Sappy stupid wingfic

His plumage is less like a crow’s, really, and more similar to a hawk;  big, haughty wings that sit high on his shoulders with strong primary remiges that shine chocolate-brown in the right light.  They’re beautiful, if poorly maintained, and it certainly causes Aziraphale no grief to take care of that part.  A pillow under his knees, a record on the gramophone, and he’s content to sit and tidy Crowley’s plumage all evening.

“You’re sure your arms aren’t tired?” Crowley tries and fails to turn back to look at Aziraphale without moving his spread wings, almost knocking over a stack of books in the act.  “Really, you /don’t/ have to go to this kind of effort.  They’ll just get fucked up again soon.”

Aziraphale tuts, more out of force of habit than any genuine annoyance.  “I’m just fine, Crowley.  I find it quite relaxing, in fact.”

Crowley exhales rather dramatically and hunches over again, hands on his face and elbows on his knees.  Aziraphale wonders about his posture sometimes.  Maybe he should offer a back massage after this;  surely some shiatsu would straighten him out.

Aziraphale’s hands wander along with his thoughts, picking downy baby feathers like cotton out from between the rows of his coverts, and then closer to the base of the wing where shiny black scapulares turns into bare, tanned skin.  Crowley has the kinds of freckles that come from too much sun dotted all over his shoulders.  Poor, cold-blooded fool, always falling asleep leaned against the bookshop window.  Caught in his thoughts, Aziraphale reaches out and rubs a sun spot on the back of his neck with the pad of his thumb.  His sense and reason are pressed against the back edge of his mind by the overwhelming feeling of affection that’s been growing since Crowley first passed the threshold earlier in the day.  Aziraphale is always taken by the sensation of love regardless of who it’s coming from, but when it’s himself, his /own/ secret love for his companion, it feels like a Shekhinah fog over everything else.

Crowley jumps like a spooked cat, and Aziraphale can see as goosebumps travel across every inch of exposed skin.  Even his feathers are fluffed up again, not like he’s angry or scared — thank goodness — but like he’s been shocked by a live wire.

“Prob’ly all I got time for, chap!” Crowley starts, voice hoarse.  “Be seeing you!”  With that, his wings are retracted with a gust of air in their wake, and Crowley is out the door.

The overhead bell echoes as Aziraphale takes stock of himself, hands still raised where they were last touching Crowley’s back.  Was it something he said?  He hopes not;  it’s so dreadful when they have their little spats.  Aziraphale can feel his heart sinking with every moment, parts of that resplendent love and comfort that had lit the room up in gold just a moment ago seeming to get further and further away.

Except... that’s not how it tends to work, really.  Aziraphale can still sense the beat of his own metaphysical heart, the bubbles in his chest that bloom into sweet warmth when he thinks about the demon of his affections.  It’s something different sauntering down the streets of Soho, flickering with distance but still bright and feisty.  A decidedly different flavour to his own aura.

Aziraphale’s gaze is caught by a few downy black-brown feathers coming to rest in front of his knees where Crowley had been.  When he scoops them up into his hand, they tingle with that same fiery type of love, like an electric charge.  A wide, nervous grin blooms on Aziraphale’s face as he considers — just considers, just /thinks/ about it, for the sake of completeness — that perhaps he’s not the only one sowing little seeds of love in the other’s direction.

Crowley is right on one count, at least:  his wings get shabby right quick.  He’ll be back to Aziraphale soon enough.