Work Text:
Crowley experienced a moment’s disorientation as he woke up, wrapped in thick white quilts on a large, cozy bed. Then he took a deep breath and his nostrils were flooded with the smell of books and pastries and midday sunshine. Aziraphale. He was alone in the bedroom but, judging by the strength of his scent, the angel had been here until quite recently. Crowley sat up, smiling as he became aware of the sound of the angel puttering around in the flat’s kitchen.
Yawning and stretching, he moaned with pleasure, unable to remember the last time his muscles had felt so loose. A thorough, deep grooming was better than a good hard fuck when it came to helping a guy relax.
As soon as that thought flitted across his mind, he felt guilty for having had it. This was Aziraphale, after all. For all the angel’s sensuality, there was just something wrong about trying to picture him in a genuinely sexual context. Which Crowley had considered a shame for far too many centuries.
Sighing, he climbed to his feet, looking around for his shirt. Aziraphale had put it on a hanger at some point, and it was waiting on the back of the bedroom door. Smiling as he shrugged it on, Crowley noted that Aziraphale had not only gathered together all the stray feathers from last night, but had meticulously divided them into two piles, one black and one white.
Walking over to the desk where the angel had placed them, Crowley studied the two heaps of feathers and fluff, resisting the urge to touch Aziraphale’s. Leaving one’s feathers laying around was a dangerous proposition. If you had a wing-feather and a basic knowledge of occultism, you could summon the angel or demon that feather had once belonged to. If you were skilled and unscrupulous enough, you could even exert some measure of control over the summoned individual.
Not that he ever would, of course, but there was something strangely, horribly tempting in the idea of just tucking one of Aziraphale’s feathers into his pocket and walking away with it. Shaking himself, he turned away quickly, leaving the bedroom before he could act on the impulse. It wasn’t just the temptation that was unnerving. Aziraphale had left Crowley there, alone in the room with his feathers.
“Good morning, Crowley,” Aziraphale greeted him as he entered the kitchen. The angel’s smile was genuine, but a bit too wide. “Are you hungry?” he added, gesturing to the stove. “I’m making omelets.”
“Smells delicious.”
“Did you sleep well?” he asked, turning back to the stove.
“Very well, yes. Thank you.”
Moving to pour himself a cup of coffee, Crowley watched Aziraphale thoughtfully. He looked so different, in the light of day, in a tight-buttoned shirt without a trace of his chest or wings visible. He’d seemed so much more physical last night, and more physically open. Was he feeling as free today? How would he react if Crowley stepped up behind him and touched him? Would he allow himself to be caressed, allow his body to be appreciated the way his wings had been? Would fingers in his hair make him moan the way fingers in his feathers did?
Crowley shook himself, appalled. He’d spent decades, centuries, reminding himself that he wasn’t in love with the angel, and that the angel certainly wasn’t in love with him. Aziraphale had made that more than clear in the past. One night, no matter how intimate or pleasurable, didn’t change that. And it certainly didn’t justify fantasies of forcing his attentions on the angel.
He cleared his mind quickly, hoping because he could not pray, that his extremely empathic friend hadn’t picked up on those fleeting images and urges. Judging by the fact that the back of the angel’s neck was red, he’d picked up at least some of what was going through the former demon’s mind.
Damnit.
Damn, damn damn, damn, damnit!
“Don’t go!” Aziraphale protested, before the urge to flee had even fully finished crystalizing in Crowley’s head.
Uh…
“The… there’s food,” the angel sputtered, clearing his throat and turning to face Crowley with an anxious but genuine smile. “Please stay?” he asked, still looking slightly terrified.
Which was one Hell of a 180 from the last time he’d had a stray sexual thought in the angel’s presence. You go too fast for me, Crowley. This wasn’t acceptance, and it certainly wasn’t any kind of an invitation, but it wasn’t panicked flight, either. While not nearly as naturally empathic as the angel, Crowley could at least sense strong emotions and, while the angel was clearly uncomfortable, there wasn’t really any hostility or resistance in him.
“Are you sure?” Crowley asked slowly, studying his face. “I don’t mind leaving, if…”
Aziraphale pressed his lips tightly together, staring down at his slippered feet for a moment before quietly announcing, “I enjoy your company. It would be nice if you stayed.”
“All right. I’ll set the table,” he offered, clearing his throat.
The angel slowly looked up, nodding and smiling hesitantly. “Sounds good.”
“You know, sometimes a stray thought is... just a stray thought,” Crowley offered, clearing his throat.
“Yes! Yes, of course, I know that!” he answered, eyes wide as he nodded like a bobblehead. “Yes, of course.”
“Just so we’re clear.” Forcing a smile, he turned to set the little kitchen table as Aziraphale clattered around with the food.
Thankfully, the angel didn’t approach cooking the way he approached magic. He might occasionally enjoy the sights and smells of food preparation but, when it came to something for actual consumption by himself or his friends, he wasn’t above a little divine intervention to bring the final product up to his exacting standards.
Crowley moaned happily when Azirapahale started bringing over the food, moving to help him and relieved to see that he was looking more comfortable again.
“This looks amazing,” he told the angel as they set the plates down. “It’s been ages since you cooked.”
“Well, it can be a bit of fuss, but…” He hesitated for a moment, then told Crowley, “It’s nice sometimes. Cooking for a friend.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it is. I’d invite you over to my place for dinner some time, but no one deserves a fate like that. Being forced to eat my cooking? Eurg.”
Aziraphale chuckled and then fell silent for a few more moments. As they sat down, though, he suggested, “You could still invite me over. I could cook. Or we could order something?”
“Yeah, we could,” he answered, not sure what else to say or how to react.
There were different ways an invitation like that could be taken, and he was having a harder time than usual reading the angel. Anxiety, sure, and his usual timidly-offered affection, but more confusion and trepidation than Crowley could ever recall having felt from him before. Still, as long as the affection was present, he found himself not really needing more.
Not that ‘more’ wouldn’t be nice. But a guy could only reasonably ask so much of his best friend, so he pushed it out of his mind.
Breakfast was wonderful, and the silence that hung over it was comfortable enough. They’d shared many meals like this before, just quietly enjoying the food and the company without much need for conversation. It was pleasantly familiar, even if Aziraphale sometimes glanced at him with eyes a little wider than usual and a smile a little more hesitant. He could hardly be blamed for that after Crowley’s earlier mental lapse. It was honestly a bit of a relief that he wasn’t more upset by the whole thing.
Near the end of the meal, it occurred to him that he really should mention the previous night, though of course not in any way that made it seem like a big deal.
“I, uh… saw that you gathered up my feathers. Thanks for that.”
Aziraphale jumped a tiny bit, expression unsure for half a second before he relaxed and gifted Crowley with one of his warm, open smiles. “I usually burn mine, but I assumed you’d want to deal with yours in your normal way. I didn’t want any going astray.”
“Yes, of course. Better safe, after all, even among friends.”
“Even among friends,” the angel repeated quietly, glancing down at his empty plate for a long moment before awkwardly asking, “Would it presumptuous to ask …”
“They make a wonderful fertilizer for my house plants,” Crowley provided, glancing at the clock. “Do you think it’s too early for a glass of wine?”
“It’s never too early for something light,” he answered, climbing to his feet and pulling open one of the kitchen cupboards.
The inside was far larger than it had any right to be, and the bottle the angel pulled out had a thick layer of dust on it. He presented it to Crowley, who wiped away the dust to read the label, smiling his approval.
“Perfect choice, Aziraphale, as always.”
They retired to Aziraphale’s book-cluttered little living room to enjoy the wine, sitting next to each other on the ancient, overstuffed sofa. It was an antique of the sort that most people would call junk: bulky, garishly-upholstered, and threadbare from years of regular use. It was also the most comfortable couch Crowley had ever had the pleasure of sinking onto.
Sighing happily, he slouched back and let the cushions half-engulf him. Even Aziraphale wasn’t sitting up as straight as usual. Neither of them made a move to open the wine, just relaxing after their meal. And, despite having just enjoyed the best night’s sleep he’d had in over a decade, Crowley felt so relaxed that he could easily have drifted off again. It was, in fact, entirely possible that he did, because he was suddenly started to feel the sofa cushions shift as Aziraphale climbed to his feet.
“Hrm?” he asked, sitting up and blinking a few times.
“I, well… Crowley, I…” the angel began, shifting his weight from foot to foot and positively radiating discomfort and uncertainty.
Climbing to his feet, he moved to stand in front of his friend, frowning in concern. “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just… Well, there’s something I wanted to give you.”
“Give me?” he repeated, bemused.
“Yes, if you want it.”
It seemed like an odd qualifier to place on the giving of a gift, but he assured his friend, “I’m sure I will want it. Whatever ‘it’ is.”
“I hope you do, but I’ll understand if you don’t,” Aziraphale assured him, walking over to the fireplace and picking up a cardboard box from the mantel. “It’s… You might think it’s a bit strange.”
Crowley shook his head at his friend’s diffidence, eyeing the box. It was flat, long, and narrow, without any wrapping or even a bow to mark it as a gift-box. “What is it, Aziraphale?” he asked, reaching for it.
Once the box was placed into his hands, he opened it immediately, gasping and fumbling not to drop it for a moment, then sinking back onto the sofa with the gift cradled reverently in his hands.
“You can’t mean it, Aziraphale?” he protested, feeling a little breathless.
Nestled in the box, being offered to him by his best friend was a single brilliant-white remex: not just any feather, but one of the ones that made flight possible. Almost a meter long, perfectly formed, ever-so-slightly downy near the base, with not a barb out of place. No one could mistake it for a simple token of friendship. Afraid his emotions might betray him if he stared at it for too long, he quickly closed the box, staring up at his friend and swallowing hard.
Aziraphale was standing over him, face red, expression uncertain, eyes avoiding Crowley’s. “If… if you want it, if you accept it…”
What am I supposed to do with one of his feathers?
It was a terrifying consideration. Not that he would dream of abusing the privilege, but the potential was there and Aziraphale must have been more than aware of what he was offering. It wasn’t just a beautiful token of last night. It wasn’t even just a small part of his own angelic body. He was offering Crowley... himself.
“I’ll keep it safe,” he promised, carefully placing the box on a side table and climbing to his feet again, reaching for Aziraphale’s hands. “You’re sure you want me to have it?”
“I know that you’ll… I trust you with it, Crowley,” he whispered, eyes wide and expression so beautifully vulnerable that the former demon wanted nothing more than to gather the angel protectively into his arms.
He resisted that, squeezing Aziraphale’s hands firmly in his own. “I don’t remember plucking that one last night,” he noted quietly.
“You didn’t. I… This morning I picked it out for you.”
He winced a little at how painful that must have been. “You... pulled out a perfectly healthy flight feather?”
“I never fly. I don’t need it. I wanted you to have it,” he answered, voice quiet but full of honesty despite his sudden inability to meet Crowley’s eye.
He swallowed hard, shaken in a way he didn’t think he ever had been before. “I’ll take it on one condition,” he told Aziraphale, releasing his hands.
The angel stared up at him with wide eyes, looking shocked, and a bit hurt. “What... condition?”
“That you take one of mine in return.”
The poor man gasped audibly, and actually staggered a bit.
“Hey! Easy,” Crowley soothed, half-supporting him towards the sofa. “Are you all right?”
He sat, looking dazed as he whispered, “You... really do want it?”
“You’re an empath, idiot. You know I do.”
The angel looked like a shy schoolkid at that, biting his lip and smiling hopefully. “And you… you really want me to have one of yours, too?”
“Any one you want,” he affirmed, nodding. “Your pick.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened as Crowley began unbuttoning his shirt, and he swallowed hard, whispering, “Have you ever done this before?”
“What, given a piece of my soul to someone else?” he snorted, sliding his shirt off. “What do you think, angel?”
He stared at Crowley with wide eyes for a moment, then rested a hand lightly on his bare chest, whispering, “I’m honored.”
That soft, cool skin against his own was almost too much. Not that his self-control was ever in any real danger, but it was like being doused in cool water on a hot day, and that was not a sensation he’d ever associated with physical contact before. Touches that brought relief instead of need were… new. The novelty left him reeling. And, perversely, had him wondering what other, less innocent touches might feel like.
Aware that his thoughts might betray him if he wasn’t careful, he cleared his throat, turning his back to his friend and unfurling his wings. This was, at least, a far less human, and therefore far less dangerous, kind of intimacy.
“Take the best one,” he urged, closing his eyes.
“You have such lovely wings,” Aziraphale answered quietly, and Crowley could feel the angel’s fingertips dancing over the crest of his wing. “They’re different up close. I never realized before.”
“Yours, too,” he admitted, trembling a little. He hadn’t expected to feel so vulnerable, but what really shook him was the fact that the awareness of his own vulnerability didn’t terrify him. “Any one you want,” he reminded him, leaning forward and spreading his wings wide.
“I want them all,” the angel laughed, his pure, childlike bliss washing warmly over Crowley.
He laughed, more at the angel’s pleasure than at his comment. “I’d look like a plucked chicken.”
“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Aziraphale asked. He inhaled deeply, audibly through his nose and mouth, like he was drinking in the former demon’s scent. “Just one feather, then.”
“The best one, Aziraphale,” he directed, closing his eyes. “I want you to take the best one.”
“Should I warn you?”
“It’ll only hurt for a second. Just shut up and do it.”
He hissed when his friend pulled out the feather he’d chosen, then gasped softly as the sting was replaced by the angel’s healing touch, his soft, cool fingertips caressing the damaged skin.
Then another sensation entirely hit him.
He hadn’t felt one of his feathers being plucked since his Fall, when the Archangels held him down and ripped his feathers out in handfuls before casting him down. This was, of course, different in every way, but he still felt tears springing to his eyes. Even though he hadn’t thought about it in ages, the memories were as fresh and raw as if it had happened yesterday.
Suddenly, he was in the angel’s arms, his back firmly cradled against Aziraphale’s chest as his friend held him with surprising strength.
“You have beautiful wings,” the angel whispered against his cheek, gently rocking him back and forth. “Not a trace of scar tissue. Just beautiful, healthy plumage.”
Crowley smiled despite himself, not opening his eyes as he answered, “I thought you were the one uncomfortable with this situation.”
“I was. Until you were.”
He let his wings meld into his human form again, pressing back more firmly against his friend’s chest. “Thank you,” he whispered, which was entirely inadequate, but all he could think to say.
“Any time,” Aziraphale assured him and, for just a moment, his fingertips were lightly caressing Crowley’s cheek. “I didn’t know,” he added after a moment, hand falling away. The sorrow in his voice made Crowley’s chest ache. “What they did to you when you Fell. I didn’t realize...”
“It’s no big deal. Feathers grow back.”
“And I used to tease you about it! I’m so sorry.”
“You didn’t know. You couldn’t understand.”
“It’s terrible. I don’t know how you can bear it. I think I would have died of shame.”
He scoffed at that, turning slightly in his friend’s grasp and smiling bitterly up at him. “That’s not how it works. Those who displease Heaven aren’t allowed to die.”
Aziraphale bit his lip, considering this for a moment before smiling sadly and whispering, “Good. Then we’ll always have each other for company.”
“You’ve changed,” Crowley noted, smiling warmly. Here he was again: half-naked before his best friend, aching with how good it felt, and wishing for so much more.
“Maybe I haven’t changed? Maybe I’ve just… become what I’ve wanted to be for some time now?”
“Well, I like it,” he assured the angel, straightening and pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his friend’s mouth before drawing back and pulling on his shirt again.
Aziraphale bit his lip at that, gently clutching Crowley’s feather to his chest. “I… I’ll guard it with my life, of course. But… if you ever need help grooming again…”
“Likewise, angel.”
He smiled shyly, then lifted the demon’s feather to his lips and gently kissed it before setting it down on the coffee-table. Crowley trembled a little at that, tongue darting out to wet suddenly-dry lips. Aziraphale couldn’t have meant anything by the gesture, but the idea of the angel’s lips on any part of his wings made Crowley squirm.
“You’re still tired,” Aziraphale noted, lifting a hand to stroke Crowley’s hair, and politely ignoring everything else Crowley was feeling. “Get some rest.”
“Again?” he protested, shaking his head. “Angel, I just woke up.”
“I didn’t ask you to sleep. I suggested you rest.” He smiled, biting his lip and squeezing Crowley’s hand. “Stay and rest,” he whispered. “Please just stay close to me?”
Which was, honestly, all he needed to hear. Sliding his fingers through the angel’s, he closed his eyes and leaned close, sighing with pleasure. It was beautiful, holding and being held. The sensation of being wrapped in Aziraphale’s arms, the knowledge that one of his feathers was missing, just one: carefully chosen and tenderly removed, to be kept and cherished… It felt so wonderful. So profound and gloriously intimate.
He didn’t tell the angel that he loved him, just lay there and basked in the sense of togetherness. Who needed a romantic relationship anyway? Who needed anything more than the comforting arms and honest heart of someone like Aziraphale?
He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to earn such a profound level of affection from the angel, but he could, at the very least, do everything in his power to make sure that the angel always felt as loved and protected as he did now.
END