X.
"You're not a demon. You're an angel."
His angel loved going to museums, galleries, exhibitions, libraries. He had done so over the centuries, delighting in rediscovering what had been believed lost, smiling to himself when he read an anecdote, a translated text, or the remains of an old, almost lost ode to an unknown person.
Crowley simply tagged along with an air of someone who might have better and more important things to do, but indulging his companion. Or radiating disinterest, lips twisting a little as he regarded the old masterpieces, many of which had only become great, known artists because of a certain angel or a demon.
Like Aziraphale, he had been there for most of their greatness, or even not such greatness, achieving that only after death. The after-death stuff had been Aziraphale's work. It had been one of the many assignments and he had excelled at them. It had been a labor of love, of dedication and compassion, and while Crowley never openly said so, he had enjoyed watching the angel do his good deeds.
"I wish I could give them their dreams while they are alive to enjoy the fruits of their labor," Aziraphale had told him one warm summer evening in Italy after another burial of a poor painter who had been mocked, living only from what others handed him, and generally a soul with no future. But he had been talented. What he had been missing was a sponsor.
It had been one of those perfect days, balmy, soft winds, flowers everywhere. Crowley had lounged around in bars, drunk his share, enjoying his time off after a few successful temptations.
And suddenly Aziraphale had been there.
As usual. Whenever they were in each other's vicinity, they tended to seek out the other. Crowley would never, ever, under torture or threat of permanent obliteration, say he did it on purpose. That he looked for the angel. He blamed gravity, the way evil was attracted to good to thwart their influence without getting thwarted in turn.
And they had talked. About Aziraphale's assignments, about blessing the work of dead artists, of turning the poor bastards into masters of their time.
Sometimes sooner, sometimes so much later after their time of passing.
It really sat on the angel's soul like a lead weight. His assignment were very clear. Some humans would be famous throughout life; some many years later. And a select few would need almost a generation to reach that goal.
Crowley had no idea what Heaven's endgame was. He only knew that Hell desired lost souls to end up on their side, so he prodded some into the right direction.
"At least they achieved something, even after death," Crowley now answered easily. "Some never will."
Because some so-called artwork was simply the doodling, amateurish work of a drunk who had been discovered and sponsored, sometimes kept like a pet by a rich family, and he would forever be known in the annals of history. And with the drunkyards success another, more talented artist had never had a break-through.
Aziraphale sighed into his wine and Crowley wanted to reach out and pat one shoulder. He just about kept himself in check.
"It's an assignment, angel. That's all."
"It's a human life."
A short, unimportant life. One of thousands. Millions.
They got piss-pour drunk that evening, commiserating over their respective head offices.
xXxXx xXxXx xXxXx
Crowley had never had a thing for museums or exhibitions, unless it was a place to tempt someone into a little thievery, vandalism or just mixing up a million and one tiny pieces that had been laboriously sorted. That was fun. It always left him in a good mood.
Aziraphale cooed over some particular old book, prattling on about how well-kept it was, how rare, how wonderful and beautiful and absolutely magnificent.
Not that Crowley listened.
Well, he did. He always listened to the angel, loved the way he radiated, the appreciation he had, the love, the reverence.
A smile came unbidden over the demon's lips and he viciously clamped down on the softer emotions, hands deeply stuck in his pockets. He leaned back against the wall, uncaring what priceless moth-eaten rug hung there, glaring at nothing.
Bloody radiance!
Aziraphale turned away from the book, smiling that soft, loving smile, clearly aware of what was going through his counterpart. Then suddenly that smile dropped like it had been cut loose from a string. His eyes widened and his hands fluttered.
"Crowley!"
His brows dipped down. "What?"
Aziraphale gestured almost wildly at something behind him, around him, above him, and Crowley turned, expecting some demon-thwarting angel or hellish assassin. Instead there was… a whole bunch of old stuff. Relics. Made of wood and stone, some religious, some almost arcane. And, of course, the rug. It was a display that encompassed the whole back of the room, currently encasing him in holiness.
"It's holy, Crowley!"
"Of course it is. That thing is ancient and probably moth infested."
"Blessed! Very old and filled with belief and divinity!" the angel rushed on. "Holy!"
Aziraphale's hands were moving around him, not even touching, almost like he wanted but didn't dare, even though they were absolutely alone in here. For some reason no human was to be found in this room.
Well, the reason was dressed in black and was currently a little bemused.
"Angel, what are you going on about? It's an old rug. And that is a fleamarket of things you'd find in a countryside yard sale!""
"The items behind you! They are blessed objects! They are holy! Taken from consecrated ground! One was bathed in holy water!"
Now Aziraphale did touch him and Crowley felt the divine energy, felt it mingle with his own demonic one, weaving into his aura, checking and rechecking.
He frowned and studied the relics. None of it hurt. There wasn't a single burn or itch. Almost absent-mindedly he reached out and touched a piece of what had probably been a vessel containing holy or blessed water.
"Crowley!" Aziraphale exclaimed, grabbing for his hands, but he was too late to stop the contact.
There was a slight tingle.
Nothing more.
"Huh," Crowley made.
The glasses slid down his nose, revealing stunned, yellow eyes.
"Dear?" Aziraphale sounded shaken. "What… how… Are you okay? Crowley?"
"I… I'm fine." His fingers slid along the roughly hewn rim. The tingle stayed, but there was no burn, no blistering, nothing. "Are you sure about this?" he heard himself ask, voice sounding far away.
"Sure? About blessed objects?" His angel sounded almost close to hysterics. "Of course I am sure! That bowl once contained holy water and it is still potent enough to burn a demon! The cross above it was made from blessed wood! It is filled with belief and was used to thwart evil, keep the devil away!"
Crowley finally let him pull his hand away, inspecting it closely, well-manicured fingers stroking over the long digits. Aziraphale shook his head, clearly unable to comprehend.
"How can this be?"
"I don't know, Zira. Maybe I developed antibodies," the demon joked.
Gray-blue eyes snapped up, glaring at him. "This is not the time for jokes!"
"I'm not joking." And he wasn't. He really wasn't. His mind was racing, trying to understand what was happening here.
Crowley, like all demons, didn't bust into flames at the sight of a cross or when walking into a church. It was a matter of the strength of belief. His own and that of the humans who had made the object.
Crowley, unlike any other demon, had an imagination, and he usually imagined he was doing fine. That helped to a degree, though he had burned himself walking into churches. He had never tried entering St. Paul's Cathedral. That would be suicide. And he could tell when an object would give him a migraine, but he had never been in danger of actually discorporating. Severe physical reactions, yes. Temporary loss of one's boy? Nope.
Aziraphale's mouth opened, then snapped shut again. He shook his head, still holding Crowley's hand.
"Maybe you're rubbing off on me," Crowley suggested, the leer holding only half the power it usually had. And even then it looked forced.
"That is impossible!"
"Just as impossible as us together? A demon and an angel? Hereditary enemies? Consorting? Doing the nasty human style?"
Not to mention how their very auras now overlapped, how their core essence seemed to be interwoven on some basic level. Crowley felt it. All the time now. It was… comforting; nice. And demons sure as Hell didn't do nice!
Unless they weren't real demon material. As evidenced in one lower demon who had never fit.
Aziraphale clasped his hands over Crowley's and cradled it against his chest. He looked so flummoxed, so lost, it was endearing. Crowley closed the last inch of distance and pressed a kiss against the white-blond hairline.
Even now, still standing next to the blessed display, he felt nothing. Not even a tingle of unease.
"I like you rubbing off on me, angel," he murmured into one ear.
Aziraphale's expression turned from lost to flustered and embarrassed. How he could still be so easily teased when they had been evolving into this for thousands of years was beyond Crowley. He loved it nevertheless.
"Want to test this a little more?"
"Test?"
Crowley smiled toothily. "There's a whole exhibition we avoided because of my… condition. How about we have a look around, test the limits?"
"You are not going to be a test subject!" Aziraphale immediately vetoed. "I won't allow it! You could get seriously hurt!"
"You'll be there."
"Which is why it won't happen!"
"Angel, we need to know how far this goes."
"It has gone far enough!"
He pressed another close-mouthed kiss against the temple, lips moving against Aziraphale's ear as he spoke. "Not yet. This is new. We need to know."
"I don't like it," came the petulant reply.
"Neither do I. Well, it could be helpful." Crowley stepped back, gazing into the distressed eyes. "And you'll be there."
His anchor, his guardian, his angel.
Aziraphale chewed on his lower lip. Such a human and endearing gesture. Finally his face switched from pained to decisive.
"We will test this on my terms."
"Aziraphale…"
"My terms, Crowley! I'll decide when enough is enough!"
He shrugged lazily. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yep." He popped the 'p'.
The relief was almost like a physical thing between them. Aziraphale smiled and finally released his hand.
Crowley smirked, pushing his glasses firmly up his nose, and then sauntered off to find the exhibition they had avoided thus far.
xXxXx
He might have overestimated the tolerance level. He might have underestimated the power of such an amount of blessed, holy and otherwise religious artefacts. He might even have obfuscated how much it had started to bother him after a while. How the tingle had turned into an itch. How the slight burn was now a full-blown fire on his skin, and how he felt like he was blistering in a lot of places.
Not to mention the headache.
Migraine.
Nail driven between his eyes.
Eyes that were extremely sensitive to light and squinted painfully behind the dark glasses.
He must have made a noise, maybe just a tiny, tiny one, because suddenly there was a hand on his wrist, strong fingers curling around it.
"Oh dear."
And with these words the divine aura rose. It was careful, quizzical, but still so very protective. When Crowley's own aura didn't lash out, the angel's washed over him like a cool blanket, dampening the input, threading through his own, slightly frayed one. It should be searing into his essence, hurt like blazes as the divine touched the hellish, but it didn't. Unlike the divine energy of the multitude of relics, Aziraphale wasn't harmful.
Perfect match, something whispered through him.
Crowley refused to believe he whimpered in relief.
He absolutely refused to believe that he was leaning into his angel and seeking more physical contact, trying to bury himself in that coolness, that softness and essential warmth.
"Oh, my dear," Aziraphale sighed. "You incorrigible dear thing."
Crowley snarled, but was gently shushed.
Fingers carded tenderly into his hair, caressing him. They dragged through the longer strands, brushing over the shorter ones on the back of his head, and he groaned. His angel's aura had expanded all around him, sheltering him, and both men stood inside that bubble of safety, left alone by the humans walking around the exhibition.
Crowley had his face buried in the soft shoulder of his soft angel, surrounded by his soft shield. Everything was soft. And warm. Loving. Protective. He had an arm wrapped around the other's waist, molding their bodies together, hanging on for dear life.
He didn't care about weakness or undemonic behavior. He needed it. He could stay here forever. Like that. Just like that. Better than anything in the whole of Creation.
"You overdid it, dear," Aziraphale murmured, lips moving against one ear. "You didn't have to. You have a certain… resistance. Do not test it more."
Crowley dug his fingers into the softness that he needed so badly, had always needed. And underneath all that softness was a core of steel, so strong and unbreakable, so incredibly powerful, the reflection of what Aziraphale had been before becoming Heaven's field agent.
He could feel it whenever they were this close. Fire and steel, forged in a fire that wasn't Hell, and it was the root and backbone, it was the center of his angel. It supported them both now and he let himself just… be.
Trust in Aziraphale to protect him against whatever might have a go at them.
Absolute trust.
There was a thrum of power, a pulse that echoed through his very soul, and he soaked it all up. His own core responded, weaker than normal.
Aziraphale continued to just be with him, caressing him, giving him something to focus on as the harmful divinity was driven from his system, only Aziraphale's remaining.
xXxXx
They left after a long time.
Crowley unconsciously sighed a breath of relief. He felt like himself again, everything washed from his essence that wasn't his angel.
Aziraphale looked almost as relieved.
"So…" the demon said after a while of just walking around until they had ended up at the duck pond. "Tolerance, hm?"
"Of a kind. With surprising levels."
"How?"
Aziraphale watched the ducks that expectantly swam closer. "I… don't know. Maybe I did rub off on you."
Crowley snorted. "Not how it works."
Except that there was this thread of divinity snaking through him, those fine lines of celestial power that harmonized with his own demonic ones. It shouldn't be possible, but there it was. He felt them, was quite aware of the tendrils touching his core essence and shoring up his defenses.
"No. No, I believe it isn't."
They fell silent again.
"It is a good thing," Aziraphale finally said, voice firm.
Crowley made a non-committal sound.
"You, tolerating divinity. It is a good thing."
"I tolerate you, so yeah."
The angel's face lit up with amusement and exasperation. Crowley smiled, yellow eyes partially visible as he peered over his glasses. Aziraphale's smile grew even warmer now, more loving.
He curled his fingers into the black jacket and drew him closer. The kiss was thrilling, sending little shivers along every cell.
I tolerate you, Crowley thought.
And the words meant so much more, were filled with everything he couldn't say but still felt.
"I tolerate you, too," the angel answered. "Very much."
xXxXx
Dinner wasn't at one of the fancy places tonight.
It was fancy place take-out, eaten in the back room of the bookstore, sitting on the old couch and enjoying each other's company.
If Crowley ended up with his head on the angel's lap, dozing off, and Aziraphale reading one of his countless books, it just happened. Neither talked about it. Nor about the continued caresses of the angel's fingers over Crowley's form, or the radiant shield around him that was maintained by Aziraphale alone.