Grace
Title: Grace
Rating: PG
Fandom: Good Omens, by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman
Characters/Pairings: Aziraphale & Crowley
Warnings: Just some language.
Summary: Aziraphale has some thoughts on Crowley's houseplants. Inspired by an awesome comment from hekateras (I wish I'd thought of this myself).
It was the first time Aziraphale had set foot in Crowley's flat, and he was gratifyingly impressed with the houseplants. Crowley took great pleasure in explaining his method of horticulture, and in watching the dawning horror on the angel's face.
"You can't afford to get soft with these bastards," Crowley summed up, leaning back on the white leather sofa and waving his hand in an airy gesture. "First sign of misbehaviour, they're gone."
"Cast out of Paradise," Aziraphale murmured, twirling his wine glass in one hand. He looked less horrified now and more thoughtful.
"Mm."
"Like you were."
Crowley stared at him, momentarily speechless.
"I mean, that is more or less what happened to you, dear." The gentleness in Aziraphale's voice made Crowley's skin crawl. "You made one mistake, and you were exiled for all eternity."
"What'ssss your point, angel?" Crowley hated himself for not being able to suppress the hiss. He tried to strike a nonchalant pose. "Trying to psssychoanalyse me? I happen to be doing jusst fine since I Fell. Landed a better job, for one thing."
"Of course, my dear," agreed the angel in that same gentle tone.
"You can keep your blessed Heaven, and your Elgar and Liszt, and your nauseating divine love," Crowley told him, gritting his teeth. "I'll keep my Bentley and my impeccably ssstylish flat."
"I'm sure it is very stylish," said Aziraphale, "although I can't keep up with all these modern fashions. But look here - Crowley?"
"What." Crowley glowered up at him from the sofa. If Aziraphale had been, say, a Boston fern, he would have burst into flames on the spot.
Aziraphale stepped closer. He seemed about to say something, but didn't. Instead he bent forward and pressed a kiss to the fringe of dark hair that fell over Crowley's forehead. Then he seated himself comfortably beside Crowley and took a sip of wine as though nothing had happened.
The demon was dumbstruck for a long moment. Then: "Did you just bless me?"
Aziraphale smiled.
Crowley scrubbed at his forehead with one palm. There was a slight tingling sensation there. His normally smoky aura had developed a bright spot, he noticed. An ache stabbed in his chest. "You bastard!" he exclaimed. In the back of his mind, it occurred to him that at least he wasn't hissing now. Maybe he was in too much shock.
"It's not something that can harm a demon, my dear," Aziraphale assured him. "Not a holy blessing. Just a little thing of my own."
Crowley laughed, incredulous. It was not a happy laugh. "You complete bastard. What makes you think I want your blessing?"
"I wanted to give it," said Aziraphale simply.
The ache in Crowley's chest was subsiding, but his soul had been marked. It was odd how the angel's kiss was comforting and searingly painful at the same time. Painful, he realized, because it reminded him of what he had lost forever.
Crowley snatched his wine glass from the table and downed it in a gulp. It refilled itself. He picked up the remote control. "Are we going to watch this movie or not?" He wanted more than anything to get drunk and forget the past two minutes.
Aziraphale was silent as Crowley hit play and swilled another glass. Then, just as the opening credits were underway and Crowley was beginning to think they'd successfully dropped the subject, the angel cleared his throat. "I didn't mean to hurt you, my dear."
"Well done, then," said Crowley bitterly. He kept his eyes glued to the screen.
Aziraphale cleared his throat again. "Before I came to Earth ...," he started, then stopped. "Before I came to Earth, I didn't understand the point of the place. I mean to say, of course it's all part of the Plan - ineffability and so forth - but I didn't understand why humans should have to leave the Presence of the Deity and go out into the imperfect world. Why deprive them of, as you say, divine love?"
Crowley continued to stare at the screen. It took him a few seconds to notice the movie was paused. He didn't know if Aziraphale had willed it, or if it was his own hand clutching the remote control too tightly. He took another drink.
"But then I realized there's more than one type of love," Aziraphale went on. "Every human being on Earth has love in his heart. Every single one. And yes," he added in response to Crowley's snort of derision, "hate and fear and temptation as well. But those things never completely vanquish love. And it's not just mortals! Angels have love in them too."
"Not all of them."
"Yes, all," Aziraphale insisted. "And isn't that enough? For one being to love another? Doesn't that make all of Creation worthwhile, when all's said and done?"
Crowley blinked, something he didn't do very often. The words You think I'm capable of love? rose to his lips and he suppressed them ruthlessly. "Love is cheap," he said instead. "Your lot strew it about like it's rice at a particularly soppy wedding."
From the corner of his eye, Crowley saw Aziraphale shake his head. "That's agape, the selfless, impersonal kind of love. I'm talking about the earthly kind." The angel's voice softened. "The kind where you meet someone who understands you, who spends time with you for no reason at all, who's willing to fight beside you when everything looks hopeless."
"Oh," said Crowley. The wine was starting to go to his head; he felt dizzy.
"Yes."
Silence stretched between them. Then the movie unpaused itself, even though Crowley had set down the remote control.
"Was that you or me?" Crowley asked.
"I'm not sure," Aziraphale admitted. From the corner of Crowley's eye, he could see that the angel was watching the opening credits with apparent interest. His ears were just slightly pink.
The rest of their movie night went rather well.