Work Text:
The cottage felt like home before they’d even brought their belongings in. “Love,” Aziraphale had said, his eyes alight in that annoyingly endearing way that made Crowley’s stomach twist into knots. “It’s full of love.”
It had been; an older couple had passed away within a year of one another, and their children had, oh-so reluctantly, sold their childhood home. The house was full of love, still, even after they’d moved in. Crowley would have denied it, if he’d been asked. Demons didn’t love. They didn’t have loved ones or families. They certainly didn’t have room enough to park at least four bikes on the edge of the garden.
“Uncle Crowley—” One of the Them began on a day like many other days before it.
“None of that,” he said warningly.
“Uncle ‘Ziraphale said we could,” said the young and defunct Antichrist, crossing his arms and lifting his cherubic face with an authority that might have, once, sent a chill down his spine.
And, really, there were things that were worth arguing with Aziraphale over; this wasn’t one of them. They’d agreed not to confuse the children, which had meant a lot of truth-telling and agreeing with one another. Annoyed, Crowley leaned back in his chair and stared Adam down behind his shades, “Slipped my mind. Carry on, then.”
He didn’t enjoy it. He certainly didn’t love being a safe place, not just for kids with overactive imaginations stuck with adults who couldn’t understand what had happened at the Tadfield Air Base but also for witches and their witchfinders. It was all very ridiculous, and he grumped about it endlessly even as he congratulated Anethema on refusing to take Newton’s name. Honestly, what kind of name was Anethema Pulsifer?
Demons didn’t love. Not humans, not the world, and certainly not angels.
It didn’t warm his heart to see Aziraphale standing wreathed in golden morning light, brightly smiling as he greeted Crowley after a long sleep. It didn’t make his heart flutter to be thanked for playing along when Pepper poked him with a stick and he’d sunk to his knees, writhing while swearing before turning into a small snake and slinking off into the garden while Dog — the bloody Hellhound! — barked at him. The touch of Aziraphale’s hand, the soft brush of his lips, the feel of him sitting beside Crowley so that Crowley could curl so slightly into him…
Absolutely not.
This day had been like many others before it. Long, quiet, soft. It was peaceful, and he was restless, sprawling along the couch and shifting every few moments, trying to find something he couldn’t quite name.
Another graceless flop, and he found himself staring.
Aziraphale sat at his desk, crowded with a stack of books. He’d mentioned cross-referencing something or the other, which meant he’d likely be in a meditative trance of reading until he’d reached whatever conclusion he was searching for. Yellow lamplight left his shadow stretching along the floor, and Crowley could see the dust motes that floated lazily through the air.
A faint outline caught his eye, and he reluctantly lifted his sunglasses, otherworldly eyes narrowed as he focused on bringing the unseen into view. There was a shimmer in the still air, and, after a moment, he could see Aziraphale’s wings stretched out, curving forward to block out the rest of the world while he worked.
Crowley didn’t mind, particularly, that he was being ignored. He had lived in relative solitude for most of human history; he was used to working through his moods on his own. He knew Aziraphale’s moods almost as well as he knew his own, and this wasn’t anything personal.
Still, something else must have shifted without him knowing because looking at Aziraphale’s wings was the absolute last thing he could stand.
With a huff, he rolled off the couch and got to his feet, snapping his fingers to summon a chair from the kitchen which he settled nicely behind Aziraphale’s own. He sat down with his usual sprawling legs before leaning forward and gently — oh, so gently — touching a long feather that had moved out of place.
Aziraphale made a startled little ‘oh!’ His wings flapped reflexively, ruffling the feathers worse than they already were.
“Crowley?”
“Your feathers are driving me mad.”
“I can put them away,” Aziraphale said, and the shimmering quality was back as the white feathers began to fade—
“Or,” Crowley leaned forward, soothing a hand along the base of the wing where it met Aziraphale’s body through his clothes. Aziraphale arched rather cat-like into his touch with a pleased hum, and Crowley almost smiled. “You can let me take care of them.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my wings,” Aziraphale said.
“They’re a mess. Feathers all askew, looking like they haven’t been preened in centuries—”
“Oh, and I suppose yours are better?” Aziraphale turned in his chair to glare, and Crowley held still, his own wings outstretched where Aziraphale could see them. He knew his feathers looked nicer than Aziraphale’s. They were straight and clean, sleek, and he had every right to be proud of them.
The sudden softening of Aziraphale’s eyes, his lips parting for just a moment as he searched for words he didn’t have reminded Crowley of something he had quite forgotten.
The Fall had been a horrible experience, not just for the sudden loss of everything he had once considered important, but the act itself had been traumatizing. Consumed in flame, falling like a star, his body had transformed. He had been a snake before snakes were created, his eyes golden and slitted, his teeth sharp and tongue forked when he wasn’t paying attention to them. His wings had been dark and mottled with bright spots like stars on a clear night until they faded away.
And in his flailing about during the most painful moments of his life, feathers had torn from his wings, and they had never regrown.
Self conscious, he snapped his wings closed.
His wings were immaculate… except for the missing feathers, which made them look scraggly and asymmetrical.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale began, in a tone that was apologetic and thus unacceptable.
“Next time, I’ll ask before I bother you,” he grumbled. Crowley stood and kicked his own chair back, hearing it scrape across the floor. Anger was easier. And there was so much to be angry about, wasn’t there? When they’d agreed to move in together and picked out the cottage near the Jasmine Cottage, he hadn’t agreed to a rotating cast of humans coming in to bother them at all hours of the day. He had never agreed to slow down to Aziraphale’s speed, but it had happened anyway.
Crowley wanted to be anywhere but here, but scales had scarcely started to form on his skin than Aziraphale was touching him.
“I wouldn’t, angel,” he warned with a hiss, smoke curling along his skin as more black scales grew.
Aziraphale took a deep breath, tightened his hand on Crowley’s arm, and said, “Sit down.”
Aziraphale had many tones of voice, most of them variations on ‘sweet’ and ‘unassuming’. This was not one of those voices. It was serious and commanding, and even if Crowley hadn’t instantly obeyed, he might have given serious thought about sticking around just to see where the angel was going with this.
“May I see?” Aziraphale asked, his tone still firm, almost implying that he would expect an explanation if Crowley said no.
“You’ve seen them before,” Crowley groused. Aziraphale merely raised his eyebrows, and, reluctantly, Crowley unfolded his wings. Then, uncertainly, as Aziraphale sat next to him, he asked, “You have seen them before, right?”
“I have. I’m afraid there were more distracting things at the time.” A hesitation. “May I?”
Crowley turned his head to see Aziraphale’s hand in the air, close to his feathers, waiting for permission. “You can’t heal them. I’ve tried,” Crowley said.
“Please, Crowley.” His voice and eyes softened, and Crowley turned his head away while extending his wing out in silent permission.
He felt the first hesitant touch of Aziraphale’s fingers tracing the length of one of his primaries. It was unexpected, though once Crowley thought about it, it made sense. Of course, Aziraphale wouldn’t immediately go for the scarred parts of his wings, the missing feathers; he would start with what was intact. He would acclimate Crowley to his touch, and then—
“You take quite good care of them,” Aziraphale said, and the praise made heat rise up Crowley’s spine. “They make such lovely lines.” His hand traveled along the bottom of the outstretched wing, mapping the flow of feathers without moving them out of place. When he came to a gap, he graciously moved on rather than linger.
Crowley didn’t dare hope that they could be fixed, even if Aziraphale wanted to waste a miracle on them. This was God’s design, a punishment. That he’d kept his wings at all should have been enough; he knew many other demons had let them fall away completely, casting aside their divine heritage to embrace being forsaken.
Perhaps he should have done that.
“Oh, do stop that.”
Crowley lifted his head, eyes widening when he saw his feathers curling, withering.
He hadn’t meant it! He didn’t want to lose his wings!
Aziraphale used a hand to guide the wing forward, kissing the graying feathers. In almost an instant, they returned to their natural state, albeit still misshapen.
“Do they often—?”
“No,” he said, voice raspy with emotion. Aziraphale glanced at him, sympathy radiating from him. “I— I thought about how some demons just, y’know. Burned them straight off.”
“I see,” Aziraphale hummed to himself. “You shouldn’t. I think they’re quite fetching.”
“I’m a demon, angel. I know when you’re lying.”
He hadn’t felt a lie being told, but he knew. He knew—
Aziraphale gave him a withering look for a moment before he returned his attention to Crowley’s wing. Another delicate trace along his secondary feathers, minding the gaps while Crowley did his best to hold still. “Do you want them to be healed?”
“I’m telling you — you can’t. No amount of wanting will change that.”
Aziraphale hummed again and slowly rose to his feet. He offered a hand to Crowley. “I suppose we’ll see.” Brightly and without irony, he said, “Have faith, my dear.”
Really, how was he supposed to argue with that? He hand slipped into Aziraphale’s, the last of his scales vanishing as the angel tugged him to his feet and pulled him towards the bedroom.
“I can see how they were. Almost like a common starling — gilded edges, and those lovely spots.”
“You can?”
“The memory clings to them. They can’t forget what they were any more than you can.” Aziraphale turned his head as they neared the edge of the bed which was set up almost entirely for Crowley’s comfort, and he gave Crowley’s hand a squeeze. “I probably can’t return them to how they were.”
A knot sat heavy in his stomach. This was where Aziraphale had brought him — someplace soft where he could hear the bad news then be left to sulk.
As Aziraphale led him, he went, sinking onto the edge of the bed. To his surprise, Aziraphale clambered up onto the bed, straddling his lap. Crowley’s eyes widened, but Aziraphale’s attention wandered from one wing to the other before settling warmly on Crowley’s face. “But what’s to say we can’t try?”
“‘We?’” Crowley repeated.
Aziraphale’s wings unfurled around them, bright and beautiful and still so messy. Crowley wondered why he hadn’t just fixed them with a snap of his fingers, but Aziraphale was watching him expectantly.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” he said with all the confidence of someone who was rarely, if ever, told ‘no’ by the person he was asking. “We can both get tidied up.”
Crowley had enjoyed the idea of preening Aziraphale while he was busy with his books, to give him attention without requiring any in return.
Part of him wanted to ask Aziraphale to be gentle with him, but Crowley retained some — not much, but some — pride in himself as a demon, so he bit it back and turned his attention to the mess of his angel’s wings.
Crowley distantly remembered preening another angel. When the world wasn’t yet made and all of the angels had been in harmony. Crowley could hardly recall a name or a face — he didn’t even know if they’d fallen, later. But he remembered a warm mess of limbs, the softness of feathers, reaching out to something more than a physical form.
It had been so long, but he hadn’t forgotten how. His hands smoothed through white feathers as Aziraphale’s hands continued to roam over his own, petting almost soothingly. There was something else there, power, but Crowley forced himself to focus on what might be his only chance to straighten Aziraphale’s feathers out. There was no point in thinking about his own feathers that wouldn’t grow back, the iridescent sheen that had dulled. There was no point in hope, but he could do what he had originally wanted. He could give Aziraphale—
Demons didn’t love. But Aziraphale hadn’t looked at him in millenia as if he were any regular demon. He was Anthony J Crowley, and above or below, it might not matter, but to Aziraphale, it had. And if he was more than a demon, then maybe quiet days in the cottage broken by a bustle of excited humans who had somehow found a place in their hearts for the likes of him — maybe he could love them, love this, love Aziraphale.
His head dropped to Aziraphale’s shoulder, tears stinging in his eyes. He snarled weakly, railing against kindness he didn’t deserve and couldn’t accept. He squeezed his eyes closed for a minute, feeling with more than his hands as the loose feathers from Aziraphale’s wings fell and the others straightened in response. And he tried… Crowley tried so hard not to feel where Aziraphale was touching him beyond his physical form, but his eyes flew open, wings flaring out as he gave a weak cry.
“All done,” Aziraphale assured him, carding a hand through his hair while Crowley stared numbly over Aziraphale’s shoulders.
Black. For a moment, it was all he could see; Aziraphale’s pristine, white feathers were black. He jolted forward at the sight of them, something feral telling him to rip them out, let the white ones grow back, but Aziraphale’s hands were on his shoulders, pushing him back onto the bed.
“Crowley?” he asked, concerned.
This far away, Crowley could see that they were still white. Mostly white. “Your— Your wings, angel—”
They stretched out, massive and beautiful and changed.
Aziraphale regarded them with another soft ‘oh’.
“What did I do?” Crowley asked, eyes moving frantically over Aziraphale’s face, certain that there had to be another emotion coming. Anger or disappointment or emptiness. Had he Fallen? Had Crowley’s love made him—?
“Oh, my dear, you’ve cleaned them up so nicely.”
“Aziraphale!”
The angel blinked down at him.
“The color— You can see it, can’t you?”
Another blink. Then, a dawning realization and a smile, “Darling, you didn’t do that.” Aziraphale leaned over him, tracing his hand gently over Crowley’s feathers. Feathers which… were whole. Unbroken. “You were right; I couldn’t simply heal them. That memory hurt too much. But I could coax them into making something new.”
“Your wings—”
A sheepish smile. “I don’t suppose you’ll accept that I believe it was a worthwhile sacrifice?”
“No! I wouldn't!”
“Oh, but you haven’t even seen yours—”
“Angel, your wings are stained.” That had been him, the price of helping him, healing what should have stayed broken.
“Look again,” he urged with such confidence that Crowley shut his mouth and looked.
Yes, there was black. The half of his secondaries closest to his body up to their coverts were black, but when the light caught them, Crowley could see a sheen of blue and green like the ducks Aziraphale loved to feed at St. James’s Park, like Aziraphale’s gentle eyes.
Aziraphale rolled onto the bed beside him. “I do hope you like yours—”
And snapped his fingers.
The ceiling had become a mirror, and Crowley’s eyes were drawn to the shape of his wings, as full and whole as they had been before the Fall. And white — there was white on his wings again, in the same place as Aziraphale’s black, framing beautiful feathers that seemed to shift from yellow to orange to red with every minute movement he made. Like distant nebulae, the birthplace and graveyard of stars.
Crowley became aware of Aziraphale watching him with nothing short of absolute adoration. “I couldn’t talk them into being as they were, but I could show them that there was another way to be.” Crowley watched in the mirror as Aziraphale turned his head to face him. “Crowley, you must be honest with me if you don’t like them—”
Crowley turned his head to look at Aziraphale, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Why—?”
“So I can change their colors back. If I’m rude to them, I’m certain I could—”
“No, no. Why did you change yours…?” For me, he thought but couldn’t bring himself to say.
The mirror overhead disappeared, leaving the two of them alone, sprawled on the bed, their wings sliding along one another. “I told you, they needed to be shown.”
“You know that’s not what I’m asking,” Crowley said.
“Oh. Well, then.” He turned on his side, tucking one wing back as Crowley did the same, allowing Aziraphale to lay next to him, his head pillowed on Crowley’s outstretched arm. “Because you deserved to feel whole. And loved.”
“So do you.”
“And I do.” Aziraphale leaned forward, planting the softest peck of a kiss on his lips. “The moment you touched me, I did.”
“Had a funny way of showing it.”
“I was off in my own head. It was a rather unexpected interruption.” Aziraphale looked worriedly over Crowley’s shoulder before focusing again on his face. “Do you like them?”
Crowley extended a wing over the both of them like a blanket, shielding them from the outside world as he confessed, “I love them.”
“Oh, good—” Aziraphale began only to find his mouth quickly occupied as Crowley’s lips met his, hands smoothing over his cheeks as he angled them both to deepen the kiss.
Overhead, a stray feather — who could say to whom it belonged — floated down to the bed.