Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Copia has no desire to debate theology with students inducted into the faith by the “well, actually” side of YouTube. It’s a massive failing on his part, it’s not how an Imperator should behave, but he did his time in the library and by Lucifer, the new Siblings can go learn how to navigate the ancient card catalog and come back to him once they’ve got some Van Luijk under their belts.  

But he keeps flattering the novice director. He keeps showing up to talk to the novitiates about entry-level Satanic and left-hand path ideology, sometimes crafting lectures out of nothing but two cups of coffee and the first book he pulls at random off his office bookshelf. Just for the chance to be in the same room as you for an hour. Just for the chance to walk you to the library afterwards, to talk to you, to shovel every smile and laugh you share with him into the ravenous white-hot furnace of his hope.  

At the library doors, he always imagines a world where he extends his hand, where you surrender yours, where he brushes a promising kiss across your knuckles and asks you to have dinner with him. But he doesn’t live in that world, and he’s not that kind of man. Instead, it’s an awkward series of head-bobs and goodbyes and thank-yous as you disappear inside, and Copia is forever furious with himself, because he knows that he’s squandering the greatest opportunity he's ever been offered. 

He knows that he’s running out of time. 

Sure enough, one rainy October day Marika convenes another meeting to discuss the directive. Alone at the head of the conference table, elbows propped on its gleaming surface and his hands folded over his face, Copia grapples with the enormity of the task ahead of him, the sheer stupidity of it. He’s had, what—over thirty years to avoid this fate? 

Again, he wonders what would happen if he channeled some of his stage persona and asked you out for a cup of coffee. Maybe Lucifer put you in his path again for a reason, maybe there’s still time to avoid doing this the old-fashioned way… 

…but how long could he keep up the ruse? That he’s seductive, or smooth, or in any way desirable? 

Before you arrived at the Ministry, he had less than five hundred words to build his futile daydreams around. Now he knows that the sound of your name sparks in his brain like a match, that even your accent enchants him—it isn’t Southern, it’s something else, something that rolls and blooms like the warm green farmlands of the Veneto plain. Now he knows that you’re beautiful, but there’s a grounded quality to it, a warmth that tells him you’ve known the ache of an empty heart and the ache of a full one. You’re not a painted doll, not a good-time girl, Dark Lord knows those are wonderful and make the world go ‘round, but… he likes your quiet maturity much better. 

He has no idea how to make himself desirable to such a woman. Someone who can see right through the spotlights and the sequins, who can weigh his heart with a glance and find him wanting. 

But later that day, the rain passes. And he passes you in the hall, and he knows that this is it. That there is no reasonable explanation for this encounter other than the unholy intervention of Lucifer, Himself. 

This is his final chance. 

As he’s walking from the administrative wing back to his apartment, he spies you in one of the many candlelit alcoves located throughout the Ministry. Not seated or knelt in prayer, but standing on the leather armchair tucked within, straining on your tiptoes toward the high point of a crown glass window, where the vent casement is thrown open. 

Once more, you hear his footsteps on the stones. You turn, and while your cheeks flush at the sight of him, your lips bloom into a smile. “Imperator—oh, please come here?” 

Copia would answer this invitation a thousand times, no matter what name you used for him. And he wanders over just in time, because as you try to duck back from the window, your shoes wobble on the chair’s thick stuffing. Out of sheer instinct, he reaches up to seize hold of your waist. Your hands land on his shoulders, you huff in embarrassment, and he fights to keep from digging his fingers in, from pulling your warm body into his greedy embrace. 

“That’s, ah…” Copia looks at the ornate carpet, at the stone walls—anywhere but at your face. “Are you trying to get up, or get down?” 

“Sorry… here.” You do move to get down, and Copia assists you, only half-conscious of your weight once you step off the chair. He withdraws his hands after you’re safe on the ground, and you gesture to the chair, indicating that he should take your place. “Quick, hop up and look. They’re coming back for the night.” 

Now torn between confusion and curiosity, Copia hesitates only a moment before doing as you ask. On the other side of the casement window, sunset is painting the rain-soaked Ministry grounds in shades of amber and blood orange. Sometimes he’s half-convinced that the building is a sentient, slouching thing, a co-creator of Satan’s kingdom that buds and branches as necessary to serve the Clergy. It’s full of odd nooks, sharp turns, areas that remain windowless even when they should sit along an exterior wall.  

Here, the window looks out on a nearby wall with a chimney, the bricks so close that Copia could stretch out his arm and touch them. But he sees what you mean when he spies a half-dozen sooty birds clinging to the chimney itself. Small as wrens, but shaped like falcons. A few birds duck down inside the chimney as Copia watches, their rhythmic, rasping cries echoing off the old stone. 

“Chimney swifts,” you supply, standing right beside him, your eyes bright with interest. “I heard them a few days ago. They can’t perch upright, they either have to fly or hang on something. They’re endangered now, because a lot of modern buildings either don’t have chimneys or cage the tops.” 

“They live in the chimneys?” Copia is interested, now. Standing on his toes, he watches the little flock as it migrates into the chimney for the night. “They don’t catch on fire?” 

“Pretty sure they don’t stick around if there’s a fire.” Your voice isn’t sarcastic—it’s honest and fond. “You should see the little nests they build, it’s almost more like a shelf? Stuck right on the chimney wall. They cluster together like bats.” 

Settling back onto his heels, Copia considers this information. “I wonder if the… cap, cage? The thing on top of the chimney fell off, you know?” 

Your shoulders sag with resignation. “Are you going to put it back on?” 

“No, Sorella, no. I was thinking…” Copia manages to climb down from the chair without humiliating himself, his nose still full of smoky autumn air. “We could uncap the others?” 

He thought he’d seen you smile before. He was wrong. For the first time he witnesses your full, unfettered grin, and it’s like getting smacked in the face with a censer full of glowing embers. “Some people consider them pests. It’s illegal to hurt them, but people try to chase them off.” 

“I like them even better, then. A bird that makes its nest in what must pass as Hellfire for something so small…” Copia nods to himself. “That bird can stay.” 

You bite your lip for a moment before offering, “That would be… really kind of you.” 

“Did you hear them as you walked past?” Copia isn’t going to run away from the conversation this time. He refuses. 

“Someone had the window propped open, yeah.” You glance toward it again. “I admit, I’m still… homesick. For the animals, too. I grew up on a farm, it’s very odd not to fall asleep with a cat between my ankles, or wake up to the rooster crowing. I guess I’ve been keeping an eye out for… neighbors.” 

Copia steels himself, and wonders, “Do you like rats at all? They’re considered pests, too, but… I consider them neighbors.” 

Your brow furrows. “Wild rats? Or pet rats?” 

“Sì,” he says, half-sick with anticipation. “Pet rats.” 

You perk up like a wilted flower in the rain, the shyness in your eyes so familiar that he’d swear it originated inside his own chest. “Do you have pet rats?” 

Copia makes you promise to wait right there. He doesn’t want to bring you to his quarters, doesn’t want you to see how he lives. Instead, he brings Bastian and Ptolemy to you, transporting them in his arms with their harnesses on. The second you see him reappear with two lazy white rats on leashes, you spring from the chair, tripping over yourself to ask him questions. And every single one tears out a little piece of his heart—because you ask how you should approach the rats, what noises you should make, what noises you should avoid, you even ask him about smells and body language. And Copia knows then that although he has no choice but to carry out his responsibility to the bloodline, he’s going to hate every single second of it if you’re not there beside him. 

“There are rats on the grounds, too,” Copia tells you, fighting hard not to smile as you dangle your knotted cincture in front of Ptolemy’s nose. You’re both seated on the rug, minding the rats as they play. “If you’re kind to them, they’ll be kind to you.” 

“Like most things,” you laugh, meeting his eyes. Flushing anew, you turn your attention back to Ptolemy, inviting him into your hands. “If my father saw me playing with one of the rodents that gets into the grain, I’d go to bed with plenty to think about.” 

Copia chooses his words with care, not wanting to offend you. “Is it… difficult, living in such a remote place?” 

“The remote part? Not really.” You cradle Ptolemy under your chin as you look at him again. “Things just sort of… happen in their own good time. The internet’s kind of hit-and-miss, and we still have an antenna TV. It’s nice, in a way… things here feel kind of manic.” 

Copia struggles to wrap his mind around this. He’s always lived in the beating heart of the Ministry, never needed to keep his finger on the pulse of theistic Satanism when he could hear the bloodstream itself rushing in his ears. “Do you like it here?” 

Your answering silence is eloquent, and you seem to accept that it’s speaking for you, flashing him an apologetic smile. Before he can despair, though, you take a soft breath and note, “I do like… some things.” 

“You do?” Copia lets Bastian down to roam, focusing his attention on the leash. “Cosa ti piace?” 

You likewise release Ptolemy so the rats can explore the alcove together. “I like the library. I like having the chance to truly live my faith, to talk about it without fear. I like the beauty of the architecture, and…” You take another breath, this one deeper. “I like it whenever I run into you.” 

Copia fights the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. Instead, he channels this impulse into his hand, gripping the leash loop tighter. “Sorella, I want to ask you something. But I’ll be honest… I’m terrified you’re going to slap me.” 

The corner of your mouth quirks. “Slap you?” 

“Slap me so hard I forget my own fucking name.” You burst out laughing as he curses, and the sound is so loud in the stone hallway that Copia can feel it vibrating over his skin. He glances up and down the hall before leaning closer to you. “Please promise me… you can yell, I probably deserve that. But no violence?” 

Your cheeks are glowing, your eyes filling with starlight even though the sun hasn’t fully set. “I’m not going to waive that option… but trust me, I’ve heard plenty of slappable offenses through the walls by now.” 

“No! No, it’s not—” Copia winces, backing away from that rhetorical cliff before he can stumble over the edge. If he’s being honest, that’s exactly what it is. “Look, it’s about a… high church tradition.” 

You blink heavily at him. “I’m really hoping major arteries aren’t involved.” 

“No, of course not.” At least he can promise you that. Fuck, he’s just going to have to come out and say it. “I’m being forced to—”  

“Cardi.” Marika chooses that moment to bustle around the corner, her smile warm and her eyes brighter than the lenses that glint before them. But she might as well be a wraith, because she materializes so suddenly that Copia almost leaps out of his skin. “I have been looking for you, I—” Her smile pinches down at the corners. “Why do we have the rats here?” 

“Just t-taking them for a walk.” You glance at him in concern, picking up on his stutter. Copia wills himself to just drop dead. 

“Well, let us walk them back to your apartment, and we can discuss—” Marika finally notices you, and within two blinks she has her professional mask back in place. “Ah, Sister. Surely Frater does not mean to keep you from your supper?” 

“Oh no, Frater and I we were just… talking.” With marked reluctance, you pass him the lead for Ptolemy’s leash.  

Copia accepts it, careful not to brush your fingers with his own. “Sì. Just… talking.” 

You rise to your feet alongside him, questions replacing every star that previously twinkled in your eyes. Somehow, they make you look even more beautiful. You forgive his clumsiness, you laugh at his stupid jokes, you study his face as if you’re really seeing him... and when you turn to leave, Copia’s body almost burns with the desire to scramble after you. To remain within the pool of sunlight that seems to travel with you, warm and safe and seen. 

But you leave because you have no other option. You shut the next set of fire doors out of respect, and it feels like you’re sealing him in a tomb.