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At precisely 3 pm, the door to A.Z. Fell’s bookshop bounced open, the little bell tinkling merrily as Crowley strutted into the shop. “Hiya, Angel,” he crooned a lazy greeting.
Aziraphale looked up from where he sat in his favorite armchair. “Crowley, my dear! So lovely to see you.”
Crowley sprawled onto the couch and, with a snap of his fingers, summoned a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. He took a swig then glanced at Aziraphale’s lap. “What’re you reading? Aziraphale beamed and proceeded to exuberantly relay the entire plot of a book to him, his hands dancing in the air as he spoke. Crowley tried to listen; he truly did. Usually, he could recall everything ‘Ziraphale told him, but today, he was distracted by an itching sensation on his upper back which felt as though ants were having a disco party under his skin. He groaned and attempted to subtly rub his shoulders against the couch.
Aziraphale paused mid-sentence and looked at him quizzically. “Are you quite all right, my dear? Are your wings bothering you?”
“Nnngl,” was all Crowley replied, itching more vigorously now that he had been outed.
Aziraphale looked concerned and said. “But you’re usually so meticulous with their care. You’re always the one reminding and helping me to groom my feathers.”
Crowley flushed a little and muttered sullenly, “Not a lot of space for preening in the Bentley.”
Aziraphale frowned. “You know my offer still stands. I have a spare bedroom that’s yours for the taking. I don’t know why you insist on sleeping in such a ridiculous situation.”
“Don’t let the Bentley hear you talking about her like that,” Crowley grumbled. “And besides, I do spend the night sometimes. Got a spare change of clothes and everything.”
Aziraphale harrumphed disapprovingly but dropped the subject. They had been going around in circles since Aziraphale noticed Crowley’s prized plants stuffed in the backseat of the Bentley - and after much cajoling and several puppy dog expressions Crowley could never bring himself to resist - had learned that Crowley had been living in his car since Hell had taken the apartment away. Crowley, ever the prideful one, would not take the room that had been his since the shop opened, and though it peeved Azirapahle greatly, he had faith in the miracle of time and gentle persuasion.
“Would…” Aziraphale began tentatively, “Would you like me to groom them for you? He fiddled with his hands shyly. “You always help me keep mine ever so smart and I should like to return the favor.”
“Ngggl,” Crowley replied. “sssss’ ok, they’re not too bad.”
“Alright,” Aziraphale said tentatively as he picked up his book again and tried to refocus on reading.
After a few minutes in which Crowley attempted unsuccessfully to ignore the itchy sensation and Aziraphale Crowley’s fidgeting, Crowley groaned. “Fine. You can help me with my wings.”
Aziraphale dropped the book quite unceremoniously to the ground, something he would typically condemn to the highest degree, and sat on the couch beside Crowley, who shifted ever so slightly so that he was leaning on Aziraphale’s side.“My dear, you need to sit up and actually open your wings”
Another grumble, and then Crowley begrudgingly obliged. With a well-practiced summon, his wings emerged into the mortal plane, spreading an inky darkness across the shop. However, it wasn’t the usual intimidating swath of obsidian feathers that normally appear, for the feathers appeared motley and worn, with bent tips and ragged vanes. Crowley shook his wings out, and only feathers rained onto the couch.
Aziraphale gasped quietly. “Oh my. When was the last time you groomed your wings?”
Crowley gave a noncommittal shrug as he spread his wings wider to give Aziraphale better access. Aziraphale stroked the semiplumes gently, and Crowley tensed.
“Relax, my dear, I won’t hurt you.”
“I know that.”
But Aziraphale could still feel the muscles bunched tight as if Crowley were prepared to take off at any moment.
Aziraphale lifted his hand. “Lay over the arm of the couch,” he directed as he rolled up his sleeves.
Crowley flopped over the arm, and more feathers shook free. Aziraphale rubbed his hands together to create warmth before gently massaging the oil glands at the base of Crowley’s wings. Then he traced the lines of feathers, soft hands expertly smoothing and straightening, removing the damaged feathers and coating them in a protective oily sheen. At first, Crowley sat rigid, his back muscles clenching to hold the weight of his wings off Aziraphale, as if he were afraid of taking space, afraid to be the gale that disrupts the veil of good Aziraphale had spent eons cloaking himself in. And why shouldn’t he? Every time Aziraphale felt Crowley getting to close, making him question God and Heaven and the meaning of goodness, he had pushed Crowley away — had separated between good and evil, angel and demon. But hadn’t the events of Armageddon proven that Aziraphale’s taken on morality was simplistic at best? Aziraphale still hoped that one day heaven would recognize Crowley for the angel he was, just to see the weight lift off his bony shoulders, but maybe he could work to meet Crowley halfway in gray; a pale shade of gray, mind you, but something that acknowledged the fact that goodness darker than the sterile shades of white that bleached the halls of Heaven were valid as well. Aziraphale regretted how scared he made Crowley feel by his hot and cold sentiments and wished Crowley knew that he wouldn’t abandon and friend (and maybe more, his subconscious so unhelpfully supplied). So Aziraphale ignored the twinges of hurt at Crowley's initial flinches when he preened his feathers, forcing himself to keep a steady, rhythmic pace, as steady as Aziraphale wished he could be. Slowly, Crowley relaxed into the preening, and his wings began to droop heavily onto Aziraphale’s lap as he welcomed the comforting weight.
“Sss’ nice angel,” Crowley hissed, his tongue flicking in contentment. “Haven’t had someone groom my wings since before the fall”
Crowley suddenly tensed at what he had just uttered, as though his brain had just caught up with his mouth, and although Aziraphale wanted to scoop Crowley into his arms and weep for his friend’s misfortune, he continued his slow, steady massage until Crowley relaxed once more. “Then we simply must do this more often,” Aziraphale said after a few minutes. “It’s quite meditative to groom another’s wings.”
In comfortable silence, Aziraphale continued his work as Crowley’s breathing evened out, and he sunk into a peaceful slumber. After he was done, Aziraphale dismissed Crowley’s wings back to the ethereal plane and tenderly wrapped a blanket around the sleeping demon’s torso.
“Sleep well, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured as he bent to retrieve his book. He settled down again, tucking Crowley’s cold feet under his thigh, and Crowley’s feet automatically curled and flexed to absorb his warmth. Aziraphale sighed in contentment and gently patted Crowley’s thigh before picking up his book and returning to where he had left off.
So if anyone should wonder what would occur if you put an angel and a demon together in the same room, let it be known that for this particular pair, they are tucked up together in a quaint little bookshop in Soho on a tranquil London afternoon.