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He was lying in bed, his eyes wide open. Crowley was snoring peacefully at his side. On the bedside table, the alarm clock read half past four in the morning.
He missed his wings.
He’d got used to so many things. Eating as a necessity and not just a pleasure. Bathing. Combing those curls that seemed to have a mind of their own, and a mischievous one at that. Sniffing the “just past expiry date” milk. Parting with books that were no longer kept together by a miracle. Sleeping. Bearing with Crowley’s “told you that sleeping is great, angel”.
That pang of regret when Crowley still called him “angel”. That pang of shame for that moment of regret.
He knew they’d made the right choice. He thought of Gabriel’s grin when he’d offered them Heaven. Both of you, we’ve found a legal clause to save the demon too -- you really know how to drive a hard bargain, Aziraphale, and I can promise we’ll find you a role where your skills can be recognised. The one condition: leaving the world, forgetting everything about each other. And the not-so-subtle threat: I cannot guarantee you’re going to enjoy what comes after, if you choose otherwise.
Gabriel had always been better at threats than at subtlety.
Aziraphale, on the other hand, had always been good at subtlety; and so his last memory of Heaven was an Archangel’s face turning a pale hue of green after being told, “Oh, fuck off, Gabriel.”
Crowley had said, “Worth. It.”
He’d giggled. He’d laughed. He’d hoped Crowley was right.
And he’d got used to live in hope and not in certainty -- the most human thing of all.
He still missed his wings.
He missed the pleasure of stretching them. He missed knowing they were always there, a reminder of his ethereal nature, a sign of his supernatural power.
He missed how he could use his primaries to tickle Crowley’s feet. He missed how they could flutter in their mock-scuffles as they were taking off each other’s clothes. He missed his lover’s touch on the softest hidden plumes.
Now he had just two tiny scars on his back. Now he had to use his fingers, his hands, his human body -- as long as it was his to use, until that after he tried to face with all the little hope he could muster.
Sometimes he thought that if he could’ve draped his wing over the sleeping figure of Crowley one last time, he’d have enough hope not to fear any after. But his wings were gone, and missing them wasn’t going to change anything.
He turned around. Five o’clock.
He sighed.
I should try to sleep. Or might as well get up.
He’d got used to the cold a human being feels when they get up at five o’clock on a rainy December morning. He still hated it enough to linger in bed -- just one more minute...
...and Crowley’s arm was draped around him, and the body of his sleeping demon-turned-husband was a perfect match for his back, and the rhythm of his breath -- inspiring, expiring, and then inspiring and expiring, and then again -- felt like a caress on those tiny scars.
“’cmon ’ngel. Ngk. Stay. ’tayhere.”
“I’m staying. Sleep.” And in a whisper, “Wily demon.”
“Loveya.”
“I love you. Sleep.”
“Y’ too.”
As they were falling together into a soft sleep, Aziraphale realised one thing with perfect clarity.
He didn’t really miss his wings.