Chapter Text
It’s been a long week.
But Copia loves you, so all is right with the world.
The reorganisation of the archives continues, meaning Raven and Damien are in your pocket every moment of the working day. You hear them excitedly discussing what they’re going to wear for the upcoming Samhain celebrations - apparently there is a competition for the best fancy dress costume, something judged by Terzo.
“Doesn’t seem very traditional. We’re a satanic church, not a fete in the suburbs,” you grouse, wrinkling your nose. They stare at you, unimpressed.
“Do you actually know how to have fun, or did years down here beat that out of you?” asks Damien, deadpan, and it’s so unexpected that you burst into laughter. Alright, maybe the competition is fine. You only ever celebrated one Samhain here and it was back before you died. You remember it being a somewhat serious and sombre affair; in fact, you’re pretty sure that Primo sacrificed a goat. Now you hear tales of apple bobbing and spiced cider.
Copia is right, things do change. Isn’t it wonderful?
Well, for the goats, at least.
So you let the twins put up some decorations. Dangling plastic ornaments shaped like bats. Paper folded into skulls. Rows of fairy lights with tiny plastic pumpkins around the bulb. It’s all very twee, but it’s rather homely, too, so you don’t complain.
Outside of work, your evenings are spent curled up with Copia, unable to keep your hands off of each other for any noteworthy length of time. You haven’t had any action in years and it seems like Copia is thoroughly trying to make that up to you. You’re not sure if the sex is improved by the fact you know that he loves you, but it sure as hell doesn’t make things worse. You’ve come more times to panted ‘I love you, amore’s than you can keep track of.
Copia has ordered a wholesale box of tingly lube bottles and you’re thrilled.
The evenings where that isn’t happening are the ones where the twins are there, too. Usually the four of you get dinner together then play on one of Copia’s consoles which has been dragged to the archives, competitive games bringing out the worst in the group of you in a way that only happens with a real family.
Time is scarce, is the problem. Though you wouldn’t trade your moments with your people for anything, it means you really don’t have much of an opportunity to look at the book you keep hidden under your bed. A scant few minutes at lunch or between meals to pore over it, attempt to translate some Latin, before you grow quickly irritated and confused. It just sits there, like some rotten tchotchke, leather binding mocking your uselessness.
There was a beginner’s Latin course you could have signed up to when you first joined the Ministry, and you’re kicking yourself now for not doing it. Maybe you’ll look into it after Samhain, be the mature student in a class of young adults who sticks out like a sore thumb.
Some odd looks will be worth it in the long run, really.
You’ve also found yourself being summoned to the Ministry’s tailor. Siblings rarely get invited there unless they’re progressing up the ranks of the faith, being fitted for vestments to mirror their status. Which, you suppose, you sort of are - but rather than studying religious texts for years, you just helped Copia get his end away.
Your church is sort of a strange one like that, but you suppose it’s better than the alternative.
Your tailor is a sombre-faced but diligent man named Joseph. All week he has been taking your measurements, asking your opinions on fabrics, and surprisingly he has not been put off by the whole zombie thing. His assistant, on the other hand, took one look at your open throat wound and had to excuse herself from the project. You weren’t really offended, you probably wouldn’t want to take your own neck measurements either… but Joseph simply picked up the tape measure and did it himself. Since then he has barrelled on with a level of professionalism which you find inspiring. To him, you’re just another client, not the reanimated corpse that Papa is fucking, who has been prone to more coughing fits than they’re used to of late.
He’s nice. Sincere. You like him, actually. He also told you he dressed Copia for every major event - meaning he was the one responsible for putting your Papa in that delicious waistcoat and ripped jeans combination.
“Thank you for doing that,” you said when you found out, meaning it from the bottom of your heart. It was the first time you saw him smile.
He’d made you feel surprisingly calm about the whole thing. There was still a worry chewing up your guts about being presented as Papal consort, for a while, at least. What if you didn’t look right? What if you showed yourself up? What if everyone laughed? Joseph’s hard work had soothed at least some of that panic: even if you do trip over and fall flat on your dead, dead face, you’re pretty sure you’re going to look fantastic doing it. Even if you don’t trust in yourself, you do trust in his work.
Raven and Damien. Copia. Joseph. Book. That has been your week, and it’s been quickly swallowed up. Before you know it, the calendar has rolled over to October 31st.
It’s been a long day in the archives, and very little has been done. The twins keep trying to show you jumpscare videos on YouTube, as if you don’t know how that clip of the car driving down the hill ends. You relent just before four, when you receive a text from Copia, very much implying he isn’t getting any work done either.
Copia🐀❤️:
I can’t wait to see you, amore mio. Haven’t stopped thinking about spending the celebrations with you ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
Then he sends you a selfie. He’s at his desk, making a little finger-heart at you, the way you showed him K-Pop bands do. You can see his Game Boy very clearly in the background, turned on, left mid-game. He was dragged from your bed early this morning to go and approve some last-minute plans, but apparently the day is now dragging for him for him as it is for you.
You fire some lovehearts right back up at him. You’re so excited to see him tonight. You’re excited to see him every night, really; he excites you, nestled into your dead heart and making himself a home there.
It makes you smile rather widely, even when the twins are loading up another video.
“Are the two of you going to do any work or just keep trying to send me to an early grave?” you ask, good-naturedly. You pause for a second before correcting: “A second early grave.”
“It’s Halloween! We’ve never celebrated it before,” says Raven.
“Surprisingly our late Octobers were usually spent in church, praying for the deliverance of those hypnotised by evil spirits,” Damien sighs. “Crazy that we’re two of those souls now.”
“Do the two of you want to leave early and —”
“Yes,” they say so fast that all you can do is laugh. Fine, today is a lost cause, then. The three of you head upstairs and take a wander through the Ministry grounds to see the preparations for tonight. It’s absolutely alive with activity outside in the cool autumn air: a huge bonfire is being constructed, scores of Siblings are wheelbarrowing pumpkins out from Primo’s gardens - who is instructing the goings-on with hawk-like intensity - and there is simply an inordinate amount of alcohol being rolled out in huge barrels from a delivery truck. The twins look thrilled at that.
“Can we have a–”
“Nope.”
“But–!”
“But you’re underage, as we recently found out. No booze, not even in the Satanic church,” you state. They roll their eyes at you but the matter is dropped.
Really, they don’t have to listen to you at all. It isn’t like you’re their parent or anything. Not biologically, not legally. You have no power over them.
Yet, you do find yourself thinking of them as your twins, feeling oddly protective of them against this large, imposing world. And they do seem to ask your permission for a lot of stuff. So maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they were your kids.
You hear your name being called, and turn to find Joseph’s assistant heading towards you. Her eyes flicker downwards for just a second, and she tries to hide the look of relief on her face when she sees your neck wound is covered by a thick jumper.
“Sorry to disturb you, but Joseph needs you in the fitting room.”
“Now? Already?”
“Oh, yes, he needs to sew you into your outfit. He’s very detail-oriented.”
You’ve never been sewn into anything before. Your apprehension must show on your face, because you feel Damien and Raven bump their shoulder against you, like good-natured domestic cats.
“It’ll be fine,” Damien says, and you swallow.
“It probably will be. Yet I can’t help thinking, what if it’s not?” you ask, laugh sad in your throat.
“None of that! You two are like this place’s power couple, you know? You just gotta go and get the fit to prove it!” Raven says.
“And if anyone gives you trouble, we’ll fight them,” Damien adds. The two of them begin to do karate into the air, and it makes you feel so overwhelmed that if your tear ducts worked, you’d be crying.
“Okay. Be good. Stay away from the booze.”
Their twinned groan follows you back into the Ministry.
“Ugh, sorry. Didn’t mean to poke you,” says Joseph, through a mouthful of pins.
“Oh, did you poke me?”
“Did you not feel it?”
“Erm, I don’t feel much, to be honest. My body doesn’t have a lot of pain receptors because of… well. You know.”
He blinks slowly, before fixing his eyes back on the velvet at your hip.
“Okay,” he says, neutrally, and to be honest that’s as good a reaction as you can hope for. He tugs at a needle, finishing a final seam, then cuts the thread free. Straightening up, he inspects his work before gesturing towards the full-length mirror behind you.
“What do you think?”
You hold your breath as you turn, viscerally aware of the strain that forces upon your body… and it’s stolen from your lungs when you catch sight of yourself.
You are a visage in black. Part robe, part jacket, floor length and imposing. A high collar covering the part of yourself which you hate the most, but every other stitch showing off those which you have come to appreciate during your time with Copia. Blue and gold embroidery surrounds your cuffs and lapels and make it plainly obvious whose consort you are. Leather boots rise to your mid-calf with a slight heel, not enough to make you uncomfortable, but a little added height to show off the shape of your legs.
“Oh,” you whisper.
“Good ‘oh’?”
“I didn’t know I could look like this,” you confess. You look incredible. You look like someone who ought to be on the arm of a Papa, worthy to be his partner. You look like you could crush anyone who crosses you.
Your ass looks pretty great, too.
“You need to be kinder to yourself,” Joseph says, bluntly. “Copia’s a good man, the two of you go well together. You deserve to look hot.”
You laugh.
“Thank you, Joseph. I mean it.” A beat. “Can… can I give you a hug?” you ask.
“I’d love that.”
This man has made you able to look in a mirror without wincing. Not only that, but look at yourself alone - being with Copia in a mirror isn’t so bad, seeing your love reflected back at you, but to be honest you’re still swallowing the idea of liking yourself by yourself. You hug Joseph tightly and he returns it, clearly aware you’re having a bit of a moment
There’s a knock at the door.
“Eh, hello? Can I come in?”
Joseph gives you a final squeeze before he pulls back, straightens his impeccable suit, then opens the door for Copia. Your Papa is dressed in his Papal paints, and the robes you last saw him in when he sent the twins’ father running off with his tail between his legs. With his mitre he fills the doorway entirely, begins to form a sentence to his tailor–
Then his mouth just hangs open when he sees you. A laugh rises up your windpipe, unbidden, and bubbles out from between your lips like you’re a highschooler meeting their prom date.
“I’ll give you two a minute,” says Joseph, “don’t you dare fuck in my workshop.”
He slips out as Copia approaches you, slowly, taking in every inch he sees before him.
“Do you like it?”
“Do I like it?” he asks, laughing incredulously. “Baby, I… you…”
He holds your biceps but stands back so he can keep admiring, as if he’s worried you’ll disappear like a dream if he isn’t anchored to you.
“Can I… eh, can I say something sort of intense?”
“Yes,” you say immediately, because you like it when he feels intense over you.
“I really like seeing you in my colours.” His voice is practically a growl as he leans in to snatch your lips into a kiss. Your arms wrap around his neck but you try not to lean into it too hard, even though you can feel the slide of his tongue eagerly searching out yours.
“Copia, your paint…”
“Is designed to survive me sweating like crazy under stagelights. You think it can’t hold up under a little, eh, canoodling?”
“We said to Joseph we wouldn’t!”
“I don’t remember saying anything like that,” he hums, nipping at your bottom lip and catching it between those endearingly crooked teeth.
“Copia, we have a celebration to get to.”
“Fine, fine,” he groans, pulling himself away with obvious agony. “But baby, when I get you alone, I’m going to show you just how much I like how you look.”
Oh, you can’t wait.
Copia is aware of how hard you’re gripping his hand. Your nerves are obvious as you walk through the Ministry, gaggles of giggling costumed Siblings turning to look at the two of you as everyone makes their way to the main festivities. You’re clearly worried that you’re going to be laughed at, mocked, but instead quite the opposite is true: you’re met with smiles and ‘wow’s. You even get a couple of wolf whistles; Copia isn’t sure which of you it’s directed at, but to be honest, it could very well be you both.
You both looking fucking incredible, if he says so himself.
“You okay, tesoro?” he whispers to you as you approach the outside doors, finding a place where the crowd has ebbed away.
“Nervous,” you confess, eyes dropping to the floor. He gently places a gloved finger on your chin and tilts your face to look at him.
“Don’t be. You deserve the world to love you as much as I do.”
That seems to be enough to give you the confidence you need. You squeeze his hand tightly, and the two of you step outside.
The atmosphere is intense in the cold October air, yet there’s a level of cosiness which warms you both. This is a thoroughly spiritual night for the church, a place where the veil between the mortal and the hellish is thin, yet there’s no mistaking it for the celebration it is: the bonfire burns bright and you can see Terzo guiding groups of Siblings through small, personal rituals of thanks; Primo instructing how budding decorators ought to be carving the pumpkins they choose from his garden. Food is being brought up from the kitchens by the trayful, laid out on long tables for people to nibble at as and when. Pretty much everyone has a glass in their hand and there is a lovely mixture of those wearing traditional clothes and straight up fancy-dress.
For a moment, Copia is swallowed by the pride he feels in his Ministry. His Ministry. He helped build this. He’s so glad he gets to share it with you.
People spot him, and their faces light up - and when they see he is with someone, there’s a moment of confusion before those smiles get even brighter. The first Sibling to approach him is indicative of how the rest of the night will go. They fiddle with the sleeve of their habit nervously, as if it has taken a lot of courage for them to speak up.
“Ah, Papa?”
Their voice is small and reedy, but he turns to them with a smile.
“Ah, Sibling Jay, yes?”
“Oh, yes,” they smile at the fact he knows their name. “I wanted to say happy Samhain to you both. And, ah, congratulations. The two of you look great.”
They shoot you a thumbs up and then cringe at how laboured it was. Copia smiles and puts a reassuring hand on their shoulder.
“Thank you, Jay. I appreciate it. I hope you have a lovely evening.”
“Thank you,” you squeak, and for a moment Copia does wonder if he is caught between the two most awkward people in the Ministry. Jay disappears into the crowd, obviously relieved, and from then on a steady stream of people approach the two of you to offer their well wishes as you make your way around the grounds. Secondo passes you both at one point, his green-and-black clad harem in tow, and greets you with a simple: “hm, took you long enough.” You splutter in indignation… but don’t argue.
Copia checks in with you every time, between glasses of wine and toasting marshmallows on sticks and saying small prayers to the Old One, and every time you reply with a smile.
“Love, I’m having a lovely evening.”
His heart swells at your happiness… but it is when he sees Damien and Raven running over to him that he stops in his tracks. He hears his name and yours being shouted in excitement, and when the two of you turn to meet the twins, for a second you don’t recognise them. Raven’s blond wig is surprisingly convincing and the outfits are spot on: her denim jeans and blue shirt, his waistcoat and red jumper around the waist.
It’s obvious who they’ve come as, and they skid to a halt in tandem.
“Holy shit,” says Damien, staring at you in genuine awe. “That’s one hell of an outfit.”
“You look like you walked off of a runway,” Raven says. You wave away their compliments.
“Thank you, but it’s your costumes I want to talk about. You look, like, eerily accurate.”
“Oh, do you think so? We’re Bill and Ted!” Raven says, her grin taking over her face, “what do you think?”
“You have to be nice, we’ve been working on these since you showed us the films,” says Damien, who you think got the Ted role because of his one inch of height on his sister.
“We were going to be the girls from Martyrs but we thought you guys would get a kick out of this, so like, why not?”
“You both look genuinely fantastic,” you say with a laugh, then elbow Copia. “Right?”
Copia can’t talk or he thinks he might cry. He feels a swell of paternal pride in his chest that he’s pretty sure he remembers seeing in Psaltarian many, many years ago, when as a young lad he had quoted his first Star Wars line unbidden.
“You look great, kids,” he says, voice thick with emotion.
“Excellent!” they say, and then mime playing air guitars. You throw your head back and laugh in appreciative glee, and Copia thinks this might be the happiest moment of his life.
“Bambini, look, I think they are lining people up to judge the costume competition,” Copia points across the grounds where, sure enough, Siblings in fancy dress are starting to gather.
“Oh, shit! Quick, let’s go! See you later, guys!”
They dash into the crowd, the two of you staring after them in the aftermath of teenage energy.
“Well, that was–”
“How would you feel about asking if they want us to adopt them?” asks Copia. It spills out from his lips, and he doesn’t even realise what he’s saying until it’s already out there. He means it, though. He’s sure of it in his whole heart. You stare at him, mouth agape.
“What?”
“I know they’re almost adults, but maybe it would be nice to ask them if they wanted us to be their parents before they have their birthday. I mean, we kind of are, anyway, right?”
You search his eyes for any hint of a joke in terrible taste, and are clearly more shocked when you realise he’s being sincere.
“I…” He can hear the cogs turning in your mind. “But… do you not have to be a married couple to do that, or something?”
“Then let’s get married.”
You drop your glass of wine and it soaks into the grass beneath your feet, turning the autumn ground sodden and sweet.
“Don’t tease. Not about that,” you whisper, voice quavering with emotion. He takes your hands in his, closes the already scarce gap between you both.
“I’m not, amore mio. I want to marry you. I want to spend the rest of our lives together. I want this. I want you. Forever.”
He does. He’s old enough to be sure, to not want to take his time with these things any more. He’s met the love of his life and he never wants to let them go again. He thinks he’d marry you right here, if he could.
“Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay?”
“Not just okay. Yes, a fucking resounding yes. Yes, Copia Emeritus, I’ll marry you,” you laugh, face relaxing into softness and joy, and you throw yourself into his embrace.
He wants this moment to last forever. You, in his arms. Real. In love.
Across the yard, standing next to a grumpy Papa Nihil, he does not see the way Sister Imperator purses her lips together at the sight of the two of you.