Forgivable

CHAPTER NINE: Nightingales

       Crowley took a step back and blew out a breath, running a hand through his hair. Aziraphale was still leaned against the wall, his curls in disarray, skin flushed. He looked so inviting, so comfortable and soft, that Crowley had to turn away to resist the urge to kiss him again.
       Broken glass and burned cloth littered the floor; Aziraphale's jacket, blackened and ruined, smelled of char. The shirt was burned as well, though not as badly. Crowley frowned when he remembered how angry he had been just a few minutes ago. He walked over and picked up the tattered jacket. It was too far gone to be miracled back together. I've kept this in tip-top condition for over one hundred years.
       "I'm so sorry, angel," he said, looking over at Aziraphale with real regret. "We'll have to get you a new one. I'm afraid all of my clothes are black, and probably too small for you."
       "Oh, that's all right," the angel said, straightening from the wall and coming over. "It was worth the sacrifice." He smiled sweetly. Crowley wasn't sure if he was referring to having saved him, or what had followed.
       A couple of miracles later, and the detritus had been cleared, the room back to normal, short only one Scotch glass. Aziraphale had buttoned on his ruined shirt, one sleeve three-quarters gone, the other stained with Scotch. He looked ridiculous, especially when he adjusted his bow tie, and Crowley bit back a grin.
       "Let's go buy you a shirt," Crowley said. "You all right going out like that?" He nodded down at the angel's absurd get-up.
       "It's only for a few minutes," the angel said. "I can make do."
       Crowley snatched up his sunglasses and put them on. They turned toward the door, and the demon couldn't help thinking how differently he felt now, compared to when he had come home just an hour or two before. He had been at the bottom of a deep, dark hole, caring for nothing except the sweet relief that the Holy Water promised. Now there was a lightness in his chest, and the empty void that had shadowed him for weeks was filled as if it had never been there at all.
       Crowley had closed the apartment door behind them and turned toward the stairs when he felt something in his hand - something warm and snug. He looked down and saw that Aziraphale had placed his own hand in Crowley's and was smiling at him nervously.
       "Is that all right?" the angel asked. "Only I... I've always wanted to hold your hand."
       Love surged in him; he let out a breath. Tugging gently on the hand, he pulled Aziraphale forward and kissed him softly. "Of course it's all right," he said.
       Again that sweet smile - such devotion, such affection. It transformed the angelic face, and he knew that this was a smile that only he got to see. An intense determination to protect the angel suddenly tightened his chest, and he squeezed at Aziraphale's hand. "Come on."
       Down the stairs, out onto the street and into a new world. They had walked side-by-side for ages, always there for one another, relying on each other, helping each other out. As time went on, they had become partners in crime and in good deeds. Even more recently, before the break, they'd been nearly inseparable. But in all those years they had barely touched each other, and certainly never walked through the streets of London hand-in-hand. It felt like the puzzle piece that had been missing, and as they reached the Bentley, Crowley realized he hadn't felt this content since... well, ever.
       He rounded the car, opening Aziraphale's door for him, feeling foolish, performative, like some secondary school teenager on a nervous first date. But the angel just smiled at him and said, "Thank you."
       When he'd climbed behind the wheel, he asked, "Right then - where to?" He grabbed the angel's hand, holding it tightly in his lap.
       "There's a vintage clothing store just a few blocks from my shop," Aziraphale said. "Perhaps we could go there?"
       Crowley nodded and turned the car on with his free hand.
       The radio was on, but it wasn't Queen, like he had expected.
       I may be right, I may be wrong
       But I'm perfectly willing to swear
       His chest tightened and he looked over at Aziraphale, who was looking at him with that smile that was just for him.
       "Listen," the angel whispered. "Nightingales."
       There were angels dining at the Ritz
       And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square
       "Nightingales," Crowley said, and pulled out into the street.