but for about three months now it's almost in place. Except for the second floor, that's still to be fixed." He said in one breath.
They entered the garden through the wrought-iron door. The solar panel garden lights were doing their job despite the weather. The garden looked good. Every characteristic corner was exalted. The small driveway, the stone fountain, the porch. Fell held back a sigh of relief.
'What a beautiful pergola! And those hedges! Do you tend the garden, angel?"
"I remind you that I'm the one who doesn't even know carnivorous cartoon plants, my dear. I get help. Otherwise it would be a plant graveyard."
They laughed.
Then as soon as he opened the front door, Fell called, "Albus! Darling, I'm home!"
The redhead behind him stiffened and opened his mouth wide.
"But you don't... you have a... you live with someone?" he stammered with difficulty.
Then a meow came from the doorway.
As he closed the door behind his colleague, Aziraphale smiled back, "Of course, I live with Albus. He comes from Maggie's feline colony. He was a shabby old skeleton, he needed to live at home. He almost chose me. He used to follow me to the office." He took the light-haired cat in his arms and drew him closer to his guest.
"And what a magnificent job you did. He is such a beautiful cat. Look at that beautiful fur."
Anthony brought a finger close to the cat's snout, which sniffed the intruder in curiosity and then rubbed his hand over it.
"But look, he already likes you. I don't get many guests, I didn't think he would react so well. He is generally very reluctant with strangers."
"But I'm not a stranger Albus, am I? My name is Anthony, pretty kitty." And he continued stroking him on top of his head and behind his ears.
Then the master laid the cat on the ground and took off his coat.
"There is the coat rack. You can put your things down. I'll go feed him in the kitchen and come back. You can wait for me in the living room: it's just past that arch on the right. The door opposite is the toilet in case you want to wash your hands or..." He gave those directions without turning around and followed the cat into the kitchen.

When he returned to his host he found him already seated on one of the sofas. He had one arm slung limply over an armrest and his legs stretched out to under the coffee table.  To Fell it did not seem an exactly comfortable position.
The blond had brought with him a bottle and a corkscrew. He placed everything on the small glass table between the two sofas and started looking for two glasses in a cupboard.
"So, here we are."
Despite the alcohol already in his system he became very aware of where he was and with whom and began to feel even more nervous. Yet he had been at ease all evening. He tried to breathe calmly. He took the glasses and placed them next to the corkscrew. Anthony had already picked up the bottle.
"A chateau-neuf du Pape. Why am I not surprised to find such a bottle in the house of an angel?"
"Nor is it heavy artillery." The professor managed to joke.
"Let's warm up now then."
The boxer had also removed his jacket as well as his coat. The black jumper reached halfway up his long neck, but left his Adam's apple well exposed. He looked at him smiling without sunglasses, his eyes made even more golden by the warm glow of the soft lamps in the living room, as he handed him one of the glasses and went to sit on his sofa. In his living room. In his own home.
Aziraphale definitely needed a drink.

After a couple of glasses Fell had already spilled the beans.
He told his colleague about the end of his career as a university professor. About the affair with David from the very beginning. He did not want to be misjudged by him too for having taken a crush to a student. A PhD student, sure, a 27-year-old. Certainly not a freshman. But he was almost ten years older. And that role... So she told him about the early days, the sneak coffees, the weeks on the dig, the endless revisions of the thesis... Capitulating to that now shameless court had been inevitable. And then he had really believed it. He had really fallen in love. He had even thought he was selflessly reciprocated.  While the other had probably simply used him to study less and finish with honours. And enjoy making the family restless, no doubt.
Without stressing the actual length of that story, he then described its dramatic epilogue. The opposition of David's wealthy family, ostracisation in the department, the tragic farewell to his beloved and the almost obligatory resignation. The role accepted at the Archaeological School of Athens in a hurry. He did not want to arouse any pity in Crowley, he just wanted to be honest. After all, he had asked and Aziraphale had answered.
According to the archaeologist, sincerity had to be the basis of their relationship if they were to function professionally. He found it right that Crowley knew his background. The more they knew each other, the better they would be able to do such an intimate and personal job together as writing a novel.
At the end of the story he drained a third glass of wine.
"So you had a Bosie, my dear Oscar." Anthony murmured at the end of the narration.
"A... what?"
"Come on, you'll be familiar with Oscar Wilde's biography."
"Sober certainly more so."
"Well you've never encountered an analogy with your own life?"
"Um, something, actually, maybe... but please, I drank too much to talk about literature, forgive me, I'm not used to drinking much."
"But how, and here I was going to go into a long dissertation on The Portrait of Dorian Gray and its importance to noir fiction and how much I was influenced by it in approaching the killer's point of view..."
"Mercy."
"Sustained. Anyway, I was joking. I've been drinking too, can't you tell? Besides, I owe you my habanero."
"That's not necessary, Anthony. Talking to you was liberating, I don't need anything in return, really."
"Well, then it will be liberating for me too. Just let me figure out where to start." He finished his second glass as well and rubbed one temple.
"So, it's not even that far from your story after all, you know?"
"I... I'm sorry? I thought..."
"So, I'm assuming someone told you that a decade ago I had a health problem, let's say a major one, that kept me out of the ring, gym and gloves for quite a while. Three full years. When I really started to feel better, after treatment, I went to a new gym, given the various problems I had with the previous company, not only related to the illness, but also to the whole management of the end of my professional career, sponsors and other mind-blowing problems that I'll spare you... In short, I needed a change of scenery.
"But you're OK now yes?" that third drink had taken every head filter (or what was left of it) out of Aziraphale's mouth. He remembered a few sentences from the Zebu. And the scar on that gorgeous boxer's abdomen under the shower water. "But can you drink all this wine? I don't..."
"No. Technically I shouldn't. But it doesn't happen often. Only on special occasions. In fact, I can hardly stand it anymore. As a ypung man I really overdid it instead." And he moved some strands of hair almost to create a half-tail, but which he then did not tie.

"As I was saying, the new master literally picked me up from the ground. The first time I went back to training, I couldn't even do three minutes of free punches at the bag. Not even a run around the block. But he had infinite patience with me. He bet on me like nobody else in life. He devoted himself almost totally to me day and night. In a year he managed to get me back into the ring. Not at the pro level I used to be, of course, but I took some great satisfaction."
"So how did it end?"
"His wife found us in bed together. After months on the edge it was only a matter of time, after all. We were not so, shall we say, careful enough. We were too, er, passionate." And he gave a wry grin aimed more at the glass than at Aziraphale.
"Ah." Barely muttered the blond. Swallowing an avalanche of words and shrieks he couldn't wait to be able to emit.

Same league. Same league!!!
He bit his tongue. But possible? They were both basically talking about how deleterious it was to mix private life and work, and the only sentence swimming in the alcoholic rivers in which Aziraphale Fell's brain was immersed was: Oh God yes.Thanks God, he is gay too.
But the story had taken him by surprise. He thought it was something sporty, some technical disagreement perhaps. He had certainly not expected a coming out. Oh, God yes.
"Bad sort married men."
"Oh yeah, I guess so."
"Then well the news began to circulate in our circles. It never spread as far as I feared and I was sure it would happen at any moment. But in a small reality and in an environment like boxing... It was better to change the air. In fact, I literally started migrating from place to place. I've been in at least ten towns in Lazio alone. It's the first time I've been in a big city after what seems like a lifetime. But no more sad things,' the redhead then said. "Uptight like this... Shall we play?" Crowley settled better, or rather worse, on the sofa. He leaned to the other side, stretched out one leg and rested his head on one hand. It still didn't look comfortable to look at, actually.

Fell exhaled with difficulty. "No alcohol games, please."
"No. One question each. I ask you a question, but then I'm forced to answer the same question myself."
"You're on. You start."
"No, you."
"Favourite animal?"
"Uh, that's a good one. For a lifetime I loved snakes of course, but also reptiles in general. I dreamed of buying a big terrarium and buying a small friend, but my life has never been suitable for taking care of anyone.  Right now dolphins, I think, are so smart. Or whales. Big brains whales. Or rather, ducks. They fly, they swim, they walk. What more could you want?"
Fell laughed and thought that that third drink Crowley really should have avoided.
"Yours?"
"Albus makes me say cats, but I also love rabbits very much. I had one as a kid, all white, a marvel. Harry. He had everything done to him. I was convinced I would become a great magician with Harry by my side. Then one day he disappeared from the garden. I never saw him again. It was not good magic."
"Oh, what a pain. But... a magician. You wanted to be a magician when you grew up?"
"Exactly. But never really good at it. I don't have sufficient dexterity. You?"
"Trivial. The astronaut."
"I could get there."
"It's up to you."
"What would you do in the event of an apocalypse?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"Are we playing or not?"
"I'd run here to you. We have to finish the book! Even if the world ends. And you?"
Fell tried to mask the breathlessness that the other's last reply had caused him.
"As a good archaeologist I would seek a prominent location and an unusual pose to be found by the archaeologists of the future."
"But if the world ends there will be no archaeologists of the future."
"You are right. There's no doubt about it now. I've had too much to drink. Look, I'll go get some water. For you too."
"Thanks, angel. Gladly." And he made to lie on his side.
"Can I take my shoes off?"
"Sure, make yourself at home."
"I'll take you up on that."

Aziraphale ran the water from the kitchen tap. He pulled up his shirt sleeves, wet his wrists and rinsed his face as well. It was boiling hot. And alcohol had little to do with it. Then he reached for the jug. He cursed for the thousandth time who had mounted his kitchen furniture so high. When drunk, everything was more difficult. He also took two glasses and filled the jug. He took a big breath and slowly walked towards the living room. He could still walk straight, not bad. But he walked slowly for fear of dropping all that glass in his hands.

In the living room he found the writer asleep on the sofa.
Fully stretched out, with one arm behind his head towards the armrest and the other dangling off the sofa. His messy, loose hair perfectly framed his sharp but relaxed face. His black boots lay abandoned on the floor.
His chest inflated and deflated in a perfectly regular manner, but no sound could be heard. Only that of the faint but steady rain coming from the French window leading to the balcony.

Carefully the blond placed the carafe and glasses on the glass table, trying to make as little noise as possible. He filled a glass with water and returned to sit on the other sofa.
He couldn't take his eyes off the man sleeping opposite him, so few centimetres away. On his couch. In his living room. In his own home.
He was a charm, from head to toe. He could have stayed up all night watching him. It wasn't a bad plan actually. He could always pretend to have fallen asleep himself.
A shiver caught him and he immediately had the thought that the sleeping beauty might catch cold. He ran into the corridor to retrieve a blanket from the cupboard.
One of his beloved tartan blankets. He opened it and laid it gently over the other man's body. He was so tall that covering his chest left his feet uncovered. As he covered him better, he had the opportunity to take a closer look at his face. So close up he could see the clear, veiny freckles that delicately decorated his nose and cheekbones and the long reddish eyelashes usually masked by his glasses or overshadowed by those incredible eyes.

He then went to remove his suit and into the bathroom to settle in for the night.
When he returned to the living room to check on his guest, he winced.

"No! What are you doing!!! Get off! You'll annoy him." He whispered menacingly to the cat that towered over the tartan blanket at the level of the sleeping man's abdomen.
The feline did not move an inch and glared at him with green eyes.
"You are terrible."
The cat curled up better and began to purr.
"Yeah, I like him too." Muttered Aziraphale Fell in an even lower voice.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

Saturday 20 January

Anthony Crowley tried to open one eye slightly. Then the other too.
He strained to focus on his surroundings, keeping his eyes half-closed as usual.
He was definitely not in his bedroom, nor in his flat. He felt as if he were in a living room straight out of another century, with the walls of an unusual golden yellow and almost completely covered with bookshelves and shelves. Sideboards, sofas and lamps looked rather dated and there was even a gramophone at the end of the room.
A faint glow filtered through the French window at his feet, everything was in half-light: he could afford to open his eyes wide even without his glasses.

He sniffed the air, smelled books, paper, the wood of the furniture and wine. Of good wine.

He felt a strange weight between his abdomen and pelvis that kept him glued to what he deduced was another sofa.
He reached out a hand to find the source of the sense of weight and encountered something hairy and soft.
He removed his hand abruptly as if he had touched an open flame.

A name exploded in his head. Aziraphale Fell.

He was in Aziraphale Fell's house. Every wall, every corner of that living room screamed Aziraphale Fell.
That thing... could it ever...? Was that then the texture of Aziraphale's soft hair? And did she really have his head resting on his pelvis?
Fuck.
At that thought he was petrified. He didn't dare get up. He dared not move. Nor even look down at his legs.

He tightened his eyelids again.

He began trying to quickly piece together the fragments of the previous evening. Because it was morning, right?
He had been drinking. Too much, no doubt.
They had been drinking. Too much.
And he felt his bladder was full. That was probably why he had woken up. And the weight located just above certainly didn't help.

He found the first piece of the puzzle. He remembered that vision in the gym.
Aziraphale in a t-shirt. The powerful, pale arms, covered with a faint golden hair. That strong hand gripping the press knob under his. The perfection of those knuckles under his fingers.
The light-filled smile she had given him on seeing it and the giggle after they had unlocked the tool. Those paralysing eyes as she thanked him.

Then that dialogue and that invitation, just like that. Had it really happened? Had he really shot him a 'Come on, you’ll buy me a drink'? And had it really been proposed to him that evening?
He vividly recalled his heart in his throat as he tried to reply. The following words that refused to come neatly out of his mouth.

It had really happened. Piece by piece he reassembled the mosaic with more pieces. The sack training he had continued to cheat time and anxiety. Without success.
The hot shower. The hair that didn't want to stay tidy and which he had given up drying. The waiting in the car park. The rainy air. Yes, that icy air could not have been dreamt of so vividly.
Those jokes, Fell's strange expression (was he really offended?) and then that pleasant waterfront pub. The beer, the meat (he hadn't brushed his teeth, he felt them rough under his tongue), the whisky. That bright man squinting his eyes as he slowly tasted his burger. Something twitched at that thought. With each bite he seemed to make a slight sound, a little cry. Of pleasure.

Anthony shrugged that thought away.

Other thoughts, images, words chased each other around in his head, crushing each other like dominoes.
The angel who had escaped with the excuse of the bathroom and had paid the whole bill, including tips.
And then his self-invitation to the Fell house. Where had he found the courage? In the glass of whisky, probably.
The cottage, the pergola, that living room where he still was. That incredible wine. That incredible man telling him about his life. The light eyes that had become glazed as he recalled his past. How he would have loved to swallow those tears that rudely appeared on the professor's beautiful face, trying to push them back. To kiss those eyes until all unpleasant memories were forgotten.

He remembered the urge to drink again and again. He had probably told him something, too. About Michael, certainly. He hoped he had not gone into too much detail. But he remembered little, too little.

Everything was mixed up with what had surely been dreams without rhyme or reason. Dreams of books, of cars, of pens, of Fell with his head between his legs.
For Satan.

Heat. A blaze at groin level.

He couldn't, it wasn't possible.
He couldn't not remember something like that. Not with that man. Not even whole rivers of alcohol could have made such an event hazy.
It would remain etched in his memory until the end of his days.

It had been a dream. Sure. The only doubt was...

The head on his pelvis moved.

It did not rise, as heads resting on any surface normally do. The weight in fact did not decrease, but moved towards the upper part of his body. Not by rolling. But moving and splitting into four equal parts, as if they were... limbs?

Anthony opened his eyes and met two more.

Yellow, probing, feline.

The muzzle of Aziraphale's cat rubbed against his chin.

"Oh, cat. Albus, right? Can you move for a moment, should I go in...?"
But the cat did not move. He rubbed his snout on Anthony's chin again.
The writer stroked him on the head and scratched him softly behind the ears.
Then with a very quick leap the feline threw himself onto another sofa. He crouched down and continued to stare at Crowley, who pulled himself up to sit.
He shrugged off what even in the half-light seemed to him to be a pale tartan blanket.
He imagined Aziraphale covering him while he was asleep and a shiver ran down his spine.
Satan. Satan. Satan.
I fell asleep.
He covered me.
Fucking shit.
He covered me!



In the bathroom the cold water brought him to his senses. And brought back other conversations from the night before.
He had to get out of there.
He would greet Aziraphale warmly, thank him for dinner. And the wine. And the blanket. And he would arrange a date two weeks later. Or a month, perhaps.

He would write him an email. Or maybe he would have contacted his office secretary.

If only Isabella hadn't been breathing down his neck.
("I can't give birth first, Crow. At least half a book, four chapters, or three chapters... Will you give them to me as a birth present? I'm dying of curiosity!")
Instead they hadn't even started, barely worked on the periodization. Sure, he had almost the whole draft of the novel, but it wasn't remotely a draft.

They still had to finish the grand tour of Ostia. He pricked up his ears. It was still raining. Thank goodness. He wasn't dying to go back to that place, he wasn't ready yet. Who knows if he ever would be. Perhaps it had been a terrible mistake to think of setting it all up....

He should have spoken to Aziraphale. But that was not the way, the place....

He was afraid of ruining everything. To screw up such a precious work opportunity not only because he was pissing in his pants at the idea of finding himself once again in Ostia Antica's landmark, but also because, icing on the cake, he was falling in love with his colleague. In fact, more teacher than colleague.
Fuck, another teacher.
No. No. No.
He couldn't throw such an ambitious project into hellfire for a crush. Work and feelings were never, ever to cross paths again, not even by accident. He was a professional, a mature man, it would be enough....


Someone knocked on the bathroom door.

"You all right, darling? Do you want a coffee?"
"Ngk. Er, yes. Thanks."
"I'll wait for you in the kitchen, down the hall."
"I'll be right there."

He looked at himself carefully in the mirror.
The previous night's revelry was all reflected on his face. He was definitely no longer used to drinking.
He had no glasses, he couldn't even remember where he had left them, perhaps in his coat. His hair was flattened at the sides and the waves fell irregularly past his shoulders. He took the elastic band he wore around his wrist and tied it up. The clothes were the same as the night before. More creased though. He lifted an arm to sniff his armpit to see if he was presentable and walked out of the bathroom.


In the kitchen he found Professor Fell, dressed in a slightly darker suit than the day before, pouring the contents of a teapot into a white cup with wings instead of a handle. Across from him on the kitchen island was a red placemat on which a saucer with a smaller, steaming cup sat.


Their gazes met.
"Well... well awake," muttered the host stuttering. "Slept well? I hope that rascal didn't bother you too much."
"Which...? Ah, no, no. When I sleep so heavily, especially after drinking, I don't realise anything. In fact, thank you very much. For... for the blanket."
Aziraphale looked down and smiled. He looked embarrassed.
"Not at all, for so little, in fact I'm sorry for..."
"If anyone should apologise, it's definitely not you."
Crowley swallowed the contents of the cup in one gulp.
"I didn't even ask if you wanted sugar or milk or... I don't know..."
"That was perfect. I'm good."

Aziraphale smiled without looking at him and took a long sip from his cup.

"Look I really think..." why was he fumbling now? Crowley couldn't even breathe.
"Yes? Do you want anything else? Something to eat? I've still got several Christmas cakes, as pandoro and panettone,  to open or if you prefer they make heavenly cream krapfen down here, I can go down to..."
"Don't worry, angel. I'm on my way."
"Uh-oh."
"I don't usually eat breakfast, sorry and then . I have to, I really have to... You know I have a lot of plants. To water. I have to water the plants, otherwise..." and he stood up sharply.
"Thank you, thank you again for everything."
 Aziraphale literally ran after him to open the front door.
"When... shall we?"
"Ah yes, of course. The grand tour."
"I remembered that next weekend we are hosting a conference at the archaeological park. Is it OK for you in a fortnight or is it too late? Otherwise we could a few afternoons after closing, but it would be a bit dark."
"In two weeks is perfect."
"OK. Then if you then... for anything, we'll be in touch."
"OK. All right. Ngk."
"Bye, Crowley."
"See you in a fortnight, angel."




Fuck, fuck, fuck.
As he was about to start the Bentley, Crowley would have head-butted the steering wheel. But where on earth had he come up with an excuse like that?
Watering the plants! He had run away from Aziraphale's house to go and water the plants!
His palms were still sweating despite the cold, and his stomach, chestende by alcohol and coffee without food, began to churn furiously, no longer inclined to such extravagances. Why had he given up eating anything with Aziraphale? He would not have fallen asleep on the kitchen table either.
He had slept at Aziraphale Fell's.
He had collapsed on his couch.
With his cat on top.

Two weeks. Now he would have two weeks to bury himself in the graveyard of shame and re-emerge as a normal person. Maybe.
And to prepare to face Ostia Antica.
Fuck.

3 February

The big day had finally arrived.
Anthony felt ready.
Or at least, he thought.
He just had to feel ready.
During those two weeks, he had done a lot of work on himself. He had confronted his father's psychologist friend and was aware that he had the means to face the ancient theatre.
And to see Aziraphale again.

After all, that day was the basis for all his present and future work, in any case he had no escape.
As agreed by text message with the archaeologist, after parking in the usual employee area, he made his way to the Cafe of the archeaeological park, where Nina had all three volumes of his first work autographed and very warmly brought him a double coffee, which the writer guzzled on an empty stomach. Just as his gastroenterologist forbade (but he would never have known that anyway).

Aziraphale appeared smiling more than ever, wearing a wool coat and a tartan bow tie in a different colour than usual, in shades of green.
He was brighter and more ethereal than ever. His eyes reflected the green of the bow tie. His hair looked even more wavy and soft. The smile even more perfect. Or perhaps Anthony had simply missed it too much.

"Anthony, how are you?"
Great, now that I see you. Wonderful.

"Professor! Fine, thanks. How are you doing?" he greeted him, finding the nerve to taunt him a little.
"Wonderfully. Did you see that beautiful bright sunshine? Perfect for strolling through hypothetical novel locations and imagining ourselves as Gaius and his patronus. By the way, did we baptise him at the end?"
"No, not yet."
"Well, we'll come up with something along the way, I'm sure. Are we ready?"
"Born ready."

The tour led by the director himself started from where it had abruptly ended the previous time. They quickly reached the Capitolium and then made their way to the public latrine where Crowley could not refrain, despite the curbs forbidding access and the resistance of his personal guide, from personally trying out one of the seats.
"Have you done it all? Can we get on with it?"
"You know what? How would you see us having another murder in the series to solve in this latrine?"
"Just this one? As you see it it's a late remake compared to the periods we were thinking of for our story, but no doubt we can use some foric. In a way I find it even more intriguing than the baths."
"No I really meant to add another murder. In addition to the one in the thermal baths, one in the latrine..."
"The toilet serial killer."
"Something like that."
"Then it really seems to me that we should continue further on, to the Forum Baths. If you're patient and willing to walk I'm also going to show you the ones in the Marciana, they're towards the end of the park, near the synagogue, but I assure you it will be worth it. There is one mosaic in particular there that I would like to show you." And the director exhibited a sly grin.
"I haven't trained my legs in the gym for days, specifically for this day," smiled the redhead mischievously.
"Ergo eamus!"
No please, don't speak Latin, don't speak Latin.

Throughout the morning they went from one bath to another.
They strolled through the Baths of the Forum, observed the Baths of the Seven Wise Men, and then arrived (after a few domus and sanctuaries) at the Baths of the Marciana, where Fell illustrated the various floor mosaics to his colleague and then lingered over the one in the changing room depicting several athletes, among whom a boxer stood out.
"Were those on the hands bandages or boxe gloves?" the boxer asked reflectively.
"They are caesti, they were the only tool used. In cleaner fights they were simple leather straps laced over the hands. But in gladiatorial games they also had iron spikes or studs."
"So they were definitely not meant to protect the hands, they were just an offensive tool."
"Exactly, I think you can tell by the shape. I will show you clearer ones as soon as I can."
"And the toga man at the side?"
"He has been interpreted as a judge."
"Not a master."
"Actually, no." Said the archaeologist a little hastily.
What the hell is wrong with you? You were doing almost well so far. Professional. Professional!
He couldn't help it, that man in the mosaic, so elegant and with his arm turned towards the boxer who was staring at him, for Crowley had a name and a surname. Aziraphale Fell.

Returning to the central area of the ancient city, they also visited the Temple of Hercules and finally, the house that Anthony had known since before he began writing the draft of the novel set there.
The domus of Cupid and Psyche.
His mother loved that story. She had made him read and then translate those pages of Apuleius as a boy. They had watched Canova's masterpiece together at least three times in Paris.

The cast of the small sculptural group found and preserved there, however, Anthony had never observed live until then.
"Well you have undoubtedly seen Canova's sculptural group at least once in your life, but these two little lovers are also Cupid and Psyche. This is just the cast, as soon as we visit our museum together I will show you the original group. I don't know if you know the myth."
"Yes, I read The Metamorphoses by Apuleius when I was a boy. Among the Latins he was one of my mother's favourite authors."
Aziraphale Fell nodded with a smile and led his guest into the room of the domus where the copy of the sculpture stood.
Both stood for several seconds gazing at that soft embrace, those sculpted hands holding nape and jaw, those lips meeting in an eternal kiss.

Motionless and silent. Like those two statues.

Crowley tried to mask his breathlessness. Too many emotions were clashing within him. He imagined his mother watching that room and turning to smile at him with eyes as amber as his own. Anthony found himself leaning gently against one of the walls.
And Fell seemed to do the same. He seemed nervous, perhaps he was fatigued or he too was overwhelmed by some emotion. His gaze was now downcast, he lost his balance for a moment and seemed almost to slide towards the cast of the sculptural group.

In a split second Anthony was at his side and supported him in a sort of sideways embrace, almost imitating the pose of the two lovers, now safe in front of them.
Because of that sudden but providential hold, the archaeologist ended up lightly touching one of the walls with his back.

"Sorry!" the two men pronounced in chorus, quickly releasing themselves from the grip.
"Indeed thank you, thank you so much. That would have been really a great harm for the calques! And gosh, the idea of provoking him myself, hell’s bells..."
"Are you all right, angel? Don't you look good, shall we interrupt...?"
"No sorry, a slight dizziness. It's all right now, really."
He took a step and Crowley squared him from head to toe.
"Oh damn, I got you dirty."
A white patch covered a portion of the professor's camel-coloured coat from shoulder to back.
"Come on, it won't be anything, a bit of dust, not..."
"Let me help you."
And Crowley walked over to the shoulder where the trail began, lowered his face and began to blow away the stain. Then he finished sweeping it away with his fingers, trying to be gentle on Aziraphale's body.

"There now it is perfect."
Aziraphale tried to look back over his shoulder and smiled like when Crowley had helped him free himself from the press in the gym. He had finally regained his colour, in fact he looked much rosier.
"Thank you."


Before continuing with the last (and most dreaded) part of the tour they had a quick lunch at the Café. They were joined by Maggie, who took the opportunity to ask the director about the excavation work at Via della Foce. Crowley did not mind, in fact he found the chatter of the two colleagues almost relaxing. Besides, he was still mentally searching for excuses to delay the end of the tour.

Finally they headed for the last stop on that second day's tour: the Piazzale delle Corporazioni and the Theatre. Area of Ostia that under no circumstances could Anthony have continued to avoid. Not if he really wanted to write that thing with that writer.

But as he entered the decumanus maximus, Crowley realised that both his hands were sweating. It was a beautiful sunny day, but still the air was cold. It could not be something to do with the weather.
Step by step he felt heavier and heavier and Aziraphale's voice naming nymphaea and temples seemed more and more distant.

Finally they arrived.

The ancient theatre stood proudly before them and seemed to taunt the boxer.
Welcome back The Snake.
It was not possible. It was his head playing tricks on him.
As Aziraphale pointed to the mosaics on the ground, Crowley was stormed by a series of images, sounds, sensations.
A ring, incredibly bright artificial lights, shouts, chants, whistles. The banner dedicated to him.
He felt again the dizziness, the nausea, that pain in his abdomen that had not passed for days, the punches of that boxer on his arms, on his chest, finally that uppercut under his chin.
The referee's voice ending the fight. The old master on him waving the towel in front of his face.
The ambulance taking him away. The days in hospital, the endless withdrawals.
The terrible anti-doping response. And immediately the pink pills came back to his mind, the supplements his promoter had given him.
(You're too low these days, you won't make it to the match, take these and see how you fly.
You can't lose, I've invested too much in you. Just take them. I swear they're just supplements).
Then that fall. The hospital discharges that never came. The endless drips.
The five months on that hospital bed.

Anthony's fingers no longer responded to his body, they were numb and trembling, he could no longer move his hands in any way. His very hands, his boxer's hands were always the first to leave him.
He took two steps backwards. He had to get away from Aziraphale. He forced himself to breathe, but the tightness in his chest no longer made him think.
He forced himself to inhale. To exhale. To concentrate on the pines above him, on something beautiful, the green of the needles, the birdsong, the flashes of blue sky between branches. Concentrate on the green, on the blue. These things usually worked.
Breathe and look for something beautiful. Breathe and look for something beautiful.
Nothing worked. He could neither inhale nor exhale. His chest was aching.
He was going to die.
In front of Aziraphale Fell. He would have fallen again a few metres from that theatre.

His eyes looked at Fell but did not see him.
Anthony Crowley slumped to the ground.
He was dying in front of Aziraphale Fell.


The other was immediately upon him.
"Anthony, dear. What is happening?"
But Anthony could not answer. He bent his knees to his chest. He did not want Aziraphale to see him die. He hid his face on his knees.

“Crowley, dear, look at me. Shall we move? I'll help you up." But Crowley did not move. He could not react. He was dying.
"Crowley I'm here. I'm with you." And he took his hand with his own.
Aziraphale's hands were cold but smooth. Crowley lightly felt his fingers again.
"Let's breathe together, shall we? Let's count the breaths." Anthony or what was left of him heard the man sit or perhaps kneel beside him. And take his other hand as well. Then he heard him counting slowly. Counting and breathing. One two three four and inhale. One two three four five six seven eight and exhale.

Crowley raised his head, mute, his eyes riveted on the man in front of him. He took the other man's hands and brought them to his chest.
Aziraphale went along with that movement. He spread both hands on Crowley's chest and breathed with him. Fell's hands were cold. But Crowley was bathed in a flame of warmth where those hands touched him.
They breathed together like that for a few minutes. Then the storm passed.

Crowley had not died. Crowley had not fallen. He had breathed again.

He stood up sharply.

'Shall we go away? Do you want me to walk you to your car? To home? Do you want to...?"
"I have to go. I'll go alone."

"Let me walk you to the car park at least, I don't know if you know the way from here."
"OK."

Then he would leave. Quickly. He couldn't stay any longer with Aziraphale.
He couldn't possibly. Already what he...
The beats were the one thing he couldn't get back to normal.

Without thanks, he threw up a few rambling sentences at his colleague on the way.
"Ten years ago."
"Ten years ago?"
"Where were you ten years ago? Why weren't you here ten years ago?" he tried to chase back two tears in his eyes. Holy sunglasses.
"Ten years ago? I think in Athens."
"I was there."
"Where there?"
"In the theatre. In a ring."
"In this theatre, really? I don't remember them having fights here, they're banned now, for exactly..."
"Ten years."
"Ten years! Oh God I read something and some old official maybe mentioned something. But I had no idea that..."
"It was the beginning of my fall."
"What fall, my dear?"
"The end of agonism. The death of The Snake. The doping label. The disqualification. The cancer."
"No, sorry, I'm not following."
"I lost the match. I lost consciousness on the first uppercut. He hadn't even hit me straight on and yet... In the hospital they turned me inside out. But they discovered the doping first, only weeks later did they confirm the cancer. But by then, for everyone, I was the doped."
"What a hoax..."
"I had lost a lot of weight and had been forced to change categories. There were rumours. That I was on drugs, that I was doping, that I had an eating disorder. That's why they immediately went to investigate there."
"Were you already taking drugs? For the symptoms of the disease?"
"I didn't have many symptoms apart from weight loss. Some nausea, abdominal pain. I thought it was match anxiety. I wasn't so young anymore, I saw myself as finished. And I took those damn supplements."
"I see."
"The three years following that match were pure hell. I wish they could get out of my head. Forever. But that match was the beginning of everything."

They had now reached the car park. The boxer sighed.
"Crowley, is that why you set the story here in Ostia?"
"Yeah, I thought that way, this would go away. In fact, excuse me. I never wanted a man of your calibre to witness..." he opened the car and slipped into the passenger compartment without daring to look at the man's face.
"Don't even say that. Crowley we are going to write this book. And it will be a success."
"It will be a failure."
"Trust me."
"I'll try. Thank you, angel."

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

14 February

That training had also come to an end. After bidding farewell to his pupils, Master Aziraphale took a long, hot shower to wash away the stress. The work woes. The thoughts.
One thought in particular.

Obviously, like the whole previous week and exactly forty-eight hours earlier, his gaze had fallen at least three times that Wednesday evening on the usual, now deserted bench in the changing room. But he had not seen any black duffel bag resting on it.

Over the past ten days he had thought a lot about what had happened at the Roman Theatre.
He kept questioning himself.
Had he really done everything he could? Had he dared too much? Or had he done too little?
Yet it seemed to him that he had behaved exactly as he wished someone had behaved with him when he had been struck by the numerous panic attacks that had faithfully accompanied him throughout his life.
The first, the most terrible and unforgettable one, had thundered out the evening after his father's funeral. Then the university years had been literally punctuated by panic attacks and anxiety crises, then a few attacks had appeared during periods of great work tension, another in Athens after the break-up with David, a very brief one the night before the first literary presentation of his life. But gradually he had learned to manage them. Even without the yoga his mother recommended him.

But they had always happened when he was alone.
Besides, he was not Anthony. Maybe the other would have wanted to be left alone. Or maybe he would have needed more closeness.
Or maybe he had simply and rightly had second thoughts. To the novel, to everything, to them....
Them.
But who was he kidding? They were not a they, an us, they were just a group of two, two very different authors that two sadistic, opportunistic publishers had decided to move together like pawns on a chessboard for their own business.

He should never have taken that job, by now he would have been faced with yet another pale word sheet but at least he would not have...

Perhaps Crowley was seized by the same thoughts. He was certainly repentant. After all, he was the one who had that intriguing plot mapped out in his head. Why on earth would he do charity by sharing fame and royalties with an author who, yes, had done his time, but who was now finished, lapsed, doomed? After all, the basic historical notions were now clear to him. The places in which to make the characters move also.

That was why he had gradually begun to stop answering his messages. Aziraphale was certain.
It was the archaeologist who had written first on the evening of the tour. To find out how he was doing, if he needed anything. The following days they had exchanged a few more messages.

Then Aziraphale had emailed him a complete summary with a list of the periods that would best suit their story and Crowley had replied almost immediately. And he had answered again. And so the novel would begin in the year of Caligula's death and then continue in the period of the great changes brought to the city by the Emperor Claudius.
41 AD, eight years after the crucifixion of Christ, seemed an interesting date to both of them.

But then the replies to Crowley's messages had become increasingly rare, brief, skimpy.

The last message Aziraphale had sent him on Saturday had not even been answered.

"Is he ghosting you? Too bad, he seemed nice as well as good at his job." Nina had asked him two mornings earlier, as she handed him his coffee, before entering the office. That was how that week had started.

Then the icing on the cake. That phone call from Gabriel asking him how things were progressing.
"Why are you asking me by phone? I'll see you on the weekend as agreed the day before yesterday anyway, right?"
"He didn't tell you so. But you are in touch, yes? Are you proceeding?"
"Tell me what? Are you talking about Antonio?"
"Sure, who else? He said he had an engagement, he postponed the appointment until the following Saturday. I thought you knew, you should..."
"Excuse me Gabriel, I have another call coming in, I'll get back to you. The day Antonio said is perfect. Take care, bye."
And he had closed the phone to his editor like never before in his career or in their friendship.

But he had not dared to write or call his colleague. He would have got in touch if he had wanted to, wouldn't he?



And now there he was, the karate master, staring at an empty bench in the changing room of a suburban gym.


He drove home faster than usual.
It was Valentine's Day.
Despite the chilly weather and clouds heralding a thunderstorm, the promenade was nonetheless crowded with young people holding hands, older couples sharing an umbrella, and street vendors selling roses. It was a sight he usually enjoyed, he loved feeling the love in the air, even if his life was almost perpetually devoid of the romantic love she read about in his favourite books.

But not that year. He felt like locking himself in the house, defrosting a frozen pizza and stuffing himself with tea biscuits in front of the TV. Right on the bed. As he rarely indulged.


While he was violently biting into the first half (the chocolate one) of a heart-shaped biscuit, in front of a romantic comedy he was absent-mindedly following (something by Richard Curtis, surely), the phone rang and made him jolt. Albus also woke up and turned from his throne with a contrite air.

It was past ten o'clock at night.
If the phone rang after ten o'clock at night, something serious always happened.
He immediately thought of his mother, alone with her yoga in the Sibylline Mountains (but woe betide him if he proposed to come a little closer, woe betide him if he reminded her of her age, woe betide...).

He picked up the phone and read the name on the screen.

Antonio Crolli (Alpha Centauri).

"Hello?"
"A..An...Aziraphale. It's me. I need your help." The voice on the other end of the phone sounded uncertain, almost broken.
"A.. An... Anthony. What happened?"



Perhaps Aziraphale had never driven so fast in his life. He did not like to drive. He did not like driving at night. He didn't like driving in the rain.
Yet within ten minutes he reached the location Anthony had sent him on Whatsapp. And there he saw him.
On the side of the road. Kneeling on the asphalt, in the pouring rain. A few steps away from his Bentley, parked in a clearing.

"You really came!" murmured Crowley. Aziraphale immediately noticed that his eyes were red. His loose, wet hair reaching almost halfway down his back. His face completely soaked. Maybe it wasn't just rain.
He was holding something small and dark in his arms, protecting him from the rain.
'He's purring at me. Can you believe it? After what I did to him, he's purring at me." he sobbed.
"Anthony, quick. Get in the car, or you'll get sick. This is Albus's carrier, put him in it and stow him in the boot. We'll be at the clinic in ten minutes, I promise."
"I'm a monster. I must be damned for this. I... I'd rather hold him." He muttered, seating himself as best he could in the cramped interior of the yellow Smart car and closing the door.
"Alright. Can I take a look?"
Aziraphale leaned over and stretched out a hand on the redhead's lap to stroke the run-down beast. It wasn't moving, in fact it looked half asleep. A pile of bones, six months old at most judging by its size. It was definitely a female given the black fur slightly mottled with red. Her delicate breathing seemed regular, however, and he heard the slight vibration of purring. It could be a good sign, but it was not certain. And he did not want to deceive Anthony in any way. He would have liked to look at the kitten's eyes to assess the size of the pupils and see if she had suffered a head injury, but he preferred not to force the poor creature.
He started the engine.

In the car, Crowley described the dynamics of the accident to him at least three consecutive times, between sobs and sighs.
"In the almost thirty years I've been driving this has never happened to me. Never had an accident."

He told him that while he was driving at the permitted speed on that freeway, he had passed the small animal only seconds before the impact. He had just eluded another car in the other direction driving at a much higher speed (and the driver had probably not even seen him) and was then in the Bentley's path. Crowley did everything he could to avoid it, slowed down almost abruptly (fortunately there were no other cars behind him), was about to move into the other lane but other cars were coming, so he moved over to the right side instead, risking, given the rain, the wet asphalt and a huge puddle on that side, to spin and end up against a light pole. But the Bentley, true to his commands, had followed his intentions perfectly and, after barely grazing the little cat, had stopped at the roadside without further damage.

Crowley had rushed down in the rain to look for the injured little animal. He had not even stopped immediately after the impact, had run limply towards a flowerbed.
He had tried to call it back and it had headed confidently towards him, probably expecting food, then at some point lost its balance and slumped to the ground.

"You'll see, the clinic we're taking him to is great, they'll cure him up perfectly."
"I'm a monster."
"Anthony, it would have happened to anyone, in the dark, with this weather. Sometimes these things are unpredictable. That you're both alive at all given the circumstances seems like a miracle to me."
"Ah that's pure Bentley credit. She's the one who saved us. You wouldn’t get that sort of performance from a modern car. "
"Here we are, this is the clinic, if you want to get out while I park."
"Here? Really? I live a stone's throw away and I never realised there was a veterinary clinic."
"It's the best in southern Rome. Maggie has referred almost hopeless cases there. They seem to work miracles. Even Albus was admitted here when he was still in the colony. I don't know who we will find on duty at this time but they are all very good vets anyway. "
"Thank you, Angel." Said the redhead, coming down with the cat in his arms.


When he entered the clinic Aziraphale found Crowley leaning against a wall, standing in a position he could not have replicated without getting some kind of muscle contracture. He was still dripping rain from his hair, his clothes were soaked, but at least the temperature in the waiting room was warm. He unbuttoned his coat and gave him a curt nod.
"They took him away. They wouldn't let me in."
"Crowley, it's still a hospital."
"He's got a broken leg, maybe even the end of his tail. And they have to assess the pelvis." And he emitted another sob that he tried to stifle with an arm.
"Antonio, look at me. Trust me. Everything will be fine."
"They were kind, though. They didn't treat me like they should have."
"Anthony... Let's sit in those chairs, OK? Do you want a coffee?" he pointed to the soda machine.
"Better not." He sat down beside him, though. Their thighs brushed against each other.

Then finally Anthony for the first time that evening looked into his eyes.
His irises more golden than ever, his pupils made thin by the hospital lighting. The sclerae still reddened.
"However it goes, I don't know how to thank you. I didn't... I really didn't know who to call. I'm sorry for calling you at night and I'm also sorry for... Shit, I've been a real asshole to you lately, but I felt so pathetic, so at fault and behaved so badly... And you came! You brought me here, and if that cat is going to be saved and if I can not have such a thing on my conscience... If the wheels of the Bentley are not smeared with blood it will only be because of you."
Fortunately Aziraphale was seated, otherwise after such a speech, so close to that man who did not stop staring at him intensely, he would have undoubtedly staggered.
"Oh, there is no need to thank me. That's what... friends are for, right?"
Friends. With two seconds of silence before the key word just to emphasise it. Why, Aziraphale? What's your head telling you? You are not friends.
"Ngk... Friends. Thank you. Yes. Look if you want, if you prefer, if you had better things to do, I mean, don't feel obligated to... You've done so much already. Really."
"No, thanks. I'll stay here, too."


Aziraphale Fell spent about two hours of that strange Valentine's night in that uncomfortable plastic chair in the veterinary clinic. The man at his side sat beside him for a much shorter time. Then he got up, leaned against the wall, walked hips-first down the corridor beside him a number of times the blond man could not count, sat down again, got up again. Finally he collapsed again beside the archaeologist. He leaned forward with his head in his hands, then sat down instead, arching his back and letting his arms down his body and closed his eyes.

One of his hands was very close to Aziraphale's.
Fell fought against himself to subdue the urge to extend that few centimetres, to take that perfect hand between his fingers, perhaps bring it to his face, stamp his lips on it. Smell it, feel its temperature, see if the skin really was as smooth as he remembered it....

Instead it was Crowley who brought his hand close to Aziraphale's. Their little fingers brushed against each other. Thereupon Aziraphale accepted the invitation and placed his hand on Anthony's. He found it very cold. His fingers began to caress Crowley's tapered ones, to give him some warmth, his fingertips began to draw semi-circles. Then with the firm intention of really warming that marble hand, he spread his hand completely over that of the other to cover it, encircling it, as if in a hand-to-hand embrace.
They did not look at each other's faces during that moment. They continued to stare at those joined hands as if they were not their own.
Then a door opened. A man in a green uniform came out. A doctor, a vet.
The hands jerked apart. Crowley leapt to his feet like a spring.

The vet approached them.
"Mr. Crolli?"
"Here I am."
"So, the little one is very tenacious. She is out of danger. The pelvis is fine."
"Is, is she a she? And she's safe?" he asked with a edge in his voice.
"Oh, thank goodness." Aziraphale murmured, inserting himself into the conversation.
"The tail is simply splinted, while the right hind leg has been operated on. She seems to be reacting well to the surgery, but we clearly prefer to keep her under observation for a while.
You had already left your telephone number, right? We'll contact you again for discharge."
"Oh, OK. Thank you, certainly." Crowley's expression was finally more relaxed, he sketched a half-smile and finally seemed to be breathing regularly again.

When the two men came out of the clinic a hailstorm was raging that they hadn't noticed.
"Hell. Angel, don't get in the car in this crazy weather. I... Well I live literally four blocks away. Can I... offer you a drink to repay you for the night?"
"Successful temptation. I don't like driving in the rain, hail is much worse."

A few running (uphill) steps later, under that incessant cascade of ice buttons, which threatened several times to break Aziraphale's umbrella that was sheltering them both, Crowley typed in a code and opened the door of a very modern building with immense curved balconies.
He pointed the lift to Aziraphale and headed for the stairs. "Top floor."

Crowley's flat was as Aziraphale had imagined and perhaps dreamed of at least a few times.

Penthouse with super penthouse (obviously), modern and sophisticated in every aspect. LED lighting, state-of-the-art home automation, with the typical spotlights that turned on or off by snapping their fingers.

The living room was a large open space, equipped with a kitchenette and at least a sixty-inch television.

One thing, indeed many things, Aziraphale did not expect to find in the writer's house. An almost exaggerated amount of lush houseplants. Indeed, he had heard him mention his plants on more than one occasion, but he had certainly not expected that sort of rainforest in the corridor of a flat on Sierra Nevada Street.
Maybe the one he had run away from his home with a few weeks earlier was not a lame excuse. Those plants looked well cared for. Who knows how much love and patience Anthony lavished on them?

"Excuse the mess. You can... you can have a seat in the meantime. Make yourself at home. I, with permission, would go and get these now-dry icy rags off my back. In fact, maybe even take a shower..."
"I'll second the shower. That... I mean I think it's appropriate, you'll need to... well warm up a bit." He stammered hesitantly after uttering the first part of the sentence with far too much enthusiasm.
"By the way, that door is another one of the bathrooms, in case you need it... The one in front, on the other hand, is the study. That's my room, opposite is a guest room, while the staircase leads to what they call a super penthouse but is basically an attic where..."

Crowley was literally undressing as he walked around the house and pointed to the various rooms. To Fell's ears, consequently, about half the words were coming in.
Holy God.
He was now wearing only a skimpy, tight-fitting black boxer shorts when he proposed to Aziraphale:
"So you choose how and where to wait for me, you can turn on the TV in the living room if you like, or, if you prefer, in my study if you restart the PC you should already find the word with the first two chapters of the novel. Complete. Or almost. I think. I've done nothing but write for the last few days. I was only out this evening to... You know... I wanted to see something about the excavations from the Via del Mare. And then whatever, it all happened."

Aziraphale focused on an exact spot on the wall behind Crowley's back to stop looking at him and not answer that he felt the need for a good shower too. Ice cold. Or to go out on the terrace and enjoy some hail.

If he had been a serious professional, Professor Fell would have rushed to his colleague's study to read the first two chapters while the other took a shower. Instead, he darted into the free bathroom to breathe in and douse his wrists and temples with ice-cold water at least.

So the serious professional was able to regain possession of his body and make his way to what had been designated as the study.
It was a fairly bare, almost stark room, less modern than the lounge and bathroom.
In the centre was a large, not at all modern table, with a laptop and a small globe on it and a strange chair in front of it. It looked almost like an antique throne, gilded and covered in red velvet. On the walls, the only hanging decoration was a copy of the Mona Lisa.
Aziraphale took a seat on the strange throne and started up the PC.
Clearly a pin was being requested that he did not know and that perhaps Crowley had tried to tell him while he was not listening at all, busy as he was with his eyes following the items of clothing that were gradually being pulled away from Crowley's sculptural body and ended up on the floor.

His gaze fell on a series of yellow post-it notes stuck to the table with various directions and arrows.

GAIUS. WHAT HAPPENS AFTER ENFRANCHISEMENT? Ask Aziraphale.

41 AD.

Port of Claudius.

Also on the table was the copy of Caligula that Aziraphale had autographed for him about a month earlier. The professor took a strange pleasure in seeing that he kept it on his work table. Although, given the chosen periodisation, it was actually obvious to find it there. Underneath that book he glimpsed others, at least three. The edges of the covers looked familiar to him.
He could not resist and got up to leaf through them.
Nero. Commodus. Heliogabalus.

All three were his novels. The author was out of breath.
He would have liked to open them, leaf through them, see if Crowley used bookmarks or was one of those children of the devil who fold pages to keep the mark, find out if he used to write notes. Maybe he could have made dedications on those other tomes too. Would that have pleased Crowley? Or would he have seen it as a violation of his privacy and will? The oxygen was really too little. Professor Fell walked out of the study.

He slipped into the living room and sat down composedly on the charcoal grey L-shaped sofa. He glanced at the time on what appeared to be a large and expensive stereo system. It was past two o'clock. Outside the weather did not seem to be improving.

A few minutes later his colleague appeared, a towel on his head worn like a turban and a bathrobe, both grey.
"I lost my bet with myself. I imagined you in the studio."
"I... well... I couldn't remember the computer pin, I couldn't..."
"Boy how careless of me. I knew I'd forgotten something. You can't remember it, I just didn't tell you. È 6669. But don't get up. I'll join you here in a little while. Maybe we'll have a drink. Just as soon as I blow my hair dry."

Aziraphale also took off his jacket. It was starting to get really hot in that flat.

Crowley reappeared in a black jogging suit.
He hurried into the living room and began nervously opening one cupboard after another.
“Strange as it may seem to you, I don't drink much now. I don't have wine or beers or anything chilled. The few times I do drink I do it properly. Whisky, mostly. But I might have some rum as well. I'm afraid I don't have any sherry...” he looked almost breathless. Nor did he turn towards Aziraphale.
“I like rum. Especially with pear juice."
"Sorry, I'm afraid I don't even have any fruit juices or anything. But wait... Maybe I still have..." in a few leaps he crossed the whole open space and reached the fridge in the kitchenette.

"Oh yeah, limoncello cream? An old friend of my mother's delivers it to me after every Christmas. It's supposed to be practically new."
"Criminal."
"I beg your pardon?"
"That you're a criminal, for limoncello or various creams I go crazy. Artisanal, then. I'll crawl into the office tomorrow."
They both laughed.
"I'll do the doses then." Chuckled the redhead, taking two glasses.
"Not a chance. Bring the whole bottle and no one will get hurt."
Crowley laughed again. He placed the glasses and bottle on the coffee table in front of the couch. He did just in time because then he was hit by a flurry of violent sneezes.

"Man, did you catch a cold?"
"Nah, it'll pass with this now," he laughed pointing to the whisky in his glass as he sat down on the opposite side of the sofa.
Aziraphale took a sip of the limoncello cream and couldn't help making sounds that expressed all his enjoyment.
'Divine, indeed. Compliment that lady."
"I don't even like that cream."
"Better, there's more for me."

Crowley laughed mockingly. "I didn't imagine you a fan of creams or rum and pear. I knew archaeologists were staunch brewers. And yet such a sophisticated professor..."
"Cut it out. I love sweet things. I think you can tell." And he pointed to his belly. "And yes, I also like pears. The ones there at this time then."
"No, for both. I don't understand what you mean about the sweet talk. And no to your beloved pears. They are grainy. Apples win it all."
"Banal apples."
"To an apple you can say anything except that it is trivial. The fruit of Newton, of Paris, of Eve..."
They laughed again.

Then at the second glass of that rapturous drink Aziraphale decided to take that pebble out of his shoe that threatened to shadow all that night again.
"Why did you postpone the meeting with the publishers? You said earlier that you had written a lot."
Crowley downed the entire contents of his glass.
"It was a strange time. I've written a lot, it's true, but Isabella really wants to read something. The synopsis is not enough for her. And I would also like to show her the third chapter, where there is an important turning point. And then I'd like to see some things with you... I just didn't feel... Ready, that is."
"And now, how do you feel?" Aziraphale failed to look him in the face; he lowered his gaze to the other's bare feet. Had he ever seen his bare feet before? They looked perfect, too. Quite long, tapered, with manicured nails.
"I feel you can read everything I've written and burn the PC if you don't like it." And he looked him steadily in the eye.
"Oh, well, I don't... I don't think it will come to that. I'm really curious, though."

A clap of thunder jolted them both. The hailstorm had given way to an actual thunderstorm.
"What a rough night." Crowley stretched and yawned.
"True... I think..."
"The guest room." Crowley coughed.
"What?"
"I... well... I have a guest room. It's rare that I have guests. I mean just my father every... But I have a guest room, could you..."
"Oh. Thank you. Thank you very much. You are nice."
"Shut up. I'm not nice at all. Besides, I'm not the one to be thanked tonight." And he giggled.

"Crowley I think you should go to bed. I will therefore either go to the guest room, or..."
"Or...?" Crowley totally perked up, back straight and chest out.
"No, well, now that you've got me so intrigued, I thought I'd read the two chapters."
"Ah. Sure. The book. The chapters. Sure. Great." He answered mechanically.

"Can I open my mail from your computer? I'd like to send a scheduled email to Muriel, it's not appropriate to write her now. However, I would like to get her to postpone that one meeting I have tomorrow until next week. An inspection was also planned, but with this weather...Maybe I'll take a day. Or I'll go later."
"My PC will be honoured. And that sounds like a good idea for tomorrow. I wouldn't want you to go to the office crawling for limoncello cream."
They both got up and moved towards the corridor.

"In the room you will also find an en suite bathroom, everything should be in order, but call me if you need anything."
"Goodnight Crowley," whispered the blond, moving towards the study.
"And remember, 6669, it's the pin."
"I think it's hard to forget," chuckled the professor.
"I had chosen it with a far more substantial amount of whisky in my system than today."
"I had no doubt. Good night, Crowley."
"Good night, Angel."



The chapters flowed beautifully. The incipit already in medias res was captivating. Crowley's style was a little different from his usual, it was less direct and biting, but it was absolutely pleasant and suited to the type of text. One seemed to be immediately immersed in the story, the era, the events. The two main characters, so different from each other, were both plausible and already well-drawn from those first twenty thousand lines. Aziraphale was thrilled. Truly a very high level for a first draft.
He added just a couple of notes highlighting some spatial references to the text, because some buildings not yet present in Ostia at the beginning of their story were named, but everything else seemed interesting and well written to the tired eyes of the archaeologist.

In fact, he almost wanted to check if Crowley was still awake to ask him exactly how the third chapter continued and how they got to the turning point, but it definitely did not seem appropriate. Then, in the same folder he noticed another word entitled simply "Word_3".

A little cry of joy almost escaped him when he opened it and guessed that it was the beginning of the third chapter.
Aziraphale would have continued reading again and again but the draft ended after three pages.

So he dared. He did something he had never done in his life.
Good or bad he knew what the turning point of that chapter was, he knew roughly how Crowley wanted to continue the narrative. They had already talked about it. So, trying to adhere as perfectly as possible to his colleague's style, he tried to move on a few pages.

Who knows whether Crowley would have liked it or not, whether he would have been angry. If in doubt, he highlighted the part he had added in yellow, so it would be easy to cut out, in case the other would not agree with that invasion.

Aziraphale felt really good after those three pages written in a rush. Complete, light, as if he was free.
He began to feel very sleepy. That sort of antique throne was so comfortable... He closed his laptop just in time and fell asleep with his head on his folded arms on his colleague's big desk.


A few hours later something woke him up.
Probably the light filtering through the curtains (he had not closed the shutter), but perhaps also some noise, like violent coughs coming from the room opposite.

Aziraphale, still dressed in that light-coloured jumper and trousers worn quickly the night before, stretched and gradually stood up. Then he touched his lower back. An excruciating twinge.
He would pay for those hours of sleep in that unorthodox position for weeks.
And to say he could have used an entire room.

Then he crossed the corridor and listened to the sounds coming from Crowley's room. The door was only ajar. The room seemed to be in semi-darkness.
More coughing. Then the breathing became regular again, but noisy. The other was still in bed, surely asleep, as far as Aziraphale could see.

Would it have been bad to prepare breakfast in Crowley's house?
The night had been long and eventful. And a pang in his stomach became insistent. After all, if he had gone out to go to a café he would never have had a chance to come back, and that was certainly not what he aspired to. He preferred to open Crowley's state-of-the-art two-door refrigerator.

He found himself facing the visual representation of the word desolation.

Two eggs, half a lemon, an open bag of salad and the bottle of the limoncello cream from the night before. In that immense fridge he could have gone into without even being torn to pieces (of course Crowley's house also influenced his thoughts).

Suffering, Aziraphale closed the fridge.
He did, however, see the electric coffee machine's pods and cups. At least he made himself a cup of coffee. But he found neither sugar, nor honey, nor milk. He was not used to drinking coffee as bitter as life, so he downed it in one gulp.

As he washed the cup, he heard a violent coughing fit coming from the room, which lasted several seconds.
This time he headed for the man's room.
He knocked softly with his fingertips.
"Are... are you all right?"
"Come in, Aziraphale." Crowley's voice was weak and terribly hoarse. On the phone with such a voice she would never have recognised him.
In the half-light he caught a glimpse of him half-sitting on a giant double bed, perhaps a king-size, bare-chested and covered to the mid-torso by a dark duvet.

He inhaled deeply before approaching and asking, "Do you want me to pull up the shutter a bit?"
"No, actually yes, but just a little, please. It's that button there."
The blond barely pressed the button on the electric damper. Then he turned towards Anthony.
His hair was damp, perhaps sweaty. His eyes half-closed. On the floor stood what looked like the top piece of a smart black pyjama.
"Like this or is this too much?"
"It's perfect." And the redhead stretched out completely.

Striving not to think about the fact that he was standing in front of Anthony Crowley, half-naked, in his home, in his bedroom, a step away from his king-size bed (God in heaven blessed and holy) Aziraphale approached him.
"You don't look well."
"Neither do you."
"Ah, thank you. I stole you a coffe capsule. Of Creamy."
"Great. It was a packet of various pods, but Creamy is definitely not my favourite. Drink as many as you like."
"I wouldn't have guessed that." Fell joked. "Anyway, I didn't think it was possible to live in a sugar-free house."
"Sorry. I haven't been shopping for a while. When I write I don't even realise the meal times. But today I'm going, I swear. In fact, time to change and I'll drop by the café so we can have breakfast."
"No problem Anthony. It seems to have stopped raining, I'll be out in a bit, I have to feed Albus."
"Oh, sure. Sure, you're right."

Another violent cough, Crowley seemed unable to catch his breath. He shrugged off the duvet and what looked like black silk sheets.
"Gosh Anthony, you really got cold yesterday. I'll get you some water."
"No, don't worry, I have to get up anyway, I have to go, well..." and he pointed to the bathroom door inside his room.
He stood up abruptly, stood still for a few seconds, brought a hand to his forehead and fell back on the bed.
Aziraphale snapped to his side.
"Anthony, I don't think you should go out today." Instinctively, he brought a hand to the forehead of the man lying an arm's length away from him.
"But you have a fever! Do you have any medicine in the house? Paracetamol? An anti-inflammatory?"
"I have everything. This house is an illegal pharmacy. But it's nothing. Maybe I've just been fasting too long. Maybe I'll take an aspirin."
"You won't take any aspirin without eating breakfast first."
"OK, Dad."
"Come on lean in, I'll walk you in..." and pointed to the door Crowley had pointed to earlier.
"Oh, don't, no, don't worry, one minute and I'll be able to reach it myself, I promise."
"Can you... can you even open the intercom for me? I'll get you breakfast. To get us breakfast."
"Oh, sure, yeah, yeah, I'll manage, thanks."
"Brioche? Chocolate, cream, jam?"
"Plain croissant. Thank you... Aziraphale?" he murmured when Aziraphale was already at the door.
"Yes?"
"You're... you're a friend."
Aziraphale Fell nodded, smiling and biting his tongue.


When he rang at Crowley's house (at Crowley's house!!!) with the breakfast bag and several packets of sugar, he found him standing there, again in his overalls and with his hair neatly tied back. His face, however, still looked very banged up.
"What a big bag! How many things did you take?"
"The necessities."
Crowley laughed and stretched out his arms. For a split second, the now-gone part of Aziraphale's brain foreboded some sort of embrace. Instead, the bag was simply taken from his hands.
Fell exhaled.

They both sat down at the living room table. Aziraphale had just persuaded the chilled man to get at least two croissants to swallow some medicine, when Crowley's phone rang.

"I'll get it for you," the blond offered, searching for the source of the sound.
"Thanks. Bollocks, that'll be Isabella. I already didn't answer her yesterday. Today she's coming to kill me. With her bare hands."
"Do you want me to answer it? Maybe I can tell her you're still sleeping..."
"Better not. You know, I'd rather..."
"Sure, sorry. You're right."
Then taking the smartphone in hand he added: "Oh, it's a landline. Which you didn't register."
Crowley opened the call.
"Hello? Ah, of course, good morning. Yes. Oh really? Sure, yes, after lunch. Absolutely. Thank you, thank you very much."

He exploded into a cough immediately after hanging up, but his face was different, bright, happy. The face of someone who had received good news and had gotten a boulder off his soul.
'It was... It was the clinic. The cat is being discharged. I can pick her up in the afternoon."
"Oh, Crowley, I'm so happy."
"Yeah."
"But... have you thought about adopting her?"
"Me? Heck, I hadn't even thought about it. I really don't think I'm capable of keeping another living thing alive."
"Your plants look offended to me. Especially that redwood over there."
"It's a monstera." He replied, smiling and showing his thin, sharp teeth. "And it's not at all easy to keep them that healthy."
"Think about it, otherwise I'll mobilise with Maggie."
"O...Okay, angel."


"Take a paracetamol so you'll be better. I'll get going. Otherwise Albus will pull my leg off and have breakfast with it as soon as I get home."
"I think being here with me is making you even nicer, you know?"
Aziraphale chuckled. And he felt his cheeks heat up.
"But we should... We have to talk about the story! I read it all last night!"
"You read it all last night? And when were you planning to tell me? What did you think?"
"Really good work, Anthony. But we'll talk about it later, understand? When you're better, maybe. Anyway, I wrote everything down for you, comments, observations, very few corrections and... a little surprise in the third word."
"In the third word? Oh no. I hate surprises. Please tell me everything. Now. NOW!"
"No, otherwise your next novel will star a long-haired, four-legged serial killer."
Anthony laughed heartily. "That would be a guaranteed hit. All right, you're free... But can we get in touch?"
"No. I'll drop by in the afternoon. With the cat, if you agree. In the meantime you could try and put her up, couldn't you? Then we'll talk to Maggie."
"Sir yes. You know, when you're this authoritative, you're..."
"Am I...?"
The other hesitated. "Nothing. Look, I'll leave you the credit card, no doubt there will be a clinic to settle. The pin is..."
"No, forget it. I'm not taking on any other responsibility than carrying cats. And I've had enough of your allusive pins." They laughed.
"We'll do the math later. When you are better. And if you are fit to go out I would like to accompany you to retrieve the car."
"The Bentley! I was forgetting my beloved Bentley! How on earth..." Crowley downed a tablet with half a glass of water.

"So please make yourself look good. I really want to write. With you," he said the last two words in a lower voice.
"Yes." replied the other in a low voice.

"And start thinking of a name for the cat. You never know."
"Are we really sure it's a female?"
"Yes cats with fur like that are pretty much only female. They call them tortoiseshells."
"Turtle... Shelly? No, please, I'm terrible. I've never baptised anything living. Help me, please."
Aziraphale laughed. "In my opinion, you have to look at her properly first before choosing a name for her. Anyway, Shelly is not bad, come on. Otherwise, since yesterday was Valentine's Day, something like Valentina or a catchier, Tina, might be nice."
"Yesterday was Valentine's Day? Was it really?" the redhead stood with his mouth half open a few seconds and sneezed three times in a row.
Aziraphale was now at the door.
"Yeah."
"I had really lost count of the days, it could still be January for me. Tina is very nice."
"See you later, dear. Take care to rest." and he smilingly simulated typing with his fingers.
Crowley swallowed. "See you later, angel."