Aziraphale wearily placed another volume down on the bookshelf with a loud thunk. His shoulders sagged.
Behind him, on the couch, a demon who'd just stood side by side with an angel in the almost-Apocalypse was deliberately ignoring him, focusing instead on a rather interesting book about Victorian pornography. Aziraphale's blue eyes flickered nervously towards him, as though afraid of censure. As though their natures were too far removed from each other to truly be reconciled.
But he had to speak.
"Crowley?"
The demon looked up then, tipping dark glasses down his nose until yellow irises could be seen staring over the top.
He took in Aziraphale's appearance, and decided not to tease.
"Yes, angel?"
"I… I wanted to thank you – no, please! Don't interrupt, it's important. I wanted to thank you for standing by me today, wings out and all. It must have been terribly frightening, feeling your Master starting to rise up out of the Pit to come to Earth, and still stand in defiance of him. If… If the Lord had come down… If I'd had to look into his face and explain that I was disobeying him… I don't think I would have had the courage to do it, Crowley."
At this the angel's head tipped down to his chest, golden locks falling to mask his eyes, and Crowley watched in horror as he saw a silver tear fall to the floor and angelic shoulders shudder.
Aziraphale's head snapped up in surprise as he felt a hand on his shoulder, creeping round to where his wings were hidden, and another set of fingers under his chin.
Crowley's eyes were hidden again behind the shield of his glasses, but the set of his mouth was one of exasperation.
"Aziraphale – angel – you don't seriously believe that, do you? You are far braver than me. You would have braved the wrath of your Lord with love in your heart, and that's more than we demons ever did. Whatever action you had taken, you should have no reason to be afraid."
And then, as clear blue eyes gazed mournfully into his and sent drops of water searing themselves into Crowley's skin:
"Whatever you had done, there is no way that God would have made you Fall."
A teary smile came then, doubt still dancing at the corners.
"Although," Crowley said, mouth quirking, "if He truly wanted damned souls to suffer, then I suppose he could do worse than have the whole Hell venture reupholstered in tartan."
Aziraphale laughed then, blue eyes shining once more, but this time not with tears, and Crowley was relieved to see all vestiges of guilt had vanished from his countenance.
"Hmm, well, I'm not sure about that, dear," Aziraphale teased, wiping off the silvery traces that lined his skin with the back of his hand, "I've always thought that black is a dreadfully dull colour, you know. A non-colour, in fact."
"Hey!" Crowley protested, rubbing the back of his itching hand against his sleek shirt, "If you're saying that my Bentley isn't stylish then – "
"Crowley, dear," the angel replied, straightening up properly then and fussing over Crowley's reddened hand, skin sealing itself back together under his touch, "do stop being silly."
Crowley grunted.
"Hn. Yeah, right."
He snatched his healed hand from the angel's grasp, grabbed his jacket from where it was slung over the back of the sofa.
"The Ritz, then? If you're lucky, we might even get some more of those bloody nightingales you love so much."