A/N: Hmm… supposing I said I owned these characters… do you think anybody would believe me?

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The guards indicated the cell and then backed off, leaving Pilate alone at the door. With the keys.

He firmly refused all thoughts of what keys could do to a locked door, and looked in the tiny barred window. Jesus was on his knees by his cot, quite obviously praying. Pilate considered disturbing him, then decided against it and just waited.

Once two or three minutes had passed, though, he changed his mind – he had far too clear a view of the oozing lash marks and the sight was making him feel… restless. That was all: restless.

He turned from the door and went upstairs, keeping hold of the keys. If anyone asked, he planned to say that the smell of the cells had made him ill and he was going to get some wine before trying to spend any more time down there… but nobody molested him. (Of course nobody molested him; he was in charge here. Everything that went on in this hall was on his shoulders and no one else’s…) He tried to refuse that thought too, but it stuck.

When he got back to the cells, the little vial of salve tucked out of sight in his pocket, Jesus was still in prayer.

It went on for another half hour, and Pilate watched in fascination the whole time. Afterwards, he nearly knocked to request entry, then shook his head at his own stupidity and just jammed the key in the lock. The heavy door swung open and it would have been impressive entrance… if he hadn’t found himself asking: “Are you busy?”

Jesus didn’t even look surprised. “No, not at all,” he said graciously. “Please come in.”

Pilate locked the door behind him and pocketed the key. “Your people came to me today with an unusual request.”

Jesus sat on his bed and laughed a little. “My people.”

A fair point, Pilate reflected. He tried not to look at the blackened eye and split lip and all the other evidence of just how much Jesus’s people cared for him these days. He raised his head. “A man called Simon…?”

“Simon?” Now the prisoner looked surprised, and Pilate found himself pleased to have disconcerted him just that little bit. “He and his friends are-… What was his request?”

Pilate was pacing, and wondering what on earth had possessed him to wear full formal attire down here tonight. The cape was going to drag through all kinds of filth, and anyhow he had the distinct impression that this Jesus would have accorded him neither more nor less respect if he had shown up completely naked. “Simon… asked me to set you free.” He waited, but Jesus was a cool one and showed no signs of begging for information as the seconds passed. Eventually Pilate gave up and offered an explanation himself: “He suggests that some other poor fool be crucified in your place. He had several volunteers.”

Jesus’s mouth fell open. “That’s-”

“Feasible. If I were so inclined,” Pilate qualified. “I could order it done at dawn, facing west. If we kept the crowd from coming too close, if we beat him as badly as they’ve beaten you… it is actually a feasible plan. It satisfies everyone – the priests see you executed, some worshipper dies saving the life of his hero, and you… Rising from the dead would certainly add to your legend, don’t you think? All I would ask is that you make your way to someone else’s jurisdiction before you start your preaching again.”

He loaded the word with as much scorn as he could, but if he was hoping to get a rise out of Jesus he was disappointed. Jesus just shook his head and said, “Do you really think I’d allow you to kill someone else in my place?”

Pilate’s pride asserted itself quite suddenly. “Do you really think you could stop me?”

Another silence fell, while Jesus made that deep, searching, infuriating eye contact again. “What does it matter to you whether you kill one innocent man or another?”

Pilate thought the question might be meant rhetorically, but he had been wondering that himself and wanted to try to put words to it. “It matters because you’ve proven yourself special, Jesus Christ. Not just an innocent man, but an innocent man who helps people and who inspires those who frankly… could do with a bit of inspiration. I would hate to be the one to end all that.” He knew he was talking too fast, nervous, not at all as imperious and commanding as he’d wanted to sound. This was unbelievable. A reprieve, he’d come down here to put a fucking reprieve on the table, and this madman wouldn’t even listen!

“The wonders were God’s doing, not mine,” Jesus corrected politely. “And now this is his will.”

Pilate paced even faster, cape billowing out behind him as he spun around. “If you wanted so badly to die, then why did you not answer me today? All you had to do was call yourself king, one time, and I could have put you to death without a moment’s compunction. Why wouldn’t you? Surely I gave you enough chances!”

Jesus watched him move. “Sit,” he said finally, gesturing to the cot next to him. He waited as if he were perfectly certain that Pilate would sit, and sure enough, immediately after telling himself not to Pilate did. “My kingdom is not of this world,” Jesus said quietly, “But I am a king.” He reached out and unfastened the governor’s cloak, pushing it off his shoulders to that it pooled bright purple all around them. He pulled himself up to sit cross-legged on the bed and waited for his visitor to kneel up there as well, so that they were facing each other squarely. “God is my father and I hold his law above the law of Caesar,” he said clearly. “Is that what you need to hear?”

“Then why couldn’t you have spoken those words in public?” Pilate was horrified to hear that his voice was cracking. “I would have been completely justified!”

“I don’t know why. I just knew not to. I think… I have to be martyred, not simply killed. I must die innocent.”

Pilate sat up straighter, hands on his knees. “Then you are innocent. As I thought.” He took a deep breath. “Do you realize what you’re asking of me?”

“Of-…” Jesus caught himself. His chest was heaving. “Asking of you?” he repeated more quietly. “Of you? Do you realize what God is asking of me?”

Pilate watched the hands twisting convulsively in the bedding, and realized that he was finally getting a glimpse of the man behind the martyr. Maybe if he pushed harder, Jesus’s fanaticism would give way completely... and then he would have to see reason. “I do realize. Do you? Have you ever stood by and watched a crucifixion from start to finish? You throw the word around so glibly, that I wonder if you have the faintest idea what it means!” Jesus was silent, jaw clenched, trembling with the effort of staying still. “It takes hours, Jesus Christ, hours of agony you can’t even imagine,” Pilate continued harshly. “The nailing alone – a mere preparation for the main event – is a horror… Think about it, you fool: it’s nails, it’s iron driven through your flesh; it will shatter your bones, do you have any idea what that’s going to feel like?”

The prisoner looked positively ill now, was shaking his head whispering stop, but Pilate was in no mood to be merciful. Not when he might be getting somewhere. “I don’t have the luxury of ignorance and neither will you,” he declared. “Before you demand to die on the cross, you’ll hear every word I have to say about it. Give me your hand.”

Jesus made no move to offer it… but neither did he pull away when grabbed. Pilate felt for the knuckle of the littlest finger, moved below it halfway to the wrist, and in a single powerful motion jerked up while clamping the rest of the palm in place. They both heard the low crunch of bone.

“Enough,” Jesus gasped, cradling his arm to his chest. “Do you think that will make a difference? You can convince me it’s the worst death on earth, and I’m still going to have to face it! I believe you that ignorance is a luxury,” he added, looking away. “Please don’t take it from me.”

“I want to tell you the truth and save your life. How can you ask instead for lies – and death? Jesus…” he beseeched, hardly audible anymore. “It’s unspeakable.”

Jesus’s eyes had been steadily filling up, and now spilled over. “It’s God’s will,” he whispered back. “No matter what dread you put into me… no matter how… frightened I am … I have to obey. I know it’s… terrible… but God will give me strength. He will give me strength.”

Pilate watched him weep into his hands for a while, knowing then that it was a lost cause. There would be no talking sense into the man – even when Jesus had finally lost his unnatural tranquility and broken down, he still hadn’t wavered. There was no point trying to get him to live. The most he could do to help was… well, what? Anything?

When Jesus at last wiped his face and sat upright, he was still trembling and, truth be told, crying a little. Pilate took him by the shoulders to give a short, bracing shake. “Strength you have plenty of,” he said, in a whisper because he wasn’t sure his own voice would hold out. “It’s only sense that you lack. I wanted to save you…”

Wanted. Jesus choked back a sob and closed his eyes. He nodded. “What God wills, must be.”

Pilate still hadn’t let go of him. “So you’ve said. Did your God specify that your last night on earth be spent with rocks and gravel digging into your open wounds?”

Jesus opened his eyes with a watery smile. “No… no, he didn’t.”

Pilate gestured wordlessly for him to turn around. He reached for the water that had been left by the bedside and dipped a corner of his cape in it. With a remarkable lack of fastidiousness he pulled Jesus’s tattered robe out of the way and laid warm wet velvet over him.

Jesus gasped at the contact and Pilate waited for him to relax before starting to carefully wipe the whip marks clean. “This wasn’t cruelty, you know,” he said as he worked. “I thought if I gave the crowd a little blood it might appease them. I’d hoped they would let you alone.” In fact that was only half the truth; he’d also thought that a flogging would produce a marked improvement in the madman’s behavior… and that it was thoroughly deserved after all that uncooperative silence.

He didn’t say that to Jesus, but Jesus seemed to guess. “I haven’t complained. I’m sure your decision was justified.” He shifted a little, and Pilate winced.

“Oh, did I-… It’s almost done.”

“Thank you.” Then, just when Pilate thought they were beginning to get along, Jesus had to go and say something ridiculous again: “I want you to know, God sees everything you’ve tried to do for me.”

He couldn’t bite back a harsh laugh. “It’s not to his taste, though, is it? Apparently he prefers you to suffer and die.” He had one hand clamped on Jesus’s shoulder to hold him steady, and suddenly he felt another hand reached up to give it a pat.

Jesus would comfort him? His executioner? It made Pilate sick to his stomach, but he ordered himself to just bear up and save the self-pity for later. He would have the whole rest of his life to wallow, if he felt like it.

When the cuts were clean he rubbed a soothing ointment into them. He meant to sound cool and matter-of-fact, but his voice betrayed him and he purred: “This should… keep you comfortable” as softly as if he were bandaging his own mother.

“Until tomorrow,” Jesus agreed with a low chuckle.

Bitter humor was a new attitude for him and Pilate didn’t think it suited him at all. Of course, given all he’d been through and all he had yet to endure, he supposed the poor man had earned it. “Yes. But in the meantime shall I have something done for your hand, too?”

It had already begun to swell. Jesus looked down and shrugged. “No… and you don’t need to apologize. I suppose it’s better that I go to the cross with my eyes open.”

There didn’t seem to be anything else to say, so Pilate just pressed a kiss to the prisoner’s ratty hair and then stood up to leave.

He was almost to the door again before Jesus called: “Wait, your-…”

Pilate looked back and saw him indicating the cape that was still spread out around him. “Keep it, it… gets cold down here, nights.” Knowing he sounded strange and strangled, he turned and left quickly before he could embarrass himself any further.

Jesus wrapped himself up in the rich velvet and knelt back down to pray.

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The End.

3 things:

1. I think I’m done with JCS fanfics for now… I’ve had Jesus pick up Pilate’s pieces and now vice versa. Unless I’m willing to slash them – which I’m not – I think I’ve pretty much covered all the bases.

2. I want to walk around in a purple cape!

3. Let me know what you think of the story.