Mesopotamia

Aziraphale had never seen that particular piece of art before.

It was made of ivory and it was old. That was really all that needed to be said about that part. The artistry of it was familiar to him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Phoenician, he believed. It was a plaque, dug into to display an angelic figure. Or perhaps it was a human, with the wings in the background shielding them from something. It was hard to tell.

“Crowley?” he called out to the other room, not taking his eyes off of the figure.

“Yeah?”

“Do tell me about this one. I don’t remember it.”

Crowley poked his head in. He had a bottle of sauvignon blanc which had a picture of a snake on the label. To Aziraphale, it would have felt gauche had they been in mixed company.

“That one? Took it from Oates, if I recall.”

“Oates?”

“The Nimrud ivories, remember?”

He did, but it was a gradual thing. He had only heard of it after the fact. “What made you want this one?” he asked.

Crowley made a face before disappearing into the other room. “I didn’t want it – just some other people really did. So I took it away. Sewing discord and all that. You know.”

The first rains. An instinctual reaction.

Aziraphale smiled. “I know.”

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