I Forgive You

by thisisforyou

Surely Aziraphale had to have known that was the worst thing he could possibly have said. Would have known it would make him feel like he was kneeling in front of the Almighty all over again like a naughty child. Would have known that his forgiveness for such a thing would hurt him more than the Almighty's lack of forgiveness ever had.

After, Crowley doesn't leave his flat for two years. He spends the first six months on the floor of his plant room, surrounded by dead leaves and only moving to feed and water the ones he'd managed to rescue from Shax in the first place.

He wants to hate the angel for the things he said – didn't say – but he can't. Wants to hate Nina and Maggie for convincing him it needed to be said, wants to hate himself for thinking perhaps they were right. But he can't. Because they were right.

He can't stop thinking of the angel's face, caught out of the corner of his eye as he walked away. Aziraphale had looked almost as broken as Crowley felt, and it hadn't made things any easier at all.

You go too fast for me, Crowley. The angel had said those words decades ago, and Crowley had understood them then. And he had tried, really he had: the years since then had felt like playing a great game of cosmic Chicken, trying his best to make the whole thing obvious but not too obvious while he waited for Aziraphale to catch up. And after six thousand years of waiting, somehow he had still lost.

The look the angel had given him, after he had thrown his very heart on the floor between them, was everything he had feared it would be. The longing and the terror, still hand in hand after so long. And then…

I forgive you. Surely Aziraphale had to have known that was the worst thing he could possibly have said. Would have known it would make him feel like he was kneeling in front of the Almighty all over again like a naughty child. Would have known that his forgiveness for such a thing would hurt him more than the Almighty's lack of forgiveness ever had.

He knew how long it had taken, how hard it had been for Crowley to understand that he didn't need forgiveness from the Almighty for the Fall. He knew because he had been there through it all, and the fact that he probably thought forgiving him would make him feel better proved that he had never understood him at all.

Crowley had thought they were equals, partners. He'd caught the angel staring at him when Gabriel and Beelzebub were talking with that familiar look on his face, the longing and the terror and, he had thought, just a tiny smidgeon of hope. He had thought, after everything they had seen, everything they'd been through, that Aziraphale would have laughed in the Metatron's smarmy face, that he had seen what they did to Gabriel when he had gone against the Great Plan - the Plan that would have destroyed everything back in Tadfield if they hadn't intervened - and he wouldn't even consider taking Gabriel's place.

Instead, yet again, the angel had been too frightened, too hamstrung by the Almighty's conditioning, and had chosen Heaven over him.

And it just stung so much more after he'd just watched Gabriel, straightest-of-laces, stick-up-his-bum, tried-to-burn-Aziraphale-in-Hellfire Gabriel, throw everything away for a relationship he'd only had since the first failed Armageddon. And Aziraphale, who had been questioning the Great Plan since Eden, still couldn't do the same for Crowley with their millennia of history.

If Aziraphale had only wanted to be with him as an angel, then he never wanted to be with him at all, because Crowley has never been an angel, not really. He was never comfortable in Heaven. Certainly the current version of him, the version that he'd thought Aziraphale was so fond of, could never be happy there.

Nina and Maggie knock on his door a few times, but he never answers, even the times when Nina comes clutching a bottle of wine. Even seeing what they had seen, they could never understand.

Shax knocks on his door once, eighteen months After. He's pleased that she knocks instead of just appearing in his living room, so he can open the door for her just to slam it in her face. He doesn't care anymore. Plague, natural disaster, Armageddon, full-scale attack on Aziraphale's new Heaven - he doesn't want a piece of any of it.

When Aziraphale knocks on his door after two years of no contact, he tries to ignore it. He can see it's Aziraphale from the doorbell camera next to his front door, and he stands in front of it for a good five minutes, watching the angel shuffle nervously from foot to foot, before he eventually caves and opens it.

For a long moment, they stare at each other in silence. Crowley hates that the sight of the Principality makes his fingers tingle like waking up from a long sleep, hates that his heart is beating faster in anticipation with every second that no-one speaks.

"You were right," Aziraphale says finally, wringing his hands together.

Crowley tries very hard not to let his aloof expression waver. "Yes," he says instead.

The angel hesitates, then shuffles into an all-too-familiar set of movements that, on any other occasion, would have made Crowley chuckle and move on. "You were right," he sings sheepishly, prancing around on Crowley's doorstep like a fool. "You were right, I was wrong and you were right…"

He watches impassively until the angel is done, and then he moves aside to let him into the building, because he is also a fool. He tells himself it's not forgiveness; if Aziraphale is coming to him with this now, as Supreme Archangel of Heaven, it means something is afoot that could disturb whatever semblance of peace Crowley had left. Even so, when they reach the kitchen he pours two glasses of Malbec and slides one across the table.

He doesn't speak, so Aziraphale takes a large gulp of wine and busies himself looking around the place. It looks the same as it did last time he was here, so many years ago, because Crowley spent two months putting it back that way after Shax had left it looking like a landfill site. It would almost feel like Before if Crowley couldn't still feel the knife in his heart.

"You always understood better than me," he says quietly after Crowley refills both of their glasses. "I thought I could make a difference from the top. I thought we could make a difference. But as soon as I got there I realised… they started talking about the Great Plan and the Second Coming and I thought… Gabriel was Supreme Archangel, and he said no to the Great Plan, so why in Heaven did I ever think I could change anything without getting the same treatment?"

"I tried to tell you," Crowley says calmly.

The Principality nods thoughtfully. "I should have known," he says. "After everything we've been through, after Job, after Tadfield… I should have known better than to choose them over you."

Anger flares in the pit of Crowley's stomach, an anger he's been suppressing since the angel left. "You didn't just choose them, Aziraphale," he says, and his voice comes out a low hiss. "You made it very clear that you still think like them. That you still think of yourself as an angel and me as a demon. That you still think you're intrinsically so much better than me that me daring to want to be with you is… blasphemy." He spits out the last word with such venom he can almost see it hovering between them.

"I didn't… I didn't mean… I don't think that," the angel sputters, and to his credit he actually looks shocked. "Crowley, you know I don't think that."

"No, I don't know that," he bites, like the words are bile he needs to get out of his throat. "Because every time, every time it's ever really mattered, it's like you forget everything that's happened to us and turn into… into Gabriel. You go right back to that us vs. them mentality that I thought you grew out of 4,000 years ago."

Aziraphale is silent for a long moment, his face pale. Crowley uses the silence to get control of his breathing. "I honestly thought I was offering you everything you'd ever wanted," the angel says quietly, and he has the good sense to sound ashamed of it. "Oh, Crowley, I was so stupid. I got to Heaven and I just felt… suffocated. Like I couldn't breathe. It felt like I was being forced backwards, into who I was before I ever went to Earth. And if I felt like that, I can't even imagine how uncomfortable you would have been there. And…" he looks up, his hazel eyes swimming with tears. "I don't want who we were before we went to Earth. I like the fact that I am who I am now because of all the time I've spent with you, and I certainly don't want to change you, because it's you, the way you are, that makes me feel… well, like me."

Crowley's head is spinning. It's everything he's ever wanted the Angel of the Eastern Gate to say to him, more even. The overwhelming majority of his brain is begging him to leap across the table and into Aziraphale's arms.

And yet.

He wants to cry. A stupid, human reflex of the stupid, human body he inhabits, its eyes stinging. He wants to speak, though he's not quite sure yet what to say, but his throat is too tight and aching.

Long enough passes that the angel seems to understand he's not going to accept the apology. The thing is, he thought Aziraphale understood after Tadfield, he had said he understood, that they were both on their side and not Heaven's or Hell's. And still, when it had mattered, he hadn't been. Beelzebub had said that day that they didn't betray Hell, they just found something that mattered more to them than choosing sides. And Aziraphale had made it very clear that Crowley didn't mean more to him than choosing sides.

It's taken Crowley a long, long time to believe he's worth more than that.

"Not good enough," he says finally, hating himself when it comes out a hoarse croak.

He gets up from the table and unnecessarily brushes down the front of his jacket. "I'd like you to leave now," he says as calmly as he can manage, gesturing to the door, already picturing what the kitchen will look like once Aziraphale is gone and he's reduced it to rubble to try and get rid of some of these feelings.

The angel launches himself from his chair, grabs Crowley by the front of his coat and smashes their lips together so hard Crowley feels his teeth shift, just like he'd done himself so long ago, and he resists for maybe half a second before his animal instincts take over and he lets go.

A low growl escapes from somewhere deep in his chest, because Aziraphale's hands are grasping desperately in his hair and he somehow still smells like old books and cocoa and those plump lips on his are all Crowley has wanted for over 6,000 years. He surges forwards until the angel's back hits the wall, pressing their bodies together desperately, as though if he only tries hard enough he could open his very chest and absorb the angel into him. Aziraphale whimpers and goes limp against him, one hand scrabbling and pulling at his cravat while the other clutches and tugs at the back of his neck. Crowley's body is on fire where the angel is touching him, and somewhere in the midst of the roaring in his brain Aziraphale's voice bubbles to the surface like methane in a swamp.

I forgive you.

He can't breathe. Crowley staggers backwards as though he's just been shot, gasping for air, his eyes wide. Aziraphale tries to follow him, pulling himself up from slumping against the wall, but Crowley holds up a hand to keep his distance. The words are still echoing in his brain so loudly he thinks he might be sick. "I can't," he croaks, hating his voice for cracking as he speaks. "Aziraphale, I can't."

"Please, Crowley," the angel begs, his chest hitting Crowley's outstretched hand as he tries to step forwards. There are tears in his eyes, and even though it's not the first time he's seen Aziraphale cry it's different knowing he caused it, and he can feel tears prickling at the corner of his own eyes. "Please."

He knows that he could, could just push the memories to the side and let the angel kiss him again, could lose himself in Aziraphale until the rest of the universe didn't matter any more, he could.

I forgive you.

He shakes his head. "I can't," he repeats.

Aziraphale takes another step forward, pressing against Crowley's restraining hand and grabbing his lapels helplessly. "But," he whispers, and it breaks Crowley's heart all over again to hear the desperation in his sweet voice, "I need you, Crowley."

He gently removes the Principality's hands from his clothing. "It's too late," he tells him. It's always too late. "Just because you've realised you made the wrong choice doesn't mean you didn't make it."

Aziraphale's knees buckle until he is literally on the floor of Crowley's kitchen, begging him for something that he would have given anything for Before, and the knife he left in Crowley's chest twists and digs a little harder.

"I guess I'm just not as forgiving as you are," he hisses, and with his last shred of self control he walks out of his flat and collapses against the front door as soon as it shuts behind him.

Crowley leaves, because he doesn't know what else to do. He goes to Alpha Centauri, because he always says he's going to, and even though there's not much of a nightlife anything is better than Earth.

He's not really expecting Gabriel and Beelzebub to be there, and apparently they weren't expecting him either, but when everyone has their clothes back on and a glass of wine in front of them Crowley has to admit his subconscious probably brought him here on purpose.

"I'm surprised to see you here, Crowley," the former Supreme Archangel says pleasantly. "I'm certainly surprised to see you alone. Where is Aziraphale?"

He scowls, fighting back the lump in his throat that seems to always be there at the moment, waiting beneath the surface for someone to mention the Principality. "Heaven, I presume," he sniffs. "We aren't exactly on speaking terms since he took over as Supreme Archangel."

To their credit, both beings look shocked. It makes anger flare in the pit of Crowley's stomach yet again; even the former Supreme Archangel of Heaven and Grand Duke of Hell seem to understand their situation better than Aziraphale, and they hadn't had 6,000 years in the thick of it all to work it out.

"That's sort of why I'm here," he admits despite himself. "The last time we saw each other we had another argument about it and I wanted to get as far away from him - from Earth, really - as possible."

Gabriel tuts. "I must say I'm surprised he chose to go back," he drawls. "After looking after… Jim for all that time, seeing first-hand what they did to me when I didn't like their stupid plan. I almost can't believe they haven't removed him from office yet."

"Once is a good story. Twice is an institutional problem," Beelzebub hums. "They can't get rid of him so soon after getting rid of you. Too many questions." The former demon tilts their head to give Crowley the piercing stare he had hated so much Before. "I'm surprised he left you behind. You two have always been thick as thieves. Used to bug me to no end, I knew there was something going on but no-one could ever prove it."

Crowley sighs. "He wanted me to go with him." The need to talk to someone who understood seemed to have finally won out over the humiliation of being vulnerable in front of Gabriel and Beelzebub, so he threw back the rest of his wine and settled in. "Offered to make me his right-hand angel. Like he was offering me everything I'd ever wanted. Like being an angel again would erase the last 6,000 years, like I would want to erase the last 6,000 years."

Once he's started speaking it's difficult to rein himself in again, but he manages it without revealing the really humiliating part. He finds it difficult to believe Beelzebub has changed so much that they wouldn't have a field day knowing how Crowley had thrown himself at the angel and been brushed off like he'd just spat in his face.

To his surprise, Gabriel sighs in what actually seems like understanding. Beelzebub smiles, a genuine smile Crowley never dreamed he'd see on that face. "I'll let you take this one, Gabe," they say briskly, patting the former Archangel's hand and hoisting themselves out of their seat to reach for another bottle of wine.

"Crowley," Gabriel begins, with the air of someone about to embark on a long speech. Crowley tries - and fails - to resist the urge to roll his eyes. "It's… difficult, being an angel. Especially once you know it's all bullcrap. The Almighty ran a pretty heavy fear campaign after the Fall, you know, drilled it into all of us hard that being a demon was the worst fate imaginable, that She'd reduced you all to less than nothing as punishment for what you did. It takes a lot to overcome that kind of conditioning, to un-learn the whole angels-good-demons-bad thing."

There's still something of Jim in Gabriel, an earnestness, a naivete that he certainly hadn't had before. It makes him significantly more likeable, even if what he's saying is exactly what Crowley had told himself over and over after it happened and decided it wasn't a good enough excuse.

He looks up to say as much, but the former Supreme Archangel is looking up at Beelzebub with such a disgustingly soppy expression he has to look away again to swallow his nausea. Gabriel chuckles. "But…" he says wistfully, "it's so worth it."

The former Duke of Hell giggles like a schoolgirl and bends to place a kiss on Gabriel's lips.

"Ew," Crowley says before he can stop himself. They both laugh.

"I kissed him," he admits through clenched teeth. "Before he left. I told him I just wanted to be us and I kissed him and he… forgave me for it."

Beelzebub snorts cruelly. "Oof," they laugh. Crowley immediately regrets his candour.

"But that's exactly what I mean," Gabriel continues, apparently unphased by the news or by his lover's less than sympathetic reaction. "When I started getting to know Beelzebub my whole mind tore itself apart. Knowing them as a person, and knowing that the Almighty had said they were less than that, those ideas just aren't compatible. In the moments when it was most important, when I was the most stressed or scared of it, I could hear Her voice the loudest and it was the hardest to fight. I sometimes think if I hadn't been Jim for that time I might not have been able to do it."

Beelzebub reaches across the table to take the archangel's hand and squeeze it. Crowley smiles faintly. "I think I know that," he says. "And I think it's what Aziraphale was getting at when he came to my flat. He told me I was right and that he wanted to be with me. But… I just kept replaying in my head him forgiving me for kissing him, like it was an insult, like I'd… I don't know, trod mud all through the bookshop or something. And I don't think I could ever trust him, now, that the next time it really matters he won't choose Heaven over me again."

The demon groans and collapses into the table, like Crowley is boring them and frustrating them at the same time. "Look," they say, as though explaining something to a belligerent child. "Trust him, don't trust him. Maybe he's got it now, maybe it'd take a few more mistakes before he lets go of God's bloody gaslighting for good. What it ultimately comes down to is this: what does the rest of Eternity look like for you without him?"

The simplicity of it almost knocks Crowley off his chair. He hadn't allowed himself to think much past getting through each day as it came, and maybe this whole time he's understood why: there is no future without Aziraphale. He reaches for it in his imagination and there's nothing there that doesn't involve the bookshop, the indulgent lunches at the Ritz, the fond smile accompanied by the good morning, my dear Crowley that's always made his heart trip.

The next thing he knows he's banging on the door of the bookshop so hard that passers-by stop to look at him. He knows he must look deranged, his hair wild from the journey, but he doesn't care, because every moment that this blasted door stands between him and Aziraphale is an eternity too long.

He almost punches Muriel in the face when she finally opens the door. "Mister Crowley," she says brightly. "I was hoping to see you."

The words barely make their way through the buzzing noise in Crowley's ears. "I need to see Aziraphale," he croaks out.

She positively beams at him. "Oh, good," she chirps. "Every time he visits, he asks about you."

Muriel keeps talking, but Crowley doesn't hear anything after she steps aside to let him into the shop. He goes straight to the pentacle, barely registering how much tidier the shop is than he's used to. He hopes she's not selling any of the books.

She chatters away as he lights the candles, and he probably cuts her off when he's done enough to shout into the no-longer-dusty air: "Aziraphale!"

He paces, ready to shout again - no-one ever hears these stupid pentacles first time - but when he turns on his heel to face the circle again the angel is there, breathless, straightening his jacket as though he had sprinted from the other end of Heaven to reach him.

They stare at each other for a long moment, the words I'm sorry bouncing between them without being said. Crowley takes a deep breath, and says it.

"I forgive you, Angel."

Aziraphale makes a faint sound of relief and throws himself forwards, and suddenly they're kissing and it's wonderful, so different with both of them committed that Crowley's whole body sparks like he's been hit by lightning. He wraps his arms around the angel's back to hold him there until his heartbeat and his brain catch up to the fact that he's kissing Aziraphale, and Aziraphale is kissing back, and this time it's not a plea but a promise.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Crowley registers that someone is speaking, and it isn't Aziraphale because the Angel's tongue is currently employed twisting delightful patterns against his own; he wants to ignore it in pursuit of this, but he vaguely remembers Muriel having been there when they started and he really doesn't want to share this with her. He breaks them just far enough apart to rest their foreheads together and turn his head to glare at the administrator.

She blushes. "Sorry," she says, bowing her back a little until she's looking up at them like she needs the toilet. "I just… I'm going to… go and get a coffee across the road. I'll, um, take a book. Just… let me know when you're fin- I mean - when you're ready for me to come back. Take as long as you need. I probably won't even notice, once I get into a book I… um…"

Muriel drifts off, her eyes darting all around the shop, everywhere except Crowley and Aziraphale. "Right," she says. "Bye, then."

"Thank you, Muriel," Aziraphale says kindly. His voice is strained and it makes something electric shoot from Crowley's navel to his groin. He feels a growl rumble at the bottom of his chest.

When the door - and the blinds, thanks to a hasty miracle - shut behind the lower angel, Crowley tries to resume their kiss, but Aziraphale leans away slightly to deny him. "Crowley," he says softly.

He growls again. "Angel," he drawls back.

"What made you change your mind?" Aziraphale asks. "I mean… I'm definitely not complaining," he chuckles hesitantly, "but… last time I saw you, you made it very clear that I'd irrevocably ruined things."

Crowley sighs. They part just enough for him to stroke a long finger down his angel's face and tip his jaw up until their eyes met. "Even after everything that happened, I can't imagine spending all of Eternity without you."

Aziraphale sags into him until Crowley seems to be the only one keeping them both upright. "Oh, Crowley," he says softly.

He rolls his eyes. "Shut up," he scoffs.

They both chuckle a little at the familiarity of it, and it's so comfortable that a little thrill of joy runs through Crowley, like he hasn't felt since he hung the stars in the sky. "Promise me you'll never forgive me again, Aziraphale," he murmurs, holding the angel's eyes sternly.

Aziraphale captures his lips again, sweetly this time. "I promise, my dear," he responds, his lips so close they brush against Crowley's, the vibrations of the words reaching right down into his chest.

He's certain he's imagining it, but when Crowley gives in to the kiss once more he could swear, over the traffic and the scraping of chairs outside, he hears a nightingale.