Forgivable

CHAPTER SIX: To the World

       When he materialized on Earth, it wasn't in his bookshop, and it wasn't in Crowley's flat - the two places he had thought of every time his thoughts wandered down to the planet, which was to say pretty constantly.
       When his shape appeared and then filled in with form and matter, when he reached a hand up to touch his face - make sure it was there - his solid feet were standing on the concrete path through Clissold Park. It was early morning, and the pale yellow rays of the sun were just reaching over the tops of the trees, burning through the mist and dappling the walkway in soft light.
       Aziraphale breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the sweet smell of cut grass, moist dirt, fading dew, people. He had missed this. It was warmer than he liked, but he didn't mind as he began walking through the quiet morning. It was real.
       He turned immediately in the direction of Crowley's flat. He had of course come here to see him, had been desperate for a reason to do so, if he was honest with himself, but had wanted some time to compose himself, re-orient within the world, become used to having a body again before he saw his old friend.
       'Old friend' doesn't quite capture it anymore, does it? he thought. His breathing was shaky, and he realized he was nervous. But of course he was. They had parted under... unfortunate circumstances, and for the first time in a long time throughout their millennias-long history, he wasn't sure what kind of reception he could expect.
       Aside from the warmth, it was a lovely morning for a walk. Birds flitted from tree to tree, singing along the way. He wasn't sure if he could hear a nightingale among them, there were so many, but he told himself that he did. Humans walked through the streets of London, some chatting with one another, some stalking alone. Some sat outside cafes with steaming coffees, and he indulged himself in a deep sniff as he passed, his mouth watering at the savory bitterness. He listened in on a few conversations, and couldn't help but be delighted at the trivialness of it all - so simple, so minor in the grand scheme of things, but so important to them. Playdates and crappy bosses and grocery lists. He began to smile.
       The streets outside Crowley's building were busy by the time he arrived. He let himself in and climbed the stairs to his floor, and then he was there - outside the door to the demon's flat.
       He tried to calm his racing heart with a few steady breaths. His smile had faded, replaced by a furrowed brow and sweating palms. He cracked his neck side-to-side, then reached for the door handle.
       The door was ajar. That was odd.
       He only hesitated a moment before pushing on the door and letting himself in.
       The flat was exactly as he remembered - pale gray stone, houseplants, limited furniture. He saw at once that the plants hadn't been cared for. The realization panged his heart. Oh, Crowley, he heard himself saying, nothing lasts forever. A small breath escaped him at the memory, and an ache of guilt closed his throat. He swallowed, and walked on through the flat.
       He wanted to call out, but found that he couldn't summon his voice, so he passed through room after room, all empty - no demon.
       Finally he reached Crowley's office, the room with the throne, and as if he had always been there, waiting for him, the demon's lean form stood bent over the desk, sunglasses tossed aside, palms pressed flat as he stared down into a glass.
       It felt like centuries since he had been in a room with Crowley, had inhaled the scent of brimstone and leather. It was intoxicating, and for a moment his head swam with love and need. A gasp escaped him - he couldn't help it.
       Crowley turned to him and straightened.
       They stared at one another across the room, Aziraphale framed by the doorway, Crowley standing next to the desk, arms limp at his sides, looking a little lost. The moment seemed to last a long time. Aziraphale could see pain in the yellow eyes, pain and some dark, lonely emptiness that squeezed at his heart. He could sense something in the room, too, something light? But he couldn't identify it among the waves of emotion that were crashing against him like the sea at high tide.
       "Crowley," he said softly.
       The reptilian eyes narrowed, and a sneer curved the demon's lips. Aziraphale knew he should be worried by that expression, but it was so familiar, so Crowley, that instead he felt a thrill of love, of comfort, to see it again.
       "Are you really here?" the demon asked, "or is this an illusion?"
       Aziraphale blinked. "I'm here, of course. In the flesh."
       Crowley snorted. "Of course?"
       Guilt turned his stomach. "That was a poor choice of words. I just mean... it isn't an illusion, Crowley. It's me."
       The demon gritted his teeth. The shock to Aziraphale's senses, the cascade of love and hope and satisfied longing, was waning somewhat, and he could sense that lightness in the room again. It was coming from the desk.
       The angel focused on the glass. It was a simple scotch glass, filled halfway with an amber liquid that had been diluted a bit with water.
       He cocked his head. "Since when do you take water in your whiskey?"
       Crowley's eyes widened, and he snatched up the glass. "Why are you here?" he demanded.
       Something in the nervous way the demon was watching him lit Aziraphale's senses alert. "Crowley?" he asked, his voice rising in pitch. "What's in the glass?"
       But he already knew. Dread rose in his throat. No no no no no... He took a step forward.
       "Stay back!" Crowley raised a hand in front of him, holding it out as if to perform a miracle, the hand with the glass in it held protectively away from Aziraphale. "Why are you here, angel?" he hissed.
       "I..." Aziraphale tried to take calming breaths, to slow his racing heart and hopefully the speed of this conversation. "I just... I wanted to see you. I needed to see you. I have so much to tell you."
       "To tell me?" Crowley stared in disbelief. "We're not partners anymore, angel. Remember? You walked away."
       "Surely you know that I had to. I didn't know..." Aziraphale took another step forward.
       "Didn't know what?"
       "You were right," he said simply. "I was wrong."
       They were only a few feet from one another now, and Crowley's mouth had opened a little. Aziraphale wondered if the demon had imagined hearing him say those words as often as he had imagined speaking them aloud.
       But then the angular face clouded, and he bit out, "Am I supposed to say I forgive you?"
       Aziraphale shook his head. "Not if you don't want to."
       He started to step forward again, but was stopped by a blast of hot air. Crowley had summoned a ring of fire - actual fire, inside his apartment! - and the heat forced the angel back.
       "Crowley, what are you doing?" he shouted, a hand raised before his face. "Is that hellfire?"
       Crowley held the glass up, as if in a toast. "To the world," he said, then raised the glass to his lips.