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“Wh’as that, angel?” Crowley asked lazily from where he was sprawled across the couch in the bookshop, limbs splayed out, one snakeskin boot propped up against Aziraphale's knee with comfortable familiarity. He was pointing at the rosary necklace around the angel's neck with a slender finger, taking another sip of the bottle of wine passing between them.
"Oh, it's becoming quite the human thing," Aziraphale explained eagerly; neither of them were too impaired just yet, but were mildly tipsy to the point that their tongues had become freed. He tangled the pearled beads around his fingers; the rosary was a deep golden color, and the cross that hung from it was a rustic red. "Do you remember Jesus, from Nazareth? God's favorite experiment?"
"'Course. Not gonna forget Him in a hurry, am I? What with how obsessed the humans are with Him these days. M'sure it royally pisses the Almighty off with Her Son gettin' all the glory 'n whatnot." Crowley snorted, swirling the wine around absentmindedly in his hand. "Poor bloke."
"Yes, well." Aziraphale cleared his throat rather awkwardly; he was not yet to the point where drunkenness allowed him to be freed from what a therapist would likely call his 'Catholic guilt.' "The beads, they're meant to be a sort of prayer to Him, I believe. But they're quite pretty is all."
He admired the golden beads, holding them up for Crowley to see, the cross dangling in the forefront.
"Huh. Quite weird, though, eh? Celebratin’ the cross, prolly the poor bugger’s worst time here on earth,” Crowley remarked dryly, but he gave the rosary a curious glance; Aziraphale held it out further, and the demon reached out to take it in hand, seemingly fascinated with the cross as it swung lazily from side to side.
Crowley's fingers had barely touched the wooden cross to pull it into his palm, however, when he let out a sudden pained yelp and yanked his hand back, flinching hard. He dropped the bottle of wine in his other hand and crimson liquid spilled over the carpet in a pool of thick red, the bottle rolling underneath the couch and leaving a bloody mess behind.
But Aziraphale couldn't have cared less about the state of the bookshop's floors; all he cared about right now was the demon at his side, who had hunched over in pain and was hissing loudly, cursing under his breath, coiled in on himself as he clutched at his hand that had a burn mark in the dead center of his palm where he had just barely grazed the wood of the cross, searing red in the shape of Jesus's requiem.
"Guh, shit, fuck," Crowley swore, clearly attempting to miracle the burn away but to no avail. He looked up at Aziraphale, who was frozen in shock and dismay, and his golden eyes, for once uncovered by his sunglasses, were so — so distraught, so full of distress and pain and betrayal, and — and did he think there was a chance that Aziraphale — that the angel had —?
"Oh no, oh dear — oh, Crowley, I'm so sorry, I had — I didn't —," Aziraphale stumbled over his words, pressing his hands over his mouth as guilty tears welled up in his eyes. He immediately disposed of the offending rosary with a snap of his fingers (with little to no regret, the only feeling of sadness being that it truly had been beautiful, what with its gorgeous gold and shining red; but he could find that beauty elsewhere) and attempted instinctively to reach out for Crowley, but the demon, he —
He flinched away, clutching his hand tightly, momentary mistrust glimmering in his serpentine eyes.
But it only took a moment for his gaze to lock onto Aziraphale's, and his expression to soften; for him to reconcile with whatever fears and what-if's were racing through his mind, because this was his angel.
"Crowley," Aziraphale choked out desperately, forcing his tears back as he kept one hand pressed over his mouth; he would not cry. He attempted to reach for Crowley again with trembling hands, and this time, to the angel's immense relief and gratefulness, the demon allowed him to, though he stiffened as Aziraphale's hands ever so gently took his burnt one in soft fingers.
Aziraphale stared down at Crowley's charred palm with tears welling up in his eyes once more; this time, he was powerless to stop them, and a single tear rolled down his cheek, followed by another, as one thought ran through his mind:
What if the rosary had been worse? What if it had been as bad as Holy Water?
Perish the thought.
"M'fine, angel — good, good, m'good," Crowley hissed out insistently, even as his fingers curled and trembled, and his hand convulsed in Aziraphale's light grip, the reddened, burnt flesh blackening by the moment. "Fffforgot m'self, s'all. Shoulda — should'a been sssmarter."
"No, my dear, I am sorry." Aziraphale closed his eyes and clasped both of his hands over Crowley's as the demon quieted; he sent a healing miracle over the cross-shaped burn, and thankfully, as he was still an angel, the skin stitched back over and pinkened instantly, healing as if it had never happened. But it had happened, and Crowley had, however briefly, been terrified that Aziraphale had purposefully hurt him.
"Crowley . . ." Aziraphale started, biting his lip as he watched Crowley's body shudder in the newfound absence of pain. He waited for the demon to look back up at him, and the expression of such concern on his face nearly sent the angel to the floor — which, upon the reminder, he quickly waved a hand and righted the crimson stain on the carpet, the wine bottle appearing on the small table in front of the couch as if it had never been tipped on its head.
"Crowley, I — I would never bring anything in the bookshop that could deliberately cause harm to you, not ever," Aziraphale managed eventually, his voice shaky. He took the demon's hand back in his, and his fingertips traced the outline of the cross that had been there mere moments before, his hands trembling even as Crowley's were steady. "I — I never meant to, I swear it. I never wish to hurt you, not ever." He fixed a beseeching gaze on the demon, his blue eyes round and frightened. "Can you possibly ever forgive me?"
Crowley snorted, shaking his head and rolling his eyes with fond exasperation. He squeezed Aziraphale's hands in his, and then drew one away to snag the wine bottle; instead of drinking, he handed it to Aziraphale, who took a grateful sip, the action familiar and soothing.
"Sod off, angel," the demon grumbled, propping his feet back up on the angel's knee, making Aziraphale's heart bloom with affection at such a carefree action. "S'all good; you didn't mean it. It doesn't change anything. S'all good."
"But . . . you . . . you were afraid," Aziraphale whispered, the flower of his heart shriveling, until Crowley's sympathetic golden gaze made it flush back to life once more.
"S'instinctive, tha'ss all." Crowley wrinkled his nose as if personally offended, and Aziraphale couldn't help but smile even as uncertainty gnawed at him. "Like — s'like if you were thinking about somethin' bad, and I came up and surprised you, you'd get spooked for a second. It doesn't mean anything, angel. But . . ." Crowley groaned, and snatched the wine back. "If it'll make you feel better, I forgive you." His voice was snide and pompous, clearly a mockery of Aziraphale's, but still with an edge of exasperated fondness. Aziraphale's smile became more genuine, and he sighed gratefully.
"You forgive me?"
"Duh. 'Course I do." Crowley grinned lopsidedly. "But maybe we lay off the, eh, religion merch from now on, huh?" Aziraphale nodded fervently, and Crowley laughed — a lovely thing — before tipping his head back, taking a long swig of the wine, and it became a normal, peaceful, familiar night between the two of them once more.
“Now c’mon, less apologizin’ more gettin’ shitfaced, yeah?”
"Really, now, my dear," Aziraphale scolded in reprimand for the crass language, but really, he was only relieved to be forgiven, and he swore to himself to never lay a hand on even the most gorgeous of such jewels again; a near-miniscule price to pay for the ensured safety of Crowley, while his dear demon was under his protection and care. For he had told Crowley when he had opened the bookshop back in 1800 that it would be his home and that no harm would come to him while there, and he meant to upkeep that promise until his final breath, if that was what it took.
He clinked his glass against Crowley's (the demon had miracled them, too much passing the worn bottle back and forth) and felt relief at the sight of his unblemished hand, and felt a familiar flutter in his chest at the upturned smirk playing across Crowley's lips, and the flush high in his sharp cheekbones, accenting golden eyes more beautiful than any rosary bead and rustic red hair more sleek and gorgeous than any wooden cross.