Forgivable

CHAPTER SEVEN: Please Forgive Me

       Crowley tipped the glass to his mouth and closed his eyes. Of course the angel would appear at the very moment he had decided to end it, when he had reached the end of his rope, and not a moment sooner.
       Still, he had come.
       The thought made him hesitate, just for a second. But that was long enough - something slammed into him, and he crashed to the floor, the glass flying out of his hands to smash against the wall, shards ringing as they hit the ground and fragmented further, scotch and holy water dousing the stone floor.
       His head swam, and he shook it as he pushed himself up to his knees. The fire still burned; he waved a hand to de-summon it, and it foomed gently away. He looked around him, squinting to clear his vision.
       The angel was burning - his jacket had caught fire and he was struggling to pull it off, but one arm was caught in a sleeve and he was panicking. Crowley raced over, yanked the jacket off him and threw it to the floor, where it began soaking up the holy water and scotch.
       Aziraphale was gasping. He had peeled back one blackened sleeve to stare in astonishment at the burned, swollen, blistered skin beneath. He looked up at the demon, pain dilating his pupils, before his eyes rolled up and he collapsed.
       Crowley caught him as he fell, guiding him gently to the floor, cradling his head. He pulled the angel's shirt the rest of the way off, examining the burns. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he shook his head, then waved his hand through the air. The burned flesh began to knit back together where it had split; the blisters shrank, smaller and smaller, until they were gone. The redness was restored to the usual paleness of the angel's soft skin; any trace of the burns was gone.
       Crowley sat back, hands draped over his knees, and tipped his head back against the wall.
       It was only a moment before he heard a sharp inhale; when he looked back at the angel, Aziraphale's eyes fluttered open. He looked up at the ceiling, then turned his head, his brow furrowing. He took in the broken glass, his ruined jacket, the wet floor - and then Crowley.
       He sat up.
       "Crowley!" he said. "I-" then he looked down. "Oh dear." He didn't seem embarrassed at his shirtlessness, only confused.
       "I healed you," Crowley offered. He leaned forward, peering into Aziraphale's face. "Angel. What. Were. You. Doing?"
       The angel looked back at him, indignance raising one eyebrow. "Saving you, of course."
       "You thought that was hellfire! Why would you cross hellfire?"
       Both eyebrows raised, and Aziraphale's mouth dropped open a little. He looked hurt, disbelieving. "Why?" he asked. He stood, brushing dirt off his knees and reaching as if to straighten his bow-tie; when he found it wasn't there, he smoothed his hands down his pant legs, instead. He looked down at where Crowley sat on the floor. "I know that I've made mistakes," he said defensively. "But surely you must know that..." he trailed off.
       Crowley tucked his knees under him and pushed to standing, so he was taller than the angel again. "That what?"
       Aziraphale cleared his throat. "That I would... do anything to save you?" It sounded like a question, but it felt like a demand.
       Crowley stared into the hazel eyes. Their proximity was muddling his senses, clouding his mind. He had been so angry, just a minute ago. Now that was giving way to relief - at having been able to put the fire out before the angel discorporated, at having Aziraphale here. He really was here. He looked away.
       "Did you really think," the angel said, the familiar primness returning to his voice, "that I lo... that I cared so little for you that hellfire would stop me if I thought you were in danger?"
       Crowley had, actually.
       "But it wasn't hellfire." That was a question.
       The demon shook his head slowly, still looking away, seeing nothing. "Of course not," he said, and his voice was hoarse. "Did you really think that I loved you so little that I would risk truly destroying you?"
       There it was. He had said it aloud. Love. Stupid demon, always taking the first step. This was not what he had planned, it wasn't how this was supposed to go, Aziraphale was supposed to say it to him first, as part of his apology, the angel wasn't ev-
       Aziraphale placed a hand on Crowley's chest, and all thoughts drained away. The demon exhaled sharply, turning his head to look at the angel. They were so close, their noses almost touching, their lips inches apart. Aziraphale still carried the smell of old books with him, and that angel dust sweetness that made the back of Crowley's throat ache.
       But he kept his hands to himself. It had been too many weeks of loneliness, of accepting his abandonment, of an ever-blackening depression that had consumed him until he was ready to end his own existence permanently, for him to reach out any further than he had.
       "Oh, Crowley," the angel said softly, and the words thrummed in the demon's chest. Weeks of remembering those words and how they had come just before his rejection, twinned with a building need that was twisting his stomach. "I'm so sorry."
       Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
       "We can talk about the details later, but... well, you were right. They're toxic, they're dangerous, they don't have anyone's best interest at heart. I shouldn't have gone to Heaven, I should have stayed here with you, worked with you here. Stayed in my bookshop. I never should have left. I..." he blew out a little breath; it was soft against Crowley's cheek. "I don't want to... presume what the past few weeks have been like for you, but..." He looked away.
       Crowley raised his hand to Aziraphale's cheek and gently turned the angelic face back to his own, the warmth of the touch radiating out to his arm and then his chest. Still, he didn't say anything.
       Aziraphale's lips were parted slightly, and he looked up into Crowley's eyes with such tenderness, such devotion, that the demon's heart ached again - but this time, in a mirrored pulse of love.
       "I'm sorry," the angel said again, his voice soft and warm and catching in his throat. "I was wrong. Please forgive me."